Chapter I: Part 1

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 713. SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]

A STRANGE FAMILY HISTORY.

For the following curious episode of family history we are indebted to a descendant of one of the chief personages involved; his story runs as follows.

Somewhat less than one hundred years ago, a large schooner, laden with oranges from Spain, and bound for Liverpool, was driven by stress of weather into the Solway Firth, and after beating about for some time, ran at last into the small port of Workington, on the Cumberland coast. For several previous days some of the crew had felt themselves strangely 'out of sorts,' as they termed it; were depressed and languid, and greatly inclined to sleep; but the excitement of the storm and the instinct of self-preservation had kept them to their duties on deck. No sooner, however, had the vessel been safely moored in the harbour than a reaction set in; the disease which had lurked within them proclaimed its power, and three of them betook themselves to their hammocks more dead than alive. The working-power of the ship being thus reduced and the storm continuing, the master determined to discharge and sell his cargo on the spot. This was done. But his men did not recover; he too was seized with the same disease; and before many days were past most of them were in the grave. Ere long several of the inhabitants of the village were similarly affected, and some died; by-and-by others were smitten down; and in less than three weeks after the arrival of the schooner it became evident that a fatal fever or plague had broken out amongst the inhabitants of the village.

The authorities of the township took alarm; and under the guidance of Squire Curwen of Workington Hall, all likely measures were taken to arrest or mitigate the fatal malady. Among other arrangements, a band of men was formed whose duties were to wait upon the sick, to visit such houses as were reported or supposed to contain victims of the malady, and to carry the dead to their last home.

Among the first who fell under this visitation was a man named John Pearson, who, with his wife and a daughter, lived in a cottage in the outskirts of the village. He was employed as a labourer in an iron foundry close by. For some weeks his widow and child escaped the contagion; but ere long it was observed that their cottage window was not opened; and a passer-by stopping to look at the house, thought he heard a feeble moan as from a young girl. He at once made known his fears to the proper parties, who sent two of the 'plague-band' to examine the case. On entering the abode it was seen that poor Mrs Pearson was a corpse; and her little girl, about ten years old, was lying on her bosom dreadfully ill, but able to cry: 'Mammy, mammy!' The poor child was removed to the fever hospital, and the mother to where her husband had been recently taken. How long the plague continued to ravage the village, I am not able to say; but as it is about the Pearson family, and not about the plague I am going to write, such information may be dispensed with.

The child, Isabella Pearson, did not die; she conquered the foe, and was left to pass through a more eventful life than that which generally falls to the lot of a poor girl. Although an orphan, she was not without friends; an only and elder sister was with relatives in Dublin, and her father's friends were well-to-do farmers in Westmoreland. Nor was she without powerful interest in the village of her birth: Lady Curwen, of the Hall, paid her marked attention, as she had done her mother, because that mother was of noble descent, as I shall now proceed to shew.

Isabella Pearson (mother of the child we have just spoken of), whose maiden name was Day, was a daughter of the Honourable Elkanah Day and of his wife Lady Letitia, daughter of the Earl of Annesley. How she came to marry John Pearson forms one of the many chapters in human history which come under the head of Romance in Real Life, or Scandal in High Life, in the newspaper literature of the day. Isabella's parents were among those parents who believe they are at liberty to dispose of their daughters in marriage just as they think fit, even when the man to whom the girl is to be given is an object of detestation to her. Heedless of their daughter's feelings in the matter, they had bargained with a man of their acquaintance, to whom they resolved that Isabella should give her hand--be her heart never so unwilling. The person in question was a distant relative of their noble house, had a considerable amount of property in Ireland, and was regarded, by the scheming mother especially, as a most desirable match for her daughter. But what if the young lady herself should be of a contrary opinion? In the instance before us the reader will be enabled to see.

Captain Bernard O'Neil, the bridegroom elect, was nearly twice the age of Isabella Day; and although not an ill-looking man, was yet one whom no virtuous or noble-minded girl could look upon with respect, for he was known to be addicted to the vice of gambling, to be able to consume daily an enormous quantity of wine, and to be the slave of all sorts of debauchery. So habituated had O'Neil become to these degrading vices, that no sensible girl could hope to reclaim and reform him. The gratification of his propensities had been spread over so long a time that his entailed estate had become heavily burdened with debt, whilst his creditors, even his dependents, were clamorous for the money which he owed them.

Such being the man to whom the Honourable Elkanah Day and his noble wife had agreed to give their daughter, can it be wondered at that that daughter should not only be indisposed to comply with their wish, but should also be so disgusted and indignant at its expression as to give way to her feelings in words and acts which in themselves are incapable of justification? One day the captain had called at the house by appointment to arrange for the marriage, being anxious to have it consummated, that he might be helped out of a pressing embarrassment through the portion which he knew would be given to his bride. Isabella had been present at the interview. Her father and mother knew full well that she was far from being pleased with the match, but of this they took little heed, believing that once married, their daughter would reconcile herself to her lot, even if she did not derive much felicity from the union. The girl herself knew that no language of hers, whether of anger, sorrow, or entreaty, would avail, especially with her mother, who was one of the most hot-headed and stubborn of women; so from the first her mind was made up rather to circumvent than to oppose them; to cheat them in the game they were playing, if she could not by fair-play win the right to give herself where she could love and be loved.

On the occasion referred to, it had been arranged that the marriage should take place in a fortnight; and when she was urged to make the necessary arrangements, instead of yielding a hearty compliance, as in a different case she would naturally have done, she gave a feeble assent and left the room. No sooner had she put the door between herself and the other parties, than the emotions which she had managed to keep under while in their presence began to rage within her, and with the hope of finding sympathy below-stairs which was denied her in her proper domain, she sought the company of the maids. Wrath is seldom discreet, and grief at times is not over-nice in selecting those before whom it vents itself. So without waiting to consider the rank of those whose company she had sought, or taking into consideration the consequences which might ensue on making known to them the circumstances in which she was involved, she gave expression to the feelings which were agitating her at that moment by exclaiming: 'So I am to be married in a fortnight, am I? And to that horrible O'Neil? Never, my honourable father; never, my lady mother! Never, no never! By God's aid, _never_! Rather than do so, I'll marry the first man who can be found willing to take me, and go with him to the ends of the earth!' Saying which, she fled from the kitchen into the garden at the rear of the house, and in the summer-house found relief in a flood of tears. All this occurred in Dublin.

Now the cook was one of those who heard the poor girl utter these passionate words. She was an old and esteemed servant of the family, and as such had more liberty and could use more freedom than servants in general. She had been in the family when Isabella, twenty years before, was born, had been her nurse, and was therefore greatly attached to her; and she felt more keenly the fate which the poor girl dreaded, than any others who were present. Indeed so afflicted was she on her account, that she sought her in the summer-house, and poured into her ear all the soothing and encouraging words she could think of. The girl's rage had abated, but she was in a condition of affliction and misery which was truly pitiable to behold. She was, however, still determined not to link her life to one whom she utterly detested, and besought her old and devoted friend to aid her in seeking in flight what she could not otherwise avoid. Whether the cook promised to do so, or what exact reply she made, I am not able to relate; but that very night an event took place which decided her fate, and gave to her after-life its direction and character. The cook was a native of Westmoreland, had been brought up in the neighbourhood of Farmer Pearson, whose son John was at that time a private in the Royal Guards stationed in Dublin. He and the cook were therefore old acquaintances, and when John had an hour to spare, he often spent it in her company. That very night he happened to pay her a visit. In course of conversation she told him about her grief arising out of the trouble of her young mistress, and added thereto the wild expression to which she had that day given utterance. This was done by the simple-minded woman without the least design either of aiding or injuring the young lady, nor had she at that moment the slenderest suspicion that her act would have any practical effect on the young soldier. But it was otherwise. He knew the girl by sight, and she knew him. Though they had not exchanged a word, nor been for even a moment in each other's company, yet they had on several occasions seen each other when he had been visiting his friend the cook. He was a fine open-hearted generous fellow, in the heyday of youth, fearless and brave. All his sympathies were aroused and drawn to the side of the suffering girl; and believing that he would be doing a truly manly act in rescuing her from what he regarded as worse than a thousand deaths, he told the cook that he was prepared to go with her to the ends of the earth, should she be willing to trust herself to his care and fidelity; and he got his friend to promise that she would make his readiness known to her young mistress. Though the promise was made, it is but fair to say that in giving it the cook had not the smallest idea that the poor girl would do aught else than laugh at the proposal as a good joke. But herein she was deceived. Isabella Day caught at the offer of John Pearson the Life Guardsman, with an eagerness and a joy beyond description; she begged of the cook to arrange a meeting; it was done; and the result was an elopement and a clandestine marriage!

The day which ended the residence of Miss Day with her parents, ended her life of luxury and ease. They renounced her for ever. Her name was erased from the family register, and she was as completely severed from those she had left behind as if she had been buried in the family vault. The rage of her mother was fearful for a time; but Isabella was beyond its reach, and happy. Her husband was a fine-looking young fellow, tall, well-made, and handsome in feature and in form. He was also kind and gentle towards her; and whatever discrepancy existed between them before marriage, none was allowed to exist afterwards; for although he could not rise to her standard of refinement and elegance, nor give her the means of gratifying those tastes which her breeding and habits had fostered within her, yet they both had sense enough to know how to adapt themselves to each other; so their life, if not a luxurious one, was one of resignation and contentment. She followed him to those places to which his regiment was occasionally ordered; and when, in a year or two, he was invalided and discharged from the army, she retired with him to his native village of Burton-in-Kendal, and thence to Workington, where he found employment in the foundry at Beerpot. Two children were born to them, both girls; the elder of whom, as I have said, was on a visit to her relatives in Dublin; while the other daughter, Isabella, narrowly escaped death from the plague, at the time of her mother's decease, as I have narrated. I now resume my story at the period when she was left an orphan.

Lady Curwen, as has been intimated, undertook the necessary and, to her, pleasant task of befriending the desolate girl. She had been kind to her mother; indeed she thought it an honour rather than otherwise to be on friendly terms with her. She was a frequent visitor at the Hall, where she was received rather as a friend and equal than as a poor woman; for although she was in straitened circumstances, she was free from that cringing dependence which poverty is calculated to engender in those who are reared therein.

Her paternal relatives in Westmoreland also interested themselves in the orphan; so the bereaved child knew neither want nor scant. In a while she went to her uncle's homestead in Burton, where for a year or two she resided and throve amain. But the sea and its surroundings had more charms for an ardent girl than the more sober associations of an inland life; she would rather scamper among the rocks and sea-weed of her native shore than ramble among the heather of her moorland home; and so, as time passed on, she began to yearn after the earlier associations of her life. And inheriting the recklessness and determination of her parents, she, unmindful of obligation and of self-interest, carried out a long-cherished project: she ran away! While her uncle and his family were at church one Sunday morning, she went to the stable, and taking thence a cart-horse with which she had become familiar, she got astride upon his back, and bidding adieu to the farm and all its belongings, she set off to the place of her birth, which she reached safe and sound, but not without having attracted considerable attention from the onlookers on the way. Taking the horse to the inn, at which her uncle happened to be known, and requesting that it might be cared for until it was called for, she bent her steps to the well-remembered homes of her old neighbours, by whom she was cordially received.

She was at this time a fine blooming girl of twelve or thirteen years of age, tall, stately, handsome, with a natural aristocratic bearing, but remarkably unsophisticated and simple. Her return, and the way in which it had been effected, soon reached the ears of her late mother's friend, Lady Curwen, by whose influence she soon secured a good place as housemaid; in which position I shall leave her while I recount a fragment of the history of her elder sister Letitia.

I have said that her family renounced for ever their runaway relative. But in course of time an elder sister of the offender, who was married to a gentleman named Weeks, and living in London, relented of her animosity by occasionally corresponding with her, and sending her now and again what enabled her to keep a few marks of her former life about her. The children, however, were not visited with the same hostility as was their mother; they were inquired about, and, through a cousin who was known to the girls as Councillor Lennon, an occasional letter of recognition was sent them. This courtesy led to Letitia being sent for to Dublin, where she resided under the care of Lord Annesley for a few years. But what is bred in the bone is certain sooner or later to make itself visible; it was so in the case of Letitia: a disposition for frolic and adventure was in her; she found it difficult to conform to the rules of life which now held her in, and in spite of all restraint and watchfulness, she went into forbidden paths, and became at last a self-made outcast from her high-bred friends. The way was this: falling in with the steward of an American ship lying in one of the docks, and taken with his charms as he with hers, she agreed to a marriage and a flight with him like those of her mother. The chief difficulty which presented itself was how to get to America with her intended husband; but where there is a will there is mostly a way; both existed in this case, and proved successful. She adopted male attire, applied for and obtained a position which had become open on board of her husband's ship, that of assistant steward or cook, in which capacity she served in company with her husband during the voyage to Charleston. There she arrived in safety; her husband left off going to sea; and the last time her sister Isabella heard of her, she was mistress of a large and flourishing inn in the above city.

Some time after Letitia's abscondment, Lord Annesley, yielding to Lady Curwen's entreaty, and perhaps to the voice of his own conscience as well, sent for Isabella, promising to give her the education and position of a lady, provided she would in all things conform to his wishes. The offer was a good and kind one, and presented temptation sufficient to induce an enthusiastic girl to yield thereto a ready compliance. The only means which Cumbrians had of reaching Ireland at that time was by the coal-vessels which regularly sailed from Workington to Dublin. In one of these Isabella Pearson set sail with visions of grandeur and greatness before her. But the winds and waves had well-nigh extinguished the lamp of hope which was burning so bright within her, for she had not been long on her voyage before a terrific storm broke upon the deeply-laden brig; it was impossible to make progress; it was hazardous to put back, for Redness Point, where many a noble ship had been wrecked and many a precious life lost, stood threateningly behind them. At last, however, the master of the brig made for the Scotch coast, and happily succeeded in gaining the port of Kirkcudbright. Here our heroine remained with the vessel nearly a week, when the weather permitting, the voyage was again attempted, and without further mishap accomplished.

Isabella Pearson was received into the mansion of her noble relative with becoming friendliness. I have heard her, in her old age, describe his lordship as being a fine-looking venerable man, with a head white through age, an eye beaming with kindness, and a heart brimful of love. He had had the misfortune to lose a leg, and like many of his lowlier brethren, had to be content with a wooden one. With him she spent a few happy months; and at length became as familiar with the ways of those in high rank as she had been with those of her own class. I cannot say how long this new life lasted; but it is certain that as time passed she began to feel her lot irksome, and to long for the less elegant, but to her more pleasurable life she had previously led. The fact is that, as in the case of her sister and her mother, Cupid, small and child-like though he seems, was far more powerful than wealth and fashion, and all other attractions of aristocratic life. While living as a domestic servant in Cumberland, she had fallen in with a young sailor, who had run away with her heart. When she set sail for Dublin she had a hope that nothing would happen to prevent her from yielding to her wishes to become his wife; but she had not been long her relative's guest before she was forced to come to another conclusion; for she saw plainly that her worthy kinsman had set his heart upon fitting her to become something better than a common sailor's wife. A lady had been engaged as her governess and a time fixed for her arrival; but before the time came the inbred spirit of freedom had again asserted itself, and Isabella had bidden adieu for ever to Lord Annesley and all the good things which his kindness had gathered around her! A collier brig took her back to her native village, and soon after she became the wife of John Ruddock, able seaman.

No one can justify, though all may extenuate, the conduct of Isabella Pearson; nor can any one be pronounced harsh and unfeeling who may say: 'The suffering that might fall to her lot in after-life was the result of her folly and recklessness. On the other hand, it may be pleaded that her heart was her own, to give to whom she pleased; and as it had been sought for and gained by the young sailor, her happiness could only be secured by living with him; therefore she did right in preferring his lot to the wishes of her noble uncle. Be this as it may, she grievously erred in quitting him in so heartless a way after the tender care she had received at his hands. And this she afterwards acknowledged. After her marriage, her husband left the sea, and taking his young wife with him to Durham, he there found employment as a sail-maker, in which art he was proficient. A letter, professing repentance, was written to her uncle; but before it was posted the death of Lord Annesley was announced; which event put an end for ever to all hope for help or favour in that quarter. Soon after, a pressgang laid relentless hands upon poor Ruddock, and dragged him on board a ship of war; so once more our heroine was forced to seek her living in domestic servitude. But herein she was not able long to abide, for the birth of a daughter made such life for a while impracticable. Sad as was her lot, it soon became worse; for her poor husband was killed in an engagement off the coast of Spain, and with many other brave hearts found an early grave in the ocean's bed.

Isabella was now left with a young child to fight the world alone. Health and vigour, however, were her portion; and hearing that plenty of work for women was to be had at Cleator near Whitehaven, she repaired thither, and found a settlement and a living. While there, she was one day agreeably surprised by a visit from her kind friend Lady Curwen, who had driven from Workington Hall expressly to tell her that an advertisement applying for the heirs of John Pearson who worked in Beerpot Foundry, had that week appeared in the columns of a London newspaper, and urged her to attend to it. But she was illiterate, was unused to business habits, and being alone and helpless, put off the matter day by day, until at last she gave it up altogether. What might have come out of this, is of course unknown to the writer; but Isabella herself believed--I do not know why--that her aunt, Mrs Weeks, had died, and had bequeathed to her sister's children a considerable sum of money.

Time passed on, and her child grew, developing among other things a love of mischief; for one day, while her mother was at the mill where she wrought, she got to the box in which were kept her mother's cherished family documents and letters, and amused herself by setting them ablaze one by one at a lighted candle got for the purpose! Thus, in one half-hour, every document necessary to prove her mother's pedigree was destroyed, and with it all hope of bettering her position was thrown to the winds; so, when some years afterwards, Lady Curwen sent a messenger to tell her that the advertisement I have named had once more appeared in the public prints, she paid no attention to the information, satisfying herself simply with an expression of thanks to her kind benefactor!

She was, however, content with her lot. Her child was her chief comfort and joy. For her she toiled in the mill by day, and in her humble home at night; and as she grew in stature and in beauty, the mother's heart throbbed its gratitude and her eye beamed with admiration. But on one occasion she had nearly lost her. Playing one fine afternoon on the bank of the stream which drove the wheel belonging to the mill, her feet slipped, and she fell in. A man who happened to be a little in advance, had his eye drawn to an object on the water, which he at first took to be a quantity of loose hair; but another glance revealed to him the head of a little girl beneath the surface of the rapid stream. He ran and was just in time to lay hold of the hair as its possessor was falling over on to the wheel. Another moment, and Jane Ruddock (the drowning girl) would have been no more; in which case he who now pens these fragments of a strange history would not have been in existence--for that little girl became his mother.

I have little more to add. Isabella Pearson, who, as I have shewn, became Isabella Ruddock, wife of a common sailor, once more entered the matrimonial lists; but she neither improved her position nor increased her happiness by so doing. Indeed her life, while her second husband lived, was imbittered by his love of strong drink. But she survived him. She was a widow the second time when she became familiar to my youthful eye. Many a merry hour have I spent in her company. Often I have heard her relate the incidents which make up this story. She was a fine, tall, handsome woman while health remained with her; she had also a large womanly heart, a hot impetuous temper, and a remarkable simplicity and honesty of character. She died in 1849, weighed down with years and infirmities; but she ended her eventful life in much patience and peace.

A LADY'S ASCENT OF THE BREITHORN.

Fancy the following tableau. Scene--Switzerland; time--August 1875, at a desolate rocky part of the Surenen Pass. A group--Youthful grace and vigour; manly strength and endurance, &c. Foreground--Four heads eagerly bent over a huge bowl of _café_ placed on a board, which is extended over four laps. Hands belonging to said heads ladling the mixture into their mouths with large wooden ladles with little curved handles, between convulsions of mirth. Background--The châlet of the Waldnacht Alp, from which the realistic artist should cause hideous odours to ascend in the form of dense vapour. At the door of it, the unwashed and scantily clad figure of a Swiss herdsman, fearful to behold, owner of châlet, and like Caliban himself, chattering an ominous jargon, and grinning at the English feeders. Right of background--Attendant guide, cheerful and pleased that he has at last secured some sustenance for his 'leddies,' who have been walking from eight A.M. to four P.M., and will yet have to go on till three-quarters of an hour after midnight. These tableaux, with minor variations, were frequent in our tour.

After many adventures and many jokes, after being lost in a pass from eight o'clock to ten, when the sun had set, and having to wander about for those two hours on the edge of a precipice guiltless of path, being finally rescued by a heaven-sent and most unexpected peasant with a lamp--after these things and their results, which were blackened complexions, dried skins, and dilapidated costumes, we arrived at Zermatt, where we settled down for a time. The object of the settling down was in one word--ascents.

Nothing much, according to the men, had yet been done, though we in our secret hearts hugged the proud thought that Pilatus had not defeated us, and that the Twelfth-cake-like snows of Titlis had been pressed by our tread; that the Aeggischhorn, though it had witnessed (N.B. at the end of a long day) the heat and perspiration which dimmed our few remaining charms, and had heard our smothered groans, had had in the end to feel our light weight upon its summit, and to bear us as we gazed with awe at its mighty circle of peaks. But what do these avail? In the eye of man they were mere preparation for mightier things.

After some debate, mingled with faint remonstrance on our part, when Monte Rosa was mentioned, the _Breithorn_ was decided upon; and the manly spirits, which had become depressed by a few days' lounge, arose. Such is the enigma Man! The day was fixed, an extra guide (one Franz Biener--known as Weisshorn Biener) engaged on the night before we went up to the Riffel. After a few hours' disturbed sleep we were awoke at two; and dragging our weary and daily emaciating bodies from the beds where they had not been too comfortable, we dressed by the flickering light of a candle; and as we dressed, my friend and I cast fearful looks out at the Matterhorn, which fiercely pierced the dark sky, and seemed to say to me in the words of the poet:

Beware the pine-tree's withered branch;
Beware the awful avalanche!

As I put the last finishing touches to my collar at the glass, my feminine pulses slightly quickened to the tune of--'This was the peasant's last good-night;' and though no voice far up the height replied 'Excelsior!' yet a voice came from outside which meant in downright English very much the same thing; and my reflections were quenched in the carousal down-stairs, which I hastened to join. An unfortunate and sleepy maid was ministering to the wants of my friends in the dimly lighted salon of the Riffel-haus. Outside, the guides were impatiently stamping about in the frosty night, and complaining of the length of our delay, insinuating that the sun would soon be up. The fact is the preparations of toilet on our part were complicated. The uninitiated may not know that the feminine clothing of the present time, elegant though some may think it, is not conducive to comfort in mountain climbing. A well-tied back _tablier_ has a restrictive influence upon the free movement of the lower limbs, and only admits of a step of a certain length. In rock-work it is felt to be peculiarly irksome, and in soft snow it is trying to the temper.

Let the imaginative reader then, if he be able, picture two young women devoid of tabliers, and so at once removed from the pale of polite society. I tremble as I write with the fear that this avowal may remove from me and my companion that feminine sympathy so dear to our hearts. But I must descend a step lower. Freedom from tablier was not sufficiently radical. Our skirts must be carefully pinned up round our waists à la washerwoman, so that our progress be perfectly unimpeded; and armed with masks and spectacles we sallied forth into the darkness--a party of six. I shall not easily forget the delicious exhilaration we felt as we hastened along towards the Gorner glacier. The dark cold air touched our faces crisply, and feelingly persuaded us of the advantage of the sun's absence.

The searching sensation of being about to commit a crime, attendant on nocturnal adventures, clung to us, and we were filled with a vague remorse, in which we felt at one with Eugene Aram. At the same time the ridiculousness of our position soon wrought upon us to such a degree that we profaned that wonderful silence with unholy bursts of laughter. Our festivity ceased when we reached the glacier, for there we broke up into line, we ladies being tenderly taken possession of each by a guide, who soon got us over a rough moraine. The glacier we found unpleasantly slippery; and it was exciting work, as at the point where we crossed it was very much crevassed, and steps had often to be cut. The nails on our marvellous boots answered admirably, and we sprang about with great sure-footedness and with exquisite enjoyment.

The leader of our party was in a rather dangerous plight, for he had had no nails put into his boots, and we felt quite anxious as through the dim light we noticed his uncertain movements. How he got across with the ice in so bad a condition, is a marvel! We had been on the glacier about an hour when the light began to creep up over the mountains, and we were in the midst of a scene of wonderful beauty. The Monte Rosa, the Lyekamm, Castor and Pollux, the Breithorn, the Matterhorn, and many another shrouded in their utter whiteness stood round us in awful calm, closing us in upon a lake of tossed and heaving ice. The moonlight which streamed down upon us on one side, and the pale yellow light of the dawn on the other, lit up the scene with a weirdness which seemed not of our world. We saw each other's phantom-like figures gliding about, and felt that we were too real to be there--a place where only ghosts had any right to be. The feeling that pressed upon me was that I had suddenly intruded into nature's holiest of holies. It seemed as if some secret of a higher life than this was being sighed through the air, and that I, with all my earth-stains on me, could not rise to the understanding of that secret. Yet on that early morning in August, in the same world far away, the same London was going on in the same old way we knew so well. Cats were even then stealing along suburban walls; cocks were beginning to practise their crescendos, tired-out citizens were tossing in oppressive four-posters, dreaming tantalising dreams of cool sea-breezes not for them; while round all must be clinging that heavy breathed-out air, which of itself is a very _inferno_ in contrast with the mountain ether.

By the time we had reached the upper plateau of the St Théodule glacier, it was light, and we were all roped together. The process of roping in this enlightened age I feel it to be unnecessary to describe. Thus we marched along that profound and frozen solitude tied together in a long line. The snow was as hard as a road, and the cold intense. Biener is an excellent guide, but his pace is very slow, and thus we got rather benumbed. We had, however, passed the Little Matterhorn on our left, and the Théodulhorn on our right, with the little rude _cabane_ erected on the rocks at its foot--more than eleven thousand feet above the sea, and the highest habitation in Europe--and were beginning to trail our snake-like length up the snow-slopes on the west and south of the mountain, when my friend became so unmistakably ill that we came at once to a halt and a consultation. She (to her honour) much wished to go on, in spite of sickness, giddiness, faintness, and a livid complexion; but as that was out of the question, she was untied from the rope, and sent back with our ordinary guide (a first-rate fellow, one Johann von Aa) to the hut already mentioned.

When we reached the actual snow-fields of the Breithorn, I had to learn that the work of my day had scarcely begun. As the sun rose, the snow began to get very soft, and instead of going in to my knees, as I had expected, I literally waded in it up to my waist. With mighty efforts I lifted up my already wearied legs and plunged them into ever fresh pits of snow, where they frequently became so firmly imbedded that, struggle as I might, I could not move; and presented to the spectator the hapless object of half a woman masked and spectacled, striving and panting. From an æsthetic point of view I cannot say I felt myself a success; but from a moral point, I felt myself a very finger-post through the ages. Truly I had given up my all in the shape of appearance, and had offered myself up on that altar of adventure on which so many braves of my country have been sacrificed. The mode of rescue from the uncomfortable position indicated above was almost as bad as the plight itself. I feebly kicked; you can't kick boldly with your legs in tight pits; and the guide dragged at the rope which bound my waist, and then out I came like the cork out of a bottle. Two hours and a half of this sort of thing went on, varied by refreshments and occasional rests for breath-taking, but still it appeared to me that we were always at the same spot, and ever the glittering summit from afar mocked my helpless gasps. At last (ah! what an at last!) the final slope--really the final one--stretched right up before us. A party of men who were engaged in scientific experiments peered over at us; and with one last desperate effort I found myself landed amongst them at the top of the Breithorn, and thirteen thousand seven hundred feet above the sea. As we placed our feet upon the summit we groaned the groan of triumph, and gazed with awe around us upon the inexpressibly magnificent scene which spread itself out before us. A mighty circle of mountains stood in awful calm around us. Every fantastic line, every curious heaping, every wild wreck, every gleaming curve of glacier possible to mountains, seemed gathered together before us. Each peak had a proud originality of its own, which shewed through all the sameness of the uniform whiteness. But the spirit of these places is the most wonderful thing about them. The clamour, the struggle, the unrest, which make up to most of us the atmosphere of this world, seemed in these regions to have been left behind in a past state; and this in a way was illustrated by the scene itself. The contorted forms and tossed rocks spoke of struggle, gradual it may be, but still struggle. But in the sereneness surrounding those unearthly peaks there was a peace which seemed to have left struggle far behind--the repose of a wide knowledge gained only through sore fight and aspiration.

A short time of peaceful dream was allowed me, and that was rather marred by the intense glare of the light, and then we began the descent. In an evil moment of rest some little way down, I left hold of my alpenstock and leaned it against my shoulder. In a moment it was gone--down, down, sliding skittishly away, till my heart was pained by its final leap into a crevasse far away. As I looked, I imagined what a crash my skull would have come at the bottom of that crevasse. I afterwards found out that the alpenstock was not my own, as I then thought, but that I had inadvertently changed with one of our guides. Imagine my grief at the thought that I had lost the dear companion of my travels, that staff which had guided my wavering feet and upheld my tottering body through passes and up mountains, and which I intended to preserve until my death! My situation without it was rather perilous, and would have been more so had not the snow been very soft. But the guide took me entirely in charge, and lent me his axe, which I was certain I should recklessly lose after the same fashion. After a weary time, Biener the guide decided to _glissade_ me. I was resigned. What else could I be? By that time I was very resigned. He took off his coat, and made me sit down upon it, then tied my skirts around me. A rope was attached round my waist, one end of which was grasped by Biener in front, and the other by my gentlemen friends behind. Then ensued a process in which my limbs were nearly severed from the body, and in which I suffered greatly. Biener rushed down the slope dragging me behind him; while the gentlemen, unaccustomed to this sort of thing, and not being able to go fast enough, hung a good part of their weight on to the rope behind, and so almost bisected me. I never expected to be an individual whole again; halves were my fate. Never was creature in so miserable a plight. No Procrustean bed could have produced greater tortures than those I suffered as I sped down that miserable slope. I shouted all the French I could think of to Biener to stop him, and rid me from the hideous rope, which cut me like a knife; but the air would not carry my words, and on I skimmed and floundered. At last he heard my cries, and released me from the fetters. The fact was that the gentlemen were quite unable to keep up with Biener in the deep snow, with the dismal result, as seen above, of almost cutting through my waist. The lesson to be deduced from this is the simple maxim I commend to all my feminine readers: _Never_, under the most favourable circumstances, _glissade_.

When we reached the cabane where my friend was waiting for us, we were met by Johann, who told us with a long-face that the 'leddy' would not eat anything, and was very sick. We found, to our sorrow, that she had been in a miserable condition all day, and had suffered dreadfully from mountain sickness. She was so ill that it was impossible she could walk, and we were a long time in deciding what was to be done. Now, a helpless invalid, at a height of over eleven thousand feet above the sea, is not a being easy to legislate for. At last a litter was contrived. A chair was placed on some alpenstocks; and an American gentleman whom we met at the cabane being kind enough to lend us his porter, we found hands enough to carry her part of the way at least, to Zermatt; the Riffel-haus, where we were staying, being out of the question, on account of the Gorner glacier and its moraines and rocks, which would have to be passed to get there. Our party, sad to say, had then to separate, two of us going to Zermatt and two to the Riffel. The melancholy _chaise-à-porteur_ procession wended its way to Zermatt; and with considerably damped spirits we went on to the Riffel, which we reached at about half-past six P.M. The ambulance party did not get to their destination till eight o'clock.

All that remains now to be told of this our adventure is the sad result. The next morning, on waking from sleep, I found that my ear adhered to the pillow; and when, with much trembling I approached the glass, a spectacle presented itself to me which I can never forget. As I gazed at the grotesque reflection of myself, I inwardly vowed that no mask of London make, elegantly worked as it might be, should ever cover my face again. A large flapping cover-all mask 'of the country' let me recommend to ladies who go up snow mountains. I was swollen; I was black; I was hideous! Half of the skin of one ear was hanging by a shred, and the ear itself was a blister; while all round my neck from ear to ear was a chain of blisters. Their state was so bad that the dressing of them by one of our party (a doctor) took half an hour, and I could scarcely turn my head. It required a good deal of courage to face _table-d'hôte_ and the young ladies who were indulging in complexions and large portmanteaus. But I did! Would that I could say I enjoyed it. I did _not_ enjoy it. The complexions of the scornful and the scorn itself, embittered that meal, usually attended with such joys. In my travelling afterwards, I became accustomed to the searching glance at my poor tattered skin and to the remark: 'I see you have been doing glacier-work.' And it was not until a month of English life had to some extent repaired me that I could look back with delight and triumph to the ascent of the Breithorn.

ECCENTRIC PEOPLE.

Mr Timbs, in his book upon _English Eccentrics and Eccentricities_, introduces us to a collection of funny people, with whom it is good company to pass an hour. To get away from the dull routine of conventionality for a while is at all times a relief, more especially when we fill the interval by watching some of our eccentric fellow-creatures who are good enough to divert us by their antics. Some are serious in their folly; some are mad; some we admire, while others again awake our pity; but one and all they are gifted with a force of will that merits attention.

A collection of dead-and-gone eccentrics now pass before us, recalling a few living ones that we know of, whose collected vagaries, if published, may in turn probably amuse our grandchildren. First, let us look at Beckford, a name not much remembered now, although it belonged to a man who was a marvel in his day. Gifted with extraordinary powers of mind and will, he did everything by turns, and nothing long. He wrote a book that created a sensation. No great marvel that, to people of our day, when the difficulty is to find some one who has not written a book; but Beckford wrote as no other author. _Vathek_ was written at one sitting! It took him three days and two nights of hard labour, during which time he never undressed. We know of one instance somewhat similar. A reigning lady novelist told us once that she was pledged to her publisher to send him a three-volume novel by a certain date. Two days previous to the expiration of her contract, her novel had only reached the opening chapter of the third volume. On the evening of the first day she went to a ball, danced all night, returning home at the small-hours of morning, when, after taking off her ball-dress, and drinking some strong tea, she sat down to finish her task. All that day she wrote and on into the next night, never leaving her desk until she had written _finis_; when with trembling hands she despatched her manuscript in time to fulfil her engagement.

There are some natures that need the pressure of necessity, or self-imposed necessity, to goad them into action; their resolution once formed, no obstacle is suffered to come between them and its fulfilment. Beckford was one of these. He determined to build a house--the abbey at Fonthill, where he resided for twenty years--and swore by his favourite St Anthony that his Christmas-dinner should be cooked in the abbey kitchen. Christmas approached, and the kitchen was in an unfinished condition. Every exertion that money could command was brought to the task, and Christmas morning saw the kitchen finished and the cooks installed. A splendid repast was prepared, and the dinner actually cooked, when lo! and behold, as the servants were carrying in the dishes through the long passages into the dining-room, a loud noise was heard, and the kitchen fell through with a crash! But what cared Beckford? He was rich; he could afford to build his kitchen over again; meantime he had humoured his whim and kept his vow to St Anthony; and we may add, made good his title to eccentricity, for which we applaud him, and pass on to watch some others.

What sorry figure is this that comes next? A poor neglected imbecile, living in squalid lodgings at Calais. It is scarcely possible to recognise in this unhappy being the once gay and elegant Beau Brummel, the glass of fashion and mould of form to the men and women of his generation, whom he ruled with the despotism of an autocrat. Yet this is the poor Beau and no other. He is holding a phantom reception. Having desired his attendant to arrange his apartment, set out the whist-tables, and light the candles--alas! only tallow--he is ready at eight o'clock to receive the guests, which the servant, previously instructed, now announces. First comes the Duchess of Devonshire. On hearing her name the Beau leaves his chair, and with the courtliest bow, the only reminiscence of his departed glory, he advances to the door and greets the phantom Duchess with all the honour that he would have given the beautiful Georgiana. He takes her hand and leads her to a seat, saying as he does so: 'Ah, my dear Duchess, how rejoiced I am to see you; so very amiable of you to come at this short notice. Pray bury yourself in this arm-chair. Do you know it was the gift to me of the Duchess of York, who was a very kind friend of mine; but poor thing, you know, she is no more!' At this point tears of idiotcy would fall from his eyes, and he would sink into the arm-chair himself, awaiting the arrival of other guests, who, being duly announced, were similarly greeted. With these ghosts of the past he would spend the evening until ten o'clock, when the servant telling each guest that his or her carriage was waiting, would carry his poor old master off to bed. We cannot wish him good-night without the payment of a sigh for the pantomime he has acted and the sad lesson it conveys.

And now we conjure up a droll figure, whose eccentricity borders on madness, the spendthrift squire of Halston, John Mytton. He is tormented with hiccup, and tries the novel cure of setting fire to himself in order to frighten it away. Applying a candle to his garment, being sparely clad at the time, he is soon in flames. His life is only saved by the active exertions of some people who chance to be in the way at the time. He invites some friends once, and when the company are assembled in the drawing-room, he startles them all by riding into the room on a bear! The guests are panic-stricken: one mounts on a table, another on a chair; they all strive to make their escape from the ungracious animal, and its still more savage master, who is enjoying the misery of his guests with the laugh of a madman. Let us too leave him.