Chapter III: Part 3

A door that swung upon its hinges admitted the two men into a glittering-looking temple, where many lights were shining with great brilliancy. Sparkling glasses and polished vessels of pewter increased by reflection the brightness of the light, and made the place look gay. There was the hum of many voices. In one corner the ringing of loud, coarse laughter—in another, the mutterings of rising quarrel; here a song, there an oath, and everywhere that sad mingling of misery and merriment which are to be found in those scenes of sensuality.

“Now, young lady with the pretty curls, a couple of glasses here for me and my friend! Here’s a furrener, you see. I aint got no prejudice against a furrener. I says to him, ‘Aint you a man and a brother?’ Fine sentiment that, Miss! When I was at school, at the Parochial College of St. Calves and Leather Breeches, I put that ‘ere sentiment into my Christmas piece, and it were very much admired. Come, mate! your glass is standing! Drink up! Here’s towards you! Hollo! music above stairs, eh? ‘Sons of Harmony! Grand Meeting Night! Glorious Apollo! Bacchus, God of Wine! Marble Halls! Alice Grey! Never mention Her! Nix my Dolly! Buffalo Gals!’ Well, if that aint a mixtur! Two more glasses, Miss! Drink up, mate!”

The wretched “mate,” thus appealed to drinks up his glass and feels inspirited—his cheek glows—his blood flows merrily through his veins—and he is just beginning to forget that pale face in the air and the solemn singing. He goes to the doorway for a moment, and looks up into the misty night. Just then the Bells of St. Clement’s chime—a fluttering, like wings is heard, and then a solemn whispering.

“The phantom voice! The phantom voice, again!” cries the wretched man; and he runs from the place with the quickness of desperate fear. But the voice follows, and it sings:—

“Hark! the spirit of the Bells
Upon St. Clement’s Tower,
Groans at every deed that tells
Of Evil’s guilty power.
Struggle, strife!
And feverish life—
Struggle, strife, and din;
Night bells chiming,
Souls declining
Into deeps of sin.”

“Why, where are you running to? What the deuce is the matter with you?” said the man left behind in the gin-temple, who had followed and overtaken the frightened runaway. “You’re not going to get rid of me in this fashion to-night, I can tell you. I have got a little job for you to lend a hand in. Follow me!” and he takes him by the arm.

They go on down a street towards the river, and in a dark bye-place, under a gateway, they meet two other men, with crape-masks on their faces and iron instruments in their hands.

“Jim!” said one of the disguised men, “is that you?”

“All right!”

“Who have you got there?”

“A new friend of yours and mine. It’s all right with him, too. He has been to ‘my Uncle’s,’ and another shop since then. He’s regularly in for it, now.”

“Let him come with us to-night, then; we want a hand outside to watch, and help to carry. There’s good booty to-night at that house yonder, in the left-hand corner. They have been borrowing plate to-day, against a grand wedding there to-morrow morning.”

The men skulked forward to the house named, and one with his iron instrument broke a shutter, then opened a window, and crept in. Others followed, and the wretched new accomplice is left outside to take what they shall hand out to him. The night is calm and still, with a few cold, glimmering stars above, and darkness all around. The wretched man paces up and down the dark gateway at the side of the house, trembling at the remembrance of those songs in the air. It is now twelve o’clock, and from all the belfries in the Strand, iron tongues proclaim it in solemn tones. The man’s quick ear plainly distinquishes St. Clement’s among them; and, as he listens with fear, the pale face hovers over him once more, resting on its misty wings—

“Tis midnight, and St. Clement’s chime
Counts the wicked hours of crime.”

He will hear no more. With hands raised to his head, and pressed tight against his ears, he runs with all the strength and fleetness of fevered madness and despair. Away! away!—from street to street! Away from his guilty confederates—from the sound of St. Clement’s bells—from the ghostly look and the fearful singing. Away! if it were possible, from himself—away from the world!

He had reached a street in the neighbourhood of the Park, when he came to a house where a juvenile party was just breaking up. Some little boys and girls, rather sleepy and weary, and well wrapped up against the night air, were being lifted into coaches; while others, a little older, were jumping in of their own accord, in a manner so fresh and vigorous, that one would have supposed they were going to a party instead of coming from one. In particular, there was one very fine boy, with a beautiful eye sparkling beneath a bold, open brow. He came dancing down the steps of the doorway, his pockets full of fruit, and a bright orange in his hand. He appeared to be thinking of one of the games he had played that evening, for he was singing to himself—

“Oranges and Lemons!
Say the bells of St. Clement’s;”

and turning round to a playmate, he said, “Ah, Charley, my side pulled the strongest, you know.” Into the coach he jumped almost at one bound. As he did so, the orange in his hand fell from him and rolled far away down the street with a swift motion: and as the beautiful fruit went round and round on the smooth pavement, the light of the lamps above gleamed on its golden rind. It catches the eye of the poor fevered man. The mere words, “Oranges and Lemons;” the sight of the beautiful fruit of his native land—the merry voice, the innocent brow, the happy smile of the child that had dropped it, came upon him like a spell,—he sinks down, and a vision floats upon his brain.

The scene is in southern Europe, where the blue Mediterranean rolls from the straits of Gibraltar to the Syrian shores. There was the murmuring of tranquil, silvery waves—the soft breathing of the winds—the gushes of sweet music and joy from many a grove on the shore, and many a green cleft in the hills; and one voice above the rest, in a tone of earnest and tender entreaty, rose in the warm skies as if a spirit were singing there. And this was its song:—

“Remember thine early days—
The orange grove, the vine-clad hill;
The river where the sunbeams play—
The evening calm and still.

“Remember thine early days—
Thy mother’s smile, thy sister’s song;
Thy childhood’s little hymns of praise,
Which kept the heart from wrong.”

Then did the air and the ocean break out into a tender joy; and the spirit of the man rode on the waves of sweet sound along the whole course of the Mediterranean into the sunny Adriatic, and among the rocks of the Ægean. And voices came from the Capes of Sicily, whispering that God the Beautiful expected his children to be Beautiful too—beautiful in spirit, in thoughts, affections, and desires. And a like strain floated over the Grecian Isles, and told the enraptured listener, what a spirit of love it was which had poured out the beauty of Heaven on the hills and plains and valleys of the world; and it bid him believe that He who had cherished the grass and the flower through the dews of night and the chill of winter, did also intend a kindness to the soul, in pouring on it the dews of sorrow.

And the man wept, and mingled his feeble voice with nature’s, and they worshipped together, and said—“Our Father! Hallowed be thy name!”

* * * * *

“Decidedly better! the skin is moist; the eye is clearer; the fever is subsiding; he will do very well now.”

This was spoken by the house-surgeon of one of the London hospitals, as he stood by the bed-side of a patient in the fever ward—feeling the pulse, and watching the countenance. The patient raised himself slightly on the pillows, and looked round with a wondering air.

“Why! who—who am I?”

“Who are you?” said the Doctor, “that is a pretty question for a man to ask about himself. You are described in the hospital books as Pietro Limoncello—Journeyman Tailor. You’ll remember it all presently.”

“How came I here?”

“You were brought here by those who took pity on you; you were found lying on your own shop-board in a state of delirium, and you were instantly removed to this hospital. You have been for some days insensible.”

“Oh, Doctor! I have had such dreams.”

“Very likely—men in health have strange dreams, sometimes; men in fever have still stranger ones. You have had time enough for a good deal of dreaming. But come! you are going to get well now; the fever has gone down, and your senses have come back to you. This is visitors’ day: would you like to see a friend for a moment? I think you may.”

“I have got no friends in this country,” said Pietro.

“Haven’t you? If I remember rightly, I heard some one asking to see you only a minute ago. It is a little girl that I have seen carrying milk about somewhere in the Strand.”

“Oh! To be sure, I remember her well. How curious that she should think of me! It is very kind. But she is a good girl; she looks as if she had a gentle heart. I should like her to come up, Doctor.”

“Well, if you will not keep her too long, and not talk too much, she shall come.”

The Doctor turned away, and in a few minutes the little milk-girl was at the patient’s bed-side.

“Well, Mr. Moncello, I’ve come to see you. I would have come before, only they told me you were too bad to know any one. Aunty sends a kind message, and says, If you will make haste and get better, I am to bring you a glass of new milk every day for a fortnight—real milk, sweet and new—that isn’t to be got every day in London, I can tell you.”

The patient lifted the hand of the little girl to his lips, and thanked her with his eyes.

“My little maid,” he said after a pause, “I must not keep you long, nor talk much; but just a few words I should like to say. You came from the country, did you not?”

“Yes!”

“And was it very beautiful there?”

“Oh very! My dear mother’s cottage was in the middle of a garden, and honeysuckle grew over the porch, and birds built under the eaves. I have heard the cuckoo sing there in the spring, and the nightingale, too, in the evening.”

“_Remember thine early days!_” said the patient with trembling fervour. “My child! you are a good girl; I think you must have had a good mother.”

“My mother!” said the child, bursting into tears. “Oh she was good indeed! Oh! how she prayed for me the night that she died! I shall never forget it, never!”

Again the patient broke out, “_Remember thine early days!_ But go now my dear. Thank you, thank you kindly for coming. Heaven bless you!”

Pietro Limoncello recovered in due time, and returned to his poor trade. The visions of his illness strengthened his integrity; heavenly hopes grew out of the roots of heavenly memories. Thoughts of the loveliness in other lands upraised his heart to Him whose voice is gone out unto _all_ lands; and he felt that God would be ever present to such as trusted, and waited patiently for him. Wherever the mind and heart are devoted to duty and to Heaven, there hovers the Guardian of Souls, with outstretched wings. Yes! even in the din of the Strand, in a wretched garret, at a tailor’s board, God the all-beautiful is there.

The Boy Bachelor, or something about Cardinal Wolsey.

Four hundred years ago, the Papal power was so great in Europe, that the whole of the countries of which it was composed formed, in reality, but one general state; for by whatever names the provinces of Christendom were distinguished—empires, kingdoms, or republics—the people and their rulers alike acknowledged themselves subjects to the Pope. Royalty did homage to superstition, and mankind were bound in chains which they could not break. Man surrendered his reason, and gave up both body and soul to the power of the clergy, who exercised it for their own advantage, without any regard to truth, justice, or humanity.

This state of things favoured opportunities for bold and resolute minds to exalt themselves to greatness, and it was the boast of the Church then, as now, that the meanest member might rise to the highest office, which consequently offered a strong temptation to those of superior talents and attainments to attempt great things. Many persons arose to eminence in the church at this period, but among all none were so conspicuous as Thomas Wolsey.

Wolsey was born at Ipswich, in Suffolk, in the month of March, 1471. His father is reported to have been a butcher, but this is not quite certain; it appears, however, that he possessed some property, and that “Thomas,” possessed much talent, and he was consequently sent to Oxford at the age of fifteen, when he obtained the degree of Bachelor of Arts, which procured him the designation of the “Boy Bachelor.” Few so young, with all the advantages of rank and influence, attained in that age academical honors—his great progress in philosophy and other learning, having early procured for him a fellowship at Magdalen College. He was also appointed master of the school, and entrused with the education of the sons of the Marquis of Dorset. The proficiency which these two young men made under his tuition, procured him the Rectory of Lymington, in Somersetshire, and afterwards he was appointed one of the Chaplains to King Henry VII.

Soon after this appointment he was favourably noticed by Fox, Bishop of Winchester, who about that time held the Privy Seal, and Thomas Lovell, then Chancellor of the Exchequer, who thought his uncommon capacity might be useful in state affairs; and, accordingly, while the treaty of marriage was pending between the King and Margaret, Dowager of Savoy, they proposed him as a fit person to be sent to her father, the Emperor Maximilian, on that business. His Majesty, Henry VII, had not before particularly noticed Wolsey, but after conversing with him, he was so satisfied with his qualifications, that he commanded him to be in readiness for the Embassy.

The Court was then at Richmond, from which Wolsey proceeded with his dispatches to London, where he arrived at four o’clock in the afternoon; he had a boat waiting, and in less than three hours was at Gravesend. With post horses he got next morning to Dover, reached Calais in the course the afternoon; and arrived the same night at the Imperial Court. The Emperor, informed that an extraordinary ambassador had come from England, immediately admitted him; and the business being agreeable, was quickly concluded. Wolsey then returned, and reached Calais at the opening of the gates—found the passengers going on board the vessel that brought him from England—embarked, and about ten o’clock was landed at Dover. He reached Richmond the same night, and after taking some repose, rose and met the King as he came from his chamber to hear the morning-service. His Majesty suprised at seeing him there, rebuked him for neglecting the orders with which he was charged;—“May it please your Highness,” said Wolsey, “I have been with the Emperor, and executed my commision to the satisfaction, I trust, of your Grace,” he then knelt and presented Maximilian’s letters. Dissembling the admiration which he felt at such unprecedented expedition, the King inquired if he had received no orders by a pursuivant who had been sent after him. Wolsey answered that he met the messenger as he returned: but having preconceived the purpose for which he was sent, he had presumed of his own accord to supply the defect in his credentials, for which he solicited his Majesty’s pardon. Pleased with this foresight, and gratified with the result of the negotiation, the king readily forgave his temerity; and commanded him to attend the Council in the afternoon. Wolsey, at the time appointed, reported the business of his mission with so much clearness and propriety, that he received the applause of all present; and when the Deanery of Lincoln soon after became vacant, it was bestowed on him by his Majesty, who, from the period of that embassy, continued to treat him with particular favor.

Such, my young friends, was the commencement of the rise of this great man; and from it we may learn a lesson of dispatch and assiduity well to follow. I have not space here to relate to you the life of this extraordinary man, but I can tell you that he rose from one place of high trust to another, till he had almost reached the pinnacle of human greatness. His table was surrounded by the wise and learned of the age; the pomp and magnificence of his retinue surpassed that of the king; he had attained the dignity of Cardinal, and was virtually at the head of the Church in England; prime political minister, and the chief judge of law and equity;—but all these high powers could not preserve him from the fall that awaited him, and it was for him to furnish one of the most striking instances of the instability of fortune, and the ingratitude of his fellow men, which the whole compass of history affords.

King Henry VIII had formed a desire to put away his first wife, Katherine of Arragon, and to marry Anne Boleyn. Wolsey was struck with alarm, and, it is said, fell on his knees before the King to dissuade him from his wicked design. The duty he owed to religion and to the church would not allow him to side with heresy, and therefore he was put into, what is called, a false position between the King on one side and the Pope on the other,—to both he was bound to act with fidelity, the service of one was contrary to the interests of the other—he was placed in a situation where his honesty had the effect of making him equally offensive to both parties; there was no chance for him whatever. Of course one so powerful and at the same time so influential, had numerous enemies, and the ministers of Henry VIII were his bitter foes; and articles of impeachment were drawn up against the Cardinal, who was charged with superiority of talent, and surpassing assiduity in business—with being eloquent in discourse—liberal and lofty-minded. The main strength of his enemies lay in the House of Lords, among the nobility, the prelates, and the abbots, and the bill of impeachment passed this branch of the legislature, but in the house of Commons, Thomas Cromwell, who had been devoted to Wolsey, so manfully exposed, the absurdity of the charges, and so powerfully vindicated the integrity of his old master, that the Commons, to their immortal honor, threw out the bill as unworthy of investigation.

The impeachment having failed, the Cardinal was immediately indicted on the 16th statute of Richard III, for having exercised his commission as the Pope’s Legate without the King’s authority; one of the Judges was sent to Ashur to to receive his answer to this shameless accusation, to whom Wolsey replied in a proud and melancholy spirit. He objected to give up York Palace as being the patrimony of the Church, but signified his readiness to submit to the King’s power, ending his discourse by directing the Judge to tell the King to remember that there is both a heaven and a hell. With this answer the Judge returned to London.

Cromwell, who in the house of Commons had so ably defended him, acted with such open and manly intrepidity in the cause of his deserted master, that he won the esteem of all parties. Being on a visit of consolation to him at Ashur, he took occasion to mention that no provision had been made, for several of the servants had proved very faithful, and had never forsaken him. “Alas” replied the Cardinal, “you know that I have nothing to give them, nor to reward you.” Cromwell however prevailed upon the Cardinal’s chaplain, who had been preferred to rich benefices by his influence, to contribute a little money for their relief, which he did.

The turmoil and the anxiety of the Cardinal’s mind so acted upon his frame that he now fell grievously sick, and his life was despaired of. Henry, being informed of his indisposition, inquired of one of the court physicians what was the matter with the Cardinal. On hearing it arose from indisposition, he struck the table violently with his hand, exclaiming, “I would rather lose twenty thousand pounds than he should die—make you haste, therefore, and endeavour to relieve him.” He then took from his finger a ring chased, with a ruby, on which his own head was engraved, and sent a gentlemen with it and many kindly assurances to the Cardinal; and he ordered Anne Boleyn, who happened to be present, to send also some token of her regard, which she subsequently obeyed, giving the doctor a golden tablet from her side, and requested him to deliver from her. Soon after, Wolsey was regularly pardoned and replaced in the See of York, with a pension of a thousand marks per annum; and Henry, unknown to the Privy Council, restored to him plate and effects to the value of six thousand pounds. This attention of the king revived the drooping spirits of the Cardinal, who went to reside at Richmond, but his enemies ever active, prevailed upon Henry to send him off to his diocese, and he was accordingly banished to York.

He commenced his journey to York about the end of Lent, his train consisted of a hundred and sixty men and servants, and two wagons loaded with the relics of his furniture. He travelled slowly onward, walked in the procession of the monks to the cathedral at Peterboro’ on Palm Sunday, kept Maunday Thursday by washing the feet of the poor and bestowing alms and blessings, he preached in the churches, judged between contending parties, arguing peace, forbearance, and charity among all men. As he drew towards York, a great multitude of people congregated to see him arrive, among whom were the clergy of the diocese, who welcomed him with the reverence due to his pontifical dignity. As he had never been installed in the archepiscopal see, the Cathedral was prepared for the ceremony, but, on the preceding Friday, as he was sitting at dinner, the Earl of Northumberland accompanied by a large retinue arrived at the castle, and arrested him for high treason, and informed him that his orders were to convey him to London. On his departure a great crowd assembled round the castle, and, as he came out on his mule guarded, the people began to exclaim “God save your Grace, and evil over-take them that have taken you from us,” but the Cardinal was deaf to the voice of pity, he considered his destruction at hand, and his constitution, impaired by age and sorrow, gave way. One day, at dinner, he complained of a coldness in his stomach, and was soon after seized with a violent dysentery, which gradually reduced his strength. However, he obeyed the king’s mandate—being anxious to prove his innocence before his accusers at a proper Court, but his illness increased, and on the evening of the third day of his return journey he approached Leicester. The appearance of nature accorded with the condition of the prisoner, the end of the year was drawing nigh, and the Cardinal beheld, for the last time, the falling leaf and the setting sun.

When the cavalcade reached the monastery, the day was drawing to a close, and, the abbot and the friars, apprised of his coming, waited with torches at the gate to receive him. But the honors of the world had ceased to afford him any pleasure; and, as he passed down the stairs, he said to the brethren, “I am come to lay my bones among ye!” Being supported into a chamber, he immediately went to bed, and languished with increasing signs of dissolution all the next day. The following morning, Cavendish, his usher and afterwards historian, as he was watching near him, thought he perceived the symptoms of death. The Cardinal noticing him, inquired the hour, and was told eight o’clock. “That cannot be,” he replied, “for at eight clock you shall lose your master. My time is at hand, and I must depart this world.” Continuing to grow weaker and weaker, he fainted several times during the day. About four o’clock the following morning he asked for some refreshment, which having received, and made confession, Sir William Kingston entered his room and inquired how he felt himself. “Sir,” said Wolsey, “I tarry but the pleasure of God to render up my poor soul into his hands.” He then gave sage and good counsel to Sir William, and impressed upon him the duty of acting in all things with fidelity and honesty towards God, and said, “had I served God as diligently as I have done the King he would not have given me over in my gray hairs.” “Farewell,” he continued, “I wish all good things to have success. My time draws fast on. I may not continue with you. Forget not what I have said, and when I am gone, call it often to mind.” Towards the conclusion he began to falter, and linger in the articulation of his words. At the end, his eyes became motionless, and his sight failed. The Abbot was summoned to administer the extreme unction, and the yeomen of the guard were called to see him die. As the clock struck eight he expired.

The body, with the face uncovered, being laid out in pontifical robes, the magistrates and inhabitants of Leicester were permitted to see it, in order that they might certify the death. In the evening it was removed into the church, but the funeral service was protracted by unusual dirges and orisons, and it was past midnight before the interment took place. Such was the end of this proud and famous Cardinal; who, for a subject, had more of the pomp and glory of this world than any man who ever lived—few have been thrown down from so great a height with so few crimes. He cannot be reproached with anything mean, vile, malicious, cruel, or vindictive. He was a character of the most splendid class—superior as a statesman to any of his contemporaries. He was haughty to the haughty—proud to the proud. Stern and unbending to those who loved him not—but to those who showed him respect, “sweet as summer!” All his undertakings showed the foreseeing facilities of his genius. It was he who, more than any other man, laid the foundation of those maxims of prudence, which, in our own day, among all European States, restrict the domination of the Pope. My young friends cannot do better than to study at large the history of this justly celebrated man. They will find in it much to exalt their minds and to touch their hearts, and they will rise from their perusal of his memoir wiser and better children. Those wretched people who like to contemplate the little blemishes of the most illustrious characters, will see in the errors of Wolsey much to condemn. But more generous minds will look upon them as “specks upon a sun,” whose rays enlightened and benefited the world.

An Adventure with a Bear.

Bears are very funny fellows, sometimes, particularly the “Brown Bears.” All Black Bears are savage; the White Bears are melancholy and spiteful, but the Brown Bears give, at times, the oddest sport, and make us laugh the most. I remember well, upon my travelling from Moscow to St. Petersburgh, seeing some fun with one, and I can’t help telling it to my young readers.

The road from Moscow to St. Petersburg is dreary enough; long wastes of ground stretching far away—straight roads without hedges or ditches—clumps of trees here and there—savage-looking dens, and as savage-looking men—rude hovels not fit for pigs to stop in—women not half so clean as the pigs in Mr. Bendall’s styes—and rough old chaps, with beards so rough, hard, and bristly, that you might make shoe-brushes of them. These are the characteristics of the Russian peasantry, and when, therefore, we talk of bears, we talk of gentlemen—polite, generous but determined, and not very ceremonious gentlemen; of one of these it is my object to speak.

I was, as I said, travelling from Moscow to St. Petersburgh. I had with me my friend Bendall, as good a shot as ever hit a rabbit in a sley, and as good a hunter as ever hunted a donkey on a cross-road. We had travelled many miles over morass and heath, and through the ugliest roads in Christendom. Sometimes we travelled for a whole day without meeting with a house or hovel of any kind, and on the day that the adventure took place I am about to describe, we had travelled till night-fall without any probability of shelter for the night; so, at last, thinking that we could do no better, we crept into a cave, with the intention of passing the night there. We were rather surprised, when we had stricken a light, to find a great lot of bones strewn about, all of them picked very clean, and some of them very old; and, as Bendall remarked, “we were in a Bear’s den”—his own parlor, drawing room, kitchen, and cookery, and a very warm snug place it seemed, not over nice as to smell, but quite sheltered from wind and tempest. So we struck a light, lit a fire, and prepared to make ourselves comfortable with one “sausage,” the only thing we had to munch that night. We put it on the fire, and it had not long begun to grill and grizzle, before something dark moved before the entrance of the cave. Bendall was after it directly, with his gun cocked; and I held up a lighted brand to see what would come next. It was a rough old Brown Bear, of very large size, who seemed by no means pleased at our invasion of his domestic hearth. He stood, with his nose poked out, savagely looking at us, as much as to say: “what do you here, you blackguards?” Bendall seeing this insolent speech in the bear’s eyes, pulled the trigger—flash—but no bang—the gun missed fire! and, in a moment, the old brute, as if he knew that he was likely to have all his own way, made a leap at me with the agility of a young rabbit. I had only just time to pop the fire-brand in his mouth—which made him howl for a moment—and then, with redoubled savageness, he flew upon me, and embraced me with such a hug, that I seemed to feel my ribs cracking, and all the breath squeezing out of my body. I laid hold of the bear’s throat, and tried to squeeze him and stop his breath; but his hair was so thick and shaggy I could make but little impression upon him; and so he squeezed, and I squeezed; now we rolled—now we tumbled—sometimes Parley was up—sometimes Bear; and then we rolled over and over again. Poor Bendall looked on with consternation; he had again primed his piece, but was afraid to fire lest he should hit and settle me. At last we tumbled and tumbled, till we both rolled into the fire. Upon this Bruin let go of me, and leaped to a great distance, and began capering about in fine style; the pain of the burnings being, no doubt, very teasing—I know mine were. “Now is your time, Bendall,” said I. So Bendall would have fired, but his gun again missed; upon which the old bear made towards me again, pawing out with his fore feet, and standing on his hind ones, while I, in the same attitude, waited his approach. But Bendall, finding his gun of no use one way, determined to try its service in another; and advancing boldly in front of me, dealt Bruin such a blow with the butt-end, that he rolled him over like a Dutch-cheese. At the same moment I whipped out my knife, and made a hole in the Bear’s body; while Bendall gave him another topper “for luck”—and Bruin was done for. The whole affair was most ludicrous, but almost too serious a joke. It however ended by our having some of the bear’s haunch for our supper. And I can tell you, my young friends, that bear’s haunch is most delicious eating.

Something about Lighthouses.

Lighthouses were in use with the ancients. The towers of Sestos and Abydos, the Colossus of Rhodes, and the well-known tower in the island of Pharos, off Alexandria, are examples. Suetonius also mentions a lofty tower at Ostia, and another on the coast of Batavia, erected for the purpose of guiding the mariners by night. In lighting a great extent of coast, it becomes necessary to provide for the distribution of lighthouses in such a manner, that they may be readily distinguished from each other, and, at the same time, so disposed, as not to leave vessels without some point by which to direct their course.

One of the most extraordinary lighthouses on our iron-bound coast, stands on a reef of rocks called the Eddystone, in the English Channel, about ten miles from the Land’s End, in Cornwall. It was erected by Mr. Smeaton, in 1759, and still remains a lasting monument of his scientific skill. It consists of four rooms, surmounted by a gallery and lanthorn. The floors are of stone, flat on the surface, but concave beneath, and are kept from pressing against the sides of the building, by means of a chain which is let into the walls. The entire edifice is about eighty feet in height, and yet, such is the immense power of the wind in the neighbourhood of the rocks, that the waves are seen to ascend like a cupola, considerably above the lanthorn at the top. The appearance of this is truly wonderful and sublime.

Another celebrated lighthouse is called the Bell Rock Lighthouse, which stands on the coast of Scotland, near Arbroath, in Forfarshire. These rocks have always been particularly dangerous for shipping, and when the commerce of Scotland was very much less than at the time of the erection of the lighthouse, it is said that the monks of the Abbey of Arbroath erected a bell on the rock, which was rung by machinery during the flowing and ebbing of the tide. About the year 1807, the present noble specimen of what man can accomplish, was commenced. The work was completed in 1811, under the direction of Mr. Stevenson, and reflects the highest honor upon his professional skill. The difficulties that had to be overcome were of the most embarassing description. At the commencement of the work, in consequence of the short time the rock was not covered with water, two or three hours were considered a good tide’s work, and, frequently after a portion of the foundation had been completed, a sudden storm would render it necessary to perform the same labour twice over, and even oftener. On one occasion, Mr. Stevenson and the men who were with him at work were exposed to great danger, in consequence of the vessel that used to carry them from the rock having broken from her moorings, and the tide at the same time commencing its rise. They were, fortunately however, saved by a small boat, which happened to bring Mr. Stevenson some papers relating to the lighthouse at the time.

The form of the lighthouse is that of an immense pillar; the lower courses of stones are trenailed and wedged together with oak timber, to the height of upwards of forty feet, or throughout the solid part of the building. At the stone staircase leading from the door to the first floor, the walls are seven feet thick, and from this it gradually decreases upwards. The stones of the walls of the several apartments are connected at the ends with dove-tailed joints. The floors are formed of long stones radiating from the centre, and set in such a manner that the pressure of the floors upon the walls is perpendicular. In the stranger’s room or library, the roof takes an arched form, but the centre is cut only upon the interior end of the stones of the cornice, the several stones of which it is composed being all laid upon level beds.

In order to give a slight idea of the force this lighthouse has to withstand, we may quote the following remarks from Mr. Stevenson. He says:—“It is awfully grand, at the time of high water, to observe the spray rising on the building, and even to be on the rock at low water, when the waves are about to break. Being, in a manner, only a few yards distant, they approach as if they were about to overwhelm us altogether. But, now that we are accustomed to such scenes, we think little of it. You will, perhaps, form a better idea of the force of these gales, when I relate to you that, on the 15th of February, the large piece of lead which was used as a tack weight of the balance crane, weighing nearly five hundred pounds, was fairly lifted by the sea and carried to the distance of six feet from the hole in which it had laid since the month of August. It was found turned round, with the ring-bolt downwards, and it was with great difficulty that four of us could muster strength enough to move it.”

There are many other lighthouses upon our coast. That at the Land’s End is a very fine one, as is that at Orford and Yarmouth Sound. Of late years a new mode of building lighthouses has been in operation, and of this I shall say a few words.

Perhaps no class of persons are exposed to greater dangers than seamen. They have to contend, not only against the elements, when all around them is a barren waste of waters, but, no sooner are they gladdened by the sight of land, than their perils are increased to a much greater extent. In the former case, the wind was, perhaps, the only danger they might have to provide against, but approaching land they must take care to avoid sunken rocks and sand-banks, which might be the cause of their destruction. Upon rocks and the solid coasts, lighthouses have been erected with comparative ease (as we have already stated), but, upon sands, the erection of them is very difficult; and was, till within these few years, considered to be almost insurmountable. Floating lights, which are large lanthorns suspended in the rigging of a vessel, or built up in the hull, are frequently used to illuminate a sandy coast, full of shoals and sand-banks—but these are subject to many inconveniences, by the pitching and rolling of the vessel—for every now and then she is partially submerged in the trough of the sea, covered with spray and drift; or, what is most to be dreaded, she is liable to be blown away from her moorings—an accident productive of the most disastrous consequences to life and property; for should such a catastrophe happen, the ships sailing along a coast having nothing to warn them of their danger, run upon the shoals or sand-banks, and are frequently totally wrecked, and all traces of them lost, in the course of a very few hours.

Such being the case, the attention of Engineers has for some time been directed to the best means for overcoming this difficulty. The building of a house upon a rock has ever been considered the proof of wisdom, whilst the erection of it on the sands has been held the proof of folly. But the advances of science prove that a house may be built even upon the sands, when proper care is taken in its construction—and the erection of lighthouses on this foundation is held to be a triumph in engineering.

This remarkable result has been accomplished chiefly by means of Mitchell’s screw mooring, which consists of an immense screw, very similar to that of the corkscrew, with flat cutting spirals. It is a spiral or screw round a cast-iron spindle, having a square head, upon which a large key is placed (like the key of a watch), and the screw is turned by enormous leverage, and it is then forced into the ground, and can be carried to a great depth. This instrument was thought to be applicable to the establishment of Lighthouses upon sands; and, accordingly, a series of experiments was undertaken, and a lighthouse was speedily erected on the verge of the Maplin Sand, situated at the mouth of the Thames, about twenty miles below the Nore. The foundation was formed of seven screw piles, six occupying the six angles of a hexagon, and the seventh being placed in the centre. From each screw proceeded a pile fifteen feet in length, at the upper end of which was another screw for securing a wooden column. These columns were prepared of Baltic timber: the one in the centre was fifty-six feet, and each of the remainder forty-six feet in length, firmly bound together with iron hoops, and coated with pitch.

The platform upon which the house stands is firmly secured round the centre column, and to the heads of the outer columns by means of hollow cast-iron capitals let down on the heads of the columns, and secured with screw bolts. To give lateral strength to the building, round iron angle traces were applied, by which means a resisting power, equal to at least three-hundred-and-fifty tons is presented in every direction.

The platform upon which the house stands is twenty-seven feet in diameter and nine feet high; it has an outside door and three windows, and is divided into two apartments—one having a fire-place. The floor is tiled, and the walls are ceiled, lathed, and stuccoed; access to the platform is secured by means of a Jacob’s ladder to one of the columns. From the summit of the house rises the lanthorn: it is twelve sided, and is ten feet in feet in diameter and eight feet high. The light is elevated about forty-six feet above low water level, and is bright, steady, and uniform—ranging over an horizon of eight miles and visible at the distance of ten miles from a coaster’s deck. During foggy weather a bell is tolled by machinery. Tide time for vessels of twelve feet draught is also denoted by signals.

This admirable and useful structure was erected in two of the shortest day months of the year, during which time daylight did not occur at any low water period; the workmen, therefore, had to depend upon torches and moonlight; and what is quite as extraordinary, it can be taken down and erected on another site in a month, should circumstances render it necessary.

The Old Abbeys and Castles of England.

In a former chapter I mentioned something about Old Abbeys. I am now about to say something concerning the Old Castles of England, for few things are more interesting to young people than the stories connected with them. There is scarcely any part of England but has ruins of old castles; some of these ruins are very picturesque, and, when we look at them, the mind is carried back to the times of superstition—of religious bondage—of knighthood and chivalry—and of intestine war. Happily, these times are gone for ever, and we now enjoy peace, freedom, and religious happiness, such as ancient times never did, and never could produce; and we ought to be grateful to Almighty God that we live in such blessed times.

According to Dr. Johnson, a Castle is a strong house fortified, but this gives little more information than the saying, according to law, “Every man’s house is his castle.” A Castle, properly so called, is a fortress or fortification of stone, surrounded by high and thick walls of defence, with different walls and lines of circumvallation, consisting of the Barbican, the Moat, the wall of the outer Ballium, the outer Ballium, the Artificial Mount, the wall of the inner Ballium, the inner Ballium, and the Keep or Dungeon.

The Barbican, was a watch-tower for the purpose of descrying the approach of a distant enemy. It seems to have had no positive place, except that it was always an outwork, and frequently advanced beyond the ditch, to which it was joined by a draw-bridge, and formed the entrance into the Castle.

The Ditch, which was also called the moat or fosse, was sometimes filled with water, when any convenient stream could be turned into it, at other times it was dry and deep, and, when this was the case, there were subterranean passages underneath, by which the soldiers could pass out and suddenly break ground into the open country, and astonish the invading forces. This wall of the outer Ballium was within the Ditch on the castle side. The wall was usually high, flanked with towers, and had a parapet, embattled, crenellated, or garretted, for mounting it.

The outer Ballium was the space or ground within the outer wall. In the Ballium were lodgings or barracks for the garrison and artificers, wells for water, and sometimes a monastery. An artificial mound, commanding the adjacent country, was often thrown up in the Ballium, and from this the soldiers and archers would throw their missiles upon the enemy.

The wall of the inner Ballium separated it from the outer Ballium. The inner Ballinm was a second enclosed space or ground. When a castle had an inner Ballium—which was not always the case—it contained the buildings before-mentioned as being within the Ballium.

The Keep, or Dungeon, commonly, but not always, stood on an eminence in the centre; sometimes it was, emphatically, called the Tower. It was the Citadel, or last retreat of the garrison, and was generally a high, square tower of four or five stories, having turrets at each angle, with staircases in the turrets. The walls of these edifices were always of an extraordinary thickness, which enabled them to exist longer than other buildings; and they are now almost the only remains of our ancient castles.

In the Keep or Dungeon, the Lord, or Governor, had his state-rooms, which were little better than gloomy cells, with chinks or embrasures diminishing inwards, from which arrows from long or cross-bows might be discharged against besiegers. Some Keeps, especially those of small castles, had not even these conveniences, but were solely lighted by a small perforation at the top. The different stories were frequently vaulted; sometimes they were only separated by joists. On the top of the Keep, was usually a platform, with an embattled parapet, from whence the Govenor could see and command the exterior works.

Castles were designed for residences as well as defence. According to some writers, the ancient Britons had castles of stone; but they were few in number, and either decayed or so much destroyed, through neglect or invasions, that, at the time of the Norman Conquest, little more than their ruins remained. The Conqueror erected and restored many castles; and on the lands parcelled out to his followers they erected castles all over the country. These edifices greatly multiplied in turbulent and unsettled times; and, towards the reign of Stephen, they amounted to the almost incredible number of eleven hundred and fifteen.

As the Feudal system strengthened, castles became the heads of baronies. Each castle had a Manor, and the Castellain, Owner, or Governor was the Lord of the Manor. Markets or fairs were held in them to prevent frauds in the King’s duties or customs, and there his laws were enforced, until the Lords usurped the regal power, not only within their castles but the environs, and exercised civil and criminal jurisdiction, coined money, and even seized forage and provisions for the garrisons. Their oppressions grew so high, that, according to William of Newbury, there were as many kings, or rather tyrants, as lords of castles; and these lords of castles not only oppressed and despoiled their weaker neighbours, but exercised even royal privileges. Henry II., therefore, stipulated for the destruction of many of them, and prevented the erection of others, except by royal license.

The materials with which castles were built varied according to the places of their erection; but the manner of building seems to have been pretty uniform. The outsides of the walls generally consisted of stones near at hand; the insides were filled up with fragments of stone, or sometimes chalk, and a large supply of fluid mortar. When the Normans found the remains of an ancient building on a site which suited them, they often added their out-work, thus having a mixed piece of architecture of a Norman and Saxon Order, with, not unfrequently, a quantity of Roman bricks.

According to Camden, who gives an account of the taking of Bedford Castle, in his Britannia:—“The castle,” he says, “was taken by four assaults. In the first was taken the Barbican; in the second the outer bail (Ballium); at the third attack, the wall by the old tower was thrown down by the miners, where, with great danger, they possessed themselves of the inner bail through a chink; at the fourth assault, the miners set fire to the tower, so that the smoke burst out, and the tower itself was cloven to that degree as to show visibly some broad chinks; whereupon the enemy surrendered.”

Castles in process of time, soon became of little use as fortresses; the change in the art of war, brought about by the invention of gunpowder, the influence of our navy, and the abolishment of the feudal system, all tended to diminish the importance of these ancient safeguards; and, with the progress of civilization and national improvement, we trace the gradual change in the construction of castles, till, by the admission of light and air, and some degree of ornament, the harsh and gloomy features of the massive Norman pile became softened down into the refined and comfortable aspect of the castellated house in the reign of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth.

In the reign of Charles I., however, shortly before the civil war, and probably with the prospects of the awful events which followed in view, a commission was appointed to inquire into the state of the ancient castles. Many of these, during the subsequent troubles, were garrisoned and defended. Not a few were afterwards destroyed by order of the parliament, and others were left to the ravages of time and the weather. Some of these monuments of barbaric grandeur have been torn down for the sake of the materials, or for the purpose of building on the same site.

Although a view of the generality of these rugged fortresses—destined chiefly for the purposes of war or defence—suggests to the imagination, dungeons, chains, and a painful assemblage of horrors, yet some of them were often the scenes of magnificence and hospitality, where, in the days of chivalry, the wandering Knight or distressed Princess found honourable reception, the holy Palmer repose for his wearied limbs, and the poor and helpless men daily bread.

Having here given a general description of Castles, I shall, in a future chapter, afford my young readers accounts of some particular Castles, especially those which have historical incidents connected with them.

The Queen of Spithead: Review of the Fleet.