Whatare the river reeds whispering,In music so sweet and low?Ah, these are the words they murmur,"My tale would you like to know?""O reeds by the shining water,I'll listen all day, all day,If you will tell me your storyWhilst the river rolls away."Spake the reed—"I'm a maid named Syrinx,And there once lived a god named Pan;He liked me, but I didn't like him,So away to the woods I ran."I ran very swiftly, but swifterThe rough god Pan did pursue,Then I cried to the gods, on Olympus,'There are none to help me but you!'"I came to a shining river,And thirsty I stooped to drink,And the kindly gods changed me intoA reed on the river's brink."Then Pan grew quite melancholy,And gathered the reeds, and madeA pipe; and he thought of me everWhen he on his pan-pipe played."
W
hatare the river reeds whispering,In music so sweet and low?Ah, these are the words they murmur,"My tale would you like to know?""O reeds by the shining water,I'll listen all day, all day,If you will tell me your storyWhilst the river rolls away."Spake the reed—"I'm a maid named Syrinx,And there once lived a god named Pan;He liked me, but I didn't like him,So away to the woods I ran."I ran very swiftly, but swifterThe rough god Pan did pursue,Then I cried to the gods, on Olympus,'There are none to help me but you!'"I came to a shining river,And thirsty I stooped to drink,And the kindly gods changed me intoA reed on the river's brink."Then Pan grew quite melancholy,And gathered the reeds, and madeA pipe; and he thought of me everWhen he on his pan-pipe played."
Illustration: TATTOOED NEW ZEALANDERtattooed new zealander.
Someof the readers of these pages, I dare say, saw King Tawhiao, the Maori chief, who visited England in the summer of 1884. If so, they could not have failed to notice the curious designs that were traced upon his face. These scroll-like marks were the result of an operation which lasted for six weeks, and which was attended with extreme pain. The process is called tattooing, and a person who has undergone it is said to be tattooed. It is practised very extensively amongst the natives of New Zealand and the South Sea Islands generally, women as well as men, whose bodies are covered with patterns of an elaborate, or fantastic, or picturesque description, though sometimes the design is of a comparatively simple sort. Nearly every British sailor has tattoo-marks on his arm—an anchor, ship, initials, or what not—and unless I am much mistaken, some of the lads now perusing these sentences have now and then ornamented (or disfigured) their hands and arms with similar signs.
In New Zealand the tattoo-marks run in unbroken lines, while in the South Sea Islands they are in dotted lines. The pain of the process in both cases is most acute, especially in the former. In New Zealand the figures are formed by driving little chisels, which have been dipped in some colouring-matter, through the skin. In the South Sea Islands a series of punctures are made with a fish-bone, which is, however, sometimes used as a needle. Every variety of design is employed—trees, flowers, animals, weapons, and so forth. It is considered a disgrace for the person being tattooed to give way to any sign of suffering, but as the pain is so exquisite, cries of torture occasionally rise to the lips. In order, therefore, to drown such cries, and so preserve the patient's reputation for bravery, it is usual for a number of his female friends to sing songs throughout the operation. Some tattooers acquire great skill in their art, and will form a design which shall be beautiful, elaborate, or otherwise, according to the fee. But in any case it is well to deal liberally with the artist, lest he should allow the chisel to slip "accidentally on purpose," and produce a permanent disfigurement instead of a fine design. The colouring-matter in which the tool is dipped is a thick mixture, prepared by rubbing down charcoal in oil or water. The pattern appears black on a brown skin, and dark blue on the skin of a white man, and is of course indelible.
Since the process is so painful, why do the Maoris and others submit themselves to it? They look upon the tattooing as a kind of personal adornment; and, you know, there is no accounting for tastes. The ways of savage and civilised races are past finding out. Some wear articles in their noses, ears, and lips; others flatten the heads of their babies. Chinese ladies' feet are compressed to such an extent that they wobble when they walk. The Zulus and other peoples arrange their hair in the most extraordinary styles. These peculiar fashions are no doubt indulged in under the impression that they add to the beauty of those who adopt them. And so we find it in the case of tattooing, though the custom is also supposed—in the case of men—to mark the transition from youth to manhood, being performed usually at that period. To a small extent it is also believed to be employed as a badge of mourning or sign of respect for a departed friend. The tattoo is regarded as an honour, and is reserved for free men only, slaves in New Zealand not being permitted to undergo the operation. Oddly enough, those who are accustomed to see tattooed people think that natives without it look bare and "unfinished." Tattooing is said to be on the wane. If it be so, it is quite possible that Macaulay's famous New Zealander may present none of those marks which distinguished the features of King Tawhiao.
Thepresent month undoubtedly presents fewer floral attractions than any other in the whole year. Everything is in a torpid state of existence, and the combined forces of frost, snow, wind, and rain render December unpleasant both indoors and out. The only kinds of vegetation which seem to flourish just now are the insignificant, but wonderfully beautiful, mosses and lichens which everywhere clothe the rock and tree and hedge with their diverse forms and hues. Unlike flowering plants, they do not require culture of any sort, their beauty being wholly of a more or less microscopic nature, and their nourishment is derived from the atmosphere rather than by means of roots.
It is during such dull and lifeless months as December that our attention becomes more engrossed with individual floral beauty, than it does when the display is both extensive and varied. To obtain even a few flowers at this time of the year much previous care and attention must have been expended. Where one plant is detected in making more headway than others its flowering-period may be greatly facilitated by carefully guarding it from the evil effects of excessive rains and strong winds; this may be easily done by placing an inverted bell-glass over the plants, invariably lifting this off on fine and warm days, and whenever there is no fear of damage from sudden winds or rains. Stifling hardy plants by keeping them in a confined atmosphere, whether indoors or out, is the worst possible plan to follow in order to procure earlyblooms.
* **
An important feature in connection with next summer's display must now be considered, and the preliminary arrangements carried out as far as possible during the present month; it consists in the formation of new shapes of beds, and a general reconstruction of design. But, as we have previously intimated, it is most undesirable to have a small garden chopped up into a number of beds, as then the greater part of space will be needlessly taken up by walks. Too much uniformity is just as undesirable as an excess of irregularities. No change of any sort should be carried out without well considering whether such would be for the better, and also whether the garden in its altered state would yield a correspondingly greater amount of real pleasure, tantamount to the time and trouble involved in effecting the change. Presupposing that some change or other is to be done, great care must be taken not to destroy the roots of various perennials, which may be hidden beneath the surface, as many a rare and beautiful plant is in this manner often destroyed.
* **
The amount of planting to be done now is by no means extensive, but it should only be done in dry weather. Narcissus, crocus, hyacinths, and tulips should be all in the ground by the end of this month at the very latest, and will produce bloom in very desirable succession to those planted a month or two previously. A surfacing of cocoanut-fibre refuse, which may be obtained from most seedsmen or nurserymen, will be found an excellent protection against frosts, and also against the ravages of slugs. The curious roots of ranunculus should be at once planted; these roots consist of small, fleshy, spindle-shaped claws, which are united at the crown. In planting, the claws should pointdownwards. Few late spring flowering plants excel the ranunculus in richness of colour; and to be grown with any degree of success a rich soil is essential, one of light loam, leaf-mould, and spent hot-bed materials forming the best compost. A distance of six inches apart each way, and a depth of about two inches will suffice for these plants, and a warm sunny spot is most suitable. The roots are very cheap, a dozen of various colours costing only threepence or fourpence.
* **
Anemones constitute a race of very pretty, delicate, and showy spring flowers, having varieties of nearly every hue, both single and double, but the former class is much preferable. They thrive best in good loamy soil, which has been well manured the year previous to planting. Roots should be obtained and planted—at about 4 in. apart—as soon as possible, the sooner the better, so that the plants will be sturdy and well grown before the very severe weather commences. Roots cost about nine-pence or one shilling per dozen. Unless the charming lily of the valley be already an inmate of our Children's Own Garden, a few "crowns" should be now purchased and placed in almost any part of the garden, but thorough drainage is most essential. Whilst thriving in any ordinary soil, they produce very fine bloom when in a rich porous compost. The roots should be taken up, divided, and replanted separately once in every four years.
"a cat was lying ... upon a chair"
oosmall! too small!" so the birds sang, so the roses whispered, so the bees hummed.
"She will creep in at the window," said the mother, who was kneeling beside a little child. "Only a small child can do that."
But the window shut down suddenly with a bang, and the house to which it belonged began to move away, slowly at first, then quicker and quicker, until it was out of sight altogether. The child began to sob, and said—
"Nan will run after it."
Ah! such a flutter among the roses, and such a twittering amongst the birds, whilst the bees hummed—
"Too small, too small!She should be tall,If she would catch the house at all."
And the birds sang—
"She must grow,We all do know;And that's a process very slow."
"It will be years," said the mother, "before she grows tall."
"Pooh! porridge!" said a toy dog that was lying on the ground.
The mother turned round.
The little dog was standing upright, and had pricked up his ears.
"Porridge, porridge!" he said, and he kept saying it over so many times that at last the mother thought there must be something in it.
So the mother made some porridge, and Nan began to eat it.
At the first plateful she could look over the table; at the second she reached up to her mother's shoulder; at the third she was taller than her mother.
"Stop! stop!" said the mother, as Nan began upon the fourth plate; "you'll be a giantess; and your legs are so thin, I am afraid they will break in two. You look as if you were on stilts."
"One must have long legs," said Nan, "in order to run fast. It was the woolly dog that thought of it," she added, and she would have stooped down to pat the toy dog, with its red morocco collar, but she was so high up that she found it a difficult matter to bend down. "I am as stiff as a poker," said she.
The woolly dog, however, understood what she wanted, and he jumped upon a chair, then upon the table, and finally into Nan's arms.
She would have given him some porridge, but her mother said—
"No; if he should grow as tall as you, we should not know what to do with him."
Then the little dog laughed.
"Perhaps he will run away with the spoon," said Nan.
But no; he was an honest little dog, and did not think of doing anything of the kind.
On the opposite side of the house was an old gentleman in a velvet cap. He had a paper in his hand, and was trying to teach something to a boy who was on the other side of the trellis. But the boy was not attending to him, though he kept his eyes fixed upon the paper.
No; he was muttering—
"The little cat was in the house, and the house moved away. It must have been an enchanted house and an enchanted cat."
"What are you saying?" asked the old gentleman. "That is not on the paper."
Then the boy looked up and said—
"If I'd seven-leagued boots, I'd go after them."
"That is certainly not written down there," answered the old gentleman. "Of what are you thinking, Ulick?"
"Of the house that stood close by this house. I had a dream last night that it moved away, and that the little cat with which I played had also gone, and I want to go after them."
"You talk nonsense, Ulick. How can a house made of bricks and mortar and heavy beams of wood move away?"
"That I know not; but it is gone. I hear it now rumbling away in the distance, as if it were on great wheels—I do really," answered Ulick.
Illustration: THE MOTHER ... WAS KNEELING BESIDE A LITTLE CHILD"the mother ... was kneeling beside a little child"(p. 361).
The old gentleman, who often came to chat with Ulick, and to try to teach him various things, felt quite vexed, and he folded up his paper, and shut up his camp-stool and went away.
When he had gone an old hen turned round and spoke to Ulick.
"You can hear us, for you have the right sort of ears, but the old man cannot. It is quite true: the house has gone."
"Where?"
The rabbits were listening, with their long ears erect.
"That I cannot tell, but Nan is going after it."
"Nan! but she is so small."
"Is she?" exclaimed the hen. "You should see her now that she has eaten the porridge: she is much taller than her mother, and her legs are so long that she can skim over the ground like an ostrich."
"Then she will get the cat."
"Perhaps. One does not know," answered the hen.
"I hope she will," said a young rabbit.
"I hope she won't," said an old rabbit, "for then she will bring her back here."
There was a groan amongst the rabbits and the poultry. And then the Virginian creeper, that was twisting and turning and throwing its leaves about all over the trellis, began to quiver and shake as if it were trying to say something, and at last a very tiny voice came from one of the shoots, and said—
"Should Nan the flying house o'ertake,She will with it long journeys make,And come back here no more."
The fowls and rabbits were glad to hear this, but Ulick said—
"Nan shall not overtake the house; Nan shall not have the dear little cat."
Illustration: SHE WAS SO HIGH UP"she was so high up"(p. 361).
"Nan will soon be tired," said Ulick; "besides, she does not know where to go."
"Do you?"
Ulick started, for he could see no one. Still he was not surprised, for since the rabbits and fowls and Virginian creeper had begun to talk there was no reason why other things should not also. It must have been some sensible creature; and he began to consider the point.
No, he did not know where the house had gone; he did not suppose that even the top of the tallest chimney would be visible, or even the smoke from it. The house might have gone along the straight road, or have turned to the right or left, he could not tell. And Ulick sat down upon a large moss-covered stone, and felt very despondent.
"What's the matter, little man?" asked his big brother Ben, who happened to come up at the moment. And Ulick told him of his difficulty.
"Oh! if that is all," saidbig Ben, "I will start you on your journey, for I know which way the house went. I saw it rumbling along the road, and then it turned off to the right and kept a straight line over the country; nothing stopped it, hedges, ditches, or anything else."
And he took Ulick's hand, and went out upon the road with him. Ulick half turned and kissed his hand to his own home.
"What is that for?" asked Ben.
"For 'good-bye,' if I don't come back again. The house might take me away altogether, you know."
Ben laughed.
"Well, then, boy, start off, for there in the distance over the corn-fields you can just see the house. There, there—do you see it—moving along?"
"No—yes—no—yes, yes I do. But what is that?"
"What is that? why, a pole with a flag on the top," said Ben.
"No, no," said Ulick, "that——"
"Why, it's Nan flying along. What long legs she has! She goes so fast that she seems as if she were in two places at once."
"There are two girls running," said Ulick, "and one seems to be overtaking the other all the time."
"No, there is but one," answered Ben, "but she is here and there so quickly that you seem to see her in two places at once—you understand what I mean. And it looks exactly like two people."
"I don't know," said Ulick; "I am sure there are two Nans. What long legs!"
"Yes, porridge has done that. You should have had some porridge. You'll never overtake her."
But Ulick started off. Ben watched him out of sight, and then went home.
Illustration: HE HAD A PAPER IN HIS HAND"he had a paper in his hand"(p. 361).
Now, all this time a cat was lying comfortably upon a chair in the house that was running away.
The chair was covered with red velvet, and there was a bright fire in the room, that sparkled and glowed and made all the furniture in it shine.
The cat looked up and then she purred, saying—
"Till there is a placeWhere gamekeepers are not,My house shall not stayIn any spot."
And the house with the cat in it went on and on, until it came to a far-off place where there were no houses and no gamekeepers, and no fear of traps. Then it stopped with such a jerk that the front door flew open, and a woolly dog, with a red morocco collar and very stiff legs, came in, crying out—
"She is coming, she is coming,She will like a cup of tea.She must be quite hot with running,She is coming after me."
"Who isshe?" asked the cat.
Then said the dog—
"Little Nan, she ate the porridge,And she grew quite tall,But when she has reached your cottageShe will be quite small."
"Why?" asked the cat.
"Because the effect of the porridge only lasts whilst she is running."
"Oh!" responded the cat.
Upon which Nan herself came running in, and she was no larger than when her mother was kneeling beside her in the garden.
"O my dear, dearest, darling, little pussy-cat! I have found you again, and we will live togetheralways, and you will let me play with you. I am so glad to see you again."
The cat purred and rubbed her head against Nan, as much as to say "Yes."
And the woolly dog barked for joy.
Illustration: 'THERE ARE TWO GIRLS RUNNING,' SAID ULICK"'there are two girls running,' said ulick"(p. 363).
So Nan had won the race.
Nan looked out of the window and nodded to Ulick, who was panting in the distance. She also held up the cat for him to see.
There was no longer any need for Ulick to run, for everything round him was shouting—
"Nan has won the race!"
Yes, he knew that she had, and he wept bitterly and went home again. Perhaps if he had also eaten the porridge he might have outstripped Nan.
No one ever saw the house again, though once it returned to the spot upon which it had stood near Ulick's home. It did not stay long there, only just long enough for Nan's mother to pack up her clothes and join her little girl, who was too small to live by herself.
Then the front door shut quite tightly, and the house fled away faster than ever, and never stopped until it had reached a beautiful island far, far away in the middle of the sea. There it paused, for no gamekeepers, or traps, or cruel boys were to be found there. And in the house on the beautiful island Nan and her mother, and the cat, and the toy dog lived peacefully and happily for ever and ever.
Julia Goddard.
Ethelwas always trying to write poetry, but it was so hard to find rhymes. When the cat killed the big pink begonia, she did manage to find a rhyme; and she thought the epitaph looked beautiful printed in violet ink on a piece of paper—
"Here my poor begonia lies.Drop a tear and wipe your eyes."
These were the only verses Ethel ever made. Perhaps we are beginning near the end of the story. You may want to know what the big pink begonia was, and how the cat killed it.
The beginning of this sad story was a red ribbon bow with a kitten behind it: the bow was so big and the cat was so little, that the ribbon looked much more important than the kitten that wore it. Ethel called the kitten Kafoozalum: Tom talked of the bow with the cat behind it; to which Ethel retorted: "The ribbon becomes her very much, Tom. Boys have no taste."
Early in the summer—about the time that the kitten was a weak little squeaker in a basket of straw with the cat of the house next door—Ethel was given a plant as a present. There had never before been a begonia in her mother's greenhouse; and Ethel knew very little about it, except that any rough treatment would kill it. The begonia grew very fast. It became a tall plant, with beautiful large reddish-veined leaves, and it was covered with a cloud of pink blossoms.
One day Ethel ran out of the conservatory in ahurry and left the door open; and Kafoozalum—the red bow with the kitten behind it—ran into the conservatory in a hurry, as she had never had the chance before. Tom, coming home from school, went, watering-pot in hand, to attend to his geranium-slips; he found the door open, and the kitten nearly on its head in frantic attempts to roll in the begonia pot.
A few weeks after, all the pink bloom was gone. The begonia, branch and leaf, died away. There was nothing left but a dry brown stump.
"It is dead!" cried Ethel. "A knock or a rub kills the young shoots. Mrs. Smith told me so. Kafoozalum rubbed and knocked it enough to kill it all."
"Tears! tears for the begonia!" laughed Tom. "Why, Ethel, I thought nothing but the death of Kafoozalum would reduce you to tears."
"Ah! Tom, but you don't know how fond I was of that plant. It was the only one I ever had. I feel almost as if it wasreally aliveonce, and dead now! I shall make it a grave and bury it."
Tom seemed very much amused at this idea—because the begonia was buried already in its own pot—and Ethel could not bear his making fun about it. So she ran away to her mother's room, with tears in her eyes.
"Mother, how do you spell 'begonia'?"
"Why, dear? who are you writing to?"
"My poor begonia is quite dead," sobbed Ethel, with a gulp of grief. "I want to write its epitaph."
"You mustn't cry about it now, Ethel dear. It could not feel. I shall get you another next summer."
But the only consolation Ethel could get was the writing of the epitaph. She worked at this for half an hour, and smeared herself very much with violet ink.
"Here is laid my pink begonia," was her first attempt.
Tom came into the room to learn his lessons at the other side of the table.
"Tom," she said, "please don't say your verbs out loud. I can't write poetry when you do. Tell me a rhyme for begonia. 'Here is laid my pink begonia.'"
"'Toss it over the wall, or let it alone-will-you?' That is the only rhyme in the English language," said Tom.
"You are very unkind," said Ethel, leaning her cheek on an inky hand, and rubbing her hair till it was a wild black mane. Then she tried what would happen if she began in quite a different way. At last she read out in sad tones:—
"Here my poor begonia lies,Drop a tear and wipe your eyes."
To which Tom only answered in a jaunty tone, throwing his penknife out of his pocket.
"Here's my knife to bury your roots,Lock the greenhouse, and wipe your boots."
Ethel's mouth gave a little twitch; but she would not laugh when Tom made fun of her poetry.
She went into the greenhouse, carrying a piece of black stuff and a pair of scissors, the penknife, and her verses printed in violet.
Then she dug a hole in the earthen floor, under the greenhouse shelf, in a warm corner near the pipes. Next she dug her begonia root out of the pot, popped it into the hole, and covered it up, and left a bit of stick standing upright, holding in a notch the wonderful epitaph.
Tom found her there, drying and smearing her face with an earthy corner of her pinafore. Tom had Kafoozalum peeping out from under his jacket-front; but Ethel sobbed afresh at the sight of the red bow with the kitten behind it.
"Come and take care of my geraniums with me, Ethel," said Tom.
"Oh! boo-hoo-no-no! You are very unkind."
"Why, what have I done?Ididn't roll on my head in the begonia pot, did I, pussy?"
"Oh! boo-hoo—go 'way!"
So Tom went away. But the next time Ethel went into the greenhouse with a bright face, she could not help laughing at Tom's addition to her verses. She read:—
"Here my poor begonia lies,Drop a tear and wipe your eyes—The door was open—if you had locked it,The bow with the kitten couldn't have knocked it."
The winter passed; and Ethel's birthday came in the spring.
"Here is a silver pencil for you to write poetry with," said Tom, mischievously. Poetry or not the silver pencil was worth having, and Ethel felt that teasing Tom was fond of her. Ah! what could she do without Tom, or without the teasing either? "Come into the greenhouse," he said; "there's a begonia for you."
"Is there? I thought I had all my presents."
She went racing to the greenhouse, and came back with a disappointed face. "Why do you cheat me, Tom? This is not the first of April."
"Come and see." He led her into the greenhouse to the pink begonia's grave.
They both stooped down to the corner of the earthen floor near the hot pipes.
There was a dark red folded leaf growing above the earth.
"Oh, Tom! it is my own dear old plant."
"Yes—it is growing up again for anothersummer," he said. "I found it a week ago; but I kept it for a birthday surprise."
"Tom," said Ethel, seizing his arm in her delight, "put my poetry in your pocket, and let us go and ask mother if we should put it in a pot."
"What? put the poetry in a pot? Whatever for?"
"Oh! no, I didn't mean that at all—I mean——"
"Never mind—here go the verses, though they've served their turn."
So the pink plant went into a pot again, and grew more beautiful than ever; and the only poetry Ethel ever made went into Tom's pocket.
Aswe walk round the building once more, I shall not attempt even to name the greater number of the Monuments, but confine myself to telling you something about the more remarkable ones. The earliest monuments were really the tombs of persons buried here; many of the modern ones simply commemorate illustrious men and women buried elsewhere.
We will first make the round of the chapels, and begin with that of St. Benedict, where once an indulgence of two years and forty days could be obtained by hearing mass at the altar. But the altar has gone, and in its place rises the stately tomb of Frances Howard, Countess of Hertford, whose effigy lies where once stood the candlesticks and sacred host. Close by is the tomb of Archbishop Langham, who was buried here in 1376, with his head towards the altar, little dreaming that that altar would ever be displaced to make room for the tomb of a heretic lady.
Through an ancient oaken screen we enter the adjacent Chapel of St. Edmund. Here is the once beautiful tomb of William de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, and half-brother to Henry III. Some of the monuments in this chapel are of great interest as examples of ancient art, but there is not much to say about their occupants. Frances Hokes, who died in 1622, is represented in Greek costume, and Horace Walpole and others have highly praised this statue. Close by lies Lady Knollys, who attended Anna Boleyn on the scaffold. In the monument of Elizabeth Russell we have the earliest of the sitting figures, which have been so strongly condemned by many who maintain that a recumbent or bowed figure is the only proper one for a tomb. Her marble finger points to a death's-head at her feet, and hence arose the story that she died from a prick of a needle, and some chose to add that it was a judgment upon her for working on Sunday. But we must leave the men and women "of high degree" who throng this chapel, and the tiny alabaster babies of Edward III. in their little cradle, and pass on to the Chapel of St. Nicholas. This chapel is rich in monuments of the Elizabethan era, and was once bright with gold and colouring.
Of the royal tombs in the Chapel of Henry VII. I have already spoken, but there are some others of great interest. One bay, or chapel, is nearly filled by the monument of James I.'s favourite "Steenie"—George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, who was assassinated by Felton at Portsmouth, in 1628. In another bay are two beautiful modern monuments, harmonising well with their surroundings: the one of the Duke of Montpensier, brother of Louis Philippe, the other of the late Dean Stanley. The Duke of Richmond and his beautiful Duchess, "La Belle Stuart," occupy a bay with their colossal canopied tomb. Of the other tombs in the Chapel of Henry VII., we should specially mention that of General Monk in the south aisle. He had a splendid funeral. For the three weeks that he lay in state forty gentlemen of good family stood as mutes with their backs against the wall, twenty each day alternately.
In the Chapel of St. Paul is the once gilded tomb of Lord Bourchier, the standard-bearer of Henry V. at the battle of Agincourt. The altar has given place to the tomb of Frances Sydney, the wife of Ratcliff, Earl of Sussex, who figures in Scott's story of "Kenilworth." Near at hand is the tomb of Sir Thomas Bromley, the Lord Chancellor, who presided at the trial of Mary, Queen of Scots. But the chief feature of this chapel is the colossal marble effigy of James Watt, the celebrated improver of the steam-engine—a splendid monument, from the chisel of Sir F. Chantrey.
The adjoining chapel, dedicated to St. John the Baptist, contains the tomb of one of Cromwell's officers, Colonel Edward Popham. Where the altar once stood stands the loftiest monument in the Abbey—the tomb of Queen Elizabeth's Chamberlain, Lord Hundsdon. The old statesmanhad waited long for an earldom, which the queen had granted and revoked three times over. She came at last to see him, and lay the patent and the robes of a peer on his bed. "Madam," said the old man, "seeing you counted me not worthy of this honour whilst I was living, I count myself unworthy of it now that I am dying."
Visitors are not admitted into the beautifully sculptured, but dark, little chapel of Abbot Islip. Just beyond it we enter what is now called the eastern aisle of the south transept, formerly the separate chapels. Here we find the celebrated tomb of Sir Francis Vere. Above the warrior's effigy, supported by four kneeling knights, is a plain canopy, upon which lies his helm and breastplate. Looking round, we see many interesting memorials: Admiral Kempenfelt, who went down in theRoyal George; Sir John Franklin, who perished among Polar icebergs: Telford, the engineer; Sir Humphry Davy, the philosopher: all these and many others are commemorated in this aisle.
Emerging now into the north transept, we find ourselves amongst what has been termed "the dead Parliament of Britain." Famous statesmen look down upon us from their marble pedestals, and beneath the central pavement are the graves of Chatham, Pitt, Fox, Castlereagh, Canning, Wilberforce, Grattan, and Palmerston. The magnificent monument to the great Earl of Chatham cost £6,000. Close beside it stands the huge pile of sculpture by Nollekens, in memory of the three captains who fell in Rodney's famous victory over the French in April, 1782. Nearly opposite to Chatham's monument is Chantrey's fine statue of Canning. On each side the transept, and in the contiguous western aisle, the eye rests upon sculptured marble bearing honoured names—Warren Hastings, Richard Cobden, Palmerston, Beaconsfield, and others whose lives are part of our country's history. As we stand here we may well remember the words of Macaulay: "In no other cemetery do so many great citizens lie within so narrow a space. High over these venerable graves towers the stately monument of Chatham, and from above, his effigy, graven by a cunning hand, seems still, with eagle face and outstretched arm, to bid England to be of good cheer, and to hurl defiance at her foes."
From the north transept we pass to the nave along the north aisle of the choir. Here we enter what has been termed a "Musicians' Corner;" amongst a few other organists and composers lies Henry Purcell, whose epitaph (written by Dryden) declares that he has gone to "that blessed place where only his harmonies can be excelled." The sitting figure of the great philanthropist, William Wilberforce, a little farther on, is not generally admired.
Passing through the gate into the nave, we see against the choir screen on our left the monument of Sir Isaac Newton, with a tedious list of his discoveries. Proceeding along the north aisle we see to the left the new pulpit for the Sunday evening services, and near it is a brass of life-size on a slab covering the grave of the eminent engineer, Robert Stephenson. Another slab close by shows the Victoria Tower and a ground-plan of the Houses of Parliament. This is the grave of the great architect, Sir Charles Barry. The famous African explorer, David Livingstone, lies in the centre of the nave. Turning again to the north wall we see about the centre of the numerous monuments one to the Right Hon. Spencer Perceval, First Lord of the Treasury, who was shot in the House of Commons by Bellingham, in the afternoon of May 11th, 1812. In this aisle I was going to say lies, but more correctly stands the body of Ben Jonson, who is buried in an upright position.
At the end of the aisle are the monuments of a few famous statesmen. Among them are Mackintosh the historian, Tierney the orator, Lord Holland, Zachary Macaulay, friend of Wilberforce, and father of the great historian; and Charles James Fox. The great rivals, Fox and Pitt, as we have seen, are buried near each other in the transept. Their monuments are also near together—that of Pitt, by Westmacott, represents the great orator trampling on the French Revolution, in the attitude well known to the House of Commons at that day.
Passing some immense military memorials of little interest nowadays, and the busts of Canon Kingsley and the poet Wordsworth, we now turn along the southern wall of the nave. Here is the monument of the dramatic poet Congreve, and that of Admiral Tyrrell, who was buried at sea in 1766, always attracts the notice of visitors. Many allegorical emblems surround the representation of the Admiral's resurrection from the depths of the sea. The clouds above are so like pancakes as to have given the tomb its familiar name of "The Pancake Monument." Farther east we reach the monument of the unfortunate Major André, executed as a spy by General Washington in the War of Independence. The monument has been frequently injured and repaired, as the heads of Washington or André have been again and again broken off by persons having strong sympathies for one side or the other.
In the south aisle of the choir we pass on the left the curious monument of Thomas Thynne, representing in relief the murder of that gentleman in Pall Mall. In this aisle also is the monumentof the well-known Dr. Watts. It was erected here a century after his death; and still more recently two other great Dissenters were commemorated close by—John and Charles Wesley—the former the founder of the religious society that bears his name, and the latter justly called "the sweet singer of Methodism."
Passing the remarkable monument which shows us Admiral Shovel dressed as a dandy of the period, and reclining on cushions under a canopy, we enter the south transept, or Poets' Corner. Geoffrey Chaucer was the pioneer of the children of genius in this hallowed spot. He was buried here in 1400. Nearly two hundred years passed on, then Spenser was laid near by. As we gaze round us we behold such a crowd of honoured names that it is difficult to select any for special mention. Just at our feet is the black marble slab that covers the grave of Charles Dickens. Close by lie the historians Grote and Lord Macaulay. Other gravestones cover the mortal remains of the wit Sheridan, the learned Dr. Johnson, Old Parr (who lived under ten kings and queens, from Edward IV. to Charles I.), &c. The monument of Cowley recalls his grand funeral, which was attended by about a hundred coaches full of nobility and eminent personages. Close by is a noble bust with the simple inscription—"J. Dryden." The monuments to Milton and Shakespeare were erected here by admirers long after their death, and are quite unworthy of their fame. Gray, Thomson, Goldsmith, and many other poets who were not buried here, are commemorated on the walls and columns. The beautiful bust of the poet Longfellow is one of the most recent additions to the interesting features of Poets' Corner. A tablet to Granville Sharp reminds us how that good man exerted himself on behalf of the slave Somerset, and procured from twelve English judges the famous decision "that as soon as any slave sets his foot on English ground he is free." The allegorical pile in memory of the "Great Duke of Argyll" strikes the eye of every visitor. The monument to Dr. Busby, the famous Westminster schoolmaster, is a fine piece of sculpture. Addison represents Sir Roger de Coverley as standing before it and saying, "Dr. Busby! a great man; he whipped my grandfather; a very great man! I should have gone to him myself, if I had not been a blockhead—a very great man." If we turn round we see the statue of Addison himself, by Westmacott, in the farther corner of the transept. He was very fond of meditating in the old Abbey, and in theSpectatorare many beautiful thoughts suggested by his visits to the place. I will conclude our survey of the tombs with a few of his words:—"When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies within me; when I read the epitaph of the beautiful every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow. When I see kings lying by those who have deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men who divided the world by their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday and some that died six hundred years ago, I consider that day when we shall all make our appearance together."
Wefour little birdies, scarce able to fly,Are starv'd with the cold of the frosty sky;Through the trees and the hedgerows the white snow is driven,And lies around everywhere under the heaven;It hangs on the woods, it covers the wold,It spreads over city, and hamlet, and hold.Happy ye little folk! sheltered at homeFrom the blasts that over the white world roam;You are merry and gay 'mid your plentiful stores,Oh, think of us ready to die out of doors!The ground yields no worm, few berries the trees,Oh, throw us some crumbs, little folk, if you please!So, when the summer-time comes with the flowersDecking the meadows, the wild wood, and bowers,Every garden and grove shall resound with our song:Oh, hear now our cry, for the winter is long!The berries are scarce, so deep lies the snow,But there's comfort in crumbs for birdies, you know!