Read Ebook: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature Science and Art Fifth Series No. 1 Vol. I January 5 1884 by Various

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Their elders did understand: Mr Hadleigh of Ringsford was indifferent or too proud to proffer even to his son advice which was not asked: Crawshay of Willowmere was content to let Madge please herself. He thought her choice a good one, for he liked Philip and believed in him. Of course in the way of money and position she might have done better. Hadleigh was a wealthy man, but his ownership of Ringsford was of recent date, and although he was doing everything in his power to secure recognition as one of the county families, all his riches could not place him on a level with Dick Crawshay, whose ancestors had been masters of Willowmere from a period before the arrival of the Conqueror--going back to the time of the Romans, as was sometimes asserted.

Crawshay was not a man of prejudice when he considered things calmly. So, in this matter of his niece's choice of a partner, he was content since she was satisfied.

In this way it happened that the heads of the houses had given no formal consent to the proposed marriage; and now that a quarrel had arisen, each felt free to approve or disapprove of it in accordance with his own humour.

Madge regarded the quarrel--as she was inclined to regard most matters--with serious eyes. Philip was convinced that it was nothing more than a petty squabble--a few angry words spoken in a moment of temper, which both men were no doubt ashamed of and would be glad to have forgotten. He was not disturbed about that unpleasant little event.

What elicited that sympathetic whisper 'Poor Madge'--and what had kept them silent so long as they passed down by the dense old hawthorn hedge to the orchard, was a matter of much more importance than the falling-out of their elders. At length, he continued:

'Would you like me to give up this business of mine altogether?... We can do without it.'

'Ah, when I come home again--that will be a glad day,' he said with subdued enthusiasm. 'Let me take up the picture where you laid down the brush.... When I come home again there will be a little conversation with the vicar. Then two young people--just like you and me, Madge--will march into the church on a week-day. The parson will be there and a few friends will be there, and we shall all be very merry. Next will come a sweet month when these selfish young people will hide themselves away from all the world in some out-of-the-way nook, where they will make a joyful world of their own in being together, knowing that only death is to part them now. Won't that be good fun? Do you think you will like it?'

'I think so,' she answered, smiling at his fancy and blushing a little at the happy prospect.

'Next they return to their cottage by the wood; and the lady is busy with her housekeeping, and the man is busy admiring her more and more every day, finding new beauty in her face, new love in her heart as the years go on. They will not be always alone, perhaps; and when they are old she will be a sweet-faced dame with beautiful white hair, and there will be strong young arms for her to lean upon as she goes to church on Sunday. The old man will totter by her side, resting on his staff, and still her lover--her lover till death do them part.... What do you say to that fine forecast?'

'Ay--if it might be, Philip,' she said with a bright smile--a hint of tears in its brightness, for she had followed his vision of the future with tender sympathy throughout.

'Will you try to make it what I have so often dreamed it may be, should be--must be?'

'I will try.'

His arm was round her waist: they were sheltered by the apple-trees and the great hedge: he kissed her.

'You are not to speak of that again,' she replied with playful reproach. 'It was your mother's wish.'

'So be it. But here is a new idea!'

'Are you sure it is new?'

'Quite. Suppose we pay that visit to the church before I start, and then we could travel together? That would be capital.'

She shook her head.

'I am not likely to commit it, and if I did you would forgive me.'

They had reached the stile at the end of the orchard, and he vaulted over it. His foot slipped as he descended, but he saved himself from falling by clutching the top bar of the stile.

'That is not a good omen,' said Madge, laughing gently; 'you ought to have been content to clamber over like other people.'

MONASTIC ENGLAND.

A traveller, visiting any of the monastic ruins which adorn the loveliest of our valleys, cannot but be impressed by the changes time works on institutions and systems. These piles, stately in their desolation, remain as landmarks of a system, which, after holding sway for centuries, was suddenly swept away. Like all social institutions, the monastic orders supplied a public want, and when it was no longer needed, the system disappeared. Many institutions, after having fulfilled their purpose, develop into abuses, and so to some extent counteract the good effect they had formerly produced, and this doubtless applies to the case of the monasteries. The noble architecture and great extent of these ruins show us the skill and enthusiasm displayed by the early workers of these orders; their utter ruin, while it has made the whole appear more picturesque, shows the inevitable end of institutions which outlive their usefulness.

As long ago as the fifth century, it was the custom for devout men to form themselves into societies, apart from the world, that their lives might be untainted by its evil influences. The leader in this movement was St Benedict, an Italian monk, whose followers, naming themselves after him, gave to their order the name of Benedictines. These men, spreading themselves over France and England, were the pioneers of the later monastic orders. They lived in the most extreme poverty, choosing the most forsaken and barren regions for their homes. Thus, we find them in the days of the Saxon, founding in a marsh beside the Thames the abbey of Westminster; in the district of the Fens the abbey of Crowland; in the swamps of the west the abbey of Glastonbury; whilst farther north, on wild headlands overlooking the North Sea, rose the abbeys of Whitby and Lindisfarne. But our knowledge of the life passed by the inmates of these sanctuaries is extremely scanty. The times were too turbulent to allow the monks much time for study, and although Caedmon and Bede have left glimpses of this age in which they lived, their scanty records are only as flashes in the darkness. The Danes harassed the land incessantly; and the monasteries, as representing a religion they hated, were with them especial objects of attack. Crowland Abbey was given to the flames, and the abbeys of Whitby, Lindisfarne, and Tynemouth were sacked and destroyed.

After the Conquest, the Norman abbots gave a new energy to a system which was becoming somewhat stagnant, and by the twelfth century, this new impetus had reached its climax. Then rose the monasteries whose ruins make Yorkshire scenery doubly attractive. The abbeys of Fountains, Bolton, Rievaux, and Kirkstall, were all commenced in this period, amid surroundings far different from those which make these districts so attractive to the modern traveller. One consideration in choosing the site of the abbey is worth notice. It was always near to a running stream, from which the brethren might obtain their supplies of fish. Thus, we never think of Bolton Abbey without the Wharfe, or of Melrose without the Tweed.

The refectory, which in many ruins shows least signs of decay, corresponded to the modern dining-hall, and was often a noble and spacious apartment. But the most important of the abbey buildings, in our eyes, was the Scriptorium--the abbey library and study. Here were preserved and copied the writings of the times, and the greater part of our history, prior to the sixteenth century, is owing to the work of these priestly scribes.

The monks formed independent colonies, asking, and indeed needing, no help from the world around them. At first, their lands in many instances were small in extent, and their poverty was amply sufficient to deter any but devout men from casting in his lot with them. Poverty and work they considered the two great antidotes against sin. Even in those early times, they were fully acquainted with the adage which connects mischief with idle hands. Their employments were as various as their tastes. The building of the abbey must have furnished employment for several generations of monks. The stained-glass windows and the bells of their churches were their own handiwork. Visitors to the Patent Museum at South Kensington are attracted by the loud ticking of a clock, still said to be a capital timekeeper, although the three centuries of its infancy were passed in measuring time for its makers, the monks of Glastonbury. As further instances of the versatile occupations of the monks, it will be remembered that Roger Bacon, the inventor of the common lens, was a Franciscan. Gardening, too, occupied much of their time, and we even read of Becket and his monks tossing hay in the harvest-field.

But as time went on, the abbey lands became extensive, by the grants of men who thought to compensate for their misdeeds by becoming liberal in their dying hours to mother-church. In the course of time, the abbots had become in reality great landowners, and monks only in name. From a glimpse left us of the state of affairs round the abbey of St Edmonsbury, it is plain that the abbot was held more in awe by the surrounding tenantry than the king himself. The abbot of Furness was virtual lord over the country north of Morecambe Bay from the Duddon to Windermere; and the estate of the abbey of Fountains stretched to the foot of Penygant, a distance of thirty miles.

As numerous instances have shown, wealth is a power, which, if not wisely used, may not only demoralise individuals, but communities and nations. The abbeys, whose walls had been raised to encircle piety and poverty, became in time the abodes of indolence and luxury. Indeed, it is probable that the scanty knowledge we possess of our country's history during the two centuries prior to the destruction of the monasteries, is owing to the fact that the monks, who had formerly been our chief historians, had thrown aside a task which few others were then competent to take up. The new learning, which carried knowledge outside the monasteries, had not yet sprung into being, and the only learned sect in the land had become idle.

The abbeys were for the most part despoiled by the people of the district. A stained-glass window of Furness Abbey was carried off to adorn Bowness Church, on the banks of Windermere. An oriel window from Glastonbury Abbey was used in the building of a neighbouring inn; whilst the houses of the village owed great part of their building materials to the destruction of this noble church. In the case of Crowland, the abbey seems to have suffered little until the time of the Civil War, when a band of the Parliament army destroyed it, after using it as a shelter. In those instances where man has not wreaked his vengeance, time and the elements have effected a slow but sure ruin.

Such was the sudden collapse of these powerful and at one time useful institutions. Whatever may have been the faults and drawbacks of their later existence, they were in earlier periods of immense service to the country, as they conserved within them all that was best and highest in literature, arts, and civilisation. They kept the lamp of knowledge burning throughout the dark ages, ready for a time when its light could be more generally diffused among the nations. And one thing they did which ought to be held in grateful remembrance: they were the chief promoters of the abolition of serfdom, and the manumission of the slaves, both in England and Scotland. When giving the rites of the church to the dying landowner, the monks, although anxious for their own share of his property, never forgot to plead for the slaves. And so it came about that, by the close of the fifteenth century, slavery was virtually abolished, not by Act of Parliament, but by the monastic Orders.

TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.

A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.

BY T. W. SPEIGHT.

On a certain sunny morning in the pleasant month of June, in a pleasant room, the French-windows of which opened on to a terraced garden, with the gleaming waters of the Channel heaving and falling no great distance away, sat Mrs Bowood, wife of Captain James Bowood--formerly of the mercantile marine, but now of Rosemount, The Undercliff, Isle of Wight--busily engaged with her correspondence. Mrs Bowood was a pleasant-looking woman of some forty summers, whose brown hair was already tinged with gray. She had never been accounted a beauty, and she made no pretensions to a gift with which nature had failed to endow her. But her dark eyes looked the home of kindliness and good temper, with now and then a glint of merry humour breaking through them; and she possessed the gift--so precious in a woman--of a voice at once soft, clear, and persuasive. The verdict of every one who knew Mrs Bowood was, that the more you saw of her the better you grew to like her.

All women, whether married or single, like to have one particular friend to whom they can open their minds without fearing that their confidence will be betrayed, to whom they can tell things that they will tell to no one else, not even to their husbands. Mrs Bowood's particular friend and confidante was a certain Miss Dorothea Pennell, who, being a lifelong invalid, and consequently debarred from playing any active part on the world's stage, welcomed all the more eagerly every scrap of news which her correspondent could send her, and responded all the more sympathetically, whenever sympathy was looked for at her hands. It was to Miss Pennell that Mrs Bowood was this morning inditing her fortnightly budget of news. As she turns over the first page and begins on the second, let us take the liberty of peeping over her shoulder and of reading what her pen puts down.

'We are rather more than usually lively at Rosemount just now,' she writes; 'in fact, I should be justified in saying that we are decidedly uproarious. You will know, my dear Dolly, what I mean when I tell you that my sister's two youngsters, Freddy and Lucy, are here on a visit. Maria wanted to go to Paris for a few weeks, so I gladly offered to take charge of them. Their sweet childish laughter makes pleasant music in the old house. I know I shall have a good cry to myself when the time comes for them to leave us. They are at once the pride and the torment of their uncle. You know that my dear old Bow-wow has a fine natural irritability of temper, which really means nothing when you come to know him, and is merely a sort of safety-valve which, I verily believe, saves him from many a fit of gout. So, when the youngsters steal his pocket-handkerchief or hide his spectacles, he stamps--not with his gouty foot--and storms, and his red face grows redder--which is quite unnecessary--and he threatens condign punishment. Then the children pretend to be frightened, and hide themselves for a quarter of an hour; after which they go hand in hand and stand a little distance away from him and rub a knuckle in a corner of their eyes. Then of course they are called up, scolded for half a minute, and forgiven. Then come lollipops. But all the time I feel sure that the young monkeys are laughing at him in their sleeves. Dear old Jamie! he is as transparent as a sheet of glass, and the children's sharp eyes read him through and through.

'As a consequence of my advertisement, I have been inundated with letters during the last week--the postman will want an extra half-crown at Christmas--all of which I have had to wade through; the result being that I have selected half-a-dozen of the most likely candidates to see personally. I fervently hope that I shall be able to find one out of the half-dozen that will meet Maria's requirements, and so bring this troublesome business to an end.

'Now that I have written so much about Elsie, it seems only natural that I should tell you the latest news about the Captain's nephew, Charley Summers, who was such a favourite with you when you were here. You know already how he ran through the small fortune which came to him after his mother's death; and how, subsequent to that, his uncle paid his debts twice over. You know also how, as a last resource, the Captain placed him in a tea-broker's office in the City, and how, after a three months' trial of office-life, he broke away from it, and took to the stage for a living. This was the last straw; and when James heard that his nephew had turned actor, he vowed that he should never darken his doors again, and that he washed his hands of him for ever. My dear husband had certain prejudices instilled into his mind when he was young, and there they live and flourish to the present day. It is his firm belief that in earning his bread as he does at present, Charley has irrevocably disgraced both himself and his family. And yet, for all that, he still holds the boy as the apple of his eye. Love and prejudice have been fighting against each other in his heart, and for the present, prejudice has carried the day; but if I know anything of my husband, the victory is only a temporary one. Love will conquer in the end.

'But there is another point in connection with Charley about which I am more curious and anxious. Do you know, Dolly, I almost fancy that there is something going on between him and Elsie? "How absurd!" you will probably say to yourself. "Why, the girl is only seventeen."--True; but girls of seventeen are often engaged nowadays, and married before they are eighteen. We live in a precocious age.

'So, then, here is the first chapter of a little romance working itself out. Should the opportunity be given me of watching its progress, you shall hear all about it in due time.'

As already stated, the French-windows of the room in which Mrs Bowood was writing stood wide open this sunny morning. Mrs Bowood had heard no sound, had seen no shadow; but while she was writing the last few words, there suddenly came over her a feeling that she was no longer alone. She looked up, and could not help giving a little start when she saw a tall figure dressed in black standing close to the open window. Next moment, she smiled to herself and gave vent to a little sigh. 'Another applicant for the post of French governess,' she murmured. 'How tiresome to be interrupted in the midst of one's correspondence! I will never undertake another commission for Maria as long as I live.'

Seeing Mrs Bowood looking at her inquiringly, the woman came a step or two nearer, and then mused, as if in doubt. 'What shall I say?--how introduce myself?' she muttered under her breath.

She was tall, and with a sort of easy gracefulness about her which was evidently not acquired, but natural. It was difficult to guess her age, seeing that her face, nearly down to her mouth, was hidden by a veil, which was drawn tightly back over her bonnet, and tied in a knot behind. But the veil could not quite hide two flashing black eyes. She was dressed entirely in black; not a scrap of any other colour being visible anywhere about her.

'You have come in answer to the advertisement?' queried Mrs Bowood.

'The advertisement, madame?' replied the stranger with evident surprise, as she came a step or two nearer. She spoke with a slight foreign accent, which only served to confirm Mrs Bowood's first impression.

'I mean for the French governess's place,' continued the latter lady.

The stranger looked at Mrs Bowood for a moment without speaking; then she said: 'Ah--oui, madame, as you say.' Then she smiled, showing as she did so a very white and perfect set of teeth.

'I am afraid that I shall not be able to attend to you for about half an hour,' said Mrs Bowood in a tone that was half apologetic. 'Perhaps you won't mind waiting as long as that?'

'I am at madame's convenience. I am in no hurry at all. With madame's permission, I will promenade myself in the garden, and amuse myself with looking at the beautiful flowers.'

'Do so, by all means. I will send a servant to tell you when I am ready to see you.'

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