Chapter IV: Part 4

“Did I understand you, Sir,” said Susan, “that the aisle of St. Paul’s was formerly used by the merchants of London, as a resort in which to transact business?”

“You may well ask the question, indeed,” answered Mr. Wilmot; “and, in replying to it, I shall first tell you, that, in the year 1441, the beautiful steeple of St. Paul’s was struck by lightning; (it was the loftiest in the kingdom;) and, together with the bells and roof, was utterly destroyed. Never did parties in religion run higher than about this period of the reign of Elizabeth. The manner in which this accident was commented upon, by adverse disputants, not only marks the temper of the times; but informs us to how many purposes this building, professedly devoted to divine worship, was appropriated.

“A papist immediately dispersed a paper, representing this accident as a judgment from Heaven, for the discontinuance of the meeting, and other services, which used to be performed in the church, at different hours of the day and night. Pilkington, bishop of Durham, who preached at Paul’s Cross, after the accident, was equally disposed to regard it as a judgment; but on the sins of London in general, and particularly on certain abuses, by which the church had formerly been polluted. In a tract, published in answer to that of the papists, he afterwards gave an animated description of the practices of which this cathedral had been the theatre; curious, in the present day, as a record of forgotten customs.

“He said, ‘No place had been more abused than St. Paul’s had been, nor more against the receiving of Christ’s gospel; wherefore it was more wonderful that God had spared it so long, than that he overthrew it now. * * From the top of the spire, at coronations, or other solemn triumphs, some, for vain-glory, had thrown themselves down by a rope, and so killed themselves, vainly to please other men’s eyes. At the battlements of the steeple, sundry times, were used their popish anthems, to call upon their gods, with the torch and taper, in the evenings. In the top of one of the pinnacles was Lollard’s Tower, where many an innocent soul had been cruelly terminated and murdered. In the middest alley was their long censer, reaching from the roof to the ground; as though the Holy Ghost came down in their censing, in likeness of a dove. In the arches, men complained of wrong and delayed judgments in ecclesiastical causes; and divers had been condemned there by Annas and Caiphas, for Christ’s cause. Their images hung on every wall, and pillar, and door, with their pilgrimages, and worshipping of them; passing over their massing and many altars, and the rest of their popish service.

“‘The south-side alley was for usury and popery; the north for simony; and the horse-fair in the midst, for all kinds of bargains, meetings, brawlings, murders, and conspiracies. The font, for ordinary payments of money, as well known to all men as the beggar knows his dish; so that without and within, above the ground and under, over the roof and beneath, from the top of the steeple and spire down to the floor, not one spot was free from wickedness.’

“How the divines of that age reconciled these violents philippics against those who differed from them in religious views, with the injunction left by the apostle, in his masterly delineation of Christian charity, is not for me to determine,” said Mr. Wilmot. “You will observe, that the practice of making St. Paul’s a kind of exchange, for transactions of all kinds of business, and a place of meeting for idlers of all sorts, is here alluded to: it is frequently mentioned by writers of this and the two succeeding reigns; and when, and by what means the custom was put an end to, does not appear.

“It was here that Sir Nicholas Throgmorton held a conference with an emissary of Wyatt’s: it was here that one of the bravos, engaged in the noted murder of Alden of Feversham, was hired. It was in St. Paul’s that Falstaff is made to say, he bought Bardolph.

“In bishop Earl’s admirable little book, called, ‘Microcosmography,’ the scene is described with all the wit of the author, and somewhat of the quaintness of his age, which was that of James the First. He says, ‘Paul’s walk is the land’s epitome, or you may call it the lesser isle of Great Britain. It is more than this; the whole world’s map, which you may here discern in the perfectest motion, jostling and turning. It is the great exchange of all discourse; and no business whatever, but is here stirring and afoot. It is the synod of all pates politic joined and laid together, in most serious posture; and they are not half so busy at the parliament. It is the market of young lecturers, whom you may cheapen here at all rates and sizes. It is the general mint of all lies, which were, like the legends of popery, first coined and stamped in the church. All inventions are emptied here; and not a few pockets. The best sign of a temple in it, is, that it is the thieves’ sanctuary.

“‘The visitants are all men, without exception; but the principal inhabitants and possessors are, stale knights, and captains out of service, men of long rapiers and breeches, which, after all, turn merchants here, and traffic for news. Some make it a preface to their dinner; but thriftier men make it their ordinary, and board here very cheap.’”

The bell now rang, and company was announced. Susan and Ann quitted the gallery with reluctance; but not before they had obtained a promise from Mr. Wilmot, that they should visit it again on the following day.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAP. VIII.

----------

PUNCTUAL to the moment of appointment, Mr. Wilmot led his young friends into the gallery; and, after giving them leave to range round it, he begged that they would select a subject for the morning’s entertainment.

“Then, Sir,” said Susan, “I should like to be informed who that wounded officer is, and that poor soldier, who, even whilst drinking with eagerness, seems to fix his eyes so intently on him.”

“That officer,” answered Mr. Wilmot, “is Sir Philip Sidney, one of the brightest ornaments of queen Elizabeth’s court; and whose personal endowments were only equalled by his valour and humanity.

“When, at the battle of Zutphen, in the United Provinces, in which he had distinguished himself, his thigh-bone was broken by a musket-shot, in the agony of his wound he called for water: some was brought him, but, as he was lifting it to his lips, the ghastly looks of a dying soldier met his eye. ‘Take this,’ said he, holding the water to him, ‘_thy_ necessities are yet greater than _mine_.’ We can better estimate the self-denial of this generous act, when we remember that the wound was mortal, and that, after sixteen days of acute suffering, it terminated his valuable life.

“Thus perished, at the early age of thirty-two, this Marcellus of the English nation; at once the pride and ornament of his time—the theme and favourite of song and story.”

“The beautiful anecdote which I have just related to you, inspires a love and esteem for his virtues, which will be retained as long as the name of Sidney shall exist. He is described by the writers of that age, as the most perfect model of an English gentleman, that could be formed, even in imagination; and when to this we add his amiable disposition, his elegant erudition, his rare talents and dauntless valour, we are prepared to estimate the demonstrations of grief which were expressed for his loss, and the almost unexampled honours paid to his memory. The court went into mourning for him, and his remains received a magnificent funeral in St. Paul’s: the United Provinces having in vain requested permission to inter him at their own expence, promising that he should have as fair a tomb as any prince in Christendom. Elizabeth, who had called him ‘her Philip,’ always spoke of him with affectionate regret. The kings of France and Scotland lamented him in verse. Cambridge and Oxford published three volumes of ‘Lachrymæ’ on his death. Spenser in rhyme, and Camden in prose, commemorated and deplored their patron. Lord Brooke was so proud of his friendship, that he directed it to be part of his epitaph, ‘Here lies Sir Philip Sidney’s friend.’ A crowd of humbler votaries emulously strove who best should paint his excellence and loss; and it would be endless to enumerate the names of those who have, in latter times, celebrated, in various forms, the name of Sidney.

“Envy, for a while, seemed to have expired, whilst foreigners and countrymen alike joined in the tribute of respect offered to his memory. Du Plessis Mornay, a celebrated Hugonot leader, condoled with Walsingham on the loss of his incomparable son-in-law, in terms of the deepest sorrow: Count Hohenloe passionately bewailed his friend and fellow-soldier: and even the obdurate heart of Philip the Second, was touched by the untimely fate of his god-son.

“Henry Sidney, the father of this accomplished young nobleman, was a man endowed with wisdom and talent. Exemplary in his own conduct, he sought to infuse into the mind of his son, the purest and most elevated moral principles. Nor was his laudable conduct—his parental solicitude—disappointed: he saw, in the brilliant career of his beloved son, his warmest wishes anticipated, his fondest hopes realized.

“That Philip Sidney, whilst on his travels, though still very young, conducted himself with prudence, and displayed much soundness and clearness of principle, may be inferred from his obtaining the friendship of Hubert Languet, a celebrated protestant at Frankfort. And, though his character was not faultless, though he partook of some of the errors incident to his age and station, yet, as a man—a high-souled and accomplished man—he had, among his contemporary countrymen, neither equal nor competitor.

“Flattery has long since ceased to spread her meretricious splendour round his name, and the historian can now calmly examine the pretensions to that merit, which not only England, but Europe, attached to his short-lived but brilliant career; and she can, with confidence and complacency, enrol him amongst the noble few, whose example may be held up as a beacon to youth, and still serve to kindle the animating glow of emulation.

“His death was worthy of the best parts of his life: he showed himself, at the last, devout, courageous, and serene. His last words are worthy of remembrance, they were uttered with seriousness and composure: ‘Love my memory; cherish my friends: their fidelity to me, may assure you that they are honest. But, above all, govern your wills and affections by the will and word of your Creator. In me, behold the end of this world and its vanities.’

“His wife, the beautiful daughter of Walsingham; his brother Robert, to whom he had performed the part of an indulgent and anxious parent rather than that of a brother; and many sorrowful friends, surrounded his bed. Their grief was, beyond doubt, sincere and poignant, as well as that of the many persons of letters and of worth, who gloried in his friendship, and flourished by his bountiful patronage. He was the author of a romance, entitled ‘Arcadia,’ now only known to the curious in literature.”

Whilst Mrs. Spencer and Susan were expressing their high admiration of the character of Sir Philip Sidney, Ann was busily examining a picture which hung next to the before-mentioned painting. As soon as the observations on this last subject had ceased, she eagerly enquired whose rustic dwelling it represented.

Mr. Wilmot replied: “That of Edmund Spenser, one of our first genuine poets; whose rich and melodious strains will find their way to the tastes of the real lovers of minstrelsy, as long as inexhaustible fertility of invention, truth, fluency, and vivacity of description, copious learning, and a pure, amiable, and heart-ennobling morality, shall be prized among the students of English literature.

“From the circumstance of Spenser’s being entered as a sizar at Cambridge, it is probable that he sprung from an obscure parentage, and possessed but a slender patrimony. His merit, however, soon dawned through the shades that surrounded him; and his intimacy with Stubbs, a noted character of the day, and still more his friendship with Gabriel Harvey, by whom he was introduced to Sir Philip Sidney, attest the superiority of his mental acquirements.

“The choice of his associates, together with some passages in his ‘Shepherd’s Calendar,’ had given rise to the suspicion that he was inclined towards puritanical sentiments; and possibly had some share in the disappointment of a fellowship, which he had hoped to obtain in 1576. Leaving college on this event, he retired for a time into the north of England; but the friendship of Sidney, who was fully capable of appreciating his genius, drew him again from his retirement; and it was at Penshurst that he composed much of the ‘Shepherd’s Calendar,’ published in 1579, under the signature of _Immerito_, and dedicated to his accomplished patron.

“This year Spenser was sent by the earl of Leicester (probably at his nephew’s request) to France, on some commission; and, in the following, he obtained the post of secretary to lord Grey, and attended him to Ireland.

“Spenser, though the child of fancy and of the Muse, was yet the man of business; and an excellent paper on the state of Ireland, which he drew up at this time, is still read and valued. He received a considerable tract of land out of the forfeited estates of the earl of Desmond; and also the castle of Kilcoman, which henceforth became his residence, and where he had the pleasure of receiving a first visit from Raleigh.

“Similarity of taste and pursuits must soon have created an intimacy between these candidates for fame; and the barbarism and ignorance which surrounded them, must have cemented their friendship, and heightened the pleasure they must have experienced in each other’s society.

“Nor did the seductive blandishments of a court banish from the affections or remembrance of Raleigh, when he returned to England, the tuneful bard whom he had left behind in the ‘emerald isle.’ He mentioned him to the queen with enthusiasm; obtained for him some favours, or promise of favours; and, on the second visit which he made to Ireland, (probably for the purpose of inspecting some large grants which he had himself obtained,) he insisted upon his friend’s returning with him; and hastened to initiate him into those arts of gaining a fortune, which had proved so prosperous to himself. But neither the taste, nor the retiring temper of the poet, was calculated to combat with the intrigues and treacheries of this heart-sickening scene; nor yet to endure the servile dependence on another’s will, that must be borne by the pursuer of courtly fortune. Bitterly did he regret his learned leisure, and deplore the mistaken kindness which had taught him to forsake retirement and ease, for the ‘solitude of a crowd, where all around were either foes or strangers.’ He has left upon lasting record, in a few brief, energetic lines, his warning to others, his grief and repentance; and, hastening back to obscurity, he prepared to earn that title to immortal fame, which will ever attend the author of the ‘Faery Queen.’ This great work appeared in 1589, with a preface addressed to Raleigh, and a considerable number of recommendatory poems; one of which, a sonnet of great elegance, is marked by the initials of that same patronizing friend.

“The premature death of Spenser, under circumstances of severe distress, now called forth the sympathy and bitter regrets of the friends of English literature. After witnessing the destruction of his whole property, including the plunder of his house, by the Irish rebels, he fled to England for shelter. The fifty pounds per annum, which he enjoyed as her majesty’s poet laureate, being apparently his only resource, he took up his abode in an obscure lodging in London, and pined away in penury and despondence.

“The genius of this great poet, formed on the most approved models of the time, and exercised upon themes peculiarly congenial to its taste, received, in all its plenitude, that homage of contemporary applause, which has sometimes failed to reward the nobler masters of the lyre.

“The adventures of chivalry, and the dim shadowings of moral allegory, were almost equally the delight of a romantic, a serious, and a learned age. It was also a point of loyalty to admire, in ‘Gloriana,’ ‘Queen of Faery,’ or in ‘The Empress Mercilla,’ the avowed types of the graces and virtues of her majesty; and she herself had discernment sufficient to distinguish between the brazen trump of vulgar flattery, with which her ear was sated, and the pastoral reed of antique frame, tuned sweetly to her praise by Colin Clout.

“Spenser was interred with great solemnity in Westminster Abbey, by the side of Chaucer; the generous Essex defraying the expences of the funeral, and walking himself as a mourner. That ostentatious but munificent woman, Ann, countess of Dorset, Pembroke, and Montgomery, erected a handsome monument to his memory, several years afterwards. The brother poets who attended his obsequies, threw elegies and sonnets into the grave; and, of the more distinguished votaries of the Muse in that day, there is scarcely one who has withheld his tribute to the memory of this beautiful author. Shakspeare, in one of his sonnets, had already testified his high delight in his works.

“Joseph Hall, afterwards eminent as a bishop, a preacher, and a polemic, but, at this time, a young student at Emanuel College, has more than one complimentary allusion to the poems of Spenser, in his ‘Toothless Satires,’ printed in 1597.”

“I think you mentioned, Sir,” said Mrs. Spencer, “that it was in Ireland Sir Walter Raleigh first became acquainted with the illustrious bard. Did Sir Walter spend much of his time there? Perhaps you will oblige us by some account of him.”

“Willingly,” answered Mr. Wilmot. “Ireland, in particular, was the scene of several of the early exploits of that brilliant and extraordinary genius, Walter Raleigh; and it was out of his service in this country, that an occasion arose for his appearing at court, which he had the talent so to improve, as to make it the origin of all his favour and advancement.

“Raleigh was the poor youngest son, of a decayed but ancient family in Devonshire. His education at Oxford was yet incomplete, when the ardour of his disposition encouraged him to join a band of a hundred volunteers, led by his relation, Henry Champernon, in 1569, to the aid of the French protestants. Here he served a six years’ apprenticeship to the art of war; after which, returning to his own country, he gave himself for awhile to the more tranquil pursuits of literature; for ‘both Minervas claim’d him as their own.’

“In 1578 he resumed his arms, under general Norris, commander of the English forces in the Netherlands. The next year, ambitious of a new kind of glory, he accompanied that gallant navigator, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, his half-brother, in a voyage to Newfoundland. This expedition proving unfortunate, he obtained, in 1580, a captain’s commission in the Irish service; and, recommended by his vigour and capacity, rose to be governor of Cork.

“A quarrel with lord Grey put a stop to his promotion in Ireland; and, on following this nobleman to England, their difference was brought to a hearing before the privy council, when the great talents, and uncommon flow of eloquence, exhibited by Raleigh in pleading his own cause, by raising the admiration of all present, proved the means of introducing him to the presence of the queen. His comely person, fine address, and prompt proficiency in the arts of a courtier, did all the rest; and he rapidly rose to such a height of favour, as to inspire with jealousy even him who had long stood foremost in the good graces of his sovereign.

“It is recorded of Raleigh, during the early days of his court attendance, when a few handsome suits of clothes formed almost the sum total of his worldly wealth, that, as he was accompanying the queen in one of her daily walks, she arrived at a miry spot, and stood in perplexity how to pass. With an adroit presence of mind, the courtier pulled off his cloak, and threw it on the ground to serve her for a foot-cloth. She accepted with pleasure an attention which flattered her; and it was afterwards quaintly said, that the spoiling of a cloak had gained him many good suits.

“As a soldier, a statesman, and a scholar, Raleigh was eminently distinguished through the whole reign of Elizabeth. He rendered her many important services; and she not only acknowledged them, but protected and encouraged him in the enterprises which he projected. He was the discoverer of Virginia, and took effectual measures for promoting its prosperity. His active enterprises against the Spaniards, both in Europe and South America, excited the particular enmity of the court of Spain, which used every means to effect his destruction. During the reign of Elizabeth, these machinations were fruitless; but, on the accession of James the First, Sir Walter lost his interest at court, was stripped of his employments, and unjustly accused and condemned for a plot against the king. He was afterwards trusted by James with a commission of considerable importance, and thus virtually pardoned for all supposed offences. The malice of his enemies at last prevailed against him; and he was pusillanimously sacrificed to appease the Spaniards, who, whilst Raleigh lived, thought every part of their dominions in danger.

“He was executed in Old Palace-yard, in the sixty-sixth year of his age. His behaviour on the scaffold was manly, unaffected, and even cheerful. Being asked by the executioner which way he would lay his head, he answered: ‘So the heart be right, it is no matter which way the head lies.’

“During his imprisonment, he wrote the following affecting letter to his son; and, as it contains many solemn and affecting admonitions, and testifies the influence of religion on his mind, I shall read it to you.

“‘My son, let my experienced advice and fatherly instructions sink deep into thy heart. Seek not riches basely, nor attain them by evil means: destroy no man for his wealth, nor take any thing from the poor; for the cry thereof will pierce the heavens; and it is most detestable before God, and most dishonourable before worthy men. Nor wrest any thing from the laborious and needy soul: God will never prosper thee, if thou offendest therein. Use thy poor neighbours and tenants well: have compassion on the poor and afflicted, and God will bless thee for it. Make not the hungry soul sorrowful; for if he curse thee in the bitterness of his spirit, his prayer shall be heard of him that made thee.

“‘Now for the world, dear child: I know it too well to persuade thee to dive into the practices of it: rather stand upon thy guard against all those that tempt thee to it, or may practise upon thee, thy conscience, thy reputation, or thy estate. Be assured, that no man is wise or safe, but he that is honest. Serve God, commend all thy endeavours to him, who will either wither or prosper them. Please him with prayer; lest, if he frown, he confound all thy fortune and labour, like the drops of rain upon the sandy ground. May God direct thee in all thy ways, and fill thy heart with his grace!’

“He also wrote a letter of consolation, and filled with pious sentiments, to his wife; but the specimen I have given you, will serve to exemplify the prepared state of his mind, previous to the solemn event.

“An engagement this morning,” said Mr. Wilmot, “obliges me now to conclude; and we will, therefore, quit the gallery.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAP. IX.

----------

THE first picture which attracted the little girls’ attention, on their entrance into the gallery this morning, was the representation of an eruption of Mount Vesuvius. They instantly applied for information to Mr. Wilmot, which he as willingly gave them, in the following words:

“This celebrated volcano is situated a few miles east of Naples, in Italy. The first eruption on record, happened on the twenty-seventh of August, A.D. 79. It was accompanied by an earthquake, which overturned several cities. Pliny, the naturalist, being too curious in observing the effects of this violent convulsion of nature, was suffocated by the sulphureous smoke.”

“Who was Pliny?” asked Susan.

“Pliny the Elder,” replied Mr. Wilmot, “was one of the most learned of the Roman writers; and was born at Verona in Italy, A.D. 23. But a letter from his nephew to a friend, describing his character and the event, will give you a more perfect idea of both, than any other means I can adopt. This amiable and learned man first enters into an account of his uncle’s surprising application, as well as great mental powers; and after relating the nature of his employments, he proceeds to say:

“‘You will wonder how a man, so engaged as he was, could find time to compose such a number of books as he did; and some of them, too, upon abstruse subjects. But your surprise will rise still higher, when you hear that, for some time, he engaged in the profession of an advocate; that he died in the fifty-sixth year of his age; that, from the time of his quitting the bar, to his death, he was employed, partly in the execution of the highest posts, and partly in personal attendance on those emperors who honoured him with their friendship.”

“‘But he had a quick apprehension, joined to _unwearied application_. In summer, he always began his studies as soon as it was night; in winter, generally at one in the morning, but never later than two, and sometimes at midnight. No man ever spent less time in bed; insomuch, that, without retiring from his book, he would sometimes take a short nap, and then pursue his studies. Before day-break he used to wait upon Vespasian, who, likewise, chose these seasons to transact business. When he had finished the affairs which that emperor transmitted to his charge, he returned home again to his studies.

“‘After a short and light repast, at noon, according to the good old custom of the ancients, he would frequently, in the summer, if disengaged from business, repose himself in the sun; during which time, some author was read to him, from which he made extracts and observations; as, indeed, this was his constant method, whatever book he read; for it was a maxim of his, ‘that no book was so bad but that something might be learned from it.’

“‘When this was over, he generally went into the cold bath; and, as soon as he came out of it, generally took a slight refreshment, and then reposed himself for a little while. Thus, as if it had been a new day, he renewed his studies till supper-time; when a book was again read to him, upon which he would make some slight remarks. I remember once, his _reader_ having pronounced a word wrong, somebody at table made him repeat it again; upon which my uncle asked his friend, if he understood it? who, acknowledging that he did: ‘Why, then,’ said he, ‘would you make him go back again? We have lost, by this interruption, above ten lines;’ covetous was this great man of time!

“‘In summer he always rose from supper by day-light, and in winter as soon as it was dark; and he observed this rule as strictly as if it had been a law of the state.

“‘Such was his manner of life amidst the noise and hurry of the town; but, in the country, his whole time was devoted to study, without intermission, excepting only when he bathed. In this exception I include no more than the time he was actually in the bath; for, while he was rubbed and wiped, he was employed in hearing some book read to him, or in dictating. In his journeys he lost no time from his studies; but his mind, at those seasons, being disengaged from all other business, applied itself wholly to that single pursuit.

“‘A secretary constantly attended him in his chariot, who, in the winter, wore a kind of warm gloves, that the sharpness of the weather might not occasion any intermission to my uncle’s studies; and for the same reason, when at Rome, he was always carried in a chair. I remember, he once reproved me for walking. ‘You might,’ said he, ‘employ those hours to more advantage;’ for he thought every hour lost, that was not given to study. By this extraordinary application he found time to compose the several treatises I have mentioned; besides one hundred and sixty volumes, which he left me by his will, consisting of a kind of common-place, written on both sides, in a very small character; so that one might fairly reckon the number considerably more. I have heard him say that, when he was comptroller of the revenue in Spain, Largius Licinius offered him 400,000 sesterces (about £.3200 of our money) for those manuscripts, and yet they were not then quite so numerous.’”

“What a remarkably industrious man he must have been!” said Ann.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Wilmot; “and although it would not be possible for the generality of men to pursue his plans, yet I think we may all learn something from his diligence, and his (may I not say) miserly care of time. But to proceed with the narration.

“‘My uncle was at this time, with the fleet under his command, at Misenum, in the gulf of Naples. On the twenty-fourth of August, at about one in the afternoon, my mother desired him to observe a cloud, which appeared of a very unusual shape and size. He had just returned from enjoying the benefit of the sun; and, after bathing in cold water, and taking a slight repast, was retired to his study: he immediately arose, and went out upon an eminence, from which he might more distinctly view the phenomenon. It was not, at this distance, discernible from what mountain the cloud issued; but it was found afterwards to proceed from Vesuvius, about six miles distant from Naples. I cannot give you a more correct, or exact description of its figure, than to represent it by that of a pine-tree; for it shot up a great height, in the form of a tall trunk, which spread at the top into a sort of branches; occasioned, I suppose, either by the force of the internal vapour, which impelled the cloud upwards, decreasing in strength as it advanced, or, that the cloud, being pressed back by its own weight, expanded itself in the manner I have mentioned: it appeared sometimes dark and spotted, and sometimes bright, as it was either more or less impregnated with earth and cinders.

“‘This uncommon appearance excited my uncle’s philosophical curiosity to take a nearer view of it. He accordingly ordered a light vessel to be prepared; and offered me the liberty, if I thought proper, to attend him. I chose rather to continue the employment in which I was engaged; for it happened that he had given me a certain writing to copy.

“‘As he was going out of the house, with his tablets in his hand, he was met by the mariners, belonging to the galleys stationed at Retina, from which they had fled in the uttermost terror; for that port being situated at the foot of Vesuvius, they had no other way than to escape by sea. They conjured him, therefore, not to proceed, and expose his life to imminent and inevitable danger. In compliance with this advice, he exchanged his original intentions; and, instead of gratifying his philosophical spirit, he resigned it to the more magnanimous principle of aiding the distressed.

“‘With this view he ordered the fleet immediately to put to sea, and went himself on board, with an intention of assisting, not only Retina, but the several other towns, which stood thick upon that beautiful coast.

“‘Hastening to the place, therefore, from which others fled with the utmost terror, he steered his direct course to the point of danger; and with so much calmness and presence of mind, as to be able to make and dictate his observations upon the appearance and progress of that dreadful scene. He was now so near the mountain, that the cinders, which grew thicker and stronger the more he advanced, fell into the ships; together with pumice-stone and black pieces of burning rock. They were, likewise, in danger of being aground by the sudden retreat of the sea; and also from the vast fragments which rolled down from the mountains, and obstructed all the shore. Here he stopped, to consider whether he should return back. On which the pilot addressing him, ‘Fortune,’ said he, ‘attends the brave: steer to Pompianus.’

“‘Pompianus was then at Stabiæ, (now called Castel è nar di Stabia, in the gulf of Naples,) separated by a gulf, which the sea, after several windings, forms upon that shore.

“‘Pompianus had already sent his baggage on board; for though he was not at the time in actual danger, yet, being within the view of it, and indeed extremely near, he was determined, if it should in the least increase, to put to sea as soon as the wind should change. It was favourable, however, for carrying my uncle to Pompianus, whom he found in the greatest consternation; and, embracing him with tenderness, he encouraged and exhorted him to keep up his spirits. The more to dissipate his fears, he ordered his servants, with an air of unconcern, to carry him to the baths; and, having bathed, he sat down to supper (with great, or at least what is equally heroic) with all the appearance of cheerfulness. In the meanwhile, the fire from Vesuvius flamed forth, from several parts of the mountain, with great violence; which the darkness of the night contributed to render still more visible and dreadful. But my uncle, in order to calm the apprehensions of his friend, assured him it was only the conflagration of the villages, which the country people had abandoned. After this he retired to rest, and, it is most certain, was so little discomposed as to fall into a deep sleep; for being corpulent, and breathing hard, the attendants in the anti-chamber actually heard him snore.

“‘The court which led to his apartment being now almost filled with stones and ashes, it would have been impossible for him, if he had continued there any longer, to have made his way out; it was thought proper, therefore, to awaken him. He got up, and joined Pompianus and the rest of the company, who had not been sufficiently unconcerned to think of going to bed. They consulted together, whether it would be most prudent to trust to the houses, which now shook from side to side, with frequent and violent concussions; or flee to the open fields, where the calcined stones and cinders, though levigated indeed, yet fell in large showers, threatening them with instant destruction. In this distress they resolved for the fields, as the less dangerous situation of the two: a resolution which, while the rest of the company were hurried into by their fears, my uncle embraced upon cool and deliberate consideration. They went out then, having pillows tied upon their heads with napkins; and this was the whole defence against the storm of stones that fell around them.

“‘It was now day every where else; but _there_ a deeper darkness prevailed than in the blackest night; which was, however, in some degree, dissipated by torches and other lights of various kinds. They thought it expedient to go down further upon the shore, in order to observe if they might safely put out to sea; but they found the waves still run extremely high and boisterous.

“‘There my uncle, having drunk a draught or two of cold water, laid himself down upon a sail-cloth, which was spread for him; when, immediately, the flames, preceded by a strong smell of sulphur, dispersed the rest of the company, and obliged him to rise. He raised himself with the assistance of the servants, and instantly fell down dead; suffocated, I suppose, by some great and noxious vapour, having always had weak lungs, and frequently subject to a difficulty of breathing. As soon as it was light again, which was not till the third day after this melancholy accident, his body was found entire, and without any marks of violence, exactly in the same posture in which he fell, and looking more like a man asleep than dead.’”

“And what became of the younger Pliny, Sir?” asked Ann, “during this dreadful scene.”

“I will give you his narration in his own words,” answered Mr. Wilmot.

“‘My uncle having left us, I continued the employment which prevented my going with him, till it was time to bathe: after which, I went to supper, and then fell into a short and uneasy sleep. There had, during many days before, been some shocks of an earthquake, which the less alarmed us, as they are frequent in Campania; but they were so particularly violent that night, that they not only shook every thing about us, but seemed to threaten total destruction. My mother flew to my chamber, where she found me rising in order to awaken her. We went out into a small court belonging to the house, which separated the sea from the buildings.

“‘As I was at that time but eighteen years of age, I know not whether I can call my behaviour, in this perilous conjuncture, courage or rashness; but I took up Livy, and amused myself with turning over that author, and even in making extracts from him, as if I had been perfectly at my ease. While we were in that situation, a friend of my uncle’s, who was just come from Spain to pay him a visit, joined us; and observing me sitting by my mother, with a book in my hand, reproved her patience and my security: nevertheless, I still went on with my author.

“‘It was now morning, but the light was exceedingly faint and languid; the buildings all around tottered; and though we stood upon open ground, yet, as the place was narrow and confined, there was no remaining without imminent danger: we therefore resolved to leave the town. The people followed us in the utmost consternation, and (as to a mind distracted with terror, every suggestion seems more prudent than its own) pressed in great crowds about us, in our way out. Being advanced at a considerable distance from the houses, we stood still, in the midst of a most hazardous and tremendous scene. The chariots which we had ordered out, were so agitated backwards and forwards, though upon the most level ground, that we could not keep them steady, even by supporting them with large stones.

“‘The sea seemed to roll back upon itself, and to be driven from the banks by the convulsive motion of the earth: it is certain, at least, that the shore was considerably enlarged, and several sea-animals were left upon it.

“‘On the other side, a black and dreadful cloud, bursting with an igneous serpentine vapour, darted out a long train of fire, resembling flashes of lightning, but much longer. Upon this, our Spanish friend, whom I mentioned above, addressing himself to my mother and me with great warmth and earnestness, said, ‘If your brother and your uncle is safe, he earnestly wishes that you may be so too; but if he perished, it was, doubtless, his desire that you might both survive him. Why, therefore, do you delay your escape a moment?’

“‘We could never think of our own safety,’ we replied, ‘whilst we were uncertain of his.’ Upon which our friend left us, and withdrew from the danger with the utmost precipitation. Soon afterwards, the cloud seemed to descend and cover the whole ocean; as, indeed, it entirely hid the island of Caprea, (an island near Naples, _now_ called Capri,) and the promontory of Misenum. My mother conjured me to make my escape any way, which, as I was young, I might easily effect. As for herself, she said, her age and corpulency rendered all attempts of that sort impossible: however, she would willingly meet death, if she could have the satisfaction of seeing that she was not the cause of mine. But I resolutely refused to leave her, and taking her by the hand, led her on. She complied with great reluctance, and not without many reproaches to herself, for being the occasion of retarding my flight.

“‘The ashes now began to fall upon us, though in no great quantity. I turned my head, and observed behind me a thick smoke, which came rolling after us like a torrent. I proposed, while we had yet any light, to turn out of the high road, lest she should be pressed to death by the crowd that followed us.

“‘We had scarcely stepped out of the path when darkness overspread us: not like that of a cloudy night, or when there is no moon; but of a room that is shut up, and all the lights extinct. Nothing then was to be heard but the shrieks of women, the screams of children, and the cries of men; some calling for their children, others for their husbands, others for their parents, and only distinguishing them by their voices. One lamenting his own fate, another that of his family; some wishing to die, from the very fear of dying; some lifting their hands to the gods; but the greatest part imagining that the last and eternal night was come, which was to destroy the gods and the world together. Amongst these, were some who augmented the real terrors by imaginary ones, and made the frighted multitude believe that Misenum was actually in flames.

“‘At length a glimmering light appeared, which we imagined rather the forerunner of another burst of flame, (as in fact it was,) than the return of day. However, the fire fell at a distance from us; and then again we were immersed in thick darkness, and a heavy shower of ashes rained upon us, which we were obliged every now and then to shake off, otherwise we should have been overwhelmed and buried in the heap.

“‘I might boast that, during all this scene of horror, not a sigh or expression of fear escaped from me, had not my support been founded on that miserable, though strong consolation, that all mankind were involved in the same calamity, and that I imagined that I was perishing with the world itself. At last this terrible darkness was dissipated by degrees, like a cloud or smoke; the real day returned, and even the sun appeared, though very faintly, as when an eclipse is coming on. Every object which presented itself to our eyes (which were extremely weakened) seemed changed, being covered with white ashes, as with a deep snow.

“‘We returned to Misenum, where we refreshed ourselves as well as we could, and passed our anxious night between hope and fear: though, indeed, with a much larger share of the latter; for the earth still continued to shake, while several enthusiastic persons ran wildly among the people, and making a kind of frantic sport of their own and their friends’ wretched situation. However, my mother and I, notwithstanding the danger we had passed, and that which threatened us, had no intention of leaving Misenum till we should receive some account of my uncle.’”

“How singular it was,” said Susan, “that Pliny should read an historical work, at a moment of such imminent danger. Do you call it fortitude, Sir?”

“I am something, my dear, of lord Lyttelton’s opinion, respecting this part of this really amiable man’s conduct: ‘That, when all nature seemed falling into final destruction, to be reading Livy and making extracts was an absurd affectation. To meet danger with courage is manly, but to be insensible to it is brutal stupidity; and to pretend insensibility where it cannot be supposed, is ridiculous falseness.’”

“But his conduct, in refusing to leave his mother, you will allow, was noble,” remarked Mrs. Spencer.

“Undoubtedly it was a beautiful act of filial piety; and whilst I have passed a censure on the one act mentioned, I wish it to be remembered, that no Roman ever excelled him in sincere integrity of heart and greatness of sentiment; although there was a mixture of vanity blended with his virtue, which impaired and disgraced it.”

“I think, Sir,” said Ann, “you spoke of some cities being destroyed at this time.”

“Yes, my dear, and Herculaneum was one. Like Pompeii and other cities, it was thought to be utterly destroyed, till the beginning of the eighteenth century, when it was discovered; and many of the houses were found perfectly furnished, and the furniture in good preservation.”

“Do volcanic eruptions ever occur in other countries?” asked Susan.

“The principal apertures of this kind,” replied Mr. Wilmot, “besides Vesuvius, are, Etna in Sicily; Stromboli, one of the Lipari Islands, north of Sicily; and Hecla in Iceland.

“So late as the year 1783, a volcanic eruption in Iceland surpassed any thing recorded in history. The lava spouted up to the height of two miles perpendicular, and continued thus for two months; during which time it covered a tract of three thousand six hundred square miles of ground, in some places more than one hundred feet deep; and this tremendous visitation was followed by a train of consequences, the most direful and melancholy, some of which continue to be felt to this day.

“Immense floods of red hot lava were poured down from the hills, with amazing velocity; and, spreading over the low country, burnt up men, cattle, churches, houses, and every thing they attacked in their progress. Not only was all vegetation in the immediate neighbourhood of the volcano destroyed, by the ashes, brimstone, and pumice which it emitted; but, it being thrown up to an inconceivable height in the atmosphere, they were scattered over the whole island; impregnating the air with noxious vapours, intercepting the genial rays of the sun, and empoisoning whatever could satisfy the hunger or quench the thirst, of man or beast. Even in some of the more distant districts, the quantity of ashes that fell was so great, that they were gathered up by handsful. Upwards of four hundred people were deprived instantly of a home; the fish were driven from the coasts; and the elements seemed to vie with each other, which should commit the greatest depredations: famine and pestilence stalked abroad, and cut down their victims with ruthless cruelty, while death himself was glutted with the prey. In some houses there was scarcely a sound individual left to tend the afflicted, or any who possessed sufficient strength to inter the dead.

“The most miserably emaciated tottering skeletons were seen in every quarter. When the animals that had died of disease and hunger were consumed, the wretched creatures had nothing to eat but raw hides, and old pieces of leather and ropes, which they boiled, and devoured with avidity. The horses eat the flesh off one another; and, for want of other sustenance, had recourse to turf, wood, and even excrementitious substances; while the sheep devoured each other’s wool. In a word, the accumulation of miseries originating in the volcanic eruption, was so dreadful, that, in the short space of two years, not fewer than 9336 human beings, 28,000 horses, 11,461 head of cattle, and 190,488 sheep, perished on the island.

“Such is Dr. Henderson’s account of this melancholy calamity; a visitation which was awful in its nature, and unparalleled in its horrors.”

“What a blessing it is,” said Ann, “that we live in England, where no troubles of the kind ever assail us.”

“Cherish the feeling of thankfulness, my dear girl,” said Mr. Wilmot; “for it is indeed a favoured—a privileged country. And here,” said he, turning to a full-length portrait of George the Third, “is the picture of our late venerable monarch; whose benevolent wish, that every child in his dominions might possess a Bible, and be able to read it, deserves to be transmitted from sire to son.

“The ornament of his domestic circle, his gentle and pious daughter, was taken from him; and his reason lasted only to receive her last farewell, and mingle his blessings with her dying accents.

“Let us compare the experience of this Christian king with that of Abdalrahman, one of the greatest monarchs of his line.

“Cordova, the place of his residence, displayed 600 mosques, 900 baths, and 200,000 houses; and the caliph gave laws to eighty cities of the first, and to three hundred of the second and third order: and twelve thousand villages and hamlets decorated the beautiful banks of the Guadalquiver.

“Three miles from Cordova, in honour of his favourite sultana, the third and greatest of the Abdalrahmans constructed the city, palace, and gardens of Jehrar.

“Twenty-five years, and about three millions sterling, were employed by the founder. His liberal taste invited the most skilful sculptors and architects of the age; and the buildings were sustained or adorned by twelve hundred columns of Spanish and African, of Greek and Italian marble.

“The hall of audience was encrusted with gold and pearls; and a great basin in the centre was surrounded with the curious and costly figures of birds and quadrupeds.

“In a lofty pavilion of the gardens, one of those basins and fountains, so delightful in a sultry climate, was replenished, not with water, but with the purest quicksilver.

“The seraglio of Abdalrahman, his wives, and concubines, and eunuchs, amounted to six thousand three hundred persons; and he was attended to the field by a guard of twelve thousand horse, whose belts and scimeters were studded with gold.

“Our imagination is dazzled by the splendid picture, (says Gibbon,) and whatever may be the cool dictates of reason, there are few among us who would obstinately refuse a trial of the comforts and cares of royalty. It may, therefore, be of some use to borrow the experience of the same Abdalrahman, whose magnificence has, perhaps, excited our admiration and envy, and to transcribe an authentic memorial, which was found in the closet of the deceased caliph.

“‘I have now reigned above fifty years, in victory or peace, beloved by my subjects, and dreaded by my enemies, and respected by my allies. Riches and honour, power and pleasure, have waited on my call: nor does any earthly blessing appear to have been wanting to my felicity. In this situation I have diligently numbered the days of pure and genuine happiness which have fallen to my lot: they amount to _fourteen_. O man! place not thy confidence in this present world.’

“I will conclude this morning’s entertainment with a few lines by the princess Amelia, whom I mentioned to you in my notice of our late excellent monarch.”

‘Unthinking, idle, wild, and young,
I laugh’d, and talk’d, and danc’d, and sung;
And, proud of health, of freedom vain,
Dreamt not of sickness, care, and pain;
Concluding, in these hours of glee,
That all the world was made for me.

‘But when the days of trouble came;
When sickness shook this trembling frame;
When pleasure’s gay pursuits were o’er,
And I could dance and sing no more;
It then occurr’d, how sad ’twould would be,
Were this world _only_ made for me.’

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAP. X.

----------

“PRAY, Sir,” said Susan, “what place does this gloomy picture describe?”

“It is a drawing of the monastery of La Trappe,” answered Mr. Wilmot; “remarkable for the austerity of its monks, and celebrated, in ancient times, as the residence of the learned but licentious Abelard; and, in more modern, by the singular reformation and self-devotedness of Monsieur de Rancé.

“I will give you an account of it, as described by a gentleman who visited it in 1819.

“The situation of this monastery was well adapted to the founder’s views, and to suggest the name it originally received of La Trappe, from the intricacy of the road which descends to it, and the difficulty of access and egress, which exists, even to this day, though the woods have been very much thinned since the French revolution. Perhaps there never was any thing in the whole universe better calculated to inspire religious awe, than the first view of this monastery: it was imposing even to breathlessness.

“The total solitude, the undisturbed and chilling silence, which seem to have ever slept over the dark and ancient woods; the still lakes, reflecting the deep solemnity of the objects around them;—all impress a peaceful image of utter seclusion and hopeless separation from living man; and appear formed at once to court and gratify the sternest austerities of devotion—to humour the wildest fancies, and promote the gloomiest schemes of penance and privation.

“In ascending the steep and intricate path, the traveller frequently loses sight of the abbey until he has actually reached the bottom; then, emerging from the wood, the following inscription is seen, carved on a wooden cross:

‘C’est ici que la mort et que la verité
Elevent leurs flambeaux terribles;
C’est de cette demeure, au monde inaccessible,
Que l’on passe à l’éternité.’