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HOSPITAL SKETCHES
1916 
 
HOSPITAL  SKETCHES
BY
ROBERT SWAIN  PEABODY
    BOSTON & NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
   The Riverside Press Cambridge
          1916
y 
          \o50

           \<d\(p

COPYRIGHT, I916, BY ROBERT SWAIN PEABODY
       ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
       Published December iq/6 
"Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
 Enwrought with golden and silver light,
 The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
 Of night and light and the half light;
 I would spread the cloths under your feet:
 But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
 I have spread my dreams under your feet;
 Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."
W.  B. Yeats. 
 
NOTE
  Acknowledgments  are  made   to   Messrs.
Charles Scribner's  Sons for  permission  to  use a
passage from Edith  Wharton's Fighting France
and  to The  Macmillan Company for  the use
of the poem "Aedh wishes for the Cloths  of
Heaven," by W. B. Yeats. 
 
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION                                   ix

VIEW  FROM  THE HOSPITAL TERRACE           i

UPTHORPE-CUM-REGIS
       I. The Minster and the Meadows               3
      II. The Church Yard                          7
     III. The Village                               "
      IV. The Hall                                 IS
       V. Trong's Almshouses                        19

RANCONEZZO
      VI. The Town and the Lake                    23
     VII. Piazza Garibaldi                           27
    VIII. Piazza Cavour                            31
      IX. North Door of the Duomo                  35
       X. Interior of the Duomo                      39
      XL The Villa of the Cardinal Schalchi-Visconti    43
     XII. Santa Prassede, the Cardinal's Church        47
    XIII. The Cloisters of Sta Prassede                51
    XIV. The Tomb of the Cardinal in Sta Prassede     55 
ROCHER-ST.-POL
     XV. The Town and the River Merle               59
    XVI. La Grande Rue and La Place de la Republique  63
   XVII. L'escalier de Jacob                          6?
  XVIII. Le Parvis de Ste  Fredigonde                  71
    XIX. Interior of the Church of Ste Fredigonde       75
     XX. Sacristy Steps in the Church of S,e Fredigonde  79
    XXL The Chateau Beaumesnil                    83
   XXII. La Tour de la Dame Blanche                 87

AEGINASSOS
  XXIII. The Temple and the Forum                  91
  XXIV. The Temple and the Forum                  95 
INTRODUCTION
                       Johns  Hopkins Hospital,
                         Baltimore, Maryland,
                             December, 1915.
     ONE of my good friends, a stanch upholder of
     what to him is  "The Catholic Church," looks
back to the thirteenth century as marking the high-
est tide of Christian civilization. He longs for a re-
storation (but under other rule) of that monastic
life which then gave  shelter to Art, Science, Learn-
ing, and Religion.  It does not appear  that this
longing is coupled with  any regret for the excep-
tionally happy domestic life with which he per-
sonally has been  blessed. Probably his hopes are
that even if he establishes, others will maintain,
that monastic life and discipline which, duly puri-
fied from Ultramontane tendencies, he thinks would
be so uplifting and beneficial to our times.
  However that  may be,  if he is ever  immured
for many weeks in a great hospital, he will be sur-
prised  to  find how many are the similarities be-
I «] 
tween  its life, its  discipline and its atmosphere,
and those of the great monasteries.  I mean those
mediaeval houses which spread from the parent at
Monte Cassino to Citeaux and Cluny and Vezelay
and thence to far-away parts of Europe, and which
were even more abundant in England where the
ruins of the Yorkshire Abbeys still attest to their
former power.  When the time is ripe for the change
longed for by our friend  he will find that  very
slight additions to a modern hospital will give him
what he wants in great perfection.
  Grateful though I am to them — deeply grate-
ful — yet I know little of the personal history of the
founder of this great hospital which now shelters
me, or of that "Diamond Jim Brady " who built
and endowed this noble wing. Still, I feel  sure that
in many  ways  these  benefactors to their  race
made their gifts under much the same conditions
as those barons and nobles of old who, led by some
deep feeling, devoted their wealth to the saving,
not only of their own souls, but of the souls and
bodies of their fellow men.
  Moreover, if the benefactors who  founded and
endowed  this  hospital resembled the  men  and
women who made possible the powerful monasteries
of the Middle Ages, there is also a resemblance to
be found between the service that the monks ren-
dered in their day to  humanity and  knowledge
and that devotion  which  to-day  inspires  the  staff
of a great modern hospital.  In this very building
                     [x] 
are housed  and in constant attendance  a large
number of doctors, surgeons and orderlies. Their
quarters,  though in many ways like  those in a
modern club, are almost equally like the cells of a
great monastery. There probably is not one of the
staff who was not turned to his profession  in some
degree by the thought that it would make him of
service to mankind. In another wing live several
hundred nurses. The strength and health and hap-
piness which appear in the faces of these young
women attest to the good effect for women as well
as for men  of discipline and regular attention  to
duty.  What a shining example is theirs of faithful
and altruistic service to suffering humanity!  In-
deed a generous,  helpful and  encouraging spirit
pervades  all the men  and women  who form the
staff of the hospital. Theirs is a single-minded and
unwearying attention which no monks could have
excelled, nor could the monasteries ever have of-
fered a wider charity than that which makes white
and colored, Hebrew and Gentile, poor and rich all
objects of the kindly help of a skilful and  devoted
company.
   I know that the kernel and very centre of the
monastery  was the lighted  altar  in  the chapel
where daily the sacred mysteries  were enacted.
That is what our friend will need to add to his per-
fected institution; — and yet — and yet — I doubt
if the atmosphere  will  be very different when that
is done.   Although this place  is world-famous as
[xi] 
a centre of scientific research and of applied science,
— though, in general, religion here is worked out
in terms of service, — yet there are signs that the
spirit has recognition as well as  the physical body.
To-day,  in the great entrance rotunda  stands  a
colossal and impressive statue of Christ, his hands
outstretched welcoming the weary and the heavy-
laden.  The  several hundred  nurses  have daily
prayers together before they begin their unselfish
work. At the dawn of  Christmas morning, the
doctors,  nurses and orderlies make the halls re-
sound with the carols suited to the day; and we hear
how one convalescent who was praising his doctor's
power over his ailments  was surprised by the
reply, "It was another power than mine that did
it!"   Perhaps he meant that miraculous servant
Radium; perhaps he meant  Nature herself;  per-
haps he meant something  beyond these.  He did
not explain.
  This devotion with which the  staff is consecrated
to altruistic labor is met by a spirit of buoyant
gratitude from those on  whom they minister.  Our
ward is vibrant with it. Perhaps this is not true at
the very first.  The patient arrives in misery.  For
a few days he is perhaps made even more miserable.
But during this time he is in seclusion and not vis-
ible to his comrades.  Soon he rallies. In bed or
wheel chair he joins  other convalescents on the
roof  terrace.   They  compare  notes  over  their
operations.  They  settle  among themselves all
[xii] 
those great pending  questions which have been
engrossing the active outside world and, looking
forward to returning  health and  strength, a very
joyous spirit pervades the group. These not too
inviting  surroundings  abound,  therefore, in  a
hearty thankfulness — a  thankfulness  abundant
and  sincere, and  not  unlike what it  would  be
if it were  offered amid solemn rites and with ma-
jestic music before the  glowing altar of a monas-
tery.
  But in  these early  days of seclusion the lonely
patient has opportunity for much thinking. Lying
in bed in a  room  which,  as a recent writer de-
scribed it, is richly decorated with a white ceiling,
four white walls,  a door,  a window  and a floor,
he has indeed  time for thought  and  for  thought
without distraction.
  Surrounded as he is by the sick  and the maimed,
perhaps one of the first subjects on which he is led
to ponder is the mystery of  Pain. What does it
all mean that a God  otherwise beneficent should
impose on the creatures he has brought into the
world  illness  and  suffering?   Even  Prince  Sid-
dartha wondered at it:
          "Since if, all powerful, he leaves it so,
          He is not good; and if not powerful,
          He is not God?"
  In better mood the patient may wonder whether
his personal share of pain is in any sense a penance or
atonement for his own past sins.   This is a thought
[ xiii ] 
which is natural and acceptable perhaps to most
minds.  But the Saints and Martyrs testifying to
their faith went farther and not only submitted to
but gladly sought pain and suffering.  Now pain
and agony well endured  undoubtedly  strengthen
character. Have we not a vivid example of this be-
fore us in the catastrophe of the European war; a
war which is  saved from  being wholly evil and
dreadful because out of it has come the spiritual re-
generation of the allied nations who are engulfed in
it?  Still it can hardly be expected that ordinary
flesh and blood should in this world, so full of love
and beauty, invite and seek out  suffering and dis-
aster even in order to bear them  bravely.  Enough
for most of us that if doomed to walk with them
we
        "Turn the necessity to glorious gain."

But all the same it must  be a happy  thing for a
sufferer if he can hope with the Martyrs that pain
borne with fortitude may be offered as a  sacrifice
and atonement.
  In these dull and lonely moments also one in-
evitably asks  whether it is true that people exist
who are stolid to pain?   One may consecrate it
before it comes and after it goes, but to most of us
feeble folk pain when present occupies the whole
limelight and  leaves the rest of the stage in dark-
ness!  The only inmate of the hospital who stirred
my temper was a patient who on  making a rapid
                     [ xiv  ] 
recovery from what he described as a very severe
operation said  he had  refused ether and did not
mind pain.   I  regained my  equanimity when an
orderly confided to me that  the  operation  had
been slight!
  In health one is apt to  think that Love is the
great motive power of humanity.  In illness  and
suffering Pain seems the great and pressing prob-
lem. They often go hand in hand and perhaps it is
true that without them both life has not rendered
its full wealth or its perfect discipline.  "The enno-
bling depths of pain" need also "the purifying fire
of love" to  round out  a perfect character.
    "Incomprehensibly Love's will doth move
     Through this blind world  in ways we cannot see,
     Death giving birth to life. So does deep sorrow
     Give birth to rarer joy on some glad morrow."

  These and many such questions can be as solemn,
as perplexing and as engrossing as any that exercised
the inmates of the Monastery to  which we  here
find so much resemblance. As a contrast to such
heart-searching thoughts the patient can wonder
at the properties of that radium by which he may
have been treated. How astonishing is it that this
atom of matter should constantly emit rays which
search out and destroy evil  tissues and leave un-
harmed  the good; and that they  do  this with-
out any perceptible diminution of energy! How
contrary this is to all  we have hitherto known of
the conservation of energy  and of the impossibility
[XV] 
of obtaining perpetual motion or continued power.
What  is so contrary to our  preconceived  ideas
proves itself, however, by  experience efficient  in
an almost  supernatural or miraculous  manner.
Perhaps  fatigued by  these  thoughts the patient
can turn from them and closing his eyes begin  to
count "The flock of sheep that leisurely pass by one
after one" and by happy chance submit himself  to
sleep.
   The roof terrace  has a wide view over the City
of Baltimore, as well  as of the heavens which en-
compass it.  We sit there in our wheel chairs or lie
tucked up in our rolling beds and talk flows freely.
We watch the flocks of pigeons  making endless
circles in the upper air; the  black and solemn buz-
zards hanging above us unmoved though the gale
blow ever so fiercely; the cloud shadows  moving
over the panorama; the haze of mist and steam and
smoke floating  over the City; the ever-changing
pageant of fleeting clouds and blue sky and blazing
sunsets.  At one time —

     "And when the wind from place to place
       Doth the unmoored cloud galleons chase" —

we follow the white fleets as they sail away towards
the south, ever  replaced  by new armadas surging
up and over the northern horizon. At another time
in range beyond range of snowy clouds, we see
rise before  us the  Delectable  Mountains beyond
which  is  the Land  of Beulah where the  shining
                    [ xvi ] 
ones go to and fro as messengers to the Celestial
City.
  It is said that an eye unused to the telescope
cannot see the  canals on  the  planet  Mars, but
that through the same instrument they are plainly
visible to  an  eye trained  to  such observation.
Sometimes, when the clouds have  hung in white
masses over the city, I have  been eager to  see
what was hidden by those luminous walls, but  my
untrained eyes could not pierce them.  Day after
day, however, I became more familiar with them.
Others before  now,  without journeying like Co-
lumbus to prove the truth of his  visions, have,
even by their own firesides, enjoyed Castles in  the
Air and Chateaux and great possessions in Spain.
In  like manner as the breeze moved the silver
edges of the clouds, I had unexpectedly through
the rifts views  of strange lands and fair cities which
I had never before seen or heard of. As they were
indeed lovely, in all haste I tried to make rapid
notes of them to prove the  truth of my strange
experience.
  Far to the north over Homewood, a pile of moun-
tainous clouds was rent for a short space by  the
breeze, and disclosed a Minster in a meadow land.
Its name seemed to be Upthorpe-cum-Regis.  Its
tower  rose  before me over the busy  life  of  the
town and looked down on the mansion of the Squire
and the house  of the Dean. Close around the walls
of the Minster, indeed within sound of its prayers
[ xvii ] 
and  anthems, were clustered  the  graves  ot  tne
dead, — the former generations who had made the
life of  the town and  who built the church and
worshipped at its altar. It was a town in which the
characters described by Trollope or George Eliot
or Jane Austen would have felt  themselves  at
home.
  Again when a sunset was filling the western sky
with "the incomparable pomp  of eve," a break in
the clouds above the gilded towers of Cardinal
Gibbons's Cathedral disclosed  an Italian town on
a lovely lake shore.  Boats with colored sails lined
the Riva  of Ranconezzo.  Two  piazzas teeming
with life surrounded the Duomo or Cathedral and
from them there were wide views  over lake and
mountain  scenery.  It appears that in  the  long
ago,  the Cardinal Schalchi-Visconti was the bene-
factor of this town, and there on the hillside, tree
embowered, was his  villa  with its little port for
the lake boats.  His tomb I also saw, not in the
Duomo, but in the Bramantesque Church of Santa
Prassede,  a  building resembling the many small
churches  in  northern Italy due to  the refined in-
fluence of Bramante. In my dreaming I entered
the church,  and found that the great Cardinal lies
beneath a tomb carved by Mino da Fiesole on the
north side of Santa Prassede.
  Then on a cool and  crisp day when clouds were
scudding  through the sky,  between them there
was revealed to me a  French  town that seemed
[ xviii ] 
to bear the  name  of  Rocher-St.-Pol.  There was
the river  Merle winding  its way through mea-
dow and woodland. A range of hills bounded the
horizon and from the plain  rose the Rock.  Not
far away the ruined castle of "La Dame Blanche"
crowned a steep hill, and close to the town was the
Chateau Beaumesnil, beetling  over the  wooded
hillside and bristling with conical towers and bur-
nished girouettes. The Grande Rue of Rocher-St.-
Pol I saw winding between gabled and half-tim-
bered houses towards the church  on the summit,
and finally  a  long flight  of stairs called by the
people Jacob's ladder brings the pilgrim to the
terrace in front of the church door. The interior
of Ste. Fredigonde showed me the same period of
French Gothic which marks the cathedrals of Notre
Dame at  Paris  and  Rheims.  Coming out  from
Jacob's ladder upon the Parvis, there was a wide
view  over the meadows  and the river.  At the
moment when the cathedral door  was  disclosed to
me, a procession of  clergy bearing sacred  relics
emerged from the church.  It passed between the
ranks of prophets and martyrs whose effigies flank
the portal, and vanished with its banners and vest-
ments  down the long incline  of Jacob's ladder
towards the old town.
   And finally came a dismal day, at the end of
which the west was lined with long streaks of red,
and, just before sunset, through a lengthened break
in the gray, I seemed to  see an Island in the far
                     [ xix 1 
^Egean.  I  think  it must have been  somewhere
between the iEgina that looks across the waters to
the Athenian Acropolis and the Assos which my
friends  in their youth dug from its grave.  Let us
call  it ^ginassos. Its buildings  as  I  dimly  saw
them are in a remarkable condition of preserva-
tion.  The white temple stood out on a promontory
over  the sea,  and brought  back  to memory the
temple-crowned headland at Sunium.  Higher on
the mountain-side was the Forum  with its terraces
and  long colonnades.  Steep  and winding paths
descended  to the ancient port, and far across the
water rose  the heights of the Isles  of Greece.
  Here are the records of what I was privileged to
see from the roof terrace of the Hospital.  Made
in bed or wheel chair and depending on the pass-
ing imagination of an invalid,  the sketches are of
necessity crude.  Would that instead they were like
the work of Claude or Turner, who were the great
experts  at seeing visions in  the clouds  and in
transferring them to their paper!   These drawings
will, however, be a reminder that idle hours  can
be passed happily even during a  long captivity!
Opposite each drawing I  have placed some quo-
tations  from various writers.  Although these do
not describe with exactness the places which no
eye but mine has seen, yet they do picture others
very  like  those which  I  saw  from  the  hospital
terrace.
  A day at last arrived when the patient was sud-
                     1 xx ] 
denly released. After being the object of tender care
for many weeks the outer world seemed very large
and  very hustling.  It was with a certain timid-
ity and  almost with reluctance that facing it all
he left  the  peaceful quiet of the Johns Hopkins
Hospital. 
 
SKETCHES
AT
THE
   JOHNS HOPKINS
 »#•"■  HOSPITAJ
Jyy Behind rh«- cUy c+ocK^
Kj'muo of &\ry things
T-roo^s of &K6zXt> (at^rry wing/,
Hii F-nIVt5 iKimnc^ inijr/^ht k\b!ej
His children fed at ht&ver»jy fa-bles ■

           OCTOBER 1915 
UPTHORPE-CUM-REGIS
                  THE RIVER
  It was one of their happy mornings.  They  trotted
along and sat down together, with no thought that life
would ever change much for them; they would only get
bigger and not go to school, and it would be always like
the holiday; they would  always  live together  and  be
fond of each other.  And  the mill with its booming —
the great chestnut tree under which they  played  at
house — their own little  river, the Ripple,  where the
banks seemed like  home, and Tom was always seeing
water-rats while Maggie gathered the purple  plumy
tops of the reeds which she forgot, and dropped after-
wards — above  all, the great Floss,  along which  they
wandered with  a sense of travel, to  see the rushing
spring-tide, the awful Eagre,  come  up like a  hungry
monster, or to see the Great Ash which had once wailed
and groaned like a man — these things would always be
just the same to them. Tom thought people were at a
disadvantage who lived in any other spot of the globe;
and Maggie  when  she read about Christiana passing
  the river over which there is no bridge," always saw
the Floss between the green pastures  by the Great Ash.
                                   George Eliot.
1 2 1 
h-f^*r;-       "fill. #;-,-,.
    UPTHORPE-CUM-REGIS





The Minster and the Meadows 
 
THE MINSTER
Strong as time, and as faith sublime, — clothed round
      with shadows of hopes and fears,
Nights and morrows, and joys and sorrows, alive with
      passion of prayers  and tears, —
Stands the shrine that has seen  decline eight hundred
      waxing and waning years.
Tower set square to the storms of air and change  of
      season that blooms and glows,
Wall and roof of it tempest proof,  and equal even  to
      suns and snows,
Bright with riches of radiant niches and pillars smooth
      as a straight  stem  grows.
                                   A. Swinburne.

                      ELEGY
  Now fades  the glimmering landscape on the sight,
  And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
  Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
  And drowsy tinklings lull  the distant folds;

  Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade
  Where heaves the turf  in many a mouldering heap
  Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
  The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
                                         Gray.
                     1 5  1 
              THE CHURCHYARD
  It was a very quiet place, as such a place should be,
save for the cawing of the rooks who had built their nest
among the branches of some tall old trees, and were
calling to one another,  high up  in the air.  First one
sleek bird,  hovering near his ragged house as it swung
and dangled in the wind, uttered his hoarse cry, quite
by chance  as  it would  seem, and in a  sober tone  as
though  he  were but talking to  himself.  Another an-
swered,  and he called  again, but louder than before;
then another spoke and then another; and each time the
first, aggravated by contradiction,  insisted on his case
more strongly.  Other voices, silent till now,  struck in
from boughs lower down and higher up  and midway,
and to the  right and left, and from the tree-tops; and
others arriving hastily from the grey church turrets and
old belfry window, joined the clamour which rose and
fell, and swelled and dropped again, and  still went on;
and all this noisy contention amidst a skimming to and
fro, and lighting on fresh branches, and frequent changes
of place, which satirized the old restlessness of those
who  lay so still beneath the moss and turf below, and
the  useless  strife in which  they  had worn  away their
lives.
                                Charles Dickens.


                 THE PARSON

  As I was walking with him last night, he asked me
how  I liked the good man whom I have just now men-
tioned ? and without staying for my answer told me, that
he was afraid of being insulted with Latin and Greek at
                       1 6] 
■*-«

          II



UPTHORPE-CUM-REGIS



   The Church Yard 
 
his own table; for which reason he desired a particular
friend of his at the university to find him out a clergy-
man rather of plain sense than much learning, of a good
aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible,
a man that understood a little  of backgammon.  "My
friend," says Sir Roger, found  me out this gentleman,
who, besides  the endowments required of him, is, they
tell me, a good scholar, though he does not show it.  I
have given him the parsonage of the parish; and be-
cause I know his value, have settled on him a good an-
nuity for life. . . .
  At his first settling with me, I made him a present of
all the good sermons which have been printed in English,
and only begged of him that every Sunday he would pro-
nounce one of them in the pulpit. Accordingly he has
digested them into such a series, that they follow one
another naturally,  and make  a continued  system of
practical divinity.
  As Sir Roger  was going on in his story, the gentle-
man  we were talking of came  up to us, and upon the
Knight's asking him who preached to-morrow, for  it
was Saturday night, told us, the bishop of St. Asaph in
the morning, and Dr. South in the afternoon. He then
showed us his list of preachers for the whole year, where
I saw with a great deal of pleasure, Archbishop Tillot-
son, Bishop Saunderson, Dr. Barrow, Dr. Calamy, with
several living authors who have published discourses of
practical divinity.
                                          Addison.
[9l 
THE SWAN  INN
   Last night I lay at the Swan Inn in Lathbury town.
 A sad night I had of it! My chamber was warmed fair
 enough by a fire of sea coal. There was a sweet smell of
 lavender in the sheets which a hot warming pan had
 also made comfortable.  All this  promised well, but
 Polly had forgot to put my silk night cap into my saddle-
 bags! That vexed me sore!  All night I felt I was taking
 a rheum.  Some clodhoppers roystering in the tap  room
 forbade sleep at first and as I am not wont to hear the
 quarters stricken the Abbey bells roused  me at frequent
 intervals and made me swear roundly. About midnight
 the Royal Mail rolled over the bridge with a noise  fit to
 wake the Seven Sleepers! The  hoof beats of its cattle
 echoed on the stone walls of the houses like a salute by
 His Majesty's Footguards! How I ached for my quiet
 chambers in the Temple.  At length I fell  to sleep and so
 sound that when I waked the sun had long been shining
 through my lattice. I was late in meeting the Squire and
 the Vicar, and that too after making express this ardu-
 ous ride. Indeed I was vexed — and I showed it.
                                 Swain's Old Salop.

  The Swan is  a venerable and rambling building,
stretching itself lazily with outspread arms; one of those
inns (long may  they be preserved from the rebuilders!)
on which one stumbles up or down into every room, and
where eggs  and bacon have an appropriateness  that
make  them a more desirable food than ambrosia.  The
little parlor is wainscotted with the votive paintings —
a village Diploma Gallery — of artists who have made
the Swan their home.
                                     E. V. Lucas.
                       [ 10 ] 
          Ill
UPTHORPE-CUM-REGIS
      The Village 
 
  One almost expects to see a fine green moss all over
an inhabitant of Steyning. One day as I passed through
the town I saw a man painting a new sign over a shop,
a proceeding that so aroused my curiosity that I stood
for a minute or two to look on. The painter filled in one
letter, gave a huge yawn, looked up and down two or
three times as if he had lost something,  and finally de-
scended from his  perch and disappeared. Five weeks
later I passed that way again, and it is  a fact that the
same man was at work on the same sign. Perhaps when
the reader takes the walk I am about to recommend to
his attention — a walk which comprises  some of the
finest scenery in Sussex — that sign will be finished, and
the accomplished  artist will have begun another; but I
doubt it. There  is plenty of time  for everything in
Steyning.
                                  Louis Jennings.
[ 13 1 
         THE OLD COUNTRY  HOUSE
  If our old English folk could not get an arched roof,
then they loved to have it pointed, with polished timber
beams on which the eye rested as on looking upwards
through a tree.  Their rooms they liked of many shapes,
and not at right angles on the corners,  nor  all on  the
same dead  level of flooring.  You had to go  up a step
into one, .and  down  a step into  another, and along a
winding passage into a third, so that each part of  the
house had its individuality. To these houses life fitted
itself and grew to them; they were not mere  walls, but
became  part of existence.  A man's house was not only
his castle, a man's house was himself. He could not tear
himself away from his house, it was like  tearing up  the
shrieking mandrake by the root, almost death itself.  . . .
Dark beams inlaid in the walls support the gables;  the
slight curve of the great beam adds, I think, to the in-
terest of the old place,  for it is a curve that has grown
and was not premeditated; it has grown  like  the bough
of a tree, not from any set human design. This too is
the character of the house.  It  is not large, not over-
burdened  with gables, not ornamented, not what is
called striking, in any way, but simply an old English
house, genuine and true. The warm sunlight falls on the
old  red  tiles, the dark  beams look  the darker for  the
glow of  light, the shapely cone of the hop-oust rises at
the end; there are swallows and flowers  and ricks and
horses, and so it is beautiful because it  is natural and
honest.  It is the simplicity that makes it so touching,
                       1 14 1 

tk
A





         IV




UPTHORPE-CUM-REGIS





      77^ fffl// 
 
like the  words of an old  ballad . .  . why even a tall
chanticleer makes a home look homely. I do like to see a
tall proud chanticleer strutting in the yard and barely
giving way as I advance, almost ready to do battle with
a stranger like a mastiff.
                           Jeffries, Buckhurst Park.
[  17 1 
                THE BEDESMEN
  There he lies, Fundator Noster, in his ruff and gown,
awaiting the great  Examination Day. . . • Yonder sit
some threescore old gentlemen pensioners of the hospi-
tal, listening to the  prayers and the psalms.  You hear
them coughing feebly in the twilight, — the old rever-
end blackgowns. . .  . How solemn the well-remembered
prayers are, here uttered  again in the place where in
childhood we used to hear them! How beautiful, and
decorous the rite; how noble the ancient words of the
supplications which the  priest utters, and  to which
generations of fresh children and troops of bygone seniors
have cried Amen! under those arches!   The service for
Founder's Day is a special one; one of the psalms se-
lected being the thirty-seventh and we hear —
  23. The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord,
and he delighteth in  his way —
  24. Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down,
for the Lord upholdeth him with his hand.
  25. I have been young and now am old, yet have I not
seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their
bread.
                               W. M. Thackeray.


              HIRAM'S  HOSPITAL
  Hiram's  Hospital, as  the retreat  is called,  is a
picturesque  building enough,  and shows  the  correct
taste with which  the ecclesiastical architects of those
days were imbued.  It stands on the banks of the little
river, which flows nearly  round the  cathedral close,
being on the side furthest from the town.  The London
                       [  18 ] 

V
UPTHORPE-CUM-REGIS




  Trong's Almshouses 
 
road crosses the river  by a pretty  one-arched  bridge,
and looking from this bridge, the stranger will  see the
windows of the old men's rooms, each pair of windows
separated by a small buttress.  A  broad gravel  walk
runs between the  building and the river, which is  al-
ways trim and cared for; and at the end of the walk, un-
der the parapet of  the approach to the bridge, is a  large
and well-worn seat, on which, in mild weather three or
four of Hiram's bedesmen are sure to be seen  seated.
Beyond this row of buttresses,  and further from the
bridge and also further from the water which here sud-
denly bends, are the pretty oriel windows of  Mr. Hard-
ing's house, and his well  mown lawn.  The entrance to
the hospital  is from the  London  road  and is made
through a ponderous gateway under a heavy stone  arch,
unnecessary, one would  suppose, at any time,  for the
protection of twelve old men, but greatly conducive to
the good  appearance of  Hiram's charity. On  passing
through this portal,  never closed to any one from  six
a.m. till ten p.m., and never open afterwards, except on
application to a huge, intricately hung mediaeval bell,
the handle of which  no un-initiated intruder can pos-
sibly  find, the  six doors of the old men's abodes are
seen,  and beyond them is a slight iron screen, through
which the more happy portion of the Barchester elite
pass into the Elysium of Mr. Harding's dwelling.
                   Anthony Trollope,  The Warden.
[ 21 1 
RANCONEZZO
                    SIRMIONE
Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione row!
So they row'd, and there we landed — "O venusta Sir-
      mio!"
There to me thro' all the groves of olive in the summer
      glow,
There beneath the Roman ruin where the purple flowers
      grow,
Came that "Ave atque Vale"  of the Poet's hopeless
      woe,
Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen hundred years ago,
"Frater Ave atque Vale" — as we wandered to and fro
Gazing at  the Lydian laughter of the Garda lake below
Sweet Catullus's all-but-island,  olive silvery  Sirmio.
                                Alfred Tennyson.
             THE ITALIAN LAKES

  He who loves immense space, cloud shadows sailing
over purple  slopes, island gardens, distant glimpses of
snow-capped mountains, breadth, air, immensity, and
flooding sunlight,  will choose Maggiore.  But scarcely
has he cast his vote for this, the Juno of the divine rivals,
when he remembers the triple lovelinesses of the Larian
Aphrodite, disclosed in all their placid grace from Villa
Serbelloni; — the  green  blue of  the waters,  clear as
                       1 22 ] 

        VI




    RANCONEZZO




The Town and the Lake 
 
glass, opaque through depth; the millefleurs roses clam-
bering into cypresses by Cadenabbia; the laburnums
hanging their yellow clusters from the clefts of Sasso
Rancio; the oleander arcades of Varenna; the wild white
limestone crags of San Martino,  which he has climbed
to feast his eyes with the perspective, magical,  serene,
Leornardesquely perfect, of the distant gates of Adda.
Then while this modern Paris is yet doubting, perhaps
a thought may cross his mind of sterner solitary Lake
Iseo ■— the Pallas of the three.  She offers her own at-
tractions. The sublimity of Monte Adamello, dominat-
ing Lovere and all the lowland like Hesiod's hill of Vir-
tue  reared aloft above the plain of common life, has
charms to tempt heroic lovers.
       Symonds, Sketches and Studies in Italy and Greece.
[ 25 ] 
PIAZZA GARIBALDI
  The painter may transfer its campanile, glittering like
dragon's scales, to his canvas. The lover of the pictur-
esque  will wander  through  its aisle  at mass-time,
watching the sunlight play upon those upturned South-
ern faces with their ardent eyes; and happy is he who
sees young men and maidens on Whit Sunday crowding
round the chancel rails, to catch the marigolds and gilly-
flowers  scattered from  baskets which  the priest  has
blessed.
       Symonds, Sketches and Studies in Italy and Greece.
              DOWN  IN THE CITY
 Is it ever hot in the square?  There's a fountain to spout
       and splash!
 In  the shade it sings and springs; in  the  shine such
       foam-bows flash
 On the horses with  curling fish-tails, that prance and
       paddle and pash
 Round the lady atop in  the conch — fifty gazers do not
       abash,
 Though  all that she wears is  some weeds round her
       waist in a sort of a sash!


Ere opening your eyes in the city the blessed church-
      bells begin:
No sooner the bells leave off, than the diligence rattles
      in:
                       [ 26] 
      VII




 RANCONEZZO




Piazza Garibaldi 
 
You get the picks of the news, and it costs you never a
      pin.
By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets
      blood, draws teeth;
Or the  Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market  be-
      neath.
At the post-office such a scene-picture — the new play,
      piping hot!
And a  notice  how, only  this morning,  three liberal
      thieves were shot.
Noon strikes, — here sweeps the procession! Our lady
      borne smiling and smart
With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords
      stuck in her heart!
Bang, whang,  whang, goes  the drum; tootle-te-tootle the
      fife;
Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure
      in life!
                                Robert Browning.
I 29 1 
PIAZZA CAVOUR
  The changes of scene upon this tiny square are so
frequent as to remind one of a theatre.  Looking down
from the inn-balcony, between the glazy green pots gay
with scarlet amaryllis-bloom,  we are inclined to fancy
that the whole has been prepared for our amusement.
In the morning the cover for the macaroni-flour,  after
being  washed, is spread out on the bricks to dry. In the
afternoon  the fishermen bring their nets for the same
purpose.  In the evening the city magnates promenade
and whisper. Dark-eyed women, with orange or crim-
son kerchiefs for headgear, cross and re-cross, bearing
baskets on their shoulders. Great lazy large limbed fel-
lows, girt with scarlet sashes and finished off with dark
blue night-caps (for a contrast to their saffron-colored
shirts,  white breeches and  sunburnt  calves),  slouch
about or sleep face downwards on the parapets.
       Symonds, Sketches and Studies in Italy and Greece.
[ 3o] 
    VIII




RANCONEZZO




Piazza Cavour 
 
 
A  ROMANESQUE DOORWAY
  How the hand of Time has mellowed the ruddy brick
and the marble's whiteness until ivory and rose blend
and are in harmony with those stained and faded frescoes
which  still remain in  the panels of the upper walls.
Columns of veined marble stand in ranks on either side
of the entrance.  They are  mounted on the backs of
stiff-maned lions. Fit supporters are these for the arches
of the Sanctuary as, at  its  very  door, with claw and
tooth they tear to pieces the bestial forms of vice and
ignorance.  Above rise the moulded archivolts,  tier on
tier, clothed with vine and tendril and peopled with bird
and beast.  These may be uncouth in form, but the rude
hands  that fashioned them learned their lesson at  the
feet of Nature.  What there is of convention in arrange-
ment  or in pattern has flowed  hither through the East
from the original fountains  of Greece and Rome but
now at last all moves in freedom and without restraint.
As in the short nights of the North sunrise follows fast
upon the setting of the sun, so here though we see in this
work the sunset of the Antique yet it is already aglow
with light from the coming dawn of Mediaeval Art.
                          Roberts, Italian Sketches.
         LEAVES FROM MY JOURNAL
  Florence is more noisy; indeed, I think it the noisiest
town I was ever in. What with the continual jangling
of its bells,  the rattle of Austrian drums, and the street
cries, Ancora mi raccapriccio.  The Italians are  a vocif-
                       1 34] 
o^.i^tr^-.
          IX




     RANCONEZZO




North Door of the Duomo 
 
erous people, and most so among them the Florentines.
Walking through a back street one day, I saw an old
woman higgling with a peripatetic dealer, who, at every
interval afforded him by the remarks of his veteran an-
tagonist, would  tip his  head on one side, and shout,
with a kind of wondering  enthusiasm,  as if he could
hardly trust the evidence  of his own  senses  to  such
loveliness, 0, che bellezza! eke belle-e-ezza! The two had
been contending as obstinately as the Greeks and Tro-
jans over the body of Patroclus, and I was curious to
know what was the object of so much desire on the one
side and  admiration on the other.  It was a half dozen
of weazeny baked pears, beggarly remnant of the day's
traffic. ... It never struck me  before  what  a quiet
people Americans are.
                           James Russell Lowell.
1 37 1 
             WITHIN  THE DUOMO
  The semi-dome of the eastern apse above the high
altar is entirely filled with a gigantic half-length figure
of Christ. He raises His right hand to bless and with
His left holds an open book on which is written in Greek
and Latin, " I am the Light of the world." . . .  Below
him on a smaller scale are ranged the  archangels and
the mother of the Lord, who holds the child upon her
knees. Thus Christ appears twice upon this wall, once
as the Omnipotent Wisdom, the Word by whom all
things were made, and once as God deigning to assume
a shape of flesh and dwell with men.  The magnificent
image of supreme Deity seems to fill with a single in-
fluence and to dominate the whole building. The house
with all its glory is his.  He dwells there like Pallas in
her Parthenon or Zeus in his Olympian temple.  To left
and right over every square inch  of the cathedral blaze
mosaics,  which portray the story of God's dealings with
the human race from the Creation downwards, together
with  those  angelic  beings and saints  who symbolize
each in his own degree  some special virtue granted to
mankind. The walls of the fane  are therefore an open
book of history, theology and ethics for all men to read.
       Symonds, Sketches  and Studies in  Italy and Greece.
   FROM "A LEGEND OF BRITTANY"

Deeper and deeper shudders shook the air,
As the huge bass kept gathering heavily,
Like thunder when it rouses in its lair,
And  with its hoarse growl shakes the low-hung sky,
                     1 38] 
Nov. ,o, -
         X




   RANCONEZZO




Interior of the Duomo 
 
It grew up like a darkness everywhere,
Filling the vast cathedral; — suddenly
From the dense mass a boy's clear treble broke
Like lightning, and the full-toned choir awoke.

Through gorgeous windows shone the sun aslant,
Brimming the church with gold and purple mist.
Meet atmosphere to bosom that rich chant,
Where fifty voices in one strand did twist
Their varicolored tones and left no want
To the delighted soul, which sank abyssed
In the warm music cloud, while, far below,
The  organ heaved its surges to  and fro.
                         James Russell Lowell.
[ 4i 1 
THE VILLA
Our villa . . .
. . . lies on the slope of the Alban hill;
Lifting its white face, sunny and still,
Out of the olives' pale gray green,
That, far away as the eye can go,
Stretch up behind it, row upon row.
There in the garden the cypresses, stirred
By the sifting winds, half musing talk,
And the cool, fresh, constant voice is heard
Of the fountain's spilling in every walk.
There stately the oleanders grow,
And one long gray wall is  aglow
With golden oranges burning between
Their dark stiff leaves of sombre green.
And there are hedges all clipped and square,
As carven from blocks of malachite,
Where fountains keep spinning their threads of light
And statues whiten the shadow there.
And if the  sun too fiercely shine,
And one would creep from its noonday glare,
There are galleries dark, where ilexes twine
Their branchy roofs above the head.
                                  W. W.  Story.
[ 42 ] 
                   XI




              RANCONEZZO




The Villa of the Cardinal Schalchi-Visconti 
 
 
  Truly everything  here has a dramatic  character.
The smallness and grace of this little church gleaming
with colour, its chapels and grottoes like a spiritual vi-
sion, such as I have never found elsewhere in the whole
field of religious conception.   It is an illustrated  pic-
ture-book of poetical legends,  which are bloodless  and
painless, though fantastic, like the lives of pious an-
chorites  in the wilderness, and amid the  birds of the
field.   Here Religion treads  on the borders of fairy-
land,  and  brings an  indescribable atmosphere away
from thence.
                                     Gregorovius.


                   BRAMANTE

Few words record Bramante's great command,
As from  some  mountain silence set apart,
He blazed a trail along the way of art,
Upheld the torch and led his little band.

He spoke alone to those who understand,
Not cheapening words within the public mart,
Living withdrawn, a high  and  humble heart,
Creating loveliness for his loved land.

Though he dwelt cloistered in  his northern home,
When he strode forth it was with unveiled face,
To rear a fabric that may crumble never.

They called him "Master" when he wrought in Rome
And with earth's greatest ones shall labor ever
The hand that gave to Lombardy her grace.
                            Marion Monks Chase.
                       [46] 
$~*r~s •  JV-V ...
>** !\^
                 XII




            RANCONEZZO




Santa Prassede, the Cardinal's Church 
 
 
        IL  PENSEROSO

But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antick pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow
To the full-voiced Quire below,
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstacies,
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.
                                 Milton.
[ So] 

Nov.(.1(iC
             XIII





         RANCONEZZO





The Cloisters of Santa Prassede 
 
 
  THE  BISHOP ORDERS  HIS  TOMB  IN
             SANTA PRASSEDE


Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence
One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side
And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats,
And up  into the aery dome, where live
The angels, and a sunbeam 's sure to lurk;
And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,
And neath my tabernacle take my rest,
With those nine columns round me, two and two,
The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands;
Peach blossom marble all, the rare,  the ripe
As fresh poured red wine of a mighty  pulse.
Old Gandolph with his paltry onion-stone
Put me where I may look at him! True peach,
Rosy and faultless: . . .


Did  I say basalt for my slab, sons?  Black
'T was ever antique-black I meant!  How else
Shall ye contrast my frieze to come  beneath?
The  bas-relief in bronze you promised me,
Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so,
The  Saviour at his sermon on the mount,
Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan
Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off,
And Moses with the tables, — but I know
Ye mark me not!
                             Robert  Browning.
1 54l 
&v. S:
 G>fSih»! 5«K»!t/u-Vi'scDv.fi
Ocr. wis      n.^riconr^-d
                          XIV
                      RANCONEZZO
The Tomb of Cardinal Schalchi-Visconti in Santa Prassede 
 
 
ROCHER-ST.-POL
                FRENCH TOWNS
  It is a drowsy little Burgundian town, very old and
ripe, with crooked streets, vistas always oblique, and
steep moss-covered  roofs. ... I  carried  away  from
Beaune   the  impression of  something  autumnal, —
something rusty yet kindly, like the taste of a  sweet
russet pear.


  At Le Mans as at Bourges, my  first business was with
the cathedral, to which  I lost no time in directing  my
steps. ... It stands on the edge  of the eminence of  the
town, which falls straight away on two sides of it, and
makes a striking mass,  bristling  behind,  as you  see it
from below, with rather small but singularly numerous
flying buttresses.   On my way  to it  I  happened to
walk through the one street which contains a few ancient
and curious houses, — a very crooked and untidy lane,
of really mediaeval  aspect, honored with the denomina-
tion  of the Grand  Rue.  Here is the house of Queen
Berengaria. . . . The structure in question—very sketch-
able, if the sketcher could get far enough  away from it
— is an elaborate little dusky facade, overhanging  the
street, ornamented  with  panels of stone, which are cov-
ered with delicate Renaissance  sculpture.  A fat  old
woman, standing in the door of  a small  grocer's shop
next to  it, —■ a most gracious old woman, with a bris-
                    ■   [ 58 ] 

.
            XV




      ROCHER-ST.-POL




The Town and the River Merle 
 
tling  moustache  and a  charming manner, — told me
what the house was.


  This admirable house, in the centre of the town,
gabled, elaborately timbered,  and much restored, is  a
really imposing monument.  The basement is  occupied
by a linen-draper, who flourishes under the auspicious
sign of the Mere  de Famille;  and above her shop the
tall front rises in five overhanging stories. As the house
occupies the angle of a little place, the front is double,
and carved and interlaced, has a high picturesqueness.
The Maison d'Adam is quite in the grand style, and  I
am sorry to say I failed to learn what history  attaches
to its name.
  I remember going around to the church, after I had
left the good sisters, and to a little quiet terrace, which
stands in front of it, ornamented with a few small trees
and bordered with a wall, breast high, over which you
look down steep hillsides, off into the air, and all about
the neighboring country.  I remember saying to myself
that this little terrace was one of those felicitous nooks
which the tourist of  taste keeps in his mind as a picture.
                Henry James, A Little Tour in France.
\ 61 ] 
              A  COUNTRY TOWN

  They wake you early in this  hilly town.  It was
hardly light this morning when up and down through
all its highways went a vigorous drum beat.  Reluctantly
peeking from the window to see  the troops enter our
square I was disappointed to find that one regimental
drummer,  marching  unaccompanied and  lonely, had
done all  this  mischief.  What useful purpose did  he
serve?  After a brief respite and repose the noise of an-
other commotion came in with the morning air; a mur-
mur which grew and became a chatter and at last a din!
The next journey to the window showed that the morn-
ing market was in full swing. Piles of fresh greens and
rich-colored  vegetables were  tended by  gnarled old
peasant women sitting under widespread umbrellas  of
faded colors. But what a pleasant air it was that came
through the opened sash; a  mountain air with just that
faint flavor of garlic tinging it which presages something
satisfying  to be found later. Strengthened for a time  by
our coffee  and rolls we wandered through these winding
streets. We saw the weather-beaten, leaden fleche of the
cathedral high on the hill, but for the time were satisfied
to study the many  ancient houses which  still  remain.
Their fronts framed in dark oak with a filling of amber-
colored plaster topple over the public ways until  they
almost meet. Here and there the oak beams are carved,
and grinning man or snarling monster regards you from
corbel or boss. In places too there are bits of old Gothic
detail  and one  doorway  of true Flamboyant work.
There  is the true poetry of architecture!  In England
the Decorated Period gives you what is handsome, the
Perpendicular what  is stately.  In  France  the cathe-
                       [ 62 ] 
                  XVI




            ROCHER-ST.-POL




La Grande Rue and La Place de la Republique 
 
drals of Paris and of Rheims are splendidly serious and
correct; but if  in Gothic  work you  seek  imaginative,
unrestrained, carelessly free poetry it is to be found in
the flowing lines and exuberant fancy of the work of the
Flamboyant period.
  We  found much needed restoration  in  the hors-
oeuvres, the omelette, the cutlet, the salads and  the
cheese of d'ejeuner,—and then followed coffee under the
awning of the cafe.  Here  we looked  out on  the Grand
Place which had  now become sleepy, all  signs of the
market and its business having disappeared. On it front
the Mairie, the Bureau  des Postes, the Hotel du Lion
d'Or and various centres of local commerce. We watched
our neighbors in  the  cafe; the  colonel with clanking
sword in vigorous discussion with a local magnate; the
retired  bourgeois  who played a desultory  game of bil-
liards or a deeply thought out match at dominoes. A
quiet square it was  now, and, in the  shade of its plane
trees, comfortable and at peace with the world, we fell
asleep and made  up for the wakefulness of  our earlier
hours.
                         Roberts, Letters from France.
[65 1 
      OUR  LADY OF THE ROCKS
High throned above th' encircling meadows fair
Our Lady of the Rocks holds queenly sway!
Bright kerchiefed peasants daily wend their way
With clattering sabots up the winding stair,
Pausing at each rude rock-hewn station, there
To bend  the knee and many an Ave say.
Up, up they climb, their voices echoing gay
Till by the Virgin's shrine they kneel in prayer.

This is that "Jacob's Ladder" famed afar
To which the Kings of France made pilgrimage
Asking for favors both in Peace and War.
Well named! — for Heavenwards the way is tending,
And all these happy, pious folk presage
Angels of God ascending and descending.
                                     H. L. P.


  But, when so sad thou canst no sadder,
  Cry, and upon thy so sore loss
  Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder
  Pitched between heaven  and Charing Cross.

  So in the night my soul,  my daughter,
  Cry, clinging heaven by the hems,
  And lo! Christ walking on the  water
  Not of Gennesaret but Thames.
                           Francis Thompson.
[ 66 ] 
      XVII




 ROCHER-ST.-POL




Uescalier de Jacob 
 
 
Oft have I seen at some cathedral door
    A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,
    Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet
    Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor
Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er;
    Far off the noises of the world retreat;
    The loud vociferations of the street
    Become an undistinguishable roar.
So as  I enter here from day to day,
    And leave my burden at this minster gate,
    Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray,
The tumult of the time disconsolate
    To inarticulate murmurs dies away,
    While  the eternal ages watch and wait.

How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers!
    This crowd of statues, on whose  folded sleeves
    Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves
    Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers
And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers!
    But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves
    Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves,
    And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers!
Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain,
    What exultations trampling on despair,
    What tenderness, what tears,  what hate of wrong,
What passionate outcry of the soul in pain
    Uprose this poem of the earth and air,
    This mediaeval miracle of song!
                               H. W. Longfellow.
[ 7o ] 

          XVIII




     ROCHER-ST.-POL




Le Parvis de Ste Fredigonde 
 
THE CATHEDRAL
Looking up suddenly, I found mine eyes
Confronted with the minster's vast repose.
Silent and gray as forest-leaguered cliff
Left inland by the ocean's slow retreat.


It rose before me, patiently remote
From the great tides of life it breasted once,
Hearing the noise of men as in a dream
I stood before the triple northern port,
Where dedicated shapes of saints and kings,
Stern faces bleared with immemorial watch,
Looked down benignly grave and seemed to say,
Ye come and go incessant; we remain
Safe in the hallowed quiets of the past;
Be reverent, ye who flit and are forgot,
Of faith so nobly realized as this.
                       James Russell Lowell.
[ 73 1 
CHARTRES
  All day the sky had been  banked  with thunder-
clouds, but by the time we reached Chartres, toward four
o'clock, they had rolled away under the horizon, and
the town was so saturated with sunlight that to pass into
the cathedral was like entering the dense obscurity of a
church in Spain.  At first all detail was imperceptible:
we were in a hollow night. Then, as the shadows  grad-
ually thinned and gathered themselves up into pier and
vault and ribbing, there burst out  of them great sheets
and  showers of color. Framed  by  such depths of  dark-
ness, and steeped in a blaze of mid-summer sun, the
familiar windows  seemed singularly  remote  and yet
overpoweringly vivid.  Now they  widened  into  dark-
shored pools splashed  with  sunset, now glittered and
menaced like the shields of fighting angels.  Some were
cataracts  of sapphires, others  roses dropped from  a
saint's tunic, others great carven  platters strewn with
heavenly  regalia, others the sails of galleons bound for
the Purple Islands; and in the western wall the scattered
fires of the rose window hung like  a constellation  in an
African night. When one dropped one's eyes from these
ethereal harmonies, the dark masses of masonry below
them, all veiled and muffled  in  a mist pricked by  a few
altar lights, seemed to symbolize the life on  earth, with
its shadows, its heavy distances and its  little islands of
illusions.  All that a great cathedral can be, all the mean-
ings  it can express, all the tranquillizing power it can
breathe upon the soul, all the richness of detail  it can
fuse into  a large utterance of strength and beauty, the
cathedral of Chartres gave us in that perfect hour.
                   Edith Wharton, Fighting France.
                       I 74) 
■■y?7?*&.
                XIX




          ROCHER-ST.-POL




Interior of the Church of S* Fredigonde 
 
 
AT HIGH  MASS
Thou Who hast made this world so wondrous fair; —
The pomp of clouds; the glory of the sea;
Music of water; songbirds' melody;
The organ of Thy thunder in the air;
Breath of the rose; and beauty everywhere —
Lord, take this stately service done to Thee,
The grave enactment of Thy Calvary
In jewelled pomp and splendor pictured there!

Lord, take the sounds and sights; the silk and gold;
The white and scarlet; take the  reverent grace
Of ordered step; window and glowing wall —
Prophet and Prelate, holy men of old;
And teach us children of the Holy Place
Who love Thy Courts, to love Thee best of all.
                            Robert Hugh Benson.

          THE LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE

  All else for which the builders sacrificed, has passed
away — all  their  living  interests, and  aims,  and
achievements. We know not for what they labored, and
we  see no evidence of  their reward.  Victory, wealth,
authority,  happiness — all  have  departed, though
bought by many a bitter sacrifice. But of them,  and
their life and their toil upon the earth, one reward, one
evidence, is  left to us in those gray  heaps of deep-
wrought  stone.   They  have taken with them to the
grave their powers, their honors,  and their errors;  but
they have left us their adoration.
                                    Iohn Ruskin.
                       [ 78 ] 
                    XX




              ROCHER-ST.-POL




Sacristy Steps in the Church of S'e Fredigonde 
 
 
HUNTING THE STAG
  We  spent yesterday in the Foret de C---.  As the
Emperor had guests we were not admitted at the Cha-
teau, but we tramped for long through the woods.  The
grassy roads  run beneath  the embowering  beeches
straight from carrefour to carrefour. The gnarled and
twisted trunks give to each tree a personal character
and make it a master-piece of Nature.  Of a sudden we
came on the  Imperial  hunt  winding in gay procession
through the forest to its rendezvous. Hunting horns in
triple  rings of brass  encircled  the leading horsemen.
From  time to time we heard  from them the familiar
strains which  echo through  the Latin  Quarter  at Mi-
Careme.  Then followed in brilliant liveries a troop of
lackeys, grooms,  and other  servants, and the pack of
staghounds held in leash but sniffing and yelping. Next
came the hunters themselves on high-bred mounts and
in court costumes of  ancient design.  Lastly there were
barouches and landaus carrying the ladies of the Court
"en grande tenue." The sunlight flickering through the
beech  branches enlivened  this brilliant train as  it
wound through the forest glades and disappeared down
a green allee.
  We had continued  our walk for  scarce a mile when,
but a short distance from us, a stag crossed our path —
stood startled — with head erect, — and then with con-
fident  leaps vanished  in the forest just as the distant
hounds became aware of him  and joined  in  a wild
chorus. In a few moments  the pack came in  a rush
across our path. Up the different allees rode the horse-
men in haste — asking of us news  of the stag.  We on
foot joined in  the pursuit, — but  at  last  the forest
                       [ 82 ] 
,,,r*r T^cKc^-S1' Pol.
         XXI




   ROCHER-ST.-POL




The Chateau Beaumesnil 
 
swallowed one after the other, stag, and hounds, and
hunters, and the sound of dog and horn.
  On leaving the forest we passed the small Chateau.
Its  conical  turret roofs  and lofty chimneys, and  its
flashing finials and girouettes make a brave show above
the forest trees.  The terraces overlook wide meadow
lands through which the river winds until it is lost in the
hazy distance.
                        Roberts, Letters from France.
[ 85 1 
CLOTILDE
 In Geraudun were brothers three,
 They had one sister dear;
 The cruel Baron her lord must be,
 And the fellest and fiercest knight is he
 In the country far or near.

 He beat that lovely lady sore
 With a staff of the apple green,
 Till her blood flowed down on the castle floor,
 And from head  to foot the crimson gore
 On her milk-white robe was seen.


 Her robe was stained with the ruby tide
 Once pure as the fleece so white;
 And she hied her to the river-side
 To wash  in the  waters bright.

 While there she stood three knights so gay
 Came riding bold and free.
"Ho! tell us  young serving maiden, pray
 Where yon castle's lady may be?"

"Alas! no  serving maid am I,
 But the lady of yonder castle high!"

"O sister,  sister,  truly tell
 Who did this wrong to thee?"

" Dear brothers it was the husband fell
 To whom you married me."
1 86] 
          XXII




     ROCHER-ST.-POL




La Tour de la Dame Blanche 
 
The brothers spurred their steeds in haste
And the castle soon they gained.
From chamber to chamber they swiftly passed
Nor paused till they reached the tower at last
Where the felon knight remained:

They drew their swords so sharp and  bright
They thought on their sister sweet;
They struck together the felon knight,
And his head rolled at their feet!
                Translated by Louis S. Costello.
[ 89 ] 
AEGINASSOS
        THE  ISLES  OF GREECE
  The isles of Greece!  The isles of Greece!
  Where burning Sappho loved and sung, —
  Where grew the arts of war and peace, —
  Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!
  Eternal summer gilds them yet
  But all, except their sun, is set.
                                     Byron.

             THE  ODYSSEY

As one that for a weary space has lain
Lull'd by the song of Circe and her wine
In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,
Where the JExan isle forgets the main,
And only the low lutes of love complain,
And only shadows of wan lovers pine, —
As such an one were glad to know the brine
Salt on his lips, and the large air again, —
So gladly from the songs of modern speech
Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free
Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers,
And through the music of the languid hours
They hear, like Ocean on a western beach,
The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.
                              Andrew Lang.
[90] 
        XXIII
     Aeginassos
The Temple and the Forum 
 
 
ULYSSES
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark broad seas.  My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with
      me —
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil;
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices.  Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the  sunset, and the paths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the  gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall  touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken,  much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
                               Alfred  Tennyson. 
        XXIV



     Aeginassos




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