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father stood by her, shouting out advice to the brave fellow who was already fighting with the torrent.
“ Mind those branches! That round stone is not firm! There is a hole in the bed of the stream, where the current is always rapid ! Brave lad ! he guesses what he can't know. That stupid woman! She clings to him! She will hinder his getting ashore !”
But Joseph's feet were firm on shore; he was able to make a sign to Salome that he would go straight home with the woman and child.
“Let us hurry back and see that there is a good fire and wine and food!” cried Salome.
But her father lingered. “If I had been only ten years younger, a lad brought up in towns would not have shown me how to save a woman and child!”
Meantime Joseph, carrying the child and helping the woman, had succeeded in getting home first. He had not changed his clothes, but he had made up the fire, placed the woman in Father Dominic's armchair, and wrapped the child in a rug, where it lay warming its little feet in the hearth and smiling up at its preserver.
Salome stood an instant to watch the prettv
Some months after Joseph and Salome were walking along the banks of the stream. It was Sunday, and the little waves seemed singing a Sunday psalm.
“What a transformation,” said Salome, “since the day when you saved that poor woman and her child! How contented she is now. This stream is not more changed than her life, poor soul! thanks to you."
“And our life too," said Joseph, tenderly.
“ Yes,” answered Salome, pressing her husband's arm;
our storms are past; the stream flows peacefully on. I understood to-day that one may yet be happy."
- I understood it a little before you did, perhaps,” said Joseph, smiling.
'HE cat by the fire has been a pleasant com
Bentham or Leigh Hunt. When Hudibras says,
“ Montaigne playing with his cat
Complains she found him but an ass,” it might be like the satiric and flippant folly of Hudibras to say so; but the sentence to which Hudibras refers has no such colour in the really wonderful esssay of Montaigne, in which it occurs. We find it in the “Apology for Raimond de Sebonde,” where the pensive old French dreamer is meditating upon the secret and internal motions of animals in his neighbourhood, and he inquires : “And from what comparison betwixt them and me do I conclude the stupidity I attrio bute to them? When I play with my cat, who knows whether I do not make her more sport than she makes me ? We mutually divert one another with our play ; if I have my hour to begin or to refuse, she also has hers." It furnishes really a very pretty sidelight into the pensive life of this singular old dreamer. The first in order of time-perhaps the most suggestive of all our old essayists—in his solitary old château in France, surrounded by his books, of which he made such abundant use, we see him turning aside, perhaps upon the floor, perhaps in his library chair, petting and playing with his cat, and finding, through her gambols, a reviver to thought and wonder concerning the animal world, and all the mysteries of life around him. An interesting creature has puss been regarded from her meditative hermitage by the fireside!
But had Montaigne's cat any relations with the
outer world ? Did Bentham's cat, did Leigh Hunt's cat, ever appear upon the tiles of houses, “making night hideous”? Did they ever blend the notes of their voices in a concert of cats ? Who shall say? We have always maintained that there is a great mystery about cats. Returning home one night, through one of the unimaginative streets of Islington, passing before a house, in the front garden we saw what seemed to us an odd sight-nor does reflection at all dissipate the oddity of it. We saw a convocation of cats! We saw seven black cats seated in a circle, in the centre of which sat a solitary white cat! The gas-lamp threw its light full upon the charmed circle; there could be no mistake about it. They sat perfectly still, and were quite undisturbed by our presence. Such a spectacle in the old witchcraft days of England would have been very fatal to the reputations and the lives of many an: cient ladies in any neighbourhood where the weird spectacle had been seen: for the cat was the witches' emblem—the very familiar of witchcraft. How is it cats get up to the tops of houses ? Dogs do not make their appearance there when the sweet moonlight sleeps upon slates. How strange
are their habits! how strange their concerts ! and they are understood to be the affinities of sympathetic natures, the expressions of wedded love! But for some of the ! richest delineations of these strange phases of natural history, our readers had better look to that extraordinary embodiment of everything, the "Noctes Ambrosianæ," in which Tabitha, pensive as a nun, goes forth to meet Tom Tortoiseshell, his eyes as rubies, hers as emeralds; his lightning,
hers lustre; but we are quoting Christopher North now, as he exclaims,
"Oh, happy love ! where love like this is found
Oh, heartfelt rapture ! bliss beyond compare !” The Ettrick Shepherd, indeed, burst out into a feeling of grim wrath as the Tommies and Tabbies seem to strike up the “ imitation of the Hunters' Chorus from Der Freyschutz.'” “ I've often thocht it aneuch to sicken ane o' love a' their days, just to reflec that all that hissing and spitting, and snuffing and squeaking, and squealing and howling, and growling and groaning, a' mixed up with an infernal gallemaufry o' din,
turned the strange cat out, her own cat came down from the place of safety and dropped the bird, which had not sustained the slightest injury. And the reader who looks after them will find many stories of such happy families where cats and birds have dwelt together in unity. Not only cats and birds, but cats and dogs, in some households, preserve a happy, friendly, and even affectionate relationship with each other, so that the idea of a cat-and-dog life is not always synonymous with a life of quarrelling.
We think we have not, however, met with many stories about the cat more tender than the following. A beautiful cat, brought up in a family, became extremely attached to the eldest child—a boy. They were playmates, and puss bore with exemplary patience, and without any unkind resistance, all those occasional instances of maltreatment which the playmates of children are almost sure to receive. This continued a long time. At length the child was attacked with small-pox. In the first days the cat never quitted his bedside. As the disease progressed it became necessary to remove her, and even to lock her up. The child died. The cat was liberated, and instantly flew to the apartment where she hoped to find her playmate, but the body was not there. Then she ran about the house until at last she got into the room where the dead boy lay. Here she lay down in silent melancholy, and had again to be locked up. As soon as the child was interred she disappeared, but about a fortnight after she returned to the well-known apartment quite emaciated. Still she would not take any nourishment, but ran away with dismal cries. At length, compelled by hunger, she made her appearance every day ut dinner-time, then left the house. No one knew where she was the rest of the time, till one day she was followed to the burial-ground, and found by the grave of her favourite, and so great was the attachment of the cat to her deceased little friend that for five years—that is, until the removal of the parents to another neighbourhood—there was every reason to believe that, excepting in the greatest severity of winter, she went out and passed every night close by the grave. No wonder this cat was treated with almost reverential kindness by every person in the family. She suffered herself to be played with by the other children, without, however, exhibiting any especial partiality to them. It is not surprising that the narrator of this story, in an old number of Chambers's “Edinburgh Journal” for 1837, is an apologist for cats, and says, “It is really shameful in us not to love better a creature bound to us by such ties.” So that the cat seems worthy of more admiration for personal affection than she has latterly received. There are several instances, well authenticated, of such attachment, although, no doubt, in number they fall far below what might be cited to the honour of the dog. Perhaps the cat shines more in her attachments to her quadruped friends, and affections for other animals, which has frequently been a reciprocal feeling
A celebrated horse, the Godolphin Arabian, and a black cat were for many years most attached
ON THE HOUSETOP.
unlike onything else even in this noisy world, was, wi' these gentle domestic creatures, the saftest, sweetest expression o' the same tender passion that from Adam's lips whispered persuasion into Eve's ear in the bowers of Paradise! But it's no' possible to thole this ony longer; out withe musket, Mr. Tickler, and let drive at them!”
Lovers of cats will deem all this to be very illiberal, and will present puss in far more amiable relations, and tell many stories of her gratitude and gentleness—nay, there are some who will go so far as to say that in these characteristics she will equal the dog. A lady had a tamc bird, which she was in the habit of letting out of its cage every day.
One morning, as it was picking crumbs of bread off the carpet, her cat, who had always before shown great kindness for the bird, seized it on a sudden, and jumped with it in her mouth upon the table. The lady was much alarmed for the fate of her favourite, but on turning about instantly discovered the cause. The door had been left open, and a strange cat had just come into the room. After the lady had
friends; and when the horse died, in 1753, the cat sat upon the body till it was put under the ground ; then, crawling slowly and reluctantly away, was never seen again until her dead body was found in a hayloft. A celebrated painter of the time (Stubbs) memorialised on canvas the affection of the pair. These affections are not universal, which may almost be said to be a characteristic of the dog. But where they have occurred they have therefore been very remarkable -as remarkable as that instance which Southey records of a cat and dog who, when the family removed house, travelled back in company to the old habitation, thirty miles distant, the cat under convoy. Such instances, perhaps, led to the exaggerated enthusiasm with which a distinguished French writer, Madame de Custine, chants the praises of the cat. She exclaims, “While you sing the praises of the dog—who is merely a machine of faithfulness, and can be no other than a machine, and inspires me with personal enmitytherefore I say, Vive les chats! and, without a paradox, I prefer them to the dog ; they are more free, more independent, more natural. Human civilisation has not become to them a second nature. They are more simple than dogs, more gracious ; they take from society only what suits them. When, by chance, they lose their tyrants, it is not as a degraded slave, like your odious dogs, who lick the hand which beats them, and are faithful only because they have not sufficient spirit to be inconstant. There is always a choice displayed in the attachments of cats; I see only stupidity in that of dogs. If, from all time, we have given preference to these, their reputation is the result of human pride. The dog is the creature of man; this foolish animal is no longer what God made him; he is the product of society; he is like one of those double flowers which only exist by force of culture, and whose admirers appreciate them because they are their work!"
Beyond this, we suppose, in enthusiasm for the cat, it is impossible to go. But when admiration is kindled for the cat, it seems usually to be of no half-and-half description; and we have intimated that these gleams of a moral nature are to be discovered-gratitude, for instance. A personal correspondent in one of the early volumes of the " Penny Magazine" mentions an instance. A
cat and dog lived, on the best possible terms, in his family. The dog was especially courteous to the kittens of madame. One morning there was a tremendous storm of thunder and lightning. Pincher, the dog, was in the drawing-room, the cat, with her family, in the garret. The dog was considerably disturbed-frightened, indeed, by the repeated flashes of lightning. He had crept close to the master's feet, when puss walked into the room with a disturbed air, and, mewing with all her might, she came up to Pincher, rubbed her face against his cheek, gently touched him with her paw; then walked to the door, stopped, looked back and mewed, all of which said as plainly as words could have done, “ Come with me, Pincher.” But Pincher was too much frightened to give any consolation to her. She returned and renewed her application with increased energy. The dog evidently understood her meaning, but still crept close to his master. So puss went off to look after her family upstairs. Presently she was met coming down with one of her kittens, and she made it to be understood very distinctly that she had wanted Pincher to watch this one while she went to fetch the others. She was greatly disturbed by the storm, and the master followed her, mitigated her cares, assisted her in putting her family into a place of safety, and remained with her until the storm was over and all was again calm. But on the following morning, much to his surprise, he found puss patiently waiting for him at the door of his apartment. She accompanied him down to breakfast, sat by him and caressed him in every possible way. She had always been in the habit of going down to breakfast with the lady of the house, but on this morning no coaxing could persuade her to go down until the master made his appearance. She went to the breakfast-room with him, remaining, as has been said, until breakfast was over; then went upstairs to her family. She had never done this before, and never did it again. She had shown her gratitude for the care bestowed upon her little ones, and her duty was done.
Such anecdotes would almost go to prove that cats are not so bad as they have been represented, but most likely this was a very affectionate household, and our dumb fellow-mortals very much reflect the character of those with whom they reside. NIFTY years bave passed since Mr. Gladstone
first entered public life. Englishmen of all
shades of opinion have recently paid respectful tribute to the great qualities displayed in his remarkable career. Political controversies have no place in these pages, but at such a time we may fitly invite our readers to accompany us on a visit to Hawarden Castle.
Hawarden, in Flintshire, in North Wales, usually pronounced Harden, is far removed and remote from the great seat and centre of empire. It may almost be called a suburb of the singular and ancient city of Chester, from which it is only six miles distant ; and, although the road passes the magnificent seat of the Duke of Westminster, it is not interesting to a stranger, unless, indeed, he should take the pedestrian route, which it was not the writer's happiness to take—that described by that pleasant, and now almost forgotten, old writer, the Rev. William Gilpin-along the embankment of the Dee, and over the lower ferry, following a footpath across the meadows. But for the most part the way lies along dreary wastes, unadorned by any of the beautiful appendages of landscape scenery so common in Wales. Not far removed from Hawarden we passed through Broughton Hall, and by its pleasant church and churchyard, which also belong to the estate of Hawarden. Hawarden is a large vMlage,
not pretty, and with all the characteristics of a Welsh village. It has some good houses, and, indeed, it may almost seem worthy of the designation of a town. It lies at the foot and outside the gates of the park and castle. The parish is said to contain 13,000 acres, and of these the estate of Mr. Gladstone covers about 6,908 acres.
However dreary the road may be, when the gates are passed and we enter the richly-woodedand extensive park, all the sternness vanishes and the eye enjoys charming vistas opening amongst oaks, limes, and elms. It is, indeed, a fine and ample domain, and there, as you go along the fine drive, on the height on the left, is the ruin of the ancient castle, to which the present quite modern and more homelike habitation is the successor.
The traditional history of this castle travels back to a very remote antiquity, and is the central point of interest to many a tragedy, and some of a very grotesque character. For instance, for many ages the inhabitants of Hawarden were called "Harden Jews," and for this designation we have the following legendary account. In the year 946, during the
reign of Cynan ap Elis ap Anarawd, King of Gwynedd North, there was a Christian temple at Harden, and a rood loft, in which was placed an image of the Virgin Mary, with a very large cross in her hands, which was called "holy rood.” During a very hot and dry
“ summer the inhabitants prayed much and ardently for rain, but without any effect. Among the rest, Lady Trowst, wife of Sytsyllt, governor of Harden Castle, went also to pray, when, during this exercise, the holy rood fell upon her head and killed her. Such behaviour upon the part of this wooden Virgin could be tolerated no more.
A great tumult ensued in consequence, and it was concluded to try the said Virgin for murder, and the jury not only found her guilty of wilful murder, but of inattention in not answering the prayers of innumerable petitioners. The sentence was hanging, but Span, of Mancot, who was one of the jury, opposed this act, saying it was best to drown, since it was rain they prayed for. This was fiercely opposed by Corbin of the Gate, who advised that she should be laid on the sands near the river. So, this being done, the tide carried the lady, floating gently, like another lady, Elaine, upon its soft bosom, and placed her near the walls of Caerleon (now Chester), where she was found next day, says the legend, drowned and dead. Here the inhabitants of Caerlcon buried her. Upon this occasion, it is said, the river, which had until then been called the Usk, was changed to Rood Die, or Rood Dee. We need not stay here to analyse some things belonging to locality and etymology, which appear to us somewhat anachronistic and contradictory in this ancient and queer legend.
Hawarden appears to have been a stronghold of the Saxons, for, on the invasion of William, it was found in the possession of Edwin, sovereign of Deira; indeed, the word “Hawarden” is supposed to be synonymous with the word BurgArdden, Ardin, a fortified mount, or hill. It is usually supposed to be an English word, but of Welsh derivation, and is no doubt related to dinas, in Welsh the exact equivalent to the Saxon burg, It is believed that the old castle was built shortly after the Conquest. This is very probable, for that was the age of castles, and old Hawarden Castle was probably no exception to those cruel haunts of feudal tyranny and oppression. Many years since, when the rubbish was cleared away beneath the castle ruin, a flight of steps was found, at the oot of which was a door, and drawbridge which crossed a long deep chasm neatly faced with free-stone, then another door leading to several small rooms, all, probably, places of confinement; and those hollows, now fringed with timber trees, in those days constituted a broad deep fosse. We find it afterwards in the possession of Roger Fitzvalarine, a son of one of the adventurers who came over with the Conqueror. Then it was held, subordinately, by the Monthault, or Montalt, family, the stewards of the palatinate of Chester. It is remarkable that, as we noticed in our story of Hughenden manor, the traditions of that ancient place touched the memory of Simon de Montfort, the great Earl of Leicester, so do they also in the story of the old castle of Hawarden. Here Llewelyn, the last native Prince of Wales, held a memorable conference with the earl. Within the walls of Hawarden was signed a treaty of peace between Wales and
Cheshire, not long to last; and here Llewelyn saw the beautiful daughter of De Montfort, whose memory haunted him so tenderly and so long. Again we find the castle in the possession of the Montalt family, from whom it descended to the Stanleys, the Earls of Derby. The most illustrious resident in Hawarden is the great statesman to whom it is now a favourite home; yet here the last native princes of Wales, Llewelyn and David, attempted to grasp their crumbling sceptre. Here, no doubt, halted Edward I, “girt with many a baron bold;" here the Tudor prince, Henry VII, of Welsh birth, visited in the later years of the fifteenth century; and this was the occasion upon which it passed into the family whose representative had proclaimed him monarch on Bosworth field. But when James, Earl of Derby, was beheaded after the battle of Worcester, in 1651, the estate was purchased under the Sequestration Act by Serjeant Glynn, through whom it comes into its present possession, by Mrs. Gladstone, and his portrait hangs over the mantelshelf of the drawing-room;
“ but,” said Mrs. Gladstone, in calling our attention to it, “he is an ancestor of whom we have no occasion to be and are not proud.”.
The aspect of the house is very impressive and imposing as it first suddenly seems to start upon the view after the long carriage-drive through the noble trees, if not immediately near, but breaking and brightening the view on either hand; yet, within and without, the house seems like its mighty master-not pensive nor rural; it does not even breathe the spirit of quiet. Its rooms look active and power-compelling, and we could not but feel that they were not indebted to any of the æsthetic inventions and elegancies of furniture for their charm. Thus we have heard of one visitor pathetically exclaiming, “Not one dado adorns the walls !” Hawarden is called a castle, but it has not, either in its exterior or interior, the aspect of
castle. It is a home; it has a noble appearance as it rises on the elevated ground near the old feudal ruin which it has superseded, and looks over the grand and forestlike park, the grand pieces of broken ground, dells and hollows, and charming woodlands.
When within the house, in every room you seem to be surrounded by books; books, quantities of them, in the breakfast-room ; and in the great and noble library, the lofty room surrounded with books; here, a noble heirloom of the Glynn family—a portrait by Vandyke of that marvellous man, Sir Kenelm Digby-hangs over the fireplace. This seems to be a favourite picture of Mrs. Gladstone's, who especially called our attention to it. Other interesting pictures light the way, conspicuously an engraving of Millais's portrait of Mr. Gladstone, which, however noble as an imitation of the style of Velasquez, fails to give any suggestion of the light and play of life which glows and gleams from the face of the original in every moment of conversation. You step from the library into the study—it is the anteroom of the library. As we did so we were, perhaps, surprised by the presence of a most breathing bust of William Pitt, for whom Mr. Gladstone is understood to have the