crously grotesque and out of place, that, unless they were set there as a temptation to risibility for the purpose of testing the canon's and vicar's resistance to it, we can in no way account for their introduction.* As it would be easier to fill a volume than to concentrate into a small space even a portion of the architectural and antiquarian interest appertaining to the Cathedral of Amiens, we must leave behind much that is deserving of noticethe magnificent windows, with their exquisite tracery, bright tints, and painted stories-all the chapels and monuments, and graves that pave the aisles, and the ballads and verses, rebuses and jeux de mots (for which we are told to blame the times, not the men) of the brotherhood of Notre-Dame-du-Puy, in honour of the Virgin! We have neglected, too, the sculptured borderings of fruit, and flowers, and shells in the choir, and the garland of wild roses sacred to "la Vierge Mère," encircling the walls under the lightly trefoiled arches that face the gallery channelled in them. We have left, also, the pulpit with its glare of white and gold, its theological graces, and its Apollo spiritualized to a winged angel-so out of keeping with the grave beauty of the aisle in which it appears, as to make us wish it were not there. But we must leave them. If we look back at all, it shall be upon the exterior, when the streets are still, and the broad, full moonlight of the autumn night encompasses the whole, flickering on the giant windows, pencilling with light the graceful spire, defining with its transparent medium the space between the flying buttresses, and bringing out clear and sharp, like separate rays, each pinnacle and minaret. BEAUTY BROUGHT HOME. BY SILVERPEN. A thunder-storm, which had been gathering "It's full nine miles from here," he said, up since noon, swept at length in fury over the" and over a bad road after the rain. But my wild moors of Derbyshire. But, in an hour or home is four miles nearer, if you'll accept its so, the clouds passed away, and the golden glory shelter. It's humble, but my good old mother of the setting sun lay on the mossy crags, the 'll give you a hearty welcome." sylvan ferns, the thymy sward, and gave the fresh-washed mountain flowers a newer fragrance and a richer dye. The invitation was gladly accepted, for the rain yet dripped off the lady's garments, and she was worn and spent by the intensity of the storm. A gentleman and lady had driven from Matlock that morning, in order to see the moorlands of the Peak; and leaving their gig at a little rustic inn, had followed the path pointed out, and which, in a winding ascent of rather more than two miles, led them far away into one of the wildest yet most beautiful moors of the Peak. They were accompanied by a fine boy of about nine years old, and bringing with them milk and bread and fruit from the little inn, took their noon-day meal beneath the shelter of a rock that, grey and bare, stood solitary amid a The generous offer was again accepted; the waste of sward and mountain heather. This primitive saddle was made, and fastened on with over, they wandered away across the wild ex- a rope found in a corner of the hut; and as soon panse, that had no distance but what the horizon as the storm had in a measure cleared upgave, and unconscious as it were of the gather- though still raining-the lady mounted; her ing clouds, or perhaps thinking they might pass boy sat behind her, and they went on their way, over, as had been the case for several previous the horse safely led by the young dalesman, by days, they went on, on their pleasant path, full whose side the gentleman walked and chatted. of intense enjoyment of the solitude and wild It was a long way, however, for often marish beauty which lay around. At length, aware that places had to be passed, and rough paths winda thunder-storm was near at hand, they looked ing through heather and gorse; but at length, about for shelter, but none could be seen. Yet just as the last glory of the sun was waning from hoping they might be nearer some rocks or the hill-tops, they reached the edge of the moor, trees than of which the rapidly-increasing dark- and began a descent towards the valley below. ness allowed them to have a view, they breath- As they looked down upon the scene, both lessly hurried on, the lightning soon playing strangers uttered an exclamation of intense surround them as though they walked in an out-prise and wonder; it was so rich, so beautiful, spread sheet of fire. In a moment more the so new. Before them lay a long and gradual rain descended in a glassy stream; and drenched, descent to a very far distant valley, backed by as if dipped in the sea, they could do no other the heathery moors again, on which the sunlight pass swiftly on, with the wish, rather than glinted; and all the space between was clothed the expectation, of reaching some temporary with dark woods, varied by broad open spaces shelter. But they were not people to take this of meadow and corn-field, and here and there a disaster to heart; they were lovers of nature, solitary cottage. Through this woodland glided and could reverence its sublimity. a little river, scintillating like a thread of silver, where seen through the open foliage; beside it, sometimes seen, wound a picturesque lane; and on the opposite bank of this sylvan stream, in one or two spots lay heaps of clay, thrown up from the narrow mouths of newly-worked leadmines. Immediately before them, on a wide ledge of the very easy descent, lay a small detached farm-house, girdled by a picturesque garden, orchard, croft, and a whole breadth of upland pasture. The garden was divided from the woodland by a rush-fringed pool, into which, after making many marish places by the way, fell the crystal waters of a bounteous spring, that gushing from the living rock of the moor a stone's throw behind the homestead, flowed first into a vast stone trough, literally covered "The place 'll be a bit the nearer, too, ma'am," said the young farmer, "if you'll ride Dolly here." As he spoke, he pointed to an old broadbacked mare which stood tethered in a corner of the hut. It's mother's old horse, that's taken her to town and church this ten year. It's a bit rough i' th' coat, for it's been out for a month on th' moor; but it's a gentle cre'tur, and a pad o' straw, and a sheepskin that be here, 'll do for a saddle, if you'll take a venture, ma'am." than The darkness was less, and the storm had in a degree spent itself, when they reached a little hut or sheiling, used evidently by such shepherds as brought their flocks upon the moors. It was thatched with turf, and wattled round with heather. The whine of a dog had guided them to it; and now, after a few short barks, it was called back by some one within, and in a moment more a young man came forward, and seeing the dripping lady and the child, bid them enter, in a rough unmodulated voice, but one full of kindness. He was a tall, athletic, and handsome man, though browned by the wind and sun. At once the strangers were at home with him, talked over their disaster, and asked the way to the inn where the gig had been left. round by honeysuckle, foxglove, and the mountain ivy. It overflowed from this, amidst the thymy turf and stones, and so flowed away round a green croft to the pool. The lady, who had an artist's eye, was struck by the whole scene, but more than all by these beauteous waters, left to flow on in waste and rude disorder, and round whose neglected basin, unplucked, untouched, uncared for, a very wilderness of sweets and blooms was gathered; the ivy's leaves, the honeysuckle's petals, the foxglove's tinted stripes, glowing with inexpressive richness in the sinking sun! "What a lovely spot!" the strangers said. "It's home here," replied the young man, with something like a tone of pride; "and there's mother standing in the porch, as I might guess, to watch me from the moor. By your leave, sir," addressing the gentleman, "if you lead Dolly to the spring, and go on to that garden-gate you see, I'll run on and prepare my good old mother for your coming." So saying, he placed the reins in the gentleman's hands, and ran on before, followed by his dog. A few yards down the descent brought the strangers to the gushing spring; and though wet and tired, they could but stay a minute to admire its crystal beauty, to pluck a token of its scented garlands, and to remark what a little taste and care might make of such a teeming gift of nature. Yes! educate, and cultivate, and inspire, and Beauty shall be brought home! A little further on, and the strangers reached the wicket of the homestead, where a comely dame, well stricken in years, stood to welcome them with a motherly look and kind words; whilst the night-wind, which blew her snowy apron to and fro, bore on it the mingled fragrance of garden sweets-the double stock, the sweetbriar, the gilliflower, and the clove-pink. Very heartily the good old soul bid them welcome, and led them in through the deep eavesed porch to her large, quaint homestead-kitchen, stopping often by the way-as dames will doto kiss the boy and coax his flaxen hair. The young man in the meanwhile had roused up the fire with fresh faggots and peat, swung the teakettle further on the crane, and was placing high-backed cushioned chairs round the hearth as the strangers entered. "And now, John," said the old dame, addressing her son, "you'll find a Sunday suit in the big chest for the gentleman; and whilst I go wi' th' lady up-stairs, just call Sally from th' byre; she mun a'most done milking by this time; and say'll be wanting her in the bak'us." What the good dame's hospitable intentions were by-and-bye proved; but already there was a delicious smell afloat of savoury pies, fruittarts, and cakes; for it was Saturday, and preparations had been making for the morrow's peaceful festival. As was natural, the mother's first thought was of her boy; and he was undressed, rubbed dry, wrapped up in an old warm coat of the goodman's, and, snug and warm in the chimney-corner, was soon occupied with a frisking kitten, that had hitherto been sleeping on the soft cushion of the dame's chair. The old goodwife then led the way up-stairs into her own chamber, took nice lavendered linen and clothes from a deep chest, went with the first downstairs for a few minutes to give them "an air," as she said, "by the back'us fire;" then brought them up again with warin water, saying, as she did so, and as she left the room, By your leave, ma'am, I'll be seeing after a cup o'tea, for ye mun be nigh famished; and ye mun just be contented i' th' night, for I got a spare bed, and John's already sent our farm-lad off t' th' Coach and Horses, to say ye ba'int a-coming t'-night." 46 So saying, and not waiting for thanks, she hastened down-stairs to the performance of her hospitable duties. The lady, as she changed her garments, could but notice the quaint old-fashioned room, scrupulously clean and neat, filled to repletion with chests, presses, carved chairs, old china of exceeding richness; and matchless glass, such as taper beakers, bottles, and hour-glasses, yet thrust away in corner shelves and on the tops of presses, in perfect ignorance of both their beauty, rarity, or picturesque capability. On the walls were several small oil-paintings; from the frames of these dangled bags of feathers and bundles of dry herbs; and, beside a little filligreed oval mirror-a perfect gem from some old hand long dust-hung a ham! For what purpose put there, no one but the initiated might conceive; for below, in the homestead-kitchen, hung a wealth of this sort of provender-and yet some to spare. Dressed at length in the dame's quaint attire for she was very tired, and rested by the waythe lady went down stairs, just as the hospitable meal was ready. John's father was now returned-a pale old man with silvery hair-the wood and peat fire blazed high and clear upon the hearth, candles were lighted, whilst the table literally groaned under its richness of country dainties. A broiled fowl, stewed mushrooms, ham, corned beef, pickles, preserves, girdle-cakes, and the famous Derbyshire horn-cakes, pies, and the great morrow's custard-to say nothing of steaming tea. It was a true English meal, as heartily given as it was gratefully accepted. As soon as it was over, the boy was taken upstairs to rest. This done, the dame took up her knitting, whilst the strangers talked to her husband and son. The gentleman said he had been much struck by the rare beauty of the country, and inquired if a house could not be hired in that neighbourhood, for a few months during the next summer, as he should like to bring his wife and children. "Well I be thinking, Sir," replied old John Arrowsmith-for such was his name-after amoment's thought, "there could be found something o' the sort. There be an old Darbyshire family at Fernside Grange, a mile from here, and they be talking o' going to furren parts the next summer; and maybe, if a word was spoke in te, you mut get it. It be a rare place-with aid woods, and gardens, and orchards, and brooks about it, fit for a Paradise, though I say So, as these strangers were wealthy, it was soon arranged that old John should speak a good word at Fernside, as soon as might be, to the intent that if its owners would accept the distinguished man of science, Mr. Mostyn, for a tenant during the ensuing summer, he would gladly rent it. If to be let, there could be no demur, as Mr. Mostyn moved in an eminent position, in London, as a demonstrator of chemistry in its relation to practical art. As they talked thus, Mrs. Mostyn sat quietly a listener, noticing the large picturesque room, highted by the partial effects of fire and moonlight-for some part lay in shadow, and within this stole such strips of glistening moonFight as fell through the ivied lattice-panes. Through an open door could be seen a parlour, fall to repletion as the room up-stairs with all sorts of ancient furniture and curiosities; whilst in this homestead-kitchen itself was a grand old fashioned buffet, and on the shelves of a dresser, a further wealth of china, stuck in corners and otherwise hidden away, as though it were a thing to be ashamed of; whilst an old cover of a delftureen, a lot of willow-pattern sauce-boat lids, and a plaster parrot with a red head and yellow tail was set conspicuously forth. One splendid Indian bowl was filled with old tobacco-pipes, and candles, and on a remote corner-shelf stood a pile of old china-dis hes and saucers, set one in the other-the largest at the bottom, the tiniest at the top-so as to stand high up and apexWise; and these were all of such exquisite pelacidity as to be seen in the distance. Mrs. Mostyn was just about to ask the dame from whom she inherited these rich treasures, when she was attracted by a silken ball with which the kitten played about the hearth. It was even now of a brilliant colour, though spiled and faded; and as it trickled towards her, she stooped and picked it up. She saw it was made of fringe and braid. her knitting "Ay, ma'ain," said the good dame, pausing in as she spoke, "Kitty ought n't to a a ball o' such rich stuff. But, good as my Jan be, he likes to plague his old mother a bit Sometimes; and so, wun I were at the buffet other day, he mun take a bit. Ay, ma'am, I got many and many a hundred yards o' that to' stuff. All the drawers o' th' buffet be filed on't; for ye see, ma'am, in my young days I lived many years wi' a lady o' Coventry, inse father had bin a riband-weaver at such times as fringes and them sort o' things were a poorest thing or cre'tur hav' its use, I'm thinking, in the eyes of God, and should in the eyes of man." Right, dame-very right. The waste will yet make the perfection of the earth. Doubt not-doubt not; for man is yet a child! Then a pleasant history followed of the good dame's life. After which the strangers retired to rest in a homely but scrupulously clean room. In the morning the earth was fair again, the sky serene. Their gig had been brought from the inn, and so, after a hospitable breakfast, they took their grateful leave of the princely creatures, though but dwelling in a solitary mountain farm, and went on their way to Matlock, guided by young John Arrowsmith, and stopping as they went along to hear the sabbath service in a picturesque village church. When they parted with good John, it was with earnest hopes of meeting with him again, and the desire was one of sympathy! That day week Mrs. Mostyn sat amidst her children, and their little maid Mary-part maid she was, part nursery-governess-and told them this sweet story, to their great pleasure. Still more rich this pleasure was, when she said she was going to send the good old dame a gown. So they went with her, and sixteen yards of rich dark silk for a gown was bought, and two plain cambric pocket-handkerchiefs, and some lace for a cap. And Mr. Mostyn added a shawl, and a book for John, "Stephens' Book of the Farm;" and before the grand parcel was finally closed, tiny, loving childish hands added thereto simple offerings. At Christmas, came a great hamper from Derbyshire-a very farm-house in itself-and word that Fernside Grange could be let to them through the next summer. Mr. Mostyn, as already said, was an eminent man, and held an important official appointment in connexion with Practical Art. His wife, too, was an artist. The daughter of a wealthy and enlightened Manchester manufacturer, who had bestowed on her not only a fortune, but the richer blessing of a fine education, she was just the fitting wife for, so gifted a man as her husband. Five children already enriched her home, and to their care and education her time was devoted. Not the least contingent of their education, was their little servant Mary, in whose training their mother had been greatly interested. She was a Manchester girl, the daughter of one of Mrs. Mostyn's father's foremen; one of that class of men who, sober, industrious, selfreliant, self-educated, thoughtful, and untrammelled by conventual ideas, hold in their hands deal in fashion; so, having a lot by her, it came so much of the future destiny of their country; fond of me-and left me, when she died, her and the absence of all rant and dogmatism. me with other things; for she war mighty though not without the increase of these virtues, household stuff, her china, and a hundred Mary had been, therefore, taken from a pure and pounds. So, as I dunna like waste, I've never sober home, sent to a government training done nought wi't; for maybe, when I am dead school, and leaving this, had come into the and d uns don't. No, it dunna do to waste; the countless things of delicacy, order, taste and G beauty, which fitted her for her coming duties, without leaving her to be discontented either with her position or her prospects. The summer came, and the children and Mrs. Mostyn went to Fernside Grange, though she occasionally returned to town to her husband, whose vacation had not yet come. When it did, and they joined their children in Derbyshire, and heard of their rambles on the moor, their visits to the mountain farm, and countless other delights, one thing was soon clear, that John Arrowsmith was Mary's admirer. And John having nothing to conceal, but being, on the contrary, a very noble fellow, came the next day; and seeing Mr. and Mrs. Mostyn alone, spoke out at once his love for Mary, and asked their consent to his courtship. As Mary did not negative this point, it was cheerfully given, and the courtship proceeded, much to the joy of the old people, who had taken a vast liking to the young stranger. The next spring John went up to London, and there was a grand wedding the young couple going home by way of Manchester to see their friends. That same summer Mrs. Mostyn and her family spent in Normandy; but in the autumn of the succeeding year Fernside being again to let, was taken for two months, and Mr. and Mrs. Mostyn and their children made one journey-it being now the official vacation. Having never seen Mary since her marriage, and knowing that she had but a few months previously been made a mother, Mrs. Mostyn, with graceful delicacy, resolved to make her first visit alone. So the afternoon after her arrival she set off, having first seen her husband and elder children depart on their way to some favourite spot on the moors. She had, as she fancied, the greater chance of seeing Mary alone, as the old people had, upon their son's marriage, removed to a cottage a little distance from the farm. It was a glorious autumn afternoon, and the sun lay glad and warm upon the moors. Approaching the farm by the road through the woodland, Mrs. Mostyn saw at once that changes had been effected; but as these had been the work of the young husband's hands, she did not linger, though it gladdened her to see that the glorious mountain spring poured itself out to waste no longer. The old stone trough had been cleansed, the weeds and brambles cut away around it, the foxglove and the eglantine trained as a sylvan fringe above its crystal beauty; and what at last gushed forth in limpid waves, had been led, in a turf-sided channel, round the bowery garden before it fell into the pool. Entering the homestead kitchen, with its picturesque parlour beyond, there might change be seen indeed. The red-headed parrot and tureen covers were gone, as were the pile of costly saucers and basins also, though some of the less valuable china occupied their place. But attracted by a glimpse of a cradle, the lady passed into the parlour, where all the artistic treasures of this quaint old house had been gathered. The walls were now papered, the floor carpeted, the pictures gathered together, and nicely hung; the filligreed mirror also, round which had been twined a fresh - gathered garland of ivy, a beautifully-carved buffet was exquisitely gar nished with lovely shapes in glass and china, the once hideous pyramid of lessening plates and saucers, were now, in portion, set one into the other-lesser and lesser ascending, till a deep cup crowned the top. Round each of these saucers were wild and garden flowers, in the cup roses of many hues, the whole forming a pyramid of scent and loveliness. In the middle of the room stood a table, covered by a cloth made from old damask silk, and fringed with deep green fringe from the hoard in the old buffet. In the middle of this table stood the quaint oriental bowl, filled with geraniums, woodbine, and foxglove-instead of candles! Some of the chairs were covered with this old embroidered silk; another by brown holland, on which was outlined, in green and russet coloured braid, a long strip of ivy stem and leaves, as though cast across it by a careless hand. The cradle was decked with muslin, trimmed with the same old fringe-the snowy curtains round the casement also! Did I not say, educate; and deformity and waste should be turned to beauty and proportion! In a moment more, the young mother was by the dear mistress's side; in another, the lovely first-born was raised and placed within those loving arms. "You have made your room very beautiful," said Mrs. Mostyn, when she had learnt that John and his parents were well. "You taught me," replied the grateful mother," and made me what I am." She did not say so audibly; but as she pressed her fond lips down upon the infant's face, glancing as she did so at the luxuriant gifts of nature gathered from moor and hill, she felt a conscious pride and happiness, that through education, care, and love, she had enriched a humble dwelling with refinement-and, in the purest and the noblest sense, brought Beauty Home! |