The Catholic World Volume I Part 25

Seven bells he made, of very rare devise, With graven lilies twisted up and down; Seven bells proportionate in differing size, And full of melody from rim to crown; So that, when shaken by the wind alone, They murmured with a soft AEolian tone.

These being placed within the great bell-tower, And duly rung by pious skilful hand, Marked the due prayers of each recurring hour, And sweetly mixed persuasion with command.

Through the gnarled olive-trees the music wound, And miles of broad Campagna heard the sound.

And then the cunning workman put aside His forge, his hammer, and the tools he used To chase those lilies; his keen furnace died; And all who asked for bells were hence refused.

With these his best, his last were also wrought, And refuge in the convent-walls he sought.

There did he live, and there he hoped to die, Hearing the wind among the cypress-trees Hint unimagined music, and the sky Throb full of chimes borne downward by the breeze; Whose undulations, sweeping through the air, His art might claim as an embodied prayer.

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But those were stormy days in Italy: Down came the spoiler from the uneasy North, Swept the Campagna to the bounding sea, Sacked pious homes, and drove the inmates forth; Whether a Norman or a German foe, History is silent, and we do not know.

Brothers in faith were they; yet did not deem The sacred precincts barred destroying hand.

Through those rich windows poured the whitened beam, Forlorn the church and ruined altar stand.

As the sad monks went forth, that self-same hour Saw empty silence in the great bell-tower.

The outcast brethren scattered far and wide; Some by the Danube rested, some in Spain: On the green Loire the aged abbot died, By whose loved feet one brother did remain Faithful in all his wanderings: it was he Who cast and chased those bells in Italy.

He, dwelling at Marmontier, by the tomb Of his dear father, where the shining Loire Flows down from Tours amidst the purple bloom Of meadow-flowers, some years of patience saw.

Those fringed isles (where poplars tremble still) Swayed like the olives of the Alban hill.

The man was old, and reverend in his age; And the "Great Monastery" held him dear.

Stalwart and stern, as some old Roman sage Subdued to Christ, he lived from year to year, Till his beard silvered, and the fiery glow Of his dark eye was overhung with snow.

And being trusted, as of prudent way, They chose him for a message of import, Which the "Great Monastery" would convey To a good patron in an Irish court; Who, by the Shannon, sought the means to found St. Martin's off-shoot on that distant ground.

The old Italian took his staff in hand, And journeyed slowly from the green Touraine Over the heather and salt-shining sand, Until he saw the leaping crested main, Which, dashing round the Cape of Brittany, Sweeps to the confines of the Irish Sea.

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There he took ship, and thence with laboring sail He crossed the waters, till a faint gray line Rose in the northern sky; so faint, so pale, Only the heart that loves her would divine, In her dim welcome, all that fancy paints Of the green glory of the Isle of Saints.

Through the low banks, where Shannon meets the sea, Up the broad waters of the River King (Then populous with a nation), journeyed he, Through that old Ireland which her poets sing; And the white vessel, breasting up the stream, Moved slowly, like a ship within a dream.

When Limerick towers uprose before his gaze, A sound of music floated in the air-- Music which held him in a fixed amaze, Whose silver tenderness was alien there; Notes full of murmurs of the southern seas, And dusky olives swaying in the breeze.

His chimes! the children of the great bell-tower, Empty and silent now for many a year, He hears them ringing out the vesper hour, Owned in an instant by his loving ear.

Kind angels stayed the spoiler's hasty hand, And watched their journeying over sea and land.

The white-sailed boat moved slowly up the stream; The old man lay with folded hands at rest; The Shannon glistened in the sunset beam; The bells rang gently o'er its shining breast, Shaking out music from each lilied rim: It was a requiem which they rang for him.

For when the boat was moored beside the quay, He lay as children lie when lulled by song; But never more to waken. Tenderly They buried him wild-flowers and gra.s.s among, Where on the cross alights the wandering bird, And hour by hour the bells he loved are heard.

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From London Society.

A PERILOUS JOURNEY.

A TALE.

There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune--

So says the sage, and it is not to be gainsayed by any man whom forty winters have chilled into wisdom. Ability and opportunity are fortune.

Opportunity is not fortune; otherwise all were fortunate. Ability is not fortune, else why does genius slave? Why? But because it missed _the_ opportunity that fitted it?

What I have--wife, position, independence--I owe to an opportunity for exercising the very simple and unpretending combination of qualities that goes by the name of ability. But to my story.

My father was a wealthy country gentleman, of somewhat more than the average of intelligence, and somewhat more than the average of generosity and extravagance. His younger brother, a solicitor in large practice in London, would in vain remonstrate as to the imprudence of his course. Giving freely, spending freely, must come to an end. It did; and at twenty I was a well educated, gentlemanly pauper. The investigation of my father's affairs showed that there was one shilling and sixpence in the pound for the whole of his creditors, and of course nothing for me.

The position was painful. I was half engaged--to that is, I had gloves, flowers, a ringlet, a carte de visite of Alice Morton. That, of course, must be stopped.

Mr. Silas Morton was not ill-pleased at the prospect of an alliance with his neighbor Westwood's son while there was an expectation of a provision for the young couple in the union of estates as well as persons; but now, when the estate was gone, when I, Guy Westwood, was shillingless in the world, it would be folly indeed. Nevertheless I must take my leave.

"Well, Guy, my lad, bad job this; very bad job; thought he was as safe as the Bank. Would not have believed it from any one--not from any one. Of course all that nonsense about you and Alice must be stopped now; I'm not a hard man, but I can't allow Alice to throw away her life in the poverty she would have to bear as your wife; can't do it; wouldn't be the part of a father if I did."

I suggested I might in time.

"Time, sir! time! How much? She's nineteen now. You're brought up to nothing; know nothing that will earn you a sixpence for the next six months; and you talk about time. Time, indeed! Keep her waiting till she's thirty, and then break her heart by finding it a folly to marry at all.'

"Ah! Alice, my dear, Guy's come to say 'Good by:' he sees, with me, that his altered position compels him, as an honorable man, to give up any hopes he may have formed as to the future."

He left us alone to say 'Farewell!'--a word too hard to say at our ages. Of course we consulted what should be done. To give each other up, to bury the delicious past, that was not to be thought of. We would be constant, spite of all. I must gain a position, and papa would then help us.

Two ways were open; a commission in India, a place in my uncle's office. Which? I was for the commission, Alice for the office. A respectable influential solicitor; a position not to be despised; nothing but cleverness wanted; and my uncle's name, and no one to wait for; no liver {199} complaints; no sepoys; no sea voyages; and no long separation.

"Oh, I'm sure it is the best thing."

I agreed, not unnaturally then, that it was the best.

"Now, you young people, you've had time enough to say 'Good by,' so be off, Guy. Here, my lad, you'll need something to start with," and the old gentleman put into my hands a note for fifty pounds.

"I must beg, sir, that you will not insult--"

"G.o.d bless the boy! 'Insult!' Why I've danced you on my knee hundreds of times. Look you, Guy,"--and the old fellow came and put his hand on my shoulder,--"it gives me pain to do what I am doing. I believe, for both your sakes, it is best you should part. Let us part friends. Come now, Guy, you'll need this; and if you need a little more, let me know."

"But, sir, you cut me off from all hope; you render my life a burden to me. Give me some definite task; say how much you think we ought to have; I mean how much I ought to have to keep Alice--I mean Miss Morton--in such a position as you would wish."

Alice added her entreaties, and the result of the conference was an understanding that if, within five years from that date, I could show I was worth 500 a year, the old gentleman would add another 500; and on that he thought we might live for a few years comfortably.