with the intrinsic power of truth and right on her side. Walter had come to consider his marriage an ill-assorted union; as indeed an average acquaintance with human character would have pronounced it. His wife had, no doubt, the passive and gentle courage which belongs to all the worthiest of her sex, when a plain duty lay before her; but she was wanting in the inventive, elastic genius which can intuitively perceive and use the best means, under circumstances, to arrive at the best end. The tone of her mind was somewhat mechanical; and, being weak in the mainspring of hope, and not abounding in the enthusiasm that loves the noble for its own sake, she tended, like others of her character under adverse surroundings, to subside into a meek and passive despondency. Wedded to a happier existence than Walter Bracton's, she might have risen to much of nobility in character and act; as he, on his side, could he have found a help meet for him, would perhaps have escaped the snares in which we find him entangled. But we must take the personages of this veritable history as they come before us. Meanwhile, the large boat is rippling the water into lines of sapphire light, that merited, if ever water did, to have its "unnumbered laughings" sung by old Greek poet or modern lyrist. It woke up in Edith's face responsive smiles. If such was the pure tint and radiance of the sea without the cave, what would it prove, when the light, imprisoned within the rocky walls, self-centred and intensified, and framed by the darkness as by a foil, should meet her delighted eye? "Look, Signorina," says Gennaro, the elder of the boatmen, speaking to the child in order to attract the notice of the father; see that low mouth of a passage from Napoli on to the bay-nay, scusi, not so much to the left," extending a great brown hand to guide her eye"below the height of Sant' Elmo-a little, low, sally-port thereaway, leading to the water; there, now, between those two feluccas. Shall I tell you what I saw there, about the time"-touching his Phrygian sea-cap, that fell over one side of his bronzed, good-humoured face"no, I mistake-before the Signorina was born? I saw your gran capitano, the milordo Nelson-” "Nelson!" exclaimed Mrs. Bracton, roused by a name at which English hearts still beat, but at whose casual mention they then bounded. "Do you remember him? Tell me what he says, Edie; brush up your best Italian for us." Even Walter awoke out of his dark mood to listen; and Edie, reporting old Gennaro, held forth to her parents much after this sort: "I remember," said the boatman, "fourteen years ago, on an early morning in September, all Naples was roused by the booming of guns at sea, behind the point there, Signorina mia, where you see the orangetrees of Sorrento hang over the bay. We were all expectation, for the news of the great victory at the Nile had reached us, brought by VOL. VIII. No. 79. 3 some fast-sailing vessels, while he was refitting his ships after the action. But all was uncertain; the sounds might be an engagement out at sea, or it might be some of the French ships that had escaped the destruction of their comrades. But when his ship, with his broad pennant flying, rounded that point, and we knew the English colours, your excellencies (for by this time Gennaro's audience consisted of the whole trio) would have thought all Naples was gone mad, with her navy, and the very lazzaroni on the beach. We children of the South are made up of fire; be it anger, or joy, or hatred, we blaze out like yonder mountain"—he pointed to Vesuvius" that hangs over us, and always threatens our homes and lives." "But Nelson," interrupted Walter, by no means disposed to listen to Gennaro's disquisition on the differences of national character, "what did he ?-how looked he ?" "Ah, Signori!" cried the boatman, shaking his hand in the air, "the gran capitano stood on the poop of his vessel, surrounded by his officers; he took off his hat with his left hand, alas! and waved it in answer to the acclamations of the multitude. The bay was alive with boats and barges-many hundreds of them-that had gone forth to meet him, with bands of music and flags. The guns from the Casteldel' Ovo there, where my hand points, and all our other forts, were thundering their welcome. Evviva! evviva!-Nelson! Nelson! Oh, God, bless and protect our brave deliverer! Oh, conqueror! saviour of Italy! the sounds are still ringing in my ears. Then our king-he that then was," added Gennaro, in a lower voice, and looking instinctively around him, ordered out his state barge (myself had the honour to row in it), and so we went out beyond Capri to meet the British war-ship, and the hero on board. Never shall I forget it. His majesty was assisted up the side of the great ship, and then took milordo by the hand, saluted him as his deliverer and preserver; ah! was he not, indeed, under Providence ?"-the boatman reverently moved his cap again. "If that victory in Aboukir Bay had not been wrought by the hero's genius and dauntless courage, the tricolour"-he lowered his voice. again, though there were but some distant feluccas gliding over the bay-"si, Signori miei, the tricolour of this accursed revolution would have floated, fourteen years ago instead of four, on Castel-del' Ovo!" and Gennaro shook his clenched fist at the hated combination of colours, as they drooped from the mast over the battery of the fort commanding that part of Naples Bay. Edith was a little shocked at the strength of his indignant words; but when his sudden wrath subsided, her look encouraged him to go on. "Ah, well, then it was that I observed, as we lay on our oars and watched these greetings on the quarter-deck, what everyone sorrowed to see when Nelson's ship steered in, the old Vanga"-it was Gennaro's best attempt at a name as intimately associated with Nelson as the "Agamemnon" of his former triumphs, or the "Victory" of his last eventful fatal success. "When all that multitude could look closer at him," the old man continued, and the tears rose to his eyes as he spoke, "that thin, pale, and shattered hero seemed only to be upheld in life by the invincible spirit within. We had not seen him for more than four years; and in the meantime, one desperate fight had emptied the right sleeve of the admiral's coat, and another had quenched the light of an eye-ah! it was a noble wreck of a man!" “It was a man who still lived to wreck not a few of his country's enemies," observed Walter; "but what were you saying about that sally-port on the beach ?" "Ah!" exclaimed the old man, changing his theme with Neapolitan quickness, "through that subterranean passage that leads down from the palace to the sea, the wife of your ambassador that then was, miladi Hamilton, having first explored it herself, safely conducted our king and all his family to the protection of milordo Nelson, who had come for them in his boat; and they all got safe on board the Vanga-" "Vanguard," interrupted Bracton, rather impatiently. "You see, Edith, about three months after Nelson first arrived, the French revolutionary army was approaching; a revolution against the Bourbon throne was springing up in Naples itself-in short, they could not remain in their own kingdom in safety. So Nelson, aided by some transports, took the royal family off, bag and baggage-treasures, pictures, marbles, fiddles. and guitars, Punch and Judy, and landed them all at Palermo. But these things happened, as the old fellow truly tells us, fourteen years ago, and meanwhile, here we are to-day at the Blue Grotto." A LEGEND OF ST. NICHOLAS. BY ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. THE pagan king on his couch reclined, Brawny and fierce and old, While close behind, with a face refined A page with a jewelled goblet stood, But ne'er through their veil of long, bright curls Did the sad young eyes look up, For the teardrops rolled, like shining pearls, Into the costly cup; And the king, as he turned, beheld the brine Of his page's tears mix with the wine. Then waxing wroth, he cried: "Dost brave Tell me, thou dog of a Christian slave! "O King!" (on his knees sobbed forth the boy), To-day in my far-off home, with joy, My friends and kindred keep The feast of St. Nicholas, great and good; (The tyrant's wrath increas'd), "Though ev'ry tear were a tear of blood, Lo! on the instant shook the hall, As by an earthquake riven, And, grave and tall, o'er the broken wall Down on the trembling king he swoop'd, Like an eagle sailing low; Over the kneeling page he stoop'd, With his grand old face aglow; And caught the boy by his golden hair, The while the King, like a wounded beast, The boy went home to his father's feast, And the guests at the banquet cried with glee, [* American readers, who are familiar with the name of the author of "Out of Sweet Solitude" (reviewed at page 125 of our Second Volume), may suspect us here of returning a compliment that is often paid to us by our brethren across the Atlantic, and appropriating what was not meant for us. We therefore think it well to thank our contributor for sending us her poem all the way from the City of Brotherly Love.-ED. I. M.] GLA UP AND ROUND MONT BLANC. BY NATHANAEL COLGAN. I. UP MONT BLANC. LANCING over the IRISH MONTHLY's table of contents for this U month, ninety-nine in a hundred of its readers, perhaps, will pause at the title of this paper to ask themselves the question: Is there anything new to say about Mont Blanc? To be perfectly candid, I must answer this question in the negative. The literature of Mont Blanc, from the days of De Saussure to our own times, if collected together from newspapers, books, and magazines, would make a mass of printed matter such as, perhaps, no other mountain has called forth -in modern times, at least. No aspect of the subject has been overlooked: the mountain, to borrow a Gallicism, has been exploited in every imaginable direction. Geologists have chipped, and splintered, and classified its rocks; surveyors have mapped its humps, and aiguilles, and valleys; physicists have studied its vast glaciers and snow-fields with the passionate devotion of lovers; and painters in words and painters in oil-and-water-colours have caught and fixed, more or less successfully, its endless phases of beauty and terror. So that, in fact, the last shred of mystery that clung to the great snow giant has been torn from him finally and for ever; and he stands now, shorn of all the terrors which haunt the unknown, familiar, yet who dare say contemptible, as he looks down on Chamouni at his feet. Still, though no new fact remains to be added to our knowledge of Mont Blanc, the story of its ascent, even if told for the hundredth time, may, I think, have enough of fresh personal interest infused into it to make it readable; for no two ascents of the mountain can ever be altogether similar in their incidents. This much, at least, the present narrative of an ascent made in last August will sufficiently prove, that guide-books and public opinion to the contrary notwithstanding, it is quite possible for an absolute novice in mountaineering to reach the top of Mont Blanc without any ruinous outlay, whether of money or muscle. And is not the dissemination of right views on any matter, the spread of truth, in short, ample condonation in itself for indiscretions and errors of judgment far more glaring than any involved in adding one more drop to the ocean of Mont Blanc literature? Bædeker and Ball, with one voice, proclaim the view of the valley of Chamouni from the Col de Balme a magnificent one. Bædeker and Ball are trustworthy men. I believed what they say about this view |