demoralised, and took to sacking pantries and pigeon-cotes, and died ignominiously by dog and trap, while others, disowned by their old owners, fell victims to hardships to which they were mi used.
I, myself, heart-broken and reduced to a skeleton, retired to the seclusion of a stable-loft, and dragged out my days in obscurity, occupying my leisure in writing out this history, and perished eventually from incautiously swallowing a live mouse.
And now I am doomed to wander o’er the moonlit tiles, haunting the scenes of former joys.
Here the manuscript ends. It may be observed that the concluding sentences must have been written after our friend’s decease; but that need excite no surprise, when we recollect that writing (and that without the aid of a medium) is numbered among spiritual accomplishments.
I would just observe, in conclusion, that I deserve credit for being the means of placing before the public a great and interesting historical fact which has quite escaped Macaulay.
I have to regret that the unique document itself unfortunately fell in the way of our cat, who, incautiously eating it, became immediately old and grey, and perished, warbling in an ancient and unknown tongue. Otherwise, I should certainly have deposited it in the British Museum for the inspection of the curious and the antiquarian.
THE LAKE AND ABBEY OF LAACH.
This morning, the morning of April the 20th, 1863, is one worth noting in a journal for its unparalleled magnificence; at least as it shows in this Rhineland, whatever may be the case elsewhere.
The spot is Andernach; and the river about Andernach where a chain of variously shaped hills of volcanic origin crosses it, is to some judgments more beautiful even than in its course through the well-known gorge, which begins at Coblentz and ends at Bingen on the ascent of the Rhine. A fine morning indeed for a walk from Andernach to the Lake of Laach! The distinct sensations of cold and heat are merged in an intoxicating temperature which makes the whole air seem a bath of limpid freshness, instinct with joy and life, and realises for the nonce the fable of the Fountain of Youth, which the old painters are so fond of illustrating. The sun has risen in singular splendour over the hills on the Neuwied side, and his oblique rays are powdering the dark grey volcanic soil, over which the slowly rising path lies, with a dust of brilliants, which effect is probably the result of the grains of mica which form part of the composition of the soil. But be the cause what it may, the effect is that of
Stars which in earth’s firmament do shine
even more truly than that of the flowers of the field, to which Longfellow applies the comparison; for the negative grey of the ground better than the bright green sward, expresses the darkness and mystery of the vault of night. As for the larks, they are half-mad with the zest of existence; as that lumbering yoke of oxen with the stolid peasant and his inevitable coffee-pot pipe proceeds with the plough, up they rise before them and behind them like little living rockets, which explode in musical glee instead of a shower of coloured stars, because it is day and not night, and coloured light could not be seen, while song is heard. Are they laughing at them, or are they sorry for their soil-bound estate, and doing in pity like good little cherubims, their best to console them for the curse, which has stricken alike the peasant and the oxen? The very loose earth, as it is turned with the plough, exhales the freshness of the young year, and soft lights and softer shadows follow the furrow. The muzzles of the beasts are dewy and fragrant; their eyes like deep dark wells, preach patience and content, the very hairs of their bright dun coats glisten with opalescent lustre. Oh, that Rosa Bonheur, who reverses the fable of Europa, by carrying off horned beasts bodily, were present with her inimitable pencil!
And the ground is covered with new-born flowers, violet, and pansy, and Star of Bethlehem, anemone and forget-me-not with its eyes of turquoise and gold, and the butterflies, those flying flowers, as I have known a child call them, coquet about them and pay their morning salutations, as in the June night of Germany the flying glow-worms flit about their wingless mates. And the butterflies and moths abound in this country, from the purple Emperor, that “Solomon in all his glory,” of the tribe, down to the little winged creatures in Bavarian uniforms of sky blue. The butterfly is an emblem of the immortal hopes of man, and surely to be up and in the midst of nature on such a morning as this is better than all sermons appropriate to Easter, for that soul must be dull indeed which did not feel here a foretaste of its resurrection:
Our road is a kind of rough bridle-way, leading over a swelling upland, apparently formed of volcanic débris; the round contours of the hills bring to mind the neighbourhood of Naples, and Auvergne in France. Behind some wooded hills in front, about seven English miles from Andernach, lies the Lake of Laach. To make for the highest point of these hills, without regarding the route by which tourists are conveyed, would evidently be the best way to get a synoptical view of the lake; so, instead of pursuing the path to Niedermendig, where are some famous basalt quarries, we turn to the village of Nickenich on the right. This place is principally built in a very solid manner of dark grey or purplish basalt, the roofs being thatched. The new church is a fine specimen of Byzantine architecture, so contrived within as to produce an echo equal to that of
The castle arch whose hollow tone
Returns each whisper spoken.
