ance with the usages of society was as limited as could well be possessed by any lad who had passed through the ordeal of a public school. Moore, the poet, who visited Dublin shortly before me, and who lived in much the same society as myself, alludes in his journal to the character for frivolity which young Wellesley had acquired while a member of the viceregal staff. An old lady, one of his contemporaries, told me that when any of the Dublin belles received an invitation to a picnic they stipulated as a condition of its acceptance that that mischievous boy, Arthur Wellesley, should not be of the party.' It was the fashion of that period for gentlemen to wear, instead of a neckcloth, a piece of rich lace, which was passed through a loop in the shirt-collar. To twitch the lace out of its loop was a favorite pastime of the inchoate 'Iron Duke.' The disastrous campaign of the Duke of York appears to have had a sobering effect upon his character. From that time forth he put away childish things and betook himself in good earnest to the active duties of his profession : "

An anecdote inserted under date of 1828 shows the "Iron Duke" in a more amiable light than that in which he usually appears. Private theatricals were the rage in London at that period, and an amateur corps dramatique, composed chiefly of noble lords and ladies, and of which Keppel was a leading member, used to give regular performances at Hatfield House:

"On one grand occasion, the Duke of Wellington, then prime-minister, almost every member of the cabinet, and nearly the whole of the corps diplomatique, came from London to witness our performances. The Hatfield epilogues were usually assigned to me. On this special evening, I had to recite a very clever one by Lord Francis Leveson in the character of the ghost of Queen Elizabeth. I am disturbed in my grave by the goings on in the house that had served me as a prison and palace. My wrath is roused by finding that such mummeries have the sanction of the descendant of my sage minister, Lord Burleigh. In retiring I stumble accidentally into the green-room, and my feelings as a 'Virgin Queen' are shocked at seeing 'a man without his coat.' I swoon, the curtain drops.

"But our solemnities did not stop here. An illustrious actor had his part to play. While the audience was designedly detained some minutes in the theatre, our corps had hurried into 'King James's Room.' On an ottoman at one end was placed a gilt chair, and on it in royal state sat Queen Elizabeth. On each side were arranged the dramatis persona. The Duke of Wellington was then asked, in his capacity of prime-minister, to make his obeisances to the sovereign. With a loud, hearty laugh, such as many must still remember, he showed that he fully entered into the fun, and accepted the role. assigned him. Surrounded by the members of his cabinet, and by the representatives of the crowned heads of Europe, he approached the throne in mock solemnity, and did homage to my majesty."

Here is another of the author's Irish reminiscences:

"A cause of much celebrity was tried at some country assizes. Chief Baron O'Grady was the presiding judge. Bush, then a king's counsel, who held a brief for the defense, was pleading the cause of his client with much eloquence, when a donkey in the court set up a loud bray. 'One at a time, Brother Bush!' called out his lordship. Peals of

The following amusing bit of reminiscence relates to one of the "eccentricities" of the last generation:

"During my stay at Brighton I was thrown much in company with Lord Dudley and Ward, shortly afterward created Earl Dudley. There must be many now living who have heard his two voices-his gruff bass and his high treble. Moore mentions that some one said it was like Lord Dudley conversing with Lord Ward. This peculiarity reminds me of the end of one of Matthews's songs about a man with two tones in his voice, who, having fallen into a pit, cried for assistance to an Irishman, and the Irishman's reply:

"Help me out! help me out!' Zounds! what a pother! If you're two of you there, why not help one another?' "Who has not heard of Lord Dudley's eccentric habit of giving utterance to his thoughts in a loud soliloquy?

"He was a frequent guest at the Pavilion. His knowledge of good living led him easily to detect a great falling off in the royal cuisine since the decease of George IV.; sitting next King William he exclaimed, in his deep bass, 'What a change, to be sure-cold pâtés and hot champagne.'

"The king and queen, when Duke and Duchess of Clarence, once dined with Lord Dudley, who handed her royal highness in to dinner. Scarcely seated, he began to soliloquize aloud: What bores these royalties are! Ought I to drink wine with her as I would with any other woman?' and in the same tone continued, May I have the honor of a glass of wine with your royal highness?' Toward the end of dinner he asked her again. With great pleasure, Lord Dudley,' she replied, smiling; but I have had one glass with you already.' 'The brute! and so she has!' was the rejoinder.'

The last paragraph that we have marked contains an anecdote, hitherto unpublished, we believe, of Sir Philip Francis, the reputed author of "Junius: "

"It does not often happen to a man to be one of a dinner-party of five, in which there should be two nonagenarians. Yet such was my lot, when, in the summer of 1854, I took my cousin, Sir Robert Adair, the diplomatist, to dine with Mr. Samuel Rogers, the poet. The late Duke and Duchess of Bedford completed our quintet. The conversation at dinner turned upon the authorship of Junius.' Every one assigned it to Sir Philip Francis. I happened to be the only one at table who had not been personally acquainted with that gentleman. The others had all

met him at Woburn in the time of the fifth and sixth Dukes of Bedford. 'How,' I asked Rogers, ' could a man accept the hospitalities of sons whose father he had so maligned? I was answered that he was fond of good company and good cheer, and he was sure to find both at the abbey. Of his love of the pleasures of the table the poet gave us a sample. At a city feast, Francis sat next a gentleman who was slowly enjoying some turtle - soup, evidently reserving a large lump of green fat for a bonne bouche. Sir Philip looked upon the process for

some moments with an envious eye. At last he seized the delicate morsel with his fork, and transferred it to his mouth. He then gave the stranger his card, saying, 'Sir, I am ready to make the most ample apology, or to give you the satisfaction of a gentleman, but I must say you had no right to throw such a temptation in my way.' The citizen, much as he loved calipash, loved life more, and was content to accept the first of the alternatives."

With this "jotting" the earl brings his reminiscences of fifty years to a close; but it is hardly to be supposed that he really staid his memory and pen at this point, and we shall probably have a posthumous continuation of the narrative. That the public will have good reason to anticipate its appearance with pleasure, we trust our gleanings from the present installment have shown.

I.

MOUNT ST. MICHAEL, CORNWALL.

ST. MICHAEL is at once an isolated

MOUNT and a stately architectural pile, being also the most interesting of all the curious antiques that gem the British coast.

The geologist speaks of this singular mount as a rock, but to the eye of the poet this lofty cone of

granite, mingled with schist, appears an altar. Thus it appeared to the Druids in the days of eld; still, what we see to-day is the mountain of stone, tipped with a convent, castle, and church; all of which combined form an English knight's home.

Those who are acquainted with the old English poets will remember where the mount stands. It towers up on the classic page of Milton and Spenser, and among the conceits of Drayton and Carew. The author of "The Faërie Queene" asks:

"St. Michael's Mount, who does not know,
That wardes the western coast?

There are at least few English tourists who do not
know St. Michael's Mount, though it may lie out of
the track of ordinary American travel. With many
a Londoner it is a Mecca. In truth, there are but
few more attractive summer resorts than Penzance
and Mount's Bay. This part of ancient Cornwall,
facing France and Spain, was the "Ictis" of the
Phoenician tin-merchant who, in this rocky coast, saw
reproduced the shores of "Aradus of Tyre." One
quaint old English chronicler, in describing the
place, says that "it brooketh no concurrent for the
highest place;" yet its height is not so noticeable
as the remarkable situation of the rock, which rises
up on the border of Mount's Bay, and, by the ebb
and flow of the tide, is twice a day surrounded by
the sea.
At high water the mount stands among the
waves, while the ebb lays bare a dry causeway sev-
eral hundred yards long, that connects it with the
main. Crossing this causeway, the old writer says:
"Your arrival on the farther side is entertayned by
an open green of some largenesse, which, finishing
where the hill beginneth, leaveth you to the conduc-
tion of a winding and craggy path; and that at the
top delivereth you to a little plain." At this point
we may leave our old antiquarian guide to potter at
his leisure about matters that hardly concern the
present age, while we ascend, finding the way grow-

ing steeper at every step. Leaving the little plain to which the craggy path "delivereth you," and where some old cannon with rusty throats command the sea, an ancient well is next reached, near which is one of those old tin-lodes that made Cornwall famous in the marts of the East in the days of the

Ptolemies. Entering the gateway, one finds that he has suddenly stepped back into the middle ages, when the greater portion of the masonry was finished.

this

Nevertheless, we must not make the mistake of supposing that the history of the mount goes no farther It was a holy back than the period referred to. place in the fifth century, when visited by St. Keyna; and this supposed sanctity is what caused the mount to be revered for many generations. In fact, it was here that old chronicles place the appearance of the archangel Michael, notwithstanding the fact that appearance is also claimed for Mont St.-Michel in Normandy, and for a convent of the same name in Italy, near Bologna. This tradition with respect to the appearance of the archangel is what Milton refers to in his poem of "Lycidas," where he speaks of the "great vision of the guarded mount," which was always both fortress and convent. The most simple, however, do not accept the tradition to-day, so great is the change wrought in the sentiments of the people by the English Reformation. The sanctity of the mount is a thing of the past, for we no longer see the barefooted pilgrim toiling up the steep ascent to pay his vows in the convent-church, now reduced to a family chapel.

Nevertheless, such was the ancient fame of the mount that Edward the Confessor gave the monks a charter, and Pope Gregory, in the year 1070, issued a bull extolling its sanctity, and remitting the penance of pilgrims and benefactors of the convent. During the Norman period the mount was made a dependence of the Norman Mont St.-Michel; and about the middle of the eleventh century the rule of the Cistercians or reformed Benedictines was established here. There was also a convent for women, as well as for men, and the ruins of the chapel, dedicated, of course, to the Virgin, were quite recently pointed out. The aspect and the situation of all the remaining buildings are exceedingly romantic and picturesque; while the view of both land and sea is very commanding. To enjoy this view in its perfection, it is necessary to climb to the top of one of the towers, from which dizzy place the prospect

is one that evades description. There is, for instance, such an immense stretch of ocean; the British, Irish, and Atlantic Seas all rolling within the compass of the eye, reflecting in their dancing waves the illimitable blue of the clear summer sky.

The tower itself is sometimes called "St. Michael's Chair," but the real chair is on the edge of a dangerous crag overhanging the sea. In connec

rily rang the bells, we are told, as Richard and Rebecca ascended the holy hill, and together entered the church. Then

"Six marks they on the altar laid,
And Richard knelt in prayer;
She left him to pray, and stole away
To sit in St. Michael's Chair."

But, foolish woman, the place is too much for her

teaches that the wife who succeeds in sitting in it will ever after have the mastery over her husband-a privilege likewise attached to the drinking of the waters of St. Keyna's Well. Southey, in visiting the mount, took occasion to versify the tradition in connection with the story of Richard and Rebecca Penlake. The latter had, as it appears, such a virulence and such a desire for rule that the former felt bound to curb both infirmities with the cudgel; all of which Rebecca bore, secretly biding her time. Finally her chance came; for Mr. Richard Penlake, like many another stout Cornish man, fell sick and got well, and then, of course, according to the custom of the times, was obliged to make his pilgrimage to the mount to thank St. Michael for his recovery. Mer

crag. In view of this melancholy even the people would toll the bell; but we read:

"Toll at her burying,' quoth Richard Penlake-
Toll at her burying,' quoth he;
'But don't disturb the ringers now
In compliment to me.""

And thus, as the Icelandic Sagaman says, Mistress
Penlake "is out of the story."

St. Michael's Mount is a quiet, dreamy place, wholly unlike its Norman namesake. It is an institution of the past, and, after its picturesque appearance, its ancient associations form the great attraction. Stirring scenes have been enacted within and around these venerable walls. From the year 1196 to 1471 the garrison was composed of both soldiers

and monks, the carnal and spiritual elements both finding room for their exercise in the defense of the place during those turbulent times. In those days of poor artillery, strategy was resorted to by those who would gain possession of the stronghold. In the time of Edward VI. the Earl of Oxford and his followers climbed the mount in pilgrim guise, as dev- | otees of St. Michael; but, when once inside the gates, they drew their swords and made themselves masters. And it is said of the earl that what he "thus politically won he valiantly kept." Perkin Warbeck took possession in a still simpler way. Knocking at the gate, he told the monks that he was King of England, when, glad to have a royal guest, they humbly let him where he was afterward "proclaimed "king. Here also his wife, the counterfeit queen, Lady Gordon, was found and made prisoner after the sham king had been defeated. During the Cornish rebellion the mount was fiercely besieged and finally captured, after a desperate resistance, by Arundel. From that time until the present day quiet has generally reigned in the neighborhood of the mount; and, after passing into various hands, it was finally bought by Sir John St. Aubyn, whose descendants have held it for five generations.

Though the mount is now the seat of a private residence, portions of the buildings are shown to visitors. To-day the entrance is not much changed, and the chapel and refectory remain nearly as they appeared in former times. The latter has an arched and groined ceiling, and a frieze extending around four sides, representing hunting-scenes. On viewing these one recalls those monks of The Golden Legend," over the door of whose abbey were

"None of your death-heads carved in wood,
None of your saints looking pious and good,
None of your patriarchs old and shabby;
But the heads and tusks of boars,

And the cells

Hung all around with the fells Of the fallow-deer."

And if the tradition is true, that the region around the mount was once a forest, the hunting-scenes on the walls of the refectory may have been suggested by the experience of the monks themselves. In one old chronicle, the place is spoken of as the hoare rocke in the woode;" and some antiquaries prove, to their own satisfaction at least, that this region (as is indisputably the fact with regard to Mont St.-Michel, Normandy) has been submerged by the sea, which has encroached several miles. Others show, by the discovery of Roman coins, that the shores of the bay have not materially changed during the last fifteen hundred years; while the historian of tobacco is astonished at finding a pipe thirty feet underground. But these are curious questions that do not come within the range of our article, and which have far less interest for the ordinary visitor than the Chair of St. Michael, which, as already indicated, is a somewhat dangerous attraction. Those who kiss the Blarney-stone at Blarney Castle are obliged to hang over the brink of the tower head downward; but the heels must go first in the case of the person who

would sit in St. Michael's Chair, which is a place contrived by the monks evidently for the purpose of a beacon-fire to warn and guide the fishermen at sea. But the monks have now gone from the mount, never to return, and they live only in reminiscence. While across the Channel, but a few miles away, the monastic garb is the commonest of all ecclesiastical habits, the cowl is a rarity in England. The spirit of monasticism is dead; and this Cornish mount stands to-day as a fair index of the condition of English society, the family having succeeded the monastic community, which it may safely rival in the matter of good living. Yet, though the monks are no more, St. Michael's Mount, Cornwall, cannot lose its charm. Its picturesque and commanding situation, on the border of Mount's Bay, will never cease to delight the eye. Under certain atmospheric conditions, the spectacle gives full play to the imagination, and in the mirage it seems to soar away to the upper sky; while in the moonlight, seen from Marazion, the ancient resting-place of the pilgrims, four or five hundred yards distant, it heaves aloft its vast bulk with an appearance of remarkable grandeur, the architecture with which it is crowned being delicately gilded with the white heavenly light. Thus, indeed, the mount appeared to the ancient pilgrim approaching the archangel's shrine even in the common light of day, his imagination not waiting for the moon to gild the hallowed place with glory.

II.

MONT ST.-MICHEL, NORMANDY.

IN certain respects, Mont St.-Michel, of the Norman coast, bears a striking resemblance to St. Michael's, Cornwall. Like the English marvel, it is a cone of granite rising from the sea, crowned with a convent and castle. But here the resemblance in a great measure ends, since, in addition to the monastery and keep, the Norman mount bears a considerable town upon its flanks, and is fortified with almost impregnable walls.

Again, while the Cornish mount belongs exclusively to the past, the Norman St.-Michel belongs to the present. What it has been, it is to-day. The present is a reflection of the past, and at the same time the votaries of the archangel dream of bright days to come, days when the pictured prophecies that adorned the Paris Salon in the spring-time of 1875 shall be accomplished, and Mont St.-Michel, "La Merveille de l'Occident," shall reveal a splendor hitherto unknown.

In speaking of the physical peculiarities of St.Michel it should be mentioned that the mount enjoys double the elevation of its English namesake, the situation also being much more imposing. One part of the day St.-Michel is washed by the waves, while at another it appears a mountain rising-rising from a vast sandy plain, wedge-like cleaving the air: "For with the flow and ebb its style Varies from continent to isle ; Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day,

On reaching the border of the sands, St.-Michel is seen looming up grandly at a distance of more than a mile, though the effect of the view depends more or less upon the condition of the atmosphere.

Committing yourself to the ordinary track, you are safe—that is, if you wait until those who are accustomed to pass back and forth have marked it out. On approaching nearer you perceive more clearly the nature of the vast pyramidal pile, girt around to its base with medieval walls, strengthened with huge towers and bastions, designed to oppose the assault of cannon and the siege of the waves; while above the walls rises a collection of quaint stone dwellings inhabited by fishermen, and above all tower the vast conventual buildings, the castle, and the splendid Norman church. The world scarcely affords another such monument. The building of this has already consumed a thousand years. It is with a feeling of wonder that the stranger enters the grim port, climbs the steep, narrow street, passes through a second gate a hundred and fifty feet above the sands, and thus reaches a little hostelry in the town where the ordinary visitor must lodge.

And here let us pause to think for a moment about the history of Mont St.-Michel, concerning which the very stones are eloquent, though we can

by Christianity, in accordance with the decree of Constantine (A. D. 313), when the anchorites retired to this then lonely place to practise their austerities in seclusion. Finally, in 708, Aubert, Bishop of Avranche, came to the mount, when the archangel Michael appeared and bade him build a monastery. Obedient to the command the work went on, pile being added to pile, until the mount was completely transformed and it took on something of the complex grandeur that we behold to-day. Various orders of monks have flourished here, and from time to time learning has found a home. Princes have made the place their abode, and kings have ascended the narrow streets in pilgrim attire. This rock has known all the vicissitudes of the convent, castle, and prison, having served each use in turn, and sometimes all of them at once. Letters have here been cultivated by such men as the Abbot de Thorigny, and royal humility has been illustrated by such kings as Philip the Hardy and Louis XI. War has done its worst to destroy the mount. Siege-artillery has played upon the walls, and what revolutions spared has been injured by lightning and shaken by earthquake. And yet Mont St.-Michel remains in its olden majesty and grandeur to-day.

But let us not forget we are to ascend the mount, which may be accomplished by climbing the street or following the course of the walls that rise from crag to crag. The little street, whose rough pavements have so many times been trodden by barefooted kings, boasts of some little shops, full of souvenirs of the mount, chiefly suited to the tastes of peasant pil