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LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE

OF

_POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE_.

Vol XII, No. 30.

SEPTEMBER, 1873.




TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE NEW HYPERION [Illustrated] by EDWARD STRAHAN.
III. - The Feast Of Saint Athanasius.
TWO MOODS by MARY STEWART DOUBLEDAY.
THE RIDE OF PRINCE GERAINT by MARTIN I. GRIFFIN.
SKETCHES OF EASTERN TRAVEL. [Illustrated]
I. - The Count De Beauvoir In China.
A PRINCESS OF THULE by WILLIAM BLACK.
Chapter XIV. - Deeper And Deeper.
Chapter XV. - A Friend In Need.
ENGLISH COURT FESTIVITIES
RAMBLES AMONG THE FRUITS AND FLOWERS OF THE TROPICS by FANNIE R. FEUDGE.
Concluding Paper
A LOTOS OF THE NILE by CHRISTIAN REID.
ECHO. by A.J.
OUR HOME IN THE TYROL [Illustrated] by MARGARET HOWITT.
Chapter IX.
Chapter X.
COLORADO AND THE SOUTH PARK by S.C. CLARKE.
THE PATRONS OF HUSBANDRY by MARIE ROWLAND.
ON THE CHURCH STEPS by SARAH C. HALLOWELL.
Chapter VI.
Chapter VII.
Chapter VIII.
Chapter IX.
HOW THEY "KEEP A HOTEL" IN TURKEY by EDWIN DE LEON.
OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.
The Californian At Vienna by PRENTICE MULFORD.
Ghostly Warriors.
A Warning To Lovers.
NOTES.
LITERATURE OF THE DAY.
Books Received.


ILLUSTRATIONS
THE PAULISTS.
THE REWARD OF AN INVENTOR.
CARDINAL BALUE.
AN UNCIVIL ENGINEER.
LOCOMONIAC POSSESSION.
LE RAINCY: THE CHATEAU.
CATHEDRAL OF MEAUX.
BOURSAULT, THE RESIDENCE OF CLIQUOT.
CHURCH-DOOR, ÉPERNAY.
THE BEGGAR WHO DRANK CHAMPAGNE.
ADMIRATION.
MAC MEURTRIER.
THE BLACK DOMINO.
TAM O'SHANTER'S RIDE.
THE CROOKED MAN.
THE GRAVITY ROAD.
THE ANIMATED CELLS.
THE TRAVELER'S REST.
PALACE AT STRASBURG.
THE MANDARIN CHING'S CART.
HALT OF THE CARAVAN AT HO-CHI-WOU.
AVENUE OF ANIMALS LEADING TO THE TOMBS OF THE EMPERORS.
PORTICO TO THE TOMBS OF THE EMPERORS.
THE GREAT WALL: THE NANG-KAO PASS.
CHAPEL OF THE SUMMER PALACE.
VALLEY AND BEEHIVES.
COWS COMING DOWN THE HILLSIDE BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM.
A PROCESSION.




THE NEW HYPERION.

FROM PARIS TO MARLY BY WAY OF THE RHINE.

III. - THE FEAST OF SAINT ATHANASIUS.


[Illustration: THE PAULISTS.]


As I parted from my stout old friend Joliet, I saw him turn to empty
the last half of our bottle into the glasses of a couple of tired
soldiers who were sucking their pipes on a bench. And again the old
proverb of Aretino came into my head: "Truly all courtesy and good
manners come from taverns." I grasped my botany-box and pursued my
promenade toward Noisy.

The village of Noisy has made (without a pun) some noise in history.
One of its ancient lords, Enguerrand de Marigny, was the inventor
of the famous gibbet of Montfauçon, and in the poetic justice which
should ever govern such cases he came to be hung on his own gallows.
He was convicted of manifold extortions, and launched by the common
executioner into that eternity whither he could carry none of his
ill-gotten gains with him. Here, at least, we succeed in meeting a
guillotine which catches its maker. By a singular coincidence another
lord of Noisy, Cardinal Balue, underwent a long detention in an
iron-barred cage - one of those famous cages, so much favored by Louis
XI., of which the cardinal, as we learn from the records of the time,
had the patent-right for invention, or at least improvement. Once
firmly engaged in his own torture - while his friend Haraucourt, bishop
of Verdun, experienced alike penalty in a similar box, and the foxy
old king paced his narrow oratory in the Bastile tower overhead - we
may be sure that Balue gave his inventive mind no more to the task of
fortifying his cages, but rather to that of opening them.

[Illustration: THE REWARD OF AN INVENTOR.]

These ugly reminiscences were not so much the cause of a prejudice I
took against Noisy, as caused by it. At Noisy I was in the full domain
of my ancient foe the railway, where two lines of the Eastern road
separate - the Ligne de Meaux and the Ligne de Mulhouse. The sight of
the unhappy second-class passengers powdered with dust, and of the
frantic nurses who had mistaken their line, and who madly endeavored
to leap across to the other train, stirred all my bile. It was on
this current of thought that the nobleman who had been hung and the
cardinal who had pined in a cage were borne upon my memory. "Small
choice," said I, "whether the bars are perpendicular or horizontal.
You lose your independence about equally by either monopoly."

[Illustration: CARDINAL BALUE.]

I crossed the Canal de l'Ourcq, and watched it stretching like a steel
tape to meet the Canal Saint - Denis and the Canal Saint-Martin in the
great basin at La Villette - a construction which, finished in 1809,
was the making of La Villette as a commercial and industrial entrepôt.
I meant to walk to Bondy, and after a botanic stroll in its beautiful
forest to retrace my steps, gaining Marly next day by Baubigny,
Aubervilliers and Nanterre. "The Aladdins of our time," I said as I
leaned over the soft gray water, "are the engineers. They rub their
theodolites, and there springs up, not a palace, but a town."

[Illustration: AN UNCIVIL ENGINEER.]

"Who speaks of engineers?" said a strong baritone voice as a weighty
hand fell on my shoulder. "Are you here to take the train at Noisy?"

"Let the train go to Jericho! I am trying, on the contrary, to get
away from it."

"Do you mean, then, to go on foot to Épernay?"

"What do you mean, Épernay?"

"Why, have you forgotten the feast of Saint Athanasius?"

"What do you mean, Athanasius?"

The baritone belonged to one of my friends, an engineer from Boston.
He had an American commission to inspect the canals of Europe on the
part of a company formed to buy out the Sound line of steamers and
dig a ship-canal from Boston to Providence. The engineer had made
his inspection the excuse for a few years of not disagreeable travel,
during which time the company had exploded, its chief financier having
cut his throat when his peculations came out to the public.

[Illustration: LOCOMONIAC POSSESSION.]

"Are you trying, then, to escape from one of your greatest possible
duties and one of your greatest possible pleasures? You have the
remarkable fortune to possess a friend named Athanasius; you have in
addition, the strange fate to be his godfather by secondary baptism;
and you would, after these unparalleled chances, be the sole renegade
from the vow which you have extracted from the others."

The words were uncivil and rude, the hand was on my shoulder like
a vise; but there floated into my head a recollection of one of the
pleasantest evenings I have ever enjoyed.

We were dining with James Grandstone, one of my young friends. I have
some friends of whom I might be the father, and doubt not I could find
a support for my practice in Sir Thomas Browne or Jeremy Taylor if I
had time to look up the quotation. We dined in the little restaurant
Ober, near the Odéon, with a small party of medical students, to which
order Grandstone's friends mostly belonged. We were all young that
night; and truly I hold that the affectionate confusion of two or
three different generations adds a charm to friendship.

[Illustration: LE RAINCY: THE CHATEAU.]

At dessert the conversation happened to strike upon Christian names.
I attacked the cognomens in ordinary use, maintaining that their
historic significance was lost, their religious sentiment forgotten,
their euphony mostly questionable. Alfred, Henry and William no longer
carried the thoughts back to the English kings - Joseph and Reuben were
powerless to remind us of the mighty family of Israel.

"I have no complaint to make of my own name," I protested, "which
has been praised by Dannecker the sculptor. That was at Würtemberg,
gentlemen. 'You are from America,' the old man said to me, 'but you
have a German name: Paul Flemming was one of our old poets.' The
thought has been a pleasant one to me, though I have not the faintest
idea what my ancient godparent wrote. But in the matter of originality
my Christian name of Paul certainly leaves much to desire."

[Illustration: CATHEDRAL OF MEAUX.]

I was gay enough that evening, and in the vein for a paradox. I set
up the various Pauls of our acquaintance, and maintained that in any
company of fifty persons, if a feminine voice were to call out "Paul!"
through the doorway, six husbands at least would start and say,
"Coming, dear!" I computed the Pauls belonging to one of the grand
nations, and proved that an army recruited from them would be large
enough to carry on a war against a power of the second order.

"If the Jameses were to reinforce the Pauls," I declared, looking
toward my young host, "Russia itself would tremble. - Are you to make
your start in life with no better name?" I asked him maliciously.
"Must you be for ever kept in mediocrity by an address that is not
the designation of an individual, but of a whole nation? Could you not
have been called by something rather less oecumenical?"

"You may style me by what title you please, Mr. Flemming," said
Grandstone nonchalantly. "I am to enter a great New York wine-house
after a little examination of the grape-country here. Doubtless a
Grandstone will have, by any other name, a bouquet as sweet."

The idea took. An almanac of saints' days, which is often printed in
combination with the _menu_ of a restaurant, was lying on the table.
Beginning at the letter A, the name of Ambrose was within an ace of
being chosen, but Grandstone protested against it as too short,
and Athanasius was the first of five syllables that presented. Our
engineering friend, who was present, had in his pocket a vial of
water from the Dardanelles, which fouls ships' bottoms; and with that
classic liquid the baptism was effected by myself, the bottle being
broken on poor Grandstone's crown as on the prow of a ship.

"You are no longer James to us, but Athanasius," I said. "If you
remain moderately virtuous, we will canonize you. Meantime, let us
vow to meet on the next canonical day of Saint Athanasius and hold a
love-feast."

We drank his health, and glorified him, and laughed, and the next day
I forgot whether Grandstone was called Athanasius or Epaminondas. And
my confusion on the subject had not clarified in the least up to the
rude reminder given by my engineer.

"I had quite forgotten my engagement," I confessed. "Besides,
Grandstone is living now, as you remind me, at Épernay - that is to
say, at seventy or eighty miles' distance."

"Say three hours," he retorted: "on a railway line we don't count by
miles. But are you really not here at Noisy to satisfy your promise
and report yourself for the feast of Saint Athanasius? If you are not
bound for Épernay, where _are_ you bound?"

"I am off for Marly."

"You are going in just the contrary direction, old fellow. You can be
at Épernay sooner."

"And Hohenfels joins me at Marly to-morrow," I continued, rather
helplessly; "and Josephine my cook is there this afternoon boiling the
mutton-hams."

"Fine arguments, truly! You shall sleep to-night in Paris, or even
at Marly, if you see fit. I have often heard you argue against
railroads - a fine argument for a geographer to uphold against an
engineer! Now is the instant to bury your prejudice. Do you see that
soft ringlet of smoke off yonder? It is the message of the locomotive,
offering to reconcile your engagements with Grandstone and Hohenfels.
Come, get your ticket!"

[Illustration: BOURSAULT, THE RESIDENCE OF CLIQUOT.]

And his hand ceased squeezing my shoulder like a pincer to beat it
like a mallet. A rapid sketch of the situation was mapped out in my
head. I could reach Épernay by five o'clock, returning at eight, and,
notwithstanding this little lasso flung over the champagne-country, I
could resume my promenade and modify in no respect my original plan;
and I could say to Hohenfels, "My boy, I have popped a few corks with
the widow Cliquot."

Such was my vision. The gnomes of the railway, having once got me in
their grasp, disposed of me as they liked, and quite unexpectedly.

From the car-window, as in a panorama of Banvard's, the landscape spun
out before my eyes. Le Raincy, which I had intended to visit at all
events on the same day, but afoot, offered me the roofs of its ancient
château, a pile built in the most pompous spirit of the Renaissance,
and whose alternately round and square pavilions, tipped with steep
mansards, I was fain to people with throngs of gay visitors in the
costume of the _grand siècle_. Then came the cathedral of Meaux,
before which I reverently took off my cap to salute the great
Bossuet - "Eagle of Meaux," as they justly called him, and on the
whole a noble bird, notwithstanding that he sang his Te Deum over some
exceedingly questionable battle-grounds. Then there presented itself
a monument at which my engineering friend clapped his hands. It was
a crown of buildings with extinguisher roofs encircling the brow of
a hill, and presenting the antique appearance of some chastel of the
Middle Ages.

[Illustration: CHURCH-DOOR, ÉPERNAY.]

"Do you see those round, pot-bellied towers, like tuns of wine stood
upon end?" he said - "those donjons at the corners, tapering at the
top, and presenting the very image of noble bottles? There needs
nothing but that palace to convince you that you have arrived in the
champagne region."

"I do not know the building," I confessed.

"Can you not guess? Ah, but you should see it in a summer storm, when
the rain foams and spirts down those huge bottles of mason-work, and
the thunder pops among the roofs like the corks of a whole basket of
champagne! That fine castle, Flemming, is the château of Boursault,
apparently built in the era of the Crusades, but really a marvel of
yesterday. It rose into being, not to the sound of a lyre, like the
towers of Troy, but at the bursting of innumerable bottles, causing to
resound all over the world the name of the widow Cliquot."

At length we entered the station of Épernay. There I received my first
shock in learning that the only return-train stopping at Noisy was one
which left at midnight, and would land me in the extreme suburbs of
Paris at three o'clock in the morning.

Our friend Grandstone, whom we found amazing the streets of Épernay
with a light American buggy drawn by a colossal Morman horse, received
us with still more surprise than delight. He had relapsed into plain
James, and had never dreamed that his second baptism would bear fruit.
Besides, he proved to us that we were in error as to the date. The
feast of Saint Athanasius, as he showed from a calendar shoved beneath
a quantity of vintners' cards on his study-table, fell on the second
of May, and could not be celebrated before the evening of the first.
It was now the thirtieth of April. He invited us, then, for the next
day at dinner, warning us at the same time that the evening of that
same morrow would see him on his way to the Falls of Schaffhausen.
This idea of dining with an absentee puzzled me.

[Illustration: THE BEGGAR WHO DRANK CHAMPAGNE.]

We both laughed heartily at the engineer's mistake of twenty-four
hours, and he for his part made me his excuses.

Athanasius - whose name I obstinately keep, because it gives him, as
I maintain, a more distinct individuality, - Athanasius happened to
be driving out for the purpose of collecting some friends whom he was
about to accompany to Schaffhausen, and whom he had invited to dinner.
He contrived to stow away two in his buggy, and the rest assembled in
his chambers. We dined gayly and voraciously, and I hardly regretted
even that old hotel-dinner at Interlaken, when the landlord waited on
us in his green coat, and when Mary Ashburton was by my side, and
when I praised hotel-dinners because one can say so much there without
being overheard.

Dinner over, we went out for a stroll through the town. The city of
Épernay offers little remarkable except its Rue du Commerce, flanked
with enormous buildings, and its church, conspicuous only for
a flourishing portal in the style of Louis XIV., in perfect
contradiction to the general architecture of the old sanctuary. The
environs were little note worthy at the season, for a vineyard-land
has this peculiarity - its veritable spring, its pride of May, arrives
in the autumn.

[Illustration: ADMIRATION.]

One very vinous trait we found, however, in the person of a beggar. He
was sitting on Grandstone's steps as we emerged. Aged hardly fourteen,
he had turned his young nose toward the rich fumes coming up from the
kitchen with a look of sensuality and indulgence that amused me. The
maid, on a hint of mine, gave him a biscuit and the remainders of
our bottles emptied into a bowl. A smile of extreme breadth and
intelligence spread over his face. Opening his bag, he laid by the
biscuit, and extracted a morsel of iced cake: at the same time he
produced an old-fashioned, long-waisted champagne-glass, nicked at the
rim and quite without a stand. Filling this from his bowl, he drank to
the health of the waitress with the easiest politeness it was ever my
lot to see. Ragged as a beggar of Murillo's, courteous as a hidalgo
by Velasquez, he added a grace and an epicurism completely French.
I thought him the best possible figure-head for that opulent spot,
cradle of the hilarity of the world. I gave him five francs.

[Illustration: MAC MEURTRIER.]

We proceeded to admire the town. The great curiosities of Épernay,
its glory and pomp, are not permitted to see the daylight. They
are subterranean and introverted. They are the cellars. Those rich
colonnades of Commerce street, all those porticoes surmounted with
Greek or Roman triangles in the nature of pediments, of what antique
religion are they the representations? They are cellar-doors.

[Illustration: THE BLACK DOMINO.]

It was impossible to quit the city without visiting its cellars, said
Grandstone, and we betook ourselves under his guidance to one of the
most renowned.

I only thought of seeing a battle-field of bottles, but I found the
Eleusinian mysteries.

[Illustration: TAM O'SHANTER'S RIDE.]

In the temple-porch of Eleusis was fixed a large pale face, in the
middle parts of which a red nose was glowing like a fuse. Several
other personages, in company with this visage, received us on our
approach with a world of solemn and terrifying signals.

Directly a man in a cloak and slouched hat, and holding in his hands
a wire fencing-mask, extinguished with it the red nose. The latter
met his fate with stolid fortitude. All were perfectly still, but the
twitching cheeks of most of the spectators betrayed a laugh retained
with difficulty. The cloak then advanced, like a less beautiful Norma,
to a bell in the portico, and struck three tragical strokes. A strong,
pealing bass voice came from the interior: "Who dares knock at this
door?"

"A night-bird," said the man in the cloak, who took the part of
spokesman. "What has the night-bird to do with the eagle?" replied the
strong voice. "What can there be in common between the heathen in
his blindness and the Ancient of the Mountain throned in power and
splendor?"

"Grand Master, it is in that splendor the new-comer wishes to plunge."
After this imitation of some Masonic mystery the red-nosed man was
quickly taken by the shoulders and hurtled in at the door, where a
flare of red theatrical fire illuminated his sudden plunge.

"What nonsense is this?" I said to Athanasius.

"The man in the iron mask," he explained, "is in that respect what we
shall all be in a minute. Without such a protector, in passing amongst
the first year's bottles we might receive a few hits in the face."

"And do you know the new apprentice?"

"No: some stranger, evidently."

[Illustration: THE CROOKED MAN.]

"It is not hard to guess his extraction," said one of our
dinner-party. "In the East there are sorcerers with two pupils in each
eye. For his part, he seems to be braced with two pans in each
knee. He is long in the stilts like a heron, square - headed and
square-shouldered: I give you my word he is a Scotchman. For certain,"
he added, "I have seen his likeness somewhere - Ah yes, in an engraving
of Hogarth's!"

The author of this charitable criticism was a little crooked
gentleman, at whose side I had dined - a man of sharpness and wit, for
which his hunch gave him the authority. As we penetrated finally into
the immense crypt, long like a street, provided with iron railways
for handling the stores, and threaded now and then by heavy wagons and
Normandy horses, my interest in the surrounding wonders was distracted
by apprehensions of the fate awaiting the unfortunate red nose.

[Illustration: THE GRAVITY ROAD]

The gallop of a steed was heard at length, then a dreadful exploding
noise. I should have thought that a hundred drummers were marching
through the catacombs.

Relieved of his mask, fixed like a dry forked stick, wrong side
foremost, on a frightened steed which galloped down the avenue, and
pursued by the racket of empty bottles beaten against the wine-frames,
came the Scotchman, like an unwilling Tam O'Shanter. At a new outburst
of resonant noises, which we could not help offering to the general
confusion, the horse stopped, and assumed twice or thrice the attitude
of a gymnast who walks on his hands. The figure of the man, still
rigid, flew up into the air like a stick that pops out of the water.
The Terrible Brothers received him in their arms.

Hardly restored to equilibrium, the patient was quickly replaced in
the saddle, but the saddle was this time girded upon a barrel, and the
barrel placed upon a truck, and the truck upon an inclined tramway.
His impassive countenance might be seen to kindle with indignation and
horror, as the hat which had been jammed over his eyes flew off,
and he found himself gliding over an iron road at a rate of speed
continually increasing.

He was fated to other tests, but at this point a little discussion
arose among ourselves. Grandstone, his fluffy young whiskers
quite disheveled with laughter, said, "Fellows, we had better stop
somewhere. There will be more of this, and it will be tedious to see
in the rôle of uninvited spectators, and it is not certain we are
wanted. I always knew there was a Society of Pure Illumination at
Épernay. It is not a Masonic order, but it has its signs, its passes,
its grips, and in a word its secret. I have recognized among
these gentlemen some active members of the order - among others,
notwithstanding his disguise, a jolly good fellow we have here,
Fortnoye."

"You cannot have seen Fortnoye," said one of the party: "he is at
Paris."

"And who is your Fortnoye, pray?" I asked.

"The best tenor voice in Épernay; but his presence here does not give
_me_ an invitation, you see. The Society of Pure Illumination has
its rites and mysteries more important than everybody supposes,
and probably complicated with board-of-trade secrets among the
wine-merchants. We have hit upon a bad time. Let us go and visit
another cellar."

There was opposition to this measure: different opinions were
expressed, and I was chosen for moderator.

"My dear boys," I said, "as the grayest among you I may be presumed to
be the wisest. But I do not feel myself to be myself. I have received
to-day a succession of unaccustomed influences. I have been dragged
about by an impertinent locomotive; I have been induced to dine
heavily; I have absorbed champagne, perhaps to the limit of my
measure. These are not my ordinary ways: I am naturally thoughtful,
studious and pensive. The Past, gentlemen, is for me an unfaded
morning-glory, whose closed cup I can coax open at pleasure, and read
within its tube legends written in dusted gold. But the Present to the
true philosopher is also - In fact, I never was so much amused in my
life. I am dying to see what they will do with that Scotchman."

[Illustration: THE ANIMATED CELLS]

Athanasius submitted. At the end of one of the cross galleries we
could already see a flickering glimmer of torches. There, evidently,
was held the council. We stole on tiptoe in that direction, and
ensconced ourselves behind a long file of empty bottle-shelves, worn
out after long service and leaning against a wall.

Through the holes which had fixed the bottles in position we could see
everything without being discovered. The grand dignitaries, sitting
in a semicircle, were about to proceed from physical to moral tests.


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