scending the mountains, in pastor Joseph's absence, to the old church of Angrogna, came his small but faithful flock-Victor and Renee Constant, a twin brother and sister, hand in hand as usual, leading the march. They were a year younger than Gueslin Rosa, and as much alike as brother and sister could be. Each had the same clear brown complexion, the same frank and modest look. It was a proverb on the hills, how they toiled together in field and vineyard; how they had worked and cared for their younger sisters ever since their parents' death, through the long and frequent absence of their uncle. Of the two girls who followed, Clare was like her sister Rence; but a casual observer might have noted that her shining hair was arranged to the best advantage under the gay handkerchief which, for many a generation, had formed the only head-dress of the mountain maids and matrons, and the simple linen gown was fastened with a knot of rose-coloured ribbon. The youngest, Louisin, whom Gueslin had saved from the wolf, was not yet grown to womanhood-a fair, slender girl, with hair like the ripe corn, and a look so wisely innocent, that one might marvel to see it in a world of so much folly and sin: she resembled none of the Constants, and, though much beloved, was but an adopted child. The little hamlet knew that some time before the plague a poor frozen woman, with a baby in her bosom, came one winter night to Jacob Constant's door. The kind pastor took her in, but she only lived till morning, and all they heard of her sorrows or history was what Joseph said when they laid her in the Angrogna churchyard, that she had been a Vaudois, and came through strange tribulations for her faith. The child she left was brought up in Jacob's household. His children called her sister, and all the valley, Louisin Constant. Close behind her came old Gaston Renaud, the shepherd. He said the place had been named from one of his ancestors who came up and rested there when the red-cross men wasted the Lyonese country with fire and sword; that his father had fought for the valleys against the army of Count de la Trinité, and himself remembered two persecutions. The old man's hair was long and white as the glaciers, but he looked like an oak that might weather many a winter, and needed no staff to help him up the rock, but the arm of his second son, Humbert. Humbert was a dark handsome man, but his bearing was somewhat too stately for a shepherd son, and his glance discovered a high and fiery spirit, which at times went beyond the meekness of his faith and people. Next came his elder brother, Jaspar, with his wife Ambroisine-a simple homely pair as their father and mother had been; but the one led little Jaspar, and the other little Ambroisine along by the tiny hand. The youngest, Claude, a grave, gentle youth, had devoted himself to the pastoral office, studied in the ancient school of the barbes, which stood deep in the Pra del Torre, and was about to be the companion of pastor Joseph in his missionary wanderings. The procession was closed by Carlo and Phillibert du Roche, the hunter brothers, with their earnest eyes and weather-beaten faces, best coats of chamois skin, and long mountain rifles, brightly scoured, and ready to fire the wedding salute. Welcome friends!" cried the mother and son in a breath, for both were gratified by the little attention, but their greetings were scarcely uttered when the bridegroom's train appeared. Few steeds could be trusted to climb the mountain paths, but the Castellan Bazzano came, as his rank required, on Lorseback, with scarlet doublet, and mantle lined with miniver. Close by his side, in full canonicals, and mounted on a trusty mule, rode father Bernardo, the Dominican prior, who had charge of his grandmother's conscience for the last thirty years, and came at her express desire to perform the ceremony. Next a mule for his bride, covered with scarlet cloth, was led on by two young pages. His trumpeter, bearing the banner of his house, marched slowly before him, and his armed retainers, in buff coats and steel caps, brought up the rear. The noble Castellan, Robert del Bazzano-so ran his titles-was descended, though not in the direct line, from one of the noblest and most reduced families in Savoy, and at the period of our story was seigneur of their ancient fortalice and greatly diminished land situated on the Piedmontese frontier and in the shadow of Mount Cenis. The Castellan had strong expectations from his grandmother on the maternal side, a châtelaine in her own right, and marchioness dowager of Susa. He had served the duchess Maria Christine with credit in the war she waged with her two brothers-in-law for the regency of Savoy, and was a soldier-like gentleman of Europe's rough old times, with grizzling hair, and nothing remarkable about him except a disquiet look, which came over his brow at times in the security of his own castle and even in festive hours. Some said it arose from fears regarding his grandmother's testament, for she was a rigid devotee, while the Castellan was by no means zealous in his religion; others whispered that he had reached his inheritance by help of the Inquisition; but nothing of that was known in the Shepherd's-rest. Such, then, were the two different processions that had now approached the old tower. A TOUCH OF THE MYSTERIOUS. Or all stories that are told none have so absorbing an influence over the human mind as a ghost story. This remark, perhaps, might have been made years ago with even greater propriety than at the present time, for as knowledge has become more generally diffused, and superstitious tales been subjected to a closer scrutiny, much that was once believed is now discredited. There is, however, still a disposition very hastily to attribute to supernatural causes such events as cannot on common principles be explained. As in seasons of danger every quailing heart takes away from the confidence of those around, so in cases of mystery every one that gives in his adhesion to error becomes a traitor to the truth, and betrays the cause which he ought to investigate. But to our tale. We go back to a period when, with youth sparkling in our eyes, hope told us many a flattering tale of those years through which we have since passed. We were then living in a populous town, whose reputation for useful and ornamental manufactures is wide as the world. A report was suddenly spread around, that in the habitation of a certain tailor the windows were broken in an unknown and most mysterious manner. Great was the sensation produced by this wondrous announcement, and we were among the first who hastened to the spot. On arriving at the house we found it a scene of confusion. Neighbours were going in and out; strangers were arriving from more distant localities, drawn there by the strange reports which had reached them; and the tailor and his wife, seemingly half beside themselves, were doing their best to satisfy the continual inquiries that were made. In the midst of the hurry and consternation which prevailed, every now and then there came a crash of the windowpanes, and down came the jingling glass on the kitchen floor and the pavement in the yard. The house of the tailor was at the corner of the street, and the large window of the kitchen, which was glazed with small panes, looked into the yard, beyond which stood a few low buildings, with a garden adjoining. House, yard, and garden were promenaded by the much excited visitors of the place, in the vain attempt to discover the unseen cause of wonder. Such a state of things could not long exist without a great increase of excitement. From a private affair it became a public occurrence; and every hour, rumour, with her hundred tongues, called forth the curiosity of the young and the old, so that women and children, apprentices, working men, and masters, hurried off to the habitation of the tailor. There they saw the devastation which had taken place, and there, from time to time, they witnessed with their own eyes the mysterious crashing of the window-panes. Wondering they came, and wondering still more they went away. Those who visited the house went away awed by what they had seen, while others who had not been there were affected by their reports in a similar manner. The affair became far too serious to be kept uninvestigated, for the neighbourhood was in alarm. The constable and officers of police-runners," they then called them-came in a body to inspect the premises; but while all of them were present, the windows continued to be broken as before. In vain they went up-stairs and down, kept their eyes in all directions, and posted themselves in different places; it was all to no purpose. The mystery was yet unrevealed, and the devastation still continued. And now a consultation, at which we were present, was held, the constable, a man proverbially shrewd, taking the lead. After many suggestions, the general opinion seemed to be that the missiles which did the mischief were projected from a distance by the aid of a cross-bow, an air-gun, or some instrument of a like kind. It was therefore agreed to set watchers on the top of the house to ascertain the direction in which the stones were cast, and to extend their search far beyond the tailor's premises. This plan was at once put into operation, but with as little success as before. The watchers on the house-top declared that the stones flew too quickly for them to see them; and the examination of the surrounding premises afforded no clue to unravel the mystery. In spite of the constable and police, on went the breaking of the windows. All at once a strange occurrence came to light, which added greatly to the mystery that prevailed, and altogether changed its character, for it was observed that the lead which had held the broken window-panes was bent outwards, thereby exciting suspicion that the mischief was done from the inside of the house. Before this discovery it was usually supposed that some neighbour, who owed the tailor a grudge, had in some way cast the stones, but now the belief gained ground that the house was haunted. People gravely shook their heads, and said all was not right in the tailor's dwelling: there must be something wicked there, that broke his window-panes. The report of the tailor's house being haunted spread rapidly; but as some still held the opinion that the glass was broken from without, it was proposed that a large sheet should be suspended outside the window-pane. This plan of proceeding was adopted, but, lo and behold! the glass was broken just as before-the stones, in the apprehension of many present, passing through the sheet, and leaving no hole. Amazement and fear rose to their climax. It was now a settled thing that the house was assuredly haunted. At this period, groups might be seen in different parts of the premises, whispering together, or talking with suppressed voices. The bent lead had done much, but the untorn sheet had done still more in convincing the sceptical and confirming the wavering in the belief that an evil agent was at work. Little doubt was entertained by several that some dreadful deed had there been perpetrated. Had it not been so, such mysterious things would never have taken place. Many who had laughed became grave, and not a few were thoroughly convinced that the windows had been broken by an evil spirit. We are all wont, when an affair of mystery has been explained, to smile derisively at those who were impressed or puzzled by it, and to think that we ourselves should have acted with less simplicity; but let him who has the strongest mind first hear the report, that in a house said to be haunted, stones were thrown through a sheet without making a hole in it, and then, hastening to the spot, find himself in the position of seeing with his own eyes the jingling and broken glass falling from a window, while twenty people were gazing upon it from the one side, and a white sheet suspended over it from the other; let him witness, too, the pale faces, the wonder, the awe, and the fear, of the weaker-minded around him, and we doubt not that he will feel the infirmities of humanity working within him. We were, as we have already said, much younger when the occurrence we have described took place than we are now. We had not seen what we have since witnessed, and were little capable of forming a correct judgment in a case of mystery. No wonder that we were carried along by the stream, and ready to adopt the opinions of those older than ourselves. On went the breaking of the large window in the kitchen, till not a pane of glass remained whole, and now and then a square in the chamber window was smashed. Towards night, however, visitors became few, and at last the house was quiet; but while the little girl who acted as a servant was in the cellar, brick ends came thundering at the door, and no soover did she go up to bed than she ran down-stairs again, shrieking out fearfully; six or seven pans in her window had been broken. On the morrow the mysterious occurrences of the preceding day were renewed, and visitors increased in number, hour after hour, wondering what would be the end of the marvellous events which had taken place. A strange story seldom loses anything in its progress, nor did that of the haunted house. The wildest reports went abroad, and found plenty of people ready to believe them. We had been into the yard with the constable, where we met the little girl crying out that she had been struck by a stone, and we had been into the garden, where people were watching on the walls, when two or three friends came to us; so we all entered the house together. Not long had we been together in the kitchen, which was more than half full of people, before, to the fearful astonishmes of all, hot burning coals came tumbling down upon us from the ceiling. There was a general cry out from the assembled company, and some made a precipitate retreat into the yard. It seemed as though something terrible was coming upon the habitation. Surprise and dread were visible in every face as the hot coals were seen rolling and smoking on the floor. Things had now run their length, and the mysterious occurrences of the haunted house were drawing to a close. Hitherto they had proceeded almost without a check. The constable was at fault, the police had been baffled, the watchers had made no discovery, and those who had visited the house, for the greater part, had rather indulged their superstitious fears than exercised their judgment. The unseen stones, the outward-bent lead, the unrent sheet, the brick ends, and the hot burning coals, had succeeded each other in a way admirably calculated to impress unreflecting minds with surprise and consternation; but the end was now come. The thought had occurred to one to adopt a more simple method of unravelling the mystery, for he felt certain in his own mind that some one belonging to the house was the unseen agent that had done all the mischief: who that agent was, of course he could not tell. The tailor himself was not at all likely to break his own windows, and his wife was evidently too fearfully affected by what had taken place to be for a moment suspected. The little servant girl was altogether out of the question, for she was not more than eleven or twelve years old, and had seemingly been more terrified than any other person. There were two or three children, but the eldest of them was from home during the day, and the others were quite young. As suspicion, therefore, had so little to rest on, he who had determined, if possible, to discover the truth, resolved to watch. While others were differently occupied, he kept his eyes on those belonging to the house, and soon saw the little girl go behind the company, and throw, while their backs were towards her, some coals over their heads against the ceiling. It seems strange that this thought of watching the inmates of the house had occurred to no one before. There was now but one course to be taken; the girl was at once delivered over to the care of the constable, and taken to prison, where, terrified by the fear of punishment, she made a full confession. That so young a creature could have acted so bold and so sinful a part seemed, at first, almost impossible, but afterwards it appeared but too plain that she, and she alone, was the guilty perpetrator of all that had taken place. Some trifling disagreement with her mistress having awakened in her heart a desire of revenge, she broke a pane of glass, not intending to do more mischief, but seeing the passion into which her mistress fell, she was too much gratified not to proceed. Another pane was broken, her enjoyment keeping pace with the vexation of her mistress. On witnessing the surprise of the people who came flocking to see the demolished glass, and perceiving that she was not suspected, her desire of revenge subsided into a desire to call forth in a still greater degree the fear and wonder of all around. Thus led on by her morbid pleasure, and becoming bolder and bolder by her success, she for a time bid defiance to all the plans that were devised to discover the cause of the alarm she had occasioned. Taking the advantage of her tender age and her freedom from suspicion, she provided herself with stones, bits of tile and brick, and other things, and took care not to throw them till she could do so without being seen. In a little room beside the kitchen she hid her store of missiles in the best way she could. When the constable was there, she came limping along the yard, crying, as if injured by a stone. When the kitchen was thronged with people who looked towards the window, she fearlessly threw her stones from behind them. At night, when the house was quiet, she went down into the cellar, where finding some brick ends, she crept with them up through the cellar window into the yard, and threw them with all her might at the house door, hastily descending again through the window, and running up the cellar steps as if in great alarm. Hardly have we a similar instance of youthful audacity and depravity. On going up to bed, this young, artful delinquent seized hold of a quart bottle by the neck, and with it smashed to pieces six or eight window-panes, running downstairs after, and saying she was afraid to stop, for that the stones were coming as fast as ever. And when a gaping throng in the kitchen were looking up at the broken window, she boldly took a shovel of red coals from the fire, and threw them up against the ceiling over the heads of the astonished assembly, of which we ourselves formed a part. Truly she was a marvel of juvenile delinquency. Revenge, deceit, and depravity were her crimes, and imprisonment and a private whipping were her recompence. It is difficult to conceive how from such simple causes such an amount of amazement and consternation could arise; but as, when looking through a coloured glass, every object assumes the hue of the medium through which it is regarded, so when once the mind is impressed with the marvellous, common events becoine mysterious. Very many, and we among them, were ashamed of the silly opinions they had entertained. The habit of thoroughly investigating cases of mystery is a good one, and he who by adopting it scatters a superstitious delusion to the winds, has rendered a service to mankind. We ought ever to be open to WINTER PLANTS: THE IVY. ONE derives additional pleasure on looking at the ivy-covered old building, or ruin, from the fact that the verdant boughs of the plant have probably rather shielded it from harm than hastened its decay. The long creeping stems, interlacing each other, have served to hold it the firmer against wind and weather; and the grace which they lend to the crumbling wall, or the broken tower, is such, that we should greatly regret their absence. "Who loves not, At happy distance, to discover thus The house of God uplift its ancient walls, But if the ivy protects the building, we cannot say that it does no injury to the forest tree to which it often clings, sending its green honours up to the to most twig of the patriarch of the forest, and making its old and gnarled branches so beautiful by its greenness, even amid the snows of winter, that we are willing to see it there, though it may tend, ultimately, to the fall of the tree itself. conviction when reasonable evidence is presented; | vels through the woods and lanes; when nor oak, but were a hundred popular ghost-stories to be nor hawthorn, nor hazel bough, gives even the rigidly examined, not one among them, perhaps, smallest shelter, then the little birds, so merry and would stand the test of truth better than the joyous in summer, come mournfully to seek the relation we have given. protection of the well-clad ivy bough. And when the early spring comes back with winds almost as wild and cold as those of winter itself, the blackbird and thrush are glad to betake themselves to the ivy, to find some covering for their nests. "Ere a leaf is on the bush," the ivy is green, for it is ever verdant; and among its tufts their homes may be secluded. Then, too, both its flowers and berries come just at the season when bees and butterflies and singing-birds stand most in need of them; and when we mark how plentiful is the ivy itself about our country-places, and see the immense number of berries which it produces, we discover how God cares for all his living family. During the month of October the flowers of this evergreen are in blossom; and few flowers then remain of the summer wild garland, and not many blossoms are left on the cultured parterre, so that there is little on which the bees and flies and other winged insects can feed, save the ivy blossoms. We need only observe the plant on a fine autumnal day, to see of what use it is to the insect race. Flies and other small winged creatures come swarming thither; and though most of the summer butterflies have passed away, yet those autumnal beauties, the admiral and peacock butterflies, revel in the nectar of the yellow ivy flower. November arrives with its colder days, and few gleams of sunshine, and flowers are almost all gone, and insects have died, or hidden themselves to wait for spring, and thousands of berries are beginning to form on the ivy bough, which are to serve as food for some of our sweetest singingbirds. These increase in size during the winter, and by February are fully grown, while in March and April they are ripe, and fit food for the birds during the early spring; and the fieldfare, and the blackbird, and others of the thrush family, and probably birds of other families too, are at this season sustained by their dry and mealy pulp. The nipping frosts of winter have rendered the sweet brier hip and the hawthorn, and other berries, a tasteless meal, or scattered them from the bough; but this same frost leaves the ivy berry uninjured, and the missel thrush-the storm cock, as he is sometimes called-lives almost entirely on them. The mistletoe, with its crystal and glutinous berry, is indeed a welcome refreshment to the missel thrushes; but our old British remembrancer of ancient forests and Druidical superstitions is rare, compared with the plentiful ivy bush, that these birds must starve if they could not repair to the latter. The naked seeds which lie inclosed in the berry have, especially if swollen with moisture, some resemblance to grains of wheat; and Ray, in his " Catalogue of English Plants," published in 1670, records, in Latin, a tradition founded on this resemblance. The words have been thus explained: "The seeds, when removed from the berries, resemble grains of wheat; and when found in open spaces, and upon the roofs of buildings, where they had been scattered by birds, have given occasion to the common people, credulous of prodigies, to rumour that the heavens have rained down wheat." "Should aught be unlovely which thus can shed Grace on the dying, and leaves on the dead ?” The woodman has a notion that it keeps the trees warm, and does them good. And there are writers who still affirm that its embraces around the trunk are quite harmless. But even twining plants of less strength of stem, and of softer texture than this, are more or less injurious to the trees on which they grow, effecting a strangulation on the stems, or boughs and branches. Their pressure at first may be but slight; but as the curling stems become more woody, it is very considerable, for the coils which wind about the tree are in scarcely any species enlarged in capacity so fast as is the diameter of the trunk or boughs encircled by chem. The Rev. W. J. Bree remarks, that deep weals are often inflicted on the solid wood-positive STOOves, occasioned by the tight pressure of the vy; while young trees of small dimensions are often to be seen clogged with ivy, almost to suffocation, and their growth and vigour accordingly impaired. But if we must admit that some injuries are done by our graceful evergreen to forest trees, yet not only for its beauty do we welcome it in hedge or woodland, but for the great delight and use which it is to various birds, to some animals, and to the myriads of the insect race. We cannot tell what some of these would do without the ivy. When the winter winds are raving with pitiless fury among the boughs; when the brown leaves, in eddying masses, whirl about the wayfarer who tra The ivy is plentiful in most of the woodlands and hedges of our native land, and is the subject of comparison to many of our own poets. Now we find its parasitic usurpation alluded to in words of disfavour: "The ivy, which had hid my princely trunk, And suck'd my verdure out on't.' Again, we find the poet deeming its mantle a cheerless object, as Carrington describes it to be in his beautiful poem of " Dartmoor:" Thy walls now trembling to the western gale, While our loved poet Cowper says of it : "The creeping ivy clings to wood and stone, Frequent as it is, however, in our own island, it is far more so in the Isle of Jersey, where it is so remarkably plentiful as to render even the sea-shore verdant by its foliage. Inglis remarks of it: "There is one picturesque feature which enters into every view of Jersey; it is, that the trunks of the trees are, I may say without exception, covered with ivy, which not only adds to the beauty of the scenery when the trees are in leaf, but which greatly softens the sterility of the winter prospect, and gives a certain greenness to the landscape throughout the year. Nor is the luxuriant growth of the ivy in Jersey confined to the trees; it covers banks by the waysides, creeps over the oaks, and even climbs the rocks by the sea-shore. About two miles to the east of St. Heliers there are several elevated rocks, the bases of which are washed at high water, and which, higher up, are entirely overgrown with ivy; and from the natural outline of these rocks, and their green coverings, they have all the appearance of ruins.” Many etymologies have been cited for the botanical name of the ivy, hedera; but the best seems that which assigns its origin to the Celtic word hedra, a cord. The Italians commonly call it edera, and the Spaniards hiedra, but the latter people include, under this general name, several climbing plants as well as the ivy. In France the plant is termed le lierre. The five-lobed angular glossy leaves are very handsome, whether they have the tender delicate hue of the young foliage, or form the graceful dark sprays of the older bough, and have, as in some cases, the greenish white veins so conspicuously crossing the surface. The flowers grow in clusters, are small and of a pale green, and the smooth berries are quite black. When the house is decked at Christmas time with the rich glossy leaves and glowing berries of the holly, and when the clear gem-like drops of the mistletoe mingle with its paler green leaves, the ivy and its cluster of ebon berries is often their companion in the Christmas garland. In some parts of Kent the practice is common, or was so during the childhood of the writer, of dipping the cluster in an infusion of indigo, in order to render them of a blue tint for the occasion; and the important business of preparing the ivy berries for the festive ornament was often the pleasant occupation of the children of the household during Christmas eve. Bernard Barton has very touchingly referred to similar old usages: "And these are they who on this social eve Fresh and unfading: they may be antique, And those who live and die there, love to seek The blameless bliss they yield, for unto them they speak. * And therefore do they deck their walls with green; It is The variety of the evergreen commonly called the giant or Irish ivy is much cultivated as an ornamental evergreen, both because of its large and handsome foliage, and for its very rapid growth. It is generally thought to be merely a variety of our common ivy, and not a distinct species. said by Loudon to be a native of Madeira. The common ivy is much used in gardens, not only to cover walls and buildings with its glossy leaves, and to make green bowers, but also to train over wire baskets, or to interlace the wooden vases and baskets which sometimes look so beautiful with their rich clumps of pelargoniums, calceolarias, and other garden flowers. The old practice of making figures of animals or men in a wire framework, and covering them with ivy, is not general now as it once was, though still existing in some gardens. Sheep eat the leaves of the ivy, and when they find them in the hedge or on the borders of the copses, appear to take great delight in them. The berries are very bitter, and have emetic properties. During the old visitations of the plague, once so prevalent in our land, at periods when men took infusions of the butter-bur as a remedy, and called it the plague-flower, and when various herbs obtained some repute as medicines for this dire disease, an infusion of the ivy berries in vinegar was considered very efficacious, though the modern practitioner finds no virtue in them. In older times, the ivy wreath, worn about the head, was supposed to prevent drunkenness, or, at least, to dissipate the effects of wine. It was on this account, probably, that the ancients crowned Bacchus with a wreath of this evergreen. There is a peculiar odour partaken by every part of the ivy, and when the old stems are bruised an aromatic resin exudes from them. This plant is common in some parts of Africa, and some of the old trunks in that country exude a great quantity of this secretion, which is called ivy gum, and which yields, on burning, an aroma of great power and sweetness. The ivy gum has been substituted for gum Bassorah, and is used to allay pain in carious teeth. Professor Burnett remarks, however, of this substance, that, though called gum, it contains much more resin and lignum than gum. |