Read Ebook: Boys' Make-at-Home Things by Bailey Carolyn Sherwin Bailey Marian Elizabeth

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Sir John Howard, Mabel's grandfather, was able to buy Bobby of the Zoological Society, who had bought him of a sailor from Calcutta so Mabel had her pet again.

He seemed the same intelligent, affectionate bird as ever. He had forgotten nothing he had ever known; but he had learned some rather rough sayings of the sailors, on his voyage from India, which did not go very well with the good things his gentle little mistress had taught him. But for all that, he was a great comfort to her, and she never was homesick any more.

After a few years, Mabel's papa, mamma, and little brother came to England to live--never to return to India. Ah, there was a joyful meeting one morning, in Leicester Square. Sir John and Lady Howard were overjoyed to see their darling only son again; and he, bronzed and weather-beaten soldier as he was, felt as glad to get home as he had ever been when he was a homesick school-boy at Eton. Mrs. Howard was welcomed as a real daughter, and her beautiful little boy almost smothered with kisses. Mabel was half wild with happiness, and her parents were surprised and delighted to find her grown so healthy and handsome. The faithful Katuka kissed the hands of her master and mistress with tears of joy--while Bobby, grown impatient at not being noticed, called out sharply from his perch--"Avast there shipmates! what a hullabaloo! Bobby wants breakfast!"

St. Paul's Cathedral

STORY OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

The Cathedral Church of St. Paul's is the largest religious edifice in London, and one of the largest in the world. It stands on high ground in the centre of the city, and can be seen for a long distance in several directions, though it is too closely surrounded by other large buildings to show to the best advantage. It is less beautiful than some of the old English minsters, but in size grander than any. It is built in the form of a Greek cross, and covers more than two acres of ground. The dome is nearly as large as that of St. Peter's, at Rome, and from every part of the vast city of London you can see it looming up toward the sky--a dark, stupendous object--sometimes gilded by the setting sun, sometimes wreathed by the mists of morning. The dome is surmounted by a cupola, called "the lantern," over which is placed an immense ball of gilt copper, weighing five thousand six hundred pounds, and bearing above it a gilt cross, weighing three thousand six hundred pounds.

The interior of the cathedral is very grand, but rather dark and gloomy, even under the great central light of the dome--except when viewed by a very clear sunshine, the rarest thing in the world in "great London town;" for what with the smoke, the fog, and the rain, the poor old sun has few opportunities of making himself agreeable to the Londoners. But when he does get a chance to shine, he seems to make the most of it, and surely nothing can be more pleasant than a right sunny morning in London. On such a morning we visited St. Paul's Cathedral.

Before ascending to the dome, we wandered about for some time in the nave and transept, examining with much interest the monuments, statues, and tablets, erected in honor of celebrated English poets, artists, soldiers, naval heroes, and statesmen, and seeking out the famous epitaph of the noble architect, and the great and good man, Sir Christopher Wren. This is in Latin, but translated, reads thus:--

"Beneath lies Christopher Wren, the architect of this church and city, who lived more than ninety years, not for himself alone, but for the public. Reader, do you seek his monument? look around!"

About the interior of the dome are a series of pictures, illustrating the life of St. Paul. An incident occurred during the painting of these which I will relate, as a remarkable instance of presence of mind. The artist, Sir James Thornhill, painted standing on a scaffold, erected of course at a great height from the ground. This scaffold was securely built, but not protected by any railing. One day, while fortunately a friend was with him watching him at his work--having just finished the head of one of the apostles, he forgot where he was, and with his hand over his eyes, stepped hastily backward, to see how the picture would look from a distance. In a moment he stood on the very edge of the platform; another step--another inch backward were certain death! His friend dared not speak, for fear of startling him; but catching up a large brush, he dashed it over the face of the apostle, smearing the picture shockingly. Sir James sprang forward instantly, crying out:

Within the dome is "The Whispering Gallery." This is surely very curious; the least whisper breathed against the wall at a certain point, being distinctly heard on the opposite side of the gallery, or making the entire inner circle of the great dome. After a long, weary ascent of very dirty and dark staircases, we reached the cupola, and great London and its environs lay beneath us! Oh, what a wide and wonderful view was that! It was almost overwhelming--and so bewildered me at first, that I could not clearly make out any thing. But soon that dizziness of astonishment passed away, and I began to recognize, one after another, places and buildings that had grown familiar to me. There was Hyde Park, looking at that distance like a plantation of young trees; there was Buckingham Palace, the new palace of Westminster, and the grand old Abbey. I could see the flash of the fountains in Trafalgar Square, and trace the silver winding of the Thames, through miles on miles of docks and warehouses, under dark bridges, past darker prisons, far up into the green and smiling country, and far down toward the blue and shining sea. There was the Tower, which, though not a dark or dilapidated building, always has a guilty, gloomy look,--after you know what it is. There was the Monument, towering toward the sky, in memory of the great conflagration in London, when, where those magnificent buildings now stand, were piles and masses of fire--and great flames going up in red columns, to heaven.

Brightly shone the sun on hundreds of spires and domes, cheerily lighting up all that vast scene beneath us; the wide, elegant streets, open squares and parks of the town, and the busy crowded streets and narrow lanes of the city. The kindly rays fell just as warmly and clearly into the dark and damp courts of the miserable parish of St. Giles, as on to the noble terraces and into the palace gardens of fashionable West End. Oh, the beautiful sunshine! God's manna of light--falling for the poor as well as for the rich.

While standing on that lofty balcony, I could but faintly hear that great noise of business and travel, which roars along London streets, without ceasing day or night. It was like being at the summit of a high rock, on the sea-shore, where the hoarse sound of the great waves comes up to your ear, softened to a low, deep murmur.

"Old St. Paul's," upon the site of which this noble cathedral now stands, was burned in the fire of 1660. Among the great men buried in "Old St. Paul's," was Sir Philip Sidney, the most brilliant, and the best man of Queen Elizabeth's court. Let me tell you more about him.

STORY OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

From his early childhood, Philip was remarkable for his genius, his beauty, his sweet and generous disposition, and the modesty and grace of his manners. Sir Fulke Greville--who was one of his schoolmates, knew him all his life, and so dearly loved and highly honored him that he directed it should be put on his tombstone, that, he was "the friend of Sir Philip Sidney"--said of him, that, while yet a child, he seemed a man, in gravity and wisdom, in steadiness of purpose, and love of knowledge, and that even his teachers found in him something to wonder at and learn, above what they could find in books, or were able to teach.

It was soon evident what secret object King Charles had in trying to conciliate the English at his court. It was to blind their eyes, that they should not foresee and help to arrest one of the most fearful and cruel crimes to be found in the dark history of Catholic persecution, the Massacre of St. Bartholomew. Charles, his wicked mother, and the priests, their advisers, chose this time when a large number of Protestants were assembled at Paris on the occasion of the marriage of the young Prince of Navarre to the sister of the King of France, for a general massacre of the Huguenots, throughout the city and kingdom. On St. Bartholomew's day the slaughter began, and lasted until many thousand Protestants--men, women, and children--were murdered, shot down and cut down in their houses, their churches, and in the open street. King Charles himself, though scarcely more than a boy, was the most brutal and blood-thirsty of all the persecutors. He stood at one of the windows of his palace, and fired at the poor, shrieking, struggling people, as fast as his carbine could be loaded. Many a brave Christian father and noble youth were laid low by his cruel shot, in those dreadful streets and courts, where the hard stones steamed with warm blood as meadows in May mornings smoke with ascending dews, and where down the very gutters, instead of swift currents of summer rain, ran sluggish red rivulets, slowly flowing from the bodies of the dead and dying, piled on either side. But though that bad and mad young king cruelly meant every shot, and though every drop of blood he shed was a guilt-stain on his soul, and every dying groan he caused was to ring on his ear and pierce his wicked heart till he died, yet, after all, he harmed only the poor, perishing bodies of his victims; their deathless souls he but early set free from mortal bondage, and hastened home to God.

But to return to Philip Sidney. During the massacre, he took refuge with the English resident minister, Sir Francis Walsingham, one of the most distinguished men of the age and court of Elizabeth.

Sir Francis had a young daughter, a beautiful, sweet-tempered little girl, in whom Philip Sidney became much interested. This child felt very deeply for the poor Huguenot martyrs. She prayed for them constantly, and wept for them tears of bitter anguish, that seemed to quench the glad sparkle of her tender blue eyes, and to wash all the rosy bloom from her soft, round cheeks.

Philip, who saw her sadness, often tried to comfort her; but her grief and her sweet, sorrowful words always so touched his own tender heart, that his manly voice trembled, and sometimes he bowed his beautiful face on her head, as it lay on his breast, and wept with her silently. And so he grew to love her; and she loved him more than all the world.

As soon as quiet was restored--a sad quiet it was--Philip Sidney set out to travel in Germany and Italy. He was glad to leave Paris, its vile court and viler king; he was sorry to leave nobody but little Fanny Walsingham.

Soon after returning to England, and when only twenty-one, Sidney was sent as ambassador to Vienna, by Queen Elizabeth, who knew how to perceive talent and worth, though she did not always reward them generously. He faithfully discharged the duties of his office, and was most honorably received by the queen on his return. But he was not of the stuff out of which courtiers are made. He was too honest, independent, and disinterested to gain wealth or power by intrigue or flattery; so, though the queen respected him, and often advised with him, he received neither gifts nor offices, but lived for several years in retirement, devoting himself to study and writing.

In 1583, he married Frances, only daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, his well remembered little friend, now grown into a beautiful woman, well worthy of his noble love. During that same year he was knighted by the queen at Windsor, and became Sir Philip Sidney.

There are a kind of little great men who seek to impose on you by pompous ways, proud looks, and high-sounding words; but there was no such poor pride and pretension about Sir Philip Sidney. He was gay and free-hearted, frank in his words, simple and gentle in his manner, and always earnest in the endeavor to be and do good. His writings were full of noble thought and pure, sweet feeling, worthy his true heart and his gre

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