Chambers's Journal, June 6, 1885.] READING-ROOM AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM. about this, because-because I wish Gillian to marry Edward Trent.' The colonel uttered a forcible expression of amazement. Gillian uttered a cry, and sank upon the couch. GLIMPSES IN THE READING-ROOM AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM. 363 already provided for the several departments of the house.' In those days and for long afterwards, the company was very select. But few were admitted, or indeed cared to be admitted, to the Readingroom; and the twenty chairs for long continued to be more than suflicient for the accommodation of the distinguished persons to whom alone the trustees awarded tickets of admission. The poet Gray, in a letter dated July 23, 1759, gives an amusing account of a visit to this Reading-room. He says: 'I am just settled in my new habitation in Southampton Row, and though a solitary and dispirited creature, not unquiet, nor wholly unpleasant to myself. The Museum will be my chief amusement.' Describing his first visit and the company he met there, he says: 'We were that writes for Dr Barton of York; a third that writes for the Emperor of Germany or Dr Peacock, for he speaks the worst English I ever heard; Dr Stukeley, who writes for himself, the very worst person he could write for; and I, who only read to know if there were anything worth writing, and that not without some difficulty. I find that they printed one thousand copies of the Harleian Catalogue, and only sold fourscore; that they have nine hundred pounds a year income, and spend thirteen hundred pounds, and that they are building apartments for the under-keepers; so I expect in the winter to see the collection advertised and set to auction.' THERE is at least one spot in this country in which I have always found the 'intelligent foreigner' respectfully disinclined to depreciate the surrounding evidences of our national good sense. I always like to accompany him thither and listen to his remarks. Underneath the Ionic portico of the noble building in Bloomsbury, through the entrance hall, past the watchful a man that writes for Lord Royston; a man attendants, who exclude unauthorised intruders, through the swing-doors. Ah! The first sight of the Reading-room at the British Museum is not soon forgotten. How many thousand visitors from every part of the world must think so every year, when they stand on the threshold, just beneath the great dome-inferior in diameter by only two feet to the Pantheon of Rome-and catch sight of the eighty thousand volumes which line the walls, and suggest some idea of the space required to house the million and a half volumes stored in the library beyond. There is much to be seen and much to be learnt in this centre of study and research. Authors and bookworms, compilers and scribblers, with students and observers from every quarter of the world, rub sleeves with each other in the studious silence beneath the dome. To my mind, there are few more interesting sights, and none calculated to leave a more vivid impression on the mind of the immense mental activity of the time. Consider that you are in the centre of one of the greatest collections of books which the world has seen; that you are in contact with an organisation which brings within your reach at a few minutes' notice any book of importance which the world produces. Then watch the attendants at the platform in the centre of the room as they hand out the books on every subject under the sun which have been applied for by the long lines of readers, representing every important nationality in the world, and you will admit that the scene is an impressive one. The history of the library itself is the history of a remarkable revolution which has taken place within the last two or three generations. One hundred and thirty years ago it originated in the purchase of Montague House to store the Sloane collection of antiquities, books, manuscripts, &c. purchased by the nation. Soon after, the trustees of the collection set apart the first reading-room for the accommodation of such as they chose to admit to the privilege of inspecting their treasures. The resolution in which this step is recorded is interesting to read at this date. It is dated December 8, 1778, and by it the trustees ordered 'that the corner room in the base story be appropriated for the Readingroom, and that a proper wainscot table, covered with green bays in the same manner as those in the libraries, be prepared for the same, with twenty chairs of the same kind with those Things have greatly improved since Gray's time. The present Reading-room, finished in 1857, was the result of a happy idea of the late Mr Panizzi. For many years previous to that date, it had become evident that the accommodation provided for readers was altogether insufficient. Various plans for enlarging the building had been proposed from time to time; but principally on account of the large expense which they would all entail, nothing had come of any of them. At last it occurred to Mr Panizzi to propose that a circular building should be erected in the inner quadrangle of the Museum to serve as the Reading-room. This admirable suggestion was immediately accepted; and parliament being at length induced to grant the necessary funds, it resulted in the present Reading-room. It would be difficult to conceive a more noble structure so entirely suited to the purpose to which it is devoted. The building was completed in a few years at a cost of about one hundred and sixty thousand pounds, and it has undergone little alteration since. The dome of the room is one hundred and forty feet in diameter, being one foot in excess of that of St Peter's at Rome. Of the eighty thousand volumes in the Reading-room, some twenty thousand are within immediate reach of the reader, and can be consulted at pleasure; they consist principally of the standard works in all the various branches of learning. For any other book in the library which the reader wishes to see, he has only to fill up a printed requisition form, taking the particulars from the catalogue of the library, and the book is brought to his seat in a few minutes by one of the attendants. To my mind, by far the most interesting study in the Reading-room is the readers themselves. f: Every one who writes much feels the need of being in or near a centre of books and information, such as London especially is; and there are few within the radius of London who write at all to whom the interior of the Reading-room at the British Museum is not familiar. Regard that studious-looking man in spectacles with the high cheek-bones and hair brushed back from his face. He is the most conspicuous member of his row, with his heap of manuscripts before him, and the floor and table around heaped with books. You fancy you have seen his face before somewhere. Very likely you have. That tall gentleman with his hat on, leaning against his table, and speaking to him with his hands in his pockets, is the head of one of the leading publishing houses in London. The chair opposite is occupied by a bilious-looking youth. He has a pile of manuscript before him too; but he is not adding to it; he is deep in the volumes before him. As he turns over his work, you notice a little collection of newspaper cuttings among his treasures. How self-confident he looks -even a little bit conceited, you think; but if you are an old habitué, you will not feel offended, for there may be a warm corner in your heart where you keep green the memory of a time when you felt somewhat like that yourself. Here at the end of the row is a swarthy visage underneath a fez cap, which is familiar to you. Where have you seen it before? Ah, yes-at Professor Brown's lectures on Roman Law. Its owner is, however, not engaged in the study of law at present; he is, like many of his compatriots who frequent the room, deep in familiar volumes in Telugu and Sanskrit. Here is a passing visitor, who has just looked in to consult some book of reference; and here is a humble follower of the law making copious notes from the law Reports which he has taken from the shelves beside him. But all these are but the ordinary and scarcely interesting frequenters of the room. Here is a remarkable-looking old man, upon whom your eyes involuntarily linger. Every day for years he has elbowed his way to this seat. He is always here surrounded with his old volumes, all carefully marked in places, and kept for him from day to day. Poorly dressed, thin and worn he looks, his long damp wisps of hair straggling down his neck and over his shabby coat collar. What a face! one of those you do not forget; with the fine forehead, still handsome, despite the furrows in the pinched cheeks. The features might suggest those of George Eliot's Bardo de' Bardi. Watch the long thin fingers glide through the sheets of neatly written manuscript, some newly finished, but most of it yellow and faded. What is it all about? you wonder. He is going away now. He draws on his thin overcoat, carefully wraps his heap of papers with a brown sheet, and glides softly out, with his head bent, and the precious bundle under his arm. He is but one of many such which haunt the room. As you look after him, you begin to realise what such a figure might become under Dickens's wonderful hand; and it is with an effort that you check your fancy as it accompanies the old man on his lonely way down the main street, aside from the stream of humanity, up some dark staircase, to his cobwebbed den, where he toils on in the belief that the rude, proud world, which has passed him by and forgotten him, will one day stop to listen to him. How different is the vocation of many of the readers. Here is a youth taking notes from Spencer's Data of Ethics, who was a moment ago engaged on Herodotus and a classical atlas. He is only cramming for the London University examinations. Here is a dusky native pastor from Jamaica writing the history of his country amid the London fogs, and it will be all the better for that; and here is a student from Japan deep in the literature of the East, which he has unearthed in this treasure-house of the West. There are pretty faces here too. How sweet those pouting lips and rosy cheeks look among the dusty tomes. How bewitching does yon fair worker look amid her papers and books. You cannot help reading the titles as you pass: Holden's Anatomy. Ugh! Why is it that when young ladies who have brains chance to be pretty, they are usually doctors or professors? and yet another question: why is it that the plain-looking spinsters who take possession of the row for ladies only,' are so unsociable to all the owners of pretty faces! As I like to watch certain books and study the persons who use them. A little while ago I was standing near the entrance as two foreigners came towards me. One of them at least was evidently a German; he might have been a professor from his appearance; and the smooth-faced youth who accompanied him looked like a pupil. He was evidently pointing out to the younger man the principal features of interest in the room. they passed me, my interest was excited by overhearing the remark in English: 'Now we will see where the English keep their national copy of the greatest book of the century.' I followed the strangers with my eyes as they went round the room past shelf after shelf until they stood still in front of the section devoted to philosophy and science. Then my curiosity got the better of me, and I followed them, determined to see what in the opinion of the German was the great book of the age. He was taking out the end volume in the fifth row from the top. I saw them look at it thoughtfully, and turn over the leaves without reading; then they put it respectfully back in its place. When they had gone, I drew the little volume from its resting-place, where it seemed lost in the immensity around. It was Darwin's Origin of Species. I took the book to my seat, for the remark of the German had given a new interest to its familiar pages. As I turned over the wellthumbed leaves of the national copy,' stained and worn by many fingers, there were many thoughts in my mind; and as I took it back to its place, I was thinking that if I were a poet, I might indeed choose many a meaner theme for inspiration than that same small item of the great national collection. How the books accumulate here! The Museum is one of the five libraries in the kingdom to each of which is secured by law a copy of every publication the copyright of which is registered at Stationers' Hall; the other libraries being the Bodleian at Oxford, the public library at Cambridge, the faculty of advocates at Edinburgh, and Trinity College, Dublin. Authors and publishers often feel it a hardship to be compelled to present copies of their books to some or all of the other libraries; but rarely do they grudge the copy which goes to the great national library. For the year 1883, the number of accessions to the library obtained in this way was ten thousand six hundred and twelve volumes, besides many parts of volumes, pamphlets, music, maps, &c. But this represents but a small proportion of the yearly additions to the library. For the same year there were presented, two thousand six hundred and ninety-two volumes; and purchased, twenty thouand three hundred and fifty volumes, these latter being principally publications in foreign countries. The gross total of additions of all sorts for the year was ninety-four thousand three hundred and six. Some idea of the extent of the library may be gained from the size of the general catalogue, consisting of over two thousand volumes, most of which are still in manuscript, although a beginning was made in 1881 with the labour of printing it. The amalgamation of the several catalogues from which it is compiled has taken years to complete. About a fifth of the task was finished when the present Reading-room was built, and now, nearly thirty years after, the work is only on the eve of being completed. There are seats in the room for three hundred and sixty readers; but the number of persons who frequent the library continues to increase every year, and already on many days it is hard to find a vacant seat. In the year 1883, the number of books delivered for the use of readersirrespective of those consulted at pleasure from the shelves of the Reading-room-was four hundred and seventy thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, and the number of readers was one hundred and fifty-two thousand nine hundred and eighty-three. There are few items in the national expenditure which can be regarded with such warm satisfaction as that for the support of the British Museum library. It is silently doing a great national work. It throws open its doors and its treasures to every comer; and the number of busy workers which it attracts, shows how keenly the privilege is appreciated. The gain to the nation must be correspondingly large. A BROTHER OF THE MISERICORDIA. IN THREE CHAPTERS.-CHAP. I. THEY were talking of brotherhoods the other day at Lloyd Fenton's, and extolling the good deeds done by them, especially by that fraternity called in Italy the Misericordia." Each one had some experience to relate-a tale of benevolence or courage but I sat silent. At length Fenton asked me a direct question: Why do you say nothing, Cuthbert? You have been in Italy so long, you must have heard much of the brethren.' 'I have heard something of them,' was my answer, and indeed have had an experience of treatment at the hands of one of them; but as it is directly at odds with all of yours, it seems a pity I should mention it.' Ono-Tell us'-'You must'-'We want a shadow to all this light,' was the chorus raised immediately. And this is what I told them. Five years ago I was poor enough, and was thankful to take what work came to hand; so, when my rich cousin, John Harper, sent me to Florence to copy pictures for his great house at Eastmere, I gratefully accepted the munificent offer he made me, started off at once for Florence, and set up my easel in the city of flowers' early in October. By February I felt as if I had lived there for years, and had made acquaintance with nearly all its pictures, palaces, and churches. After making copies of some wellknown works-Madonna,' by Raphael; 'Madonna and Two Saints,' by Andrea del Sarto; 'Pietà,' by Fra Lippi-I thought I would change my ideas by having a face that was not a saintly one to gaze at; so I betook myself to the Sala di Venus in the Pitti Palace, and took up my brushes in front of the 'Bella Donna' of Titian. As the face and form grew under my pencil, I could not but learn from the favourable remarks continually made upon it in my hearing, that I had succeeded somewhat better than usual in transferring a portion of the beauty of the original to my canvas. The picture was all but finished, and I was one day adding a stroke here and there to the gold embroidery of the dress, when I heard the steps of two gentlemen pause behind me, and one of them exclaimed: Per Bacco, non c'è male!' He began to talk about my work; soon learned that I was English, and intending to go homewards shortly; and before our interview was over, he asked me to copy for him a picture in his gallery, the original of which he wished to part with. He was good enough to say that he had been seeking some one who would catch the intention of the painter sufficiently well to supply the copy he wanted; and he thought I might be able to render the meaning of the original without supplementing it by fancies of my own. He let me fix my own time for work, so I arranged to begin early in the following week. With the usual formal salutations, we parted; and on looking at the card left by my new patron, I found him to be the 'Principe Gherado Schidone,' of whose small but exquisite collection of pictures I knew well the reputation. He On presenting myself at the Palazzo, I was shown into the library. The tall man in livery who opened the massive door moved so quietly across the thickly carpeted floor that the Prince did not hear his approach, and I had time to take note of the apartment and its inhabitant before he was informed of my presence. He was writing, and I observed his high narrow forehead and projecting chin almost unconsciously. His eyes were dark, and rather hard, the nose and mouth beautifully formed. When he raised his head and a friendly smile brightened his face, the Prince was decidedly a handsome man. was about thirty; and I had heard of him as being extremely clever, somewhat of a dévot, and unquestionably poor. After a few minutes' chat, he proposed to conduct me to the gallery, whither he said my painting-things would have been already taken. We walked down a corridor hung with tapestry, and scantily furnished with ancient seats, dower chests, and antique vases, after the manner of such places; and turning sharply to the right, ascended a marble staircase, from the landing at the top of which a door on the left admitted us to the picturegallery. The rooms I had already seen were rather shabby, and looked as if a good round not been uncovered. The servant who followed sum might be expended on their re-decoration me went to one of them, and I to the other, with advantage; but the two apartments which and when the heavy blind was raised, I remained contained the collection of paintings were in a few moments looking out. The window was excellent preservation. The decorations of wall rather high in the wall, and standing on the and ceiling were fresh and bright; the polished floor, one could not see into the garden below. floor was covered in the centre with a thick I knelt on the broad window-seat, and from carpet; huge logs flamed on the hearth; and the my elevation looked down into the inclosure, place had the cheerful air of being cared for, gay with flowers, and with a fountain splashing which in my experience was not usual in the in the centre. Facing me was a wall, then Palazzi of Florence. another garden, and a long low range of white buildings. As I watched, a door in the centre of these opened, and out trooped a bevy of nuns. They looked like merry school-girls as they frisked round and round the garden-walks. Their dress of black and white was oddly finished off by an enormous flapping straw hat, tied down with black ribbon, completely concealing the face, and as unlike as possible to the headgear of any order of nuns when seen outside their dwelling. The Prince allowed me to look at the masterpieces of art of which he was the fortunate possessor, and then paused before a striking picture the one of which he told me he desired the most faithful copy in my power to produce. He further added that the subject of the portrait was an ancestress of his, and that it was by Morone, that prince amongst portraitpainters. My admiration of the work seemed to make Prince Gherado think he should account for parting with it; and with something of a frown on his handsome face, he said: "The lady was a Bandinelli; and her family having long wished for the portrait, I have at length decided they shall possess it.' 'What convent is that?' I inquired. 'It belongs to the order of St. Caterina,' was the man's answer; and as he passed me to leave the room, he said in a subdued voice: 'It was from there that the Princess came.' The Princess! I had not heard of her, and I found myself once or twice wondering what manner of lady she was. That afternoon, as I was working away at the hair of Amaranthe, the door on my right opened, and the rustling of a dress betokened the pres ence of a visitor. I rose from my seat as the Prince entered with a lady, from whose face I could not withdraw my eyes, so strangely did she resemble the portrait I was copying. How well I knew the features! But the face of the living Amaranthe bore only a sweet, amused expression as she said: 'See Gherado; the Signor is struck with the likeness!' and advancing to me, she continued with a merry laugh: That Amaranthe Bandinelli was my ancestress. Are we not alike?' I bowed, and was soon left alone. Placing my easel in the most favourable position, I studied the portrait attentively for a good halfhour, and came to the conclusion that no light task had been assigned me. The picture represented a girl of about twenty, and was entitled simply Amaranthe.' It was of three-quarter length; and the lady's appearance fascinated me at first sight; but her charm became less the more the features were studied. She wore a dress of dark amethyst velvet, with curious gold ornaments. About the throat and wrists there was some lovely lace, and she carried a fan of feathers in her hand. The face was of a delicate paleness, and beautifully formed; the mouth rather large, and with firm, clearly-cut lips. A well-modelled nose and marked eyebrows gave it character. The forehead was broad and low; the eyes of an exquisite gray, with lashes so dark and long they seemed to give a violet shade to the pupils. And most noticeable of all was the magnificent wealth of golden hair, which hung down without band or ribbon, being loosely plaited from the shoulders. As I studied the picture, I came to believe that the lady had The Princess was about to tell me more, and been one who would be more admired than began, saying: "That Amaranthe was not a beloved, and who would be a cold friend when the Prince interfered, saying: 'Basta! and a remorseless foe. I may have wronged you must not interrupt the Signor.-Do you 'Amaranthe;' but the portrait had all the life-like his work? Look at it.' like charm that the best pictures by Morone possess, and I believe revealed her character. Prince Gherado took great interest in my work, coming often to watch its progress, and giving me hints which showed him to have a great knowledge of the technical part of the artist's profession. He used to come at all times, and never twice together entered by the same door, till at length I had an uncomfortable idea that he watched me, and that these unexpected appearances were to test my industry. He was, however, always extremely polite, and expressed nothing but satisfaction with my work. One morning I chanced to be earlier than usual at the palace, and found the windows had I stammered some reply, but the words did not come quickly. To sit for days in front of a canvas copying the lineaments depicted thereon till you know every curve and line, and then to find beside you the picture come to life!without a word of warning-this was so strange an experience that it took away my self-posses sion for the moment. His voice was harsh, peremptory; and the young wife's face changed; a hard look came into it, and the likeness to the picture was intensified. She spoke no word, but gazed fixedly on my work for a few moments; then, with a stately step, crossed the room to a door in the wall behind me, and disappeared. The Prince followed, and I was again alone. My work was progressing well; and in the bright spring afternoons I began to leave it, and go to the Cascine to watch the crowds driving up and down-the Russians with their low carriages, spirited horses, with scarcely any harness, and fur-caped coachmen; the eccentric American with his team of fourteen ill-matched 6 Journal steeds; the sober English, heavy Germans, and brilliant Italians, all driving or riding according to their various nationalities and in their special fashions. I sometimes saw Prince Schidone and his lovely wife; they were invariably alone; and the carriage was never drawn up at the side of the avenue with a crowd of loungers encircling it, as was the case with the other vehicles. One of my Italian friends, Luigi Savelli, told me the Prince was jealous, and that he allowed his wife no liberty, adding, that she had run away from her convent to marry him. I remembered the footman's words, and began to believe the statement, notwithstanding my knowledge of the watchful care with which the Church guards her children. When I thought my work nearly done, Prince Gherado became fastidious about the dress, and objected to the colour of the fan and my treatment of the lace. It seemed as if he did not wish the picture finished. I began to weary of the alterations; and after repainting the portions twice, told him I did not consider the work improved, and that I must decline more changes. I went one morning early to try for the last time at the lace, when, on taking up my palette, I noticed on it a large patch of green paint, which I certainly had not left there, and on it, traced in black letters, were the English words: 'Help me. Stay till six.-A.' This was strange. It savoured of an adventure. Who was 'A.?' What did he or she want? Could it be the Princess? Her name perhaps was Amaranthe. I would certainly stay till six. Before that hour the door close to my right hand opened; the rustle of a dress again heralded the entrance of the Princess. I had a large open tin box by my side, and as the lady was passing it, she dropped her fan; it fell behind her, and the Prince stooped to pick it up. At that instant a tiny scrap of paper fluttered into my box; and I perceiving it, closed the lid as I rose to salute my visitors. The Princess spoke no word to me, but made some rapid and not favourable criticisms on my work in Italian. I spoke to the Prince in the same language, as I feared his wife might not know I understood her remarks, which were not of the most polite description. She did not appear to heed this, in fact continued her strictures, the gist of which I found to be her displeasure with the hair; she thought it required much more careful finish. I reminded the Prince that I must leave for England in a fortnight; therefore, my work at the picture must soon cease, and that I did not think I could improve it. He was quite satisfied, and told his wife that when it hung in the place of the original she would confess it was well done. I did not dare to read the note till I arrived at my rooms; but once there, I speedily made myself master of its contents. It was written in Italian, and ran as follows: I trust you, for your face is good and kind, and you are English. I am a most unhappy woman, a prisoner and a slave. I must return to the convent. There I shall be able to communicate with my uncle, Cardinal Bandinelli. Here, I can never speak to him of my wrongs, I am so watched. Will you help me? If so, write 'Yes' on your palette, and I will tell you what to do.—A. This was startling certainly. I pondered on the request, and was greatly disturbed. Why should I, peaceable Cuthbert Ainsley, mix myself up with the family troubles of an Italian household? Then, on the other hand, the lady might really be unhappy-ill-treated even; and at all events it did not seem very wrong of her to wish for free speech of her uncle, or even to go back to the convent for a time. I knew Cardinal Bandinelli well by sight and name; he was said to be a most amiable prelate, and he looked gentleness personified. Perhaps Amaranthe only wanted me to take him a letter. Anyhow, the love of adventure, the idea of succouring beauty in distress, combined to determine me to accede to the lady's request; and before leaving the Palazzo next day, I traced in small black letters on a red patch the word 'Yes,' which would not be noticed unless sought for, as it looked like idle touches of the brush. The following day, on uncovering my canvas, I found pinned round the edge a little slip of paper, on which was written: Thank you. The day before you go, leave in your box a coil of rope thirty feet long, with a strong hook attached. Send by a safe hand the note you will find addressed to my uncle.' I hastily hid the paper. Scarcely had I done so, when the door on my left opened and admitted the Prince. He was pleasant, as usual. I trusted he perceived no confusion in my manner. He crossed the room to a door in the wall behind me, which faced one on my right hand, and went out. There was a quaint old-fashioned mirror hung rather high, which tipped slightly forward, and in which I could see the reflection of the wall behind me with its two doors. few minutes after the Prince left, I bent to take something from my box, and as I raised my head, I saw in the glass above me the reflection of his face gazing fixedly at me through the open door, with so intense, wicked, and cruel an expression, that the features seemed transformed! I turned sharply; but he was gone. TWO ANECDOTES OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. FROM AN OLD NOTE-BOOK. A Ar the commencement of the French Revolution, nearly one hundred years ago, the lieutenantgeneral of the police of Paris had upon his register the names of no fewer than two thousand suspected and depraved characters, whose pursuits were known to be of a criminal nature; yet by making the department of police the immediate object of the close and uniform attention of one branch of the executive government, crimes were much less frequent than in England, and the security extended to the public with regard to the protection of life and property against lawless depredation was infinitely greater. The following narratives were authenticated by an English magistrate at the time; and a record of them, written at the commencement of this century, is now in the possession of the present writer. |
