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treasurers of the church, after a vain attempt to secure a few of its most precious possessions, retired. They carried the news to the senators, who, accompanied by a few halberdmen, again ventured to approach the spot. It was but for a moment, however, for appalled by the furious sounds which came from within the church, as if invisible forces were preparing a catastrophe which no human power could withstand, the magistrates fled precipitately from the scene. Fearing that the next attack would be upon the Town House, they hastened to concentrate at that point their available strength, and left the stately cathedral to its fate.
And now, as the shadows of night were deepening the perpetual twilight of the church, the work of destruction commenced. Instead of vespers rose the fierce music of a psalm, yelled by a thousand angry voices. It seemed the preconcerted signal for a general attack. A band of marauders flew upon the image of the Virgin, dragged it forth from its receptacle, plunged daggers into its inanimate body, tore off its jewelled and embroidered garments, broke the whole figure into a thousand pieces, and scattered the fragments along the floor. A wild shout succeeded, and then the work, which seemed delegated to a comparatively small number of the assembled crowd, went on with incredible celerity. Some were armed with axes, some with bludgeons, some with sledgehammers; others brought ladders, pulleys, ropes, and levers. Every statue was hurled from its niche, every picture torn from the wall, every painted window shivered to atoms, every ancient monument shattered, every sculptured decoration, however inaccessible in appearance, hurled to the ground. Indefatigably, audaciously endowed, as it seemed, with preternatural strength and nimbleness, these furious iconoclasts clambered up the dizzy heights, shrieking and chattering like malignant apes, as they tore off in triumph the slowly-matured fruit of centuries. In a space of time wonderfully brief, they had accomplished their task. A colossal and magnificent group of the Saviour crucified between two thieves adorned the principal altar. The statue of Christ was wrenched from its place with ropes and pulleys, while the malefactors, with bitter and blasphemous irony, were left on high, the only representatives of the marble crowd which had been destroyed. A very beautiful piece of architecture decorated the choir, the "repository," as it was called, in which the body of Christ was figuratively enshrined. This much-admired work rested upon a single column, but rose, arch upon arch, pillar upon pillar, to the height of three hundred feet, till quite lost in the vault
above. It was now shattered into a million pieces. The statues, images, pictures, ornaments, as they lay upon the ground, were broken with sledge hammers, hewn with axes, trampled, torn, and beaten into shreds. A troop of harlots, snatching waxen tapers from the altars, stood around the destroyers, and lighted them at their work. Nothing escaped their omnivorous rage. They dese crated seventy chapels, forced open all the chests of treasure, covered their own squalid attire with the gorgeous robes of the ecclesiastics, broke the sacred bread, poured out the sacramental wine into golden chalices, quaffing huge draughts to the beggars health; burned all the splendid missals and manuscripts, and smeared their shoes with the sacred oil with which kings and prelates had been anointed. It seemed that each of these malicious creatures must have been endowed with the strength of a hundred giants. How else, in the few brief hours of a midsummer night, could such a monstrous desecration have been accomplished by a troop, which, according to all accounts, was not more than one hundred in number? There was a multitude of spectators, as upon all such occasions, but the actual spoilers were very few. The noblest and richest temple of the Netherlands was a wreck, but the fury of the spoilers was excited, not appeased. Each seizing a burning torch, the whole herd rushed from the cathedral, and swept howling through the streets. Long live the beg gars!" resounded through the sultry midnight air, as the ravenous pack flew to and fro, smiting every image of the Virgin, every crucifix, every sculptured saint, every Catholic symbol, which they met with upon their path. All night long they roamed from one sacred edifice to another, thoroughly destroying as they went. Before morning they had sacked thirty churches within the city walls. They entered the monasteries, burned their invaluable libraries, destroyed their altars, statues, pictures, and, descending into the cellars, broached every cask which they found there, pouring out in one great flood all the ancient wine and ale with which these holy men had been wont to solace their retirement from generation to generation. They invaded the nunneries, whence the occupants, panic-stricken, fled for refuge to the houses of their friends and kindred. The streets were filled with monks and nuns, running this way and that, shrieking and fluttering, to escape the claws of these fiendish Calvinists. The terror was imaginary, for not the least remarkable feature in these transactions was, that neither insult nor injury was offered to man or woman, and that not a farthing's value of the immense amount of property destroyed was appropriated. It
was a war, not against the living, but against graven images, nor was the sentiment which prompted the onslaught in the least commingled with a desire of plunder. The principal citizens of Antwerp, expecting every instant that the storm would be diverted from the ecclesiastical edifices to private dwellings, and that robbery, rape, and murder would follow sacrilege, remained all night expecting the attack, and prepared to defend their hearths, even if the altars were profaned. This precaution was needless. It was asserted by the Catholics that the confederates, and other opulent Protestants, had organized this company of profligates for the meagre pittance of ten stivers a day. On the other hand, it was believed by many that the Catholics had themselves plotted the whole outrage in order to bring odium upon the Reformers. Both statements were The task was most equally unfounded. thoroughly performed, but it was prompted by a furious fanaticism, not by baser motives. Two days and two nights longer the havoc raged unchecked through all the churches of Antwerp and the neighbouring villages. Hardly a statue or picture escaped destruction. Yet the rage was directed exclusively Not a man was wounded against stocks. Prisoners, indeed, nor a woman outraged. who had been languishing hopelessly in dungeons were liberated. A monk who had been in the prison of the Barefoot monastery for twelve years, recovered his freedom. Art was trampled in the dust, but humanity deplored no victims.
The Rise of the Dutch Republic.
SAMUEL SMILES, M.D.,
Physical Education, Edin., 1837, p. 8vo;
Biography: Iron-Workers and Tool-Makers,
"No more interesting books have been published
SIR STAFFORD NORTHCOTE.
OLD INVENTIONS REVIVED.
Steam-locomotion, by sea and land, had long been dreamt of and attempted. Blasco de Garay made his experiment in the harbour of Barcelona as early as 1543; Denis Papin made a similar attempt at Cassel in 1707; but it was not until Watt had solved the problem of the steam-engine that the idea of the steamboat could be developed in practice, which was done by Miller, of Dalswinton, in 1788. Sages and poets have frequently foreshadowed inventions of great social moment. Thus Dr. Darwin's anticipation of the locomotive, in his Botanic Garden, published in 1791, before any locomotive had been invented, might almost be regarded as prophetic:
Soon shall thy arm, unconquered Steam! afar
Denis Papin first threw up the idea of
The Thames Tunnel was thought an entirely new manifestation of engineering genius; but the tunnel under the Euphrates at ancient Babylon, and that under the wide mouth of the harbour at Marseilles (a much more difficult work), show that the ancients were beforehand with us in the art of tunnelling. Macadamized roads are as old as the Roman empire; and suspension-bridges, though comparatively new in Europe, have been known in China for centuries.
There is every reason to believe-indeed it seems clear that the Romans knew of gunpowder, though they only used it for purposes of fireworks; while the secret of the destructive Greek fire has been lost altogether. When gunpowder came to be used for purposes of war, invention busied itself upon instruments of destruction. When recently examining the Museum of the Arsenal at Venice, we were surprised to find numerous weapons of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries embodying the most recent English improvements in arms, such as revolving pistols, rifled muskets, and breechloading cannon. The latter, embodying Sir William Armstrong's modern idea, though in a rude form, had been fished up from the bottom of the Adriatic, where the ship armed with them had been sunk hundreds of years ago. Even Perkins's steam-gun was an old invention revived by Leonardo da Vinci, and by him attributed to Archimedes. The Congreve rocket is said to have an Eastern origin, Sir William Congreve having observed its destructive effects when employed by the forces under Tippoo Saib in the Mahratta war, on which he adopted and improved the missile, and brought out the invention as his own.
Coal gas was regularly used by the Chinese for lighting purposes long before it was known amongst us. Hydropathy was generally practised by the Romans, who established baths wherever they went. Even chloroform is no new thing. The use of ether as an anaesthetic was known to Albertus Magnus, who flourished in the thirteenth century; and in his works he gives a recipe for its preparation. In 1681 Denis Papin published his Traité des Opérations sans Douleur, showing that he had discovered methods of deadening pain. But the use of anæsthetics is much older than Albertus Magnus or Papin; for the ancients had their nepenthe and mandragora; the Chinese their mayo, and the Egyptians their hachish (both preparations of Cannabis Indica), the effects of which in a great measure resemble those of chloroform. What is perhaps still more surprising is the circumstance that one of the most elegant of recent inventions, that of sun-painting by the da
guerreotype, was in the fifteenth century known to Leonardo da Vinci, whose skill as an architect and engraver, and whose accomplishments as a chemist and natural philosopher, have been almost entirely overshadowed by his genius as a painter. The idea, thus early born, lay in oblivion until 1760, when the daguerreotype was again clearly indicated in a book published in Paris, written by a certain Tiphanie de la Roche, under the anagrammatic title of Giphantie. Still later, at the beginning of the present century, we find Josiah Wedgwood, Sir Humphry Davy, and James Watt making experiments on the action of light upon nitrate of silver; and only within the last few months a silvered copperplate has been found amongst the old household lumber of Matthew Boulton (Watt's partner), having on it a representation of the old premises at Soho, apparently taken by some such process.
In like manner the invention of the electric telegraph, supposed to be exclusively modern, was clearly indicated by Scherwenter in his Délassement's Physico-Mathématiques, published in 1636; and he there pointed out how two individuals could communicate with each other by means of the magnetic needle. A century later, in 1746, Le Monnier exhibited a series of experiments in the Royal Gardens at Paris, showing how electricity could be transmitted through iron wire 950 fathoms in length; and in 1753 we find one Charles Marshall publishing a remarkable description of the electric telegraph in the Scots Magazine, under the title of An expeditious Method of Conveying Intelligence." Again, in 1760, we find George Louis Lesage, professor of mathematics at Geneva, promulgating his invention of an electric telegraph, which he eventually completed and set to work in 1774. This instrument was composed of twenty-four metallic wires, separate from each other, and enclosed in a non-conducting substance. Each wire ended in a stalk mounted with a little ball of elder-wood suspended by a silk thread. When a stream of electricity, no matter how slight, was sent through the bar, the elderball at the opposite end was repelled, such movement designating some letter of the alphabet. A few years later we find Arthur Young, in his Travels in France, describing a similar machine invented by a M. Lomond, of Paris, the action of which he also describes. In these and similar cases, though the idea was born and the model of the invention was actually made, it still waited the advent of the scientific mechanical inventor who should bring it to perfection, and embody it in a practical working form. Industrial Biography, Chap. x.
CHARLES JOHN VAUGHAN,
born about 1817, was for some years a Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge; held the living of St. Martin's, Leicester; HeadMaster of Harrow School, 1844-59; refused a bishopric, 1860, and in the same year became Vicar of Doncaster; Master of the Temple, 1869. Among his publications are the following:
Thirty Sermons in the Chapel of Harrow School, Lond., 1847, 8vo, 2d Series, 1853, 8vo; Nine Sermons Preached at Harrow, 1849, 12mo; Personality of the Tempter, and other Sermons, 1851, 8vo; Notes for Lectures on Confirmation, Camb., 1859, Svo, 6th edit., 1864, fp. 8vo; St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans [in Greek], with [English] Notes, 1859, Svo, 3d edit., 1870, cr. 8vo; Memorials of Harrow Sundays: Sermons, 1859, cr. 8vo, 4th edit., 1864, cr. 8vo; Epiphany, Lent, and Easter Sermons, 1860, cr. Svo, 3d edit., 1868, cr. 8vo; Lessons of Life and Godliness: Sermons at Doncaster, 1862, fp. 8vo; Words from the Gospel: Second Series of Sermons at Doncaster, 1863, fp. 8vo; The Book and the Life: Four Sermons at Cambridge, 1862, fp. 8vo; Expository Lectures on Philippians, 1862, cr. 8vo; Lectures on the Revelation of St. John, 1863, 2 vols. cr. 8vo; Epistles of St. Paul for English Readers, r. 8vo, Part I., 1864; The Church of the First Days: Lectures on the Acts, Series I., II., III., 1864-65, 3 vols. fp. 8vo; Characteristics of Christ's Teachings, 1866, fp. 8vo; Twelve Discourses on Subjects Connected with the Church of England, 1867, fp. 8vo; Earnest Words for Earnest Men, 1869, fp. 8vo; Last Words in the Parish Church of Doncaster, 1870, cr. 8vo; Half-Hours in the Temple Church, 1871; The Solidity of True Religion, 1874; Heroes of Faith, 1876. He published A Few Words on the Crystal Palace Questions, answered by John Perowne, in Observance of the Sabbath, 1853, 8vo, and contributed to Good Words, etc. See London Reader, 1863, ii. 663.
Loneliness.-It has many senses, inward and outward.
1. There is, first, what I may call the loneliness of simple solitude. We who lead a very busy life, who know not what it is from early morning till late evening to have (as it is sometimes expressed) a moment that we can call our own, a moment in which we can feel that the load is really removed and that we are free to enjoy ourselves for enjoyment's sake, can scarcely perhaps enter into
the thought of the oppressiveness of solitude. To us it is a luxury to be alone: silence, much more repose, is health to us and revival; and these things are associated in our mind with solitude. So different is it to look upon solitude from a life of business and intermixture with the world, and to look upon it from within the four walls of a sick-room or a prison. Solitude which we fly to as a rest, and can exchange at will for society which we love, is a widely different thing from that solitude which is either the consequence of bereavement or the punishment of crime; that solitude from which we cannot escape, and which perhaps is associated with bitter or remorseful recollections. From such solitude a merciful Providence has as yet kept you. And yet even you may have known something of a compulsory solitude. Now and then an illness severer than usual has confined you in these days of youth to a sick-room, where you have been almost as much cut off from the companions of school as from the tenderer solaces of a loving home. At such times have you not felt a heavy demand made upon your cheerfulness and contentment? Have you not found disagreeable reflections and painful (even if imaginary) forebodings more powerful with you than visions of hope, than thoughts of thankfulness? At all events, a little later in life, you will know these things well. When, for example, a young man finds himself established as the master of a dwelling which is all his own; his lodgings, it may be, his chambers or even his college-rooms; amidst some feelings of agreeable independence, and of freedom from intrusion or disturbance, there are times when he cannot suppress a sense of isolation and desolateness, and would give the world to be again as he once was, the object of care, of thought, and affection to others around and above him. How strong in after-years is the memory of such marked feelings of loneliness! How do we continue to associate them as freshly as at the moment of their occurrence, with the sounds and images of the time and place; the hour of the day or evening, the ringing of a bell or the monotonous movement of a clock, the aspect of an opposite house, or the dull rainy weather which seemed to be more than outward! And if, according to the frequent chances of life in this generation, any one of you should ever be called upon to exchange his very country for a distant home; if in the pursuit of fortune, or at the call of professional duty, he should be required to leave home and friends behind him, and go he knows not whither, to return he knows not when; what a sense will he have of the meaning of the word
now uttered, loneliness; the loneliness, if not strictly of solitude, yet of separation, of severance, of isolation! How will he find that there may be such a thing as solitude even amongst numbers; a solitude made even more complete by the very presence of an unsympathizing crowd! What a lifelong recollection will he retain of that trying moment when the last words have been spoken and the last farewell exchanged, when the removal of the gangway has finally separated between the going and the staying, the deck crowded with the one and the shore with the other, and the ship itself has gathered up its wings for flight! What an impression will he have then of the ligious trial of solitude! how it reveals to us, as in a moment, what manner of spirit we are of, whether we have any root, any vitality, in ourselves, or are only the creatures of society and of circumstance, found out at once and convicted by the application of the individual touchstone !
who knows what it is will not desire to get rid of it. Even in its first anxieties and miseries he recognizes, however remotely and indistinctly, a prospect of good. Even then he would not part with it, cost him what it may, for all his former security and thoughtlessness. But he finds that, if he would not stifle the sense of sin, to his endless ruin, he must be tolerant of this inward loneliness; he must be careful how he talks of it to his best friend: in the very telling of his fears and self-reproaches lies a risk of dissipating the one and blunting the other: a mistaken kindness makes his friend palliate them, makes him try to heal the hurt re-slightly even while speaking of the true Physician: and besides, in the very telling there is a risk of evil, of conveying wrong impressions, of parading humility, of saying things for the sake of having them denied, of substituting the sympathy of man for the confidence of God. No times are more truly miserable than those which follow upon such attempts to get rid of the loneliness within. God is our proper refuge at such times; but then He must be our one refuge: we must be content with Him: every hour, every few moments, really spent before Him under the pressure of the burden of our own sins, is a season of true and solid relief: it enables us to bear on, sometimes it makes us of a cheerful countenance, telling, without mistake and without peril, of the work within.
2. Again, there is the loneliness of sorrow. Is not loneliness the prominent feeling in all deep sorrow? Is it not the feeling of loneliness which gives its sting to bereavement, to the loss of friends? Not, of course, in those minor losses which, though we may feel them at the time, yet do not permanently affect our lives; but in bereavements which deserve the name, the loss (and more especially the early loss) of a sister or mother. in later life the loss of a wife or husband, is not the loneliness of heart consequent upon it the heaviest and bitterest part of the sorrow; is it not this which deprives all after-joy of its chief zest, and reduces life itself to a colourless and level landscape?
3. Again, there is the loneliness of a sense of sin. Whatever duties may lie upon us towards other men, in our innermost relation to God we are and must be alone. And we may say what we will against the selfishness of some men's religion; against the habit, too much fostered doubtless by some, of scrutinizing every affection and feeling with a minuteness and an anxiety which at last becomes morbid and dangerous; but after all the foundations of every really Christian life are laid deep in the individual consciousness: a Christian hope is the result of transactions essentially secret between the soul and God; and the first of these is that awakening of a sense of sin which is the first office, as we believe, of the Holy Spirit in His mission to the individual as in His mission to the world. When the sense of sin is heavy upon us, how incapable is it of anything but solitude! A man trying to get rid of it rushes into society: many do thus get rid of it, but is it well with them? One
And if such be the loneliness of repentance, what must be the loneliness of remorse, which is repentance without God, without Christ, and therefore without hope; the sense of sin unconfessed and unforsaken, only felt as a weight, a burden, and a danger! If repentance is loneliness, remorse is desolation. Repentance makes us lonely towards man; remorse makes us desolate towards God. That is indeed to be alone, when (to use the inspired figure) not only earth is iron, but also heaven brass. From such loneliness may God in His mercy save us all through His Son Jesus Christ.
Memorials of Harrow Sundays: Sermon
SIR ARTHUR HELPS,
born 1817, graduated at Cambridge Uni versity, 1835, was for many years an officer in the Civil Service, and about 1860 became Clerk of the Privy Council; died 1875.
Thoughts in the Cloister and the Crowd, Lond., 1835, 12mo; Essays Written in the Intervals of Business, 1841, 8vo, 7th edit.. 1853, 12mo; Catherine Douglas, a Tragedy