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PROSE WORKS 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 COMPLETE IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 TIOKNOR AND FIELDS. 
 
 M PCCC LVIT. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by 
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, 
 
 in the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the District of 
 Massachusetts. 
 
 RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
 
 STEREOTYPED AND PR I N T E D BY 
 
 H. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 
 
frl 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 / 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 OUTRE-MER; A PILGRIMAGE BEYOND THE SEA. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Epistle Dedicatory 9 
 
 The Pilgrim of Outre-Mer 11 
 
 FRANCE. 
 
 The Norman Diligence 17 
 
 The Golden Lion Inn 24 
 
 Martin Franc and the Monk of Saint Anthony. ... 29 
 
 The Village of Auteuil 46 
 
 Jacqueline 57 
 
 The Sexagenarian 65 
 
 Pere La Chaise 71 
 
 The Valley of the Loire 83 
 
 The Trouveres 96 
 
 The Baptism of Fire 110 
 
 Coq-a-P Ane 119 
 
 The Notary of PeVigueux 129 
 
 SPAIN. 
 
 The Journey into Spain 143 
 
 Spain 155 
 
 A Tailor s Drawer 162 
 
 Ancient Spanish Ballads 173 
 
 39717 J 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Village of El PardiUo 195 
 
 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 209 
 
 The Pilgrim s Breviary 234 
 
 ITALY. 
 
 The Journey into Italy 261 
 
 Rome in Midsummer 273 
 
 The Village of La Riccia 292 
 
 NOTE-BOOK. 
 
 Note-book 309 
 
 The Pilgrim s Salutation 315 
 
 Colophon 318 
 
 DRIFT WOOD, A COLLECTION OF ESSAYS. 
 
 Frithiof s Saga 321 
 
 Hawthorne s Twice-told Tales 372 
 
 The Great Metropolis 379 
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature 334 
 
 Paris in the Seventeenth Century 412 
 
 Dante 4^9 
 
 The Divina Commedia 434 
 
 Table-Talk *. .*. . .. [ [ ] 450 
 
OUTRE-MER, 
 
 A 
 
 PILGRIMAGE BEYOND THE SEA. 
 
 I have passed manye landes and manye yles and contrees, and 
 cherched manye fulle straunge places, and have hen in manye a 
 fulle gode honourable companye. Now I am comen home t 
 reste. And thus recordynge the tyme passed, I have fulfilled these 
 thynges and putte hem wryten in this hoke, as it woulde come 
 into my mynde. Sir John Maundeville. 
 
EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 
 
 The cheerful breeze sets fair ; we fill our sail, 
 And scud before it. When the critic starts, 
 And angrily unties his bags of wind, 
 Then we lay to, and let the blast go by. 
 
 HURDIS. 
 
 WORTHY AND GENTLE KEADER, 
 
 I dedicate this little book to thee with many 
 fears and misgivings of heart. Being a stranger 
 to thee, and having never administered to thy 
 wants nor to thy pleasures, I can ask nothing at 
 thy hands, saving the common courtesies of life. 
 Perchance, too, what I have written, will be little 
 to thy taste ; for it is little in accordance with the 
 stirring spirit of the present age. If so, I crave 
 thy forbearance for having thought that even the 
 busiest mind might not be a stranger to those 
 moments of repose, when the clock of time clicks 
 drowsily behind the door, and trifles become the 
 amusement of the wise and great. 
 
 Besides, what perils await the adventurous 
 
1(T <l " THE EPISTLE ^DEDICATORY. 
 
 \autKctr wno Jauitches rfoVtb into tlie uncertain cur 
 rent of public favor in so frail a bark as this ! 
 The very rocking of the tide may overset him ; or. 
 peradventure, some freebooting critic, prowling 
 about the great ocean of letters, may descry his 
 strange colors, hail him through a gray goose-quill, 
 and perhaps sink him without more ado. Indeed, 
 the success of an unknown author is as uncertain 
 as the wind, " When a book is first to appear in 
 the world," says a celebrated French writer, " one 
 knows not whom to consult to learn its destiny. 
 The stars preside not over its nativity. Their 
 influences have no operation on it ; and the most 
 confident astrologers dare not foretell the diverse 
 risks of fortune it must run." 
 
 It is from such considerations, worthy reader, 
 that I would fain bespeak thy friendly offices at 
 the outset. But in asking these, I would not 
 forestall thy good opinion too far, lest in the sequel 
 I should disappoint thy kind wishes. I ask only a 
 welcome and God-speed ; hoping, that, when thou 
 hast read these pages, thou wilt say to me, in the 
 words of Nick Bottom, the weaver, " I shall desire 
 you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb." 
 Very sincerely thine, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Brunswick, Maine, 1833. 
 
THE 
 
 PILGRIM OF OUTRE-MER. 
 
 I am a Palmer, as ye se, 
 
 Whiche of my lyfe muche part hare spent 
 
 In many a fay re and farre cuntrie, 
 
 As pilgrims do of good intent. 
 
 THE FOUR Ps. 
 
 "LYSTENYTH, ye godely gentylmen, and all 
 that ben hereyn ! " I am a pilgrim benighted on 
 my way, and crave a shelter till the storm is over, 
 and a seat by the fireside in this honorable com 
 pany. As a stranger I claim this courtesy at your 
 hands ; and will repay your hospitable welcome 
 with tales of the countries I have passed through 
 in my pilgrimage. 
 
 This is a custom of the olden time. In the 
 days of chivalry and romance, every baron bold, 
 perched aloof in his feudal castle, welcomed the 
 stranger to his halls, and listened with delight to the 
 pilgrim s tale and the song of the troubadour. Both 
 pilgrim and troubadour had their tales of wonder 
 
12 THE PILGRIM OF OUTRE-MER. 
 
 from a distant land, embellished with the magic 
 of Oriental exaggeration. Their salutation was, 
 
 " Lordyng lystnith to my tale, 
 
 That is meryer than the nightingale." 
 
 The soft luxuriance of the Eastern clime bloomed 
 in the song of the bard ; and the wild and romantic 
 tales of regions so far off as to be regarded as 
 almost a fairy land, were well suited to the childish 
 credulity of an age when what is now called the 
 Old World was in its childhood. Those times 
 have passed away. The world has grown wiser 
 and less credulous ; and the tales which then 
 delighted delight no longer. But man has not 
 changed his nature. He still retains the same 
 curiosity, the same love of novelty, the same fond 
 ness for romance and tales by the chimney-corner, 
 and the same desire of wearing out the rainy day 
 and the long winter evening with the illusions of 
 fancy and the fairy sketches of the poet s imagina 
 tion. It is as true now as ever, that 
 
 " Off talys, and tryfulles, many man tellys ; 
 Sume byn trew, and sume byn ellis ; 
 A man may dryfe forthe the day that long tyme dwellis 
 Wyth harpyng, and pipyng, and other mery spellis, 
 Wyth gle, and wyth game." 
 
 The Pays d Outre-Mer, or the Land beyond the 
 Sea, is a name by which the pilgrims and crusaders 
 of old usually designated the Holy Land. I, too, 
 in a certain sense, have been a pilgrim of Outre- 
 
THE PILGRIM OF OUTRE-MER. 13 
 
 Mer; for to my youthful imagination the Old 
 World was a kind of Holy Land, lying afar off 
 beyond the blue horizon of the ocean ; and when 
 its shores first rose upon my sight, looming through 
 the hazy atmosphere of the sea, my heart swelled 
 with the deep emotions of -the pilgrim, when he 
 sees afar the spire which rises above the shrine 
 of his devotion. 
 
 In this my pilgrimage, " I have passed many 
 lands and countries, and searched many full 
 strange places." I have traversed France from 
 Normandy to Navarre ; smoked my pipe in a 
 Flemish inn ; floated through Holland in a Trek- 
 schuit; trimmed my midnight lamp in a German 
 university ; wandered and mused amid the classie 
 scenes of Italy ; and listened to the gay guitar 
 and merry Castanet on the borders of the blue 
 Guadalquivir. The recollection of many of the 
 scenes I have passed through is still fresh in my 
 mind ; while the memory of others is fast fading 
 away, or is blotted out forever. But now I will stay 
 the too busy hand of time, and call back the shadowy 
 past. Perchance the old and the wise may accuse 
 me of frivolity ; but I see in this fair company the 
 bright eye and listening ear of youth, an age less 
 rigid in its censure and more willing to be pleased. 
 " To gentlewomen and their loves is consecrated 
 all the wooing language, allusions to love-passions, 
 and sweet embracements feigned by the Muse 
 mongst hills and rivers; whatsoever tastes of 
 description, battel, story, abstruse antiquity, and 
 
14 THE PILGRIM OF OUTRE-MER. 
 
 law of the kingdome, to the more severe critic. 
 To the one be contenting enjoyments of their 
 auspicious desires ; to the other, a happy attend 
 ance of their chosen Muses." * 
 
 And now, fair dames and courteous gentlemen, 
 give me attentive audience : 
 
 " Lordyng lystnith to my tale, 
 
 That is meryer than the nightingale." 
 
 * Selden s Prefatory Discourse to the Notes in Drayton s Poly 
 Olbion. 
 
FRANCE. 
 
NORMAN DILIGENCE. 
 
 The French guides, otherwise called the postilians, have one 
 most diabolicall custome in their travelling upon the waves. 
 Diabolicall it may be well called; for, whensoever their horses 
 doe a little anger them, they will say, in their fury, Allans, 
 diable, that is Go, thou divel. This I know by mine own 
 experience. CORYAT S CRUDITIES. 
 
 IT was early in the " leafy month of June " that 
 I travelled through the beautiful province of Nor 
 mandy. As France was the first foreign country I 
 visited, every thing wore an air of freshness and 
 novelty, which pleased my eye, and kept my fancy 
 constantly busy. Life was like a dream. It was a 
 luxury to breathe again the free air, after having 
 been so long cooped up at sea; and, like a long- 
 imprisoned bird let loose from its cage, I revelled 
 in the freshness and sunshine of the morning 
 landscape. 
 
 On every side, valley and hill were covered 
 with a carpet of soft velvet green. The birds 
 were singing merrily in the trees, and the land 
 scape wore that look of gayety so well described in 
 
 VOL. I. 2 
 
18 THE NORMAN DILIGENCE. 
 
 the quaint language of an old romance, making the 
 "sad, pensive, and aching heart to rejoice, and to 
 throw off mourning and sadness." Here and there 
 a cluster of chestnut-trees shaded a thatch-roofed 
 cottage, and little patches of vineyard were scat 
 tered on the slope of the hills, mingling their deli 
 cate green with the deep hues of the early summer 
 grain. The whole landscape had a fresh, breezy 
 look. It was not hedged in from the highways, but 
 lay open to the eye of the traveller, and seemed to 
 welcome him with open arms. I felt less a stranger 
 in the land ; and as my eye traced the dusty road 
 winding along through a rich cultivated country, 
 skirted on either side with blossoming fruit-trees, 
 and occasionally caught glimpses of a little farm 
 house resting in a green hollow and lapped in the 
 bosom of plenty, I felt that I was in a prosperous, 
 hospitable, and happy land. 
 
 I had taken my seat on top of the diligence, in 
 order to have a better view of the country. It was 
 one of those ponderous vehicles which totter slow 
 ly along the paved roads of France, laboring be 
 neath a mountain of trunks and bales of all de 
 scriptions ; and, like the Trojan horse, bearing a 
 groaning multitude within it. It was a curious and 
 cumbersome machine, resembling the bodies of 
 three coaches placed upon one carriage, with a 
 cabriolet on top for outside passengers. On the 
 panels of each door were painted the fleurs-de-lis of 
 France, and upon the side of the coach emblazoned, 
 in golden characters, " Exploitation Generate des 
 
THE NORMAN DILIGENCE. 19 
 
 Messageries Royales des Diligences pour le Havre, 
 Rouen, et Paris" 
 
 It would be useless to describe the motley groups 
 that filled the four quarters of this little world. 
 There was the dusty tradesman, with green coat 
 and cotton umbrella ; the sallow invalid, in skull 
 cap and cloth shoes ; the priest in his cassock ; the 
 peasant in his frock ; and a whole family of squall 
 ing children. My fellow-travellers on top were a 
 gay subaltern, with fierce mustache, and a nut- 
 brown village beauty of sweet sixteen. The 
 subaltern wore a military undress, and a little blue 
 cloth cap, in the shape of a cow-bell, trimmed 
 smartly with silver lace, and cocked on one side of 
 his head. The brunette was decked out with a 
 staid white Norman cap, nicely starched and 
 plaited, and nearly three feet high, a rosary and 
 cross about her neck, a linsey-woolsey gown, and 
 wooden shoes. 
 
 The personage who seemed to rule this little 
 world with absolute sway was a short, pursy man, 
 with a busy, self-satisfied air, and the sonorous title 
 of Monsieur le Conducteur. As insignia of office, 
 he wore a little round fur cap and fur-trimmed 
 jacket ; and carried in his hand a small leathern 
 portfolio, containing his way-bill. He sat with us 
 on top of the diligence, and with comic gravity 
 issued his mandates to the postilion below, like 
 some petty monarch speaking from his throne. In 
 every dingy village we thundered through, he had 
 a thousand commissions to execute and to receive ; 
 
20 THE NORMAN DILIGENCE. 
 
 a package to throw out on this side, and another to 
 take in on that ; a whisper for the landlady at the 
 inn ; a love-letter and a kiss for her daughter ; and 
 a wink or a snap of his fingers for the chamber 
 maid at the window. Then there were so many 
 questions to be asked and answered, while changing 
 horses ! Every body had a word to say. It was 
 Monsieur le Conducteur ! here ; Monsieur le Con- 
 ducteur ! there. He was in complete bustle; till 
 at length crying, En route ! he ascended the 
 dizzy height, and we lumbered away in a cloud 
 of dust. 
 
 But what most attracted my attention was the 
 grotesque appearance of the postilion and the 
 horses. He was a comical-looking little fellow, 
 already past the heyday of life, with a thin, sharp 
 countenance, to which the smoke of tobacco and 
 the fumes of wine had given the dusty look of 
 parchment. He was equipped in a short jacket 
 of purple velvet, set off with a red collar, and 
 adorned with silken cord. Tight breeches of 
 bright yellow leather arrayed his pipe-stem legs, 
 which were swallowed up in a huge pair of wooden 
 boots, iron-fastened, and armed with long, rattling 
 spurs. His shirt-collar was of vast dimensions, and 
 between it and the broad brim of his high, bell- 
 crowned, varnished hat projected an eel-skin 
 queue, with a little tuft of frizzled hair, like a 
 powder-puff, at the end, bobbing up and down 
 with the motion of the rider, and scattering a 
 white cloud around him. 
 
THE NORMAN DILIGENCE. 21 
 
 The horses which drew the diligence were har 
 nessed to it with ropes and leather thongs, in the 
 most uncouth manner imaginable. They were 
 five in number ; black, white, and gray, as various 
 in size as in color. Their tails were braided and 
 tied up with wisps of straw ; and when the postilion 
 mounted and cracked his heavy whip, off they 
 started ; one pulling this way, another that, one 
 on the gallop, another trotting, and the rest drag 
 ging along at a scrambling pace, between a trot 
 and a walk. No sooner did the vehicle get com 
 fortably in motion, than the postilion, throwing the 
 reins upon his horse s neck, and drawing a flint 
 and steel from one pocket and a short-stemmed 
 pipe from another, leisurely struck fire, and began 
 to smoke. Ever and anon some part of the rope- 
 harness would give way ; Monsieur le Conducteur 
 from on high would thunder forth an oath or two ; 
 a head would be popped out at every window ; 
 half a dozen voices exclaim at once, " What s the 
 matter ? " and the postilion, apostrophizing the 
 diable as usual, would thrust his long whip into the 
 leg of his boot, leisurely dismount, and, drawing 
 a handful of packthread from his pocket, quietly 
 set himself to mend matters in the best way pos 
 sible. 
 
 In this manner we toiled slowly along the 
 dusty highway. Occasionally, the scene was en 
 livened by a group of peasants, driving before 
 them a little ass, laden with vegetables for a 
 neighbouring market. Then we would pass a 
 
22 THE NORMAN DILIGENCE. 
 
 solitary shepherd, sitting by the roadside, with 
 a shaggy dog at his feet, guarding his flock, and 
 making his scanty meal on the contents of his 
 wallet ; or perchance a little peasant-girl, in 
 wooden shoes, leading a cow by a cord attached 
 to her horns, to browse along the side of the 
 ditch. Then we would all alight to ascend 
 some formidable hill on foot, and be escorted up 
 by a clamorous group of sturdy mendicants, 
 annoyed by the ceaseless importunity of worth 
 less beggary, or moved to pity by the palsied 
 limbs of the aged, and the sightless eyeballs of 
 the blind. 
 
 Occasionally, too, the postilion drew up in front 
 of a dingy little cabaret, completely overshadowed 
 by wide-spreading trees. A lusty grapevine clam 
 bered up beside the door ; and a pine-bough was 
 thrust out from a hole in the wall, by way of tavern- 
 bush. Upon the front of the house was generally 
 inscribed in large black letters, " Ici ON DONNE A 
 
 BOIRE ET A MANGER ; ON LOGE A PIED ET A 
 
 CHEVAL " ; a sign which may be thus paraphrased, 
 " Good entertainment for man and beast " ; but 
 which was once translated by a foreigner, " Here 
 they give to eat and drink ; they lodge on foot and 
 on horseback ! " 
 
 Thus one object of curiosity succeeded another ; 
 hill, valley, stream, and woodland flitted by me 
 like the shifting scenes of a magic lantern, and one 
 train of thought gave place to another; till at 
 length, in the after part of the day, we entered 
 
THE NORMAN DILIGENCE. 23 
 
 the broad and shady avenue of fine old trees which 
 leads to the western gate of Rouen, and a few 
 moments afterward were lost in the crowds and 
 confusion of its narrow streets. 
 
THE 
 
 GOLDEN LION INN. 
 
 Monsieur Vinot. Je veux absolument un Lion d Or: parce 
 qu on dit, Ou allez-vous? Au Lion d Or! D ou venez-vous? 
 Du Lion d Or! Ou irons-nous? Avi Lion d Or! Ou y a-t-il de 
 bonvin? Au Lion d Or! LA ROSE ROUGE. 
 
 THIS answer of Monsieur Vinot must have been 
 running in my head as the diligence stopped at the 
 Messagerie ; for when the porter, who took my 
 luggage, said : 
 
 " Ou allez-vous, Monsieur ? " 
 
 I answered, without reflection (for, be it said 
 with all the veracity of a traveller, a$ that time I 
 did not know there was a Golden Lion in the 
 city), 
 
 II Au Lion d Or" 
 
 And so to the Lion d Or we went. 
 
 The hostess of the Golden Lion received me 
 with a courtesy and a smile, rang the house-bell 
 for a servant, and told him to take the gentleman s 
 things to number thirty-five. I followed him up 
 stairs. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven I 
 Seven stories high, by Our Lady ! I counted them 
 
THE GOLDEN LION INN. 25 
 
 every one ; and when I went down to remonstrate, 
 I counted them again ; so that there was no possi 
 bility of a mistake. When I asked for a lower 
 room, the hostess told me the house was full ; and 
 when I spoke of going to another hotel, she said 
 she should be so very sorry, so de solee, to have 
 Monsieur leave her, that I marched up again to 
 number thirty-five. 
 
 After finding all the fault I could with the cham 
 ber, I ended, as is generally the case with most 
 men on such occasions, by being very well pleased 
 with it. The only thing I could possibly complain 
 of was my being lodged in the seventh story, and 
 in the immediate neighbourhood of a gentleman 
 who was learning to play the French horn. But 
 to remunerate me for these .disadvantages, my 
 window looked down into a market-place, and 
 gave me a distant view of the towers of the cathe 
 dral, and the ruins of the church and abbey of 
 St. Ouen. 
 
 When I had fully prepared myself for a ramble 
 through the city, it was already sunset ; and after 
 the heat and dust of the day, the freshness of the 
 long evening twilight was delightful. When I 
 enter a new city, I cannot rest till I have satisfied 
 the first cravings of curiosity by rambling through 
 its streets. Nor can I endure a cicerone, with his 
 eternal " This way, Sir." I never desire to be 
 led directly to an object worthy of a traveller s 
 notice, but prefer a thousand times to find my own 
 way, and come upon it by surprise. This was 
 
26 THE GOLDEN LION INN. 
 
 particularly the case at Rouen. It was the first 
 European city of importance that I visited. There 
 was an air of antiquity about the whole city that 
 breathed of the Middle Ages ; and so strong and 
 delightful was the impression that it made upon 
 my youthful imagination, that nothing which I 
 afterward saw could either equal or efface it. I 
 have since passed through that city, but I did not 
 stop. I was unwilling to destroy an impression 
 which, even at this distant day, is as fresh upon 
 my mind as if it were of yesterday. 
 
 With these delightful feelings I rambled on from 
 street to street, till at length, after threading a nar 
 row alley, I unexpectedly came out in front of the 
 magnificent cathedral. If it had suddenly risen 
 from the earth, the effect could not have been more 
 powerful and instantaneous. It completely over 
 whelmed my imagination ; and I stood for a long 
 time motionless, gazing entranced upon the stu 
 pendous edifice. I had before seen no specimen 
 of Gothic architecture, save the remains of a little 
 church at Havre, and the massive towers before 
 me, the lofty windows of stained glass, the low 
 portal, with its receding arches and rude statues, 
 all produced upon my untravelled mind an im 
 pression of awful sublimity. When I entered the 
 church, the impression was still more deep and 
 solemn. It was the hour of vespers. The religious 
 twilight of the place, the lamps that burned on the 
 distant altar, the kneeling crowd, the tinkling bell, 
 and the chant of the evening service that rolled 
 
THE GOLDEN LION INN. 27 
 
 along the vaulted roof in broken and repeated 
 echoes, filled me with new and intense emotions. 
 When I gazed on the stupendous architecture of 
 the church, the huge columns that the eye followed 
 up till they were lost in the gathering dusk of the 
 arches above, the long and shadowy aisles, the 
 statues of saints and martyrs that stood in every 
 recess, the figures of armed knights upon the tombs, 
 the uncertain light that stole through the painted 
 windows of each little chapel, and the form of the 
 cowled and solitary monk, kneeling at the shrine 
 of his favorite saint, or passing between the lofty 
 columns of the church, all I had read of, but had 
 not seen, I was transported back to the Dark 
 Ages, and felt as I can never feel again. 
 
 On the following day, I visited the remains of an 
 old palace, built by Edward the Third, now occu 
 pied as the Palais de Justice, and the ruins of the 
 church and monastery of Saint Antoine. I saw 
 the hole in the tower where the ponderous bell of 
 the abbey fell through ; and took a peep at the 
 curious illuminated manuscript of Daniel d Aubonne 
 in the public library. The remainder of the morn 
 ing was spent in visiting the ruins of the ancient 
 abbey of St. Ouen, which is now transformed into 
 the Hotel de Ville, and in strolling through its 
 beautiful gardens, dreaming of the present and the 
 past, and given up to " a melancholy of my own." 
 
 At the Table d ffite of the Golden Lion, I fell 
 into conversation with an elderly gentleman, who 
 proved to be a great antiquarian, and thoroughly 
 
28 THE GOLDEN LION INN. 
 
 read in all the forgotten lore of the city. As our 
 tastes were somewhat similar, we were soon upon 
 very friendly terms ; and after dinner we strolled 
 out to visit some remarkable localities, and took the 
 gloria together in the Chevalier Bayard. 
 
 When we returned to the Golden Lion, he enter 
 tained me with many curious stories of the spots 
 we had been visiting. Among others, he related 
 the following singular adventure of a monk of the 
 abbey of St. Antoine, which amused me so much 
 that I cannot refrain from presenting it to my 
 readers. I will not, however, vouch for the truth 
 of the story ; for that the antiquarian himself would 
 not do. He said he found it in an ancient manu 
 script of the Middle Ages, in the archives of the 
 public library ; and I give it as it was told me, with 
 out note or comment. 
 
MARTIN FRANC 
 
 AND 
 
 THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY.* 
 
 Seignor, oiez une merveille, 
 C onques n oistes sa pareille, 
 Que je vos vueil dire et center ; 
 Or metez cuer a 1 escouter. 
 
 FABLIAU DU BOUCHIER D ABBEVILLE. 
 
 Lystyn Lordyngs to my tale, 
 
 And ye shall here of one story, 
 Is better than any wyne or ale, 
 
 That ever was made in this cuntry. 
 
 ANCIENT METRICAL ROMANCE. 
 
 IN times of old, there lived in the city of Rouen 
 a tradesman named Martin Franc, who, by a series 
 of misfortunes, had been reduced from opulence to 
 poverty. But poverty, which generally makes men 
 
 * The outlines of the following tale were taken from a Norman 
 Fabliau of the thirteenth century, entitled Le Segretain Maine. 
 To judge by the numerous imitations of this story which still 
 exist in old Norman poetry, it seems to hare been a prodigious 
 favorite of its day, and to have passed through as many hands as 
 did the body of Friar Gui. It probably had its origin in " The 
 Story of the Little Hunchback," a tale of the Arabian Nights; 
 and in modern times has been imitated in the poetic tale of 
 "The Knight and the Friar," by George Colman. 
 
30 MARTIN FRANC AND 
 
 humble and laborious, only served to make him 
 proud and lazy ; and in proportion as he grew 
 pooi^er and poorer, he grew also prouder and 
 lazier. He contrived, however, to live along from 
 day to day, by now and then pawning a silken robe 
 of his wife, or selling a silver spoon, or some other 
 trifle saved from the wreck of his better fortunes ; 
 and passed his time pleasantly enough in loitering 
 about the market-place, and walking up and down 
 on the sunny side of the street. 
 
 The fair Marguerite, his wife, was celebrated 
 through the whole city for her beauty, her wit, and 
 her virtue. She was a brunette, with the blackest 
 eye, the whitest teeth, and the ripest nut-brown 
 cheek in all Normandy ; her figure was tall and 
 stately, her hands and feet most delicately moulded, 
 and her swimming gait like the motion of a swan. 
 In happier days she had been the delight of the 
 richest tradesmen in the city, and the envy of the 
 fairest dames. 
 
 The friends of Martin Franc, like the friends of 
 many a ruined man before and since, deserted him 
 in the day of adversity. Of all that had eaten his 
 dinners, and drunk his wine, and flattered his wife, 
 none sought the narrow alley and humble dwelling 
 of the broken tradesman save one, and that one 
 was Friar Gui, the sacristan of the abbey of Saint 
 Anthony. He was a little, jolly, red-faced friar, 
 with a leer in his eye, and rather a doubtful repu 
 tation ; but as he was a kind of travelling gazette, 
 and always brought the latest news and gossip of 
 
THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY. 31 
 
 the city, and besides was the only person that con 
 descended to visit the house of Martin Franc, in 
 fine, for the want of a better, he was considered in 
 the light of a friend. 
 
 In these constant assiduities, Friar Gui had his 
 secret motives, of which the single heart of Martin 
 Franc was entirely unsuspicious. The keener eye 
 of his wife, however, soon discovered two faces 
 under the hood ; but she persevered in miscon 
 struing the friar s intentions, and in dexterously 
 turning aside any expressions of gallantry that fell 
 from his lips. In this way Friar Gui was for a long 
 time kept at bay ; and Martin Franc preserved in 
 the day of poverty and distress that consolation of 
 all this world s afflictions, a friend. But, finally, 
 things came to such a pass, that the honest trades 
 man opened his eyes, and wondered he had been 
 asleep so long. Whereupon he was irreverent 
 enough to thrust Friar Gui into the street by the 
 shoulders. 
 
 Meanwhile the times grew worse and worse. 
 One family relic followed another, the last silken 
 robe was pawned, the last silver spoon sold ; until 
 at length poor Martin Franc was forced to " drag 
 the devil by the tail ; " in other words, beggary 
 stared him full in the face. But the fair Marguerite 
 did not even then despair. In those days a belief 
 in the immediate guardianship of the saints was 
 much more strong and prevalent than in these 
 lewd and degenerate times ; and as there seemed 
 no great probability of improving their condition 
 
32 MARTIN FRANC AND 
 
 by any lucky change which could be brought about 
 by mere human agency, she determined to try what 
 could be done by intercession with the patron saint 
 of her husband. Accordingly she repaired one 
 evening to the abbey of St. Anthony, to place a 
 votive candle and offer her prayer at the altar, 
 which stood in the little chapel dedicated to St. 
 Martin. 
 
 It was already sunset when she reached the 
 church, and the evening service of the Virgin had 
 commenced. A cloud of incense floated before the 
 altar of the Madonna, and the organ rolled its 
 deep melody along the dim arches of the church. 
 Marguerite mingled with the kneeling crowd, and 
 repeated the responses in Latin, with as much de 
 votion as the most learned clerk of the convent. 
 When the service was over, she repaired to the 
 chapel of St. Martin, and lighting her votive taper 
 at the silver lamp which burned before his altar, 
 knelt down in a retired part of the chapel, and, 
 with tears in her eyes, besought the saint for aid 
 and protection. While she was thus engaged, the 
 church became gradually deserted, till she was left, 
 as she thought, alone. But in this she was mis 
 taken ; for, when she arose to depart, the portly 
 figure of Friar Gui was standing;; close at her elbow ! 
 
 o o 
 
 " Good evening, fair Marguerite," said he. " St. 
 Martin has heard your prayer, and sent me to 
 relieve your poverty/ 
 
 " Then, by the Virgin ! " replied she, " the good 
 saint is not very fastidious in the choice of his 
 messengers." 
 
THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY. 33 
 
 " Nay, goodwife," answered the friar, not at all 
 abashed by this ungracious reply, " if the tidings 
 are good, what matters it who the messenger may 
 be ? And how does Martin Franc these days ? " 
 
 " He is well," replied Marguerite ; " and were he 
 present, I doubt not would thank you heartily for 
 the interest you still take in him and his poor wife." 
 
 " He has done me wrong," continued the friar. 
 u But it is our duty to forgive our enemies ; and so 
 let the past be forgotten. I know that he is in 
 want. Here, take this to him, and tell him I am 
 still his friend." 
 
 So saying, he drew a small purse from the sleeve 
 of his habit, and proffered it to his companion. I 
 know not whether it were a suggestion of St. Martin, 
 but true it is that the fair wife of Martin Franc 
 seemed to lend a more willing ear to the earnest 
 whispers of the friar. At length she said, 
 
 " Put up your purse ; to-day I can neither de 
 liver your gift nor your message. Martin Franc 
 has gone from home." 
 
 " Then keep it for yourself." 
 
 "Nay, Sir Monk," replied Marguerite, casting 
 down her eyes ; " I can take no bribes here in the 
 church, and in the very chapel of my husband s 
 patron saint. You shall bring it to me at my house, 
 if you will." 
 
 The friar put up the purse, and the conversation 
 which followed was in a low and indistinct under 
 tone, audible only to the ears for which it was 
 intended. At length the interview ceased ; and 
 
 VOL. i. 3 
 
34 MARTIN FRANC AND 
 
 O woman ! the last words that the virtuous Mar 
 guerite uttered, as she glided from the church, 
 were, 
 
 " To-night ; when the abbey-clock strikes 
 twelve ; remember ! " 
 
 It would be useless to relate how impatiently the 
 friar counted the hours and the quarters as they 
 chimed from the ancient tower of the abbey, while 
 he paced to and fro along the gloomy cloister. At 
 length the appointed hour approached ; and just 
 before the convent-bell sent forth its summons to 
 call the friars of St. Anthony to their midnight 
 devotions, a figure, with a cowl, stole out of a pos 
 tern gate, and, passing silently along the deserted 
 streets, soon turned into the little alley which led 
 to the dwelling of Martin Franc. It was none 
 other than Friar Gui. He rapped softly at the 
 tradesman s door, and casting a look up and down 
 the street, as if to assure himself that his motions 
 were unobserved, slipped into the house. 
 
 " Has Martin Franc returned ? " inquired he in 
 a whisper. 
 
 " No," answered the sweet voice of his wife ; " he 
 will not be back to-night." 
 
 " Then all good angels befriend us ! " continued 
 the monk, endeavoring to take her hand. 
 
 "Not so, good Monk," said she, disengaging 
 herself. " You forget the conditions of our meet 
 ing." 
 
 The friar paused a moment ; and then, drawing 
 a heavy leathern purse from his girdle, he threw it 
 
THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY. 35 
 
 upon the table ; at the same moment a footstep was 
 heard behind him, and a heavy blow from a club 
 threw him prostrate upon the floor. It came from 
 the strong arm of Martin Franc himself! 
 
 It is hardly necessary to say that his absence was 
 feigned. His wife had invented the story to decoy 
 the monk, and thereby to keep her husband from 
 beggary, and to relieve herself, once for all, from 
 the importunities of a false friend. At first Martin 
 Franc would not listen to the proposition ; but at 
 length he yielded to the urgent entreaties of his 
 wife ; and the plan finally agreed upon was, that 
 Friar Gui, after leaving his purse behind him, 
 should be sent back to the convent with a severer 
 discipline than his shoulders had ever received from 
 any penitence of his own. 
 
 The affair, however took a more serious turn 
 than was intended ; for, when they tried to raise 
 the friar from the ground, he was dead. The 
 blow aimed at his shoulders fell upon his shaven 
 crown ; and, in the excitement of the moment, 
 Martin Franc had dealt a heavier stroke than he 
 intended. Amid the grief and consternation which 
 followed this discovery, the quick imagination of 
 his wife suggested an expedient of safety. A bunch 
 of keys at the friar s girdle caught her eye. Hastily 
 unfastening the ring, she gave the keys to her hus 
 band, exclaiming, 
 
 " For the holy Virgin s sake, be quick ! One of 
 these keys doubtless unlocks the gate of the con 
 vent garden. Carry the body thither, and leave it 
 among the trees ! " 
 
36 MARTIN FRANC AND 
 
 Martin Franc threw the dead body of the monk 
 across his shoulders, and with a heavy heart took 
 the way to the abbey. It was a clear, starry night ; 
 and though the moon had not yet risen, her light 
 was in the sky, and came reflected down in a soft 
 twilight upon earth. Not a sound was heard 
 through all the long and solitary streets, save at 
 intervals the distant crowing of a cock, or the mel 
 ancholy hoot of an owl from the lofty tower of the 
 abbey. The silence weighed like an accusing spirit 
 upon the guilty conscience of Martin Franc. He 
 started at the sound of his own breathing, as he 
 panted under the heavy burden of the monk s 
 body ; and if, perchance, a bat flitted near him on 
 drowsy wings, he paused, and his heart beat audibly 
 with terror. At length he reached the garden- wall 
 of the abbey, opened the postern-gate with the key, 
 and, bearing the monk into the garden, seated him 
 upon a stone bench by the edge of the fountain, 
 with his head resting against a column, upon which 
 was sculptured an image of the Madonna. He 
 then replaced the bunch of keys at the monk s 
 girdle, and returned home with hasty steps. 
 
 When the prior of the convent, to whom the 
 repeated delinquencies of Friar Gui were but too 
 well known, observed that he was again absent 
 from his post at midnight prayers, he waxed ex 
 ceedingly angry; and no sooner were the duties 
 of the chapel finished, than he sent a monk in pur 
 suit of the truant sacristan, summoning him to 
 appear immediately at his cell. By chance it hap- 
 
THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY. 37 
 
 pened that the monk chosen for this duty was an 
 enemy of Friar Gui ; and very shrewdly supposing 
 that the sacristan had stolen out of the garden-gate 
 on some midnight adventure, he took that direction 
 in pursuit. The moon was just climbing the con 
 vent wall, and threw its silvery light through the 
 trees of the garden, and on the sparkling waters of 
 the fountain, that fell with a soft lulling sound into 
 the deep basin below. As the monk passed on his 
 way, he stopped to quench his thirst with a draught 
 of the cool water, and was turning to depart, when 
 his eye caught the motionless form of the sacristan, 
 sitting erect in the shadow of the stone column. 
 
 " How is this, Friar Gui ? " quoth the monk. 
 " Is this a place to be sleeping at midnight, when 
 the brotherhood are all at their prayers ? " 
 
 Friar Gui made no answer. 
 
 " Up, up ! thou eternal sleeper, and do penance 
 for thy negligence. The prior calls for thee at his 
 cell ! " continued the monk, growing angry, and 
 shaking the sacristan by the shoulder. 
 
 But still no answer. 
 
 " Then, by Saint Anthony, I ll wake thee ! " 
 
 And saying this, he dealt the sacristan a heavy 
 box on the ear. The body bent slowly forward 
 from its erect position, and, giving a headlong 
 plunge, sank with a heavy splash into the basin of 
 the fountain. The monk waited a few moments in 
 expectation of seeing Friar Gui rise dripping from 
 his cold bath ; but he waited in vain ; for he lay 
 motionless at the bottom of the basin, his eyes 
 
38 MARTIN FRANC AND 
 
 open, and his- ghastly face distorted by the ripples 
 of the water. With a beating heart the monk 
 stooped down, and, grasping the skirt of the sacris 
 tan s habit, at length succeeded in drawing him 
 from the water. All efforts, however, to resusci 
 tate him were unavailing. The monk was filled 
 with terror, not doubting that the friar had died 
 untimely by his hand; and as the animosity be 
 tween them was no secret in the convent, he 
 feared, that, when the deed was known, he should 
 be accused of murder. He therefore looked round 
 for an expedient to relieve himself from the dead 
 body ; and the well-known character of the sacris 
 tan soon suggested one. He determined to carry 
 the body to the house of the most noted beauty of 
 Rouen, and leave it on the door-step ; so that all 
 suspicion of the murder might fall upon the shoul 
 ders of some jealous husband. The beauty of Mar 
 tin Franc s wife had penetrated even the thick walls 
 of the convent, and there was not a friar in the 
 whole abbey of Saint Anthony who had not done 
 penance for his truant imagination. Accordingly, 
 the dead body of Friar Gui was laid upon the 
 monk s brawny shoulders, carried back to the house 
 of Martin Franc, and placed in an erect position 
 against the door. The monk knocked loud and 
 long ; and then, gliding through a by-lane, stole 
 back to the convent. 
 
 A troubled conscience would not suffer Martin 
 Franc and his wife to close their eyes ; but they 
 lay awake lamenting the doleful events of the night. 
 
THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY. 39 
 
 The knock at the door sounded like a death-knell 
 in their ears. It still continued at intervals, rap 
 rap rap ! with a dull, low sound, as if something 
 heavy were swinging against the panel ; for the wind 
 had risen during the night, and every angry gust 
 that swept down the alley swung the arms of the 
 lifeless sacristan against the door. At length Mar 
 tin Franc mustered courage enough to dress him 
 self and go down, while his wife followed him with 
 a lamp in her hand ; but no sooner had he lifted 
 the latch, than the ponderous body of Friar Gui 
 fell stark and heavy into his arms. 
 
 " Jesu Maria ! " exclaimed Marguerite, crossing 
 herself; " here is the monk again ! " 
 
 " Yes, and dripping wet, as if he had just been 
 dragged out of the river ! " 
 
 " O, we are betrayed ! " exclaimed Marguerite, 
 in agony. 
 
 " Then the devil himself has betrayed us," re 
 plied Martin Franc, disengaging himself from the 
 embrace of the sacristan ; " for I met not a living 
 being ; the whole city was as silent as the grave." 
 
 " Saint Martin defend us ! " continued his terri 
 fied wife. " Here, take this scapulary to guard you 
 from the Evil One ; and lose no time. You must 
 throw the body into the river, or we are lost ! Holy 
 Virgin ! How bright the moon shines ! " 
 
 Saying this, she threw round his neck a scapu 
 lary, Avith the figure of a cross on one end, and an 
 image of the Virgin on the other ; and Martin 
 Franc again took the dead friar upon his shoul- 
 
40 MARTIN FRANC AND 
 
 ders, and with fearful misgivings departed on Ms 
 dismal errand. He kept as much as possible in 
 the shadow of the houses, and had nearly reached 
 the quay, when suddenly he thought he heard foot 
 steps behind him. He stopped to listen ; it was no 
 vain imagination ; they came along the pavement, 
 tramp, tramp ! and every step grew louder and 
 nearer. Martin Franc tried to quicken his pace, 
 but in vain ; his knees smote together, and he stag 
 gered against the wall. His hand relaxed its grasp, 
 and the monk slid from his back and stood ghastly 
 and straight beside him, supported by chance 
 against the shoulder of his bearer. At that mo 
 ment a man came round the corner, tottering 
 beneath the weight of a huge sack. As his head 
 was bent downwards, he did not perceive Martin 
 Franc till he was close upon him ; and when, on 
 looking up, he saw two figures standing motionless 
 in the shadow of the wall, he thought himself way 
 laid, and, without waiting to be assaulted, dropped 
 the sack from his shoulders and ran off at full 
 speed. The sack fell heavily on the pavement, 
 and directly at the feet of Martin Franc. In the 
 fall the string was broken ; and out came the bloody 
 head, not of a dead monk, as it first seemed to the 
 excited imagination of Martin Franc, but of a dead 
 hog ! When the terror and surprise caused by this 
 singular event had a little subsided, an idea came 
 into the mind of Martin Franc, very similar to what 
 would have come into the mind of almost any per 
 son in similar circumstances. He took the hog out 
 
THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY. 41 
 
 of the sack, and, putting the body of the monk into 
 its place, secured it well with the remnants of the 
 broken string, and then hurried homeward with the 
 animal upon his shoulders. 
 
 He was hardly out of sight when the man with 
 the sack returned, accompanied by two others. 
 They were surprised to find the sack still lying on 
 the ground, with no one near it, and began to jeer 
 the former bearer, telling him he had been fright 
 ened at his own shadow on the wall. Then one of 
 them took the sack upon his shoulders, without the 
 least suspicion of the change that had been made 
 in its contents, and all three disappeared. 
 
 Now it happened that the city of Rouen was at 
 that time infested by three street robbers, who 
 walked in darkness like the pestilence, and always 
 carried the plunder of their midnight marauding 
 to the Tete-de-Boeuf, a little tavern in one of the 
 darkest and narrowest lanes of the city. The host 
 of the Tete-de-Boeuf was privy to all their schemes, 
 and had an equal share in the profits of their night 
 ly excursions. He gave a helping hand, too, by 
 the length of his bills, and by plundering the pock 
 ets of any chance traveller that was luckless 
 enough to sleep under his roof. 
 
 On the night of the disastrous adventure of 
 Friar Gui, this little marauding party had been 
 prowling about the city until a late hour, without 
 finding any thing to reward their labors. At length, 
 however, they chanced to spy a hog, hanging under 
 a shed in a butcher s yard, in readiness for the next 
 
42 MARTIN FRANC AND 
 
 day s market ; and as they were not very fastidious 
 in selecting their plunder, but, on the contrary, 
 rather addicted to taking whatever they could lay 
 their hands on, the hog was straightway purloined, 
 thrust into a large sack, and sent to the Tete-de- 
 Boeuf on the shoulders of one of the party, while 
 the other two continued their nocturnal excursion. 
 It was this person who had been so terrified at the 
 appearance of Martin Franc and the dead monk ; 
 and as this encounter had interrupted any further 
 operations of the party, the dawn of day being now 
 near at hand, they all repaired to their gloomy den 
 in the Tete-de-Bceuf. The host was impatiently 
 waiting their return ; and, asking what plunder 
 they had brought with them, proceeded without 
 delay to remove it from the sack. The first thing 
 that presented itself, on untying the string, was the 
 monk s hood. 
 
 " The devil take the devil ! " cried the host, as 
 he opened the neck of the sack ; " what s this ? 
 Your hog wears a cowl ! " 
 
 " The poor devil has become disgusted with the 
 world, and turned monk ! " said he who held the 
 light, a little surprised at seeing the head covered 
 with a coarse gray cloth. 
 
 " Sure enough he has," exclaimed another, start 
 ing back in dismay, as the shaven crown and ghast 
 ly face of the friar appeared. " Holy St. Benedict 
 be with us ! It is a monk, stark dead ! " 
 
 " A dead monk, indeed ! " said a third, with an 
 incredulous shake of the head ; " how could a dead 
 
THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY. 43 
 
 monk get into this sack ? No, no ; there is some 
 diablerie in this. I have heard it said that Satan 
 can take any shape he pleases ; and you may rely 
 upon it this is Satan himself, who has taken the 
 shape of a monk to get us all hanged." 
 
 " Then we had better kill the devil than have 
 the devil kill us ! " replied the host, crossing him 
 self; " and the sooner we do it the better ; for it is 
 now daylight, and the people will soon be passing 
 in the street." 
 
 " So say I," rejoined the man of magic ; " and 
 my advice is, to take him to the butcher s yard, 
 and hang him up in the place where we found the 
 hog." 
 
 This proposition so pleased the others that it was 
 executed without delay. They carried the friar to 
 the butcher s house, and, passing a strong cord 
 round his neck, suspended him to a beam in the 
 shade, and there left him. 
 
 When the night was at length past, and daylight 
 began to peep into the eastern windows of the city, 
 the butcher arose, and prepared himself for market. 
 He was casting up in his mind what the hog would 
 bring at his stall, when, looking upward, lo ! in its 
 place he recognized the dead body of Friar Gui. 
 
 " By St. Denis ! " quoth the butcher, " I always 
 feared that this friar would not die quietly in his 
 cell ; but I never thought I should find him hang 
 ing under my own roof. This must not be ; it will 
 be said that I murdered him, and I shall pay for it 
 with my life. I must contrive some way to get rid 
 of him." 
 
44 MARTIN FRANC AND 
 
 So saying, he called his man, and, showing him 
 what had been done, asked him how he should dis 
 pose of the body so that he might not be accused 
 of murder. The man, who was of a ready wit, 
 reflected a moment, and then answered, 
 
 " This is indeed a difficult matter ; but there is 
 no evil without its remedy. We will place the 
 friar on horseback " 
 
 " What ! a dead man on horseback ? impos 
 sible ! " interrupted the butcher. " Who ever 
 heard of a dead man on horseback ! " 
 
 " Hear me out, and then judge. We must place 
 the bod} on horseback as well as we may, and bind 
 it fast with cords ; and then set the horse loose in 
 the street, and pursue him, crying out that the 
 monk has stolen the horse. Thus all who meet 
 him will strike him with their staves as he passes, 
 and it will be thought that he came to his death in 
 that way." 
 
 Though this seemed to the butcher rather a mad 
 project, yet, as no better one offered itself at the 
 moment, and there was no time for reflection, mad 
 as the project was, they determined to put it into 
 execution. Accordingly the butcher s horse was 
 brought out, and the friar was bound upon his 
 back, and with much difficulty fixed in an upright 
 position. The butcher then gave the horse a blow 
 upon the crupper with his staff, which set him into 
 a smart gallop down the street, and he and his man 
 joined in pursuit, crying, 
 
 "Stop thief! Stop thief! The friar has stolen 
 my horse ! " 
 
THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY. 45 
 
 As it was now sunrise, the streets were full of 
 people, peasants driving their goods to market, 
 and citizens going to their daily avocations. When 
 they saw the friar dashing at full speed down the 
 street, they joined in the cry of " Stop thief! 
 Stop thief ! " and many who endeavoured to seize 
 the bridle, as the friar passed them at full speed, 
 were thrown upon the pavement, and trampled 
 under foot ; others joined in the halloo and the 
 pursuit; but this only served to quicken the gal 
 lop of the frightened steed, who dashed down one 
 street and up another like the wind, with two 
 or three mounted citizens clattering in full cry at 
 his heels. At length they reached the market 
 place. The people scattered right and left in dis 
 may ; and the steed and rider dashed onward, over 
 throwing in their course men and women, and stalls, 
 and piles of merchandise, and sweeping away like 
 a whirlwind. Tramp tramp tramp ! they clat 
 tered on ; they had distanced all pursuit. They 
 reached the quay ; the wide pavement was cleared 
 at a bound, one more wild leap, and splash ! 
 both horse and rider sank into the rapid current of 
 the river, swept down the stream, and were seen 
 
THE 
 
 VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 
 
 II n est tel plaisir 
 Que d estre & gesir 
 Parmy les beaux champs, 
 L herbe verde choisir, 
 Et prendre bon temps. 
 
 MARTIAL D AUVERGNE. 
 
 THE sultry heat of summer always brings with 
 it, to the idler and the man of leisure, a longing 
 for the leafy shade and the green luxuriance of the 
 country. It is pleasant to interchange the din of 
 the city, the movement of the crowd, and the gos 
 sip of society, with the silence of the hamlet, the 
 quiet seclusion of the grove, and the gossip of a 
 woodland brook. As is sung in the old ballad of 
 Robin Hood, 
 
 " In somer, when the shawes be sheyn, 
 
 And leves be large and long, 
 Hit is full mery in feyre foreste, 
 
 To here the foulys song; 
 To se the dere draw to the dale 
 
 And leve the hilles hee, 
 And shadow hem in the leves grene, 
 
 Vnder the grene wode tre." 
 
THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 47 
 
 It was a feeling of this kind that prompted me, 
 during my residence in the North of France, to 
 pass one of the summer months at Auteuil, the 
 pleasantest of the many little villages that lie in the 
 immediate vicinity of the metropolis. It is situated 
 on the outskirts of the Bois de Boulogne, a wood 
 of some extent, in whose green alleys the dusty cit 
 enjoys the luxury of an evening drive, and gentle 
 men meet in the morning to give each other satis 
 faction in the usual way. A cross-road, skirted 
 with green hedgerows, and overshadowed by tall 
 poplars, leads you from the noisy highway of St. 
 Cloud and Versailles to the still retirement of this 
 suburban hamlet. On either side the eye discovers 
 old chateaux amid the trees, and green parks, 
 whose pleasant shades recall a thousand images of 
 La Fontaine, Racine, and Moliere ; and on an 
 eminence, overlooking the windings of the Seine, 
 and giving a beautiful though distant view of the 
 domes and gardens of Paris, rises the village of 
 Passy, long the residence of our countrymen 
 Franklin and Count Rumford. 
 
 I took up my abode at a maison de sante ; not 
 that I was a valetudinarian, but because I there 
 found some one to whom I could whisper, " How 
 sweet is solitude ! " Behind the house was a garden 
 filled with fruit-trees of various kinds, and adorned 
 with gravel-walks and green arbours, furnished 
 with tables and rustic seats, for the repose of the 
 invalid and the sleep of the indolent. Here the 
 inmates of the rural hospital met on common 
 
48 THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 
 
 ground, to breathe the invigorating air of morning, 
 and while away the lazy noon or vacant evening 
 with tales of the sick-chamber. 
 
 The establishment was kept by Dr. Dentdelion, 
 a dried-up little fellow, with red hair, a sandy com 
 plexion, and the physiognomy and gestures of a 
 monkey. His character corresponded to his out 
 ward lineaments ; for he had all a monkey s busy 
 and curious impertinence. Nevertheless, such as 
 he was, the village ^Esculapius strutted forth the 
 little great man of Auteuil. The peasants looked 
 up to him as to an oracle ; he contrived to be at 
 the head of every thing, and laid claim to the 
 credit of all public improvements in the village ; in 
 fine, he was a great man on a small scale. 
 
 It was within the dingy walls of this little poten 
 tate s imperial palace that I chose my country resi 
 dence. I had a chamber in the second story, with 
 a solitary window, which looked upon the street, 
 and gave me a peep into a neighbour s garden. 
 This I esteemed a great privilege; for, as a 
 stranger, I desired to see all that was passing out 
 of doors ; and the sight of green trees, though 
 growing on another s ground, is always a blessing. 
 Within doors had I been disposed to quarrel with 
 my household gods I might have taken some ob 
 jection to my neighbourhood ; for, on one side of 
 me was a consumptive patient, whose graveyard 
 cough drove me from my chamber by day ; and on 
 the other, an English colonel, whose incoherent 
 ravings, in the delirium of a high and obstinate 
 
THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 49 
 
 fever, often broke my slumbers by night; but I 
 found ample amends for these inconveniences in 
 the society of those who were so little indisposed as 
 hardly to know what ailed them, and those who, 
 in health themselves, had accompanied a friend or 
 relative to the shades of the country in pursuit of 
 it. To these I am indebted for much courtesy; 
 and particularly to one who, if these pages should 
 ever meet her eye, will not, I hope, be unwilling 
 to accept this slight memorial of a former friend 
 ship. 
 
 It was, however, to the Bois de Boulogne that I 
 looked for my principal recreation. There I took 
 my solitary walk, morning and evening; or, 
 mounted on a little mouse-colored donkey, paced 
 demurely along the woodland pathway. I had a 
 favorite seat beneath the shadow of a venerable 
 oak, one of the few hoary patriarchs of the wood 
 which had survived the bivouacs of the allied 
 armies. It stood upon the brink of a little glassy 
 pool, whose tranquil bosom was the image of a 
 quiet and secluded life, and stretched its parental 
 arms over a rustic bench, that had been constructed 
 beneath it for the accommodation of the foot- 
 traveller, or, perchance, some idle dreamer like 
 myself. It seemed to look round with a lordly air 
 upon its old hereditary domain, whose stillness was 
 no longer broken by the tap of the martial drum, 
 nor the discordant clang of arms ; and, as the 
 breeze whispered among its branches, it seemed to 
 be holding friendly colloquies with a few of its 
 
 VOL. i. 4 
 
50 THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 
 
 venerable contemporaries, who stooped from the 
 opposite bank of the pool, nodding gravely now 
 and then, and gazing at themselves with a sigh in 
 the mirror below. 
 
 In this quiet haunt of rural repose I used to sit 
 at noon, hear the birds sing, and " possess myself 
 in much quietness." Just at my feet lay the little 
 silver pool, with the sky and the woods painted in 
 its mimic vault, and occasionally the image of a 
 bird, or the soft, watery outline of a cloud, floating 
 silently through its sunny hollows. The water-lily 
 spread its broad, green leaves on the surface, and 
 rocked to sleep a little world of insect life in its 
 golden cradle. Sometimes a wandering leaf came 
 floating and wavering downward, and settled on 
 the water; then a vagabond insect would break 
 the smooth surface into a thousand ripples, or a 
 green-coated frog slide from the bank, and, plump ! 
 dive headlong to the bottom. 
 
 I entered, too, with some enthusiasm, into all the 
 rural sports and merrimakes of the village. The 
 holidays were so many little eras of mirth and good 
 feeling ; for the French have that happy and sun 
 shine temperament, that merry-go-mad character, 
 which renders all their social meetings scenes of 
 enjoyment and hilarity. I made it a point never 
 to miss any of the fetes champetres, or rural dances, 
 at the wood of Boulogne ; though I confess it some 
 times gave me a momentary uneasiness to see my 
 rustic throne beneath the oak usurped by a noisy 
 group of girls, the silence and decorum of my 
 
THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 51 
 
 imaginary realm broken by music and laughter, 
 and, in a word, my whole kingdom turned topsy 
 turvy with romping, fiddling, and dancing. But I 
 am naturally, and from principle, too, a lover of 
 all those innocent amusements which cheer the 
 laborer s toil, and, as it were, put their shoulders to 
 the wheel of life, and help the poor man along 
 with his load of cares. Hence I saw with no small 
 delight the rustic swain astride the wooden horse 
 of the carrousel, and the village maiden whirling 
 round and round in its dizzy car; or took my 
 stand on a rising ground that overlooked the dance, 
 an idle spectator in a busy throng. It was just 
 where the village touched the outward border of 
 the wood. There a little area had been levelled 
 beneath the trees, surrounded by a painted rail, 
 with a row of benches inside. The music was 
 placed in a slight balcony, built around the trunk 
 of a large tree in the centre ; and the lamps, hang 
 ing from the branches above, gave a gay, fantastic, 
 and fairy look to the scene. How often iu such 
 moments did I recall the lines of Goldsmith, 
 describing those "kinder skies" beneath which 
 " France displays her bright domain," and feel 
 how true and masterly the sketch, 
 
 " Alike all ages ; dames of ancient days 
 Have led their children through the mirthful maze, 
 And the gray grandsirc, skilled in gestic lore, 
 Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore." 
 
 Nor must I forget to mention the fete pair oriole. 
 
52 THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 
 
 a kind of annual fair, which is held at midsum 
 mer, in honor of the patron saint of Auteuil. Then 
 the principal street of the village is filled with 
 booths of every description ; strolling players, and 
 rope-dancers, and jugglers, and giants, and dwarfs, 
 and wild beasts, and all kinds of wonderful shows, 
 excite the gaping curiosity of the throng; and in 
 dust, crowds, and confusion, the village rivals the 
 capital itself. Then the goodly dames of Passy 
 descend into the village of Auteuil ; then the 
 brewers of Billancourt and the tanners of Sevres 
 dance lustily under the greenwood tree ; and then, 
 too, the sturdy fishmongers of Bretigny and Saint- 
 Yon regale their fat wives with an airing in a 
 swing, and their customers with eels and crawfish ; 
 or, as is more poetically set forth in an old Christ 
 mas carol, 
 
 " Vous eussiez vu venir tons ceux de Saint- Yon, 
 Et ceux de Bretigny apportant du poisson, 
 Les barbeaux et gardons, anguilles et carpettes 
 Etoient a bon marche 
 
 Croyez, 
 A cette journee-la, 
 
 La, la, 
 Et aussi les perchettes." 
 
 I found another source of amusement in observ 
 ing the various personages that daily passed and 
 repassed beneath my window. The character 
 which most of all arrested my attention was a 
 poor blind fiddler, whom I first saw chanting a 
 doleful ballad at the door of a small tavern near 
 
THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 59 
 
 the gate of the village. He wore a brown coat, out 
 at elbows, the fragment of a velvet waistcoat, and a 
 pair of tight nankeens, so short as hardly to reach 
 below his calves. A little foraging cap, that had 
 long since seen its best days, set off an open, good- 
 humored countenance, bronzed by sun and wind. 
 He was led about by a brisk, middle-aged woman, 
 in straw hat and wooden shoes ; and a little bare 
 footed boy, with clear, blue eyes and flaxen hair, 
 held a tattered hat in his hand, in which he 
 collected eleemosynary sous. The old fellow had 
 a favorite song, which he used to sing with great 
 glee to a merry, joyous air, the burden of which 
 ran " Chantons V amour et le plaisir!" I often 
 thought it would have been a good lesson for the 
 crabbed and discontented rich man to have heard 
 this remnant of humanity, poor, blind, and in 
 rags, and dependent upon casual charity for his 
 daily bread, singing in so cheerful a voice the 
 charms of existence, and, as it were, fiddling life 
 away to a merry tune. 
 
 I was one morning called to my window by the 
 sound of rustic music. I looked out and beheld a 
 procession of villagers advancing along the road, 
 attired in gay dresses, and marching merrily on in 
 the direction of the church. I soon perceived that 
 it was a marriage-festival. The procession was led 
 by a long ourang-outang of a man, in a straw hat 
 and white dimity bob-coat, playing on an asthmatic 
 clarionet, from which he contrived to blow un 
 earthly sounds, ever and anon squeaking off at 
 
54 THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 
 
 right angles from his tune, and winding up with a 
 grand flourish on the guttural notes. Behind him, 
 led by his little boy, came the blind fiddler, his 
 honest features glowing with all the hilarity of a 
 rustic bridal, and, as he stumbled along, sawing 
 away upon his fiddle till he made all crack again. 
 Then came the happy bridegroom, dressed in his 
 Sunday suit of blue, with a large nosegay in his 
 button-hole; and close beside him his blushing 
 bride, with downcast eyes, clad in a white robe 
 and slippers, and wearing a wreath of white roses 
 in her hair. The friends and relatives brought up 
 the procession ; and a troop of village urchins came 
 shouting along in the rear, scrambling among 
 themselves for the largess of sous and sugar-plums 
 that now and then issued in large handfuls from 
 the pockets of a lean man in black, who seemed to 
 officiate as master of ceremonies on the occasion. 
 I gazed on the procession till it was out of sight ; 
 and when the last wheeze of the clarionet died 
 upon my ear, I could not help thinking how happy 
 were they who were thus to dwell together in the 
 peaceful bosom of their native village, far from the 
 gilded misery and the pestilential vices of the 
 town. 
 
 On the evening of the same day, I was sitting 
 by the window, enjoying the freshness of the air 
 and the beauty and stillness of the hour, when I 
 heard the distant and solemn hymn of the Catholic 
 burial-service, at first so faint and indistinct that it 
 seemed an illusion. It rose mournfully on the 
 
THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 55 
 
 hush of evening, died gradually away, then 
 ceased. Then it rose again, nearer and more 
 distinct, and soon after a funeral procession 
 appeared, and passed directly beneath my window. 
 It was led by a priest, bearing the banner of the 
 church, and followed by two boys, holding long 
 flambeaux in their hands. Next came a double 
 file of priests in their surplices, with a missal in 
 one hand and a lighted wax taper in the other, 
 chanting the funeral dirge at intervals, now 
 pausing, and then again taking up the mournful 
 burden of their lamentation, accompanied by 
 others, who played upon a rude kind of bassoon, 
 with a dismal and wailing sound. Then followed 
 various symbols of the church, and the bier borne 
 on the shoulders of four men. The coffin was 
 covered with a velvet pall, and a chaplet of white 
 flowers lay upon it, indicating that the deceased 
 was unmarried. A few of the villagers came 
 behind, clad in mourning robes, and bearing 
 lighted tapers. The procession passed slowly 
 along the same street that in the morning had 
 been thronged by the gay bridal company. A 
 melancholy train of thought forced itself home 
 upon my mind. The joys and sorrows of this 
 world are so strikingly mingled ! Our mirth and 
 grief are brought so mournfully in contact ! We 
 laugh while others weep, and others rejoice when 
 we are sad ! The light heart and the heavy walk 
 side by side and go about together ! Beneath the 
 same roof are spread the wedding-feast and the 
 
56 THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 
 
 funeral-pall! The bridal-song mingles with the 
 burial-hymn ! One goes to the marriage-bed, 
 another to the grave ; and all Is mutable, uncer 
 tain, and transitory. 
 
 It is with sensations of pure delight that I recur 
 to the brief period of my existence which was 
 passed in the peaceful shades of Auteuil. There 
 is one kind of wisdom which we learn from the 
 world, and another kind which can be acquired in 
 solitude only. In cities we study those around us ; 
 but in the retirement of the country we learn to 
 know ourselves. The voice within us is more 
 distinctly audible in the stillness of the place ; and 
 the gentler affections of our nature spring up more 
 freshly in its tranquillity and sunshine, nurtured 
 by the healthy principle which we inhale with the 
 pure air, and invigorated by the genial influences 
 which descend into the heart from the quiet of the 
 sylvan solitude around, and the soft serenity of the 
 sky above. 
 
JACQUELINE. 
 
 Death lies on her, like an untimely frost 
 Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 " DEAR mother, is it not the bell I hear V " 
 
 " Yes, my child ; the bell for morning prayers. 
 It is Sunday to-day." 
 
 " I had forgotten it. But now all days are alike 
 to me. Hark ! it sounds again, louder, louder. 
 Open the window, for I love the sound. The 
 sunshine and the fresh morning air revive me. 
 And the church-bell, O mother, it reminds me 
 of the holy Sabbath mornings by the Loire, so 
 calm, so hushed, so beautiful ! Now give me my 
 prayer-book, and draw the curtain back, that I 
 may see the green trees and the church-spire. I 
 feel better to-day, dear mother." 
 
 It was a bright, cloudless morning in August. 
 The dew still glistened on the trees ; and a slight 
 breeze wafted to the sick-chamber of Jacqueline 
 the song of the birds, the rustle of the leaves, and 
 the solemn chime of the church-bells. She had 
 been raised up in bed, and, reclining upon the 
 pillow, was gazing wistfully upon the quiet scene 
 without. Her mother gave her the prayer-book, 
 
58 JACQUELINE. 
 
 and then turned away to hide a tear that stole 
 down her cheek. 
 
 At length the bells ceased. Jacqueline crossed 
 herself, kissed a pearl crucifix that hung around 
 her neck, and opened the silver clasps of her 
 missal. For a time she seemed wholly absorbed 
 in her devotions. Her lips moved, but no sound 
 was audible. At intervals the solemn voice of the 
 priest was heard at a distance, and then the con 
 fused responses of the congregation, dying away in 
 inarticulate murmurs. Ere long the thrilling chant 
 of the Catholic service broke upon the ear. At 
 first it was low, solemn, and indistinct ; then it 
 became more earnest and entreating, as if inter 
 ceding and imploring pardon for sin ; and then 
 arose louder and louder, full, harmonious, majestic, 
 as it wafted the song of praise to heaven, and 
 suddenly ceased. Then the sweet tones of the 
 organ were heard, trembling, thrilling, and rising 
 higher and higher, and filling the Avhole air with 
 their rich, melodious music. What exquisite 
 accords ! what noble harmonies ! what touching 
 pathos ! The soul of the sick girl seemed to kindle 
 into more ardent devotion, and to be rapt away to 
 heaven in the full, harmonious chorus, as it swelled 
 onward, doubling and redoubling, and rolling 
 upward in a full burst of rapturous devotion ! 
 Then all was hushed again. Once more the low 
 sound of the bell smote the air, and announced the 
 elevation of the host. The invalid seemed en 
 tranced in prayer. Her book had fallen beside 
 
JACQUELINE. 59 
 
 her, her hands were clasped, her eyes closed, 
 her soul retired within its secret chambers. Then 
 a more triumphant peal of bells arose. The tears 
 gushed from her closed and swollen lids ; her 
 cheek was flushed ; she opened her dark eyes, and 
 fixed them with an expression of deep adoration 
 and penitence upon an image of the Saviour on 
 the cross, which hung at the foot of her bed, and 
 her lips again moved in prayer. Her countenance 
 expressed the deepest resignation. She seemed 
 to ask only that she might die in peace, and go to 
 the bosom of her Redeemer. 
 
 The mother was kneeling by the window, with 
 her face concealed in the folds of the curtain. She 
 arose, and, going to the bedside of her child, threw 
 her arms around her and burst into tears. 
 
 " My dear mother, I shall not live long ; I feel it 
 here. This piercing pain, at times it seizes me, 
 and I cannot cannot breathe." 
 
 " My child, you will be better soon." 
 
 " Yes, mother, I shall be better soon. All tears, 
 and pain, and sorrow will be over. The hymn of 
 adoration and entreaty I have just heard, I shall 
 never hear again on earth. Next Sabbath, mother, 
 kneel again by that window as to-day. I shall not 
 be here, upon this bed of pain arid sickness ; but 
 when you hear the solemn hymn of worship, and 
 the beseeching tones that wing the spirit up to 
 God, think, mother, that I am there, with my sweet 
 sister who has gone before us, kneeling at our 
 Saviour s feet, and happy, O, how happy ! " 
 
00 JACQUELINE. 
 
 The afflicted mother made no reply, her heart 
 was too full to speak. 
 
 " You remember, mother, how calmly Amie 
 died. She was so young and beautiful ! I always 
 pray that I may die as she did. I do not fear death 
 as I did before she was taken from us. But, O, 
 this pain, this cruel pain ! it seems to draw my 
 mind back from heaven. When it leaves me, I 
 shall die in peace." 
 
 " My poor child ! God s holy will be done ! " 
 
 The invalid soon sank into a quiet slumber. 
 The excitement was over, and exhausted nature 
 sought relief in sleep. 
 
 The persons between whom this scene passed 
 were a widow and her sick daughter, from the 
 neighbourhood of Tours. They had left the banks 
 of the Loire to consult the more experienced phy 
 sicians of the metropolis, and had been directed to 
 the maison de sante at Auteuil for the benefit of the 
 pure air. But all in vain. The health of the un 
 complaining patient grew worse and worse, and it 
 soon became evident that the closing scene was 
 drawing near. 
 
 Of this Jacqueline herself seemed conscious; and 
 towards evening she expressed a wish to receive 
 the last sacraments of the church. A priest was 
 sent for ; and ere long the tinkling of a little bell 
 in the street announced his approach. He bore in 
 his hand a silver chalice containing the consecrated 
 wafer, and a small vessel filled with the holy oil of 
 the extreme unction hung from his neck. Before 
 
JACQUELINE. 6 
 
 him walked a boy carrying a little bell, whose sound 
 announced the passing of these symbols of the 
 Catholic faith, in the rear, a few of the villagers, 
 bearing lighted wax tapers, formed a short and 
 melancholy procession. They soon entered the 
 sick-chamber, and the glimmer of the tapers min 
 gled with the red light of the setting sun that shot 
 his farewell rays through the open window. The 
 vessel of oil and the silver chalice were placed upon 
 the table in front of a crucifix that hung upon the 
 wall, and all present, excepting the priest, threw 
 themselves upon their knees. The priest then ap 
 proached the bed of the dying girl, and said, in a 
 slow and solemn tone, 
 
 " The King of kings and Lord of lords has passed 
 thy threshold. Is thy spirit ready to receive 
 him ? " 
 
 " It is, father." 
 
 " Hast thou confessed thy sins ? " 
 
 " Holy father, no." 
 
 " Confess thyself, then, that thy sins may be 
 forgiven, and thy name recorded in the book of 
 life." 
 
 And, turning to the kneeling crowd around, he 
 waved his hand for them to retire, and was left 
 alone with the sick girl. He seated himself beside 
 her pillow, and the subdued whisper of the confes 
 sion mingled with the murmur of the evening air, 
 which lifted the heavy folds of the curtains, and 
 stole in upon the holy scene. Poor Jacqueline had 
 few sins to confess, a secret thought or two towards 
 
G 2 JACQUELINE. 
 
 the pleasures and delights of the world, a wish to 
 live, unuttered, but which, to the eye of her self- 
 accusing spirit, seemed to resist the wise providence 
 of God ; no more. The confession of a meek and 
 lowly heart is soon made. The door was again 
 opened ; the attendants entered, and knelt around 
 the bed, and the priest proceeded, 
 
 " And now prepare thyself to receive with con 
 trite heart the body of our blessed Lord and 
 Redeemer. Dost thou believe that our Lord Jesus 
 Christ was conceived by the Holy Spirit, and born 
 of the Virgin Mary ? " 
 
 " I believe." 
 
 And all present joined in the solemn response, 
 
 ik I believe." 
 
 " Dost thou believe that the Father is God, that 
 the Son is God, and that the Holy Spirit is God, 
 three persons and one God ? " 
 
 " I believe." 
 
 " Dost thou believe that the Son is seated on the 
 right hand of the Majesty on high, whence he shall 
 come to judge the quick and the dead ? " 
 
 " I believe." 
 
 " Dost thou believe that by the holy sacraments 
 of the church thy sins are forgiven thee, and that 
 thus thou art made worthy of eternal life ? " 
 
 " I believe." 
 
 " Dost thou pardon, with all thy heart, all who 
 have offended thee in thought, word, or deed ? " 
 
 " I pardon them." 
 
 "And dost thou ask pardon of God and thy 
 
JACQUELINE. 63 
 
 neighbour for all offences thou hast committed 
 against them, either in thought, word, or deed ? " 
 "Idol" 
 
 " Then repeat after me, O Lord Jesus, I am 
 not worthy, nor do I merit, that thy divine majesty 
 should enter this poor tenement of clay ; but, ac 
 cording to thy holy promises, be my sins forgiven, 
 and my soul washed white from all transgression." 
 
 Then, taking a consecrated wafer from the vase, 
 he placed it between the lips of the dying girl, and, 
 while the assistant sounded the little silver bell, 
 said, 
 
 " Corpus Domini nostri Jetu Christi custodial 
 animam tuam in vitam eternam" 
 
 And the kneeling crowd smote their breasts and 
 responded in one solemn voice, 
 
 " Amen ! " 
 
 The priest then took a little golden rod, and 
 dipping it in holy oil, anointed the invalid upon 
 the hands, feet, and breast, in the form of the cross. 
 When these ceremonies were completed, the priest 
 and his attendants retired, leaving the mother alone 
 with her dying child, who, from the exhaustion 
 caused by the preceding scene, sank into a death 
 like sleep. 
 
 " Between two worlds life hovered like a star, 
 Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon s verge." 
 
 The long twilight of the summer evening stole 
 on ; the shadows deepened without, and the night- 
 lamp glimmered feebly in the sick-chamber; but 
 
64 JACQUELINE. 
 
 still she slept. She was lying with her hands 
 clasped upon her breast, her pallid cheek resting 
 upon the pillow, and her bloodless lips apart, but 
 motionless and silent as the sleep of death. Not a 
 breath interrupted the silence of her slumber. Not 
 a movement of the heavy and sunken eyelid, not a 
 trembling of the lip, not a shadow on the marble 
 brow, told when the spirit took its flight. It passed 
 to a better world than this : 
 
 " There s a perpetual spring, perpetual youth; 
 No joint-benumbing cold, nor scorching heat, 
 Famine, nor age, have any being there." 
 
THE 
 
 SEXAGENARIAN. 
 
 Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are 
 written down old, with all the characters of age ? Have you not 
 a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a de 
 creasing leg? SHAKSPEABE. 
 
 THERE he goes, in his long russet surtout, sweep 
 ing down yonder gravel-walk, beneath the trees, 
 like a yellow leaf in autumn wafted along by a fit 
 ful gust of wind. Now he pauses, now seems to 
 be whirled round in an eddy, and now rustles 
 and brushes onward again. He is talking to him 
 self in an under-tone, as usual, and flourishes a 
 pinch of snuff between his forefinger and his thumb, 
 ever and anon drumming on the cover of his box, 
 by way of emphasis, with a sound like the tap of a 
 woodpecker. He always takes a morning walk in 
 the garden, in fact, I may say he passes the 
 greater part of the day there, either strolling up 
 and down the gravel-walks, or sitting on a rustic 
 bench in one of the leafy arbors. He always 
 wears that same dress, too ; a bell-crowned hat, a 
 frilled bosom, and white dimity vest, soiled with 
 snuff, like nankeen breeches, and, over all, that 
 
 VOL. i. 5 
 
66 THE SEXAGENARIAN. 
 
 long and flowing surtout of russet-brown Circassian, 
 hanging in wrinkles round his slender body, and 
 toying with his thin, rakish legs. Such is his con 
 stant garb, morning and evening ; and it gives him 
 a cool and breezy look, even in the heat of a noon 
 day in August. 
 
 The personage sketched in the preceding para 
 graph is Monsieur D Argentville, a sexagenarian, 
 with whom I became acquainted during my. res 
 idence at the maison de sante of Anteuil. I found 
 him there, and left him there. Nobody knew when 
 he came, he had been there from time imme 
 morial ; nor when he was going away, for he him 
 self did not know ; nor what ailed him, for though 
 he was always complaining, yet he grew neither 
 better nor worse, never consulted the physician, 
 and ate voraciously three times a day. At table 
 he was rather peevish, troubled his neighbours with 
 his elbows, and uttered the monosyllable pish ! 
 rather oftener than good-breeding and a due def 
 erence to the opinions of others seemed to justify. 
 As soon as he seated himself at table, he breathed 
 into his tumbler, and wiped it out with a napkin ; 
 then wiped his plate, his spoon, his knife and fork 
 in succession, and each with great care. After this 
 he placed the napkin under his chin ; and these 
 preparations being completed, gave full swing to an 
 appetite which was not inappropriately denom 
 inated, by one of our guests, u une faim canine" 
 
 The old gentleman s weak side was an affecta 
 tion of youth and gallantry. Though "written 
 
THE SEXAGENARIAN. 67 
 
 down old, with all the characters of age," yet at 
 times he seemed to think himself in the hey-day of 
 life ; and the assiduous court he paid to a fair 
 countess, who was passing the summer at the mai- 
 son de sante, was the source of no little merriment 
 to all but himself. He loved, too, to recall the 
 golden age of his amours ; and would discourse 
 with prolix eloquence, and a faint twinkle in his 
 watery eye, of his bonnes fortunes in times of old, 
 and the rigors that many a fair dame had suffered 
 on his account. Indeed, his chief pride seemed to 
 be to make his hearers believe that he had been a 
 dangerous man in his youth, and was not yet quite 
 safe. 
 
 As I also was a peripatetic of the garden, we en 
 countered each other at every turn. At first our 
 conversation was limited to the usual salutations of 
 the day ; but ere long our casual acquaintance ri 
 pened into a kind of intimacy. Step by step I won 
 my way, first into his society, then into his 
 snuff-box, and then into his heart. He was a 
 great talker, and he found in me what he found in 
 no other inmate of the house, a good listener, who 
 never interrupted his long stories, nor contradicted 
 his opinions. So he talked down one alley and up 
 another, from breakfast till dinner, from dinner 
 till midnight, at all times and in all places, when 
 he could catch me by the button, till at last he had 
 confided to my ear all the important and unimpor 
 tant events of a life of sixty years. 
 
 Monsieur D Argentville was a shoot from a 
 
68 THE SEXAGENARIAN. 
 
 wealthy family of Nantes. Just before the Revolu 
 tion, he went up to Paris to study law at the Uni 
 versity, and, like many other wealthy scholars of 
 his age, was soon involved in the intrigues and dis 
 sipation of the metropolis. He first established 
 himself in the Rue de PUniversite ; but a roguish 
 pair of eyes at an opposite window soon drove 
 from the field such heavy tacticians as Hugues 
 Doneau and Gui Coquille. A flirtation was com 
 menced in due form ; and a flag of truce, offering 
 to capitulate, was sent in the shape of a billet-doux. 
 In the mean time he regularly amused his leisure 
 hours by blowing kisses across the street with an 
 old pair of bellows. One afternoon, as he was oc 
 cupied in this way, a tall gentleman with whiskers 
 stepped into the room, just as he had charged the 
 bellows to the muzzle. He muttered something 
 about an explanation, his sister, marriage, and 
 the satisfaction of a gentleman ! Perhaps there is 
 no situation in life so awkward to a man of real 
 sensibility as that of being awed into matrimony or 
 a duel by the whiskers of a tall brother. There 
 was but one alternative ; and the next morning a 
 placard at the window of the Bachelor of Love, 
 with the words "Furnished Apartment to let," 
 showed that the former occupant had found it con 
 venient to change lodgings. 
 
 He next appeared in the Chaussee-d Antin, where 
 he assiduously prepared himself for future exigen 
 cies by a course of daily lessons in the use of the 
 small-sword. He soon after quarrelled with his 
 
THE SEXAGENARIAN. 69 
 
 best friend, about a little actress on the Boulevard, 
 and had the satisfaction of being jilted, and then 
 run through the body at the Bois de Boulogne. 
 This gave him new eclat in the fashionable world, 
 and consequently he pursued pleasure with a keener 
 relish than ever. He next had the grande passion, 
 and narrowly escaped marrying an heiress of great 
 expectations, and a countless number of chateaux. 
 Just before the catastrophe, however, he had the 
 good fortune to discover that the lady s expecta 
 tions were limited to his own pocket, and that, 
 as for her chateaux, they were all Chateaux en 
 Espagne. 
 
 About this time his father died ; and the hopeful 
 son was hardly well established in his inheritance, 
 when the Revolution broke out. Unfortunately, 
 he was a firm upholder of the divine right of 
 kings, and had the honor of being among the first 
 of the proscribed. He narrowly escaped the guil 
 lotine by jumping on board a vessel bound for 
 America, and arrived at Boston with only a few 
 francs in his pocket ; but, as he knew how to ac 
 commodate himself to circumstances, he continued 
 to live by teaching fencing and French, and keep 
 ing a dancing-school and a milliner. 
 
 At the restoration of the Bourbons, he returned 
 to France ; and from that time to the day of our 
 acquaintance had been engaged in a series of vexa 
 tious lawsuits, in the hope of recovering a portion 
 of his property, which had been intrusted to a 
 friend for safe keeping at the commencement of 
 
70 THE SEXAGENARIAN. 
 
 the Revolution. His friend, however, denied all 
 knowledge of the transaction, and the assignment 
 was very difficult to prove. Twelve years of un 
 successful ligitation had completely soured the old 
 gentleman s temper, and made him peevish and 
 misanthropic ; and he had come to Auteuil merely 
 to escape the noise of the city, and to brace his 
 shattered nerves with pure air and quiet amuse 
 ments. There he idled the time away, sauntering 
 about the garden of the maison de sante, talking to 
 himself when he could get no other listener, and 
 occasionally reinforcing his misanthropy with a 
 dose of the Maxims of La Rochefoucauld, or a visit 
 to the scene of his duel in the Bois de Boulogne. 
 
 Poor Monsieur d Argentville ! What a miserable 
 life he led, or rather dragged on, from day to 
 day ! A petulant, broken-down old man, who had 
 outlived his fortune, and his friends, and his hopes, 
 yea, every thing but the sting of bad passions and 
 the recollection of a life ill-spent ! Whether he 
 still walks the earth or slumbers in its bosom, I know 
 not; but a lively recollection of him will always 
 mingle with my reminiscences of Auteuil. 
 
PERE LA CHAISE. 
 
 Our fathers find their graves in our short memories, and sadly 
 tell us how we may be buried in our survivors. 
 
 Oblivion is not to be hired. The greater part must be content 
 to be as though they had not been, to be found in the register 
 of God, not in the record of man. 
 
 SIR THOMAS BROWN S URN BURIAL. 
 
 THE cemetery of Pere la Chaise is the West 
 minster Abbey of Paris. Both are the dwellings 
 of the dead ; but in one they repose in green alleys 
 and beneath the open sky, in the other their 
 resting-place is in the shadowy aisle, and beneath 
 the dim arches of an ancient abbey. One is a 
 temple of nature ; the other a temple of art. In 
 one, the soft melancholy of the scene is rendered 
 still more touching by the warble of birds and the 
 shade of trees, and the grave receives the gentle 
 visit of the sunshine and the shower : in the other, 
 no sound but the passing footfall breaks the silence 
 of the place ; the twilight steals in through high 
 and dusky windows ; and the damps of the gloomy 
 vault lie heavy on the heart, and leave their stain 
 upon the mouldering tracery of the tomb. 
 
 Pre la Chaise stands just beyond the Barriere 
 d Aulney, on a hill-side, looking towards the city. 
 
72 PERE LA CHAISE. 
 
 Numerous gravel-walks, winding through shady 
 avenues and between marble monuments, lead up 
 from the principal entrance to a chapel on the 
 summit. There is hardly a grave that has not its 
 little inclosure planted with shrubbery ; and a thick 
 mass of foliage half conceals each funeral stone. 
 The sighing of the wind, as the branches rise and 
 fall upon it, the occasional note of a bird among 
 the trees, and the shifting of light and shade upon 
 the tombs beneath, have a soothing effect upon the 
 mind ; and I doubt whether any one can enter that 
 inclosure, where repose the dust and ashes of so 
 many great and good men, without feeling the 
 religion of the place steal over him, and seeing 
 something of the dark and gloomy expression pass 
 off from the stern countenance of death. 
 
 It was near the close of a bright summer after 
 noon that I visited this celebrated spot for the first 
 time. The first object that arrested my attention, 
 on entering, was a monument in the form of a 
 small Gothic chapel, which stands near the en 
 trance, in the avenue leading to the right hand. 
 On the marble couch within are stretched two 
 figures, carved in stone and dressed in the antique 
 garb of the Middle Ages. It is the tomb of Abe- 
 lard and Heloise. The history of these unfortunate 
 lovers is too well known to need recapitulation ; 
 but perhaps it is not so well known how often their 
 ashes were disturbed in the slumber of the grave. 
 Abelard died in the monastery of Saint Marcel, 
 and was buried in the vaults of the church. His 
 
PERE LA CHAISE. 73 
 
 body was afterward removed to the convent of the 
 Paraclet, at the request of Heloise, and at her 
 death her body was deposited in the same tomb. 
 Three centuries they reposed together ; after which 
 they were separated to different sides of the church, 
 to calm the delicate scruples of the lady-abbess 
 of the convent. More than a century afterward, 
 they were again united in the same tomb ; and 
 when at length the Paraclet was destroyed, their 
 mouldering remains were transported to the church 
 of Nogent-sur- Seine. They were next deposited in 
 an ancient cloister at Paris ; and now repose near 
 the gateway of the cemetery of Pere la Chaise. 
 What a singular destiny was theirs ! that, after a 
 life of such passionate and disastrous love, such 
 sorrows, and tears, and penitence, their very dust 
 should not be suffered to rest quietly in the grave ! 
 that their death should so much resemble their 
 life in its changes and vicissitudes, its partings and 
 its meetings, its inquietudes and its persecutions ! 
 that mistaken zeal should follow them down to the 
 very tomb, as if earthly passion could glimmer, 
 like a funeral lamp, amid the damps of the char- 
 nel house, and " even in their ashes burn their 
 wonted fires ! " 
 
 As I gazed on the sculptured forms before me, 
 and the little chapel, whose Gothic roof seemed to 
 protect their marble sleep, my busy memory swung 
 back the dark portals of the past, and the picture of 
 their sad and eventful lives came up before me in 
 the gloomy distance. What a lesson for those who 
 
74 PERE LA CHAISE. 
 
 are endowed with the fatal gift of genius ! It 
 would seem, indeed, that He who " tempers the 
 wind to the shorn lamb," tempers also hi& chastise 
 ments to the errors and infirmities of a weak and 
 simple mind, while the transgressions of him 
 upon whose nature are more strongly marked the 
 intellectual attributes of the Deity are followed, 
 even upon earth, by severer tokens of the divine 
 displeasure. He who sins in the darkness of a 
 benighted intellect sees not so clearly, through 
 the shadows that surround him, the countenance 
 of an offended God ; but he who sins in the broad 
 noonday of a clear and radiant mind, when at 
 length the delirium of sensual passion has subsided, 
 and the cloud flits away from before the sun, 
 trembles beneath the searching eye of that accusing 
 power which is strong in the strength of a godlike 
 intellect. Thus the mind and the heart are closely 
 linked together, and the errors of genius bear with 
 them their own chastisement, even upon earth. 
 The history of Abelard and Heloi se is an illustra 
 tion of this truth. But at length they sleep well. 
 Their lives are like a tale that is told ; their errors 
 are "folded up like a book;" and what mortal 
 hand shall break the seal that death has set upon 
 them ? 
 
 Leaving this interesting tomb behind me, I took 
 a pathway to the left, which conducted me up ,the 
 hill-side. I soon found myself in the deep shade 
 of heavy foliage, where the branches of the yew 
 and willow mingled, interwoven with the tendrils 
 
PERE LA CHAISE. 75 
 
 and blossoms of the honeysuckle. I now stood in 
 the most populous part of this city of tombs. 
 Every step awakened a new train of thrilling 
 recollections; for at every step my eye caught 
 the name of some one whose glory had exalted 
 the character of his native land, and resounded 
 across . the waters of the Atlantic. Philosophers, 
 historians, musicians, warriors, and poets slept side 
 by side around me ; some beneath the gorgeous 
 monument, and some beneath the simple head 
 stone. But the political intrigue, the dream of 
 science, the historical research, the ravishing har 
 mony of sound, the tried courage, the inspiration 
 of the lyre, where are they ? With the living, 
 and not with the dead ! The right hand has lost 
 its cunning in the grave ; but the soul, whose high 
 volitions it obeyed, still lives to reproduce itself in 
 ages yet to come. 
 
 Among these graves of genius I . observed here 
 and there a splendid monument, which had been 
 raised by the pride of family over the dust of men 
 who could lay no claim either to the gratitude 
 or remembrance of posterity. Their presence 
 seemed like an intrusion into the sanctuary of 
 genius. What had wealth to do there ? Why 
 should it crowd the dust of the great ? That was no 
 thoroughfare of business, no mart of gain ! There 
 were no costly banquets there ; no silken garments, 
 nor gaudy liveries, nor obsequious attendants ! 
 " What servants," says Jeremy Taylor, " shall we 
 have to wait upon us in the grave ? what friends 
 
76 PERE LA CHAISE. 
 
 to visit us ? what officious people to cleanse away 
 the moist and unwholesome cloud reflected upon 
 our faces from the sides of the weeping vaults, 
 which are the longest weepers for our funerals ? " 
 Material wealth gives a factitious superiority to the 
 living, but the treasures of intellect give a real 
 superiority to the dead; and the rich man, who 
 would not deign to walk the street with the starv 
 ing and penniless man of genius, deems it an 
 honor, when death has redeemed the fame of the 
 neglected, to have his own ashes laid beside him, 
 and to claim with him the silent companionship 
 of the grave. 
 
 I continued my walk through the numerous 
 winding paths, as chance or curiosity directed 
 me. Now I was lost in a little green hollow, 
 overhung with thick-leaved shrubbery, and then 
 came out upon an elevation, from which, through 
 an opening in the trees, the eye caught glimpses 
 of the city, and the little esplanade, at the foot 
 of the hill, where the poor lie buried. There 
 poverty hires its grave, and takes but a short 
 lease of the narrow house. At the end of a few 
 months, or at most of a few years, the tenant is 
 dislodged to give place to another, and he in turn 
 to a third. " Who," says Sir Thomas Browne, 
 " knows the fate of his bones, or how often he is to 
 be buried V Who hath the oracle of his ashes, or 
 whither they are to be scattered ? " 
 
 Yet, even in that neglected corner, the hand 
 of affection had been busy in decorating the hired 
 
PERE LA CHAISE. 77 
 
 house. Most of the graves were surrounded with 
 a slight wooden paling, to secure them from the 
 passing footstep ; there was hardly one so deserted 
 as not to be marked with its little wooden cross, 
 and decorated with a garland of flowers ; and 
 here and there I could perceive a solitary mourner, 
 clothed in black, stooping to plant a shrub on the 
 grave, or sitting in motionless sorrow beside it. 
 
 As I passed on, amid the shadowy avenues 
 of the cemetery, I could not help comparing my 
 own impressions with those which others have 
 felt when walking alone among the dwellings 
 of the dead. Are, then, the sculptured urn and 
 storied monument nothing more than symbols of 
 family pride ? Is all I see around me a memorial 
 of the living more than of the dead, an empty 
 show of sorrow, which thus vaunts itself in mourn 
 ful pageant and funeral parade ? Is it indeed 
 true, as some have said, that the simple wild- 
 flower, which springs spontaneously upon the 
 grave, and the rose, which the hand of affection 
 plants there, are fitter objects wherewith to adorn 
 the narrow house V No ! I feel that it is not so ! 
 Let the good and the great be honored even in the 
 grave. Let the sculptured marble direct our foot 
 steps to the scene of their long sleep ; let the 
 chiselled epitaph repeat their names, and tell us 
 where repose the nobly good and wise ! It is not 
 true that all are equal in the grave. There is no 
 equality even there. The mere handful of dust 
 and ashes, the mere distinction of prince and 
 
78 PERE LA CHAISE. 
 
 beggar, of a rich winding-sheet and a shroudless 
 burial, of a solitary grave and a family vault, 
 were this all, then, indeed, it would be true that 
 death is a common leveller. Such paltry distinc 
 tions as those of wealth and poverty are soon 
 levelled by the spade and mattock ; the damp 
 breath of the grave blots them out forever. But 
 there are other distinctions which even the mace 
 of death cannot level or obliterate. Can it break 
 down the distinction of virtue and vice ? Can 
 it confound the good with the bad? the noble 
 with the base ? all that is truly great, and pure, 
 and godlike, with all that is scorned, and sinful, 
 and degraded ? No ! Then death is not a common 
 leveller! Are all alike beloved in death and 
 honored in their burial ? Is that ground holy 
 where the bloody hand of the murderer sleeps 
 from crime ? Does every grave awaken the same 
 emotions in our hearts ? . and do the footsteps of the 
 stranger pause as long beside each funeral-stone ? 
 No ! Then all are not equal in the grave ! And 
 as long as the good and evil deeds of men live 
 after them, so long will there be distinctions even 
 in the grave. The superiority of one over another 
 is in the nobler and better emotions which it ex 
 cites ; in its- more fervent admonitions to virtue ; 
 in the livelier recollection which it awakens of the 
 good and the great, whose bodies are crumbling to 
 dust beneath our feet ! 
 
 If, then, there are distinctions in the grave, 
 surely it is not unwise to designate them by the 
 
PERE LA CHAISE. 79 
 
 external marks of honor. These outward appli 
 ances and memorials of respect, the mournful 
 urn, the sculptured bust, the epitaph eloquent 
 in praise, cannot indeed create these distinctions, 
 but they serve to mark them. It is only when 
 pride or wealth builds them to honor the slave 
 of mammon or the slave of appetite, when the 
 voice from the grave rebukes the false and pom 
 pous epitaph, and the dust and ashes of the tomb 
 seem struggling to maintain the superiority of 
 mere worldly rank, and to carry into the grave 
 the bawbles of earthly vanity, it is then, and then 
 only, that we feel how utterly worthless are all the 
 devices of sculpture, and the empty pomp of monu 
 mental brass ! 
 
 After rambling leisurely about for some time, 
 reading the inscriptions on the various monuments 
 which attracted my curiosity, and giving way to 
 the different reflections they suggested, I sat down 
 to rest myself on a sunken tombstone. A winding 
 gravel walk, overshaded by an avenue of trees, and 
 lined on both sides with richly sculptured monu 
 ments, had gradually conducted me to the summit 
 of the hill, upon whose slope the cemetery stands. 
 Beneath me in the distance, and dim-discovered 
 through the misty and smoky atmosphere of even 
 ing, rose the countless roofs and spires of the city. 
 Beyond, throwing his level rays athwart the dusky 
 landscape, sank the broad red sun. The distant 
 murmur of the city rose upon my ear ; and the 
 toll of the evening bell came up, mingled with 
 
80 PERE LA CHAISE. 
 
 the rattle of the paved street and the confiised 
 sounds of labor. What an hour for meditation 1 
 What a contrast between the metropolis of the 
 living and the metropolis of the dead ! I could not 
 help calling to my mind that allegory of mortality, 
 written by a hand which has been many a long 
 year cold : 
 
 " Earth goeth upon earth as man upon mould, 
 
 Like as earth upon earth never go should, 
 
 Earth goeth upon earth as glistening gold, 
 
 And yet shall earth unto earth rather than he would. 
 
 " Lo, earth on earth, consider thou may, 
 
 How earth cometh to earth naked alway, 
 
 Why shall earth upon earth go stout or gay, 
 
 Since earth out of earth shall pass in poor array." # 
 
 * I subjoin this relic of old English verse entire, and in its anti 
 quated language, for those of my readers who may have an 
 antiquarian taste. It is copied from a book whose title I have 
 forgotten, and of which I have but a single leaf, containing the 
 poem. In describing the antiquities of the church of Stratford- 
 upon-Avon, the writer gives the following account of a very old 
 painting upon the wall, and of the poem which served as its 
 motto. The painting is no longer visble, having been effaced in 
 repairing the church. 
 
 "Against the west wall of the nave, on the south side of the 
 arch, was painted the martyrdom of Thomas--Becket, while 
 kneeling at the altar of St. Benedict in Canterbury cathedral; 
 below this was the figure of an angel, probably St. Michael, sup 
 porting a long scroll, upon which were seven stanzas in old 
 English, being an allegory of mortality : 
 
 "Erthe oute of Erthe ys wondurly wroght 
 Erth hath gotyn uppon erth a dygny te of noght 
 Erth ypon erth hath sett all hys thowht 
 How erth apon erth may be hey browght 
 
PERE LA CHAISE. 81 
 
 Before I left the graveyard the shades of even 
 ing had fallen, and the objects around me grown 
 dim and indistinct. As I passed the gateway, I 
 turned to take a parting look. I could distinguish 
 only the chapel on the summit of the hill, and here 
 
 " Erth apon erth wold be a kyng 
 But how that erth gott to erth he thyngkys nothyng 
 When erth byddys erth hys rentys whom bryng 
 Then schall erth apon erth have a hard ptyng 
 
 " Erth apon erth wynnys castellys and to wry s 
 Then seth erth unto erth thys ys all owrys 
 When erth apon erth hath bylde hys bowrys 
 Then schall erth for erth suffur many hard schowrys 
 
 " Erth goth apon erth as man apon mowld 
 
 Lyke as erth apon erth never goo schold 
 
 Erth goth apon erth as gelsteryng gold 
 
 And yet schall erth unto erth rather than he wold 
 
 " Why that erth loveth erth wondur me thynke 
 Or why that erth wold for erth other swett or swynke 
 When erth apon erth ys broght wt.yn the brynke 
 Then schall erth apon erth have a fowll stynke 
 
 " Lo erth on erth consedur thow may 
 How erth comyth to erth nakyd all way 
 Why schall erth apon erth goo stowte or gay 
 Seth erth owt of erth schall passe yn poor aray 
 
 " I counsill erth apon erth that ys wondurly wrogt 
 The whyl yt. erth ys apon erth to torne hys thowht 
 And pray to god apon erth yt. all erth wroght 
 That all crystyn soullys to ye. blys may be broght 
 
 " Beneath were two men, holding a scroll over a body wrapped 
 in a winding-sheet, and covered with some emblems of mortality," 
 &c. 
 
 VOL. t. Q 
 
82 PERE LA CHAISE. 
 
 and there a lofty obelisk of snow-white marble, 
 rising from the black and heavy mass of foliage 
 around, and pointing upward to the gleam of the 
 departed sun, that still lingered in the sky, and 
 mingled with the soft starlight of a summer even 
 ing. 
 
THE 
 
 VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 
 
 Je ne concois qu une maniere de voyager plus agreable que 
 d aller a cheval ; c est d aller & pied. On part & son moment, on 
 s arrete a sa volonte, on fait tant et si peu d exercise qu on veut. 
 
 Quand on ne veut qu arriver, on peut courir en chaise de 
 poste ; mais quand on veut voyager, il faut aller pied. 
 
 KOUSSEAU. 
 
 IN the beautiful month of October, I made a 
 foot excursion along the banks of the Loire, from 
 Orleans to Tours. This luxuriant region is justly 
 called the garden of France. From Orleans to 
 Blois, the whole valley of the Loire is one continued 
 vineyard. The bright green foliage of the vine 
 spreads, like the undulations of the sea, over all 
 the landscape, with here and there a silver flash 
 of the river, a sequestered hamlet, or the towers 
 of an old chateau, to enliven and variegate the 
 scene. 
 
 The vintage had already commenced. The 
 peasantry were busy in the fields, the song that 
 cheered their labor was on the breeze, and the 
 heavy wagon tottered by, laden with the clusters of 
 the vine. Every thing around me wore that happy 
 look which makes the heart glad. In the morning 
 
84 THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 
 
 I arose with the lark ; and at night I slept where 
 sunset overtook me. The healthy exercise of foot- 
 travelling, the pure, bracing air of autumn, and 
 the cheerful aspect of the whole landscape about 
 me, gave fresh elasticity to a mind not overbur 
 dened with care, and made me forget not only the 
 fatigue of walking, but also the consciousness of 
 being alone. 
 
 My first day s journey brought me at evening to 
 a village, whose name I have forgotten, situated 
 about eight leagues from Orleans. It is a small, 
 obscure hamlet, not mentioned in the guide-book, 
 and stands upon the precipitous banks of a deep 
 ravine, through which a noisy brook leaps down to 
 turn the ponderous wheel of a thatch-roofed mill. 
 The village inn stands upon the highway ; but the 
 village itself is not visible to the traveller as he 
 passes. It is completely hidden in the lap of a 
 wooded valley, and so embowered in trees that not 
 a roof nor a chimney peeps out to betray its hiding- 
 place. It is like the nest of a ground-swallow, 
 which the passing footstep almost treads upon, and 
 yet it is not seen. I passed by without suspecting 
 that a village was near ; and the little inn had a 
 look so uninviting that I did not even enter it. 
 
 After proceeding a mile or two farther, I per 
 ceived, upon my left, a village spire rising over the 
 vineyards. Towards this I directed my footsteps ; 
 but it seemed to recede as I advanced, and at last 
 quite disappeared. It was evidently many miles 
 distant ; and as the path I followed descended from 
 
THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 85 
 
 the highway, it had gradually sunk beneath a swell 
 of the vine-clad landscape. I now found myself in 
 the midst of an extensive vineyard. It was just 
 sunset; and the last golden rays lingered on the 
 rich and mellow scenery around me. The peasantry 
 were still busy at their task; and the occasional 
 bark of a dog, and the distant sound of an evening 
 bell, gave fresh romance to the scene. The reality 
 of many a daydream of childhood, of many a 
 poetic re very of youth, was before me. I stood at 
 sunset amid the luxuriant vineyards of France ! 
 
 The first person I met was a poor old woman, a 
 little bowed down with age, gathering grapes into 
 a large basket. She was dressed like the poorest 
 class of peasantry, and pursued her solitary task 
 alone, heedless of the cheerful gossip and the merry 
 laugh which came from a band of more youthful 
 vintagers at a short distance from her. She was 
 so intently engaged in her work, that she did not 
 perceive my approach until I bade her good 
 evening. On hearing my voice, she looked up 
 from her labor, and returned the salutation ; and, 
 on my asking her if there were a tavern or a farm 
 house in the neighbourhood where I could pass the 
 night, she showed me the pathway through the vine 
 yard that led to the village, and then added, with 
 a look of curiosity, 
 
 " You must be a stranger, Sir, in these parts." 
 
 " Yes ; my home is very far from here." 
 
 "How far?" 
 
 " More than a thousand leagues." 
 
86 THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 
 
 The old woman looked incredulous. 
 
 " I came from a distant land beyond the sea." 
 
 " More than a thousand leagues ! " at length re 
 peated she ; " and why have you come so far from 
 home?" 
 
 " To travel ; to see how you live in this country." 
 
 " Have you no relations in your own ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I have both brothers and sisters, a father 
 and " 
 
 " And a mother ?" 
 
 " Thank Heaven, I have." 
 
 " And did you leave her ? " 
 
 Here the old woman gave me a piercing look of 
 reproof; shook her head mournfully, and, with a 
 deep sigh, as if some painful recollection had been 
 awakened in her bosom, turned again to her soli 
 tary task. I felt rebuked ; for there is something 
 almost prophetic in the admonitions of the old. 
 The eye of age looks meekly into my heart ! the 
 voice of age echoes mournfully through it! the 
 hoary head and palsied hand of age plead ir 
 resistibly for its sympathies ! I venerate old age ; 
 and I love not the man who can look without emo 
 tion upon the sunset of life, when the dusk of 
 evening begins to gather over the watery eye, and 
 the shadows of twilight grow broader and deeper 
 upon the understanding ! 
 
 I pursued the pathway which led towards the 
 village, and the next person I encountered was an 
 old man, stretched lazily beneath the vines upon a 
 little strip of turf, at a point where four paths met, 
 
THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 87 
 
 forming a crossway in the vineyard. He was clad 
 in a coarse garb of gray, with a pair of long gaiters 
 or spatterdashes. Beside him lay a blue cloth cap, 
 a staff, and an old weather-beaten knapsack. I 
 saw at once that he was a foot-traveller like myself, 
 and therefore, without more ado, entered into con 
 versation with him. From his language, and the 
 peculiar manner in which he now and then wiped 
 his upper lip with the back of his hand, as if in 
 search of the mustache which was no longer there, 
 I judged that he had been a soldier. In this opin 
 ion I was not mistaken. He had served under 
 Napoleon, and had followed the imperial eagle 
 across the Alps, and the Pyrenees, and the burning 
 sands of Egypt. Like every vieille moustache, he 
 spake with enthusiasm of the Little Corporal, and 
 cursed the English, the Germans, the Spanish, and 
 every other race on earth, except the Great 
 Nation, his own. " I like," said he, " after a long 
 day s march, to lie down in this way upon the grass, 
 and enjoy the cool of the evening. It reminds me 
 of the bivouacs of other days, and of old friends 
 who are now up there." 
 
 Here he pointed with his finger to the sky. 
 
 " They have reached the last etape before me, in 
 the long march. But I shall go soon. We shall 
 all meet again at the last roll-call. Sacre nom 
 de / There s a tear ! " 
 
 He wiped it away with his sleeve. 
 
 Here our colloquy was interrupted by the ap 
 proach of a group of vintagers, who were return- 
 
88 THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 
 
 ing homeward from their labor. To this party I 
 joined myself, and invited the old soldier to do the 
 same ; but he shook his head. 
 
 " I thank you ; my pathway lies in a different 
 direction." 
 
 " But there is no other village near, and the sun 
 has already set." 
 
 " No matter. I am used to sleeping on the 
 ground. Good night." 
 
 I left the old man to his meditations, and walked 
 on in company with the vintagers. Following a 
 well-trodden pathway through the vineyards, we 
 soon descended the valley s slope, and I suddenly 
 found myself in the bosom of one of those little 
 hamlets from which the laborer rises to his toil as 
 the skylark to his song. My companions wished 
 me a good night, as each entered his own thatch- 
 roofed cottage, and a little girl led me out to the 
 very inn which an hour or two before I had dis 
 dained to enter. 
 
 When I awoke in the morning, a brilliant au 
 tumnal sun was shining in at my window. The 
 merry song of birds mingled sweetly with the sound 
 of rustling leaves and the gurgle of the brook. 
 The vintagers were going forth to their toil ; the 
 wine-press was busy in the shade, and the clatter 
 of the mill kept tune to the miller s song. I loitered 
 about the village with a feeling of calm delight. 
 I was unwilling to leave the seclusion of this 
 sequestered hamlet; but at length, with reluctant 
 step, I took the cross-road through the vineyard, 
 
THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 89 
 
 and in a moment the little village had sunk again, 
 as if by enchantment, into the bosom of the earth. 
 
 I breakfasted at the town of Mer ; and, leaving 
 the high-road to Blois on the right, passed down to 
 the banks of the Loire, through a long, broad 
 avenue of poplars and sycamores. I crossed the 
 river in a boat, and in the after part of the day I 
 found myself before the high and massive walls of 
 the chateau of Chambord. This chateau is one of 
 the finest specimens of the ancient Gothic castle to 
 be found in Europe. The little River Cosson fills 
 its deep and ample moat, and above it the huge 
 towers and heavy battlements rise in stern and 
 solemn grandeur, moss-grown with age, and black 
 ened by the storms of three centuries. Within, all 
 is mournful and deserted. The grass has over 
 grown the pavement of the courtyard, and the 
 rude sculpture upon the walls is broken and de 
 faced. From the courtyard I entered the central 
 tower, and, ascending the principal staircase, went 
 out upon the battlements. I seemed to have stepped 
 back into the precincts of the feudal ages; and, 
 as I passed along through echoing corridors, and 
 vast, deserted halls, stripped of their furniture, and 
 mouldering silently away, the distant past came 
 back upon me ; and the times when the clang of 
 arms, and the tramp of mail-clad men, and the 
 sounds of music and revelry and wassail, echoed 
 along those high-vaulted and solitary chambers ! 
 
 My third day s journey brought me to the an 
 cient city of Blois, the chief town of the depart- 
 
90 THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 
 
 ment of Loir e-et- Cher. This city is celebrated for 
 the purity with which even the lower classes of its 
 inhabitants speak their native tongue. It rises 
 precipitously from the northern bank of the Loire ; 
 and many of its streets are so steep as to be almost 
 impassable for carriages. On the brow of the hill, 
 overlooking the roofs of the city, and commanding 
 a fine view of the Loire and its noble bridge, and 
 the surrounding country, sprinkled with cottages 
 and chateaux, runs an ample terrace, planted with 
 trees, and laid out as a public walk. The view 
 from this terrace is one of the most beautiful in 
 France. But what most strikes the eye of the trav 
 eller at Blois is an old, though still unfinished, 
 castle. Its huge parapets of hewn stone stand upon 
 either side of the street ; but they have walled up 
 the wide gateway, from which the colossal draw 
 bridge was to have sprung high in air, connecting 
 together the main towers of the building, and the 
 two hills upon whose slope its foundations stand. 
 The aspect of this vast pile is gloomy and desolate. 
 It seems as if the strong hand of the builder had 
 been arrested in the midst of his task by the stronger 
 hand of death ; and the unfinished fabric stands a 
 lasting monument both of the power and weakness 
 of man, of his vast desires, his sanguine hopes, 
 his ambitious purposes, and of the unlooked-for 
 conclusion, where all these desires, and hopes, and 
 purposes are so often arrested. There is also at 
 Blois another ancient chateau, to which some 
 historic interest is attached, as being the scene of 
 the massacre of the Duke of Guise. 
 
THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 91 
 
 On the following day, I left Blois for Amboise ; 
 and, after walking several leagues along the dusty 
 highway, crossed the river in a boat to the little 
 village of Moines, which lies amid luxuriant vine 
 yards upon the southern bank of the Loire. From 
 Moines to Amboise the road is truly delightful. 
 The rich lowland scenery, by the margin of the 
 river, is verdant even in October ; and occasionally 
 the landscape is diversified with the picturesque 
 cottages of the vintagers, cut in the rock along the 
 roadside, and overhung by the thick foliage of the 
 vines above them. 
 
 At Amboise I took a cross-road, which led me to 
 the romantic borders of the Cher and the chateau 
 of Chenonceau. This beautiful chateau, as well as 
 that of Chambord, was built by the gay and munifi 
 cent Francis the First. One is a specimen of 
 strong and massive architecture, a dwelling for a 
 warrior; but the other is of a lighter and more 
 graceful construction, and was destined for those 
 soft languishments of passion with which the fasci 
 nating Diane de Poitiers had filled the bosom of 
 that voluptuous monarch. 
 
 The chateau of Chenonceau is built upon arches 
 across the River Cher, whose waters are made to 
 supply the deep moat at each extremity. There is 
 a spacious courtyard in front, from which a draw 
 bridge conducts to the outer hall of the castle. 
 There the armor of Francis the First still hangs 
 upon the wall, his shield, and helm, and lance, 
 as if the chivalrous but dissolute prince had just 
 
92 THE VVI1KV OK rilK 1.01KK. 
 
 exchanged ihoiu for the silken robes of the drawing- 
 rooiii. From this hall a door opens into a long 
 gallery, extending the whole length of the building 
 across the Cher. The walls ot the gallery are 
 bung with the faded portraits ot the long line of 
 the descendants of Hugh Capet ; and the windows, 
 looking up and down the stream, command a tiuo 
 reach ot pleasant river scenery. This is said to be 
 the only chateau in France in which the ancient 
 furniture of its original age is preserved. In one 
 part of the building, you are shown the bed 
 chamber of Diane de Poitiers, with its antique, 
 chairs covered with faded damask ami embroidery, 
 ber bed, and a portrait of the royal favorite hang 
 ing over the mantelpiece. In another you see the 
 apartment of the infamous Catherine de Medici; 
 :;erable arm-chair and an autograph letter of 
 Henry the Fourth; and in an old laboratory, 
 among broken crucibles, and neckless retorts, and 
 drums, and trumpets, and skins of wild beasts, and 
 other ancient lumber of various kinds, are to be 
 seen the bed-posts of Francis the First. Don 
 the naked walls and the vast solitary chambers of 
 an old and desolate chateau inspire a feeling of 
 
 cr solemnity and awe; but when the an; 
 furniture of the olden time remains, the faded 
 tapestry on the walls, and the arm-chair by the 
 
 ic, the etVeet upon the mind is more ma_ 
 and delightful. The old inhabitants of the place, 
 long gathered to their fathers, though living still iu 
 history, seem to have left their balls for the chase- 
 
THE VALLI.Y ( H< Till-: I.OIKI:. . ;; 
 
 or the tournament ; and as ! IK- heav y door s \v 
 upon its reluctant hinge, one almost expects ( N 
 Hi.- v-allaiit princes and conrlh dailies enter tin. e 
 lialls a-.-.-iiu. and sweep in stalely proeessi< >n along 
 the silent corridors. 
 
 ll.ipt in such fancies as these, and gazing on 
 the beauties of this noble edifice, and tin- soft, 
 scenery around it, I lingered, tin willing to depart, 
 
 till the rays of the setting SUn, Streaming through 
 the dusty windows, admonished me that the day 
 was drawing rapidly to a close. 1 sallied forth 
 from the southern gate of the chateau, and, crossing 
 the lirokcn dra \\ bridve, pursued a pa!h\va\ alon;_ 
 the hank of I he river, Still gtt*Sftg back upon those 
 
 towering walls, now bathed in the rich o|ow of 
 sunset, till a turn in the road and a clump of wood 
 land at length shut them out from my sij_dii. 
 
 A short time after candle-lighting, I readied the 
 little tavern of the Boule d Or, a few leagues from 
 Tours, where J passed the night. The follnum- 
 morning was lowering and sad. A veil of mist 
 hung over the landscape, and ever and anon a 
 heavy shower burst from the overburdened clouds, 
 that were driving by before a hi^h and piercing 
 wind. This impropitious state of the weather de 
 tained me until noon, when a cabriolet for Tours 
 drove up; and taking a seat within it, I left t| H - 
 hostess of the Boule d Or in the middle of a tang 
 story about a rich countess, who always alighted 
 there when she passed that way. We drove 
 leisurely alon-. through a beautiful country, till at 
 
94 THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 
 
 length we came to the brow of a steep hill, which 
 commands a fine view of the city of Tours and its 
 delightful environs. But the scene was shrouded 
 by the heavy drifting mist, through which I could 
 trace but indistinctly the graceful sweep of the 
 Loire, and the spires and roofs of the city far 
 below me. 
 
 The city of Tours and the delicious plain in 
 which it lies, have been too often described by 
 other travellers to render a new description, from 
 so listless a pen as mine, either necessary or desir 
 able. After a sojourn of two cloudy and melan 
 choly days, I set out on my return to Paris, by the 
 way of Vendome and Chartres. I stopped a few 
 hours at the former place, to examine the ruins of 
 a chateau built by Jeanne d Albret, mother of 
 Henry the Fourth. It stands upon the summit of 
 a high and precipitous hill, and almost overhangs 
 the town beneath. The French Revolution has 
 completed the ruin that time had already begun ; 
 and nothing now remains, but a broken and crum 
 bling bastion, and here and there a solitary tower 
 dropping slowly to decay. In one of these is the 
 grave of Jeanne d Albret. A marble entablature 
 in the wall above contains the inscription, which is 
 nearly effaced, though enough still remains to tell 
 the curious traveller that there lies buried the 
 mother of the " Bon Henri." To this is added a 
 prayer that the repose of the dead may be re 
 spected. 
 
 Here ended my foot excursion. The object of 
 
THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 95 
 
 my journey was accomplished ; and, delighted with 
 this short ramble through the valley of the Loire, 
 I took my seat in the diligence for Paris, and on 
 the following day was again swallowed up in the 
 crowds of the metropolis, like a drop in the bosom 
 of the sea. 
 
THE TROUVERES. 
 
 Quant recommence et revient biaux estez, 
 
 Que foille et flor resplendit par boschage, 
 Que li froiz tanz de 1 hyver est passez, 
 Et cil oisel chantent en lor langage, 
 Lors chanterai 
 Et envoisiez serai 
 De cuer verai. 
 
 JAQUES DE CHISON. 
 
 THE literature of France is peculiarly rich in 
 poetry of the olden time. We can trace up the 
 stream of song until it is lost in the deepening 
 shadows of the Middle Ages. Even there it is not 
 a shallow tinkling rill ; but it comes like a moun 
 tain stream, rushing and sounding onward through 
 the enchanted regions of romance, and mingles its 
 voice with the tramp of steeds and the brazen 
 sound of arms. 
 
 The glorious reign of Charlemagne,* at the close 
 
 * The following amusing description of this Restorer of Letters, 
 as his biographers call him, is taken from the fabulous Chronicle 
 of John Turpin, Chap. XX. 
 
 " The emperor was of a ruddy complexion, with brown hair; 
 of a well made, handsome form, but a stern visage. His height 
 was about eight of his own feet, which were very long. He was 
 of a strong, robust make ; his legs and thighs very stout, and his 
 ginews firm. His face was thirteen inches long ; his beard a palm ; 
 
THE THOU VERES. 97 
 
 of the eighth and the commencement of the ninth 
 century, seems to have breathed a spirit of learn 
 ing as well as of chivalry throughout all France. 
 The monarch established schools and academies in 
 different parts of his realm, and took delight in the 
 society and conversation of learned men. It is 
 amusing to see with what evident self-satisfaction 
 some of the magi whom he gathered around him 
 speak of their exertions in widening the sphere of 
 human knowledge, and pouring in light upon the 
 darkness of their age. " For some," says Alcuin, 
 the director of the school of St. Martin de Tours, 
 " I cause the honey of the Holy Scriptures to flow ; 
 I intoxicate others with the old wine of ancient 
 history ; these I nourish with the fruits of grammar, 
 gathered by my own hands ; and those I enlighten 
 by pointing out to them the stars, like lamps at 
 tached by the vaulted ceiling of a great palace ! " 
 
 Besides this classic erudition of the schools, the 
 age had also its popular literature. Those who 
 were untaught in scholastic wisdom were learned 
 
 his nose half a palm ; his forehead a foot over. His lion-like eyes 
 flashed fire like carbuncles ; his eyebrows were half a palm over. 
 When he was angry, it was a terror to look upon him. He re 
 quired eight spans for his girdle, besides what hung loose. He 
 ate sparingly of bread ; but a whole quarter of lamb, two fowls, 
 a goose, or a large portion of pork; a peacock, a crane, or a whole 
 hare. He drank moderately of wine and water. He was so 
 strong, that he could at a single blow cleave asunder an armed 
 soldier on horseback, from the head to the waist, and the horse 
 likewise. He easily vaulted over four horses harnessed together , 
 and could raise an armed man from the ground to his head, as 
 he stood erect upon his hand." 
 VOL. I. 7 
 
98 THE TROUVERES. 
 
 in traditionary lore ; for they had their ballads, in 
 which were described the valor and achievements 
 of the early kings of the Franks. These ballads, 
 of which a collection was made by order of Charle 
 magne, animated the rude soldier as he rushed to 
 battle, and were sung in the midnight bivouacs of 
 the camp. " Perhaps it is not too much to say/ 
 observes the literary historian Schlegel, " that we 
 have still in our possession, if not the original lan 
 guage and form, at least the substance, of many of 
 those ancient poems which were collected by the 
 orders of that prince ; I refer to the Nibelungen- 
 lied, and the collection which goes by the name of 
 the Heldenbuch." 
 
 When at length the old Tudesque language, 
 which was the court language of Charlemagne, 
 had given place to the Langue d Oil, the northern 
 dialect of the French Romance, these ancient bal 
 lads passed from the memories of the descendants 
 of the Franks, and were succeeded by the romances 
 of Charlemagne and his Twelve Peers, of Row 
 land, and Olivir, and the other paladins who died 
 at Roncesvalles. Robert Wace, a Norman Trou- 
 vere of the twelfth century, says in one of his poems, 
 that a minstrel named Taillefer, mounted on a 
 swift horse, went in front of the Norman army at 
 the battle of Hastings, singing these ancient poems. 
 
 These Chansons de Geste, or old historic romances 
 of France, are epic in their character, though, with 
 out doubt, they were written to be chanted to the 
 sound of an instrument. To what period many of 
 
THE TROUVERES. 99 
 
 them belong, in their present form, has never yet 
 been fully determined; and should it finally be 
 proved by philological research that they can claim 
 no higher antiquity than the twelfth or thirteenth 
 century, still there can be little doubt that in their 
 original form many of them reached far back into 
 the ninth or tenth. The long prevalent theory, 
 that the romances of the Twelve Peers of France 
 all originated in the fabulous chronicle of Charle 
 magne and Rowland, written by the Archbishop 
 Turpin in the twelfth century, if not as yet gener 
 ally exploded, is, nevertheless, fast losing ground. 
 
 To the twelfth and thirteenth centuries also be 
 long most of the Fabliaux, or metrical tales of the 
 Trouveres. Many of these compositions are re 
 markable for the inventive talent they display, but 
 as poems they have, generally speaking, little merit, 
 and at times exhibit such a want of refinement, 
 such Open and gross obscenity, as to be highly 
 offensive. 
 
 It is a remarkable circumstance in the literary 
 history of France, that, while her antiquarians and 
 scholars have devoted themselves to collecting and 
 illustrating the poetry of the Troubadours, the early 
 lyric poets of the South, that of the Trouveres, or 
 Troubadours of the North, has been almost entirely 
 neglected. By a singular fatality, too, what little 
 time and attention have hitherto been bestowed 
 upon the fathers of French poetry have been so 
 directed as to save from oblivion little of the most 
 valuable portions of their writings ; while the more 
 
100 THE TROUVERES. 
 
 tedious and worthless parts have been brought forth 
 to the public eye, as if to deaden curiosity, and put 
 an end to further research. The ancient historic 
 romances of the land have, for the most part, been 
 left to slumber unnoticed ; while the obscene and 
 tiresome Fabliaux have been ushered into the 
 world as fair specimens 6f the ancient poetry of 
 France. This has created unjust prejudices in the 
 minds of many against the literature of the olden 
 time, and has led them to regard it as nothing more 
 than a confused mass of coarse and vulgar fictions, 
 adapted to a rude and inelegant state of society. 
 
 Of late, however, a more discerning judgment 
 has been brought to the difficult task of ancient 
 research ; and, in consequence of this, the long- 
 established prejudices against the crumbling monu 
 ments of the national literature of France during 
 the Middle Ages is fast disappearing. Several 
 learned men are engaged in rescuing from obliv 
 ion the ancient poetic romances of Charlemagne 
 and the Twelve Peers of France, and their labors 
 seem destined to throw new light, not only upon 
 the state of literature, but upon the state of society, 
 during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. 
 
 Among the voluminous remains of Troubadour 
 literature, little else has yet been discovered than 
 poems of a lyric character. The lyre of the Trou 
 badour seems to have responded to the impulse of 
 momentary feelings only, to the touch of local 
 and transitory circumstances. His song was a sud 
 den burst of excited feeling ; it ceased when the 
 
101 
 
 passion was subdued, or ra tLer"wher_ *ts Ost i 
 ish excitement passed away ; and as the liveliest 
 feelings are the most transitory, the songs which 
 embodied them are short, but full of spirit and 
 energy. On the other hand, the great mass of the 
 poetry of the Trouveres is of a narrative or epic 
 character. The genius of .the North seems always 
 to have delighted in romantic fiction ; and whether 
 we attribute the origin of modern romance to the 
 Arabians or to the Scandinavians, this at least is 
 certain, that there existed marvellous tales in the 
 Northern languages, and from these, in part at 
 least, the Trouveres imbibed the spirit of narrative 
 poetry. There are no traces of lyric compositions 
 among their writings, till about the commencement 
 of the thirteenth century ; and it seems probable 
 that the spirit of song-writing was imbibed from 
 the Troubadours of the South. 
 
 Unfortunately, the neglect which has so long at 
 tended the old historic and heroic romances of the 
 North of France has also befallen in some degree 
 its early lyric poetry. Little has yet been done to 
 discover and bring forth its riches ; and doubtless 
 many a sweet little ballad and melancholy com 
 plaint lies buried in the dust of the thirteenth cen 
 tury. It is not, however, my object, in this paper, 
 to give a historical sketch of this ancient and almost 
 forgotten poetry, but simply to bring forward a few 
 specimens which shall exhibit its most striking and 
 obvious characteristics. 
 
 In these examples it would be in vain to look for 
 
K)2 THE rROUVERES. 
 
 , suited to the prevailing 
 taste of the present day. Their most striking 
 peculiarity, and perhaps their greatest merit, con 
 sists in the simple and direct expression of feeling 
 which they contain. This feeling, too, is one which 
 breathes the languor of that submissive homage 
 which was paid to beauty in the days of chivalry ; 
 and I am aware, that, in this age of masculine and 
 matter-of-fact thinking, the love-conceits of a more 
 poetic state of society are generally looked upon as 
 extremely trivial and puerile. Nevertheless, I shall 
 venture to present one or two of these simple bal 
 lads, which, by recalling the distant age wherein 
 they were composed, may peradventure please by 
 the power of contrast. 
 
 I have just remarked that one of the greatest 
 beauties of these ancient ditties is naivete of thought 
 and simplicity of expression. These I shall endeav 
 our to preserve as far as possible in the translation, 
 though I am fully conscious how much the sparkling 
 beauty of an original loses in being filtered through 
 the idioms of a foreign language. 
 
 The favorite theme of the ancient lyric poets of 
 the North of France is the wayward passion of love. 
 They all delight to sing " les douces dolors et li mat 
 plaisant de fine amor." With such feelings the 
 beauties of the opening spring are naturally asso 
 ciated. Almost, every love-ditty of the old poets 
 commences with some such exordium as this : 
 " When the snows of winter have passed away, 
 when the soft and gentle spring returns, and the 
 
THE TROU VERES. 103 
 
 flower and leaf shoot in the groves, and the little 
 birds warble to their mates in their own sweet lan 
 guage, then will I sing my lady-love ! " 
 
 Another favorite introduction to these little 
 rhapsodies of romantic passion is the approach of 
 morning and its sweet-voiced herald, the lark. The 
 minstrel s song to his lady-love frequently com 
 mences with an allusion to the hour 
 
 " When the rose-bud opens its een, 
 And the bluebells droop and die, 
 
 And upon the leaves so green 
 Sparkling dew-drops lie." 
 
 The following is at once the simplest and pret 
 tiest piece of this kind which I have met with 
 among the early lyric poets of the North of France. 
 It is taken from an anonymous poem, entitled 
 " The Paradise of Love." A lover, having passed 
 the " livelong night in tears, as he was wont," goes 
 forth to beguile his sorrows with the fragrance and 
 beauty of morning. The carol of the vaulting 
 skylark salutes his ear, and to this merry musician 
 he makes his complaint. 
 
 Hark! hark! 
 
 Pretty lark ! 
 
 Little heedest thou my pain ! 
 But if to these longing arms 
 Pitying Love would yield the charms 
 
 Of the fair 
 
 With smiling air, 
 Blithe would beat my heart again. 
 
104 THE TKOU VERES. 
 
 Hark! hark! 
 
 Pretty lark ! 
 
 Little heedest thou my pain ! 
 Love may force me still to bear, 
 While he lists, consuming care ; 
 
 But in anguish 
 
 Though I languish, 
 Faithful shall my heart remain. 
 
 Hark! hark! 
 
 Pretty lark ! 
 
 Little heedest thou my pain ! 
 Then cease, Love, to torment me so ; 
 But rather than all thoughts forego 
 
 Of the fair 
 
 With flaxen hair, 
 Give me back her frowns again. 
 
 Hark! hark! 
 Pretty lark ! 
 Little heedest thou my pain ! 
 
 Besides the " woful ballad made to his mistress s 
 eyebrow," the early lyric poet frequently indulges 
 in more calmly analyzing the philosophy of love, 
 or in questioning the object and destination of a 
 sigh. Occasionally these quaint conceits are pret 
 tily expressed, and the little song flutters through 
 the page like a butterfly. The following is an 
 example. 
 
 And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, 
 
 Breathed so softly in my ear ? 
 
 Say, dost thou bear his fate severe 
 To Love s poor martyr doomed to die ? 
 
THE TROU VERES. 105 
 
 Come, tell me quickly, do not lie ; 
 
 What secret message bring st thou here? 
 And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, 
 
 Breathed so softly in my ear ? 
 
 May Heaven conduct thee to thy will, 
 And safely speed thee on thy way ; 
 This only I would humbly pray, 
 
 Pierce deep, but, ! forbear to kill. 
 
 And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, 
 Breathed so softly in my ear ? 
 
 The ancient lyric poets of France are generally 
 spoken of as a class, and their beauties and defects 
 referred to them collectively, and not individually. 
 In truth, there are few characteristic marks by 
 which any individual author can be singled out and 
 ranked above the rest. The lyric poets of the 
 thirteenth and fourteenth centuries stand upon 
 nearly the same level. But in the fifteenth century 
 there were two who surpassed all their contempo 
 raries in the beauty and delicacy of their sentiments ; 
 and in the sweetness of their diction, and the 
 structure of their verse, stand far in advance of the 
 age in which they lived. These are Charles d Or- 
 I6ans and Clotilde de Surville. 
 
 Charles, Duke of Orleans, the father of Louis the 
 Twelfth, and uncle of Francis the First, was born 
 in 1391. In the general tenor of his life, the pe 
 culiar character of his mind, and his talent for 
 poetry, there is a striking resemblance between 
 this noble poet and James the First of Scotland, 
 his contemporary. Both were remarkable for 
 
106 THE TROUVERES. 
 
 learning and refinement ; both passed a great por 
 tion of their lives in sorrow and imprisonment; 
 and both cheered the solitude of their prison-walls 
 with the charms of poetry. Charles d Orleans was 
 taken prisoner at the battle of Agincourt, in 1415, 
 and carried into England, where he remained 
 twenty-five years in captivity. It was there that 
 he composed the greater part of his poetry. 
 
 The poems of this writer exhibit a singular deli 
 cacy of thought and sweetness of expression. The 
 following little Renouveaux, or songs on the return 
 of spring, are full of delicacy and beauty. 
 
 Now Time throws off his cloak again 
 Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain, 
 And clothes him in the embroidery 
 Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. 
 
 With beast and bird the forest rings, 
 Each in his jargon cries or sings ; 
 And Time throws off his cloak again 
 Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. 
 
 Kiver, and fount, and tinkling brook 
 Wear in their dainty livery- 
 Drops of silver jewelry ; 
 
 In new-made suit they merry look ; 
 And Time throws off his cloak again 
 Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. 
 
 The second upon the same subject presents a 
 still more agreeable picture of the departure of 
 winter and the return of spring. 
 
THE TROUVK.RES. 107 
 
 Gentle spring ! in sunshine clad, 
 
 Well dost thou thy power display ! 
 For winter maketh the light heart sad, 
 
 And thou, thou makest the sad heart gay. 
 He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, 
 The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain; 
 And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, 
 When thy merry step draws near. 
 
 Winter giveth the fields and the trees so old 
 
 Their beards of icicles and snow; 
 And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, 
 
 We must cower over the embers low ; 
 And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, 
 Mope like birds that are changing feather. 
 But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, 
 When thy merry step draws near. 
 
 Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky 
 
 Wrap him round in a mantle of cloud ; 
 But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh ; 
 
 Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, 
 And the earth looks bright, and winter surly, 
 Who has toiled for naught both late and early, 
 Is banished afar by the new-born year, 
 When thy merry step draws near. 
 
 The only person of that age who can dispute the 
 laurel with Charles d Orleans is Clotilde de Sur- 
 ville. This poetess was born in the Bas-Vivarais, 
 in the year 1405. Her style is singularly elegant 
 and correct; and the reader who will take the 
 trouble to decipher her rude provincial orthography 
 will find her writings full of quiet beauty. The 
 following lines, which breathe the very soul of 
 
108 THE TROUVERES. 
 
 maternal tenderness, are part of a poem to her 
 first-born. 
 
 Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father s face, 
 Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed ! 
 
 Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 
 Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother s breast! 
 
 Upon that tender eye, my little friend, 
 
 Soft sleep shall come that cometh not to me ! 
 
 I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; 
 Tis sweet to watch for thee, alone for thee! 
 
 His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his brow ; 
 
 His eye is closed; he sleeps, how still and calm! 
 Wore not his cheek the apple s ruddy glow, 
 
 Would you not say he slept on death s cold arm? 
 
 Awake, my boy! I tremble with affright! 
 
 Awake, and chase this fatal thought ! unclose 
 Thine eye but for one moment on the light ! 
 
 Even at the price of thine, give me repose ! 
 
 Sweet error ! he but slept ; I breathe again ; 
 Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile ! 
 
 0, when shall he for whom I sigh in vain 
 Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ? 
 
 But upon this theme I have written enough, per 
 haps too much. 
 
 " This may be poetry, for aught I know, 
 
 Says an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning 
 
THE TROUVERES. 109 
 
 Over my shoulder as I write, although 
 I can t exactly comprehend its meaning. " 
 
 I have touched upon the subject before me in a 
 brief and desultory manner, and have purposely 
 left my remarks unencumbered by learned refer 
 ence and far-sought erudition ; for these are orna 
 ments which would ill become so trivial a pen as 
 this wherewith I write, though, perchance, the 
 want of them will render my essay unsatisfactory 
 to the scholar and the critic. But I am emboldened 
 thus to skim with a light wing over this poetic lore 
 of the past, by the reflection, that the greater part 
 of my readers belong not to that grave and serious 
 class who love the deep wisdom which lies in quot 
 ing from a quaint, forgotten tome, and are ready 
 on all occasions to say, " Commend me to the owl ! " 
 
BAPTISM OF FIRE. 
 
 The more you mow us down, the thicker we rise ; the Christian 
 blood you spill is like the seed you sow, it springs from the earth 
 again and fructifies the more. 
 
 TERTULLIAN. 
 
 As day was drawing to a close, and the rays of 
 the setting sun climbed slowly up the dungeon wall, 
 the prisoner sat and read in a tome with silver 
 clasps. He was a man in the vigor of his days, 
 with a pale and noble countenance, that wore less 
 the marks of worldly care than of high and holy 
 thought. His temples were already bald ; but a 
 thick and curling beard bespoke the strength of 
 manhood ; and his eye, dark, full, and eloquent, 
 beamed with all the enthusiasm of a martyr. 
 
 The book before him was a volume of the early 
 Christian Fathers. He was reading the Apologetic 
 of the eloquent Tertullian, the oldest and ablest 
 writer of the Latin Church. At times he paused, 
 and raised his eyes to heaven as if in prayer, and 
 then read on again in silence. At length a passage 
 seemed to touch his inmost soul. He read aloud : 
 
 " Give us, then, what names you please ; from 
 the instruments of cruelty you torture us by, call 
 us Sarmenticians and Semaxians, because you 
 
THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. Ill 
 
 fasten us to trunks of trees, and stick us about with 
 fagots to set us on fire ; yet let me tell you, when 
 we are thus begirt and dressed about with fire, we 
 are then in our most illustrious apparel. These 
 are our victorious palms and robes of glory ; and, 
 mounted on our funeral pile, we look upon our 
 selves in our triumphal chariot. No wonder, then, 
 such passive heroes please not those they vanquish 
 with such conquering sufferings. And therefore 
 we pass for men of despair, and violently bent upon 
 our own destruction. However, what you are 
 pleased to call madness and despair in us are the 
 very actions which, under virtue s standard, lift up 
 your sons of fame and glory, and emblazon them to 
 future ages." 
 
 He arose and paced the dungeon to and fro, with 
 folded arms and a firm step. His thoughts held 
 communion with eternity. 
 
 " Father which art in heaven ! " he exclaimed, 
 " give me strength to die like those holy men of old, 
 who scorned to purchase life at the expense of 
 truth. That truth has made me free ; and though 
 condemned on earth, I know that I am absolved in 
 heaven ! " 
 
 He again seated himself at his table, and read 
 in that tome with silver clasps. 
 
 This solitary prisoner was Anne Du Bourg; a 
 man who feared not man ; once a merciful judge, in 
 that august tribunal upon whose voice hung the life 
 and death of those who were persecuted for con 
 science s sake, he was now himself an accused, a 
 
112 THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 
 
 convicted heretic, condemned to the baptism of life 
 because he would not unrighteously condemn 
 others. He had dared to plead the cause of suffer 
 ing humanity before that dread tribunal, and, in 
 the presence of the king himself, to declare that it 
 was an offence to the majesty of God to shed man s 
 blood in his name. Six weary months, from June 
 to December, he had lain a prisoner in that dun 
 geon, from which a death by fire was soon to set 
 him free. Such was the clemency of Henry the 
 Second ! 
 
 As the prisoner read, his eyes were filled with 
 tears. He still gazed upon the printed page, but 
 it was a blank before his eyes. His thoughts were 
 far away amid the scenes of his childhood, amid 
 the green valleys of Riom and the Golden Moun 
 tains of Auvergne. Some simple word had called 
 up the vision of the past. He was a child again. 
 He was playing with the pebbles of the brook, he 
 was shouting to the echo of the hills, he was 
 praying at his mother s knee, with his little hands 
 clasped in hers. 
 
 This dream of childhood was broken by the 
 grating of bolts and bars, as the jailer opened his 
 prison-door. A moment afterward, his former col 
 league, De Harley, stood at his side. 
 
 " Thou here ! " exclaimed the prisoner, surprised 
 at the visit. " Thou in the dungeon of a heretic ! 
 On what errand hast thou come ? " 
 
 " On an errand of mercy," replied De Harley. 
 " I come to tell thee " 
 
THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 113 
 
 " That the hour of my death draws near ? " 
 
 " That thou mayst still be saved." 
 
 " Yes ; if I will bear false witness against my 
 God, barter heaven for earth, an eternity for a 
 few brief days of worldly existence. Lost, thou 
 shouldst say, lost, not saved ! " 
 
 " No ! saved ! " cried De Harley, with warmth ; 
 " saved from a death of shame and an eternity 
 of woe ! Renounce this false doctrine, ;this abom 
 inable heresy, and return again to the bosom of 
 the church which thou dost rend with strife and 
 dissension." 
 
 " God judge between thee and me, which has 
 embraced the truth." 
 
 " His hand already smites thee." 
 
 " It has fallen more heavily upon those who so 
 unjustly persecute me. Where is the king ? he 
 who said that, with his own eyes, he would behold 
 me perish at the stake ? he to whom the undaunted 
 Du Faur cried, like Elijah to Ahab, It is thou 
 who troublest Israel ! Where is the king V Called, 
 through a sudden and violent death, to the judg 
 ment seat of Heaven ! Where is Minard, the per 
 secutor of the just ? Slain by the hand of an 
 assassin ! It was not without reason that I said to 
 him, when standing before my accusers, Tremble ! 
 believe the word of one who is about to appear be 
 fore God ; thou likewise shalt stand there soon, 
 thou that sheddest the blood of the children of 
 peace. He has gone to his account before me." 
 
 " And that menace has hastened thine own con- 
 
 VOL. I. 8 
 
114 THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 
 
 demnation. Minard was slain by the Huguenots, 
 and it is whispered that thou wast privy to his 
 death." 
 
 " This, at least, might have been spared a dying 
 man ! " replied the prisoner, much agitated by so 
 unjust and so unexpected an accusation. " As I 
 hope for mercy hereafter, I am innocent of the 
 blood of this man, and of all knowledge of so foul 
 a crime. But, tell me, hast thou come here only 
 to embitter my last hours with such an accusation 
 as this V If so, I pray thee, leave me. My mo 
 ments are precious. I would be alone." 
 
 "I came to offer thee life, freedom, and hap 
 piness." 
 
 " Life, freedom, happiness ! At the price thou 
 hast set upon them, I scorn them all ! Had the 
 apostles and martyrs of the early Christian church 
 listened to such paltry bribes as these, where were 
 now the faith in which we trust ? These holy men 
 of old shall answer for me. Hear what Justin 
 Martyr says, in his earnest appeal to Antonine the 
 Pious, in behalf of the Christians who in his day 
 were unjustly loaded with public odium and op 
 pression." 
 
 He opened the volume before him and read : 
 " I could wish you would take this also into con 
 sideration, that what we say is really for your own 
 good ; for it is in our power at any time to escape 
 your torments by denying the faith, when you 
 question us about it: but we scorn to purchase 
 life at the expense of a lie ; for our souls are 
 
THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 115 
 
 winged with a desire of a life of eternal duration 
 and purity, of an immediate conversation with God, 
 the Father and Maker of all things. We are in 
 haste to be confessing and finishing our faith ; being 
 fully persuaded that we shall arrive at this blessed 
 state, if we approve ourselves to God by our works, 
 and by our obedience express our passion for that 
 divine life which is never interrupted by any clash 
 ing evil." 
 
 The Catholic and the Huguenot reasoned long 
 and earnestly together ; but they reasoned in vain. 
 Each was firm in his belief; and they parted to 
 meet no more on earth. 
 
 On the following day, Du Bourg was summoned 
 before his judges to receive his final sentence. He 
 heard it unmoved, and with a prayer to God that 
 he would pardon those who had condemned him- 
 according to their consciences. He then addressed 
 his judges in an oration full of power and eloquence. 
 It closed with these words : 
 
 " And now, ye judges, if, indeed, you hold the 
 sword of God as ministers of his wrath, to take 
 vengeance upon those who do evil, beware, I charge 
 you, beware how you condemn us. Consider well 
 what evil we have done ; and before all things, de 
 cide whether it be just that we should listen unto 
 you rather than unto God. Are you so drunken 
 with the wine-cup of the great sorceress, that you 
 drink poison for nourishment ? Are you not those 
 who make the people sin, by turning them away 
 from the service of God ? And if you regard 
 
116 THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 
 
 more the opinion of men than that of Heaven, in 
 what esteem are you held by other nations, and 
 principalities, and powers, for the martyrdoms you 
 have caused in obedience to this blood-stained 
 Phalaris ? God grant, thou cruel tyrant, that by 
 thy miserable death thou mayst put an end to our 
 groans ! 
 
 " Why weep ye ? What means this delay ? Your 
 hearts are heavy within you, your consciences 
 are haunted by the judgment of God. And thus 
 it is that the condemned rejoice in the fires you 
 have kindled, and think they never live better 
 than in the midst of consuming flames. Torments 
 affright them not, insults enfeeble them not ; their 
 honor is redeemed by death, he that dies is the 
 conqueror, and the conquered he that mourns. 
 
 " No ! whatever snares are spread for us, what 
 ever suffering we endure, you cannot separate us 
 from the love of Christ. Strike, then, slay, grind 
 us to powder ! Those that die in the Lord shall live 
 again ; we shall all be raised together. Condemn 
 me as you will, I am a Christian ; yes, I am a 
 Christian, and am ready to die for the glory of our 
 Lord, for the truth of the Evangelists. 
 
 " Quench, then, your fires ! Let the wicked 
 abandon his way, and return unto the Lord, and 
 he will have compassion on him. Live, be hap 
 py, and meditate on God, ye judges ! As for me, 
 I go rejoicing to my death. What wait ye for ? 
 Lead me to the scaffold ! " 
 
 They bound the prisoner s hands, and, leading 
 
THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 117 
 
 him forth from the council-chamber, placed him 
 upon the cart that was to bear him to the Place de 
 Greve. Before and behind marched a guard of 
 five hundred soldiers ; for Du Bourg was beloved 
 by the people, and a popular tumult was ap 
 prehended. The day was overcast and sad ; and 
 ever and anon the sound of the tolling bell mingled 
 its dismal clang with the solemn notes of the funeral 
 march. They soon reached the place of execution, 
 which was already filled with a dense and silent 
 crowd. In the centre stood the gallows, with a pile 
 of fagots beneath it, and the hangman with a burn 
 ing torch in his hand. But this funeral apparel 
 inspired no terror in the heart of Du Bourg. A 
 look of triumph beamed from his eye, and his 
 countenance shone like that of an angel. With 
 his own hands he divested himself of his outer 
 garments, and, gazing round upon the breathless 
 and sympathizing crowd, exclaimed, 
 
 u My friends, I come not hither as .a thief or a 
 murderer ; but it is for the Gospel s sake ! " 
 
 A cord was then fastened round his waist, and 
 he was drawn up into the air. At the same mo 
 ment the burning torch of the executioner was ap 
 plied to the fagots beneath, and the thick volumes 
 of smoke concealed the martyr from the horror- 
 stricken crowd. One stifled groan arose from all 
 that vast multitude, like the moan of the sea, and 
 all was hushed again ; save the crackling of the 
 fagots, and at intervals the funeral knell, that smote 
 the very soul. The quivering flames darted up- 
 
118 THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 
 
 ward and around; and an agonizing cry broke 
 from the murky cloud, 
 
 " My God ! my God ! forsake me not, that I for 
 sake not thee ! " 
 
 The wind lifted the reddening smoke like a veil, 
 and the form of the martyr was seen to fall into 
 the fire beneath. In a moment it rose again, its 
 garments all in flame ; and again the faint, half- 
 smothered cry of agony was heard, 
 
 " My God ! my God ! forsake me not, that I for 
 sake not thee ! " 
 
 Once more the quivering body descended into 
 the flames ; and once more it was lifted into the 
 air, a blackened, burning cinder. Again and again 
 this fiendish mockery of baptism was repeated ; till 
 the martyr, with a despairing, suffocating voice, 
 exclaimed, 
 
 " O God ! I cannot die ! " 
 
 The chief executioner came forward, and, either 
 in mercy to the dying man or through fear of the 
 populace, threw a noose over his neck, and strangled 
 the almost lifeless victim. At the same moment 
 the cord which held the body was loosened, and it 
 fell into the fire to rise no more. And thus was 
 consummated the martyrdom of the Baptism of 
 Fire. 
 
COQ-A-L ANE. 
 
 My brain, methinks, is like an hour-glass, 
 
 Wherein my imaginations run like sands, 
 
 Filling up time ; but then are turned, and turned, 
 
 So that I know not what to stay upon, 
 
 And less to put in art. BEN JONSON. 
 
 A RAINY and gloomy winter was just drawing 
 to its close, when I left Paris for the South of 
 France. We started at sunrise ; and as we passed 
 along the solitary streets of the vast and silent 
 
 o > 
 
 metropolis, drowsily one by one its clanging horo 
 loges chimed the hour of six. Beyond the city- 
 gates the wide landscape was covered with a silvery 
 network of frost ; a wreath of vapor overhung the 
 windings of the Seine ; and every twig and shrub, 
 with its sheath of crystal, flashed in the level rays 
 of the rising sun. The sharp frosty air seemed to 
 quicken the sluggish blood of the old postilion and 
 his horses ; a fresh team stood ready in harness at 
 each stage ; and notwithstanding the slippery pave 
 ment of the causeway, the long and tedious climb 
 ing the hillside upward, and the equally long and 
 tedious descent with chained wheels and the drag, 
 just after nightfall the lumbering vehicle of Vin 
 cent Caillard stopped at the gateway of the " Three 
 Emperors," in the famous city of Orleans. 
 
1 20 COQ-A-I/ANE. 
 
 I cannot pride myself much upon being a good 
 travelling-companion, for the rocking of a coach 
 always lulls me into forgetfulness of the present ; 
 and no sooner does the hollow, monotonous rum 
 bling of the wheels reach my ear, than, like Mck 
 Bottom, " I have an exposition of sleep come upon 
 me." It is not, however, the deep, sonorous slum 
 ber of a laborer, " stuffed with distressful bread," 
 but a kind of day-dream, wherein the creations of 
 fancy seem realities, and the real world, which 
 swims dizzily before the half-shut, drowsy eye, 
 becomes mingled with the imaginary world within. 
 This is doubtless a very great failing in a traveller ; 
 and I confess, with all humility, that at times the 
 line of demarkation between truth and fiction is 
 rendered thereby so indefinite and indistinct, that 
 I cannot always determine, with unerring certainty, 
 whether an event really happened to me, or 
 whether I only dreamed it. 
 
 On this account I shall not attempt a detailed 
 description of my journey from Paris to Bordeaux. 
 I was travelling like a bird of passage, and five 
 weary days and four weary nights I was on the 
 way. The diligence stopped only to change horses, 
 and for the travellers to take their meals ; and by 
 night I slept with my head under my wing in a 
 snug corner of the coach. 
 
 Strange as it may appear to some of my readers, 
 this night-travelling is at times far from being dis 
 agreeable ; nay, if the country is flat and uninter 
 esting, and you are favored with a moon, it may 
 
COQ-A-L ANE. 121 
 
 be very pleasant. As the night advances, the con 
 versation around you gradually dies away, and is 
 imperceptibly given up to some garrulous traveller 
 who finds himself belated in the midst of a long 
 story ; and when at length he puts out his feelers 
 in the form of a question, discovers, by the silence 
 around him, that the breathless attention of his 
 audience is owing to their being asleep. All is 
 now silent. You let down the window of the car 
 riage, and the fresh night-air cools your flushed 
 and burning cheek. The landscape, though in 
 reality dull and uninteresting, seems beautiful as 
 it floats by in the soft moonshine. Every ruined 
 hovel is changed by the magic of night to a trim 
 cottage, every straggling and dilapidated hamlet 
 becomes as beautiful as those we read of in poetry 
 and romance. Over the lowland hangs a silver 
 mist ; over the hills peep the twinkling stars. The 
 keen night-air is a spur to the postilion and his 
 horses. In the words of the German ballad, 
 
 " Halloo ! halloo ! away they go, 
 
 Unheeding wet or dry, 
 And horse and rider snort and blow, 
 
 And sparkling pebbles fly. 
 And all on which the moon doth shine 
 
 Behind them flees afar, 
 And backward sped, scud overhead, 
 
 The sky and every star." 
 
 Anon you stop at the relay. The drowsy hostler 
 crawls out of the stable-yard ; a few gruff words 
 and strange oaths pass between him and the pos- 
 
122 COQ-A-L ANE. 
 
 tilion, then there is a coarse joke in patois, of 
 which you understand the ribaldry only, and which 
 is followed by a husky laugh, a sound between a 
 hiss and a growl ; and then you are off again in a 
 crack. Occasionally a way-traveller is uncaged, 
 and a new-comer takes the vacant perch at your 
 elbow. Meanwhile your busy fancy speculates 
 upon all these things, and you fall asleep amid its 
 thousand vagaries. Soon you wake again, and 
 snuff the morning air. It was but a moment, and 
 yet the night is gone. The gray of twilight steals 
 into the window, and gives a ghastly look to the 
 countenances of the sleeping group around you. 
 One sits bolt upright in a corner, offending none, 
 and stiff and motionless as an Egyptian mummy ; 
 another sits equally straight and immovable, but 
 snores like a priest ; the head of a third is dangling 
 over his shoulder, and the tassel of his nightcap 
 tickles his neighbour s ear; a fourth has lost his 
 hat, his wig is awry, and his under-lip hangs 
 lolling about like an idiot s. The whole scene is a 
 living caricature of man, presenting human nature 
 in some of the grotesque attitudes she assumes, 
 when that pragmatical schoolmaster, propriety, has 
 fallen asleep in his chair, and the unruly members 
 of his charge are freed from the thraldom of the 
 rod. 
 
 On leaving Orleans, instead of following the 
 great western mail-route through Tours, Poitiers, 
 and Angouleme, and thence on to Bordeaux, I 
 struck across the departments of the Indre, the 
 
COQ-A-L ANE. 123 
 
 Haute- Vienne, and the Dordogne, passing through 
 the provincial capitals of Chateauroux, Limoges, 
 and Perigueux. South of the Loire the country 
 assumes a more mountainous aspect, and the land 
 scape is broken by long sweeping hills and fertile 
 valleys. Many a fair scene invites the traveller s 
 foot to pause ; and his eye roves with delight over 
 the picturesque landscape of the valley of the 
 Creuse, and the beautiful highland scenery near 
 Perigueux. There are also many objects of art 
 and antiquity which arrest his attention. Argenton 
 boasts its Roman amphitheatre, and the ruins of an 
 old castle built by King Pepin ; at Chains, the 
 tower beneath which Richard Coeur-de-Lion was 
 slain is still pointed out to the curious traveller; 
 and Perigueux is full of crumbling monuments of 
 the Middle Ages. 
 
 Scenes like these, and the constant chatter of 
 my fellow-travellers, served to enliven the tedium 
 of a long and fatiguing journey. The French are 
 preeminently a talking people ; and every new 
 object afforded a topic for light and animated discus 
 sion. The affairs of church and state were, how 
 ever, the themes oftenest touched upon. The bill 
 for the suppression of the liberty of the press was 
 then under discussion in the Chamber of Peers, 
 and excited the most lively interest through the 
 whole kingdom. Of course it was a subject not 
 likely to be forgotten in a stage-coach. 
 
 " Ah ! in on Dieu ! " said a brisk little man, with 
 Bnow-white hair and a blazing red face, at the same 
 
124 COQ-A-L ANE. 
 
 time drawing up his shoulders to a level with his 
 ears ; " the ministry are determined to carry their 
 point at all events. They mean to break down 
 the liberty of the press, cost what it will." 
 
 "If they succeed," added the person who sat 
 opposite, " we may thank the Jesuits for it. It is 
 all their work. They rule the mind of our imbe 
 cile monarch, and it is their miserable policy to 
 keep the people in darkness." 
 
 " No doubt of that," rejoined the first speaker. 
 " Why, no longer ago than yesterday I read in the 
 Figaro that a printer had been prosecuted for pub 
 lishing the moral lessons of the Evangelists without 
 the miracles." 
 
 "Is it possible ? " said I. " And are the people 
 so stupid as thus patiently to offer their shoulders 
 to the pack-saddle ? " 
 
 " Most certainly not ! We shall have another 
 revolution." 
 
 " If history speaks true, you have had revolu 
 tions enough, during the last century or two, to 
 satisfy the most mercurial nation on earth. You 
 have hardly been quiet a moment since the day of 
 the Barricades and the memorable war of the pots- 
 de-chambre in the times of the Grand Conde." 
 
 " You are pleased to speak lightly of our revolu 
 tions, Sir," rejoined the politician, growing warm. 
 " You must, however, confess that each successive 
 one has brought us nearer to our object. Old 
 institutions, whose foundations lie deep in the pre 
 judices of a great nation, are not to be toppled 
 
COQ-A-L ANE. 1 25 
 
 down by the springing of a single mine. You must 
 confess too, that our national character is much 
 improved since the days you speak of. The youth 
 of the present century are not so frivolous as those 
 of the last. They have no longer that unbounded 
 levity and light-heartedness so generally ascribed to 
 them. From this circumstance we have every 
 thing to hope. Our revolutions, likewise, must 
 necessarily change their character, and secure to 
 us more solid advantages than heretofore." 
 
 " Luck makes pluck, as the Germans say. You 
 go on bravely ; but it gives me pain to see re 
 ligion and the church so disregarded." 
 
 " Superstition and the church, you mean," said 
 the gray-headed man. " Why, Sir, the church is 
 nothing now-a-days but a tumble-down, dilapidated 
 tower for rooks and daws, and such silly birds, to 
 build their nests in ! " 
 
 It was now very evident that I had unearthed a 
 radical; and there is no knowing when his ha 
 rangue would have ended, had not his voice been 
 drowned by the noise of the wheels, as we entered 
 the paved street of the city of Limoges. 
 
 A breakfast of boiled capon stuffed with truffles, 
 and accompanied by a pate de Perigueiix, a dish 
 well known to French gourmands, restored us all 
 to good-humor. While we were at breakfast, a 
 personage stalked into the room, whose strange ap 
 pearance arrested my attention, and gave subject 
 for future conversation to our party. He was a 
 tall, thin figure, armed with a long whip, brass spurs, 
 
126 COQ-A-L ANE. 
 
 and black whiskers. He wore a bell-crowned, var 
 nished hat, a blue frock-coat with standing collar, a 
 red waistcoat, a pair of yellow leather breeches, aiad 
 boots that reached to the knees. I at first took 
 him for a postilion, or a private courier ; but, upon 
 inquiry, I found that he was only the son of a 
 notary public, and that he dressed in this strange 
 fashion to please his own fancy. 
 
 As soon as we were comfortably seated in the 
 diligence, I made some remark on the singular 
 costume of the personage whom I had just seen at 
 the tavern. 
 
 " These things are so common with us," said the 
 politician, " that we hardly notice them." 
 
 " What you want in liberty of speech, then, you 
 make up in liberty of dress ? " 
 
 " Yes ; in this, at least, we are a free people." 
 
 " I had not been long in France, before I dis 
 covered that a man may dress as he pleases, with 
 out being stared at. The most opposite styles of 
 dress seem to be in vogue at the same moment. 
 No strange garment nor desperate hat excites 
 either ridicule or surprise. French fashions are 
 known and imitated all the world over." 
 
 " Very true, indeed," said a little man in 
 gosling-green. " We give fashions to all other 
 nations." 
 
 u Fashions ! " said the politician, with a kind of 
 growl, " fashions ! Yes, Sir, and some of us are 
 simple enough to boast of it, as if we were a nation 
 of tailors." 
 
COQ-A-L ANE. 127 
 
 Here the little man in gosling-green pulled up 
 the horns of his cotton shirt-collar. 
 
 " I recollect," said I, u that your Madame de 
 Pompadour, in one of her letters, says something 
 to this effect : i We furnish our enemies with hair 
 dressers, ribbons, and fashions ; and they furnish 
 us with laws/ " 
 
 " That is not the only silly thing she said in her 
 lifetime. Ah ! Sir, these Pompadours, and Mainte- 
 nons, and Montespans were the authors of much 
 woe to France. Their follies and extravagances 
 exhausted the public treasury, and made the 
 nation poor. They built palaces, and covered 
 themselves with jewels, and ate from golden plate ; 
 while the people who toiled for them had hardly 
 a crust to keep their own children from starvation ! 
 And yet they preach to us the divine right of 
 kings ! " 
 
 My radical had got upon his high horse again ; 
 and I know not whither it would have carried him, 
 had not a thin man with a black, seedy coat, who 
 sat at his elbow, at that moment crossed his path, 
 by one of those abrupt and sudden transitions 
 which leave you aghast at the strange association 
 of ideas in the speaker s mind. 
 
 "Apropos de bottes I " exclaimed he, " speaking 
 of boots, and notaries public, and such matters, 
 excuse me for interrupting you, Sir, a little story 
 has just popped into my head which may amuse 
 the company ; and as I am not very fond of politi- 
 
128 COQ-A-L ANE. 
 
 cal discussions, no offence, Sir, I will tell it, for 
 the sake of changing the conversation." 
 
 Whereupon, without further preamble or apol 
 ogy, he proceeded to tell his story in, as nearly as 
 may be, the following words. 
 
THE 
 
 NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX. 
 
 Do not trust thy body with a physician. He ll make thy 
 foolish bones go without flesh in a fortnight, and thy soul walk 
 
 without a body a sennight after. 
 
 SHIRLEY. 
 
 You must know, gentlemen, that there lived 
 some years ago, in the city of Perigueux, an honest 
 notary public, the descendant of a very ancient 
 and broken-down family, and the occupant of one 
 of those old weather-beaten tenements which re 
 mind you of the times of your great-grandfather. 
 He was a man of an unoffending, quiet disposition ; 
 the father of a family, though not the head of it, 
 for in that family " the hen over-crowed the cock/ 
 and the neighbours, when they spake of the notary, 
 shrugged their shoulders, and exclaimed, " Poor 
 fellow ! his spurs want sharpening." In fine, 
 you understand me, gentlemen, he was hen 
 pecked. 
 
 Well, finding no peace at home, he sought it 
 elsewhere, as was very natural for him to do ; and 
 at length discovered a place of rest, far beyond the 
 cares and clamors of domestic life. This was a 
 
130 THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX. 
 
 little cafe, estaminet, a short way out of the city, 
 whither he repaired every evening to smoke his 
 pipe, drink sugar-water, and play his favorite game 
 of domino. There he met the boon companions 
 he most loved ; heard all the floating chitchat of 
 the day ; laughed when he was in merry mood ; 
 found consolation when he was sad; and at all 
 times gave vent to his opinions, without fear of 
 being snubbed short by a flat contradiction. 
 
 Now, the notary s bosom-friend was a dealer in 
 claret and cognac, who lived about a league from 
 the city, and always passed his evenings at the 
 estaminet. He was a gross, corpulent fellow, raised 
 from a full-blooded Gascon breed, and sired by a 
 comic actor of some reputation in his way. He 
 was remarkable for nothing but his good-humor, 
 his love of cards, and a strong propensity to test 
 the quality of his own liquors by comparing them 
 with those sold at other places. 
 
 As evil communications corrupt good manners, 
 the bad practices of the wine-dealer won insensibly 
 upon the worthy notary ; and before he was aware 
 of it, he found himself weaned from domino and 
 sugar-water, and addicted to piquet and spiced 
 wine. Indeed, it not unfrequently happened, that, 
 after a long session at the estaminet, the two friends 
 grew so urbane, that they would waste a full half- 
 hour at the door in friendly dispute which should 
 conduct the other home. 
 
 Though this course of life agreed well enough 
 with the sluggish, phlegmatic temperament of the 
 
THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX. 131 
 
 wine-dealer, it soon began to play the very dense 
 with the more sensitive organization of the notary, 
 and finally put his nervous system completely out 
 of tune. He lost his appetite, became gaunt and 
 haggard, and could get no sleep. Legions of blue- 
 devils haunted him by day, and by night strange 
 faces peeped through his bed-curtains and the 
 nightmare snorted in his ear. The worse he grew, 
 the more he smoked and tippled ; and the more he 
 smoked and tippled, why, as a matter of course, 
 the worse he grew. His wife alternately stormed, 
 remonstrated, entreated; but all in vain. She 
 made the house too hot for him, he retreated to 
 the tavern ; she broke his long-stemmed pipes upon 
 the andirons, he substituted a short-stemmed one, 
 which, for safe keeping, he carried in his waistcoat- 
 pocket. 
 
 Thus the unhappy notary ran gradually down 
 at the heel. What with his bad habits and his 
 domestic grievances, he became completely hipped. 
 He imagined that he was going to die ; and suf 
 fered in quick succession all the diseases that ever 
 beset mortal man. Every shooting pain was an 
 alarming symptom, every uneasy feeling after 
 dinner a sure prognostic of some mortal disease. 
 In vain did his friends endeavour to reason, and 
 then to laugh him out of his strange whims ; for 
 when did ever jest or reason cure a sick imagina 
 tion ? His only answer was, " Do let me alone ; 
 I know better than you what ails me." 
 
 Well, gentlemen, things were in this state, when, 
 
132 THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX. 
 
 one afternoon in December, as he sat moping in 
 Ms office, wrapped in an overcoat, with a cap on 
 his head, and his feet thrust into a pair of furred 
 slippers, a cabriolet stopped at the door, and a loud 
 knocking without aroused him from his gloomy 
 revery. It was a message from his friend the 
 wine-dealer, who had been suddenly attacked with 
 a violent fever, and, growing worse and worse, had 
 now sent in the greatest haste for the notary to 
 draw up his last will and testament. The case was 
 urgent, and admitted neither excuse nor delay; 
 and the notary, tying a handkerchief round his 
 face, and buttoning up to the chin, jumped into 
 the cabriolet, and suffered himself, though not 
 without some dismal presentiments and misgivings 
 of heart, to be driven to the wine-dealer s house. 
 
 When he arrived, he found every thing in the 
 greatest confusion. On entering the house, he 
 ran against the apothecary, who was coming down 
 stairs, with a face as long as your arm ; and a few 
 steps farther he met the housekeeper for the 
 wine-dealer was an old bachelor running up and 
 down, and wringing her hands, for fear that the 
 good man should die without making his will. He 
 soon reached the chamber of his sick friend, and 
 found him tossing about in a paroxysm of fever, 
 and calling aloud for a draught of cold water. The 
 notary shook his head; he thought this a fatal 
 symptom ; for ten years back the wine-dealer had 
 been suffering under a species of hydrophobia, 
 which seemed suddenly to have left him. 
 
THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX. 133 
 
 When the sick man saw who stood by his bed 
 side, he stretched out his hand and exclaimed, 
 
 " Ah ! my dear friend ! have you come at last ? 
 You see it is all over with me. You have arrived 
 just in time to draw up that that passport of 
 mine. Ah, grand diable ! how hot it is here ! 
 Water, water, water ! Will nobody give me a 
 drop of cold water ? " 
 
 As the case was an urgent one, the notary made 
 no delay in getting his papers in readiness ; and in 
 a short time the last will and testament of the 
 wine-dealer was drawn up in due form, the notary 
 guiding the sick man s hand as he scrawled his 
 signature at the bottom. 
 
 As the evening wore away, the wine-dealer 
 grew worse and worse, and at length became 
 delirious, mingling in his incoherent ravings 
 the phrases of the Credo and Paternoster with 
 the shibboleth of the dram-shop and the card- 
 table. 
 
 " Take care ! take care ! There, now Credo 
 in Pop ! ting-a-ling-ling ! give me some of that. 
 Cent-e-dize ! Why, you old publican, this wine is 
 poisoned, I know your tricks ! Sanctam ecclesiam 
 Catholicam Well, well, we shall see. Imbecile ! 
 to have a tierce-major and a seven of hearts, and 
 discard the seven ! By St. Anthony, capot ! You 
 are lurched, ha! ha! I told you so. I knew 
 very well, there, there, don t interrupt me 
 Carnis resurrectionem et vitam eternam ! " 
 
 With these words upon his lips, the poor wine- 
 
134 THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX. 
 
 dealer expired. Meanwhile the notary sat cower 
 ing over the fire, aghast at the fearful scene that 
 was passing before him, and now and then strivino- 
 to keep up his courage by a glass of cognac. 
 Already his fears were on the alert ; and the idea 
 of contagion flitted to and fro through his mind. 
 In order to quiet these thoughts of evil import, 
 he lighted his pipe, and began to prepare for 
 returning home. At that moment the apothecary 
 turned round to him and said, 
 
 " Dreadful sickly time, this ! The disorder seems 
 to be spreading." 
 
 " What disorder ? " exclaimed the notary, with 
 a movement of surprise. 
 
 " Two died yesterday, and three to-day," con 
 tinued the apothecary, without answering the 
 question. " Very sickly time, Sir, very." 
 
 " But what disorder is it ? What disease has 
 carried off my friend here so suddenly ? " 
 
 " What disease ? Why, scarlet fever, to be 
 sure." 
 
 " And is it contagious ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Then I am a dead man ! " exclaimed the 
 notary, putting his pipe into his waistcoat-pocket, 
 and beginning to walk up and down the room 
 in despair. "I am a dead man ! Now don t 
 deceive me, don t, will you ? What what are 
 the symptoms ? " 
 
 " A sharp burning pain in the right side," said 
 the apothecary. 
 
THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX. 135 
 
 " O, what a fool I was to come here ! " 
 In vain did the housekeeper and the apothecary- 
 strive to pacify him; he was not a man to be 
 reasoned with ; he answered that he knew his own 
 constitution better than they did, and insisted upon 
 going home without delay. Unfortunately, the 
 vehicle he came in had returned to the city ; and 
 the whole neighbourhood was abed and asleep. 
 What was to be done ? Nothing in the world 
 but to take the apothecary s horse, which stood 
 hitched at the door, patiently waiting his master s 
 will. 
 
 Well, gentlemen, as there was no remedy, our 
 notary mounted this raw-boned steed, and set forth 
 upon his homeward journey. The night was cold 
 and gusty, and the wind right in his teeth. Over 
 head the leaden clouds were beating to and fro, 
 and through them the newly risen moon seemed 
 to be tossing and drifting along like a cock-boat in 
 the surf; now swallowed up in a huge billow of 
 cloud, and now lifted upon its bosom and dashed 
 with silvery spray. The trees by the roadside 
 groaned with a sound of evil omen ; and before 
 him lay three mortal miles, beset with a thousand 
 imaginary perils. Obedient to the whip and spur, 
 the steed leaped forward by fits and starts, now 
 dashing away in a tremendous gallop, and now 
 relaxing into a long, hard trot; while the rider, 
 filled with symptoms of disease and dire presenti 
 ments of death, urged him on, as if he were fleeing 
 before the pestilence. 
 
136 THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX. 
 
 In this way, by dint of whistling and shouting, 
 and beating right and left, one mile of the fatal 
 three was safely passed. The apprehensions of 
 the notary had so far subsided, that he even 
 suffered the poor horse to walk up hill; but 
 these apprehensions were suddenly revived again 
 with tenfold violence by a sharp pain in the 
 right side, which seemed to pierce him like a 
 needle. 
 
 " It is upon me at last ! " groaned the fear- 
 stricken man. " Heaven be merciful to me, the 
 greatest of sinners ! And must I die in a ditch, 
 after all ? He ! get up, get up ! " 
 
 And away went horse and rider at full speed, 
 hurry-scurry, up hill and down, panting and 
 blowing like a whirlwind. At every leap, the 
 pain in the rider s side seemed to increase. At 
 first it was a little point like the prick of a needle, 
 then it spread to the size of a half-franc piece, 
 then covered a place as large as the palm of your 
 hand. It gained upon him fast. The poor man 
 groaned aloud in agony ; faster and faster sped the 
 horse over the frozen ground, farther and farther 
 spread the pain over his side. To complete the 
 dismal picture, the storm commenced, snow 
 mingled with rain. But snow, and rain, and cold 
 were naught to him ; for, though his arms and 
 legs were frozen to icicles, he felt it not ; the fatal 
 symptom was upon him ; he was doomed to die, 
 not of cold, but of scarlet fever ! 
 
 At length, he knew not how, more dead than 
 
THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX. 137 
 
 alive, he reached the gate of the city. A band of 
 ill-bred dogs, that were serenading at a corner of 
 the street, seeing the notary dash by, joined in the 
 hue and .cry, and ran barking and yelping at his 
 heels. It was now late at night, and only here and 
 there a solitary lamp twinkled from an upper 
 story. But on went the notary, down this street 
 and up that, till at last he reached his own door. 
 There was a light in his wife s bed-chamber. The 
 good woman came to the window, alarmed at such 
 a knocking, and howling, and clattering at her 
 door so late at night ; and the notary was too 
 deeply absorbed in his own sorrows to observe 
 that the lamp cast the shadow of two heads on 
 the window-curtain. 
 
 " Let me in ! let me in ! Quick ! quick ! " he 
 exclaimed, almost breathless from terror and 
 fatigue. 
 
 " Who are you, that come to disturb a lone 
 woman at this hour of the night ? " cried a sharp 
 voice from above. " Begone about your business, 
 and let quiet people sleep." 
 
 " O, d table I diable ! Come down and let me 
 in ! I am your husband. Don t you know my 
 voice ? Quick, I beseech you ; for I am dying 
 here in the street ! " 
 
 After a few moments of delay and a few more 
 words of parley, the door was opened, and the 
 notary stalked into his domicil, pale and haggard 
 in aspect, and as stiff and straight as a ghost. 
 Cased from head to heel in an armor of ice, as the 
 
138 THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX. 
 
 glare of the lamp fell upon him, he looked like a 
 knight-errant mailed in steel. But in one place 
 his armor was broken. On his right side was a 
 circular spot, as large as the crown of your hat, 
 and about as black ! 
 
 " My dear wife ! " he exclaimed, with more 
 tenderness than he had exhibited for many years, 
 " reach me a chair. My hours are numbered. I 
 am a dead man ! " 
 
 Alarmed at these exclamations, his wife stripped 
 off his overcoat. Something fell from beneath it, 
 and was dashed to pieces on the hearth. It was 
 the notary s pipe ! He placed his hand upon his 
 side, and, lo ! it was bare to the skin ! Coat, waist 
 coat, and linen were burnt through and through, 
 and there was a blister on his side as large over as 
 your head ! 
 
 The mystery was soon explained, symptom and 
 all. The notary had put his pipe into his pocket, 
 without knocking out the ashes ! And so my story 
 ends. 
 
 " Is that all ? " asked the radical, when the 
 story-teller had finished. 
 " That is all." 
 
 " Well, what does your story prove ? " 
 
 " That is more than I can tell. All I know is 
 that the story is true." 
 
 " And did he die ? " said the nice little man in 
 gosling-green. 
 
THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX. 139 
 
 " Yes ; he died afterward," replied the story 
 teller, rather annoyed by the question. 
 
 " And what did he die of ? " continued gosling- 
 green, following him up. 
 
 " What did he die of? why, he died of a 
 sudden ! " 
 
SPAIN. 
 
THE 
 
 JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 
 
 A Tissue de 1 yver que le joly temps de primavere commence, 
 et qu on voit arbres verdoyer, fleurs espanouir, et qu ; on oit les 
 oisillons chanter en toute joie et doulceur, tant que les verts 
 bocages retentissent de leurs sons et que coeurs tristes pensifs y 
 dolens s en esjouissent, s emeuvent delaisser deuil et toute 
 tristesse, et se parforcent sk. valoir mieux. 
 
 LA PLAISANTE HISTOIRE DE GUERIN DE MONGLAVE. 
 
 SOFT-BREATHING Spring! how many pleasant 
 thoughts, how many delightful recollections, does 
 thy name awaken in the mind of a traveller ! 
 Whether he has followed thee by the banks of the 
 Loire or the Guadalquivir, or traced thy footsteps 
 slowly climbing the sunny slope of Alp or Apen- 
 nine, the thought of thee shall summon up sweet 
 visions of the past, and thy golden sunshine and 
 soft vapory atmosphere become a portion of his 
 day-dreams and of him. Sweet images of thee, 
 and scenes that have oft inspired the poet s song, 
 shall mingle in his recollections of the past. The 
 shooting of the tender leaf, the sweetness and 
 elasticity of the air, the blue sky, the fleet drift 
 ing cloud, and the flocks of wild fowl wheeling in 
 long-drawn phalanx through the air, and scream- 
 
144 THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 
 
 ing from their dizzy height, all these shall pass 
 like a dream before his imagination. 
 
 " And gently o er his memory come at times 
 A glimpse of joys that had their birth in thee, 
 Like a brief strain of some forgotten tune." 
 
 It was at the opening of this delightful season of 
 the year that I passed through the south of France, 
 and took the road of St. Jean de Luz for the 
 Spanish frontier. I left Bordeaux amid all the 
 noise and gayety of the last scene of Carnival. 
 The streets and public walks of the city were full 
 of merry groups in masks, at every corner crowds 
 were listening to the discordant music of the wander 
 ing ballad-singer; and grotesque figures, mounted 
 on high stilts, and dressed in the garb of the 
 peasants of the Landes of Gascony, were stalking 
 up and down like so many long-legged cranes ; 
 others were amusing themselves with the tricks and 
 grimaces of little monkeys, disguised like little men, 
 bowing to the ladies, and figuring away in red coats 
 and ruffles ; and here and there a band of chimney 
 sweeps were staring in stupid wonder at the mir 
 acles of a showman s box. In a word, all was so 
 full of mirth and merrimake, that even beggary 
 seemed to have forgotten that it was wretched, and 
 gloried in the ragged masquerade of one poor holi 
 day. 
 
 To this scene of noise and gayety succeeded the 
 silence and solitude of the Landes of Gascony. 
 The road from Bordeaux to Bayonne winds along 
 through immense pine-forests and sandy plains, 
 
THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 145 
 
 spotted here and there with a dingy little hovel, 
 and the silence is interrupted only by the dismal 
 hollow roar of the wind among the melancholy and 
 majestic pines. Occasionally, however, the way 
 is enlivened by a market-town or a straggling vil 
 lage; and I still recollect the feelings of delight 
 which I experienced, when, just after sunset, we 
 passed through the romantic town of Roquefort, 
 built upon the sides of the green valley of the 
 Douze, which has scooped out a verdant hollow for 
 it to nestle in, amid those barren tracts of sand. 
 
 On leaving Bayonne, the scene assumes a char 
 acter of greater beauty and sublimity. To the 
 vast forest of the Landes of Gascony succeeds a 
 scene of picturesque beauty, delightful to the 
 traveller s eye. Before him rise the snowy Pyr 
 enees, a long line of undulating hills, 
 
 " Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold, 
 
 Like giant capped with helm of burnished gold." 
 
 To the left, as far as the eye can reach, stretch 
 the delicious valleys of the Nive and Adour ; 
 and to the right the sea flashes along the pebbly 
 margin of its silver beach, forming a thousand 
 little bays and inlets, or comes tumbling in among 
 the cliffs of a rock-bound coast, and beats against 
 its massive barriers with a distant, hollow, con 
 tinual roar. 
 
 Should these pages meet the eye of any solitary 
 traveller who is journeying into Spain by the 
 road I here speak of, I would advise him to travel 
 
 VOL. i. 10 
 
146 THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 
 
 from Bayonne to St. Jean de Luz on horseback 
 At the gate of Bayonne he will find a steed ready 
 caparisoned for him, with a dark-eyed Basque girl 
 for his companion and guide, who is to sit beside 
 him upon the same horse. This style of travelling 
 is, I believe, peculiar to the Basque provinces ; at 
 all events, 1 have seen it nowhere else. The 
 saddle is constructed with a large frame-work ex 
 tending on each side, and covered with cushions ; 
 and the traveller and his guide, being placed on 
 the opposite extremities, serve as a balance to 
 each other. We overtook many travellers mounted 
 in this way, and I could not help thinking it a 
 mode of travelling far preferable to being cooped 
 up in a diligence. The Basque girls are generally 
 beautiful ; and there was one of these merry 
 guides we met upon the road to Bidart, whose 
 image haunts me still. She had large and ex 
 pressive black eyes, teeth like pearls, a rich and 
 sunburnt complexion, and hair of a glossy black 
 ness, parted on the forehead, and falling down 
 behind in a large braid, so long as almost to touch 
 the ground with the little ribbon that confined 
 it at the end. She wore the common dress of 
 the peasantry of the south of France, and a large 
 gypsy straw hat was thrown back over her 
 shoulder, and tied by a ribbon about her neck. 
 There was hardly a dusty traveller in the coach 
 who did not envy her companion the seat he 
 occupied beside her. 
 
 Just at nightfall we entered the town of St. 
 
THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 147 
 
 Jean de Luz, and dashed down its narrow streets 
 at full gallop. The little madcap postilion cracked 
 his knotted whip incessantly, and the sound echoed 
 back from the high dingy walls like the report of 
 a pistol. The coach-wheels nearly touched the 
 houses on each side of us ; the idlers in the street 
 jumped right and left to save themselves ; window- 
 shutters flew open in all directions ; a thousand 
 heads popped out from cellar and upper story ; 
 " Sacr-r-re matin ! " shouted the postilion, and 
 we rattled on like an earthquake. 
 
 St. Jean de Luz is a smoky little fishing town, 
 situated on the low grounds at the mouth of the 
 Nivelle, and a bridge connects it with the faubourg 
 of Sibourne, which stands on the opposite bank 
 of the river. I had no time, however, to note the 
 peculiarities of the place, for I was whirled out 
 of it with the same speed and confusion with 
 which I had been whirled in, and I can only 
 recollect the sweep of the road across the Nivelle, 
 the church of Sibourne by the water s edge, 
 the narrow streets, the smoky-looking houses with 
 red window-shutters, and " a very ancient and 
 fish-like smell." 
 
 I passed by moonlight the little River Bida-soa, 
 which forms the boundary between France and 
 Spain ; and when the morning broke, found myself 
 far up among the mountains of San Salvador, the 
 most westerly links of the great Pyrenean chain. 
 The mountains around me were neither rugged 
 nor precipitous, but they rose one above another 
 
148 THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 
 
 in a long, majestic swell, and the trace of the 
 ploughshare was occasionally visible to their sum 
 mits. They seemed entirely destitute of forest- 
 scenery ; and as the season of vegetation had not 
 yet commenced, their huge outlines lay black, and 
 barren, and desolate against the sky. But it was 
 a glorious morning, and the sun rose up into a 
 cloudless heaven, and poured a flood of gorgeous 
 splendor over the mountain landscape, as if proud 
 of the realm he shone upon. The scene was 
 enlivened by the dashing of a swollen mountain 
 brook, whose course we followed for miles down 
 the valley, as it leaped onward to its journey s 
 end, now breaking into a white cascade, and now 
 foaming and chafing beneath a rustic bridge. 
 Now and then we rode through a dilapidated 
 town, with a group of idlers at every corner, 
 wrapped in tattered brown cloaks, and smoking 
 their little paper cigars in the sun ; then would 
 succeed a desolate tract of country, cheered only 
 by the tinkle of a mule-bell, or the song of a 
 muleteer ; then we would meet a solitary traveller 
 mounted on horseback, and wrapped in the ample 
 folds of his cloak, with a gun hanging at the 
 pommel of his saddle. Occasionally, too, among 
 the bleak, inhospitable hills, we passed a rude little 
 chapel, with a cluster of ruined cottages around 
 it; and whenever our carriage stopped at the 
 relay, or loitered slowly up the hillside, a crowd 
 of children would gather around us, with little 
 images and crucifixes for sale, curiously orna- 
 
THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 149 
 
 mented with ribbons and little bits of tawdry 
 finery. 
 
 A day s journey from the frontier brought us 
 to Vitoria, where the diligence stopped for the 
 night. I spent the scanty remnant of daylight 
 in rambling about the streets of the city, with 
 no other guide but the whim of the moment. 
 Now I plunged down a dark and narrow alley, 
 now emerged into a wide street or a spacious 
 market-place, and now aroused the drowsy echoes 
 of a church or cloister with the sound of my 
 intruding footsteps. But descriptions of churches 
 and public squares are dull and tedious matters 
 for those readers who are in search of amusement, 
 and not of instruction ; and if any one has accom 
 panied me thus far on my fatiguing journey 
 towards the Spanish capital, I will readily excuse 
 him from the toil of an evening ramble through 
 the streets of Vitoria. 
 
 On the following morning, we left the town, long 
 before daybreak, and during our forenoon s journey 
 the postilion drew up at an inn, on the southern 
 slope of the Sierra de San Lorenzo, in the province 
 of Old Castile. The house was an old, dilapidated 
 tenement, built of rough stone, and coarsely plas 
 tered upon the outside. The tiled roof had long 
 been the sport of wind and rain, the motley coat 
 of plaster was broken and time-worn, and the 
 whole building sadly out of repair ; though the 
 fanciful mouldings under the eaves, and the curi 
 ously carved wood-work that supported the little 
 
150 THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 
 
 balcony over the principal entrance, spoke of bet 
 ter days gone by. The whole building reminded 
 me of a dilapidated Spanish Don, down at the heel 
 and out at elbows, but with here and there a rem 
 nant of former magnificence peeping through the 
 loopholes of his tattered cloak. 
 
 A wide gateway ushered the traveller into the 
 interior of the building, and conducted him to a 
 low-roofed apartment, paved with round stones, 
 and serving both as a court-yard and a stable. It 
 seemed to be a neutral ground for man and beast, 
 a little republic, where horse and rider had com 
 mon privileges, and mule and muleteer lay cheek 
 by jowl. In one corner a poor jackass was patient 
 ly devouring a bundle of musty straw, in another, 
 its master lay sound asleep, with his saddle-cloth 
 for a pillow ; here a group of muleteers were quar 
 relling over a pack of dirty cards, and there the 
 village barber, with a self-important air, stood lav 
 ing the alcalde s chin from the helmet of Mam- 
 brino. On the wall, a little taper glimmered feebly 
 before an image of St. Anthony ; directly opposite 
 these a leathern wine-bottle hung by the neck from 
 a pair of ox-horns ; and the pavement below was 
 covered with a curious medley of boxes, and bags, 
 and cloaks, and pack-saddles, and sacks of grain, 
 and skins of wine, and all kinds of lumber. 
 
 A small door upon the right led us into the inn- 
 kitchen. It was a room about ten feet square, and 
 literally all chimney; for the hearth was in the 
 centre of the floor, and the walls sloped upward in 
 
THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 151 
 
 the form of a long, narrow pyramid, with an open 
 ing at the top for the escape of the smoke. Quite 
 round this little room ran a row of benches, upon 
 which sat one or two grave personages smoking 
 paper cigars. Upon the hearth blazed a handful 
 of fagots, whose bright flame danced merrily among 
 a motley congregation of pots and kettles, and a 
 long wreath of smoke wound lazily up through the 
 huge tunnel of the roof above. The walls were 
 black with soot, and ornamented with sundry legs 
 of bacon and festoons of sausages ; and as there 
 were no windows in this dingy abode, the only 
 light which cheered the darkness within came 
 flickering from the fire upon the hearth, and the 
 smoky sunbeams that peeped down the long-necked 
 chimney. 
 
 I had not been long seated by the fire, when the 
 tinkling of mule-bells, the clatter of hoofs, and the 
 hoarse voice of a muleteer in the outer apartment, 
 announced the arrival of new guests. A few mo 
 ments afterward the kitchen-door opened, and a 
 person entered, whose appearance strongly arrested 
 my attention. It was a tall, athletic figure, with 
 the majestic carriage of a grandee, and a dark, 
 sunburnt countenance, that indicated an age of 
 about fifty years. His dress was singular, and such 
 as I had not before seen. He wore a round hat 
 with wide, flapping brim, from beneath which his 
 long, black hair hung in curls upon his shoulders ; 
 a leather jerkin, with cloth sleeves, descended to 
 his hips ; around his waist was closely buckled a 
 
152 THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 
 
 leather belt, with a cartouch-box on one side ; a 
 pair of loose trousers of black serge hung in ample 
 folds to the knees, around which they were closely 
 gathered by embroidered garters of blue silk ; and 
 black broadcloth leggins, buttoned close to the 
 calves, and strapped over a pair of brown leather 
 shoes, completed the singular dress of the stranger. 
 He doffed his hat as he entered, and, saluting the 
 company with a " Dios guarde d Ustedes, caballe- 
 ros" (God guard you, Gentlemen), took a seat by 
 the fire, and entered into conversation with those 
 around him. 
 
 As my curiosity was not a little excited by the 
 peculiar dress of this person, I inquired of a trav 
 elling companion, who sat at my elbow, who and 
 what this new-comer was. From him I learned 
 that he was a muleteer of the Maragateria, a 
 name given to a cluster of small towns which lie in 
 the mountainous country between Astorga and 
 Villafranca, in the western corner of the kingdom 
 of Leon. 
 
 " Nearly every province in Spain," said he, 
 "has its peculiar costume, as you will see, when 
 you have advanced farther into our country. For 
 instance, the Catalonians wear crimson caps, hang 
 ing down upon the shoulder like a sack ; wide pan 
 taloons of green velvet, long enough in the waist 
 band to cover the whole breast ; and a little strip 
 of a jacket, made of the same material, and so 
 short as to bring the pocket directly under the 
 armpit. The Valencians, on the contrary, go 
 
THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 153 
 
 almost naked ; a linen shirt, white linen trousers, 
 reaching no lower than the knees, and a pair of 
 coarse leather sandals complete their simple garb ; 
 it is only in mid-winter that they indulge in the 
 luxury of a jacket. The most beautiful and ex 
 pensive costume, however, is that of Andalusia : it 
 consists of a velvet jacket, faced with rich and vari 
 ous colored embroidery, and covered with tassels 
 and silken cord ; a waistcoat of some gay color ; 
 a silken handkerchief round the neck, and a crim 
 son sash round the waist ; breeches that button 
 down each side ; gaiters and shoes of white leather ; 
 and a handkerchief of bright-colored silk wound 
 about the head like a turban, and surmounted by a 
 velvet cap or a little round hat, with a wide band, 
 and an abundance of silken loops and tassels. The 
 Old Castilians are more grave in their attire : they 
 wear a leather breastplate instead of a jacket, 
 breeches and leggins, and a montera cap. This 
 fellow is a Maragato ; and in the villages of the 
 Maragateria the costume varies a little from the 
 rest of Leon and Castile." 
 
 " If he is indeed a Maragato," said I, jestingly, 
 " who knows but he may be a descendant of the 
 muleteer who behaved so naughtily at Cacabelos, 
 as related in the second chapter of the veracious 
 history of Gil Bias de Santillana ? " 
 
 " g Quien sabe 1 " was the reply. " Notwithstand 
 ing the pride which even the meanest Castilian feels 
 in counting over a long line of good-for-nothing 
 ancestors, the science of genealogy has become of 
 late a very intricate study in Spain." 
 
154 THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 
 
 Here our conversation was cut short by the may 
 oral of the diligence, who came to tell us that the 
 mules were waiting ; and before many hours had 
 elapsed, we were scrambling through the square of 
 the ancient city of Burgos. On the morrow we 
 crossed the River Duero and the Guadarrama 
 Mountains, and early in the afternoon entered the 
 "Heroica Villa" of Madrid, by the Puerta de 
 Fuencarral. 
 
SPAIN. 
 
 Santiago y cierra Espana! 
 
 SPANISH WAB-ORT. 
 
 IT is a beautiful morning in June ; so beautiful, 
 that I almost fancy myself in Spain. The tessel- 
 ated shadow of the honeysuckle lies motionless 
 upon the floor, as if it were a figure in the carpet ; 
 and through the open window comes the fragrance 
 of the wild-brier and the mock-orange, reminding 
 me of that soft, sunny clime where the very air is 
 laden, like the bee, with sweetness, and the south 
 wind 
 
 " Comes over gardens, and the flowers 
 That kissed it are betrayed." 
 
 The birds are carolling in the trees, and their 
 shadows flit across the window as they dart to and 
 fro in the sunshine ; while the murmur of the bee, 
 the cooing of doves from the eaves, and the whir 
 ring of a little humming-bird that has its nest in 
 the honeysuckle, send up a sound of joy to meet 
 the rising sun. How like the climate of the South ! 
 How like a summer morning in Spain ! 
 
 My recollections of Spain are of the most lively 
 aiid delightful kind. The character of the soil 
 
156 SPAJX. 
 
 and of its inhabitants, the stormy mountains and 
 free spirits of the North, the prodigal luxuriance 
 and gay voluptuousness of the South, the history 
 and traditions of the past, resembling more the 
 fables of romance than the solemn chronicle of 
 events, a soft and yet majestic language that falls 
 like martial music on the ear, and a literature rich 
 in the attractive lore of poetry and fiction, these, 
 but not these alone, are my reminiscences of Spain. 
 With these I recall the thousand little circum 
 stances and enjoyments which always give a col 
 oring to our recollections of the past; the clear 
 sky, the pure, balmy air, the delicious fruits and 
 flowers, the wild-fig and the aloe, the palm-tree 
 and the olive by the wayside, all, all that makes 
 existence so joyous, and renders the sons and 
 daughters of that clime the children of impulse and 
 sensation. 
 
 As I write these words, a shade of sadness steals 
 over me. When I think what that glorious land 
 might be, and what it is, what Nature intended it 
 should be, and what man has made it, my very 
 heart sinks within me. My mind instinctively 
 reverts from the degradation of the present to the 
 glory of the past ; or, looking forward with strong 
 misgivings, but with yet stronger hopes, inter 
 rogates the future. 
 
 The burnished armor of the Cid stands in the 
 archives of the royal museum of Madrid, and there, 
 too, is seen the armor of Ferdinand and Isabel, 
 of Guzman the Good and Gonzalo de Cordova, 
 
SPAIN. 157 
 
 and of other early champions of Spain ; but what 
 hand shall now wield the sword of the Campeador, 
 or lift up the banner of Leon and Castile ? The 
 ruins of Christian castle and Moorish alcazar still 
 look forth from the hills of Spain ; but where, O, 
 where is the spirit of freedom that once fired the 
 children of the Goth ? Where is the spirit of 
 Bernardo del Carpio, and Perez de Vargas, and 
 Alonzo de Aguilar ? Shall it forever sleep ? Shall 
 it never again beat high in the hearts of their de 
 generate sons ? Shall the descendants of Pelayo 
 bow forever beneath an iron yoke, " like cattle 
 whose despair is dumb ? " 
 
 The dust of the Cid lies mingling with the dust 
 of Old Castile ; but his spirit is not buried with his 
 ashes. It sleeps, but is not dead. The day will 
 come, when the foot of the tyrant shall be shaken 
 from the neck of Spain ; when a brave and gen 
 erous people, though now ignorant, degraded, and 
 much abused, shall " know their rights, and know 
 ing dare maintain." 
 
 Of the national character of Spain I have 
 brought away this impression ; that its prominent 
 traits are a generous pride of birth, a superstitious 
 devotion to the dogmas of the Church, and an in 
 nate dignity, which exhibits itself even in the com 
 mon and every-day employments of life. Castilian 
 pride is proverbial. A beggar wraps his tattered 
 cloak around him with all the dignity of a Roman 
 senator; and a muleteer bestrides his beast of 
 burden with the air of a grandee. 
 
158 SPAIN. 
 
 I have thought, too, that there was a tinge of 
 sadness in the Spanish character. The national 
 music of the land is remarkable for its melancholy 
 tone ; and at times the voice of a peasant, singing 
 amid the silence and solitude of the mountains, 
 falls upon the ear like a funeral chant. Even a 
 Spanish holiday wears a look of sadness, a cir 
 cumstance which some writers attribute to the 
 cruel and overbearing spirit of the municipal laws. 
 " On the greatest festivals," says Jovellanos, " in 
 stead of that boisterous merriment and noise which 
 should bespeak the joy of the inhabitants, there 
 reigns throughout the streets and market-places a 
 slothful inactivity, a gloomy stillness, which cannot 
 be remarked without mingled emotions of surprise 
 and pity. The few persons who leave their houses 
 seem to be driven from them by listlessness, and 
 dragged as far as the threshold, the market, or the 
 church-door; there, muffled in their cloaks, lean 
 ing against a corner, seated on a bench, or loung 
 ing to and fro, without object, aim, or purpose, 
 they pass their hours, their whole evenings, with 
 out mirth, recreation, or amusement. When you 
 add to this picture the dreariness and filth of the 
 villages, the poor and slovenly dress of the inhabi 
 tants, the gloominess and silence of their air, the 
 laziness, the want of concert and union so striking 
 everywhere, who but would be astonished, who 
 but would be afflicted by so mournful a phenome 
 non ? This is not, indeed, the place to expose the 
 errors which conspire to produce it ; but, whatever 
 
SPAIN. 159 
 
 those errors may be, one point is clear, that they 
 are all to be found in the laws ! " * 
 
 Of the same serious, sombre character is the 
 favorite national sport, the bull-fight. It is a 
 barbarous amusement, but of all others the most 
 exciting, the most spirit-stirring; and in Spain, the 
 most popular. " If Rome lived content with bread 
 and arms," says the author I have just quoted, in a 
 spirited little discourse entitled Pan y Toros, 
 " Madrid lives content with bread and bulls." 
 
 Shall I describe a Spanish bull-fight ? No. It 
 has been so often and so well described by other 
 pens that mine shall not undertake it, though it is 
 a tempting theme. I cannot, however, refuse 
 myself the pleasure of quoting here a few lines 
 from one of. the old Spanish ballads i^pon this 
 subject. It is entitled " The Bull-fight of Ganzul." 
 The description of the bull, which is contained in 
 the passage I here extract, is drawn with a master s 
 hand. It is rather a paraphrase than a translation, 
 by Mr. Lockhart. 
 
 " From Guadiana comes lie not, he comes not from Xenil, 
 From Guadalarif of the plain, nor Barves of the hill ; 
 But where from out the forest burst Xarama s waters 
 
 clear, 
 Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed, this proud and 
 
 stately steer. 
 
 * In forme dado 4 la Real Academia de Historia sobre Juegos, 
 EspectAculos, y Diversiones Publicas. 
 
160 SPAIN. 
 
 " Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within 
 
 doth boil, 
 And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the 
 
 turmoil. 
 
 His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow; 
 But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the 
 
 foe. 
 
 " Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and 
 
 near, 
 From out the broad and wrinkled skull like daggers they 
 
 appear ; 
 His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old, knotted 
 
 tree, 
 Whereon the monster s shaggy mane, like billows curled, 
 
 "His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are 
 
 black as night ; 
 Like a strong flail he holds his tail, in fierceness of his 
 
 might ; 
 Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from forth 
 
 the rock, 
 Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the Alcayde s shock. 
 
 " Now stops the drum, close, close they come ; thrice 
 
 meet and thrice give back ; 
 The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger s breast 
 
 of black; 
 The white foam of the charger on Harpado s front of 
 
 dun; 
 Once more advance upon his lance, once more, thou 
 
 fearless one! " 
 
 There are various circumstances closely con 
 nected with the train of thought I have here 
 
SPAIN. 161 
 
 touched upon ; but I forbear to mention them, for 
 fear of drawing out this introductory chapter to 
 too great a length. Some of them will naturally 
 find a place hereafter. Meanwhile let us turn the 
 leaf to a new chapter, and to subjects of a livelier 
 nature. 
 
 11 
 
A TAILOR S DRAWER. 
 
 Nedyls, threde, thymbell, shers, and all suche knackes. 
 
 THE FOUR Ps. 
 
 A TAILOR S drawer, did you say ? 
 
 Yes ; a tailor s drawer. It is, indeed, rather a 
 quaint rubric for a chapter in the pilgrim s brev 
 iary ; albeit it well befits the motley character of 
 the following pages. It is a title which the Span 
 iards give to a desultory discourse, wherein various 
 and discordant themes are touched upon, and 
 which is crammed full of little shreds and patches 
 of erudition ; and certainly it is not inappropriate 
 to a chapter whose contents are of every shape 
 and hue, and " do no more adhere and keep pace 
 together than the hundreth psalm to the tune of 
 Green Sleeves." 
 
 ii. 
 
 IT is recorded in the Adventures of Gil Bias de 
 Santillana, that, when this renowned personage 
 first visited the city of Madrid, he took lodgings at 
 the house of Mateo Melandez, in the Puerta del 
 Sol. In choosing a place of abode in the Spanish 
 court, I followed, as far as practicable, this illus 
 trious example; but, as the kind-hearted Mateo 
 
A TAILOR S DRAWER. 163 
 
 had been long gathered to his fathers, I was con 
 tent to take up my residence in the hired house of 
 Valentin Gonzalez, at the foot of the Calle de la 
 Montera. My apartments were in the third story, 
 above the dust, though not beyond the rattle, of 
 the street ; and my balconies looked down into the 
 Puerta del Sol, the heart of Madrid, through which 
 circulates the living current of its population at 
 least once every twenty-four hours. 
 
 The Puerta del Sol is a public square, from 
 which diverge the five principal streets of the 
 metropolis. It is the great rendezvous of grave 
 and gay, of priest and layman, of gentle and 
 simple, the mart of business and of gossip, the 
 place where the creditor seeks his debtor, where 
 the lawyer seeks his client, where the stranger 
 seeks amusement, where the friend seeks his friend, 
 and the foe his foe ; where the idler seeks the sun 
 in winter, and the shade in summer, and the busy 
 body seeks the daily news, and picks up the 
 crumbs of gossip to fly away with them in his beak 
 to the tertulia of Dona Paquita ! 
 
 Tell me, ye who have sojourned in foreign lands, 
 and know in what bubbles a traveller s happiness 
 consists, is it not a blessing to have your window 
 overlook a scene like this ? 
 
 THERE, take that chair upon the balcony, and 
 let us look down upon the busy scene beneath us. 
 What a continued roar the crowded thoroughfare 
 
164 A TAILOR S DRAWER. 
 
 sends up ! Though three stories high, we can 
 hardly hear the sound of our own voices ! The 
 London cries are whispers, when compared with 
 the cries of Madrid. 
 
 See, yonder, stalks a gigantic peasant of New 
 Castile, with a montera cap, brown jacket and 
 breeches, and coarse, blue stockings, forcing his 
 way through the crowd, and leading a donkey 
 laden with charcoal, whose sonorous bray is in 
 unison with the harsh voice of his master. Close 
 at his elbow goes a rosy-cheeked damsel, selling 
 calico. She is an Asturian from the mountains 
 of Santander. How do you know ? By her short 
 yellow petticoats, her blue bodice, her coral 
 necklace and earrings. Through the middle of 
 the square struts a peasant of Old Castile, with 
 his yellow leather jerkin strapped about his waist, 
 his brown leggins and his blue garters, driving 
 before him a flock of gabbling turkeys, and crying, 
 at the top of his voice, " Pao, pao, pavitos, paos ! " 
 Next comes a Valencian, with his loose linen 
 trousers and sandal shoon, holding a huge sack of 
 watermelons upon his shoulder with his left hand, 
 and with his right balancing high in air a specimen 
 of his luscious fruit, upon which is perched a little 
 pyramid of the crimson pulp, while he tempts the 
 passers-by with "A cala, y calando ; una sandia 
 vendo-o-o. Si esto es sangre!" (By the slice, 
 come and try it, watermelon for sale. This is 
 the real blood !) His companion near him has a 
 pair of scales thrown over his shoulder, and holds 
 
A TAILOR S DRAWER. 165 
 
 both arms full of muskmelons. He chimes into 
 the harmonious ditty with " Melo melo-o-o 
 meloncitos ; aqui estd el azucar ! " (Melons, mel 
 ons ; here is the real sugar !) Behind them creeps 
 a slow-moving Asturian, in heavy wooden shoes, 
 crying watercresses ; and a peasant woman from 
 the Guadarrama Mountains, with a montera cocked 
 up in front, and a blue kerchief tied under her 
 chin, swings in each hand a bunch of live chick 
 ens, that hang by the claws, head downwards, 
 fluttering, scratching, crowing with all their might, 
 while the good woman tries to drown their voices 
 in the discordant cry of " $ Quien me compra un 
 gallo, un par de gallinas?" (Who buys a cock, 
 a pair of fowls ?) That tall fellow in blue, with 
 a pot of flowers upon his shoulder, is a wag, beyond 
 all dispute. See how cunningly he cocks his eye 
 up at us, and cries, " Si yo tuviera balcon ! " (If I 
 only had a balcony !) 
 
 What next? A Manchego with a sack of oil 
 under his arm; a Gallego with a huge water-jar 
 upon his shoulders ; an Italian peddler with images 
 of saints and madonnas ; a razor-grinder with his 
 wheel ; a mender of pots and kettles, making 
 music, as he goes, with a shovel and a frying-pan ; 
 and, in fine, a noisy, patchwork, ever-changing 
 crowd, whose discordant cries mingle with the 
 rumbling of wheels, the clatter of hoofs, and the 
 clang of church-bells ; and make the Puerta del 
 Sol, at certain hours of the day, like a street in 
 Babylon the Great. 
 
166 A TAILOR S DRAWER. 
 
 IV. 
 
 CHITON ! A beautiful girl, with flaxen hair, 
 blue eyes, and the form of a fairy in a midsummer 
 night s dream, has just stepped out on the balcony 
 beneath us ! See how coquettishly she crosses her 
 arms upon the balcony, thrusts her dainty little 
 foot through the bars, and plays with her slipper ! 
 She is an Andalusian, from Malaga. Her brother 
 is a bold dragoon, and wears a long sword ; so 
 beware ! and " let not the creaking of shoes and 
 the rustling of silks betray thy poor heart to 
 woman." Her mother is a vulgar woman, "fat 
 and forty " ; eats garlic in her salad, and smokes 
 cigars. But mind ! that is a secret ; I tell it to 
 you in confidence. 
 
 THE following little ditty I translate from the 
 Spanish. It is as delicate as a dew-drop. 
 
 She is a maid of artless grace, 
 Gentle in form, and fair of face. 
 
 Tell me, thou ancient mariner, 
 
 That sailest on the sea, 
 If ship, or sail, or evening star 
 
 Be half so fair as she ! 
 
 Tell me, thou gallant cavalier, 
 
 Whose shining arms I see, 
 If steed, or sword, or battle-field 
 
 Be half so fair as she ! 
 
A TAILOR S DRAWER. 167 
 
 Tell me, thou swain, that guard st thy flock 
 
 Beneath the shadowy tree, 
 If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge 
 
 Be half so fair as she ! 
 
 A MILLER has just passed by, covered with flour 
 from head to foot, and perched upon the tip end 
 of a little donkey, crying "Arre lorrico ! " and at 
 every cry swinging a cudgel in his hand, and 
 giving the ribs of the poor beast what in the vulgar 
 dialect is called a cachiporrazo. I could not help 
 laughing, though I felt provoked with the fellow 
 for his cruelty. The truth is, I have great regard 
 for a jackass. His meekness, and patience, and 
 long-suffering are very amiable qualities, and, con 
 sidering his situation, worthy of all praise. In 
 Spain, a donkey plays as conspicuous a part as a 
 priest or a village alcalde. There would be no 
 getting along without him. And yet, who so 
 beaten and abused as he ? 
 
 vn. 
 
 HERE comes a gay gallant, with white kid 
 gloves, a quizzing-glass, a black cane, with a white 
 ivory pommel, and a little hat, cocked pertly on 
 one side of his head. He is an exquisite fop, and 
 a great lady s man. You will always find him on 
 the Prado at sunset, when the crowd and dust are 
 thickest, ogling through his glass, flourishing his 
 cane, and humming between his teeth some favorite 
 
168 A TAILOR S DRAWER. 
 
 air of the Semiramis, or the Barber of Seville 
 He is a great amateur, and patron of the Italian 
 Opera, beats time with his cane, nods his head, 
 and cries, Bravo ! and fancies himself in love 
 with the Prima Donna. The height of his ambi 
 tion is to be thought the gay Lothario, the gallant 
 Don Cortejo of his little sphere. He is a poet 
 withal, and daily besieges the heart of the cruel 
 Doiia Inez with sonnets and madrigals. She turns 
 a deaf ear to his song, and is inexorable : 
 
 " Mas que no sea mas piadosa 
 A dos escudos en prosa, 
 No puede ser." 
 
 WHAT a contrast between this personage and 
 the sallow, emaciated being who is now crossing 
 the street ! It is a barefooted Carmelite, a monk 
 of an austere order, wasted by midnight vigils 
 and long penance. Abstinence is written on that 
 pale cheek, and the bowed head and downcast eye 
 are in accordance with the meek profession of a 
 mendicant brotherhood. 
 
 What is this world to thee, thou man of peni 
 tence and prayer ? What hast thou to do with all 
 this busy, turbulent scene about thee, with all the 
 noise, and gayety, and splendor of this thronged 
 city ? Nothing. The wide world gives thee 
 nothing, save thy daily crust, thy crucifix, thy 
 convent-cell, thy pallet of straw ! Pilgrim of 
 
A TAILOR S DRAWER. 169 
 
 heaven ! thou hast no home on earth. Thou art 
 journeying onward to " a house not made with 
 hands " ; and, like the first apostles of thy faith, 
 thou takest neither gold, nor silver, nor brass, nor 
 scrip for thy journey. Thou hast shut thy heart 
 to the endearments of earthly love, thy shoulder 
 beareth not the burden with thy fellow-man, in 
 all this vast crowd thou hast no friends, no hopes, 
 no sympathies. Thou standest aloof from man, 
 and art thou nearer God V I know not. Thy 
 motives, thy intentions, thy desires are registered in 
 heaven. I am thy fellow-man, and not thy judge. 
 " Who is the greater ? " says the German moral 
 ist; "the wise man who lifts himself above the 
 storms of time, and from aloof looks down upon 
 them, and yet takes no part therein, or he who 
 from the height of quiet and repose throws himself 
 boldly into the battle-tumult of the world ? Glori 
 ous is it, when the eagle through the beating 
 tempest flies into the bright blue heaven upward ; 
 but far more glorious, when, poising in the blue 
 sky over the black storm-abyss, he plunges down 
 ward to his aerie on the cliff, where cower his 
 unfledged brood, and tremble." 
 
 SULTRY grows the day, and breathless ! The 
 lately crowded street is silent and deserted, 
 hardly a footfall, hardly here and there a soli 
 tary figure stealing along in the narrow strip 
 of shade beneath the eaves ! Silent, too, and 
 
170 A TAILOR S DRAWER. 
 
 deserted is the Puerta del Sol; so silent, that 
 even at this distance the splashing of its foun 
 tain is distinctly audible, so deserted, that not 
 a living thing is visible there, save the out 
 stretched and athletic form of a Galician water- 
 carrier, who lies asleep upon the pavement in the 
 cool shadow of the fountain ! There is not air 
 enough to stir the leaves of the jasmine upon the 
 balcony, or break the thin column of smoke that 
 issues from the cigar of Don Diego, master of the 
 noble Spanish tongue, y hombre de muchos dingo- 
 londangos. He sits bolt upright between the 
 window and the door, with the collar of his snuff- 
 colored frock thrown back upon his shoulders, and 
 his toes turned out like a dancing-master, poring 
 over the Diario de Madrid, to learn how high the 
 thermometer rose yesterday, what patron saint 
 has a festival to-day, and at what hour to-morrow 
 the "King of Spain, Jerusalem, and the Canary 
 Islands" will take his departure for the gardens 
 of Aranjuez. 
 
 You have a proverb in your language, Don 
 Diego, which says, 
 
 " Despues de comer 
 
 Ni un sobrescrito leer"; 
 
 after dinner read not even the superscription of 
 a letter. I shall obey, and indulge in the ex 
 quisite luxury of a siesta. I confess that I love 
 this after-dinner nap. If I have a gift, a vocation 
 
A TAILOR S DRAWER. 171 
 
 for any thing, it is for sleeping; and from my 
 heart I can say with honest Sancho, " Blessed be 
 the man that first invented sleep ! " In a sultry 
 clime, too, where the noontide heat unmans you, 
 and the cool starry night seems made for any 
 thing but slumber, I am willing to barter an hour 
 or two of intense daylight for an hour or two of 
 tranquil, lovely, dewy night ! 
 
 Therefore, Don Diego, liasta la vista ! 
 
 IT is evening ; the day is gone ; fast gather and 
 deepen the shades of twilight ! In the words of a 
 German allegory, " The babbling day has touched 
 the hem of night s garment, and, weary and still, 
 drops asleep in her bosom." 
 
 The city awakens from its slumber. The con 
 vent-bells ring solemnly and slow. The streets 
 are thronged again. Once more I hear the shrill 
 cry, the rattling wheel, the murmur of the crowd. 
 The blast of a trumpet sounds from the Puerta 
 del Sol, then the tap of a drum; a mounted 
 guard opens the way, the crowd doff their hats, 
 and the king sweeps by in a gilded coach drawn 
 by six horses, and followed by a long train of un 
 couth, antiquated vehicles drawn by mules. 
 
 The living tide now sets towards the Prado, 
 and the beautiful gardens of the Retiro. Beauti 
 ful are they at this magic hour ! Beautiful, with 
 the almond-tree in blossom, with the broad green 
 leaves of the sycamore and the chestnut, with the 
 
172 A TAILOR S DRAWER. 
 
 fragrance of the orange and the lemon, with the 
 beauty of a thousand flowers, with the soothing 
 calm and the dewy freshness of evening ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 I LOVE to linger on the Prado till the crowd is 
 gone and the night far advanced. There musing 
 and alone I sit, and listen to the lulling fall of 
 waters in their marble fountains, and watch the 
 moon as it rises over the gardens of the Ketiro, 
 brighter than a northern sun. The beautiful 
 scene lies half in shadow, half in light, almost 
 a fairy land. Occasionally the sound of a guitar, 
 or a distant voice, breaks in upon my revery. 
 Then the form of a monk, from the neighbouring 
 convent, sweeps by me like a shadow, and dis 
 appears in the gloom of the leafy avenues ; and 
 far away from the streets of the city comes the 
 voice of the watchman telling the midnight hour. 
 
 Lovely art thou, O Night, beneath the skies 
 of Spain ! Day, panting with heat, and laden 
 with a thousand cares, toils onward like a beast 
 of burden ; but Night, calm, silent, holy Night, 
 is a ministering angel that cools with its dewy 
 breath the toil-heated brow ; and, like the Roman 
 sisterhood, stoops down to bathe the pilgrim s feet. 
 How grateful is the starry twilight ! How grateful 
 the gentle radiance of the moon ! How grateful 
 the delicious coolness of "the omnipresent and 
 deep-breathing air ! " Lovely art thou, O Night, 
 beneath the skies of Spain ! 
 
ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 
 
 I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter 
 merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed, and sung 
 lamentably. WINTER S TALE. 
 
 How universal is the love of poetry ! Every 
 nation has its popular songs, the offspring of a 
 credulous simplicity and an unschooled fancy. 
 The peasant of the North, as he sits by the 
 evening fire, sings the traditionary ballad to his 
 children, 
 
 " Nor wants he gleeful tales, while round 
 The nut-brown bowl doth trot." 
 
 The peasant of the South, as he lies at noon in 
 the shade of the sycamore, or sits by his door 
 in the evening twilight, sings his amorous lay, and 
 listlessly, 
 
 " On hollow quills of oaten straw, 
 He pipeth melody." 
 
 The muleteer of Spain carols with the early lark, 
 amid the stormy mountains of his native land. 
 The vintager of Sicily has his evening hymn ; the 
 fisherman of Naples his boat-song ; the gondolier 
 
174 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 
 
 of Venice his midnight serenade. The goatherd of 
 Switzerland and the Tyrol, the Carpathian boor, 
 the Scotch Highlander, the English ploughboy, 
 singing as he drives his team afield, peasant, 
 serf, slave, all, all have their ballads and tra 
 ditionary songs. Music is the universal language 
 of mankind, poetry their universal pastime and 
 delight. 
 
 The ancient ballads of Spain hold a prominent 
 rank in her literary history. Their number is 
 truly astonishing, and may well startle the most 
 enthusiastic lover of popular song. The Ro- 
 mancero General* contains upwards of a thou 
 sand ; and though upon many of these may justly 
 be bestowed the encomium which honest Izaak 
 Walton pronounces upon the old English ballad of 
 the Passionate Shepherd, " old-fashioned poetry, 
 but choicely good," yet, as a whole, they are, 
 perhaps, more remarkable for their number than 
 for their beauty. Every great historic event, 
 every marvellous tradition, has its popular ballad. 
 Don Roderick, Bernardo del Carpio, and the Cid 
 Campeador, are not more the heroes of ancient 
 chronicle than of ancient song ; and the imaginary 
 champions of Christendom, the twelve peers of 
 Charlemagne, have found a historian in the wan 
 dering ballad-singer no less authentic than the 
 good Archbishop Turpin. 
 
 Most of these ancient ballads had their origin 
 
 *Komancero General, en que se contiene todos los Romances 
 que audan impresos. 4to. Madrid, 1604. 
 
ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 175 
 
 during the dominion of the Moors in Spain. 
 Many of them, doubtless, are nearly as old as the 
 events they celebrate ; though in their present 
 form the greater part belong to the fourteenth 
 century. The language in which they are now 
 preserved indicates no higher antiquity ; but who 
 shall say how long they had been handed down 
 by tradition, ere they were taken from the lips 
 of the wandering minstrel, and recorded in a more 
 permanent form ? 
 
 The seven centuries of the Moorish sovereignty 
 in Spain are the heroic ages of her history and her 
 poetry. What the warrior achieved with his 
 sword the minstrel published in his song. The 
 character of those ages is seen in the character 
 of their literature. History casts its shadow far 
 into the land of song. Indeed, the most prominent 
 characteristic of the ancient Spanish ballads is 
 their warlike spirit. They shadow forth the 
 majestic lineaments of the warlike ages ; and 
 through every line breathes a high and peculiar 
 tone of chivalrous feeling. It is not the piping 
 sound of peace, but a blast, a loud, long blast 
 from the war-horn, 
 
 " A trump with a stern breath, 
 Which is cleped the trump of death." 
 
 And with this mingles the voice of lamentation, 
 the requiem for the slain, with a melancholy sweet- 
 
176 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 
 
 Eio Verde, Rio Verde ! 
 
 Many a corpse is bathed in thee, 
 Both of Moors and eke of Christians, 
 
 Slain with swords most cruelly. 
 
 And thy pure and crystal waters 
 
 Dappled are with crimson gore; 
 For between the Moors and Christians 
 
 Long has been the fight and sore. 
 
 Dukes and counts fell bleeding near thee, 
 Lords of high renown were slain, 
 
 Perished many a brave hidalgo 
 Of the noblemen of Spain. 
 
 Another prominent characteristic of these an 
 cient ballads is their energetic and beautiful sim 
 plicity. A great historic event is described in the 
 fewest possible words; there is no ornament, no 
 artifice. The poet s intention was to narrate, 
 not to embellish. It is truly wonderful to observe 
 what force, and beauty, and dramatic power are 
 given to the old romances by this single circum 
 stance. When Bernardo del Carpio leads forth 
 his valiant Leonese against the hosts of Charle 
 magne, he animates their courage by alluding to 
 their battles with the Moors, and exclaims, " Shall 
 the lions that have bathed their paws in Libyan 
 gore now crouch before the Frank ? " When he 
 enters the palace of the treacherous Alfonso, to 
 upbraid him for a broken promise, and the king 
 orders him to be arrested for contumely, he lays 
 his hand upon his sword and cries, " Let no one 
 stir ! I am Bernardo ; and my sword is not sub- 
 
ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 177 
 
 ject even to kings ! " When the Count Alarcos 
 prepares to put to death his own wife at the king s 
 command, she submits patiently to her fate, asks 
 time to say a prayer, and then exclaims, " Now 
 bring me my infant boy, that I may give him suck, 
 as my last farewell ! " Is there in Homer an 
 incident more touching, or more true to nature ? 
 
 The ancient Spanish ballads naturally divide 
 themselves into three classes : the Historic, the 
 Romantic, and the Moorish. It must be confessed, 
 however, that the line of demarkation between 
 these three classes is not well defined ; for many 
 of the Moorish ballads are historic, and many others 
 occupy a kind of debatable ground between the 
 historic and the romantic. I have adopted this 
 classification for the sake of its convenience, and 
 shall now make a few hasty observations upon each 
 class, and illustrate my remarks by specimens of 
 the ballads. 
 
 The historic ballads are those which recount the 
 noble deeds of the early heroes of Spain : of Ber 
 nardo del Carpio, the Cid, Martin Pelaez, Garcia 
 Perez de Vargas, Alonso de Aguilar, and many 
 others whose names stand conspicuous in Spanish 
 history. Indeed, these ballads may themselves be 
 regarded in the light of historic documents ; they 
 are portraits of long departed ages, and if at times 
 their features are exaggerated and colored with 
 too bold a contrast of light and shade, yet the free 
 and spirited touches of a master s hand are recog 
 nized in all. They are instinct, too, with the spirit 
 
 VOL. i. 12 
 
178 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 
 
 of Castilian pride, with the high and dauntless 
 spirit of liberty that burned so fiercely of old in the 
 heart of the brave hidalgo. Take, for example, 
 the ballad of the Five Farthings. King Alfonso 
 the Eighth, having exhausted his treasury in war, 
 wishes to lay a tax of five farthings upon each of 
 the Castilian hidalgos, in order to defray the ex 
 penses of a journey from Burgos to Cuenca. This 
 proposition of the king was met with disdain by 
 the noblemen who had been assembled on the 
 occasion : 
 
 Don Nufio, Count of Lara, 
 
 In anger and in pride, 
 Forgot all reverence for the king, 
 
 And thus in wrath replied : 
 
 " Our noble ancestors," quoth he, 
 
 "Ne er such a tribute paid; 
 Nor shall the king receive of us 
 
 What they have once gainsaid. 
 
 " The base-born soul who deems it just 
 
 May here with thee remain ; 
 But follow me, ye cavaliers, 
 
 Ye noblemen of Spain." 
 
 Forth followed they the noble count, 
 They marched to Glera s plain; 
 
 Out of three thousand gallant knights, 
 Did only three remain. 
 
 They tied the tribute to their spears, 
 
 They raised it in the air, 
 And they sent to tell their lord the king 
 
 That his tax was ready there. 
 
ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 179 
 
 " He may send and take by force," said they, 
 
 " This paltry sum of gold ; 
 But the goodly gift of liberty 
 
 Cannot be bought and sold." 
 
 The same gallant spirit breathes through all the 
 historic ballads; but, perhaps, most fervently in 
 those which relate to Bernardo del Carpio. How 
 spirit-stirring are all the speeches which the ballad- 
 writers have put into the mouth of this valiant 
 hero ! " Ours is the blood of the Goth," says he 
 to King Alfonso ; " sweet to us is liberty, and bond 
 age odious ! " " The king may give his castles to 
 the Frank, but not his vassals ; for kings themselves 
 hold no dominion over the free will!" He and 
 his followers would rather die freemen than live 
 slaves ! If these are the common watchwords of 
 liberty at the present day, they were no less so 
 among the high-born and high-souled Spaniards of 
 the eighth century. 
 
 One of the finest of the historic ballads is that 
 which describes Bernardo s march to Roncesvalles. 
 He sallies forth " with three thousand Leonese and 
 more," to protect the glory and freedom of his 
 native land. From all sides the peasantry of the 
 land flock to the hero s standard : 
 
 The peasant leaves his plough afield, 
 
 The reaper leaves his hook, 
 And from his hand the shepherd-boy 
 
 Lets fall the pastoral crook. 
 
180 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 
 
 The young set up a shout of joy, 
 
 The old forget their years, 
 The feeble man grows stout of heart. 
 
 No more the craven fears. 
 
 All rush to Bernard s standard, 
 
 And on liberty they call; 
 They cannot brook to wear the yoke, 
 
 When threatened by the Gaul. 
 
 " Free were we born," tis thus they cry, 
 
 " And willingly pay we 
 The duty that we owe our king, 
 
 By the divine decree. 
 
 " But God forbid that we obey 
 The laws of foreign knaves, 
 
 Tarnish the glory of our sires, 
 And make our children slaves. 
 
 " Our hearts have not so craven grown, 
 
 So bloodless all our veins, 
 So vigorless our brawny arms, 
 
 As to submit to chains. 
 
 " Has the audacious Frank, forsooth, 
 Subdued these seas and lands V 
 
 Shall he a bloodless victory have V 
 No; not while we have hands. 
 
 " He shall learn that the gallant Leonese 
 
 Can bravely fight and fall ; 
 But that they know not how to yield ; 
 
 They are Castilians all. 
 
ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 181 
 
 " Was it for this the Eoman power 
 
 Of old was made to yield 
 Unto Numantia s valiant hosts, 
 
 On many a bloody field ? 
 
 " Shall the bold lions, that have bathed 
 
 Their paws in Libyan gore, 
 Crouch basely to a feebler foe, 
 
 And dare the strife no more ? 
 
 " Let the false king sell town and tower, 
 
 But not his vassals free ; 
 For to subdue the free-born soul 
 
 No royal power hath he ! " 
 
 These short specimens will suffice to show the 
 spirit of the old heroic ballads of Spain ; the Ro 
 mances del Cid, and those that rehearse the gallant 
 achievements of many other champions, brave and 
 stalwart knights of old, I must leave unnoticed, 
 and pass to another field of chivalry and song. 
 
 The next class of the ancient Spanish ballads is 
 the Romantic, including those which relate to the 
 Twelve Peers of Charlemagne and other imaginary 
 heroes of the days of chivalry. There is an exag 
 geration in the prowess of these heroes of romance 
 which is in accordance with the warmth of a Span 
 ish imagination ; and the ballads which celebrate 
 their achievements still go from mouth to mouth 
 among the peasantry of Spain, and are hawked 
 about the streets by the blind ballad-monger. 
 
 Among the romantic ballads, those of the Twelve 
 Peers stand preeminent; not so much for their 
 
182 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 
 
 poetic merit as for the fame of their heroes. In 
 them are sung the valiant knights whose history is 
 written more at large in the prose romances of 
 chivalry, Orlando, and Oliver, and Montesinos, 
 and Durandarte, and the Marques de Mantua, and 
 the other paladins, " que en una mesa comian pan" 
 These ballads are of different length and various 
 degrees of merit. Of some a few lines only re 
 main ; they are evidently fragments of larger works ; 
 while others, on the contrary, aspire to the length 
 and dignity of epic poems ; witness the ballads of 
 the Conde de Irlos and the Marques de Mantua, 
 each of which consists of nearly a thousand long 
 and sonorous hexameters. 
 
 Among these ballads of the Twelve Peers there 
 are many of great beauty ; others possess little 
 merit, and are wanting in vigor and conciseness. 
 From the structure of the versification, I should 
 rank them among the oldest of the Spanish ballads. 
 They are all monrhythmic, with full consonant 
 rhymes. 
 
 To the romantic ballads belong also a great 
 number which recount the deeds of less celebrated 
 heroes ; but among them all none is so curious as 
 that of Yirgil. Like the old French romance- 
 writers of the Middle Ages, the early Spanish poets 
 introduce the Mantuan bard as a knight of chivalry. 
 The ballad informs us that a certain king kept him 
 imprisoned seven years, for what old Brantome 
 would call outrecuydance with a certain Dona 
 Isabel. But being at mass on Sunday, the recol- 
 
ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 183 
 
 lection of Virgil comes suddenly into his mind, 
 when he ought to be attending to the priest ; and, 
 turning to his knights, he asks them what has be 
 come of Virgil. One of them replies, " Your 
 Highness has him imprisoned in your dungeons " ; 
 to which the king makes answer with the greatest 
 coolness, by telling them that the dinner is waiting, 
 and that after they have dined they will pay Virgil 
 a visit in his prison. Then up and spake the queen 
 like ,a true heroine ; quoth she, " I will not dine 
 without him"; and straightway they all repaired 
 to the prison, where they find the incarcerated 
 knight engaged in the pleasant pastime of combing 
 his hair and arranging his beard. He tells the 
 king very coolly that on that very day he has been 
 a prisoner seven years ; to this the king replies, 
 " Hush, hush, Virgil ; it takes three more to make 
 ten." " Sire," says Virgil, with the same philosoph 
 ical composure, " if your Highness so ordains, I will 
 pass my whole life here." " As a reward for your 
 patience, you shall dine with me to-day," says the 
 king. " My coat is torn," says Virgil ; " I am not 
 in trim to make a leg." But this difficulty is re 
 moved by the promise of a new suit from the king ; 
 and they go to dinner. Virgil delights both knights 
 and damsels, but most of all Dona Isabel. The 
 archbishop is called in ; they are married forthwith, 
 and the ballad closes like a scene in some old 
 play : " He takes her by the hand, and leads her 
 to the garden." 
 
 Such is this curious ballad. 
 
184 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 
 
 I now turn to one of the most beautiful of these 
 ancient Spanish poems ; it is the Romance del 
 Conde Alarcos ; a ballad full of interest and of 
 touching pathos. The story is briefly this. The 
 Count Alarcos, after being secretly betrothed to 
 the Infanta Solisa, forsakes her and weds another 
 lady. Many years afterward, the princess, sitting 
 alone, as she was wont, and bemoaning her forsaken 
 lot, resolves to tell the cause of her secret sorrow 
 to the king her father; and, after confessing her 
 clandestine love for Count Alarcos, demands the 
 death of the countess, to heal her wounded honor. 
 Her story awakens the wrath of the king ; he ac 
 knowledges the justness of her demand, seeks an 
 interview with the count, and sets the case before 
 him in so strong a light, that finally he wrings from 
 him a promise to put his wife to death with his own 
 hand. The count returns homeward a grief-stricken 
 man, weeping the sad destiny of his wife, and say 
 ing within himself, u How shall I look upon her 
 smile of joy, when she comes forth to meet me ? " 
 The countess welcomes his return with affectionate 
 tenderness ; but he is heavy at heart, and discon 
 solate. He sits down to supper with his children 
 around him, but the food is untasted ; he hides his 
 face in his hands, and weeps. At length they re 
 tire to their chamber. In the language of Mr. 
 Lockhart s translation, 
 
 " They came together to the bower, where they were used 
 
 to rest, 
 None with them but the little babe that was upon the 
 
 breast : 
 
ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 185 
 
 The count had barred the chamber-doors, they ne er 
 
 were barred till then: 
 Unhappy lady, he began, * and I most lost of men ! 
 
 " Now speak not so, my noble lord, my husband, and my 
 
 life! 
 
 Unhappy never can she be that is Alarcos wife ! 
 Alas ! unhappy lady, tis but little that you know; 
 For in that very word you ve said is gathered all your 
 
 woe. 
 
 " * Long since I loved a lady, long since I oaths did 
 
 plight 
 
 To be that lady s husband, to love her day and night; 
 Her father is our lord the king, to him the thing is 
 
 known ; 
 And now that I the news should bring ! she claims me 
 
 for her own. 
 
 ll Alas ! my love, alas ! my life, the right is on their side ; 
 Ere I had seen your face, sweet wife, she was betrothed 
 
 my bride ; 
 But 0, that I should speak the word! since in her 
 
 place you lie, 
 It is the bidding of our lord that you this night must die. 
 
 " Are these the wages of my love, so lowly and so leal ? 
 0, kill me not, thou noble Count, when at thy foot I 
 
 kneel! 
 But send me to my father s house, where once I dwelt in 
 
 glee; 
 There will I live a lone, chaste life, and rear my children 
 
 three. 
 
 " It may not be, mine oath is strong, ere dawn of day 
 
 you die. 
 * 0, well tis seen how all alone upon the earth am I ! 
 
186 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 
 
 My father is an old, frail man; my mother s in her grave; 
 And dead is stout Don Garci, alas ! my brother brave ! 
 
 Twas at this coward king s command they slew my 
 
 brother dear, 
 
 And now I m helpless in the la^id ! it is not death I fear, 
 But loth, loth am I to depart, and leave my children so ; 
 Now let me lay them to my heart, and kiss them, ere I 
 
 go." 
 
 " Kiss him that lies upon thy breast, the rest thou mayst 
 
 not see. 
 
 I fain would say an Ave. Then say it speedily. 
 She knelt her down upon her knee, Lord, behold my 
 
 case! 
 Judge not my deeds, but look on me in pity and great 
 
 grace ! 
 
 " When she had made her orison, up from her knees she 
 
 rose : 
 
 * Be kind, Alarcos, to our babes, and pray for my repose ; 
 And now give me my boy once more, upon my breast to 
 
 hold, 
 That he may drink one farewell drink before my breast 
 
 be cold. 
 
 " Why would you waken the poor child ? you see he is 
 
 asleep; 
 Prepare, dear wife, there is no time, the dawn begins to 
 
 peep. 
 
 Now, hear me, Count Alarcos ! I give thee pardon free ; 
 I pardon thee for the love s sake wherewith I ve loved 
 
 thee ; 
 
 u But they have not my pardon, the king and his proud 
 daughter ; 
 
ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 187 
 
 The curse of God be on them, for this unchristian 
 
 slaughter , 
 I charge them with my dying breath, ere thirty days be 
 
 gone, 
 To meet me in the realm of death, and at God s awful 
 
 throne! " 
 
 The count then strangles her with a scarf, and 
 the ballad concludes with the fulfilment of the dy 
 ing lady s prayer, in the death of the king and the 
 Infanta within twenty days of her own. 
 
 Few, I think, will be disposed to question the 
 beauty of this ancient ballad, though the refined 
 and cultivated taste of many may revolt from the 
 seemingly unnatural incident upon which it is 
 founded. It must be recollected that this is a scene 
 taken from a barbarous age, when the life of even 
 the most cherished and beloved was held of little 
 value in comparison with a chivalrous but false and 
 exaggerated point of honor. It must be borne in 
 mind also, that, notwithstanding the boasted liberty 
 of the Castilian hidalgos, and their frequent rebel 
 lions against the crown, a deep reverence for the 
 divine right of kings, and a consequent disposition 
 to obey the mandates of the throne, at almost any 
 sacrifice, has always been one of the prominent 
 traits of the Spanish character. When taken in 
 connection with these circumstances, the story of 
 this old ballad ceases to be so grossly improbable as 
 it seems at first sight : and, indeed, becomes an il 
 lustration of national character. In all probability, 
 
188 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 
 
 the story of the Conde Alarcos had some founda 
 tion in fact.* 
 
 The third class of the ancient Spanish ballads is 
 the Moorish. Here we enter a new world, more 
 gorgeous and more dazzling than that of Gothic 
 chronicle and tradition. The stern spirits of Ber 
 nardo, the Cid, and Mudarra have passed away ; 
 the mail-clad forms of Guarinos, Orlando, and 
 Durandarte are not here ; the scene is changed ; it 
 is the bridal of Andalla ; the bull-fight of Ganzul. 
 The sunshine of Andalusia glances upon the marble 
 halls of Granada, and green are the banks of the 
 Xenil and the Darro. A band of Moorish knights 
 gayly arrayed in gambesons of crimson silk, with 
 scarfs of blue and jewelled tahalies, sweep like the 
 wind through the square of Vivarambla. They 
 ride to the Tournament of Reeds ; the Moorish 
 maiden leans from the balcony ; bright eyes glisten 
 from many a lattice ; and the victorious knight re 
 ceives the prize of valor from the hand of her 
 whose beauty is like the star-lit night. These are 
 the Xarifas, the Celindas, and Lindaraxas, the 
 Andallas, Ganzules, and Abenzaydes of Moorish 
 song. 
 
 Then comes the sound of the silver clarion, and 
 the roll of the Moorish atabal, down from the snowy 
 pass of the Sierra Nevada and across the gardens 
 
 4T* 
 
 * This exaggerated reverence for the person and prerogatives of 
 the king has furnished the groundwork of two of the best dramas 
 In the Spanish language ; La Estrella de Sevilla, by Lope de 
 Vega, and Del Rey abajo Ninguno, by Francisco de Rojas. 
 
ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 189 
 
 of the Vega. Alhama has fallen ! woe is me, Al- 
 hama ! The Christian is at the gates of Granada ; 
 the banner of the cross floats from the towers of the 
 Alhambra ! And these, too, are themes for the 
 minstrel, themes sung alike by Moor and Span 
 iard. 
 
 Among the Moorish ballads are included not 
 only those which were originally composed in 
 Arabic, but all that relate to the manners, customs, 
 and history of the Moors in Spain. In most of 
 them the influence of an Oriental taste is clearly 
 visible ; their spirit is more refined and effeminate 
 than that of the historic and romantic ballads, in 
 which no trace of such an influence is perceptible. 
 The spirit of the Cid is stern, unbending, steel-clad ; 
 his hand grasps his sword Tizona ; his heel wounds 
 the flank of his steed Babieca. 
 
 " La mano aprieta a Tizona, 
 Y el talon fiere a Babieca." 
 
 But the spirit of Arbolan the Moor, though resolute 
 in camps, is effeminate in courts ; he is a diamond 
 among scimitars, yet graceful in the dance ; 
 
 " Diamante entre los alfanges, 
 Gracioso en baylar las zambras." 
 
 The ancient ballads are stamped with the charac 
 ter of their heroes. Abundant illustrations of this 
 could be given, but it is not necessary. 
 
 Among the most spirited of the Moorish ballads 
 
190 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 
 
 are those which are interwoven in the History of 
 the Civil Wars of Granada. The following, entitled 
 " A very mournful Ballad on the Siege and Con 
 quest of Alhama," is very beautiful ; and such was 
 the effect it produced upon the Moors, that it was 
 forbidden, on pain of death, to sing it within the 
 walls of Granada. The translation, which is exe 
 cuted with great skill and fidelity, is from the pen 
 of Lord Byron. 
 
 " The Moorish king rides up and down, 
 Through Granada s royal town; 
 From Elvira s gates to those 
 Of Bivarambla on he goes. 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " Letters to the monarch tell 
 How Albania s city fell; 
 In the fire the scroll he threw, 
 And the messenger he slew. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 " He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 
 And through the street directs his course ; 
 Through the street of Zacatin 
 To the Alhambra spurring in. 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " When the Alhambra s walls he gained, 
 On the moment he ordained 
 That the trumpet straight should sound 
 With the silver clarion round. 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 191 
 
 " And when the hollow drums of war 
 Beat the loud alarm afar, 
 That the Moors of town and plain 
 Might answer to the martial strain, 
 . Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " Then the Moors, by this aware 
 That bloody Mars recalled them there, 
 One by one, and two by two, 
 To a mighty squadron grew. 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " Out then spake an aged Moor, 
 In these words the king before : 
 Wherefore call on us, king ? 
 What may mean this gathering ? 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 " Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 
 Of a most disastrous blow ; 
 That the Christians, stern and bold, 
 Have obtained Alhama s hold. 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
 With his beard so white to see : 
 4 Good king, thou art justly served ; 
 Good king, this thou hast deserved. 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " * By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
 The Abencerrage, Granada s flower; 
 And strangers were received by thee 
 Of Cordova the chivalry. 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
192 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 
 
 " * And for this, king ! is sent 
 On thee a double chastisement ; 
 Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
 One last wreck shall overwhelm. 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " He who holds no laws in awe, 
 He must perish by the law ; 
 And Granada must be won, 
 And thyself with her undone. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 " Fire flashed from out the old Moor s eyes; 
 The monarch s wrath began to rise, 
 Because he answered, and because 
 He spake exceeding well of laws. 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " There is no law to say such things 
 As may disgust the ear of kings ! 
 Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
 The Moorish king, and doomed him dead. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! " 
 
 Such are the ancient ballads of Spain ; poems 
 which, like the Gothic cathedrals of the Middle 
 Ages, have outlived the names of their builders. 
 They are the handiwork of wandering, homeless 
 minstrels, who for their daily bread thus "built 
 the lofty rhyme"; and whose names, like their 
 dust and ashes, have long, long been wrapped in 
 a shroud. " These poets," says an anonymous 
 writer, " have left behind them no trace to which 
 
ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 193 
 
 the imagination can attach itself ; they have died 
 and made no sign. We pass from the infancy of 
 Spanish poetry to the age of Charles, through a 
 long vista of monuments without inscriptions, as 
 the traveller approaches the noise and bustle of 
 modern Rome through the lines of silent and 
 unknown tombs that border the Appian Way." 
 
 Before closing this essay, I must allude to the 
 unfavorable opinion which the learned Dr. Southey 
 has expressed concerning the merit of these old 
 Spanish ballads. In his preface to the Chronicle 
 of the Cid, he says, " The heroic ballads of the 
 Spaniards have been overrated in this country; 
 they are infinitely and every way inferior to our 
 own ; there are some spirited ones in the Guerras 
 Civiles de Granada, from which the rest have been 
 estimated ; but, excepting these, I know none of 
 any value among the many hundreds which I have 
 perused." On this field I am willing to do battle, 
 though it be with a veteran knight who bears 
 enchanted arms, and whose sword, like that of 
 Martin Antolinez, " illumines all the field." That 
 the old Spanish ballads may have been overrated, 
 and that as a whole they are inferior to the 
 English, I concede ; that many of the hundred 
 ballads of the Cid are wanting in interest, and that 
 many of those of the Twelve Peers of France are 
 languid, and drawn out beyond the patience of the 
 most patient reader, I concede ; I willingly confess, 
 also, that among them all I have found none that 
 can rival in graphic power the short but wonderful 
 
 VOL. i. 13 
 
194 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 
 
 ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, wherein the mariner 
 sees " the new moon with the old moon in her 
 arm," or the more modern one of the Battle of 
 Agincourt, by Michael Drayton, beginning, 
 
 " Fair stood the wind for France , 
 As we our sails advance, 
 Nor now to prove our chance 
 Longer will tarry ; 
 
 But putting to the main, 
 At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
 With all his martial train, 
 Landed King Harry." 
 
 All this I readily concede ; but that the old Spanish 
 ballads are infinitely and every way inferior to the 
 English, and that among them all there are none 
 of any value, save a few which celebrate the civil 
 wars of Granada, this I deny. The March of 
 Bernardo del Carpio is hardly inferior to Chevy 
 Chase ; and the ballad of the Conde Alarcos, in 
 simplicity and pathos, has no peer in all English 
 balladry, it is superior to Edem o Gordon. 
 
 But a truce to criticism. Already, methinks, 1 
 hear the voice of a drowsy and prosaic herald 
 proclaiming, in the language of Don Quixote to 
 the puppet-player, "Make an end, Master Peter : 
 for it grows toward supper-time, and I have some 
 symptoms of hunger upon me." 
 
VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 
 
 When the lawyer is swallowed up with business, and the 
 statesman is preventing or contriving plots, then we sit on 
 cowslip banks, hear the birds sing, and possess ourselves in as 
 much quietness as these silent silver streams we now see glide 
 so quietly by us. IZAAK WALTON. 
 
 IJST that delicious season when the coy and capri 
 cious maidenhood of spring is swelling into the 
 warmer, riper, and more voluptuous womanhood 
 of summer, I left Madrid for the village of El 
 Pardillo. I had already seen enough of the vil 
 lages of the North of Spain to know that for the 
 most part they have few charms to entice one 
 from the city ; but I was curious to see the peas 
 antry of the land in their native homes, to see 
 how far the shepherds of Castile resemble those 
 who sigh and sing in the pastoral romances of 
 Montemayor and Gaspar Gil Polo. 
 
 I love the city and its busy hum ; I love that 
 glad excitement of the crowd which makes the 
 pulse beat quick, the freedom from restraint, the 
 absence of those curious eyes and idle tongues 
 which persecute one in villages and provincial 
 towns. I love the country, too, in its season ; and 
 
196 THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 
 
 there is no scene over which my eye roves with 
 more delight than the face of a summer landscape 
 dimpled with soft sunny hollows, and smiling in all 
 the freshness and luxuriance of June. There is 
 no book in which I read sweeter lessons of virtue, 
 or find the beauty of a quiet life more legibly 
 recorded. My heart drinks in the tranquillity of 
 the scene ; and I never hear the sweet warble of a 
 bird from its native wood, without a silent wish 
 that such a cheerful voice and peaceful shade were 
 mine. There is a beautiful moral feeling connected 
 with every thing in rural life, which is not dreamed 
 of in the philosophy of the city ; the voice of the 
 brook and the language of the winds and woods 
 are no poetic fiction. What an impressive lesson 
 is there in the opening bud of spring! what an 
 eloquent homily in the fall of the autumnal leaf ! 
 How well does the song of a passing bird represent 
 the glad but transitory days of youth ! and in the 
 hollow tree and hooting owl what a melancholy 
 image of the decay and imbecility of old age ! In 
 the beautiful language of an English poet, 
 
 " Your voiceless lips, flowers, are living preachers, 
 Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book, 
 Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, 
 From loneliest nook. 
 
 " Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth, 
 And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 
 Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
 A call to prayer ; 
 
THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 197 
 
 " Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column 
 Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
 But to that fane most catholic and solemn 
 
 Which God hath planned; , 
 
 " To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 
 Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply, 
 Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, 
 Its dome the sky. 
 
 " There, amid solitude and shade, I wander 
 Through the green aisles, and, stretched upon the sod, 
 Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
 The ways of God." 
 
 But the traveller who journeys through the 
 northern provinces of Spain will look in vain for 
 the charms of rural scenery in the villages he 
 passes. Instead of trim cottages, and gardens, and 
 the grateful shade of trees, he will see a cluster of 
 stone hovels roofed with red tiles and basking in 
 the hot sun, without a single tree to lend him shade 
 or shelter; and instead of green meadows and 
 woodlands vocal with the song of birds, he will 
 find bleak and rugged mountains, and vast ex 
 tended plains, that stretch away beyond his ken. 
 
 It was my good fortune, however, to find, not 
 many leagues from the metropolis, a village which 
 could boast the shadow of a few trees. El Par- 
 dillo is situated on the southern slope of the 
 Guadarrama Mountains, just where the last broken 
 spurs of the sierra stretch forward into the vast 
 table-land of New Castile. The village itself, like 
 
198 THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 
 
 most other Castilian villages, is only a cluster of 
 weather-stained and dilapidated houses, huddled 
 together without beauty or regularity ; but the 
 scenery around it is picturesque, a mingling of 
 hill and dale, sprinkled with patches of cultivated 
 land and clumps of forest-trees ; and in the back 
 ground the blue, vapory outline of the Guadarrama 
 Mountains melting into the sky. 
 
 In this quiet place I sojourned for a season, 
 accompanied by the publican Don Valentin and 
 his fair daughter Florencia. We took up our 
 abode in the cottage of a peasant named Lucas, 
 an honest tiller of the soil, simple and good- 
 natured ; or, in the more emphatic language of 
 Don Valentin, " un liombre muy infeliz, y sin 
 malicia ninguna." Not so his wife Martina : she 
 was a Tartar ; and so mettlesome withal, that poor 
 Lucas skulked doggedly about his own premises, 
 with his head down and his tail between his legs. 
 
 In this little village my occupations were few 
 and simple. My morning s walk was to the Cross 
 of Espalmado, a large wooden crucifix in the 
 fields; the day was passed with books, or with 
 any idle companion I was lucky enough to catch 
 by the button, and bribe with a cigar into a long 
 story, or a little village gossip ; and I whiled away 
 the evening in peeping round among the cottagers, 
 studying the beautiful landscape that spread before 
 me, and watching the occasional gathering of a 
 storm about the blue peaks of the Guadarrama 
 Mountains. My favorite haunt was a secluded 
 
THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 199 
 
 spot in a little woodland valley, through which a 
 crystal brook ran brawling along its pebbly chan 
 nel. There, stretched in the shadow of a tree, I 
 often passed the hours of noontide heat, now 
 reading the magic numbers of Garcilaso, and 
 anon listening to the song of the nightingale 
 overhead ; or watching the toil of a patient ant, 
 as he rolled his stone, like Sisyphus, up-hill, or 
 the flight of a bee darting from flower to flower, 
 and " hiding his murmurs in the rose." 
 
 Blame me not, thou studious moralist, blame 
 me not unheard for this idle dreaming ; such mo 
 ments are not wholly thrown away. In the lan 
 guage of Goethe, " I He down in the grass near 
 a falling brook, and close to the earth a thousand 
 varieties of grasses become perceptible. When 
 I listen to the hum of the little world between the 
 stubble, and see the countless indescribable forms 
 of insects, I feel the presence of the Almighty 
 who has created us, the breath of the All-benevo 
 lent who supports us in perpetual enjoyment." 
 
 The village church, too, was a spot around 
 which I occasionally lingered of an evening, 
 when in pensive or melancholy mood. And here, 
 gentle reader, thy imagination will straightway 
 conjure up a scene of ideal beauty, a village 
 church with decent white-washed walls, and 
 modest spire just peeping forth from a clump of 
 trees ! No ; I will not deceive thee ; the church 
 of El Pardillo resembles not this picture of thy 
 well-tutored fancy. It is a gloomy little edifice > 
 
200 THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 
 
 standing upon the outskirts of the village, and 
 built of dark and unhewn stone, with a spire like 
 a sugar-loaf. There is no grass-plot in front, but 
 a little esplanade beaten hard by the footsteps of 
 the church-going peasantry. The tombstone of 
 one of the patriarchs of the village serves as a 
 door-step, and a single solitary tree throws its 
 friendly shade upon the portals of the little 
 sanctuary. 
 
 One evening, as I loitered around this spot, 
 the sound of an organ and the chant of youthful 
 voices from within struck my ear; the church- 
 door was ajar, and I entered. There stood the 
 priest, surrounded by a group of children, who 
 were singing a hymn to the Virgin : 
 
 " Ave, Kegina coelorum, 
 Ave, Domina angelorum." 
 
 There is something exceedingly thrilling in the 
 voices of children singing. Though their music 
 be unskilful, yet it finds its way to the heart with 
 wonderful celerity. Voices of cherubs are they, 
 for they breathe of paradise ; clear, liquid tones, 
 that flow from pure lips and innocent hearts, like 
 the sweetest notes of a flute, or the falling of 
 water from a fountain ! When the chant was 
 finished, the priest opened a little book which 
 he held in his hand, and began, with a voice as 
 solemn as a funeral bell, to question this class 
 of roguish little catechumens, whom he was in 
 itiating into the mysterious doctrines of the mother 
 
THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 201 
 
 church. Some of the questions and answers were 
 so curious, that I cannot refrain from repeating 
 them here ; and should any one doubt their 
 authenticity, he will find them in the Spanish 
 catechism. 
 
 " In what consists the mystery of the Holy 
 Trinity ? " 
 
 " In one God, who is three persons ; and three 
 persons, who are but one God." 
 
 " But tell me, three human persons, are they 
 not three men ? " 
 
 " Yes, father." 
 
 " Then why are not three divine persons three 
 Gods ? " 
 
 " Because three human persons have three 
 human natures ; but the three divine persons have 
 only one divine nature." 
 
 " Can you explain this by an example ? " 
 
 " Yes, father ; as a tree which has three branches 
 is still but one tree, since all the three branches 
 spring from one trunk, so the three divine persons 
 are but one God, because they all have the same 
 divine nature." 
 
 " Where were these three divine persons before 
 the heavens and the earth were created ? " 
 
 " In themselves." 
 
 " Which of them was made man ? " 
 
 " The Son." 
 
 " And after the Son was made man, was he still 
 God?" 
 
 " Yes, father ; for in becoming man he did not 
 
202 THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 
 
 cease to be God, any more than a man when he 
 becomes a monk ceases to be a man." 
 " How was the Son of God made flesh ? " 
 " He was born of the most holy Virgin Mary." 
 " And can we still call her a virgin ? " 
 " Yes, father ; for as a ray of the sun may 
 pass through a pane of glass, and the glass re 
 main unbroken, so the Virgin Mary, after the 
 birth of her son, was a pure and holy virgin as 
 before." * 
 
 " Who died to save and redeem us ? " 
 " The Son of God : as man, and not as God." 
 " How could he suffer and die as man only, 
 being both God and man, and yet but one 
 person ? " 
 
 "As in a heated bar of iron upon which water 
 is thrown, the heat only is affected, and not the 
 iron, so the Son of God suffered in his human 
 nature and not in his divine." 
 
 " And when the spirit was separated from his 
 most precious body, whither did the spirit go ? " 
 
 * This illustration was also made use of during the dark ages. 
 Pierre de Corbiac, a Troubadour of the thirteenth century, thus 
 introduces it in a poem entitled Prayer to the Virgin : 
 
 " Domna, verges pur e fina 
 Ans que fos 1 enfantamens, 
 Et apres tot eissamens, 
 De vos trais sa earn humana 
 Jhesu-Christ nostre salvairej 
 Si com ses trencamens faire 
 Intra l bel rais .quan solelha 
 Per la fenestra veirina." 
 
THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 203 
 
 " To limbo, to glorify the souls of the holy 
 fathers." 
 
 " And the body ? " 
 
 " It was carried to the grave." 
 
 " Did the divinity remain united with the spirit 
 or with the body ? " 
 
 " With both. As a soldier, when he unsheathes 
 his sword, remains united both with the sword and 
 the sheath, though they are separated from each 
 other, so did the divinity remain united both with 
 the spirit and body of Christ, though the spirit was 
 separated and removed from the body." 
 
 I did not quarrel with the priest for having 
 been born and educated in a different faith from 
 mine ; but as I left the church and sauntered 
 slowly homeward, I could not help asking myself, 
 in a whisper, Why perplex the spirit of a child 
 with these metaphysical subtilties, these dark, 
 mysterious speculations, which man in all his pride 
 of intellect cannot fathom or explain ? 
 
 I must not forget, in this place, to make honor 
 able mention of the little great men of El Par- 
 dillo. And first in order comes the priest. He 
 was a short, portly man, serious in manner, and 
 of grave and reverend presence ; though at the 
 same time there was a dash of the jolly-fat-friar 
 about him ; and on hearing a good joke or a sly 
 innuendo, a smile would gleam in his eye, and 
 play over his round face, like the light of a glow 
 worm. His housekeeper was a brisk, smiling little 
 woman, on the shady side of thirty, and a cousin 
 
204 THE VILLAGE OP EL PARDILLO. 
 
 of his to boot. Whenever she was mentioned, 
 Don Valentin looked wise, as if this cousinship 
 were apocryphal ; but he said nothing, not he ; 
 what right had he to be peeping into other people s 
 business, when he had only one eye to look after 
 his own withal? Next in rank to the Dominie 
 was the Alcalde, justice of the peace and quorum ; 
 a most potent, grave, and reverend personage, 
 with a long beak of -a nose, and a pouch under his 
 chin, like a pelican. He was a man of few words, 
 but great in authority; and his importance was 
 vastly increased in the village by a pair of double- 
 barrelled spectacles, so contrived that, when bent 
 over his desk and deeply buried in his musty 
 papers, he could look UD and see what was going 
 on around him without moving his head, whereby 
 he got the reputation of seeing twice as much as 
 other people. There was the village surgeon, too, 
 a tall man with a varnished hat and a starved 
 dog ; he had studied at the University of Sala 
 manca, and was pompous and pedantic, ever and 
 anon quoting some threadbare maxim from the 
 Greek philosophers, and embellishing it with a 
 commentary of his own. Then there was the 
 grey-headed Sacristan, who rang the church-bell, 
 played on the organ, and was learned in tombstone 
 lore ; a Politician, who talked me to death about 
 taxes, liberty, and the days of the constitution ; 
 and a Notary Public, a poor man with a large 
 family, who would make a paper cigar last half an 
 hour, and who kept up his respectability in the 
 village by keeping a horse. 
 
THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 205 
 
 Beneath the protecting shade of these great men 
 full many an inhabitant of El Pardillo was born 
 and buried. The village continued to flourish, a 
 quiet, happy place, though all unknown to fame. 
 The inhabitants were orderly and industrious, went 
 regularly to mass and confession, kept every saint s 
 day in the calendar, and devoutly hung Judas 
 once a year in effigy. On Sundays and all other 
 holidays, when mass was over, the time was de 
 voted to sports and recreation ; and the day passed 
 off in social visiting, and athletic exercises, such as 
 running, leaping, wrestling, pitching quoits, and 
 heaving the bar. When evening came, the merry 
 sound of the guitar summoned to the dance ; then 
 every nook and alley poured forth its youthful 
 company, light of heart and heel, and decked out 
 in all the holiday finery of flowers, and ribbons, 
 and crimson sashes. A group gathered before the 
 cottage door ; the signal was given, and away 
 whirled the merry dancers to the wild music of 
 voice and guitar, and the measured beat of castanet 
 and tambourine. 
 
 I love these rural dances, from my heart I love 
 them. This world, at best, is so full of care and 
 sorrow, the life of a poor man is so stained with 
 the sweat of his brow, there is so much toil, and 
 struggling, and anguish, and disappointment here 
 below, that I gaze with delight on a scene where 
 all these are laid aside and forgotten, and the 
 heart of the toil-worn peasant seems to throw off 
 its load, and to leap to the sound of music, when 
 merrily, 
 
206 THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 
 
 " beneath soft eve s consenting star, 
 Fandango twirls his jocund Castanet." 
 
 Not many miles from the village of El Pardillo 
 stands the ruined castle of Villafranea, an ancient 
 stronghold of the Moors of the fifteenth century. 
 It is built upon the summit of a hill, of easy ascent 
 upon one side, but precipitous and inaccessible on 
 the other. The front presents a large square 
 tower, constituting the main part of the castle ; on 
 one side of which an arched gateway leads to a 
 spacious court-yard within, surrounded by battle 
 ments. The corner towers are circular, with beet 
 ling turrets ; and here and there, apart from the 
 main body of the castle, stand several circular 
 basements, whose towers have fallen and mouldered 
 into dust. From the balcony in the square tower, 
 the eye embraces the level landscape for leagues 
 and leagues around ; and beneath, in the depth of 
 the valley, lies a beautiful grove, alive with the 
 song of the nightingale. The whole castle is in 
 ruin, and occupied only as a hunting-lodge, being 
 inhabited by a solitary tenant, who has charge of 
 the adjacent domain. 
 
 One holiday, when mass was said, and the whole 
 village was let loose to play, we made a pilgrimage 
 to the ruins of this old Moorish alcazar. Our 
 cavalcade was as motley as that of old, the pil 
 grims " that toward Canterbury wolden ride ; " for 
 we had the priest, and the doctor of physic, and 
 the man of laws, and a wife of Bath, and many 
 more whom I must leave unsung. Merrily flew 
 
THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 207 
 
 the hours and fast ; and sitting after dinner in the 
 gloomy hall of that old castle, many a tale was told, 
 and many a legend and tradition of the past con 
 jured up to satisfy the curiosity of the present. 
 
 Most of these tales were about the Moors who 
 built the castle, and the treasures they had buried 
 beneath it. Then the priest told the story of a 
 lawyer who sold himself to the devil for a pot of 
 money, and was burnt by the Holy Inquisition 
 therefor. In his confession, he told how he had 
 learned from a Jew the secret of raising the devil ; 
 how he went to the castle at midnight with a book 
 which the Jew gave him, and, to make the charm 
 sure, carried with him a load-stone, six nails from 
 the coffin of a child of three years, six tapers of 
 rosewax, made by a child of four years, the skin 
 and blood of a young kid, an iron fork, with which 
 the kid had been killed, a few hazel-rods, a flask 
 of high-proof brandy, and some lignum-vitaa char 
 coal to make a fire. When he read in the book, 
 the devil appeared in the shape of a man dressed 
 in flesh-colored clothes, with long nails, and large 
 fiery eyes, and he signed an agreement with him 
 written in blood, promising never to go to mass, 
 and to give him his soul at the end of eight years ; 
 in return for this, he was to have a million of dol 
 lars in good money, which the devil was to bring 
 to him the next night ; but when the next night 
 came, and the lawyer had conjured from his book, 
 instead of the devil, there appeared, who do you 
 think ? the alcalde, with half the village at his 
 
208 THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 
 
 heels, and the poor lawyer was handed over to the 
 Inquisition, and burnt for dealing in the black 
 art. 
 
 I intended to repeat here some of the many tales 
 that were told ; but, upon reflection, they seem too 
 frivolous, and must therefore give place to~ a more 
 serious theme. 
 
THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF 
 SPAIN. 
 
 Heaven s dove, when highest he flies, 
 Flies with thy heavenly wings. 
 
 CEASHAW. 
 
 THERE is hardly a chapter in literary history 
 more strongly marked with the peculiarities of 
 national character than that which contains the 
 moral and devotional poetry of Spain. It would 
 naturally be expected that in this department of 
 literature all the fervency and depth of national 
 feeling would be exhibited. But still, as the spirit 
 of morality and devotion is the same, wherever it 
 exists, as the enthusiasm of virtue and religion is 
 everywhere essentially the same feeling, though 
 modified in its degree and in its action by a variety 
 of physical causes and local circumstances, and 
 as the subject of the didactic verse and the spiritual 
 canticle cannot be materially changed by the 
 change of nation and climate, it might at the first 
 glance seem quite as natural to expect that the 
 moral and devotional poetry of Christian countries 
 would never be very strongly marked with national 
 
 VOL. i. 14 
 
210 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 
 
 peculiarities. In other words, we should expect it 
 to correspond to the warmth or coldness of national 
 feeling, for it is the external and visible expression 
 of this feeling ; but not to the distinctions of na 
 tional character, because, its nature and object 
 being everywhere the same, these distinctions 
 become swallowed up in one universal Christian 
 character. 
 
 In moral poetry this is doubtless true. The 
 great principles of Christian morality being eternal 
 and invariable, the verse which embodies and rep 
 resents them must, from this very circumstance, 
 be the same in its spirit through all Christian lands. 
 The same, however, is not necessarily true of devo 
 tional or religious poetry. There, the language of 
 poetry is something more than the visible image of 
 a devotional spirit. It is also an expression of 
 religious faith ; shadowing forth, with greater or 
 less distinctness, its various creeds and doctrines. 
 As these are different in different nations, the 
 spirit that breathes in religious song, and the letter 
 that gives utterance to the doctrine of faith, will 
 not be universally the same. Thus, Catholic 
 nations sing the praises of the Virgin Mary in lan 
 guage in which nations of the Protestant faith do 
 not unite ; and among Protestants themselves, the 
 difference of interpretations, and the consequent 
 belief or disbelief of certain doctrines, give a vari 
 ous spirit and expression to religious poetry. And 
 yet, in all, the devotional feeling, the heavenward 
 volition, is the same. 
 
THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 211 
 
 As far, then, as peculiarities of religious faith 
 exercise an influence upon intellectual habits, and 
 thus become a part of national character, so far will 
 the devotional or religious poetry of a country ex 
 hibit the characteristic peculiarities resulting from 
 this influence of faith, and its assimilation with the 
 national mind. Now Spain is by preeminence the 
 Catholic land of Christendom. Most of her historic 
 recollections are more or less intimately associated 
 with the triumphs of the Christian faith ; and many 
 of her warriors of her best and bravest were mar 
 tyrs in the holy cause, perishing in that war of cen 
 turies which was carried on within her own territo 
 ries between the crescent of Mahomet and the 
 cross of Christ. Indeed, the whole tissue of her 
 history is interwoven with miraculous tradition. 
 The intervention of her patron saint has saved her 
 honor in more than one dangerous pass ; and the 
 war-shout of " Santiago, y cierra Espana ! " has 
 worked like a charm upon the wavering spirit of 
 the soldier. A reliance on the guardian ministry 
 of the saints pervades the whole people, and devo 
 tional oiFe rings for signal preservation in times of 
 danger and distress cover the consecrated walls of 
 churches. An enthusiasm of religious feeling, and 
 of external ritual observances, prevails throughout 
 the land. But more particularly is the name of 
 the Virgin honored and adored. Ave Maria is the 
 salutation of peace at the friendly threshold, and 
 the God-speed to the wayfarer. It is the evening 
 orison, when the toils of day are done ; and at 
 
212 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 
 
 midnight it echoes along the solitary streets in the 
 voice of the watchman s cry. 
 
 These and similar peculiarities of religious faith 
 are breathing and moving through a large portion 
 of the devotional poetry of Spain. It is not only 
 instinct with religious feeling, but incorporated 
 with " the substance of things not seen." Not only 
 are the poet s lips touched with a coal from the 
 altar, but his spirit is folded in the cloud of incense 
 that rises before the shrines of the Virgin Mother, 
 and the glorious company of the saints and mar 
 tyrs. His soul is not wholly swallowed up in the 
 contemplation of the sublime attributes of the 
 Eternal Mind ; but, with its lamp trimmed and 
 burning, it goeth out to meet the bridegroom, as if 
 he were coming in a bodily presence. 
 
 The history of the devotional poetry of Spain 
 commences with the legendary lore of Maestro 
 Gonzalo de Berceo, a secular priest, whose life was 
 passed in the cloisters of a Benedictine convent, and 
 amid the shadows of the thirteenth century. The 
 name of Berceo stands foremost on the catalogue of 
 Spanish poets, for the author of the Poem of the 
 Cid is unknown. The old patriarch of Spanish 
 poetry has left a monument of his existence in up 
 wards of thirteen thousand alexandrines, celebrat 
 ing the lives and miracles of saints and the Virgin, 
 as he found them written in the Latin chronicles 
 and dusty legends of his monastery. In embody 
 ing these in rude verse in roman paladino, or the 
 old Spanish romance tongue, intelligible to the 
 
THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 213 
 
 common people, Fray Gonzalo seems to have passed 
 his life. His writings are just such as we should 
 expect from the pen of a monk of the thirteenth 
 century. They are more ghostly than poetical; 
 and throughout, unction holds the place of inspira 
 tion. Accordingly, they illustrate very fully the 
 preceding remarks ; and the more so, inasmuch as 
 they are written with the most ample and childish 
 credulity, and the utmost singleness of faith touch 
 ing the events and miracles described. 
 
 The following extract is taken from one of Ber- 
 ceo s poems, entitled " Vida de San Millan." It is 
 a description of the miraculous appearance of San 
 tiago and San Millan, mounted on snow-white 
 steeds, and fighting for the cause of Christendom, 
 at the battle of Simancas in the Campo de Toro. 
 
 And when the kings were in the field, their squadrons 
 
 in array, 
 With lance in rest they onward pressed to mingle in the 
 
 fray; 
 
 But soon upon the Christians fell a terror of their foes, 
 These were a numerous army, a little handful those. 
 
 And while the Christian people stood in this uncertainty, 
 Upward to heaven they turned their eyes, and fixed their 
 
 thoughts on high; 
 
 And there two figures they beheld, all beautiful and bright, 
 Even than the pure new-fallen snow then* garments were 
 
 more white. 
 
 They rode upon two horses more white than crystal sheen, 
 And arms they bore such as before no mortal man had 
 seen; 
 
214 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 
 
 The one, he held a crosier, a pontiffs mitre wore; 
 The other held a crucifix, such man ne er saw before. 
 
 Their faces were angelical, celestial forms had they, 
 And downward through the fields of air they urged their 
 
 rapid way ; 
 They looked upon the Moorish host with fierce and angry 
 
 look, 
 And in their hands, with dire portent, their naked sabres 
 
 shook. 
 
 The Christian host, beholding this, straightway take heart 
 
 again ; 
 They fall upon their bended knees, all resting on the 
 
 plain, 
 And each one with his clenched fist to smite his breast 
 
 begins, 
 And promises to God on high he will forsake his sins. 
 
 And when the heavenly knights drew near unto the 
 
 battle-ground, 
 They dashed among the Moors and dealt unerring blows 
 
 around ; 
 Such deadly havoc there they made the foremost ranks 
 
 along, 
 A panic terror spread unto the hindmost of the throng. 
 
 Together with these two good knights, the champions of 
 
 the sky, 
 The Christians rallied and began to smite full sore and 
 
 high; 
 The Moors raised up their voices and by the Koran 
 
 swore, 
 That in their lives such deadly fray they ne er had seen 
 
 before. 
 
THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 215 
 
 Down went the misbelievers, fast sped the bloody 
 
 fight, 
 Some ghastly and dismembered lay, and some half dead 
 
 with fright : 
 
 Full sorely they repented that to the field they came, 
 For they saw that from the battle they should retreat 
 
 with shame. 
 
 Another thing befell them, they dreamed not of such 
 
 woes, 
 The very arrows that the Moors shot from their twanging 
 
 bows 
 Turned back against them in their flight and wounded 
 
 them full sore, 
 And every blow they dealt the foe was paid in drops of 
 
 gore. 
 
 Now he that bore the crosier, and the papal crown had on, 
 Was the glorified Apostle, the brother of Saint John; 
 And he that held the crucifix, and wore the monkish 
 
 hood, 
 Was the holy San Millan of Cogolla s neighbourhood. 
 
 Berceo s longest poem is entitled " Mir ados de 
 Nuestra Senora" Miracles of Our Lady. It con 
 sists of nearly four thousand lines, and contains the 
 description of twenty-five miracles. It is a com 
 plete homily on the homage and devotion due to 
 the glorious Virgin, Madre de Jhu Xto, Mother of 
 Jesus Christ ; but it is written in a low and vulgar 
 style, strikingly at variance with the elevated char 
 acter of the subject. Thus, in the twentieth mir 
 acle, we have the account of a monk who became 
 intoxicated in a wine cellar. Having lain on the 
 
216 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN". 
 
 floor till the vesper bell aroused him, he staggered 
 off towards the church in most melancholy plight. 
 The Evil One besets him on the way, assuming the 
 various shapes of a bull, a dog, and a lion ; but 
 from all these perils he is miraculously saved by the 
 timely intervention of the Virgin, who, finding him 
 still too much intoxicated to make his way to bed, 
 kindly takes him by the hand, leads him to his pal 
 let, covers him with a blanket and a counterpane, 
 smooths his pillow, and, after making the sign of 
 the cross over him, tells him to rest quietly, for 
 sleep will do him good. 
 
 To a certain class of minds there may be some 
 thing interesting and even affecting in descriptions 
 which represent the spirit of a departed saint as 
 thus assuming a corporeal shape, in order to assist 
 and console human nature even in its baser infirm 
 ities ; but it ought also to be considered how much 
 such descriptions tend to strip religion of its pecu 
 liar sanctity, to bring it down from its heavenly 
 abode, not merely to dwell among men, but, like an 
 imprisoned culprit, to be chained to the derelict of 
 principle, manacled with the base desire and earthly 
 passion, and forced to do the menial offices of a 
 slave. In descriptions of this kind, as in the rep 
 resentations of our Saviour and of sainted spirits 
 in a human shape, execution must of necessity fall 
 far short of the conception. The handiwork can 
 not equal the glorious archetype, which is visible 
 only to the mental eye. Painting and sculpture 
 are not adequate to the task of embodying in a 
 
THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 217 
 
 permanent shape the glorious visions, the radiant 
 forms, the glimpses of heaven, which fill the imag 
 ination, when purified and exalted by devotion. 
 The hand of man unconsciously inscribes upon all 
 his works the sentence of imperfection, which the 
 finger of the invisible hand wrote upon the wall of 
 the Assyrian monarch. From this it would seem 
 to be not only a natural but a necessary conclusion, 
 that all the descriptions of poetry which borrow 
 any thing, either directly or indirectly, from these 
 bodily and imperfect representations, must partake 
 of their imperfection, and assume a more earthly 
 and material character than those which come 
 glowing and burning from the more spiritualized 
 perceptions of the internal sense. 
 
 It is very far from my intention to utter any 
 sweeping denunciation against the divine arts of 
 painting and sculpture, as employed in the exhibi 
 tion of scriptural scenes and personages. These I 
 esteem meet ornaments for the house of God ; 
 though, as I have already said, their execution 
 cannot equal the high conceptions of an ardent 
 imagination, yet, whenever the hand of a master 
 is visible, when the marble almost moves before 
 you, and the painting starts into life from the can 
 vas, the effect upon an enlightened mind will 
 generally, if not universally, be to quicken its sen 
 sibilities and excite to more ardent devotion, by 
 carrying the thoughts beyond the representations 
 of bodily suffering, to the contemplation of the 
 intenser mental agony, the moral sublimity ex- 
 
218 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 
 
 hibited by the martyr. The impressions produced, 
 however, will not be the same in all minds ; they 
 will necessarily vary according to the prevailing 
 temper and complexion of the mind which receives 
 them. As there is no sound where there is no ear 
 to receive the impulses and vibrations of the air, so 
 is there no moral impression, no voice of instruc 
 tion from all the works of nature, and all the imita 
 tions of art, unless there be within the soul itself 
 a capacity for hearing the voice and receiving the 
 moral impulse. The cause exists eternally and 
 universally ; but the effect is produced only when 
 and where the cause has room to act, and just in 
 proportion as it has room to act. Hence the 
 various moral impressions, and the several degrees 
 of the same moral impression, which an object may 
 produce in different minds. These impressions 
 will vary in kind and in degree according to the 
 acuteness and the cultivation of the internal moral 
 sense. And thus the representations spoken of 
 above might exercise a very favorable influence 
 upon an enlightened and well regulated mind, and 
 at the same time a very unfavorable influence upon 
 an unenlightened and superstitious one. And the 
 reason is obvious. An enlightened mind beholds 
 all things in their just proportions, and receives 
 from them the true impressions they are calculated 
 to convey. It is not hoodwinked, it is not shut 
 up in a gloomy prison, till it thinks the walls of its 
 own dungeon the limits of the universe, and the 
 reach of its own chain the outer verge of all intel- 
 
THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 219 
 
 ligence ; but it walks abroad ; the sunshine and 
 the air pour in to enlighten and expand it; the 
 various works of nature are its ministering angels ; 
 the glad recipient of light and wisdom, it develops 
 new powers and acquires increased capacities, and 
 thus, rendering itself less subject to error, assumes 
 a nearer similitude to the Eternal Mind. But not 
 so the dark and superstitious mind. It is filled 
 with its own antique and mouldy furniture, the 
 moth-eaten tome, the gloomy tapestry, the dusty 
 curtain. The straggling sunbeam from without 
 streams through the stained window, and as it 
 enters assumes the colors of the painted glass; 
 while the half-extinguished fire within, now smoul 
 dering in its ashes and now shooting forth a quiver 
 ing flame, casts fantastic shadows through the 
 chambers of the soul. Within, the spirit sits, lost 
 in its own abstractions. The voice of nature from 
 without is hardly audible ; her beauties are unseen, 
 or seen only in shadowy forms, through a colored 
 medium, and with a strained and distorted vision. 
 The invigorating air does not enter that myste 
 rious chamber; it visits not that lonely inmate, 
 who, breathing only a close, exhausted atmosphere, 
 exhibits in the languid frame and feverish pulse 
 the marks of lingering, incurable disease. The 
 picture is not too strongly sketched ; such is the con 
 trast between the free and the superstitious mind. 
 Upon the latter, which has little power over its 
 ideas, to generalize them, to place them in their 
 proper light and position, to reason upon, to dis- 
 
220 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 
 
 criminate, to judge them in detail, and thus to 
 arrive at just conclusions; but, on the contrary, 
 receives every crude and inadequate impression as 
 it first presents itself, and treasures it up as an ulti 
 mate fact, upon such a mind, representations of 
 Scripture-scenes, like those mentioned above, exer 
 cise an unfavorable influence. Such a mind 
 cannot rightly estimate, it cannot feel, the work of 
 a master ; and a miserable painting, or a still more 
 miserable caricature carved in wood, will serve 
 only the more to drag the spirit down to earth. 
 Thus in the unenlightened mind, these representa 
 tions have a tendency to sensualize and desecrate 
 the character of holy things. Being brought con 
 stantly before the eye, and represented in a real 
 and palpable form to the external senses, they lose, 
 by being made too familiar, that peculiar sanctity 
 with which the mind naturally invests the unearthly 
 and invisible. 
 
 It is curious to observe the influence of the cir 
 cumstances just referred to upon the devotional 
 poetry of Spain.* Sometimes it exhibits itself 
 
 *The following beautiful little hymn in Latin, written by the 
 celebrated Francisco Xavier, the friend and companion of Loyola, 
 and from his zeal in the Eastern missions surnamed the Apostle 
 of the Indies, would hardly have originated in any mind but that 
 of one familiar with the representations of which I have spoken 
 above. 
 
 Deus ! ego amo te : 
 
 Nee amo te, ut salves me, 
 
 Aut quia non amantes te 
 
 JEterno punis igne. 
 
THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 221 
 
 directly and folly, sometimes indirectly and inci 
 dentally, but always with sufficient clearness to 
 
 Tu, tu, mi Jesu, totum me 
 Am plexus es in cruce. 
 Tulisti clavos, lanceam, 
 Multamque ignominiam : 
 Innunieros dolores, 
 Sudores et angores, 
 Ac mortem : et hsec propter me 
 Ac pro me peccatore. 
 
 Cur igitur non amem te, 
 Jesu amantissime ? 
 Non ut in coelo salves me, 
 Aut ne aeternum damnes me, 
 Nee proamii ullius spe : 
 Sed sicut tu amasti me, 
 Sic amo et amabo te : 
 Solum quia rex meus es, 
 Et solum quia Deus es. 
 Amen. 
 
 God ! my spirit loves but thee : 
 Not tbat in heaven its home may be, 
 Nor that the souls which love not thee 
 Shall groan in fire eternally. 
 
 But thou on the accursed tree 
 In mercy hast embraced me. 
 For me the cruel nails, the spear, 
 The ignominious scoff, didst bear, 
 Countless, unutterable woes, 
 The bloody sweat, death s pangs and throes,- 
 These thou didst bear, all these for me, 
 A sinner and estranged from thee. 
 
 And wherefore no affection show, 
 Jesus, to thee that lov st me so? 
 
222 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 
 
 indicate its origin. Sometimes it destroys the 
 beauty of a poem by a miserable conceit ; at other 
 times it gives it the character of a beautiful alle 
 gory.* 
 
 The following sonnets will serve as illustrations. 
 They are from the hand of the wonderful Lope de 
 Vega : 
 
 Shepherd ! that with thine amorous sylvan song 
 Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me, 
 That madest thy crook from the accursed tree 
 On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long, 
 Lead me to mercy s ever-flowing fountains, 
 
 Not that in heaven my home may be, 
 Not lest I die eternally, 
 Nor from the hopes of joys above me : 
 But even as thou thyself didst love me, 
 So love I, and will ever love thee : 
 Solely because my King art thou, 
 My God for evermore as now. 
 Amen. 
 
 * I recollect but few instances of this kind of figurative poetry 
 in our language. There is, however, one of most exquisite beauty 
 and pathos, far surpassing any thing I have seen of the kind in 
 Spanish. It is a passage from Cowper. 
 
 " I was a stricken deer, that left the herd 
 
 Long since : with many an arrow deep infixt 
 
 My panting side was charged, when I withdrew 
 
 To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
 
 There was I found by one who had himself 
 
 Been hurt by archers ; in his side he bore, 
 
 And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. 
 
 With gentle force soliciting the darts, 
 
 He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live." 
 
THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 223 
 
 For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be, 
 
 I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 
 
 Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. 
 
 Hear, Shepherd ! thou that for thy flock art dying, 
 
 *0, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 
 
 Rejoicest at the contrite sinner s vow. 
 
 0, wait ! to thee my weary soul is crying, 
 
 Wait for me ! yet why ask it, when I see, 
 
 With feet nailed to the cross, thou art waiting still for me 1 
 
 Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care 
 Thou didst seek after me, that thou didst wait, 
 Wet with unhealthy dews before my gate, 
 And pass the gloomy nights of winter there ? 
 strange delusion ! that I did not greet 
 Thy blessed approach ! and 0, to Heaven how lost, 
 If my ingratitude s unkindly frost 
 Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet ! 
 How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 
 " Soul, from thy casement look without and see 
 How he persists to knock and wait for thee ! " 
 And 0, how often to that voice of sorrow, 
 " To-morrow we will open! " I replied; 
 And when the morrow came, I answered still, " To mor 
 row! " 
 
 The most remarkable portion of the devotional 
 poetry of the Spaniards is to be found in their 
 sacred dramas, their Vidas de Santos and Autos 
 Sacramentales. These had their origin in the 
 Mysteries and Moralities of the dark ages, and are 
 indeed monstrous creations of the imagination. The 
 Vidas de Santos, or Lives of Saints, are representa 
 tions of their miracles, and of the wonderful tradi- 
 
224 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 
 
 tions concerning them. The Autos Sacramentales 
 have particular reference to the Eucharist and the 
 ceremonies of the Corpus Cliristi. In these theat 
 rical pieces are introduced upon the stage, not only, 
 angels and saints, but God, the Saviour, the Virgin 
 Mary ; and, in strange juxtaposition with these, 
 devils, peasants, and kings; in fine they contain 
 the strangest medley of characters, real and allegor 
 ical, which the imagination can conceive. As if 
 this were not enough, in the midst of what was in 
 tended as a solemn, religious celebration, scenes 
 of low buffoonery are often introduced. 
 
 The most remarkable of the Autos which I have 
 read is " La Devocion de la Cruz" The Devotion 
 of the Cross. It is one of the most celebrated of 
 Calderon s sacred dramas, and will serve as a speci 
 men of that class of writing. The piece commences 
 with a dialogue between Lisardo, the son of Curcio ; 
 a decayed nobleman, and Eusebio, the hero of the 
 play and lover of Julia, Lisardo s sister. Though 
 the father s extravagance has wasted his estates, 
 Lisardo is deeply offended that Eusebio should as 
 pire to an alliance with the family, and draws him 
 into a secluded place in order to settle their dispute 
 with the sword. Here the scene opens, and in the 
 course of the dialogue which precedes the combat, 
 Eusebio relates that he was born at the foot of a 
 cross, which stood in a rugged and desert part of 
 those mountains ; that the virtue of this cross pre 
 served him from the wild beasts ; that, being found 
 by a peasant three days after his birth, he was car- 
 
THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 225 
 
 ried to a neighbouring village, and there received 
 the name of Eusebio of the Cross; that, being 
 thrown by his nurse into a well, he was heard to 
 laugh, and was found floating upon the top of the 
 water, with his hands placed upon his mouth in the 
 form of a cross ; that the house in which he dwelt 
 being consumed by fire, he escaped unharmed amid 
 the flames, and it was found to be Corpus Christi 
 day ; and, in fine, after relating many other similar 
 miracles, worked by the power of the cross, at 
 whose foot he was born, he says that he bears its 
 image miraculously stamped upon his breast. After 
 this they fight, and Lisardo falls mortally wounded. 
 In the next scene, Eusebio has an interview with 
 Julia, at her father s house ; they are interrupted, 
 and Eusebio conceals himself; Curcio enters, and 
 informs Julia that he has determined to send her 
 that day to a convent, that she may take the veil, 
 para ser de Cristo esposa" While they are con 
 versing, the dead body of Lisardo is brought in by 
 peasants, and Eusebio is declared to be the mur 
 derer. The scene closes by the escape of Eusebio. 
 The second act, or Jornada, discovers Eusebio as 
 the leader of a band of robbers. They fire upon 
 a traveller, who proves to be a priest, named Al 
 berto, and who is seeking a spot in those solitudes 
 wherein to establish a hermitage. The shot is pre 
 vented from taking effect by a book which the pious 
 old man carries in his bosom, and which he says is 
 a " treatise on the true origin of the divine and 
 heavenly tree, on which, dying with courage and 
 
 VOT,. T. 15 
 
22G THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 
 
 fortitude, Christ triumphed over death ; in fine, the 
 book is called the Miracles of the Cross/ " They 
 suffer the priest to depart unharmed, who in conse 
 quence promises Eusebio that he shall not die with 
 out confession, but that wherever he may be, if he 
 but call upon his name, he will hasten to absolve 
 him. In the mean time, Julia retires to a convent, 
 and Curcio goes with an armed force in pursuit oi 
 Eusebio, who has resolved to gain admittance to 
 Julia s convent. He scales the walls of the convent 
 by night, and silently gropes his way along the cor 
 ridor. Julia is discovered sleeping in her cell, with 
 a taper beside her. He is, however, deterred from 
 executing his malicious designs, by discovering upon 
 her breast the form of a cross, similar to that which 
 he bears upon his own, and " Heaven would not 
 suffer him, though so great an offender, to lose his 
 respect for the cross." To be brief, he leaps from 
 the convent-walls and escapes to the mountains. 
 Julia, counting her honor lost, having offended 
 God, " como d Dios, y como d esposa" pursues him, 
 descends the ladder from the convent-wall, and, 
 when she seeks to return to her cell, finds the lad 
 der has been removed. In her despair, she accuses 
 Heaven of having withdrawn its clemency, and 
 vows to perform such deeds of wickedness as shall 
 terrify both heaven and hell. 
 
 The third Jornada transports the scene back to 
 the mountains. Julia, disguised in man s apparel, 
 with her face concealed, is brought to Eusebio by a 
 party of the banditti. She challenges him to single 
 
THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 227 
 
 combat; and he accepts the challenge, on condi 
 tion that his antagonist shall declare who he is. 
 Julia discovers herself; and relates several horrid 
 murders she has committed since leaving the con 
 vent. Their interview is here interrupted by the 
 entrance of banditti,, who inform Eusebio that 
 Curcio, with an armed force, from all the neigh 
 bouring villages, is approaching. The attack com 
 mences. Eusebio and Curcio meet, but a secret 
 and mysterious sympathy prevents them from fight 
 ing ; and a great number of peasants, coming in at 
 this moment, rush upon Eusebio in a body, and he 
 is thrown down a precipice. There Curcio dis 
 covers him, expiring with his numerous wounds. 
 The denouement of the piece commences. Curcio, 
 moved by compassion, examines a wound in Euse- 
 bio s breast, discovers the mark of the cross, and 
 thereby recognizes him to be his son. Eusebio 
 expires, calling on the name of Alberto, who shortly 
 after enters, as if lost in those mountains. A voice 
 from the dead body of Eusebio calls his name. I 
 shall here transcribe a part of the scene. 
 
 Eusebio. Alberto ! 
 
 Alberto. Hark ! what breath 
 
 Of fearful voice is this, 
 
 Which uttering my name 
 
 Sounds in my ears ? 
 
 Eusebio. Alberto ! 
 
 Alberto. Again it doth pronounce 
 
 My name : methinks the voice 
 
 Came from this side : I will 
 
 A pp roach. 
 
228 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 
 
 Eusebio. Alberto ! 
 
 Alberto. Hist ! more near it sounds. 
 
 Thou voice, that ridest swift 
 
 The wind, and utterest my name, 
 
 Who art thou ? 
 Eusebio. I am Eusebio. 
 
 Come, good Alberto, this way come, 
 
 Where sepulchred I lie ; 
 
 Approach, and raise these branches : 
 
 Fear not. 
 Alberto. I do not fear. 
 
 [Discovers the body. 
 
 Now I behold thee. 
 
 Speak, in God s holy name, 
 
 What wouldst thou with me ? 
 Eusebio. In his name, 
 
 My faith, Alberto, called thee, 
 
 That previous to my death 
 
 Thou hearest my confession. 
 
 Long since I should have died, 
 
 For this stiff corpse resigned 
 
 The disembodied soul; 
 
 But the strong mace of death 
 
 Smote only, and dissevered not 
 
 The spirit and the flesh. [Rises. 
 
 Come, then, Alberto, that I may 
 
 Confess my sins ; for, 0, they are 
 
 More than the sands beside the sea, 
 
 Or motes that fill the sunbeam ! 
 
 So much with Heaven avails 
 
 Devotion to the cross ! 
 
 Eusebio then retires to confess himself to Alberto ; 
 and Curcio afterward relates, that, when the vener 
 able saint had given him absolution, his body again 
 fell dead at his feet. Julia discovers herself, over- 
 
THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 229 
 
 whelmed with the thoughts of her incestuous pas 
 sion for Eusebio and her other crimes, and as 
 Curcio, in a transport of indignation, endeavours 
 to kill her, she seizes a cross which stands over 
 Eusebio s grave, and with it ascends to heaven, 
 while Alberto shouts, " Gran tnilagro ! " and the 
 curtain falls. 
 
 Thus far I have spoken of the devotional poetry 
 of Spain as modified by the peculiarities of relig 
 ious faith and practice. Considered apart from the 
 dogmas of a creed, and as the expression of those 
 pure and elevated feelings of religion which are 
 not the prerogative of any one sect or denomina 
 tion, but the common privilege of all, it possesses 
 strong claims to our admiration and praise. I 
 know of nothing in any modern tongue so beautiful 
 as some of its finest passages. The thought springs 
 heavenward from the soul, the language comes 
 burning from the lip. The imagination of the 
 poet seems spiritualized; with nothing of earth, 
 and all of heaven, a heaven, like that of his own 
 native clime, without a cloud, or a vapor of earth, 
 to obscure its brightness. His voice, speaking the 
 harmonious accents of that noble tongue, seems to 
 flow from the lips of an angel, melodious to the 
 ear and to the internal sense, breathing those 
 
 " Effectual whispers, whose still voice 
 The soul itself more feels than hears." 
 
 The following sonnets of Francisco de Aldana, 
 a writer remarkable for the beauty of his concep- 
 
230 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 
 
 tions aiid the harmony of his verse, are illustrations 
 of this remark. In what glowing language he de 
 scribes the aspirations of the soul for its paternal 
 heaven, its celestial home ! how beautifully he por 
 trays in a few lines the strong desire, the ardent 
 longing, of the exiled and imprisoned spirit to wing 
 its flight away and be at rest ! The strain bears 
 our thoughts upward with it ; it transports us to the 
 heavenly country ; it whispers to the soul, Higher, 
 immortal spirit ! higher ! 
 
 Clear fount of light ! my native land on high, 
 
 Bright with a glory that shall never fade ! 
 
 Mansion of truth ! without a veil or shade, 
 
 Thy holy quiet meets the spirit s eye. 
 
 There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, 
 
 Gasping no longer for life s feeble breath; 
 
 But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence 
 
 With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not death. 
 
 Beloved country ! banished from thy shore, 
 
 A stranger in this prison-house of clay, 
 
 The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee ! 
 
 Heavenward the bright perfections I adore 
 
 Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, 
 
 That whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be. 
 
 Lord ! that seest from yon starry height 
 Centred in one the future and the past, 
 Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast 
 The world obscures in me what once was bright ! 
 Eternal Sun ! the warmth which thou hast given 
 To cheer life s flowery April fast decays; 
 Yet in the hoary winter of my days, 
 Forever green shall be my trust in Heaven. 
 
THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 231 
 
 Celestial King ! 0, let thy presence pass 
 
 Before my spirit, and an image fair 
 
 Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, 
 
 As the reflected image in a glass 
 
 Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, 
 
 And owes its being to the gazer s eye. 
 
 The prevailing characteristics of Spanish devo 
 tional poetry are warmth of imagination, and depth 
 and sincerity of feeling. The conception is always 
 striking and original, and, when not degraded by 
 dogmas, and the poor, puerile conceits arising from 
 them, beautiful and sublime. This results from the 
 frame and temperament of the mind, and is a 
 general characteristic of the Spanish poets, not 
 only in this department of song, but in all others. 
 The very ardor of imagination which, exercised 
 upon minor themes, leads them into extravagance 
 and hyperbole, when left to act in a higher and 
 wider sphere conducts them nearer and nearer to 
 perfection. When imagination spreads its wings 
 in the bright regions of devotional song, in the 
 pure empyrean, judgment should direct its course, 
 but there is no danger of its soaring too high. 
 The heavenly land still lies beyond its utmost flight. 
 There are heights it cannot reach ; there are fields 
 of air which tire its wing ; there is a splendor which 
 dazzles its vision ; for there is a glory " which eye 
 hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered 
 into the heart of man to conceive." 
 
 But perhaps the greatest charm of the devo 
 tional poets of Spain is their sincerity. Most of 
 
232 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 
 
 them were ecclesiastics, men who had in sober 
 truth renounced the realities of this life for the 
 hopes and promises of another. We are not to 
 suppose that all who take holy orders are saints ; 
 but we should be still farther from believing that 
 all are hypocrites. It would be even more absurd 
 to suppose that none are sincere in their professions 
 than that all are. Besides, with whatever feelings 
 a man may enter the monastic life, there is some 
 thing in its discipline and privations which has a 
 tendency to wean the mind from earth, and to fix 
 it upon heaven. Doubtless many have seemingly 
 renounced the world from motives of worldly 
 aggrandizement; and others have renounced it 
 because it has renounced them. The former have 
 carried with them to the cloister their earthly 
 ambition, and the latter their dark misanthropy; 
 and though many have daily kissed the cross and 
 yet grown hoary in iniquity, and shrived their 
 souls that they might sin more gayly on, yet soli 
 tude works miracles in the heart, and many who 
 enter the cloister from worldly motives find it a 
 school wherein the soul may be trained to more 
 holy purposes and desires. There is not half the 
 corruption and hypocrisy within the convent s 
 walls that the church bears the shame of hiding 
 there. Hermits may be holy men, though knaves 
 have sometimes been hermits. Were they all 
 hypocrites, who of old for their souls sake exposed 
 their naked bodies to the burning sun of Syria ? 
 Were they, who wandered houseless in the soli- 
 
THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 233 
 
 tudes of Engaddi ? Were they, who dwelt beneath 
 the palm-trees by the Red Sea? O, no! They 
 were ignorant, they were deluded, they were 
 fanatic, but they were not hypocrites ; if there be 
 any sincerity in human professions and human 
 actions, they were not hypocrites. During the 
 Middle Ages, there was corruption in the church, 
 foul, shameful corruption ; and now also hypoc 
 risy may scourge itself in feigned repentance, and 
 ambition hide its face beneath a hood ; yet all is 
 not therefore rottenness that wears a cowl. Many 
 a pure spirit, through heavenly-inindedness and an 
 ardent though mistaken zp,al, has fled from the 
 temptations of the world to seek in solitude and 
 self-communion a closer walk with God. And not 
 in vain. They have found the peace they sought. 
 They have felt, indeed, what many profess to feel, 
 but do not feel, that they are strangers and 
 sojourners here, travellers who are bound for their 
 home in a far country. It is this feeling which I 
 speak of as giving a peculiar charm to the devo 
 tional poetry of Spain. Compare its spirit with 
 the spirit which its authors have exhibited in their 
 lives. They speak of having given up the world, 
 and it is no poetical hyperbole; they speak of 
 longing to be free from the weakness of the flesh, 
 that they may commence their conversation in 
 heaven, and we feel that they had already begun 
 it in lives of penitence, meditation, and prayer. 
 
THE 
 
 PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 
 
 If thou vouchsafe to read this treatise, it shall seem no other 
 wise to thee than the way to an ordinary traveller, sometimes 
 fair, sometimes foul ; here champaign, there enclosed; barren in 
 one place, better soyle in another; by woods, groves, hills, dales, 
 plains, I shall lead thee. 
 
 BURTON S ANATOMIE OF MELANCHOLY. 
 
 THE glittering spires and cupolas of Madrid 
 have sunk behind me. Again and again I have 
 turned to take a parting look, till at length the 
 last trace of the city has disappeared, and I gaze 
 only upon the sky above it. 
 
 And now the sultry day is passed ; the freshen 
 ing twilight falls, and the moon and the evening 
 star are in the sky. This river is the Xarama. 
 This noble avenue of trees leads to Aranjuez. 
 Already its lamps begin to twinkle in the distance. 
 The hoofs of our weary mules clatter upon the 
 wooden bridge ; the public square opens before us ; 
 yonder, in the moonlight, gleam the walls of the 
 royal palace, and near it, with a rushing sound, 
 fall the waters of the Tagus. 
 
 WE have now entered the vast and melancholy 
 plains of La Mancha, a land to which the genius 
 
THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 235 
 
 of Cervantes has given a vulgo-classic fame. Here 
 are the windmills, as of old ; every village has its 
 Master Nicholas, every venta its Maritornes. 
 Wondrous strong are the spells of fiction ! A few 
 years pass away, and history becomes romance, 
 and romance, history. To the peasantry of Spain, 
 Don Quixote and his squire are historic person 
 ages ; and woe betide the luckless wight who 
 unwarily takes the name of Dulcinea upon his 
 lips within a league of El Toboso ! The traveller, 
 too, yields himself to the delusion ; and as he 
 traverses the arid plains of La Mancha, pauses 
 with willing credulity to trace the footsteps of the 
 mad Hidalgo, with his " velvet breeches on a holi 
 day, and slippers of the same." The high-road 
 from Aranjuez to Cordova crosses and recrosses 
 the knight-errant s path. Between Manzanares 
 and Valdepefias stands the inn where he was 
 dubbed a knight ; to the northward, the spot where 
 he encountered the windmills ; to the westward, 
 the inn where he made the balsam of Fierabras, 
 the scenes of his adventures with the fulling-mills, 
 and his tournament with the barber; and to the 
 southward, the Sierra Morena, where he did pen 
 ance, like the knights of olden time. 
 
 For my own part, I confess that there are seasons 
 when I am willing to be the dupe of my imagina 
 tion ; and if this harmless folly but lends its wings 
 to a dull-paced hour, I am even ready to believe a 
 fairy tale. 
 
236 THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 
 
 ON the fourth day of our journey we dined at 
 Manzanares, in an old and sombre-looking inn, 
 which, I think, some centuries back, must have 
 been the dwelling of a grandee. A wide gateway 
 admitted us into the inn-yard, which was a paved 
 court, in the centre of the edifice, surrounded by a 
 colonnade, and open to the sky above. Beneath 
 this colonnade we were shaved by the village 
 barber, a supple, smooth-faced Figaro, with a 
 brazen laver and a gray montera cap. There, too, 
 we dined in the open air, with bread as white as 
 snow, and the rich red wine of Valdepenas ; and 
 there, in the listlessness of after-dinner, smoked 
 the sleep-inviting cigar, while in the court-yard 
 before us the muleteers danced a fandango with 
 the maids of the inn, to such music as three blind 
 musicians could draw from a violin, a guitar, and 
 a clarinet. When this scene was over, and the 
 blind men had groped their way out of the yard, I 
 fell into a delicious slumber, from which I was soon 
 awakened by music of another kind. It was a 
 clear, youthful voice, singing a national song to 
 the sound of a guitar. I opened my eyes, and 
 near me stood a tall, graceful figure, leaning 
 against one of the pillars of the colonnade, in the 
 attitude of a serenader. His dress was that of a 
 Spanish student. He wore a black gown and 
 cassock, a pair of shoes made of an ex-pair of 
 boots, and a hat in the shape of a half-moon, with 
 the handle of a wooden spoon sticking out on one 
 side like a cockade. When he had finished his 
 
THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 237 
 
 song, we invited him to the remnant of a Vich 
 sausage, a bottle of Valdepenas, bread at his own 
 discretion, and a pure Havana cigar. The stranger 
 made a leg, and accepted these signs of good com 
 pany with the easy air of a man who is accustomed 
 to earn his livelihood by hook or by crook ; and as 
 the wine was of that stark and generous kind 
 which readily " ascends one into the brain," our 
 gentleman with the half-moon hat grew garrulous 
 and full of anecdote, and soon told us his own 
 story, beginning with his birth and parentage, like 
 the people in Gil Bias. 
 
 " I ana the son of a barber," quoth he ; " and 
 first saw the light some twenty years ago, in the 
 great city of Madrid. At a very early age, I was 
 taught to do something for myself, and began my 
 career of gain by carrying a slow-match in the 
 Prado, for the gentlemen to light their cigars with, 
 and catching the wax that dropped from the friars 
 tapers at funerals and other religious processions. 
 
 " At school I was noisy and unruly ; and was 
 finally expelled for hooking the master s son with 
 a pair of ox-horns, which I had tied to my head, in 
 order to personate the bull in a mock bull-fight. 
 Soon after this my father died, and I went to live 
 with my maternal uncle, a curate in Fuencarral. 
 He was a man of learning, and resolved that I 
 should be like him. He set his heart upon making 
 a physician of me ; and to this end taught me Latin 
 and Greek. 
 
 " In due time I was sent to the University of 
 
238 THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 
 
 Alcala. Here a new world opened before me. 
 What novelty, what variety, what excitement ! 
 But, alas ! three months were hardly gone, when 
 news came that my worthy uncle had passed to a 
 better world. I was now left to shift for myself. 
 I was penniless, and lived as I could, not as 1 
 would. I became a sopista, a soup-eater, a knight 
 of the wooden spoon. I see you do not under 
 stand me. In other words, then, I became one of 
 that respectable body of charity scholars who go 
 armed with their wooden spoons to eat the allow 
 ance of eleemosynary soup which is daily served 
 out to them at the gate of the convents. I had no 
 longer house nor home. But necessity is the 
 mother of invention. I Became a hanger-on of 
 those who were more fortunate than myself; stud 
 ied in other people s books, slept in other people s 
 beds, and breakfasted at other people s expense. 
 This course of life has been demoralizing, but it 
 has quickened my wits to a wonderful degree. 
 
 " Did you ever read the life of the Gran Tacafio, 
 by Quevedo ? In the first book you have a faith 
 ful picture of life in a Spanish university. What 
 was true in his day is true in ours. O Akald ! 
 Alcala ! if your walls had tongues as well as ears, 
 what tales could they repeat ! what midnight frol 
 ics ! what madcap revelries ! what scenes of merri 
 ment and mischief ! How merry is a student s life, 
 and yet how changeable ! Alternate feasting and 
 fasting, alternate Lent and Carnival, alternate 
 want and extravagance ! Care given to the winds, 
 
THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 239 
 
 no thought beyond the passing hour ; yesterday, 
 forgotten, to-morrow, a word in an unknown 
 tongue ! 
 
 " Did you ever hear of raising the dead ? not 
 literally, but such as the student raised when he 
 dug for the soul of the licentiate Pedro Garcias, at 
 the fountain between Penafiel and Salamanca, 
 money ? No ? Well, it is done after this wise. 
 Gambling, you know, is our great national vice ; 
 and then gamblers are so dishonest ! Now, our 
 game is to cheat the cheater. We go at night to 
 some noted gaming-house, five or six of us in a 
 body. We stand around the table, watch those 
 that are at play, and occasionally put in a trifle 
 ourselves to avoid suspicion. At length the favor 
 able moment arrives. Some eager player ventures 
 a large stake. I stand behind his chair. He wins. 
 As quick as thought, I stretch my arm over his 
 shoulder and seize the glittering prize, saying very 
 coolly, I have won at last. My gentleman turns 
 round in a passion, and I meet his indignant glance 
 with a look of surprise. He storms, and I expostu 
 late ; he menaces, I heed his menaces no more 
 than the buzzing of a fly that has burnt his wings 
 in my lamp. He calls the whole table to witness ; 
 but the whole table is busy, each with his own gain 
 or loss, and there stand my comrades, all loudly 
 assorting that the stake was mine. What can he 
 do ? there was a mistake ; he swallows the affront 
 as best he may, and we bear away the booty. This 
 we call raising the dead. You say it is disgrace- 
 
THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 
 
 fill, dishonest. Our maxim is. that all is fair 
 among sharpers: Baylor al son que se toca, 
 Dance to any tune that is fiddled. Besides, as I 
 said before, poverty is demoralizing. One 
 the nice distinctions of right and wrong, of me urn 
 and tuum. 
 
 Thus merrily pass the hours of term-time. 
 When the summer vacations come round, I sling 
 my guitar over my shoulder, and with a light heart, 
 and a lighter pocket, scour the country, like a 
 strolling piper or a mendicant friar. Like the in 
 dustrious ant, in summer I provide for winter ; for 
 in vacation we have time for reflection, and make 
 the great discovery, that there is a portion of time 
 called the future. I pick up a trifle here and a 
 trifle there, in all the towns and villages through 
 which I pass, and before the end of my tour I find 
 If quite rich for the son of a barber. This 
 we call the vida tunantesca, a rag-tag-and-bobtail 
 sort of life. And yet the vocation is as honest as 
 that of a begging Franciscan. Why not ? 
 
 "And now, gentlemen, having dined at your 
 expense, with your leave I will put this loaf of 
 bread and the remains of this excellent Vich 
 sausage into my pocket, and, thanking you for your 
 kind hospitality, bid you a good afternoon. God 
 be with you, gentlemen ! " 
 
 Lv general, the aspect of La Mancha is desolate 
 and sad. Around you lies a parched and wni- 
 
THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. :M1 
 
 burnt plain, which, like the ocean, has no limits 
 but the sky : and straight before you, for many a 
 weary league, runs the dusty and level road, 
 without the shade of a single tree. The villages 
 you pass through are poverty-stricken and halt- 
 depopulated; and the squalid inhabitants wear a 
 look of misery that makes the heart ache. Every 
 league or two, the ruins of a post-house, or a root 
 less cottage with shattered windows and blackened 
 walls, tells a sad tale of the last war. It was there 
 that a little band of peasantry made a desperate 
 stand against the French, and perished by the 
 bullet, the sword, or the bayonet. The lapse of 
 many years has not changed the scene, nor re 
 paired the battered wall ; and at almost every step 
 the traveller may pause and exclaim : 
 
 "Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host; 
 Here the bold peasant stormed the dragon s nest." 
 
 From Valdepenas southward the country wears 
 a more lively and picturesque aspect. The land 
 scape breaks into hill and valley, covered with 
 vineyards and olive-fields; and before you rise the 
 dark ridges of the Sierra Morena, lifting their 
 sullen fronts into a heaven all gladness and sun 
 shine. Ere long you enter the wild mountain-pass 
 of Despeiia-Perros. A sudden turn in the road 
 brings you to a stone column, surmounted by an 
 iron cross, marking the boundary line between La 
 Mancha and Andalusia. Upon one side of this 
 column is carved a sorry-looking face, not unlike 
 
 VOL. i. lt> 
 
242 THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 
 
 the death s-heads on the tombstones of a country 
 churchyard. Over it is written this inscription : 
 " EL VERDADERO RETRATO DE LA SANTA CARA 
 DEL Dios DE XAEN," The true portrait of the 
 holy countenance of the God of Xaen ! I was so 
 much struck with this strange superscription that I 
 stopped to copy it. 
 
 " Do you really believe that this is what it pre 
 tends to be ? " said I to a muleteer, who was 
 watching my movements. 
 
 "I don t know," replied he, shrugging his brawny 
 shoulders ; " they say it is." 
 
 " Who says it is ? " 
 
 " The priest, the Padre Cura." 
 
 " I supposed so. And how was this portrait 
 taken ? " 
 
 He could not tell. The Padre Cura knew all 
 about it. 
 
 When I joined my companions, who were a 
 little in advance of me with the carriage, I got the 
 mystery explained. The Catholic church boasts 
 of three portraits of our Saviour, miraculously pre 
 served upon the folds of a handkerchief, with 
 which St. Veronica wiped the sweat from his brow, 
 on the day of the crucifixion. One of these is at 
 Toledo, another in the kingdom of Xaen, and the 
 third at Rome. 
 
 THE impression which this monument of super 
 stition made upon my mind was soon effaced by 
 
THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 243 
 
 the magnificent scene which now burst upon me. 
 The road winds up the mountain-side with gradual 
 ascent ; wild, shapeless, gigantic crags overhang it 
 upon the right, and upon the left the wary foot 
 starts back from the brink of a fearful chasm hun 
 dreds of feet in depth. Its sides are black with 
 ragged pines, and rocks that have toppled down 
 from above ; and at the bottom, scarcely visible, 
 wind the silvery waters of a little stream, a tribu 
 tary of the Guadalquivir. The road skirts the 
 ravine for miles, now climbing the barren rock, 
 and now sliding gently downward into shadowy 
 hollows, and crossing some rustic bridge thrown 
 over a wild mountain-brook. 
 
 At length the scene changed. We stood upon 
 the southern slope of the Sierra, and looked down 
 upon the broad, luxuriant valleys of Andalusia, 
 bathed in the gorgeous splendor of a southern 
 sunset. The landscape had already assumed the 
 " burnished livery " of autumn ; but the air I 
 breathed was the soft and balmy breath of spring, 
 the eternal spring of Andalusia. 
 
 If ever you should be fortunate enough to visit 
 this part of Spain, stop for the night at the village 
 of La Carolina. It is, indeed, a model for all 
 villages, with its broad streets, its neat white 
 houses, its spacious market-place surrounded with 
 a colonnade, and its public walk ornamented with 
 fountains and set out with luxuriant trees. I doubt 
 whether all Spain can show a village more beauti 
 ful than this. 
 
244 THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 
 
 THE approach to Cordova from the east is en 
 chanting. The sun was just rising as we crossed 
 the Guadalquivir and drew near to the city ; and, 
 alighting from the carriage, I pursued my way on 
 foot, the better to enjoy the scene and the pure 
 morning air. The dew still glistened on every 
 leaf and spray ; for the burning sun had not yet 
 climbed the tall hedge-row of wild fig-tree and 
 aloes which skirts the roadside. The highway 
 wound along through gardens, orchards, and vine 
 yards, and here and there above me towered the 
 glorious palm in all its leafy magnificence. On 
 my right, a swelling mountain-ridge, covered with 
 verdure and sprinkled with little white hermitages, 
 looked forth towards the rising sun ; and on the 
 left, in a long, graceful curve, swept the bright 
 waters of the Guadalquivir, pursuing their silent 
 journey through a verdant reach of soft lowland 
 landscape. There, amid all the luxuriance of this 
 sunny clime, arises the ancient city of Cordova, 
 though stripped, alas ! of its former magnificence. 
 All that reminds you of the past is the crumbling 
 wall of the city, and a Saracen mosque, now 
 changed to a Christian cathedral. The stranger, 
 who is familiar with the history of the Moorish 
 dominion in Spain, pauses with a sigh, and asks 
 himself, Is this the imperial city of Alhakam the 
 Just, and Abdoulrahman the Magnificent ? 
 
THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 245 
 
 THIS, then, is Seville, that "pleasant city, 
 famous for oranges and women." After all I 
 have heard of its beauty, I am disappointed in 
 finding it less beautiful than my imagination had 
 painted it. The wise saw, 
 
 " Quien no ha visto Sevilla, 
 No ha visto maravilla," 
 
 He who has not seen Seville, has seen no mar 
 vel, is an Andalusian gasconade. This, however, 
 is the judgment of a traveller weary and wayworn 
 with a journey of twelve successive days in a car 
 riage drawn by mules ; and I am well aware how 
 much our opinions of men and things are colored 
 by these trivial ills. A sad spirit is like a rainy 
 day ; its mists and shadows darken the brightest 
 sky, and clothe the fairest landscape in gloom. 
 
 I am, likewise, a disappointed man in another 
 respect. I have come all the way from Madrid to 
 Seville without being robbed ! And this, too, when 
 I journeyed at a snail s pace, and had bought a 
 watch large enough for the clock of a village 
 church, for the express purpose- of having it vio 
 lently torn from me by a fierce-whiskered high 
 wayman, with his blunderbuss and his "Boca 
 abajo, ladrones ! " If I print this in a book, I am 
 undone. What ! travel in Spain and not be 
 robbed ! To be sure, I came very near it more 
 than once. Almost every village we passed 
 through had its tale to tell of atrocities committed 
 in the neighbourhood. In one place, the stage 
 coach had been stopped and plundered ; in an- 
 
246 THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 
 
 other, a man had been murdered and thrown into 
 the river; here and there a rude wooden cross 
 and a shapeless pile of stones marked the spot 
 where some unwary traveller had met his fate; 
 and at night, seated around the blazing hearth of 
 the inn-kitchen, my fellow-travellers would con 
 verse in a mysterious undertone of the dangers we 
 were to pass through on the morrow. But the 
 morrow came and went, and, alas ! neither sal- 
 teador nor ratero moved a finger. At one place 
 we were a day too late ; at another, a day too 
 early. 
 
 I am now at the Fonda de los Americanos. My 
 chamber-door opens upon a gallery, beneath which 
 is a little court paved with marble, having a foun 
 tain in the centre. As I write, I can just dis 
 tinguish the tinkling of its tiny jet, falling into the 
 circular basin with a murmur so gentle that it 
 scarcely breaks the silence of the night. At day- 
 dawn I start for Cadiz, promising myself a pleasant 
 sail down the Guadalquivir. All I shall be able to 
 say of Seville is what I have written above, that 
 it is "a pleasant city, famous for oranges and 
 women." 
 
 I AM at length in Cadiz. I came across the bay 
 yesterday morning in an open boat from Santa 
 Maria, and have established myself in very pleas 
 ant rooms, which look out upon the Plaza de San 
 Antonio, the public square of the city. The morn- 
 
THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 247 
 
 ing sun awakes me, and at evening the sea-breeze 
 comes in at my window. At night the square is 
 lighted by lamps suspended from the trees, and 
 thronged with a brilliant crowd of the young and 
 
 gay- 
 Cadiz is beautiful almost beyond imagination. 
 The cities of our dreams are not more enchanting. 
 It lies like a delicate sea-shell upon the brink of 
 the ocean, so wondrous fair that it seems not 
 formed for man. In sooth, the Paphian queen, 
 born of the feathery sea-foam, dwells here. It is 
 the city of beauty and of love. 
 
 The women of Cadiz are world-renowned for 
 their loveliness. Surely earth has none more 
 dazzling than a daughter of that bright, burning 
 clime. What a faultless figure ! what a dainty 
 foot ! what dignity ! what matchless grace ! 
 
 " What eyes, what lips, what every thing about her ! 
 How like a swan she swims her pace, and bears 
 Her silver breasts ! " 
 
 The Gaditana is not ignorant of her charms. 
 She knows full well the necromancy of a smile. 
 You see it in the flourish of her fan, a magic 
 wand, whose spell is powerful ; you see it in her 
 steady gaze, the elastic step, 
 
 " The veil 
 
 Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand, 
 While the o erpowering eye, that turns yon pale, 
 Flashes into the heart." 
 
 When I am grown old and gray, and sit by the 
 fireside wrapped in flannels, if, in a listless moment, 
 
248 THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 
 
 recalling what is now the present, but will then be 
 the distant and almost forgotten past, I turn over 
 the leaves of this journal till my watery eye falls 
 upon the page I have just written, I shall smile at 
 the enthusiasm with which I have sketched this 
 portrait. And where will then be the bright forms 
 that now glance before me, like the heavenly crea 
 tions of a dream? All gone, all gone! Or, if 
 perchance a few still linger upon earth, the silver 
 cord will be loosed, they will be bowed with age 
 and sorrow, saying their paternosters with a tremu 
 lous voice. 
 
 Old age is a Pharisee ; for he makes broad his 
 phylacteries, and wears them upon his brow, in 
 scribed with prayer, but in the " crooked auto 
 graph " of a palsied hand. " I see with pain," says 
 Madame de Pompadour, " that there is nothing 
 durable upon earth. We bring into the world a 
 fair face, and lo! in less than thirty years it is 
 covered with wrinkles ; after which a woman is no 
 longer good for any thing." 
 
 Were I to translate these sombre reflections into 
 choice Castilian, and read them to the bright-eyed 
 houri who is now leaning over the balcony oppo 
 site, she would laugh, and laughing say, " Cuando 
 el demonio es viejo, se metefrayle" 
 
 THE devotion paid at the shrine of the Virgin 
 is one of the most prominent and characteristic 
 
THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 249 
 
 features of the Catholic religion. In Spain, it is 
 one of its most attractive features. In the southern 
 provinces, in Granada and in Andalusia, which the 
 inhabitants call " La tierra de Maria Santisima" 
 the land of the most holy Mary, this adoration is 
 ardent and enthusiastic. There is one of its out 
 ward observances which struck me as peculiarly 
 beautiful and impressive. I refer to the Ave Maria, 
 an evening service of the Virgin. Just as the 
 evening twilight commences, the bell tolls to prayer. 
 In a moment, throughout the crowded city, the 
 hum of business is hushed, the thronged streets are 
 still; the gay multitudes that crowd the public 
 walks stand motionless ; the angry dispute ceases ; 
 the laugh of merriment dies away ; life seems for a 
 moment to be arrested in its career, and to stand 
 still. The multitude uncover their heads, and, 
 with the sign of the cross, whisper their evening 
 prayer to the Virgin. Then the bells ring a mer 
 rier peal; the crowds move again in the streets, 
 and the rush and turmoil of business recommence. 
 I have always listened with feelings of solemn 
 pleasure to the bell that sounded forth the Ave 
 Maria. As it announced the close of day, it 
 seemed also to call the soul from its worldly occu 
 pations to repose and devotion. There is some 
 thing beautiful in thus measuring the march of 
 time. The hour, too, naturally brings the heart 
 into unison with the feelings and sentiments of 
 devotion. The close of the day, the shadows of 
 evening, the calm of twilight, inspire a feeling 
 
250 THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 
 
 of tranquillity ; and though I may differ from the 
 Catholic in regard to the object of his supplica 
 tion, yet it seems to me a beautiful and appropriate 
 solemnity, that, at the close of each daily epoch of 
 life, which, if it have not been fruitful in incidents 
 to ourselves, has, nevertheless, been so to many of 
 the great human family, the voice of a whole 
 people, and of the whole world, should go up to 
 heaven in praise, and supplication, and thankful 
 ness. 
 
 " THE Moorish king rides up and down 
 Through Granada s royal town; 
 From Elvira s gates to those 
 Of Bivarambla on he goes. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! " 
 
 Thus commences one of the fine old Spanish 
 ballads, commemorating the downfall of the city of 
 Alhama, where we have stopped to rest our horses 
 on their fatiguing march from Velez-Mdlaga to 
 Granada. Alhama was one of the last strongholds 
 of the Moslem power in Spain. Its fall opened 
 the way for the Christian army across the Sierra 
 Nevada, and spread consternation and despair 
 through the city of Granada. The description in 
 the old ballad is highly graphic and beautiful ; and 
 its beauty is well preserved in the spirited English 
 translation by Lord Byron. 
 
THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 251 
 
 As we crossed the Sierra Nevada, the snowy- 
 mountains that look down upon the luxuriant Vega 
 of Granada, we overtook a solitary rider, who was 
 singing a wild national song to cheer the loneliness 
 of his journey. He was an athletic man, and rode 
 a spirited horse of the Arab breed. A black bear 
 skin jacket covered his broad shoulders, and around 
 his waist was wound the crimson faja, so univer 
 sally worn by the Spanish peasantry. His velvet 
 breeches reached below his knee, just meeting a 
 pair of leather gaiters of elegant workmanship. 
 A gay silken handkerchief was tied round his head, 
 and over this he wore the little round Andalusian 
 hat, decked dut with a profusion of tassels of silk 
 and bugles of silver. The steed he mounted was 
 dressed no less gayly than his rider. There was 
 a silver star upon his forehead, and a bright-colored 
 woollen tassel between his ears ; a blanket striped 
 with blue and red covered the saddle, and even 
 the Moorish stirrups were ornamented with brass 
 studs. 
 
 This personage was a contrabandista, a smuggler 
 between Granada and the seaport of Velez-Malaga. 
 The song he sung was one of the popular ballads 
 of the country. 
 
 Worn with speed is my good steed, 
 And I march me hurried, worried ; 
 Onward ! caballito mio, 
 With the white star in thy forehead ! 
 Onward ! for here comes the Ronda, 
 And I hear their rifles crack ! 
 
252 THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 
 
 Ay, jaleo ! Ay, ay, jaleo ! 
 
 Ay, jaleo ! they cross our track ! * 
 
 The air to which these words are sung is wild 
 and high ; and the prolonged and mournful cadence 
 gives it the sound of a funeral wail, or a cry for 
 help. To have its full effect upon the mind, it 
 should be heard by night, in some wild mountain - 
 pass, and from a distance. Then the harsh tones 
 
 * I here transcribe the original of which this is a single 
 stanza. Its only merit is simplicity, and a certain grace which 
 belongs to its provincial phraseology, and which would be lost 
 in a translation. 
 
 " Yo que soy contrabandista, 
 Y campo por mi respeto, 
 A todos los desafio, 
 Torque d naide tengo mieo. 
 ; Ay, jaleo ! ; Muchachas , jaleo ! 
 I Quien me compra jilo negro ? 
 
 " Mi caballo esti cansao, 
 Y yo me marcho corriendo. 
 jAnda, caballito mio, 
 Caballo mio careto ! 
 ; Anda, que viene la rouda, 
 Y se mueve el tiroteo ! 
 ; Ay, jaleo ! ; Ay, ay, jaleo ! 
 ; Ay, jaleo, que nos cortan ! 
 Sacame de aqueste aprieto. 
 
 " Mi caballo ya no corre, 
 
 Ya mi caballo paro. 
 
 Todo para en este mundo, 
 
 Tambien he de parar yo . 
 
 ; Ay, jaleo ! ; Muchachas, jalee ! 
 
 ^Quien me compra jilo negro? " 
 
THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 253 
 
 come softened to the ear, and, in unison with the 
 hour and the scene, produce a pleasing melan 
 choly. 
 
 The contrabandista accompanied us to Granada. 
 The sun had already set when we entered the 
 Vega, those luxuriant meadows which stretch 
 away to the south and west of the city, league 
 after league of rich, unbroken verdure. It was 
 Saturday night ; and, as the gathering twilight fell 
 around us, and one by one the lamps of the city 
 twinkled in the distance, suddenly kindling here 
 and there, as the stars start to their places in the 
 evening sky, a loud peal of bells rang forth its glad 
 welcome to the day of rest, over the meadows to 
 the distant hills, " swinging slow, with solemn roar." 
 
 Is this reality and not a dream ? Am I indeed 
 in Granada ? Am I indeed within the walls of 
 that earthly paradise of the Moorish kings ? How 
 my spirit is stirred within me ! How my heart is 
 lifted up ! How my thoughts are rapt away in the 
 visions of other days ! 
 
 Ave Maria purissima I It is midnight. The bell 
 has tolled the hour from the watchtower of the 
 Alhambra ; and the silent street echoes only to the 
 watchman s cry, Ave Maria purissima I I am alone 
 in my chamber, sleepless, spell-bound by the 
 genius of the place, entranced by the beauty of 
 the star-lit night. As I gaze from my window, a 
 
254 THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 
 
 sudden radiance brightens in the east. It is the 
 moon, rising behind the Alhambra. I can faintly 
 discern the dusky and indistinct outline of a mas 
 sive tower, standing amid the uncertain twilight, 
 like a gigantic shadow. It changes with the rising 
 moon, as a palace in the clouds, and other towers 
 and battlements arise, every moment more distinct, 
 more palpable, till now they stand between me and 
 the sky, with a sharp outline, distant, and yet so 
 near that I seem to sit within their shadow. 
 
 Majestic spirit of the night, I recognize thee ! 
 Thou hast conjured up this glorious vision for thy 
 votary. Thou hast baptized me with thy baptism. 
 Thou hast nourished my soul with fervent thoughts 
 and holy aspirations, and ardent longings after 
 the beautiful and the true. Majestic spirit of 
 the past, I recognize thee ! Thou hast bid the 
 shadow go back for me upon the dial-plate of time. 
 Thou hast taught me to read in thee the present 
 and the future, a revelation of man s destiny on 
 earth. Thou hast taught me to see in thee the 
 principle that unfolds itself from century to century 
 in the progress of our race, the germ in whose 
 bosom lie unfolded the bud, the leaf, the tree. Gen 
 erations perish, like the leaves of the forest, pass 
 ing away when their mission is completed ; but at 
 each succeeding spring, broader and higher spreads 
 the human mind unto its perfect stature, unto the 
 fulfilment of its destiny, unto the perfection of its 
 nature. And in these high revelations, thou hast 
 taught me more, thou hast taught me to feel 
 
THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 255 
 
 that I, too, weak, humble, and unknown, feeble 
 of purpose and irresolute of good, have some 
 thing to accomplish upon earth, like the falling 
 leaf, like the passing wind, like the drop of rain. 
 O glorious thought ! that lifts me above the 
 power of time and chance, and tells me that I 
 cannot pass away, and leave no mark of my 
 existence. I may not know the purpose of my 
 being, the end for which an all-wise Providence 
 created me as I am, and placed me where I am ; 
 but I do know for in such things faith is knowl 
 edge that my being has a purpose in the omnis 
 cience of my Creator, and that all my actions tend 
 to the completion, to the full accomplishment of 
 that purpose. Is this fatality ? No. I feel that I 
 am free, though an infinite and invisible power 
 overrules me. Man proposes, and God disposes. 
 This is one of the many mysteries in our being 
 which human reason cannot find out by search 
 ing. 
 
 Yonder towers, that stand so huge and massive 
 in the midnight air, the work of human hands that 
 have long since forgotten their cunning in the 
 grave, and once the home of human beings im 
 mortal as ourselves, and filled like us with hopes 
 and fears, and powers of good and ill, are lasting 
 memorials of their builders ; inanimate material 
 forms, yet living with the impress of a creative mind. 
 These are landmarks of other times. Thus from 
 the distant past the history of the human race is 
 telegraphed from generation to generation, through 
 
256 THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 
 
 the present to all succeeding ages. These are 
 manifestations of the human mind at a remote 
 period of its history, and among a people who came 
 from another clime, the children of the desert. 
 Their mission is accomplished, and they are gone ; 
 yet leaving behind them a thousand records of 
 themselves and of their ministry, not as yet fully 
 manifest, but " seen through a glass darkly," dimly 
 shadowed forth in the language, and character, and 
 manners, and history of the nation, that was by 
 turns the conquered and the conquering. The 
 Goth sat at the Arab s feet ; and athwart the cloud 
 and storm of war, streamed the light of Oriental 
 learning upon the Western world, 
 
 " As when the antumnal sun, 
 Through travelling rain and mist, 
 Shines on the evening hills." 
 
 THIS morning I visited the Alhambra; an en 
 chanted palace, whose exquisite beauty baffles the 
 power of language to describe. Its outlines may 
 be drawn, its halls and galleries, its court yards 
 and its fountains, numbered; but what skilful 
 limner shall portray in words its curious archi 
 tecture, the grotesque ornaments, the quaint de 
 vices, the rich tracery of the walls, the ceilings in 
 laid with pearl and tortoise-shell ? what language 
 paint the magic hues of light and shade, the shim 
 mer of the sunbeam as it falls upon the marble 
 
THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 257 
 
 pavement, and the brilliant panels inlaid with many- 
 colored stones ? Vague recollections fill my mind, 
 images dazzling but undefined, like the memory of 
 a gorgeous dream. They crowd my brain con 
 fusedly, but they will not stay ; they change and 
 mingle, like the tremulous sunshine on the wave, 
 till imagination itself is dazzled, bewildered, 
 overpowered ! 
 
 What most arrests the stranger s foot within the 
 walls of the Alhambra is the refinement of luxury 
 which he sees at every step. Pie lingers in the desert 
 ed bath, he pauses to gaze upon the now vacant 
 saloon, where stretched upon his gilded couch, the 
 effeminate monarch of the East was wooed to sleep 
 by softly breathing music. What more delightful 
 than this secluded garden, green with the leaf of 
 the myrtle and the orange, and freshened with the 
 gush of fountains, beside whose basin ihe nightin 
 gale still woos the blushing rose ? What more 
 fanciful, more exquisite, more like a creation of 
 Oriental magic, than the lofty tower of the Toca- 
 dor, its airy sculpture resembling the fretwork of 
 wintry frost, and its windows overlooking the 
 romantic valley of the Darro ; and the city, with 
 its gardens, domes, and spires, far, far below ? Cool 
 through this lattice comes the summer wind, from 
 the icy summits of the Sierra Nevada. Softly in 
 yonder fountain falls the crystal water, dripping 
 from its marble vase with never-ceasing sound. On 
 every side comes up the fragrance of a thousand 
 flowers, the murmur of innumerable leaves ; and 
 
 VOL. i. 17 
 
258 THE PILGRIM S BREVIARY. 
 
 overhead is a sky where not a vapor floats, as 
 soft, and blue, and radiant as the eye of child 
 hood ! 
 
 Such is the Alhambra of Granada ; a fortress, 
 a palace, an earthly paradise, a ruin, wonderful 
 in its fallen greatness ! 
 
ITALY. 
 
THE 
 
 JOUKNEY INTO ITALY. 
 
 What I catch is at present only sketch- ways, as it were | but I 
 prepare myself betimes for the Italian journey. 
 
 GOETHE S FAUST. 
 
 ON the afternoon of the fifteenth of December, 
 in the year of grace one thousand eight hundred 
 and twenty-seven, I left Marseilles for Genoa, tak 
 ing the sea-shore road through Toulon, Draguignan, 
 and Nice. This journey is written in my memory 
 with a sunbeam. We were a company whom 
 chance had thrown together, different in ages, 
 humors, and pursuits, and yet so merrily the days 
 went by, in sunshine, wind, or rain, that methinks 
 some lucky star must have ruled the hour that 
 brought us five so auspiciously together. But 
 where is now that merry company ? One sleeps 
 in his youthful grave ; two sit in their fatherland, 
 and " coin their brain for their daily bread " ; and 
 the others, where are they ? If still among the 
 living, I beg them to remember in their prayers the 
 humble historian of their journey from Marseilles 
 to Genoa. 
 
 At Toulon we took a private carriage, in order 
 to pursue our journey more leisurely and more at 
 ease. I well remember the strange, outlandish 
 
262 THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 
 
 vehicle, and our vetturino Joseph, with his blouse, 
 his short-stemmed pipe, his limping gait, his comical 
 phiz, and the lowland dialect his mother taught him 
 at Avignon. Every scene, every incident of the 
 journey is now before me as if written in a book. 
 The sunny landscapes of the Var, the peasant 
 girls with their broad-brimmed hats of straw, the 
 inn at Draguignan, with its painting of a lady on 
 horseback, underwritten in French and English, 
 " Une jeune dame a la promenade, A young ladi 
 taking a walk/ the mouldering arches of the Ro 
 man aqueducts at Frejus, standing in the dim twi 
 light of morning like shadowy apparitions of the 
 past, the wooded bridge across the Var, the 
 glorious amphitheatre of hills that half encircle 
 Nice, the midnight scene at the village inn of 
 Monaco, the mountain-road overhanging the sea 
 at a dizzy height, and its long, dark passages cut 
 through the solid rock, the tumbling mountain- 
 torrent, and a fortress perched on a jutting spur 
 of the Alps ; these, and a thousand varied scenes 
 and landscapes of this journey, rise before me, as 
 if still visible to the eye of sense, and not to that 
 of memory only. And yet I will not venture upon 
 a minute description of them. I have not colors 
 bright enough for such landscapes ; and besides, 
 even the most determined lovers of the picturesque 
 grow weary of long descriptions ; though, as the 
 French guide-book says of these scenes, " Tout cela 
 fait sans doute un spectacle admirable ! " 
 
THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 263 
 
 ON the tenth day of our journey, we reached 
 Genoa, the city of palaces, the superb city. The 
 writer of an old book, called " Time s Storehouse," 
 thus poetically describes its situation : " This cittie 
 is most proudly built upon the seacoast and the 
 downefall of the Apennines, at the foot of a moun- 
 taine ; even as if she were descended downe the 
 mount, and come to repose herselfe uppon a 
 plaine." 
 
 It was Christmas eve, a glorious night ! I stood 
 at midnight on the wide terrace of our hotel, which 
 overlooks the sea, and, gazing on the tiny and 
 crisping waves that broke in pearly light beneath 
 the moon, sent back my wandering thoughts far 
 over the sea, to a distant home. The jangling 
 music of church-bells aroused me from my dream. 
 It was the sound of jubilee at the approaching 
 festival of the Nativity, and summoned alike the 
 pious devotee, the curious stranger, and the gallant 
 lover to the church of the Annunziata. 
 
 I descended from the terrace, and, groping my 
 way through one of the dark and narrow lanes 
 which intersect the city in all directions, soon found 
 myself in the Strada Nuova. The long line of 
 palaces lay half in shadow, half in light, stretching 
 before me in magical perspective, like the long, 
 vapory opening of a cloud in the summer sky. 
 Following the various groups that were passing on 
 ward towards the public square, I entered the 
 church, where midnight mass was to be chanted. 
 A dazzling blaze of light from the high altar shone 
 
264 THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 
 
 upon the red marble columns which support the 
 roof, and fell with a solemn effect upon the kneel 
 ing crowd that filled the body of the church. All 
 beyond was in darkness ; and from that darkness at 
 intervals burst forth the deep voice of the organ 
 and the chanting of the choir, filling the soul with 
 solemnity and awe. And yet, among that prostrate 
 crowd, how many had been drawn thither by un 
 worthy motives, motives even more unworthy 
 than mere idle curiosity ! How many sinful pur 
 poses arose in souls unpurified, and mocked at the 
 bended knee ! How many a heart beat wild with 
 earthly passion, while the unconscious lip repeated 
 the accustomed prayer ! Immortal spirit ! canst 
 thou so heedlessly resist the imploring voice that 
 calls thee from thine errors and pollutions ? Is not 
 the long day long enough, is not the wide world 
 wide enough, has not society frivolity enough for 
 thee, that thou shouldst seek out this midnight 
 hour, this holy place, this solemn sacrifice, to add 
 irreverence to thy folly ? 
 
 In the shadow of a column stood a young man 
 wrapped in a cloak, earnestly conversing in a low 
 whisper with a female figure, so veiled as to hide 
 her face from the eyes of all but her companion. 
 At length they separated. The young man con 
 tinued leaning against the column, and the girl, 
 gliding silently along the dimly lighted aisle, mingled 
 with the crowd, and threw herself upon her knees. 
 Beware, poor girl, thought I, lest thy gentle nature 
 prove thy undoing ! Perhaps, alas ! thou art already 
 
THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 265 
 
 undone ! And I almost heard the evil spirit whisper, 
 as in the Faust, " How different was it with thee, 
 Margaret, when, still full of innocence, thou earnest 
 to the altar here, out of the well-worn little book 
 lispedst prayers, half child-sport, half God in the 
 heart ! Margaret, where is thy head ? What crime 
 in thy heart ! " 
 
 The city of Genoa is magnificent in parts, but 
 not as a whole. The houses are high, and the 
 streets in general so narrow that in many of them 
 you may almost step across from side to side. They 
 are built to receive the cool sea-breeze, and shut 
 out the burning sun. Only three of them if my 
 memory serves me are wide enough to admit the 
 passage of carriages ; and these three form but one 
 continuous street, the street of palaces. They 
 are the Strada Nuova, the Strada Novissima, and 
 the Strada Balbi, which connect the Piazza Amo- 
 rosa with the Piazza dell Annunziata. These 
 palaces, the Doria, the Durazzo, the Ducal Palace, 
 and others of less magnificence, with their vast 
 halls, their marble staircases, vestibules, and ter 
 races, and the aspect of splendor and munificence 
 they wear, have given this commercial city the 
 title of Genoa the Superb. And, as if to humble 
 her pride, some envious rival among the Italian 
 cities has launched at her a biting sarcasm in the 
 well-known proverb, " Mare senza pesce, uomini 
 senza fede, e donne senza vcrgogna" A sea with 
 out fish, men without faith, and women without 
 shame ! 
 
266 THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 
 
 THE road from Genoa to Lucca strongly re 
 sembles that from Nice to Genoa. It runs along 
 the seaboard, now dipping to the water s edge, and 
 now climbing the zigzag mountain-pass, with top 
 pling crags, and yawning chasms, and verdant 
 terraces of vines and olive-trees. Many a sublime 
 and many a picturesque landscape catches the travel 
 ler s eye, now almost weary with gazing ; and still 
 brightly painted upon my mind lies a calm evening 
 scene on the borders of the Gulf of Spezia, with its 
 broad sheet of crystal water ,- the blue-tinted hills 
 that form its oval basin, the crimson sky above, 
 and its bright reflection, 
 
 " Where it lay 
 
 Deep bosomed in the still and quiet bay, 
 The sea reflecting all that glowed above, 
 Till a new sky, softer but not so gay, 
 Arched in its bosom, trembled like a dove." 
 
 PISA, the melancholy city, with its Leaning 
 Tower, its Campo Santo, its bronze-gated cathedral, 
 and its gloomy palaces, Florence the Fair, with 
 its magnificent Duomo, its gallery of ancient art, 
 its gardens, its gay society, and its delightful envi 
 rons, Fiesole, Camaldoli, Vallombrosa, and the 
 luxuriant Val d Arno ; these have been so often 
 and so beautifully described by others, that I need 
 not repeat the twice-told tale. 
 
THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 267 
 
 AT Florence I took lodgings in a house which 
 looks upon the Piazza Novella. In front of my 
 windows was the venerable church of Santa Maria 
 Novella, in whose gloomy aisles Boccaccio has 
 placed the opening scene of his Decamerone. 
 There, when the plague was raging in the city, 
 one Tuesday morning, after mass, the " seven 
 ladies, young and fair," held counsel together, 
 and resolved to leave the infected city, and flee to 
 their rural villas hi the environs, where they might 
 " hear the birds sing, and see the green hills, 
 and the plains, and the fields covered with grain 
 and undulating like the sea, and trees of species 
 manifold." 
 
 In the Florentine museum is a representation in 
 wax of some of the appalling scenes of the plague 
 which desolated this city about the middle of the 
 fourteenth century, and which Boccaccio has de 
 scribed with such simplicity and power in the intro 
 duction of his Decamerone. It is the work of a 
 Sicilian artist, by the name of Zumbo. He must 
 have been a man of the most gloomy and saturnine 
 imagination, and more akin to the worm than most 
 of us, thus to have revelled night and day in the 
 hideous mysteries of death, corruption, and the 
 charnel-house. It is strange how this representation 
 haunts one. It is like a dream of the sepulchre, 
 with its loathsome corses, with " the blackening, the 
 swelling, the bursting of the trunk, the worm, the 
 rat, and the tarantula at work." You breathe 
 more freely as you step out into the open air again ; 
 
268 THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 
 
 and when the bright sunshine and the crowded, 
 busy streets next meet your eye, you are ready to 
 ask, Is this indeed a representation of reality ? Can 
 this pure air have been laden with pestilence? 
 Can this gay city have ever been a city of the 
 plague ? 
 
 The work of the Sicilian artist is admirable as a 
 piece of art ; the description of the Florentine 
 prose-poet equally admirable as a piece of elo 
 quence. " How many vast palaces," he exclaims, 
 "how many beautiful houses, how many noble 
 dwellings, aforetime filled with lords and ladies and 
 trains of servants, were now untenanted even by 
 the lowest menial ! How many memorable fami 
 lies, how many ample heritages, how many re 
 nowned possessions, were left without an heir! 
 How many valiant men, how many beautiful 
 women, how many gentle youths breakfasted in 
 the morning with their relatives, companions, and 
 friends, and, when the evening came, supped with 
 their ancestors in the other world ! " 
 
 I MET with an odd character at Florence, a 
 complete humorist. He was an Englishman of 
 some forty years of age, with a round, good- 
 humored countenance, and a nose that wore the 
 livery of good company. He was making the 
 grand tour through France and Italy, and home 
 again by the way of the Tyrol and the Rhine. He 
 
THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 2G& 
 
 travelled post, with a double-barrelled gun, two 
 pair of pistols, and a violin without a bow. He had 
 been in Rome without seeing St. Peter s, he did 
 not care about it ; he had seen St. Paul s in Lon 
 don. He had been in Naples without visiting 
 Pompeii, because " they told him it was hardly 
 worth seeing, nothing but a parcel of dark streets 
 and old walls. The principal object he seemed to 
 have in view was to complete the grand tour. 
 
 I afterward met with his counterpart in a coun 
 tryman of my own, who made it a point to see 
 every thing which was mentioned in the guide 
 books; and boasted how much he could accom 
 plish in a day. He would despatch a city in an 
 incredibly short space of time. A Roman aque 
 duct, a Gothic cathedral, two or three modern 
 churches, and an ancient ruin or so, were only 
 a breakfast for him. Nothing came amiss ; not a 
 stone was left unturned. A city was like a Chi 
 nese picture to him, it had no perspective. Every 
 object seemed of equal magnitude and importance. 
 He saw them all ; they were all wonderful. 
 
 Life is short, and art is long ; yet spare me from 
 thus travelling with the speed of thought, and trot 
 ting, from daylight until dark, at the heels of a 
 cicerone, with an umbrella in one hand, and a 
 guide-book and plan of the city in the other. 
 
 I COPIED the following singular inscription from 
 a tombstone in the Protestant cemetery at Leg- 
 
270 THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 
 
 horn. It is the epitaph of a lady, written by 
 herself, and engraven upon her tomb at her own 
 request. 
 
 " Under this stone lies the victim of sorrow. 
 
 Fly, wandering stranger, from her mouldering dust, 
 
 Lest the rude wind, conveying a particle thereof unto 
 
 thee, 
 
 Should communicate that venom melancholy 
 That has destroyed the strongest frame and liveliest 
 
 spirit. 
 
 With joy of heart has she resigned her breath, 
 A living martyr to sensibility! " 
 
 How inferior in true pathos is this inscription to 
 one in the cemetery of Bologna ; 
 
 " Lucrezia Picini 
 Implora eterna pace." 
 
 Lucretia Picini implores eternal peace ! 
 
 From Florence to Rome I travelled with a 
 vetturino, by the way of Siena. We were six 
 days upon the road, and, like Peter Rugg in the 
 story-book, were followed constantly by clouds and 
 rain. At times, the sun, not all-forgetful of the 
 world, peeped from beneath his cowl of mist, and 
 kissed the swarthy face of his beloved land ; and 
 then, like an anchorite, withdrew again from earth, 
 and gave himself to heaven. Day after day the 
 mist and the rain were my fellow-travellers ; and 
 as I sat wrapped in the thick folds of my Spanish 
 cloak, and looked out upon the misty landscape and 
 
THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 271 
 
 the leaden sky, I was continually saying to myself, 
 " Can this be Italy ? " and smiling at the untravelled 
 credulity of those who, amid the storms of a north 
 ern winter, give way to the illusions of fancy, and 
 dream of Italy as a sunny land, where no wintry 
 tempest beats, and where, even in January, the 
 pale invalid may go about without his umbrella, or 
 his India-rubber walk-in-the-waters. 
 
 Notwithstanding all this, with the help of a good 
 constitution and a thick pair of boots, I contrived 
 to see all that was to be seen upon the road. I 
 walked down the long hillside at San Lorenzo, and 
 along the border of the Lake of Bolsena, which, 
 veiled in the driving mist, stretched like an inland 
 sea beyond my ken ; and through the sacred forest 
 of oak, held in superstitious reverence by the peas 
 ant, and inviolate from his axe. I passed a night 
 at Montefiascone, renowned for a delicate Muscat 
 wine, which bears the name of Est, and made a 
 midnight pilgrimage to the tomb of the Bishop 
 John Defoucris, who died a martyr to his love of 
 tfiis wine of Montefiascone. 
 
 " Propter nimium Est, Est, Est, 
 Dominus meus mortuus est." 
 
 A. marble slab in the pavement, worn by the foot- 
 oteps of pilgrims like myself, covers the dominie s 
 ftshes. There is a rude figure carved upon it, at 
 whose feet I traced out the cabalistic words, " Est, 
 Est, Est." The remainder of the inscription was 
 
272 THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 
 
 illegible by the flickering light of the sexton s 
 lantern. 
 
 At Baccano I first caught sight of the dome of 
 Saint Peter s. We had entered the desolate Cam- 
 pagna ; we passed the Tomb of Nero, we ap 
 proached the Eternal City ; but no sound of active 
 life, no thronging crowds, no hum of busy men, 
 announced that we were near the gates of Rome. 
 All was silence, solitude, and desolation. 
 
ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 
 
 She who tained the world seemed to tame herself at last, and, 
 felling -under her own weight, grew to be a prey to Time, who 
 with his iron teeth consumes all bodies at last, making all things, 
 both animate and inanimate, which have their being under that 
 changeling, the moon, to be subject unto corruption and desola 
 tion. HOWELL S SIGNOEIE OP VENICE. 
 
 THE masks and mummeries of Carnival are 
 over ; the imposing ceremonies of Holy Week have 
 become a tale of the times of old ; the illumination 
 of St. Peter s and the Girandola are no longer the 
 theme of gentle and simple ; and finally, the bar 
 barians of the North have retreated from the gates 
 of Rome, and left the Eternal City silent and de 
 serted. The cicerone stands at the corner of the 
 street with his hands in his pockets ; the artist has 
 shut himself up in his studio to muse upon anti 
 quity ; and the idle facchino lounges in the market 
 place, and plays at mora by the fountain. Mid 
 summer has come ; and you may now hire a palace 
 for what, a few weeks ago, would hardly have paid 
 your night s lodging in its garret. 
 
 I am still lingering in Rome, a student, not an 
 artist, and have taken lodgings in the Piazza 
 Navona, the very heart of the city, and one of the 
 
 VOL. i. 18 
 
274 ROME US MIDSUMMER. 
 
 largest and most magnificent squares of modern 
 Rome. It occupies the site of the ancient amphi 
 theatre of Alexander Severus ; and the churches, 
 palaces, and shops that now surround it, are builj 
 upon the old foundations of the amphitheatre. A> 
 each extremity of the square stands a fountain 
 the one with a simple jet of crystal water, the othev 
 with a triton holding a dolphin by the tail. In the 
 centre rises a nobler work of art ; a fountain with 
 a marble basin more than two hundred feet in cir 
 cumference. From the midst uprises a huge rock, 
 pierced with grottos, wherein sit a rampant sea 
 horse, and a lion couchant. On the sides of the 
 rock are four colossal statues, representing the four 
 principal rivers of the world ; and from its summit, 
 forty feet from the basin below, shoots up an 
 obelisk of red granite, covered with hieroglyphics, 
 and fifty feet in height, a relic of the amphitheatre 
 of Caracalla. 
 
 In this quarter of the city I have dpmiciliated 
 myself, in a family of whose many kindnesses I 
 shall always retain the most lively and grateful 
 remembrance. My mornings are spent in visiting 
 the wonders of Rome, in studying the miracles of 
 ancient and modern art, or in reading at the public 
 libraries. We breakfast at noon, and dine at eight 
 in the evening. After dinner comes the conver 
 sazione, enlivened with music, and the meeting of 
 travellers, artists, and literary men from every 
 quarter of the globe. At midnight, when the 
 crowd is gone, I retire to my chamber, and, poring 
 
ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 275 
 
 over the gloomy pages of Dante, or " Bandello s 
 laughing tale," protract my nightly vigil till the 
 morning star is in the sky. 
 
 Our windows look out upon the square, which 
 circumstance is a source of infinite enjoyment to 
 me. Directly in front, with its fantastic belfries 
 and swelling dome, rises the church of St. Agnes ; 
 and sitting by the open window, I note the busy 
 scene below, enjoy the cool air of morning and 
 evening, and even feel the freshness of the foun 
 tain, as its waters leap in mimic cascades down the 
 sides of the rock. 
 
 THE Piazza Navona is the chief market-place 
 of Rome ; and on market-days is filled with a noisy 
 crowd of the Roman populace, and the peasantry 
 from the neighbouring villages of Albano and 
 Frascati. At such times the square presents an 
 animated and curious scene. The gayly decked 
 stalls, the piles of fruits and vegetables, the 
 pyramids of flowers, the various costumes of the 
 peasantry, the constant movement of the vast, 
 fluctuating crowd, and the deafening clamor of 
 their discordant voices, that rise louder than the 
 roar of the loud ocean, all this is better than a 
 play to me, and gives me amusement when naught 
 else has power to amuse. 
 
 Every Saturday afternoon in the sultry month 
 of August, this spacious square is converted into a 
 lake, by stopping the conduit-pipes which carry off* 
 
276 ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 
 
 the water of the fountains. Vehicles of every 
 description, axle-deep, drive to and fro across the 
 mimic lake; a dense crowd gathers around its 
 margin, and a thousand tricks excite the loud 
 laughter of the idle populace. Here is a fellow 
 groping with a stick after his seafaring hat ; there 
 another splashing in the water in pursuit of a mis 
 chievous spaniel, who is swimming away with his 
 shoe ; while from a neighbouring balcony a noisy 
 burst of military music fills the air, and gives fresh 
 animation to the scene of mirth. This is one of 
 the popular festivals of midsummer in Rome, and 
 the merriest of them all. It is a kind of carnival 
 unmasked; and many a popular bard, many a 
 poeta di dozzina, invokes this day the plebeian 
 Muse of the market-place to sing in high-sounding 
 rhyme, u ll Lago di Piazza Navona" 
 
 I have before me one of these sublime effusions. 
 It describes the square, the crowd, the rattling 
 carriages, the lake, the fountain, raised by " the 
 superhuman genius of Bernini," the lion, the 
 sea-horse, and the triton grasping the dolphin s tail. 
 " Half the grand square," thus sings the poet, 
 "where Rome with food is satiate, was changed 
 into a lake, around whose margin stood the Roman 
 people, pleased with soft idleness and merry holi 
 day, like birds upon the margin of a limpid brook. 
 Up and down drove car and chariot; and the 
 women trembled for fear of the deep water ; though 
 merry were the young, and well I ween, had they 
 been borne away to unknown shores by the bull 
 
ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 277 
 
 that bore away Europa, they would neither have 
 wept nor screamed ! " 
 
 ON the eastern slope of the Janiculum, now 
 called, from its yellow sands, Montorio, or the 
 Golden Mountain, stands the fountain of Acqua 
 Paola, the largest and most abundant of the Roman 
 fountains. It is a small Ionic temple, with six 
 columns of reddish granite in front, a spacious hall 
 and chambers within, and a garden with a terrace 
 in the rear. Beneath the pavement, a torrent of 
 water from the ancient aqueducts of Trajan, and 
 from the lakes of Bracciano and Martignano, leaps 
 forth in three beautiful cascades, and from the 
 overflowing basin rushes down the hillside to turn 
 the busy wheels of a dozen mills. 
 
 The key of this little fairy palace is in our hands, 
 and as often as once a week we pass the day there, 
 amid the odor of its flowers, the rushing sound of 
 its waters, and the enchantments of poetry and 
 music. How pleasantly the sultry hours steal by ! 
 Cool comes the summer wind from the Tiber s 
 mouth at Ostia. Above us is a sky without a 
 cloud ; beneath us the magnificent panorama of 
 Rome and the Campagna, bounded by the Abruzzi 
 and the sea. Glorious scene ! one glance at thee 
 would move the dullest soul, one glance can melt 
 the painter and the poet into tears ! 
 
 In the immediate neighbourhood of the fountain 
 are many objects worthy of the stranger s notice. 
 
278 KOME IN MIDSUMMER. 
 
 A bowshot down the hillside towards the city 
 stands the convent of San Pietro in Montorio ; and 
 in the cloister of this convent is a small, round 
 Doric temple, built upon the spot which an ancient 
 tradition points out as the scene of St. Peter s mar 
 tyrdom. In the opposite direction the road leads 
 you over the shoulder of the hill, and out through 
 the city-gate to gardens and villas beyond. Pass 
 ing beneath a lofty arch of Trajan s aqueduct, an 
 ornamented gateway on the left admits you to the 
 Villa Pamfili-Doria, built on the western declivity 
 of the hill. This is the largest and most magnifi 
 cent of the numerous villas that crowd the immedi 
 ate envifons of Rome. Its spacious terraces, its 
 marble statues, its woodlands and green alleys, its 
 lake and waterfalls and fountains, give it an air of 
 courtly splendor and of rural beauty, which real 
 izes the beau ideal of a suburban villa. 
 
 This is our favorite resort, when we have passed 
 the day at the fountain, and the afternoon shadows 
 begin to fall. There we sit on the broad marble 
 steps of the terrace, gaze upon the varied land 
 scape stretching to the misty sea, or ramble beneath 
 the leafy dome of the woodland and along the 
 margin of the lake, 
 
 "And drop a pebble to see it sink 
 Down in those depths so calm and cool." 
 
 O, did we but know when we are happy ! Could 
 the restless, feverish, ambitious heart be still, but 
 for a moment still, and yield itself, without one 
 
ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 279 
 
 farther-aspiring throb, to its enjoyment, then were 
 I happy, yes, thrice happy ! But no ; this flutter 
 ing, struggling, and imprisoned spirit beats the 
 bars of its golden cage, disdains the silken fetter ; 
 it will not close its eye and fold its wings ; as if 
 time were not swift enough, its swifter thoughts 
 outstrip his rapid flight, and onward, onward do 
 they wing their way to the distant mountains, to 
 the fleeting clouds of the future ; and yet I know, 
 that ere long, weary, and wayworn, and disap 
 pointed, they shall return to nestle in the bosom 
 of the past ! 
 
 This day, also, I have passed at Acqua Paola. 
 From the garden terrace I watched the setting sun, 
 as, wrapt in golden vapor, he passed to other 
 climes. A friend from my native land was with 
 me ; and as we spake of home, a liquid star stood 
 trembling like a tear upon the closing eyelid of the 
 day. Which of us sketched these lines with a 
 pencil upon the cover of Julia s Corinna ? 
 
 Bright star ! whose soft, familiar ray, 
 
 In colder climes and gloomier skies, 
 I ve watched so oft when closing day 
 
 Had tinged the west with crimson dyes; 
 Perhaps to-night some friend I love, 
 
 Beyond the deep, the distant sea, 
 Will gaze upon thy path above, 
 
 And give one lingering thought to me. 
 
 TORQUATI TASSO OSSA HIC JACENT, Here 
 lie the bones of Torquato Tasso, is the simple 
 
280 ROME IX MIDSUMMER. 
 
 inscription upon the poet s tomb, in the church 
 of St. Onofrio. Many a pilgrimage is made to 
 this grave. Many a bard from distant lands 
 comes to visit the spot, and, as he paces the 
 secluded cloisters of the convent where the poet 
 died, and where his ashes rest, muses on the 
 sad vicissitudes of his life, and breathes a prayer 
 for the peace of his soul. He sleeps midway 
 between his cradle at Sorrento and his dungeon 
 at Ferrara. 
 
 The monastery of St. Onofrio stands on the 
 Janiculum, overlooking the Tiber and the city 
 of Rome ; and in the distance rise the towers 
 of the Roman Capitol, where, after long years 
 of sickness, sorrow, and imprisonment, the laurel 
 crown was prepared for the great epic poet 
 of Italy. The chamber in which Tasso died is 
 still shown to the curious traveller ; and the tree 
 in the garden, under whose shade he loved to 
 sit. The feelings of the dying man, as he reposed 
 in this retirement, are not the vague conjectures 
 of poetic revery. He has himself recorded them 
 in a letter which he wrote to his friend Antonio 
 Constantini, a few days only before his dissolution. 
 These are his melancholy words : 
 
 " What will my friend Antonio say, when he 
 hears the death of Tasso ? Ere long, I think, 
 the news will reach him : for I feel that the end 
 of my life is near ; being able to find no remedy 
 for this wearisome indisposition which is super- 
 added to my customary infirmities, and by which, 
 
ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 281 
 
 as by a rapid torrent, I see myself swept away, 
 without a hand to save. It is no longer time to 
 speak of my unyielding destiny, not to say the 
 ingratitude of the world, which has longed even 
 for the victory of driving me a beggar to my 
 grave ; while I thought that the glory which, in 
 spite of those who will it not, this age shall receive 
 from my writings was not to leave me thus without 
 reward. I have come to this monastery of St. 
 Onofrio, not only because the air is commended 
 by physicians as more salubrious than in any 
 other part of Rome, but that I may, as it were, 
 commence, in this high place, and in the conver 
 sation of these devout fathers, my conversation in 
 heaven. Pray God for me ; and be assured that 
 as I have loved and honored you in this present 
 life, so in that other and more real life will I do 
 for you all that belongs to charity unfeigned and 
 true. And to the divine mercy I commend both 
 you and myself." 
 
 THE modern Romans are a very devout people. 
 The Princess Doria washes the pilgrims feet in 
 Holy Week; every evening, foul or fair, the 
 whole year round, there is a rosary sung before 
 an image of the Virgin, within a stone s throw 
 of my window ; and the young ladies write letters 
 to St. Louis Gonzaga, who in all paintings and 
 sculpture is represented as young and angelically 
 
282 ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 
 
 beautiful. I saw a large pile of these letters a 
 few weeks ago in Gonzaga s chapel, at the church 
 of St. Ignatius. They were lying at the foot 
 of the altar, prettily written on smooth paper, 
 and tied with silken ribbons of various colors. 
 Leaning over the marble balustrade, I read the 
 following superscription upon one of them : 
 " AlV Angelica Giovane S. Luigi Gonzaga, Para- 
 diso" To the angelic youth St. Louis Gonzaga, 
 Paradise. A soldier, with a musket, kept guard 
 over this treasure ; and I had the audacity to ask 
 him at what hour the mail went out; for which 
 heretical impertinence he cocked his mustache at 
 me with the most savage look imaginable, as much 
 as to say, " Get thee gone " : 
 
 " Andate, 
 Niente pigliate, 
 E mai ritornate." 
 
 The modern Romans are likewise strongly given 
 to amusements of every description. Panem et 
 circenseSj says the Latin satirist, when chiding the 
 degraded propensities of his countrymen ; Panem 
 et circenseSj-^-thQy are content with bread and the 
 sports of the circus. The same may be said at 
 the present day. Even in this hot weather, when 
 the shops are shut at noon, and the fat priests 
 waddle about the streets with fans in their hands, 
 the people crowd to the Mausoleum of Augustus, 
 to be choked with the smoke of fireworks, and see 
 deformed and humpback dwarfs tumbled into the 
 
ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 283 
 
 dirt by the masked horns of young bullocks. 
 What a refined amusement for the inhabitants 
 of " pompous and holy Rome ! " 
 
 THE Sirocco prevails to-day, a hot wind from 
 the burning sands of Africa, that bathes its wings 
 in the sea, and comes laden with fogs and vapors 
 to the shores of Italy. It is oppressive and dis 
 piriting, and quite unmans one, like the dogdays 
 of the North. There is a scrap of an old English 
 song running in my mind, in which the poet calls 
 it a cool wind ; though ten to one I misquote. 
 
 " When the cool Sirocco blows, 
 And daws and pies and rooks and crows 
 Sit and curse the wintry snows, 
 Then give me ale! " 
 
 I should think that stark English beer might 
 have a potent charm against the powers of the 
 foul fiend that rides this steaming, reeking wind. 
 A flask of Montefiascone, or a bottle of Lacrima 
 Christi does very well. 
 
 BEGGARS all, beggars all! The Papal city 
 is full of them ; and they hold you by the button 
 through the whole calendar of saints. You cannot 
 choose but hear. I met an old woman yesterday, 
 who pierced my ear with this alluring petition : 
 
284 ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 
 
 " Ah, signore ! QualcJie piccola cosa, per carita ! 
 Vi dirb la buona ventura I C" e una bella signo- 
 rina, die vi ama molto I Per il Sacro Sacramento ! 
 Per la Madonna I " 
 
 Which, being interpreted, is, " Ah, sir, a trifle, 
 for charity s sake ! I will tell your fortune for 
 you ! There is a beautiful young lady who loves 
 you well ! For the Holy Sacrament, for the 
 Madonna s sake ! " 
 
 Who could resist such an appeal ? 
 
 I made a laughable mistake this morning in 
 giving alms. A man stood on the shady side 
 of the street with his hat in his hand, and as I 
 passed he gave me a piteous look, though he said 
 nothing. He had such a wobegone face, and 
 such a threadbare coat, that I at once took him 
 for one of those mendicants who bear the title 
 of poveri vergognosi, bashful beggars ; persons 
 whom pinching want compels to receive the 
 stranger s charity, though pride restrains them 
 from asking it. Moved with compassion I threw 
 into the hat the little I had to give ; when, instead 
 of thanking me with a blessing, my man of the 
 threadbare coat showered upon me the most 
 sonorous maledictions of his native tongue, and, 
 emptying his greasy hat upon the pavement, drew 
 it down over his ears with both hands, and stalked 
 away with all the dignity of a Roman senator in 
 the best days of the republic, to the infinite 
 amusement of a green-grocer, who stood at his 
 shop-door bursting with laughter. No time was 
 
ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 285 
 
 given me for an apology ; but I resolved to be for 
 the future more discriminating in my charities, 
 and not to take for a beggar every poor gentle 
 man who chose to stand in the shade with his hat 
 in his hand on a hot summer s day. 
 
 THERE is an old fellow who hawks pious legends 
 and the lives of saints through the streets of 
 Rome, with a sharp, cracked voice, that knows 
 no pause nor division in the sentences it utters. I 
 just heard him cry at a breath : 
 
 " La Vita di San Giuseppe quel fidel servitor 
 di Dio santo e maraviylioso mezzo bajocco" 
 The Life of St. Joseph that faithful servant of God 
 holy and wonderful ha penny ! 
 
 This is the way with some people ; every thing 
 helter-skelter, heads and tails, prices current 
 . and the lives of saints ! 
 
 IT has been a rainy day, a day of gloom. 
 The church-bells never rang in my ears with so 
 melancholy a sound ; and this afternoon I saw a 
 mournful scene, which still haunts my imagination. 
 It was the funeral of a monk. I was drawn to 
 the window by the solemn chant, as the procession 
 came from a neighbouring street and crossed the 
 square. First came a long train of priests, clad 
 in black, and bearing in their hands large waxen 
 
286 ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 
 
 tapers, which flared in every gust of wind, and 
 were now and then extinguished by the rain. 
 The bier followed, borne on the shoulders of 
 four bare-footed Carmelites ; and upon it, ghastly 
 and grim, lay the body of the dead monk, clad in 
 his long gray kirtle, with the twisted cord about 
 his waist. Not even a shroud was thrown over 
 him. His head and feet were bare, and his hands 
 were placed upon his bosom, palm to palm, in the 
 attitude of prayer. His face was emaciated, and 
 of a livid hue ; his eyes unclosed ; and at every 
 movement of the bier, his head nodded to and fro, 
 with an unearthly and hideous aspect. Behind 
 walked the monastic brotherhood, a long and 
 melancholy procession, with their cowls thrown 
 back, and their eyes cast upon the ground ; and 
 last of all came a man with a rough, unpainted 
 coffin upon his shoulders, closing the funeral train. 
 
 MANY of the priests, monks, monsignori, and 
 cardinals of Rome have a bad reputation, even 
 after deducting a tithe or so from the tales of 
 gossip. To some of them may be applied the 
 rhyming Latin distich, written for the monks of 
 old:- 
 
 " Monachi, 
 
 Vestri stomach! 
 
 Sunt amphora Bacchi; 
 
 Vos estis, 
 
 Deus est testis, 
 
 Turpissima pestis." 
 
ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 287 
 
 The graphic description which Thomson gives 
 in his "Castle of Indolence" would readily find 
 an impersonation among the Roman priesthood : 
 
 " Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod, 
 * Of clerks good plenty here you mote espy ; 
 A little, round, fat, oily man of God 
 Was one I chiefly marked among the fry ; 
 He had a roguish twinkle in his eye, 
 Which shone all glittering with ungodly dew, 
 When a tight damsel chanced to trippen by ; 
 But when observed, would shrink into his mew, 
 And straight would recollect his piety anew." 
 
 YONDER across the square goes a Minente of 
 Trastevere ; a fellow who boasts the blood of the 
 old Romans in his veins. He is a plebeian exqui 
 site of the western bank of the Tiber, with a 
 swarthy face and the step of an emperor. He 
 wears a slouched hat, and blue velvet jacket and 
 breeches, and has enormous silver buckles in his 
 shoes. As he marches along, he sings a ditty in 
 his own vulgar dialect : 
 
 " Uno, due, e tre, 
 
 E lo Papa non e Ee." 
 
 Now he stops to talk with a woman with a pan of 
 coals in her hand. What violent gestures ! what 
 expressive attitudes ! Head, hands, and feet are 
 all in motion, not a muscle is still ! It must be 
 
288 ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 
 
 some interesting subject that excites him so much 
 and gives such energy to his gestures and his Ian 
 guage. No ; he only wants to light his pipe 
 
 IT is now past midnight. The moon is full and 
 bright, and the shadows lie so dark and massive in 
 the street that they seem a part of the walls that 
 cast them. I have just returned from the Coliseum, 
 whose ruins are so marvellously beautiful by moon 
 light. No stranger at Rome omits this midnight 
 visit ; for though there is something unpleasant in 
 having one s admiration forestalled, and being as 
 it were romantic aforethought, yet the charm is so 
 powerful, the scene so surpassingly beautiful and 
 sublime, the hour, the silence, and the colossal 
 ruin have such a mastery over the soul, that you 
 are disarmed when most upon your guard, and 
 betrayed into an enthusiasm which perhaps you 
 had silently resolved you would not feel. 
 
 On my way to the Coliseum, I crossed the Capi- 
 toline hill, and descended into the Roman Forum 
 by the broad staircase that leads to the triumphal 
 arch of Septimius Severus. Close upon my right 
 hand stood the three remaining columns of the 
 temple of the Thunderer, and the beautiful Ionic 
 portico of the temple of Concord, their base in 
 shadow, and the bright moonbeam striking aslant 
 upon the broken entablature above. Before me 
 rose the Phocian Column, an isolated shaft, like 
 
ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 289 
 
 a thin vapor hanging in the air scarce visible ; and 
 far to the left, the ruins of the temple of Antonio 
 and Faustina, and the three colossal arches of 
 the temple of Peace, dim, shadowy, indistinct, 
 seemed to melt away and mingle with the sky. I 
 crossed the Forum to the foot of the Palatine, and, 
 ascending the Via Sacra, passed beneath the Arch 
 of Titus. From this point, I saw below me the 
 gigantic outline of the Coliseum, like a cloud 
 resting upon the earth. As I descended the hill 
 side, it grew more broad and high, more definite 
 in its form, and yet more grand in its dimensions, 
 till, from the vale in which it stands encompassed 
 by three of the Seven Hills of Rome, the Pala 
 tine, the Coelian, and the Esquiline, the majestic 
 ruin in all its solitary grandeur " swelled vast to 
 heaven." 
 
 A single sentinel was pacing to and fro beneath 
 the arched gateway which leads to the interior, 
 and his measured footsteps were The only sound 
 that broke the breathless silence of the night. 
 What a contrast with the scene which that same 
 midnight hour presented, when, in Domitian s 
 time, the eager populace began to gather at the 
 gates, impatient for the morning sports ! Nor was 
 the contrast within less striking. Silence, and the 
 quiet moonbeams, and the broad, deep shadows 
 of the ruined wall ! Where were the senators of 
 Rome, her matrons, and her virgins ? where the 
 ferocious populace that rent the air with shouts, 
 when, in the hundred holidays that marked the 
 
 VOL. i. 19 
 
290 ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 
 
 dedication of this imperial slaughter-house, five 
 thousand wild beasts from the Libyan deserts and 
 the forests of Anatolia made the arena sick with 
 blood? Where were the Christian martyrs, that 
 died with prayers upon their lips, amid the jeers 
 and imprecations of their fellow-men ? where the 
 barbarian gladiators, brought forth to the festival 
 of blood, and " butchered to make a Roman holi 
 day"? The awful silence answered, "They are 
 mine ! " The dust beneath me answered, " They 
 are mine ! " 
 
 I crossed to the opposite extremity of the amphi 
 theatre. A lamp was burning in the little chapel, 
 which has been formed from what was once a den 
 for the wild beasts of the Roman festivals. Upon 
 the steps sat the old beadsman, the only tenant of 
 the Coliseum, who guides the stranger by night 
 through the long galleries of this vast pile of ruins. 
 I followed him up a narrow wooden staircase, and 
 entered one or the long and majestic corridors, 
 which in ancient times ran entirely round the 
 amphitheatre. Huge columns of solid mason-work, 
 that seem the labor of Titans, support the flattened 
 arches above; and though the iron clamps are 
 gone, which once fastened the hewn stones together, 
 yet the columns stand majestic and unbroken, 
 amid the ruin around them, and seem to defy "the 
 iron tooth of time/ Through the arches at the 
 right, I could faintly discern the ruins of the baths 
 of Titus on the Esquiline ; and from the left, through 
 every chink and cranny of the wall, poured in the 
 
ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 291 
 
 brilliant light of the full moon, casting gigantic 
 shadows around me, and diffusing a soft, silvery 
 twilight through the long arcades. At length I 
 came to an open space, where the arches above 
 had crumbled away, leaving the pavement an 
 unroofed terrace high in air. From this point, I 
 could see the whole interior of the amphitheatre 
 spread out beneath me, half in shadow, half in 
 light, with such a soft and indefinite outline that 
 it seemed less an earthly reality than a reflection 
 in the bosom of a lake. The figures of several 
 persons below were just perceptible, mingling 
 grotesquely with their fore-shortened shadows. 
 The sound of their voices reached me in a whis 
 per ; and the cross that stands in the centre of the 
 arena looked like a dagger thrust into the sand. 
 I did not conjure up the past, for the past had 
 already become identified with the present. It 
 was before me in one of its visible and most 
 majestic forms. The arbitrary distinctions of 
 time, years, ages, centuries were annihilated. I 
 was a citizen of Rome ! This was the amphitheatre 
 of Flavius Vespasian ! 
 
 Mighty is the spirit of the past, amid the ruins 
 of the Eternal City ! 
 
THE 
 
 VILLAGE OF LA EICCIA. 
 
 Egressum magnu me excepit Aricia RomS, 
 Hospitio modico. 
 
 HORACE. 
 
 I PASSED the month of September at the village 
 of La Biccia, which stands upon the western 
 declivity of the Albanian hills, looking towards 
 Rome. Its situation is one of the most beautiful 
 which Italy can boast. Like a mural crown, it 
 encircles the brow of a romantic hill ; woodlands 
 of the most luxuriant foliage whisper around it ; 
 above rise the rugged summits of the Abruzzi, and 
 beneath lies the level floor of the Campagna, 
 blotted with ruined tombs, and marked with broken 
 but magnificent aqueducts that point the way to 
 Rome. The whole region is classic ground. The 
 Appian Way leads you from the gate of Rome to 
 the gate of La Riccia. On one hand you have 
 the Alban Lake, on the other the Lake of Nemi ; 
 and the sylvan retreats around were once the 
 dwellings of Hippolytus and the nymph Egeria. 
 
 The town itself, however, is mean and dirty. 
 The only inhabitable part is near the northern 
 gate, where the two streets of the village meet. 
 
THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 293 
 
 There, face to face, upon a square terrace, paved 
 with large, flat stones, stand the Chigi palace and 
 the village church with a dome and portico. There, 
 too, stands the village inn, with its beds of cool, 
 elastic maize-husks, its little dormitories, six feet 
 square, and its spacious saloon, upon whose walls 
 the melancholy story of Hippolytus is told in gor 
 geous frescos. And there, too, at the union of the 
 streets, just peeping through the gateway, rises the 
 wedge-shaped Casa Antonini, within whose dusty 
 chambers I passed the month of my villeggiatura, 
 in company with two much-esteemed friends from 
 the Old Dominion, a fair daughter of that gener 
 ous clime, and her husband, an artist, an enthusiast, 
 and a man of " infinite jest." 
 
 My daily occupations in this delightful spot were 
 such as an idle man usually whiles away his time 
 withal in such a rural residence. I read Italian 
 poetry, strolled in the Chigi park, rambled about 
 the wooded environs of the village, took an airing 
 on a jackass, threw stones into the Alban Lake, 
 and, being seized at intervals with the artist- 
 mania, that came upon me like an intermittent 
 fever, sketched or thought I did the trunk of a 
 hollow tree, or the spire of a distant church, or a 
 fountain in the shade. 
 
 At such seasons, the mind is "tickled with a 
 straw," and magnifies each trivial circumstance 
 into an event of some importance. I recollect one 
 morning, as I sat at breakfast in the village coffee 
 house, a large and beautiful spaniel came into the 
 
294 THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 
 
 room, and placing his head upon my knee looked 
 up into my face with a most piteous look, poor dog ! 
 as much as to say that he had not breakfasted. I 
 gave him a morsel of bread, which he swallowed 
 without so much as moving his long silken ears; 
 and keeping his soft, beautiful eyes still fixed upon 
 mine, he thumped upon the floor with his bushy 
 tail, as if knocking for the waiter. He was a very 
 beautiful animal, and so gentle and affectionate in 
 his manner, that I asked the waiter who his owner 
 was. 
 
 " He has none now," said the boy. 
 
 " What ! " said I, "so fine a dog without a 
 master ? " 
 
 "Ah, Sir, he used to belong to Gasparoni, the 
 famous robber of the Abruzzi mountains, who mur 
 dered so many people, and was caught at last and 
 sent to the galleys for life. There s his portrait on 
 the wall." 
 
 It hung directly in front of me ; a coarse print, 
 representing the dark, stern countenance of that 
 sinful man, a face that wore an expression of sav 
 age ferocity and coarse sensuality. I had heard his 
 story told in the village ; the accustomed tale of 
 outrage, violence, and murder. And is it possible, 
 thought I, that this man of blood could have chosen 
 so kind and gentle a companion ? What a rebuke 
 must he have met in those large, meek eyes, when 
 he patted his favorite on the head, and dappled his 
 long ears with blood ! Heaven seems in mercy to 
 have ordained that none no, not even the most 
 
THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 295 
 
 depraved should be left entirely to his evil nature, 
 without one patient monitor, a wife, a daughter, 
 a fawning, meek-eyed dog, whose silent, suppli 
 cating look may rebuke the man of sin ! If this 
 mute, playful creature, that licks the stranger s 
 hand, were gifted with the power of articulate 
 speech, how many a tale of midnight storm, and 
 mountain-pass, and lonely glen, would but these 
 reflections are commonplace ! 
 
 On another occasion, I saw an overladen ass fall 
 on the steep and slippery pavement of the street. 
 He made violent but useless efforts to get upon his 
 feet again ; and his brutal driver more brutal than 
 the suffering beast of burden beat him unmerci 
 fully with his heavy whip. Barbarian ! is it not 
 enough that you have laid upon your uncomplain 
 ing servant a burden greater than he can bear ? 
 Must you scourge this unresisting slave, because 
 his strength has failed him in your hard service ? 
 Does not that imploring look disarm you ? Does 
 not and here was another theme for commonplace 
 reflection ! 
 
 Again. A little band of pilgrims, clad in white, 
 with staves, and scallop-shells, and sandal shoon, 
 have just passed through the village gate, wending 
 their toilsome way to the holy shrine of Loretto. 
 They wind along the brow of the hill with slow and 
 solemn pace, just as they ought to do, to agree 
 with my notion of a pilgrimage, drawn from novels. 
 And now they disappear behind the hill ; and 
 bark ! they are singing a mournful hymn, like 
 
296 THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 
 
 Christian and Hopeful on their way to the Delec 
 table Mountains. How strange it seems to me, 
 that I should ever behold a scene like this ! a pil 
 grimage to Loretto ! Here was another outline for 
 the imagination to fill up. 
 
 But my chief delight was in sauntering along the 
 many woodland walks, which diverge in every 
 direction from the gates of La Riccia. One of 
 these plunges down the steep declivity of the hill, 
 and, threading its way through a most romantic 
 valley, leads to the shapeless tomb of the Horatii 
 and the pleasant village of Albano. Another con 
 ducts you over swelling uplands and through wooded 
 hollows to Genzano and the sequestered Lake of 
 Nemi, which lies in its deep crater, like the waters 
 of a well, " all coiled into itself and round, as 
 sleeps the snake." A third, and the most beautiful 
 of all, runs in an undulating line along the crest of 
 the last and lowest ridge of the Albanian Hills, 
 and leads to the borders of the Alban Lake. In 
 parts it hides itself in thick-leaved hollows, in parts 
 climbs the open hill-side and overlooks the Cam- 
 pagna. Then it winds along the brim of the deep, 
 oval basin of the lake, to the village of Castel 
 Gandolfo, and thence onward to Marino, Grotta- 
 Ferrata, and Frascati. 
 
 That part of the road which looks down upon 
 the lake passes through a magnificent gallery of 
 thick embowering trees, whose dense and luxuri 
 ant foliage completely shuts out the noonday sun, 
 forming 
 
THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 297 
 
 " A greensward wagon-way, that, like 
 Cathedral aisle, completely roofed with branches, 
 Kuns through the gloomy wood from top to bottom, 
 And has at either end a Gothic door 
 Wide open. 
 
 This long sylvan arcade is called the Galleria- 
 di-sopra,) to distinguish it from the Galleria-di-sotto , 
 a similar, though less beautiful avenue, leading 
 from Castel Gandolfo to Albano, under the brow 
 of the hill. In this upper gallery, and almost hid 
 den amid its old and leafy trees, stands a Capuchin 
 convent, with a little esplanade in front, from which 
 the eye enjoys a beautiful view of the lake, and the 
 swelling hills beyond. It is a lovely spot, so 
 lonely, cool, and still ; and was my favorite and 
 most frequented haunt. 
 
 Another pathway conducts you round the south 
 ern shore of the Alban Lake, and, after passing 
 the site of the ancient Alba Longa, and the con 
 vent of Palazzuolo, turns off to the right through 
 a luxuriant forest, and climbs the rugged precipice 
 of Rocca di Papa. Behind this village swells the 
 rounded peak of Monte Cavo, the highest pinnacle 
 of the Albanian Hills, rising three thousand feet 
 above the level of the sea. Upon its summit once 
 stood a temple of Jupiter, and the Triumphal Way, 
 by which the Roman conquerors ascended once a 
 year in solemn procession to offer sacrifices, still 
 leads you up the side of the hill. But a convent 
 has been built upon the ruins of the ancient tem 
 ple, and the disciples of Loyola are now the only 
 
298 THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 
 
 conquerors that tread the pavement of the Tri 
 umphal Way. 
 
 The view from the windows of the convent is 
 vast and magnificent. Directly beneath you, the 
 sight plunges headlong into a gulf of dark-green 
 foliage, the Alban Lake seems so near, that you 
 can almost drop a pebble into it, and Nemi, 
 imbosomed in a green and cup-like valley, lies like 
 a dew-drop in the hollow of a leaf. All around 
 you, upon every swell of the landscape, the white 
 walls of rural towns and villages peep from their 
 leafy coverts, Genzano, La Riccia, Castel Gan- 
 dolfo, and Albano ; and beyond spreads the flat and 
 desolate Campagna, with Rome in its centre, and 
 seamed by the silver thread of the Tiber, that at 
 Ostia, " with a pleasant stream, whirling in rapid 
 eddies, and yellow with much sand, rushes forward 
 into the sea." The scene of half the .ZEneid is 
 spread beneath you like a map ; and it would need 
 volumes to describe each point that arrests the eye 
 in this magnificent panorama. 
 
 As I stood leaning over the balcony of the con 
 vent, giving myself up to those reflections which 
 the scene inspired, one of the brotherhood came 
 from a neighbouring cell, and entered into conver 
 sation with me. He was an old man, with a hoary 
 head and a trembling hand ; yet his voice was 
 musical and soft, and his eye still beamed with the 
 enthusiasm of youth. 
 
 " How wonderful," said he, " is the scene before 
 us ! I have been an inmate of these walls for thirty 
 
THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 299 
 
 years, and yet this prospect is as beautiful to rny 
 eye as when I gazed upon it for the first time. Not 
 a day passes that I do not come to this window to 
 behold and to admire. My heart is still alive to 
 the beauties of the scene, and to all the classic asso 
 ciations it inspires." 
 
 "You have never, then, been whipped by an 
 angel for reading Cicero and Plautus, as St. Jerome 
 was ? " 
 
 " No," said the monk, with a smile. " From my 
 youth up I have been a disciple of Chrysostom, 
 who often slept with the comedies of Aristophanes 
 beneath his pillow ; and yet I confess that the clas 
 sic associations of Roman history and fable are not 
 the most thrilling which this scene awakens in my 
 mind. Yonder is the bridge from which Constan- 
 tine beheld the miraculous cross of fire in the sky ; 
 and I can never forget that this convent is built 
 upon the ruins of a pagan temple. The town of 
 Ostia, which lies before us on the seashore, is re 
 nowned as the spot where the Trojan fugitive first 
 landed on the coast of Italy. But other associa 
 tions than this have made the spot holy in my sight. 
 Marcus Minutius Felix, a Roman lawyer, who 
 flourished in the third century, a convert to our 
 blessed faith, and one of the purest writers of the 
 Latin church, here places the scene of his " Octa- 
 vius." This work has probably never fallen into 
 your hands ; for you are too young to have pushed 
 your studies into the dusty tomes of the early 
 Christian fathers." 
 
300 THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 
 
 I replied that I had never so much as heard the 
 book mentioned before; and the monk contin 
 ued : 
 
 "It is a dialogue upon the vanity of pagan 
 idolatry and the truth of the Christian religion, 
 between Cascilius, a heathen, and Octavius, a 
 Christian. The style is rich, flowing, and poetical ; 
 and if the author handles his weapons with less 
 power than a Tertullian, yet he exhibits equal 
 adroitness and more grace. He has rather the 
 studied elegance of the Roman lawyer, than the 
 bold spirit of a Christian martyr. But the volume 
 is a treasure to me in my solitary hours, and I love 
 to sit here upon the balcony, and con its poetic 
 language and sweet imagery. You shall see the 
 volume ; I carry it in my bosom." 
 
 With these words, the monk drew from the folds 
 of his gown a small volume, bound in parchment, 
 and clasped with silver ; and, turning over its well- 
 worn leaves, continued : 
 
 " In the introduction, the author describes him 
 self as walking upon the seashore at Ostia, in 
 company with his friends Octavius and Caecilius. 
 Observe in what beautiful language he describes 
 the scene." 
 
 Here he read to me the following passage, which 
 I transcribe, not from memory, but from the book 
 itself. 
 
 " It was vacation-time, and that gave me aloose 
 from my business at the bar ; for it was the season 
 after the summer s heat, when autumn promised 
 
THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 301 
 
 fair, and put on the face of temperate. We set 
 out, therefore, in the morning early, and as we 
 were walking upon the seashore, and a kindly 
 breeze fanned and refreshed our limbs, and the 
 yielding sand softly submitted to our feet and made 
 it delicious travelling, Caecilius on a sudden espied 
 the statue of Serapis, and, according to the vulgar 
 mode of superstition, raised his hand to his mouth, 
 and paid his adoration in kisses. Upon which, 
 Octavius, addressing himself to me, said, It is 
 not well done, my brother Marcus, thus to leave 
 your inseparable companion in the depth of vulgar 
 darkness, and to suffer him, in so clear a day, to 
 stumble upon stones ; stones, indeed, of figure, and 
 anointed with oil, and crowned ; but stones, how 
 ever, still they are ; for you cannot but be sen 
 sible that your permitting so foul an error in your 
 friend redounds no less to your disgrace than his/ 
 This discourse of his held us through half the city ; 
 and now we began to find ourselves upon the free 
 and open shore. There the gently washing waves 
 had spread the extremest sands into the order of 
 an artificial walk ; and as the sea always expresses 
 some roughness in his looks, even when the winds 
 are still, although he did not roll in foam and angry 
 surges to the shore, yet were we much delighted, 
 as we walked upon the edges of the water, to see 
 the crisping, frizzly waves glide in snaky folds, one 
 while playing against our feet, and then again 
 retiring and lost in the devouring ocean. Softly, 
 then, and calmly as the sea about us, we travelled 
 
302 THE VILLAGE OF LA KICCIA. 
 
 on, and kept upon the brim of the gently declining 
 shore, beguiling the way with our stories." 
 
 Here the sound of the convent-bell interrupted 
 the reading of the monk, and, closing the volume, 
 he replaced it in his bosom, and bade me farewell, 
 with a parting injunction to read the " Octavius " 
 of Minutius Felix as soon as I should return to 
 Rome. 
 
 During the summer months, La Riccia is a favor 
 ite resort of foreign artists who are pursuing their 
 studies in the churches and galleries of Rome. 
 Tired of copying the works of art, they go forth to 
 copy the works of nature ; and you will find them 
 perched on their camp-stools at every picturesque 
 point of view, with white umbrellas to shield them 
 from the sun, and paint-boxes upon their knees, 
 sketching with busy hands the smiling features of 
 the landscape. The peasantry, too, are fine models 
 for their study. The women of Genzano are 
 noted for their beauty, and almost every village 
 in the neighbourhood has something peculiar in its 
 costume. 
 
 The sultry day was closing, and I had reached, 
 in my accustomed evening s walk, the woodland 
 gallery that looks down upon the Alban Lake. 
 The setting sun seemed to melt away in the sky, 
 dissolving into a golden rain that bathed the whole 
 Campagna with unearthly splendor; while Rome 
 in the distance, half-hidden, half-revealed, lay float 
 ing like a mote in the broad and misty sunbeam. 
 The woodland walk before me seemed roofed with 
 
THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 303 
 
 gold and emerald ; and at intervals across its leafy 
 arches shot the level rays of the sun, kindling, as 
 they passed, like the burning shaft of Acestes. Be 
 neath me the lake slept quietly. A blue, smoky 
 vapor floated around its overhanging cliffs ; the 
 tapering cone of Monte Cavo hung reflected in the 
 water ; a little boat skimmed along its glassy sur 
 face, and I could even hear the sound of the labor 
 ing oar, so motionless and silent was the air around 
 me. 
 
 I soon reached the convent of Castel Gandolfb. 
 Upon one of the stone benches of the esplanade 
 sat a monk with a book in his hand. He saluted 
 me, as I approached, and some trivial remarks 
 upon the scene before us led us into conversation. 
 I observed by his accent that he was not a native 
 of Italy, though he spoke Italian with great fluency. 
 In this opinion I was confirmed by his saying that 
 he should soon bid farewell to Italy and return to 
 his native lakes and mountains in the north of 
 Ireland. I then said to him in English, 
 
 " How strange, that an Irishman and an Anglo- 
 American should be conversing together in Italian 
 upon the shores of Lake Albano ! " 
 
 " It is strange," said he, with a smile ; " though 
 stranger things have happened. But I owe the 
 pleasure of this meeting to a circumstance which 
 changes that pleasure into pain. I have been de 
 tained here many weeks beyond the time I had 
 fixed for my departure by the sickness of a friend, 
 who lies at the point of death within the walls of 
 this convent." 
 
304 THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 
 
 " Is he, too, a Capuchin friar like yourself? " 
 " He is. We came together from our native 
 land, some six years ago, to study at the Jesuit 
 College in Rome. This summer we were to have 
 returned home again ; but I shall now make the 
 journey alone." 
 
 " Is there, then, no hope of his recovery ? " 
 " None whatever," answered the monk, shaking 
 his head. " He has been brought to this convent 
 from Rome, for the benefit of a purer air ; but it 
 is only to die, and be buried near the borders of 
 this beautiful lake. He is a victim of consumption. 
 But come with me to his cell. He will feel it a 
 kindness to have you visit him. Such a mark of 
 sympathy in a stranger will be grateful to him in 
 this foreign land, where friends are so few." 
 
 We entered the chapel together, and, ascending 
 a flight of steps beside the altar, passed into the 
 cloisters of the convent. Another flight of steps 
 led us to the dormitories above, in one of which the 
 sick man lay. Here my guide left me for a mo 
 ment, and softly entered a neighbouring cell. He 
 soon returned, and beckoned me to come in. The 
 room was dark and hot; for the window-shutter 
 had been closed to keep out the rays of the sun, 
 that in the after part of the day fell unobstructed 
 upon the western wall of the convent. In one 
 corner of the little room, upon a pallet of straw> 
 lay the sick man, with his face towards the wall. 
 As I entered, he raised himself upon his elbow, 
 and, stretching out his hand to me, said, in a faint 
 voice, 
 
THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 305 
 
 " I am glad to see you. It is kind in you to 
 make me this visit." 
 
 Then speaking to his friend, he begged him to 
 open the window-shutter and let in the light and 
 air ; and as the bright sunbeam through the wreath 
 ing vapors of evening played upon the wall and 
 ceiling, he said, with a sigh, 
 
 " How beautiful is an Italian sunset ! Its splendor 
 is all around us, as if we stood in the horizon itself 
 and could touch the sky. And yet, to a sick man s 
 feeble and distempered sight it has a wan and 
 sickly hue. He turns away with an aching heart 
 from the splendor he cannot enjoy. The cool air 
 seems the only friendly thing that is left for him." 
 
 As he spake, a deeper shade of sadness stole 
 over his pale countenance, sallow and attenuated 
 by long sickness. But it soon passed off; and as 
 the conversation changed to other topics, he grew 
 cheerful again. He spoke of his return to his 
 native land with childish delight. This hope had 
 not deserted him. It seemed never to have entered 
 his mind that even this consolation would be de 
 nied him, that death would thwart even these 
 fond anticipations. 
 
 " I shall soon be well enough," said he, " to un 
 dertake the journey; and, O, with what delight 
 shall I turn my back upon the Apennines ! We 
 shall cross the Alps into Switzerland, then go down 
 the Rhine to England, and soon, soon we shall see 
 the shores of the Emerald Isle, and once more 
 embrace father, mother, sisters ! By my profession, 
 
 VOL. i. 20 
 
306 THE VILLAGE OF LA KICCIA. 
 
 I have renounced the world, but not those holy 
 emotions of love which are one of the highest 
 attributes of the soul, and which, though sown in 
 corruption here, shall hereafter be raised in incor- 
 ruption. No ; even he that died for us upon the 
 cross, in the last hour, in the unutterable agony of 
 death, was mindful of his mother; as if to teach 
 us that this holy love should be our last worldly 
 thought, the last point of earth from which the soul 
 should take its flight for heaven." 
 
 He ceased to speak. His eyes were fastened 
 upon the sky with a fixed and steady gaze, though 
 all unconsciously, for his thoughts were far away 
 amid the scenes of his distant home. As I left his 
 cell, he seemed sinking to sleep, and hardly noticed 
 my departure. The gloom of twilight had already 
 filled the cloisters ; the monks were chanting their 
 evening hymn in the chapel ; and one unbroken 
 shadow spread through the long cathedral aisle of 
 forest-trees which led me homeward. There, in 
 the silence of the hour, and amid the almost se 
 pulchral gloom of the woodland scene, I tried to 
 impress upon my careless heart the serious and 
 affecting lesson I had learned. 
 
 I saw the sick monk no more ; but a day or two 
 afterward I heard in the village that he had de 
 parted, not for an earthly, but for a heavenly 
 home. 
 
NOTE-BOOK. 
 
NOTE-BOOK. 
 
 Once more among the old, gigantic hills, 
 
 With vapors clouded o er, 
 The vales of Lombardy grow dim behind, 
 
 And rocks ascend before. 
 They beckon me, the giants, from afar, 
 
 They wing my footsteps on ; 
 Then* helms of ice, their plumage of the pine, 
 
 Their cuirasses of stone. 
 
 OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 THE glorious autumn closed. From the Abruzzi 
 Mountains came the Zampognari, playing their 
 rustic bagpipes beneath the images of the Virgin 
 in the streets of Rome, and hailing with rude min 
 strelsy the approach of merry Christmas. The 
 shops were full of dolls and playthings for the Bi- 
 fana, who enacts in Italy the same merry interlude 
 for children that Santiclaus does in the North : and 
 travellers from colder climes began to fly south 
 ward, like sun-seeking swallows. 
 
 I left Rome for Venice, crossing the Apennines 
 by the wild gorge of the Strettura, in a drenching 
 rain. At Fano we struck into the sands of the 
 Adriatic, and followed the seashore northward to 
 Rimini, where in the market-place stands a pedes 
 tal of stone, from which, as an officious cicerone 
 informed me, " Julius Caesar preached to his army, 
 
310 NOTE-BOOK. 
 
 before crossing the Rubicon." Other principal 
 points in my journey were Bologna, with its Campo 
 Santo, its gloomy arcades, and its sausages ; Fer- 
 rara, with its ducal palace and the dungeon of 
 Tasso ; Padua the Learned, with its sombre and 
 scholastic air, and its inhabitants " apt for pike or 
 pen." 
 
 I FIRST saw Venice by moonlight, as we skimmed 
 by the island of St. George in a felucca, and 
 entered the Grand Canal. A thousand lamps 
 glittered from the square of St. Mark, and along 
 the water s edge. Above rose the cloudy shapes 
 of spires, domes, and palaces, emerging from the 
 sea ; and occasionally the twinkling lamp of a gon 
 dola darted across the water like a shooting star, 
 and suddenly disappeared, as if quenched in the 
 wave. There was something so unearthly in the 
 scene, so visionary and fairy-like, that I almost 
 expected to see the city float away like a cloud, 
 and dissolve into thin air. 
 
 Howell, in his " Signorie of Venice," says, " It is 
 the water, wherein she lies like a swan s nest, that 
 doth both fence and feed her." Again : " She 
 swims in wealth and wantonness, as well as she 
 doth in the waters ; she melts in softness and sen 
 suality, as much as any other whatsoever." And 
 still farther: " Her streets are so neat and evenly 
 paved, that in the dead of winter one may walk 
 up and down in a pair of satin pantables and crim- 
 
NOTE-BOOK. 311 
 
 son silk stockings, and not be dirtied." And the 
 old Italian proverb says, 
 
 " Venegia, Venegia, 
 Chi non ti vede non ti pregia ; 
 Ma chi t ha troppo veduto 
 Ti dispregia! " 
 
 Venice, Venice, he that doth not see thee doth not 
 prize thee: but he that hath too much seen thee 
 doth despise thee ! 
 
 Should you ever want a gondolier at Venice to 
 sing you a passage from Tasso by moonlight, in 
 quire for Toni Toscan. He has a voice like a 
 raven. I sketched his portrait in my note-book ; 
 and he wrote beneath it this inscription : 
 
 " Poeta Natural che Venizian, 
 
 Ch el so nome xe un tal Toni Toscan." 
 
 THE road from Venice to Trieste traverses a 
 vast tract of level land, with the Friulian Moun 
 tains on the left, and the Adriatic on the right. 
 You pass through long avenues of trees, and the 
 road stretches in unbroken perspective before and 
 behind. Trieste is a busy, commercial city, with 
 wide streets intersecting each other at right angles. 
 It is a mart for all nations. Greeks, Turks, Italians, 
 Germans, French, and English meet you at every 
 corner and in every coffee-house ; and the ever- 
 
312 NOTE-BOOK. 
 
 changing variety of national countenance and 
 costume affords an amusing and instructive study 
 for a traveller. 
 
 TRIESTE to Vienna. Daybreak among the 
 Carnic Alps. Above and around me huge snow- 
 covered pinnacles, shapeless masses in the pale 
 starlight, till touched by the morning sunbeam, 
 as by Ithuriel s spear, they assumed their natural 
 forms and dimensions. A long, winding valley 
 beneath, sheeted with spotless snow. At my side 
 a yawning and rent chasm ; a mountain brook, 
 seen now and then through the chinks of its icy 
 bridge, black and treacherous, and tinkling 
 along its frozen channel with a sound like a 
 distant clanking of chains. 
 
 Magnificent highland scenery between Gratz and 
 Vienna in the Steiermark. The wild mountain- 
 pass from Meerzuschlag to Schottwien. A castle 
 built like an eagle s nest upon the top of a per 
 pendicular crag. A little hamlet at the base of the 
 mountain. A covered wagon, drawn by twenty- 
 one horses, slowly toiling up the slippery, zigzag 
 road. A snow-storm. Reached Vienna at mid 
 night. 
 
 ON the southern bank of the Danube, about six 
 teen miles above Vienna, stands the ancient castle 
 of Greifenstein, where if the tale be true, though 
 
NOTE-BOOK. 313 
 
 many doubt and some deny it Richard the Lion- 
 heart, of England, was imprisoned, when returning 
 from the third crusade. It is built upon the sum 
 mit of a steep and rocky hill, that rises just far 
 enough from the river s brink to leave a foothold 
 for the highway. At the base of the hill stands 
 the village of Greifenstein, from which a winding 
 pathway leads you to the old castle. You pass 
 through an arched gate into a narrow court-yard, 
 and thence onward to a large, square tower. Near 
 the doorway, and deeply cut into the solid rock, 
 upon which the castle stands, is the form of a human 
 hand so perfect that your own lies in it as in a 
 mould. And hence the name of Greifenstein. In 
 the square tower is Richard s prison, completely 
 isolated from the rest of the castle. A wooden 
 staircase leads you up on the outside to a light 
 balcony, running entirely round the tower, not far 
 below its turrets. From this balcony you enter 
 the prison, a small, square chamber, lighted by 
 two Gothic windows. The walls of the tower are 
 some five feet thick ; and in the pavement is a 
 trapdoor, opening into a dismal vault, a vast 
 dungeon, which occupies all the lower part of the 
 tower, quite down to its rocky foundations, and 
 which formerly had no entrance but the trapdoor 
 above. In one corner of the chamber stands a 
 large cage of oaken timber, in which the royal 
 prisoner is said to have been shut up ; the gross 
 est lie that ever cheated the gaping curiosity of a 
 traveller. 
 
314 NOTE-BOOK. 
 
 The balcony commands some fine and picturesque 
 views. Beneath you winds the lordly Danube, 
 spreading its dark waters over a wide tract of 
 meadow-land, and forming numerous little islands ; 
 and all around, the landscape is bounded by forest- 
 covered hills, topped by the mouldering turrets of 
 a feudal castle or the tapering spire of a village 
 church. The spot is well worth visiting, though 
 German antiquaries say that Richard was not im 
 prisoned there ; this story being at best a bold con 
 jecture of what is possible, though not probable. 
 
 FROM Vienna I passed northward, visiting 
 Prague, Dresden, and Leipsic, and then folding 
 my wings for a season in the scholastic shades of 
 Gottingen. Thence I passed through Cassel to 
 Frankfort on the Maine ; and thence to Mayence, 
 where I took the steamboat down the Rhine. These 
 several journeys I shall not describe, for as many 
 several reasons. First, but no matter, I prefer 
 thus to stride across the earth like the Saturnian 
 in Micromegas, making but one step from the 
 Adriatic to the German Ocean. I leave untold 
 the wonders of the wondrous Rhine, a fascinating 
 theme. Not even the beauties of the Yautsburg 
 and the Bingenloch shall detain me. I hasten, 
 like the blue waters of that romantic river, to lose 
 myself in the sands of Holland. 
 
THE 
 
 PILGRIM S SALUTATION. 
 
 Ye who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
 Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
 A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
 A single recollection, not in vain 
 He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell. 
 
 CHILD E HAROLD. 
 
 THESE, fair dames and courteous gentlemen, 
 are some of the scenes and musings of my pil 
 grimage, when I journeyed away from my kith 
 and kin into the land of Outre-Mer. And yet 
 amid these scenes and musings, amid all the 
 novelties of the Old World, and the quick succes 
 sion of images that were continually calling my 
 thoughts away, there were always fond regrets and 
 longings after the land of my birth lurking in the 
 secret corners of my heart. When I stood by 
 the seashore, and listened to the melancholy and 
 familiar roar of its waves, it seemed but a step 
 from the threshold of a foreign land to the fireside 
 of home ; and when I watched the out-bound sail, 
 fading over the water s edge, and losing itself in 
 the blue mists of the sea, my heart went with it, 
 and I turned away fancy-sick with the blessings 
 of home and the endearments of domestic love. 
 
316 THE PILGRIM S SALUTATION. 
 
 " I know not how, but in yon land of roses 
 
 My heart was heavy still; 
 I startled at the warbling nightingale, 
 
 The zephyr on the hill. 
 They said the stars shone with a softer gleam : 
 
 It seemed not so to me ! 
 In vain a scene of beauty beamed around, 
 
 My thoughts were o er the sea." 
 
 At times I would sit at midnight in the solitude 
 of my chamber, and give way to the recollection 
 of distant friends. How delightful it is thus to 
 strengthen within us the golden threads that unite 
 our sympathies with the past, to fill up, as it were, 
 the blanks of existence with the images of those 
 we love ! How sweet are these dreams of home 
 in a foreign land ! How calmly across life s stormy 
 sea blooms that little world of affection, like those 
 Hesperian isles where eternal summer reigns, and 
 the olive blossoms all the year round, and honey 
 distils from the hollow oak ! Truly, the love of 
 home is interwoven with all that is pure, and deep, 
 and lasting in earthly affection. Let us wander 
 where we may, the heart looks back with secret 
 longing to the paternal roof. There the scattered 
 rays of affection concentrate. Time may enfeeble 
 them, distance overshadow them, and the storms 
 of life obstruct them for a season ; but they will at 
 length break through the cloud and storm, and 
 glow, and burn, and brighten around the peaceful 
 threshold of home ! 
 
 And now, farewell ! The storm is over, and 
 
THE PILGRIM S SALUTATION. 317 
 
 through the parting clouds the radiant sunshine 
 breaks upon my path. God s blessing upon you 
 for your hospitality. I fear I have but poorly 
 repaid it by these tales of my pilgrimage ; and I 
 bear your kindness meekly, for I come not like 
 Theudas of old, " boasting myself to , be some 
 body." 
 
 Farewell ! My prayer is, that I be not among 
 you as the stranger at the court of Busiris ; that 
 your God-speed be not a thrust that kills. 
 
 The Pilgrim s benison upon this honorable com 
 pany. Pax vobiscum I 
 
COLOPHON. 
 
 Heart, take thine ease, 
 Men hard to please 
 
 Thou haply mightst offend ; 
 Though some speak ill 
 Of thee, some will 
 
 Say better ; there s an end. 
 
 HETLIN. 
 
 MY pilgrimage is ended. I have come home to 
 rest ; and, recording the time past, I have fulfilled 
 these things, and written them in this book, as it 
 would come into my mind, for the most part, 
 when the duties of the day were over, and the 
 world around me was hushed in sleep. The pen 
 wherewith I write most easily is a feather stolen 
 from the sable wing of night. Even now, as I 
 record these parting words, it is long past midnight. 
 The morning watches have begun. And as I write, 
 the melancholy thought intrudes upon me, To 
 what end is all this toil ? Of what avail these 
 midnight vigils ? Dost thou covet fame ? Vain 
 dreamer ! A few brief days, and what will the 
 busy world know of thee ? Alas ! this little book 
 is but a bubble on the stream; and although it 
 may catch the sunshine for a moment, yet it will 
 soon float down the swift-rushing current, and be 
 seen no more ! 
 
DRIFT-WOOD, 
 
 A COLLECTION OF ESSAYS. 
 
 So must I likewise take some time to view 
 What I have done, ere I proceed anew. 
 Perhaps I may have cause to interline, 
 TO alter, or to add; the work is mine, 
 And I may manage it as I see best. 
 
 QUARLES. 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 1837. 
 
 HERE beginneth the Legend of Frithiof the 
 Valiant. He was the son of Thorsten Yikingsson, 
 a thane, and loved fair Ingeborg, the daughter of a 
 king. His fame was great in the North, and his 
 name in the song of bards. His marvellous deeds 
 on land and sea are told in tradition; and his 
 history is written in the old Icelandic Saga that 
 bears his name. This Saga is in prose, with occa 
 sionally a few stanzas of verse. Upon the events 
 recorded in it the poem of Tegner is founded. 
 
 Esaias Tegne*r, Bishop of Wexio and Knight of 
 the Order of the North Star, was born in 1782 
 and died in 1846. He stands first among the poets 
 of Sweden ; a man of a grand and gorgeous 
 imagination, a poetic genius of high order. His 
 countrymen are proud of him, and rejoice in his 
 fame. If you speak of their literature, Tegner 
 will be the first name upon their lips. They will 
 tell you with enthusiasm of Frithiof s Saga; and 
 of Axel, and Svea, and the Children of the Lord s 
 Supper. The modern Scald has written his name 
 in immortal runes ; not on the bark of trees alone, 
 
 VOL. i. 21 
 
322 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 in the "unspeakable rural solitudes" of pastoral 
 song, but on the mountains of his fatherland, and 
 the cliffs that overhang the sea, and on the tombs 
 of ancient heroes, whose histories are epic poems. 
 
 The Legend of Frithiof is an epic poem, com 
 posed of a series of ballads, each describing some 
 event in the hero s life, and each written in a 
 different measure, according with the action de 
 scribed in the ballad. This is a novel idea ; and 
 perhaps thereby the poem loses something in 
 sober, epic dignity. But the loss is more than 
 made up by the greater spirit of the narrative; 
 and it seems a laudable innovation thus to describe 
 various scenes in various metres, and not to employ 
 the same for a game of chess and a storm at sea. 
 
 It may be urged against Tegner, with some show 
 of truth, that he is too profuse and elaborate in his 
 use of figurative language, and that the same fig 
 ures are sometimes repeated with little variation. 
 But the reader must bear in mind that the work 
 before him is written in the spirit of the Past ; in 
 the spirit of that old poetry of the North, in which 
 the same images and expressions are oft repeated, 
 and the sword is called the Lightning s Brother ; a 
 banner, the Hider of Heaven ; gold, the Daylight 
 of Dwarfs ; and the grave, the Green Gate of 
 Paradise. The old Scald smote the strings of his 
 harp with as bold a hand as the Berserk smote his 
 foe. When heroes fell in battle, he sang of them 
 in his Drapa, or Death-Song, that they had gone 
 to drink beer with the gods. He lived in a cred- 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 323 
 
 ulous age ; in the dim twilight of the Past. He 
 was 
 
 " The skylark in the dawn of years, 
 The poet of the morn." 
 
 In the vast solitudes around him, " the heart of 
 Nature beat against his own." From the midnight 
 gloom of groves the melancholy pines called aloud 
 to the neighbouring sea. To his ear these were not 
 the voices of dead, but of living things. Demons 
 rode the ocean like a weary steed, and the gigantic 
 pines flapped their sounding wings to smite the 
 spirit of the storm. 
 
 With this same baptism has the soul of the 
 modern Scald been baptized. He dwells in that 
 land where the sound of the sea and the midnight 
 storm are the voices of tradition, and the great 
 forests beckon to him, and in mournful accents 
 seem to say, " Why hast thou tarried so long ? " 
 They have not spoken in vain. In this spirit the 
 poem has been written, and in this spirit it must 
 be read. We must visit, in imagination at least, 
 that distant land, and converse with the Genius of 
 the place. It points us to the great mounds, which 
 are the tombs of kings. Their bones are within ; 
 skeletons of warriors mounted on the skeletons of 
 their steeds ; and Vikings sitting gaunt and grim 
 on the plankless ribs of their pirate ships. There 
 is a wooden statue in the Cathedral of Upsala. It 
 is an image of the god Thor, who in Valhalla holds 
 
324 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 seven stars in his hand, and Charles s Wain.* In 
 the village of Gamla Upsala there is an ancient 
 church. It was once a temple, in which the gods 
 of the old mythology were worshipped. In every 
 mysterious sound that fills the air, the peasant still 
 hears the trampling of Odin s steed, which many 
 centuries ago took fright at the sound of a church 
 bell. The memory of Balder is still preserved in 
 the flower that bears his name, and Freja s spinning- 
 wheel still glimmers in the stars of the constellation 
 Orion. The sound of Stromkarl s flute is heard in 
 tinkling brooks, and his song in waterfalls. In the 
 forest, the Skogsfrun, of wondrous beauty, leads 
 young men astray ; and Tomtgubbe hammers and 
 pounds away, all night long, at the peasant s un 
 finished cottage. 
 
 Almost primeval simplicity reigns over this 
 Northern land, almost primeval solitude and still 
 ness. You pass out from the gate of the city, and, 
 as if by magic, the scene changes to a wild, wood 
 land landscape. Around you are forests of fir. 
 Overhead hang the long, fan-like branches, trailing 
 with moss, and heavy with red and blue cones. 
 Under foot is a carpet of yellow leaves, and the air 
 is warm and balmy. On a wooden bridge you 
 cross a little silver stream. Anon you come forth 
 into a pleasant and sunny land of farms. Wooden 
 
 * Thor Gudh war ho?sten aff them 
 Han satt naken som ett Barn 
 Siv stiernor i handen och Karlewagn. 
 
 Old Swedish Rhyme -Chronicle. 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 325 
 
 fences divide the adjoining fields. Across the road 
 are gates, which are opened for you by troops of 
 flaxen-haired children. The peasants take off 
 their hats as you pass. You sneeze, and they cry, 
 " God bless you ! " The houses in the villages and 
 smaller cities are all built of hewn timber, and for 
 the most part painted red. The floors of the 
 taverns are strewn with the fragrant tips of fir- 
 boughs. In many villages there are no taverns, 
 and the peasants take turns in receiving travellers. 
 The thrifty housewife shows you into the best 
 chamber, the walls of which are hung round with 
 rude pictures from the Bible ; and brings you her 
 heavy silver spoons an heirloom to dip the cur 
 dled milk from the pan. You have oaten cakes 
 baked some months before ; or bread with anise- 
 seed and coriander in it, and perhaps a little pine 
 bark* 
 
 Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his 
 horses from the plough, and harnessed them to 
 your carriage. Solitary travellers come and go in 
 uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them have 
 pipes in their mouths, and, hanging around their 
 
 * Speaking of Dalekarlia, a Swedish writer says: "In the 
 poorer parishes the inhabitants are forced, even in good years, 
 to mingle some bark in their bread." Of Elfdalen he says: 
 "The people are poor; without bark-bread they could not live 
 the year out. The traveller who visits these regions, and sees 
 by the road-side long rows of young pines stripped of their bark, 
 iu answer to his question wherefore this is so, hears, and truly 
 not without emotion, his postilion s reply : To make bread for 
 ... Delves and for our children. " 
 
326 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 necks in front, a leathern wallet, wherein they 
 carry tobacco, and the great bank-notes of the 
 country, as large as your two hands. You meet, 
 also, groups of Dalekarlian peasant-women, trav 
 elling homeward or city-ward in pursuit of work. 
 They walk barefoot, carrying in their hands their 
 shoes, which have high heels under the hollow of 
 the foot, and the soles of birch-bark. 
 
 Frequent, too, are the village churches standing 
 by the road-side, each in its own little garden of 
 Gethsemane. In the parish register great events 
 are doubtless recorded. Some old king was christ 
 ened or buried in that church ; and a little sexton, 
 with a great rusty key, shows you the baptismal 
 font, or the coffin. In the churchyard are a few 
 flowers and much green grass; and daily the 
 shadow of the church spire, with its long, tapering 
 finger, counts the tombs, thus representing an in 
 dex of human life, on which the hours and minutes 
 are the graves of men. The stones are flat, and 
 large, and low, and perhaps sunken, like the roofs 
 of old houses. On some are armorial bearings; 
 on others, only the initials of the poor tenants, with 
 a date, as on the roofs of Dutch cottages. They 
 all sleep with their heads to the westward. Each 
 held a lighted taper in his hand when he died ; and 
 in his coffin were placed his little heart-treasures, 
 and a piece of money for his last journey. Babes 
 that came lifeless into the world were carried in 
 the arms of gray-haired old men to the only cradle 
 they ever slept in ; and in the shroud of the dead 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 327 
 
 mother were laid the little garments of the child 
 that lived and died in her bosom. And over this 
 scene the village pastor looks from his window in 
 the stillness of midnight, and says in his heart, 
 " How quietly they rest, all the departed ! " 
 
 Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, 
 fastened to a post by iron bands, and secured by a 
 padlock, with a sloping wooden roof to keep off 
 the rain. If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the 
 church steps and con their psalm-books. Others 
 are coming down the road with their beloved 
 pastor, who talks to them of holy things from 
 beneath his broad-brimmed hat. He speaks of 
 fields and harvests, and of the parable of the sower 
 that went forth to sow. He leads them to the 
 Good Shepherd, and to the pleasant pastures of 
 the spirit-land. He is their patriarch, and, like 
 Melchisedek, both priest and king, though he has 
 no other throne than the church pulpit. The 
 women carry psalm-books in their hands, wrapped 
 in silk handkerchiefs, and listen devoutly to the 
 good man s words. But the young men, like 
 Gallio, care for none of these things. They are 
 busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of the 
 peasant-girls, their number being an indication of 
 the wearer s wealth. It may end in a wedding. 
 
 I must describe a village wedding in Sweden. 
 It shall be in summer time, that there may be 
 flowers, and in a southern province, that the bride 
 may be fair. The early song of the lark and of 
 chanticleer are mingling in the clear morning air ; 
 
328 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 and the sun, the heavenly bridegroom with golden 
 locks, arises in the east, just as Olof Olofsson, our 
 earthly bridegroom with yellow hair, arises in the 
 south. In the yard there is a sound of voices and 
 trampling of hoofs, and horses are led forth and 
 saddled. The steed that is to bear the bridegroom 
 has a bunch of flowers upon his forehead, and a 
 garland of corn-flowers around his neck. Friends 
 from the neighbouring farms come riding in, their 
 blue cloaks streaming to the wind ; and finally the 
 happy bridegroom, with a whip in his hand, and a 
 monstrous nosegay in the breast of his black jacket, 
 comes forth from his chamber ; and then to horse 
 and away, towards the village where the bride 
 already sits and waits. 
 
 Foremost rides the Spokesman, followed by some 
 half-dozen village musicians, all blowing and drum 
 ming and fifing away like mad. Then comes the 
 bridegroom between his two groomsmen, and then 
 forty or fifty friends and wedding guests, half of 
 them perhaps with pistols and guns in their hands. 
 A kind of baggage-wagon brings up the rear, laden 
 with meat and drink for these merry pilgrims. At 
 the entrance of every village stands a triumphal 
 arch, adorned with flowers and ribbons and ever 
 greens ; and as they pass beneath it, the wedding 
 guests fire a salute, and the whole procession stops. 
 And straight from every pocket flies a black-jack, 
 filled with punch or brandy. It is passed from 
 hand to hand among the crowd; provisions are 
 brought from the wagon of the sumpter horse, and 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 329 
 
 after eating and drinking and loud hurrahs, the 
 procession moves forward again, and at length 
 draws near the house of the bride. Four heralds 
 ride forward to announce that a knight and his 
 attendants are in the neighbouring forest, and pray 
 for hospitality. " How many are you ? " asks the 
 bride s father. "At least three hundred," is the 
 answer; and to this the host replies, "Yes; were 
 you seven times as many, you should all be wel 
 come; and in token thereof receive this cup." 
 Whereupon each herald receives a can of ale, and 
 soon after the whole jovial company come storming 
 into the farmer s yard, and, riding round the May 
 pole, which stands in the centre, alight amid a 
 grand salute and flourish of music. 
 
 In the hall sits the bride, with a crown upon her 
 head and a tear in her eye, like the Virgin Mary 
 in old church paintings. She is dressed in a red 
 bodice and kirtle, with loose linen sleeves. There 
 is a gilded belt around her waist ; and around her 
 neck, strings of golden beads and a golden chain. 
 On the crown rests a wreath of wild roses, and be 
 low it another of cypress. Loose over her shoulders 
 falls her flaxen hair ; and her blue, innocent eyes 
 are fixed upon the ground. O thou good soul! 
 thou hast hard hands, but a soft heart ! Thou art 
 poor. The very ornaments thou wearest are not 
 thine. They have been hired for this great day. 
 Yet art thou rich ; rich in health, rich in hope, rich 
 in thy first, young, fervent love. The blessing of 
 Heaven be upon thee ! So thinks the parish priest, 
 
330 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 as he joins together the hands of bride and bride 
 groom, saying, in deep, solemn tones : " I give thee 
 in marriage this damsel, to be thy wedded wife in 
 all honor, and to share the half of thy bed, thy lock 
 and key, and every third penny which you two may 
 possess, or may inherit, and all the rights which 
 Upland s laws provide, and the holy king Erik gave." 
 The dinner is now served, and the bride sits be 
 tween the bridegroom and the priest. The Spokes 
 man delivers an oration, after the ancient custom 
 of his fathers. He interlards it well with quota 
 tions from the Bible ; and invites the Saviour to 
 be present at this marriage feast as he was 
 at the marriage feast in Cana of Galilee. The 
 table is not sparingly set forth. Each makes a 
 long arm, and the feast goes cheerly on. Punch 
 and brandy are served up between the courses, 
 and here and there a pipe smoked while waiting 
 for the next dish. They sit long at table ; but, as 
 all things must have an end, so must a Swedish 
 dinner. Then the dance begins. It is led off by 
 the bride and the priest, who perform a solemn 
 minuet together. Not till after midnight comes the 
 Last Dance. The girls form a ring around the 
 bride to keep her from the hands of the married 
 women, who endeavour to break through the magic 
 circle and seize their new sister. After long 
 struggling, they succeed ; and the crown is taken 
 from her head and the jewels from her neck, and 
 her bodice is unlaced and her kirtle taken off ; and 
 like a vestal virgin clad in white she goes, but it is 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 331 
 
 to her marriage chamber, not to her grave ; and 
 the wedding guests follow her with lighted candles 
 in their hands. And this is a village bridal. 
 
 Nor must we forget the sudden changing sea 
 sons of the Northern clime. There is no long 
 and lingering Spring, unfolding leaf and blossom 
 one by one ; no long and lingering Autumn, pom 
 pous with many-colored leaves and the glow of 
 Indian summers. But Winter and Summer are 
 wonderful, and pass into each other. The quail 
 has hardly ceased piping in the corn when Winter 
 from the folds of trailing clouds sows broadcast 
 over the land snow, icicles, and rattling hail. The 
 days wane apace. Erelong the sun hardly rises 
 above the horizon, or does not rise at all. The 
 moon and the stars shine through the day ; only 
 at noon they are pale and wan, and in the south 
 ern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sunset, burns along 
 the horizon, and then goes out. And pleasantly 
 under the silver moon, and under the silent, sol 
 emn stars, ring the steel shoes of the skaters on 
 the frozen sea, and voices and the sound of bells. 
 
 And now the Northern Lights begin to burn, 
 faintly at first, like sunbeams playing in the waters 
 of the blue sea. Then a soft crimson glow tinges 
 the heavens. There is a blush on the cheek of 
 night. The colors come and go ; and change from 
 crimson to gold, from gold to crimson. The snow 
 is stained with rosy light. Twofold from the zenith, 
 east and west, flames a fiery sword ; and a broad 
 band passes athwart the heavens like a summer 
 
332 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 sunset. Soft purple clouds come sailing over the 
 sky, and through their vapory folds the winking 
 stars shine white as silver. With such pomp as 
 this is Merry Christmas ushered in, though only a 
 single star heralded the first Christmas. And in 
 memory of that day the Swedish peasants dance on 
 straw ; and the peasant-girls throw straws at the 
 timbered roof of the hall, and for every one that 
 sticks in a crack shall a groomsman come to their 
 wedding. Merry Christmas indeed ! For pious 
 souls church songs shall be sung, and sermons 
 preached ; 
 
 " And all the bells on earth shall ring, 
 And all the angels in heaven shall sing, 
 On Christmas day in the morning." 
 
 But for Swedish peasants brandy and nut-brown 
 ale in wooden bowls : and the great Yule-cake 
 crowned with a cheese, and garlanded with apples, 
 and upholding a three-armed candlestick over the 
 Christmas feast. They may tell tales, too, of Jons 
 Lundsbracka, and Lunkenfus, and the great Rid- 
 dar Finke of Pingsdaga.* 
 
 And now the glad, leafy midsummer, full of 
 blossoms and the song of nightingales, is come ! 
 Saint John has taken the flowers and festival of 
 heathen Balder; and in every village there is a 
 May-pole fifty feet high, with wreaths and roses 
 and ribbons streaming in the wind, and a noisy 
 
 * Titles of Swedish popular tales. 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 333 
 
 weathercock on top, to tell the village whence the 
 wind cometh and whither it goeth. The sun does 
 not set till ten o clock at night ; and the children 
 are at play in the streets an hour later. The win 
 dows and doors are all open, and you may sit and 
 read till midnight without a candle. O, how beauti 
 ful is the summer night, which is not night, but a 
 sunless yet unclouded day, descending upon earth 
 with dews, and shadows, and refreshing coolness ! 
 How beautiful the long, mild twilight, which like a 
 silver clasp unites to-day with yesterday ! How 
 beautiful the silent hour, when Morning and Even 
 ing thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the 
 starless sky of midnight ! From the church tower 
 in the public square the bell tolls the hour, with a 
 soft, musical chime ; and the watchman, whose 
 watch-tower is the belfry, blows a blast in his horn 
 for each stroke of the hammer, and four times to 
 the four corners of the heavens, in a sonorous voice, 
 he chants : 
 
 " Ho ! watchman, ho ! 
 Twelve is the clock ! 
 God keep our town 
 From fire and brand, 
 From the foe s hand ! 
 Twelve is the clock! " 
 
 From his swallow s nest in the belfry he can see 
 the sun all night long ; and further north the priest 
 stands at his door in the warm midnight, and lights 
 his pipe with a common burning-glass. 
 
334 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 And all this while the good Bishop of Wexio is 
 waiting, with his poem in his hand. And such a 
 poern, too ! Alas ! I am but too well aware, that a 
 brief analysis and a few scattered extracts can give 
 only a faint idea of the original, and that conse 
 quently the admiration of my readers will probably 
 lag somewhat behind my own. If the poem itself 
 should ever fall into their hands, I hope that the 
 foregoing remarks on Sweden, which now may seem 
 to them a useless digression, will, nevertheless, 
 enable them to enter more easily into the spirit of 
 the poem, and to feel more truly the influences 
 under which it was written. 
 
 The first canto describes the childhood and youth 
 of Frithiof and Ingeborg the fair, as they grew up 
 together under the humble roof of Hilding, their 
 foster-father. They are two plants in the old man s 
 garden ; a young oak, whose stem is like a lance, 
 and whose^leafy top is rounded like a helm ; and a 
 rose, in whose folded buds the Spring still sleeps 
 and dreams.. But the storm comes, and the young 
 oak must wrestle with it ; the sun of Spring shines 
 warm in heaven, and the red lips of the rose open. 
 The sports of their childhood are described. They 
 sail together on the deep blue sea ; and when he 
 shifts the sail, she claps her small white hands in 
 glee. For her he plunders the highest bird s-nests, 
 and the eagle s eyry, and bears her through the 
 rushing mountain brook, it is so sweet, when 
 the torrent roars to be pressed by small white 
 arms. 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 335 
 
 But childhood and the sports thereof soon pass 
 away, and Frithiof becomes a mighty hunter. He 
 fights the bear without spear or sword, and lays 
 the conquered monarch of the forest at the feet 
 of Ingeborg. And when, by the light of the 
 winter-evening hearth, he reads the glorious songs 
 of Valhalla, no goddess, whose beauty is there 
 celebrated, can compare with Ingeborg. Freya s 
 golden hair may wave like a wheat-field in the 
 wind, but Ingeborg s is a net of gold around roses 
 and lilies. Iduna s bosom throbs full and fair 
 beneath her silken vest, but beneath the silken 
 vest of Ingeborg two Elves of Light leap up with 
 rose-buds in their hands. And she embroiders in 
 gold and silver the wondrous deeds of heroes ; 
 and the face of every champion that looks up at 
 her from the woof she is weaving is the face of 
 Frithiof; and she blushes and is glad ; that is to 
 say, they love each other a little. Ancient Hild- 
 ing does not favor their passion, but tells his foster- 
 son that the maiden is the daughter of King Bele, 
 and he but the son of Thorsten Vikingsson, a 
 thane ; he should not aspire to the love of one who 
 has descended in a long line of ancestors from the 
 star-clear hall of Odin himself. Frithiof smiles in 
 scorn, and replies that he has slain the shaggy 
 king of the forest, and inherits his ancestors with 
 his hide ; and moreover that he will possess his 
 bride, his white lily, in spite of the very god 
 of thunder ; for a puissant wooer is the sword. 
 
 Thus closes the first canto. In the second, old 
 
336 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 King Bele stands leaning on his sword in his hall, 
 and with him is his faithful brother in arms, 
 Thorsten Vikingsson, the father of Frithiof, silver- 
 haired, and scarred like a runic stone. The king 
 complains that the evening of his days is drawing 
 near, that the mead is no longer pleasant to his 
 taste, and that his helmet weighs heavily upon his 
 brow. He feels the approach of death. Therefore 
 he summons to his presence his two sons, Helge 
 and Halfdan, and with them Frithiof, that he may 
 give a warning to the young eagles before the 
 words slumber on the dead man s tongue. Fore 
 most advances Helge, a grim and gloomy figure, 
 who loves to dwell among the priests and before 
 the altars, and now comes, with blood upon his 
 hands, from the groves of sacrifice. And next to 
 him approaches Halfdan, a boy with locks of light, 
 and so gentle in his mien and bearing that he 
 seems a maiden in disguise. And after these, 
 wrapped in his mantle blue, and a head taller than 
 either, comes Frithiof, and stands between the 
 brothers, like midday between the rosy morning 
 and the shadowy night. Then speaks the king, 
 and tells the young eaglets that his sun is going 
 down, and that they must rule his realm after 
 him in harmony and brotherly love ; that the 
 sword was given for defence and not for offence ; 
 that the shield was forged as a padlock for the 
 peasant s barn; and that they should not glory 
 in their fathers honors, as each can bear his own 
 only. If we cannot bend the bow, he says, it is 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 337 
 
 not ours; what have we to do with worth that 
 is buried ? The mighty stream goes into the sea 
 with its own waves. These, and many other wise 
 sayings, fall from the old man s dying lips; and 
 then Thorsten Vikingsson, who means to die with 
 his king as he has lived with him, arises and 
 addresses his son Frithiof. He tells him that old 
 age has whispered many warnings in his ear, 
 which he will repeat to him ; for as the birds 
 of Odin descend upon the sepulchres of the North, 
 so words of manifold wisdom descend upon the 
 lips of the old. Then follows much sage advice ; 
 that he should serve his king, for one alone shall 
 reign, the dark Night has many eyes, but the 
 Day has only one ; that he should not praise the 
 day until the sun had set, nor his beer until he 
 had drunk it ; that he should not trust to ice but 
 one night old, nor snow in spring, nor a sleeping 
 snake, nor the words of a maiden on his knee, 
 sagacious hints from the High Song of Odin. 
 Then the old men speak together of their long- 
 tried friendship ; and the king praises the valor 
 and heroic strength of Frithiof, and Thorsten has 
 much to say of the glory which crowns the Kings 
 of the North-land, the sons of the gods. Then 
 the king speaks to his sons again, and bids them 
 greet his daughter, the rose-bud. In retirement, 
 says he, as it behoved her, has she grown up ; 
 protect her ; let not the storm come and fix upon 
 his helmet my delicate flower. And he bids them 
 bury him and his ancient friend by the seaside, 
 VOL. i. 22 
 
338 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 by the billow blue, for its song is pleasant to the 
 spirit evermore, and like a funeral dirge ring its 
 blows against the strand. 
 
 And now King Bele and Thorsten Vikingsson 
 are gathered to their fathers ; Helge and Half dan 
 share the throne between them, and Frithiof 
 retires to his ancestral estate at Framnas ; of 
 which a description is given in the third canto, 
 conceived and executed in a truly Homeric spirit. 
 
 " Three miles extended around the fields of the home 
 stead, on three sides 
 
 Valleys and mountains and hills, but on the fourth side 
 was the ocean. 
 
 Birch woods crowned the summits, but down the slope 
 of the hill-sides 
 
 Flourished the golden corn, and man-high was waving 
 the rye-field. 
 
 Lakes, full many in number, their mirror held up for 
 the mountains, 
 
 Held for the forests up, in whose depths the high-horned 
 reindeers 
 
 Had their kingly walk, and drank of a hundred brook 
 lets. 
 
 But in the valleys full widely around, there fed on the 
 greensward 
 
 Herds with shining hides and udders that longed for the 
 milk-pail. 
 
 Mid these scattered, now here and now there, were 
 numberless flocks of 
 
 Sheep with fleeces white, as thou seest the white-looking 
 stray clouds, 
 
 Flock-wise spread o er the heavenly vault, when U 
 bloweth in spring-time. 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 339 
 
 Coursers two times twelve, all mettlesome, fast-fettered 
 
 storm-winds, 
 Stamping stood in the line of stalls, and tugged at their 
 
 fodder, 
 Knotted with red were their manes, and their hoofs all 
 
 white with steel shoes. 
 Th banquet-hall, a house by itself, was timbered of hard 
 
 fir. 
 Not five hundred men (at ten times twelve to the 
 
 hundred) * 
 Filled up the roomy hall, when assembled for drinking at 
 
 Yule-tide. 
 Thorough the hall, as long as it was, went a table of 
 
 holm-oak, 
 Polished and white, as of steel ; the columns twain of the 
 
 High-seat 
 Stood at the end thereof, two gods carved out of an 
 
 elm-tree ; 
 Odin f with lordly look, and Frey J with the sun on his 
 
 frontlet. 
 Lately between the two, on a bear-skin, (the skin it .was 
 
 coal-black, 
 Scarlet-red was the throat, but the paws were shodden 
 
 with silver,) 
 Thorsten sat with his friends, Hospitality sitting with 
 
 Gladness. 
 Oft, when the moon through the cloud-rack flew, related 
 
 the old man 
 Wonders from distant lands he had seen, and cruises of 
 
 Vikings || 
 
 *An old fashion of reckoning in the North. 
 fOdin, the All-father; the Jupiter of Scandinavian my 
 thology. 
 
 tFrey, the god of Fertility ; the Bacchus of the North. 
 II The old pirates of the North. 
 
340 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 Far away on the Baltic, and Sea of the West, and the 
 
 White Sea. 
 Hushed sat the listening bench, and their glances hung 
 
 on the graybeard s 
 Lips, as a bee on the rose ; but the Skald was thinking 
 
 of Brage, * 
 Where, with his silver beard, and runes on his tongue, 
 
 he is seated 
 
 Under the leafy beach, and tells a tradition by Mimer s f 
 Ever-murmuring wave, himself a living tradition. 
 Mid-way the floor (with thatch was it strewn) burned 
 
 ever the fire-flame 
 
 Glad on its stone-built hearth; and thorough the wide- 
 mouthed smoke-flue 
 Looked the stars, those heavenly friends, down into the 
 
 great hall. 
 But round the walls, upon nails of steel, were hanging 
 
 in order 
 Breastplate and helmet together, and here and there 
 
 among them 
 Downward lightened a sword, as in winter evening a 
 
 star shoots. 
 More than helmets and swords the shields in the hall 
 
 were resplendent, 
 White as the orb of the sun, or white as the moon s 
 
 disc of silver. 
 Ever and anon went a maid round the board, and filled 
 
 up the drink-horns, 
 Ever she cast down her eyes and blushed ; in the shield 
 
 her reflection 
 Blushed, too, even as she; this gladdened the drinking 
 
 champions." 
 
 * Brage. the god of Song ; the Scandinayian Apollo. 
 t Mimer, the Giant, who possessed the Well of Wisdom, under 
 one of the roots of the Ash Igdrasil. 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 341 
 
 Among the treasures of FrithioP s house are 
 three of transcendent worth. The first of these 
 is the sword Angurvadel, brother of the lightning, 
 handed down from generation to generation, since 
 the days of Bjorn Blatand, the Blue-toothed Bear. 
 The hilt thereof was of beaten gold, and on the 
 blade were wondrous runes, known only at the 
 gates of the sun. In peace these runes were dull, 
 but in time of war they burned red as the comb 
 of a cock when he fights ; and lost was he who in 
 the night of slaughter met the sword of the flaming 
 runes ! 
 
 The second in price is an arm-ring of pure 
 gold, made by Yaulund, the limping Yulcan of 
 the North ; and containing upon its border the 
 signs of the zodiac, the Houses of the Twelve 
 Immortals. This ring had been handed down in 
 the family of Frithiof from the days when it came 
 from the hands of Yaulund, the founder of the 
 race. It was once stolen and carried to England 
 by Yiking Sote, who there buried himself alive in 
 a vast tomb, and with him his pirate-ship and all 
 his treasures. King Bele and Thorsten pursue 
 him, and through a crevice of the door look into 
 the tomb, where they behold the ship, with anchor 
 and masts and spars ; and on the deck, a fearful 
 figure, clad in a mantle of flame, sits, gloomily 
 scouring a blood-stained sword. The ring is upon 
 his arm. Thorsten bursts the doors of the great 
 
 o 
 
 tomb asunder with his lance, and, entering, does 
 
342 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 battle with the grim spirit, and bears home the 
 ring as a trophy of his victory.* 
 
 The third great treasure of the house of Frithiof 
 is the dragon-ship Ellida. It was given to one 
 of Frithiof s ancestors by a sea-god, whom this 
 ancestor saved from drowning, somewhat as St. 
 Christopher did the angel. The ancient mariner 
 was homeward bound, when at a distance on the 
 wreck of a ship he espied an old man with sea- 
 green locks, a beard white as the foam of waves, 
 and a face which smiled like the sea when it plays 
 in sunshine. Viking takes this Old Man of the Sea 
 home with him, and entertains him in hospitable 
 guise ; but at bed-time the green-haired guest, 
 instead of going quietly to his rest like a Christian 
 man, sets sail again on his wreck, like a hobgoblin, 
 having, as he says, a hundred miles to go that 
 night, at the same time telling the Viking to look 
 the next morning on the sea-shore for a gift 
 of thanks. And the next morning, behold ! the 
 dragon-ship Ellida comes sailing up the harbor, 
 like a phantom ship, with all her sails set, and not 
 a man on board. Her prow is a dragon s head, 
 with jaws of gold ; her stern, a dragon s tail, twisted 
 and scaly with silver; her wings black, tipped 
 with red ; and when she spreads them all, she flies 
 a race with the roaring storm, and the eagle is left 
 behind. 
 
 * Not unlike the old tradition of the ring of Gyges ; which 
 was found on a dead man s finger in the flank of a brazen horse, 
 deep buried in a chasm of the earth. 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 343 
 
 These were Frithiof s treasures, renowned in 
 the North; and thus in his hall, with Bjb rn, his 
 bosom friend, he sat, surrounded by his champions 
 twelve, with breasts of steel and furrowed brows, 
 the comrades of his father, and all the guests that 
 had gathered together to pay the funeral rites to 
 Thorsten, the son of Viking. And Frithiof, with 
 eyes full of tears, drank to his father s memory, 
 and heard the song of the Scalds, a dirge of 
 thunder. 
 
 Frithiof s Courtship is the title of the fourth 
 canto. 
 
 " High sounded the song in Frithiof s hall, 
 And the Scalds they praised his fathers all ; 
 But the song rejoices 
 Not Frithiof, he hears not the Scalds loud voices. 
 
 "And the earth has clad itself green again, 
 And the dragons swim once more on the main, 
 But the hero s son 
 He wanders in woods, and looks at the moon." 
 
 He had lately made a banquet for Helge and 
 Halfdan, and sat beside Ingeborg the fair, and 
 spoke with her of those early days when the dew 
 of morning still lay upon life ; of the reminiscences 
 of childhood ; their names carved in the birch-tree s 
 bark; the well-known valley and woodland, and 
 the hill where the great oaks grew from the dust 
 of heroes. And now the banquet closes, and 
 Frithiof remains at his homestead to pass his days 
 in idleness and dreams. But this strange mood 
 pleases not his friend the Bear. 
 
344 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 " It pleased not Bjorn these things to see: 
 1 What ails the young eagle now, said he, 
 1 So still, so oppressed ? 
 
 Have they plucked his wings? have they pierced his 
 breast ? 
 
 " What wilt thou ? Have we not more than we need 
 
 Of the yellow lard and the nut-brown mead ? 
 
 And of Scalds a throng? 
 
 There s never an end to their ballads long. 
 
 * True enough, the coursers stamp in their stall, 
 For prey, for prey, scream the falcons all ; 
 But Frithiof only 
 Hunts in the clouds, and weeps so lonely. 
 
 ***** 
 " Then Frithiof set the dragon free, 
 And the sails swelled full, and snorted the sea. 
 Eight over the bay 
 To the sons of the King he steered his way." 
 
 He finds them at the grave of their father, King 
 Bele, giving audience to the people, and promul 
 gating laws, and he boldly asks the hand of theii 
 sister Ingeborg, this alliance being in accordance 
 with the wishes of King Bele. To this proposition 
 Helge answers, in scorn, that his sister s hand is 
 not for the son of a thane ; that he needs not the 
 sword of Frithiof to protect his throne, but if he 
 will be his serf, there is a place vacant among the 
 house-folk which he can fill. Indignant at this 
 reply, Frithiof draws his sword of the flaming 
 runes, and at one blow cleaves in twain the golden 
 shield of Helge as it hangs on a tree, and, turning 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 345 
 
 away in disdain, departs over the blue sea home 
 ward. 
 
 In the next canto the scene changes. Old King 
 Ring pushes back his golden chair from the table, 
 and arises to speak to his heroes and Scalds, old 
 King Ring, a monarch renowned in the North, be 
 loved by all as a father to the land he governs, 
 and whose name each night goes up to Odin with 
 the prayers of his people. He announces to them 
 his intention of taking to himself a new queen as a 
 mother to his infant son, and tells them he has 
 fixed his choice upon Ingeborg, the lily small, with 
 the blush of morn on her cheeks. Messengers 
 are forthwith sent to Helge and Halfdan, bearing 
 golden gifts, and attended by a long train of Scalds, 
 who sing heroic ballads to the sound of their harps. 
 Three days and three nights they revel at the 
 court; and on the fourth morning receive from 
 Helge a solemn refusal and from Halfdan a taunt, 
 that King Graybeard should ride forth in person 
 to seek his bride. Old King Ring is wroth at the 
 reply, and straightway prepares to avenge his 
 wounded pride with his sword. He smites his 
 shield as it hangs on the bough of the high linden- 
 tree, and the dragons swim forth on the waves 
 with blood-red combs, and the helms nod in the 
 wind. The sound of the approaching war reaches 
 the ears of the royal brothers, and they place their 
 sister for protection in the temple of Balder.* 
 
 * Balder, the god of the Summer Sun. 
 
J46 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 In the next canto, which is the sixth, Frithiof 
 and Bjbrn are playing chess together, when old 
 Hilding comes in, bringing the prayer of Helge 
 and Halfdan, that Frithiof would aid them in the 
 war against King Ring. Frithiof, instead of an 
 swering the old man, continues his game, making 
 allusions as it goes on to the king s being saved by 
 a peasant or pawn, and the necessity of rescuing 
 the queen at all hazards. Finally, he tells the 
 ancient Hilding to return to Bele s sons and tell 
 them that they have wounded his honor, that no 
 ties unite them together, and that he will never be 
 their bondman. So closes this short and very 
 spirited canto. 
 
 The seventh canto describes the meeting of 
 Frithiof and Ingeborg in Balder s temple, when 
 silently the high stars stole forth, like a lover to his 
 maid, on tiptoe. Here all passionate vows are 
 retold ; he swears to protect her with his sword 
 while here on earth, and to sit by her side here 
 after in Valhalla, when the champions ride forth 
 to battle from the silver gates, and maidens bear 
 round the mead-horn mantled with golden foam. 
 
 The eighth canto commences in this wise. Inge 
 borg sits in Balder s temple, and waits the coming 
 of Frithiof, till the stars fade away in the morning 
 sky. At length he arrives, wild and haggard. He 
 comes from the Ting, or council, where he has 
 offered his hand in reconciliation to King Helge, 
 and again asked of him his sister in marriage, before 
 the assembly of the warriors. A thousand swords 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 347 
 
 hammered applause upon a thousand shields, and 
 the ancient Hilding with his silver beard stepped 
 forth and held a talk full of wisdom, in short, pithy 
 language, that sounded like the blows of a sword. 
 But all in vain. King Helge says him nay, and 
 brings against him an accusation of having pro 
 faned the temple of Balder by daring to visit Inge- 
 borg there. Death or banishment is the penalty 
 of the law ; but instead of being sentenced to the 
 usual punishment, Frithiof is ordered to sail to the 
 Orkney Islands, in order to force from Jarl Angan- 
 tyr the payment of an annual tribute, which since 
 Bele s death he has neglected to pay. All this 
 does Frithiof relate to Ingeborg, and urges her to 
 escape with him to the lands of the South, where 
 the sky is clearer, and the mild stars shall look 
 down with friendly glance upon them through the 
 warm summer nights. By the light of the winter- 
 evening s fire, old Thorsten Vikingsson had told 
 them tales of the Isles of Greece, with their green 
 groves and shining billows ; where, amid the 
 ruins of marble temples, flowers grow from the 
 runes that utter forth the wisdom of the past, and 
 golden apples glow amid the leaves, and red grapes 
 hang from every twig. All is prepared for their 
 flight ; already Ellida spreads her shadowy eagle- 
 wings; but Ingeborg refuses to escape. King 
 Bele s daughter will not deign to steal her happi 
 ness. In a beautiful and passionate appeal, she 
 soothes her lover s wounded pride, and at length 
 he resolves to undertake the expedition to Jarl 
 
348 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 Angantyr. He gives her the golden armring of 
 Yaulunder, and they part, she with mournful fore 
 bodings, and he with ardent hope of ultimate suc 
 cess. This part of the poem is a dramatic sketch 
 in blank verse. It is highly wrought, and full of 
 poetic beauties. 
 
 Ingeborg s Lament is the subject of the ninth 
 canto. She sits by the seaside, and watches the 
 westward-moving sail, and speaks to the billows 
 blue, and the stars, and to Frithiof s falcon, that 
 sits upon her shoulder, the gallant bird whose 
 image she has worked into her embroidery, with 
 wings of silver and golden claws. She tells him 
 to greet again and again her Frithiof, when he 
 returns and weeps by her grave. 
 
 And now follows the ballad of Frithiof at Sea ; 
 one of the most spirited and characteristic cantos 
 of the poem. The versification, likewise, is man 
 aged with great skill ; each strophe consisting of 
 three several parts, each in its respective metre. 
 Bang Helge stands by the sea-shore and prays to 
 the fiends for a tempest ; and soon Frithiof hears 
 the wings of the storm flapping in the distance, 
 and, as wind-cold Ham and snowy Heid beat 
 against the flanks of his ship, he sings : 
 
 " Fairer was the journey, 
 In the moonbeam s shimmer, 
 O er the mirrored waters 
 Unto Balder s grove; 
 Warmer than it here is, 
 Close by Ingeborg s bosom; 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 349 
 
 Whiter than the sea-foam 
 Swelled the maiden s breast. 1 
 
 But the tempest waxes sore ; it screams in the 
 shrouds, and cracks in the keel, and the dragon- 
 ship leaps from wave to wave like a goat from cliff to 
 cliff. Frithiof fears that witchcraft is at work ; 
 and calling Bjorn, he bids him gripe the tiller with 
 his bear-paw while he climbs the mast to look out 
 upon the sea. From aloft he sees the two fiends 
 riding on a whale ; Heid with snowy skin, and in 
 shape like a white bear, Ham with outspread, 
 sounding wings, like the eagle of the storm. A 
 battle with these sea-monsters ensues. Ellida hears 
 the hero s voice, and with her copper keel smites 
 the whale so that he dies ; and the whale-riders 
 learn how bitter it is to bite blue steel, being trans 
 fixed with Northern spears hurled from a hero s 
 hands. And thus the storm is stilled, and Frithiof 
 reaches at length the shores of Angantyr. 
 
 In the eleventh canto Jarl Angantyr sits in his 
 ancestral hall carousing with his friends. In merry 
 mood he looks forth upon the sea, where the sun is 
 sinking into the waves like a golden swan. At the 
 window the ancient Halvar stands sentinel, watch 
 ful alike of things within doors and without; for 
 ever and anon he drains the mead-horn to the bot 
 tom, and, uttering never a word, thrusts the empty 
 horn in at the window to be filled anew. At length 
 he announces the arrival of a tempest-tost ship ; and 
 Jarl Angantyr looks forth, and recognizes the 
 
350 FRITHIOF 8 SAGA. 
 
 dragon-ship Ellida, and Frithiof, the son of his 
 friend. No sooner has he made this known to his 
 followers, than the Viking Atle springs up from his 
 seat and screams aloud : " Now will I test the 
 truth of the tale that Frithiof can blunt the edge 
 of hostile sword, and never begs for quarter." 
 Accordingly he and twelve other champions seize 
 their arms, and rush down to the sea-shore to wel 
 come the stranger with warlike sword-play. A 
 single combat ensues between Frithiof and Atle. 
 Both shields are cleft in twain at once ; Angurva- 
 del bites full sharp, and Atle s sword is broken. 
 Frithiof, disdaining an unequal contest, throws his 
 own away, and the combatants wrestle together 
 unarmed. Atle falls ; and Frithiof, as he plants 
 his knee upon the breast of his foe, says that, if he 
 had his sword, the Viking should feel its sharp 
 edge and die. The haughty Aile bids him go and 
 recover his sword, promising to lie still and await 
 death, which promise he fulfils. Frithiof seizes 
 Angurvadel, and when he returns to smite the 
 prostrate Viking, he is so moved by his courage 
 and magnanimity that he stays the blow, seizes the 
 hand of the fallen, and they return together as 
 friends to the banquet-hall of Angantyr. This hall 
 is adorned with more than wonted splendor. Its 
 walls are not wainscoted with roughhewn planks, 
 but covered~with gold-leather, stamped with flowers 
 and fruits. No hearth glows in the centre of the 
 floor, but a marble fireplace leans against the wall. 
 There is glass in the windows, there are locks on 
 
FKITHIOF S SAGA. 351 
 
 the doors ; and instead of torches, silver chande 
 liers stretch forth their arms with lights over the 
 banquet-table, whereon is a heart roasted whole, 
 with larded haunches, and gilded hoofs lifted as if 
 to leap, and green leaves on its branching antlers. 
 Behind each warrior s seat stands a maiden, like a 
 star behind a stormy cloud. And high on his royal 
 chair of silver, with helmet shining like the sun, 
 and breastplate inwrought with gold, and mantle 
 star-spangled, and trimmed with purple and ermine, 
 sits the Viking Angantyr, Jarl of the Orkneys. 
 With friendly salutations he welcomes the son of 
 Thorsten, and in a goblet of Sicilian wine, foaming 
 like the sea, drinks to the memory of the departed ; 
 while Scalds, from the hills of Morven, sing heroic 
 songs. Frithiof relates to him his adventures at 
 sea, and makes known the object of his mission ; 
 whereupon Angantyr declares, that he was never 
 tributary to King Bele ; that, although he pledged 
 him in the wine-cup, he was not subject to his laws ; 
 that his sons he knew not ; but that, if they wished 
 to levy tribute, they must do it with the sword, like 
 men. And then he bids his daughter bring from 
 her chamber a richly embroidered purse, which he 
 fills with golden coins of foreign mint, and gives to 
 Frithiof as a pledge of welcome and hospitality. 
 And Frithiof remains his guest till spring. 
 
 In the twelfth canto we have a description of 
 Frithiof s return to his native land. He finds his 
 homestead at Framnas laid waste by fire ; house, 
 fields, and ancestral forests are all burnt over. As 
 
352 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 he stands amid the ruins, his falcon perches on his 
 shoulder, his dog leaps to welcome him, and his 
 snow-white steed comes with limbs like a hind and 
 neck like a swan. He will have bread from his 
 master s hands. At length old Hilding appears 
 from among the ruins, and tells a mournful tale ; 
 how a bloody battle had been fought between King 
 Ring and Helge ; how Helge and his host had 
 been routed, and in their flight through Framnas, 
 from sheer malice, had laid waste the lands of 
 Frithiof ; and finally, how, to save their crown and 
 kingdom, the brothers had given Ingeborg to be 
 the bride of King Ring. He describes the bridal, 
 as the train went up to the temple, with virgins in 
 white, and men with swords, and Scalds, and the 
 pale bride seated on a black steed like a spirit on 
 a cloud. At the altar the fierce Helge had torn 
 the bracelet, the gift of Frithiof, from Ingeborg s 
 arm, and adorned with it the image of Balder. 
 And Frithiof remembers that it is now mid-summer, 
 and festival time in Balder s temple. Thither he 
 directs his steps. 
 
 Canto thirteenth. The sun stands, at midnight, 
 blood-red on the mountains of the North. It is not 
 day, it is not night, but something between the two. 
 The fire blazes on the altar in the temple of Balder. 
 Priests with silver beards and knives of flint in 
 their hands stand there, and King Helge with his 
 crown. A sound of arms is heard in the sacred 
 grove without, and a voice commanding Bjorn to 
 guard the door. Then Frithiof rushes in like a 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 353 
 
 storm in autumn. " Here is your tribute from the 
 Western seas," he cries ; " take it, and then be 
 there a battle for life and death between us, twain, 
 here by the light of Balder s altar ; shields behind 
 us, and bosoms bare ; and the first blow be thine, 
 as king ; but forget not that mine is the second. 
 Look not thus toward the door ; I have caught the 
 fox in his den. Think of Framnas, think of thy 
 sister with golden locks ! " With these words he 
 draws from his girdle the purse of Angantyr, and 
 throws it into the face of the king with such force 
 that the blood gushes from his mouth, and he falls 
 senseless at the foot of the altar. Frithiof then 
 seizes the bracelet on Balder s arm, and in trying 
 to draw it off he pulls the wooden statue from its 
 base, and it falls into the flames of the altar. In a 
 moment the whole temple is in a blaze. All at 
 tempts to extinguish the conflagration are vain. 
 The fire is victorious. Like a red bird the flame 
 sits upon the roof, and flaps its loosened wings. 
 Mighty was the funeral pyre of Balder ! 
 
 The fourteenth canto is entitled Frithiof in 
 Exile. Frithiof sits at night on the deck of his 
 ship, and chants a song of welcome to the sea, 
 which, as a Viking, he vows to make his home in 
 life and his grave in death. " Thou knowest 
 naught," he sings, " thou Ocean free, of a king who 
 oppresses thee at his own will. 
 
 " Thy king is he 
 Among the free, 
 
 VOL. I. 23 
 
354 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 Who trembles never, 
 
 How high soever 
 
 Heaves in unrest 
 
 Thy foam- white breast. 
 
 Blue fields like these 
 
 The hero please. 
 
 His keels go thorough 
 
 Like a plough in the furrough, 
 
 But steel-bright are 
 
 The seeds sown there." 
 
 He turns his prow from shore, and is putting to 
 sea, when King Helge, with ten ships, comes sail 
 ing out to attack him. But anon the ships sink 
 down into the sea, as if drawn downward by invis 
 ible hands, and Helge saves himself by swimming 
 ashore. Then Bjorn laughed aloud, and told how 
 the night before he had bored holes in the bottom 
 of each of Helge s ships. But the king now stood 
 on a cliff, and bent his mighty bow of steel against 
 the rock with such force that it snapped in twain. 
 And Frithiof jeering cried that it was rust that had 
 broken the bow, not Helge s strength ; and to show 
 what nerve there was in a hero s arm, he seized 
 two pines, large enough for the masts of ships, but 
 shaped into oars, and rowed with such marvellous 
 strength that the two pines snapped in his hands 
 like reeds. And now uprose the sun, and the land- 
 breeze blew off shore; and bidding his native 
 land farewell, Frithiof the Viking sailed forth to 
 scour the seas. 
 
 The fifteenth canto contains the Viking s Code, 
 the laws of the pirate-ship. No tent upon deck, 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 355 
 
 no slumber in house ; but the shield must be the 
 Viking s couch, and his tent the blue sky overhead. 
 The hammer of victorious Thor is short, and the 
 sword of Frey but an ell in length ; and the war 
 rior s steel is never too short if he goes near enough 
 to the foe. Hoist high the sail when the wild storm 
 blows ; tis merry in stormy seas ; onward and ever 
 onward ; he is a coward who strikes ; rather sink 
 than strike. There shall be neither maiden nor 
 drunken revelry on board. The freighted mer 
 chantman shall be protected, but must not refuse 
 his tribute to the Viking ; for the Viking is king of 
 the waves, and the merchant a slave to gain, and 
 the steel of the brave is as good as the gold of the 
 rich. The plunder shall be divided on deck, by lot 
 and the throwing of dice ; but in this the sea-king- 
 takes no share ; glory is his prize ; he wants none 
 other. They shall be valiant in fight, and merciful 
 to the conquered ; for he who begs for quarter has 
 no longer a sword, is no man s foe ; and Prayer is a 
 child of Valhalla, they must listen to the voice of 
 the pale one. With such laws sailed the Viking 
 over the foaming sea for three weary years, and 
 came at length to the Isles of Greece, which in days 
 of yore his father had so oft described to him, and 
 whither he had wished to flee with Ingeborg. And 
 thus the forms of the absent and the dead rose up 
 before him, and seemed to beckon him to his home 
 in the North. He is weary of sea-fights, and of 
 hewing men in twain, and of the glory of battle. 
 The flag at the mast-head pointed northward ; there 
 
356 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 lay the beloved land ; he resolved to follow the 
 course of the winds of heaven, and steer back 
 again to the North. 
 
 Canto sixteenth is a dialogue between Frithiof 
 and his friend Bjdrn, in which the latter gentleman 
 exhibits some of the rude and uncivilized tastes of 
 his namesake, Bruin the Bear. They have again 
 reached the shores of their fatherland. Winter is 
 approaching. The sea begins to freeze around 
 their keel. Frithiof is weary of a Viking s life. 
 He wishes to pass the Yule-tide on land, and to 
 visit King Ring, and his bride of the golden locks, 
 his beloved Ingeborg. Bjorn, dreaming all the 
 while of bloody exploits, offers himself as a com 
 panion, and talks of firing the king s palace at 
 night, and bearing off the queen by force. Or if 
 his friend deems the old king worthy of a holm- 
 gang,* or of a battle on the ice, he is ready for 
 either. .But Frithiof tells him that only gentle 
 thoughts now fill his bosom. He wishes only to 
 take a last farewell of Ingeborg. These delicate 
 feelings cannot penetrate the hirsute breast of 
 Bruin. He knows not what this love may be ; 
 this sighing and sorrow for a maiden s sake. The 
 world, he says, is full of maidens ; and he offers to 
 bring Frithiof a whole ship-load from the glowing 
 
 * A duel between the Vikings of the North was called a holm- 
 gang* because the two combatants met on an island to decide 
 their quarrel. Fierce battles were likewise fought by armies on 
 the ice; the frozen bays and lakes of a mountainous country 
 being oftentimes the only plains large enough for battle-fields. 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 357 
 
 South, all red as roses and gentle as lambs. But 
 Frithiof will not stay. He resolves to go to King 
 Ring ; but not alone, for his sword goes with him. 
 
 The seventeenth canto relates how King Ring 
 sat in his banquet-hall at Yule-tide and drank 
 mead. At his side sat Ingeborg his queen, like 
 Spring by the side of Autumn. And an old man, 
 and unknown, all wrapped in skins, entered the 
 hall, and humbly took his seat near the door. And 
 the courtiers looked at each other with scornful 
 smiles, and pointed with the finger at the hoary 
 bear-skin man. At this the stranger waxed angry, 
 and seizing with one hand a young coxcomb, he 
 " twirled him up and down." The rest grew silent ; 
 he would have done the same with them. " Who 
 breaks the peace ? " quoth the king. " Tell us 
 who thou art, and whence, old man." And the old 
 man answered, 
 
 "In Anguish was I nurtured, Want is my homestead 
 
 bight, 
 Now come I from the Wolf s den, I slept with him last 
 
 night." 
 
 But King Ring is not so easily duped, and bids the 
 stranger lay aside his disguise. And straight the 
 shaggy bear-skin fell from the head of the unknown 
 guest, and down from his lofty forehead, over his 
 shoulders broad and full, floated his shining ringlets 
 like a wave of gold. Frithiof stood before them 
 in a rich mantle of blue velvet, with a hand-broad 
 silver belt around his waist; and the color came 
 
358 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 and went in the cheek of the queen, like the North 
 ern light on fields of snow, 
 
 " And as two water-lilies, beneath the tempest s might, 
 Lie heaving on the billow, so heaved her bosom white." 
 
 And now a horn blew in the hall, and kneeling on 
 a silver dish, with haunch and shoulder hung " with 
 garlands gay and rosemary," and holding an apple 
 in his mouth, the wild-boar was brought in.* 
 
 And King Ring rose up in his hoary locks, and, 
 laying his hand upon the boar s head, swore an oath 
 that he would conquer Frithiof, the great champion, 
 so help him Frey and Odin, and the mighty Thor. 
 With a disdainful smile Frithiof threw his sword 
 upon the table so that the hall echoed to the clang, 
 and every warrior sprang up from his seat, and 
 turning to the king he said : " Young Frithiof is 
 my friend ; I know him well, and I swear to pro 
 tect him, were it against the world; so help me 
 Destiny and my good sword." The king was 
 pleased at this great freedom of speech, and invited 
 the stranger to remain their guest till spring ; bid 
 ding Ingeborg fill a goblet with the choicest wine 
 for the stranger. With downcast eyes and trem 
 bling hand she presented Frithiof a goblet, which 
 
 * The old English custom of the boar s head at Christmas dates 
 from a far antiquity. It was in use at the festivals of Yule-tide 
 among the pagan Northmen. The words of Chaucer in the 
 Franklein s Tale will apply to the old hero of the North : 
 
 " And he drinketh of his bugle-horn the wine, 
 Before him standeth the brawne of the tusked swine." 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 359 
 
 two men, as men are now, could not have drained ; 
 but he, in honor of his lady-love, quaffed it at a 
 single draught. And then the Scald took his harp 
 and sang the song of Hagbart and Fair Signe, the 
 Borneo and Juliet of the North. And thus the 
 Yule-carouse was prolonged far into the night, and 
 the old fellows drank deep, till at length 
 
 " They all to sleep departed, withouten pain or care, 
 But old King Ring, the graybeard, slept with Ingeborg the 
 fair." 
 
 The next canto describes a sledge-ride on the 
 ice. It has a cold breath about it. The short, sharp 
 stanzas are like the angry gusts of a northwester. 
 
 " King Ring with his queen to the banquet did fare, 
 On the lake stood the ice so mirror-clear. 
 
 " Fare not o er the ice, the stranger cries; 
 It will burst, and full deep the cold bath lies. 
 
 " The king drowns not easily, Ring outspake ; 
 1 He who s afraid may go round the lake. 
 
 " Threatening and dark looked the stranger round, 
 His steel shoes with haste on his feet he bound. 
 
 " The sledge-horse starts forth strong and free ; 
 He snorteth flames, so glad is he. 
 
 " Strike out, screamed the king, my trotter good, 
 Let us see if thou art of Sleipner s * blood. 
 
 " They go as a storm goes over the lake, 
 No heed to his queen doth the old man take. 
 
 * The steed of Odin. 
 
360 FKITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 " But the steel-shod champion standeth not still, 
 He passeth by them as swift as he will. 
 
 " He carves many runes in the frozen tide, 
 Fair Ingeborg o er her own name doth glide." 
 
 Thus they speed away over the ice, but beneath 
 them the treacherous Ran * lies in ambush. She 
 breaks a hole in her silver roof, the sledge is sink 
 ing, and fair Ingeborg is pale with fear, when the 
 stranger on his skates comes sweeping by like a 
 whirlwind. He seizes the steed by his mane, and 
 at a single pull places the sledge upon firm ice 
 again. They return together to the king s palace, 
 where the stranger, who is none else than Frithiof, 
 remains a guest till spring. 
 
 The nineteenth canto is entitled Frithiof s Temp 
 tation. It is as follows. 
 
 " Spring is coming, birds are twittering, forests leaf, and 
 
 smiles the sun, 
 And the loosened torrents downward, singing, to the ocean 
 
 run; 
 Glowing like the cheek of Freya, peeping rosebuds gin 
 
 to ope, 
 And in human hearts awaken love of life, and joy, and 
 
 hope. 
 
 " Now will hunt the ancient monarch, and the queen shall 
 
 join the sport: 
 Swarming in its gorgeous splendor, is assembled all the 
 
 court ; 
 
 * A giantess holding dominion over the waters. 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 361 
 
 Bows ring loud, and quivers rattle, stallions paw the 
 
 ground alway, 
 And, with hoods upon their eyelids, scream the falcons 
 
 for their prey. 
 
 " See, the Queen of the chase advances ! Frithiof, gaze 
 
 not at the sight ! 
 Like a star upon a spring-cloud sits she on her palfrey 
 
 white. 
 Half of Freya,* half of Kota,f yet more beauteous than 
 
 these two, 
 And from her light hat of purple wave aloft the feathers 
 
 blue. 
 
 " Gaze not at her eye s blue heaven, gaze not at her 
 
 golden hair ! 
 beware! her waist is slender, full her bosom is, 
 
 beware ! 
 Look not at the rose and lily on her cheek that shifting 
 
 P^y, 
 List not to the voice beloved, whispering like the wind of 
 
 May. 
 
 " Now the huntsman s band is ready. Hurrah! over hill 
 
 and dale ! 
 Horns ring, and the hawks right upward to the hall of 
 
 Odin sail. 
 All the dwellers in the forest seek in fear their cavern 
 
 homes, 
 But, with spear outstretched before her, after them the 
 
 Valkyr comes." 
 
 * The goddess of Love and Beauty; the Venus of the North, 
 t One of the Valkyrs, or celestial virgins, who bear off the 
 souls of the slain in battle. 
 
362 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 The old king cannot keep pace with the chase. 
 Frithiof rides beside him, silent and sad. Gloomy 
 musings rise within him, and he hears continually 
 the mournful voices of his own dark thoughts. 
 Why had he left the ocean, where all care is blown 
 away by the winds of heaven ? Here he wanders 
 amid dreams and secret longings. He cannot for 
 get Balder s grove* But the grim gods are no 
 longer friendly. They have taken his rosebud and 
 placed it on the breast of Winter, whose chill breath 
 covers bud and leaf and stalk with ice. And thus 
 they come to a lonely valley shut in by mountains, 
 and overshadowed by beeches and alders. Here 
 the king alights ; the quiet of the place invites to 
 slumber. 
 
 " Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and upon the 
 
 greensward spread, 
 And the ancient king so trustful laid on Frithiof s knee 
 
 his head, 
 Slept, as calmly as the hero sleepeth, after war s 
 
 alarm, 
 On his shield, calm as an infant sleepeth on its mother s 
 
 arm. 
 
 " As he slumbers, hark ! there sings a coal-black bird 
 
 upon the bough: 
 * Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, end your quarrel at 
 
 a blow ; 
 Take his queen, for she is thine, and once the bridal kiss 
 
 she gave, 
 Now no human eye beholds thee, deep and silent is the 
 
 grave. 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 363 
 
 "Frithiof listens: hark! there sings a snow-white bird 
 
 upon the bough : 
 * Though no human eye beholds thee, Odin s eye beholds 
 
 thee now. 
 Coward ! wilt thou murder sleep, and a defenceless old 
 
 man slay? 
 Whatsoe er thou winn st, thou canst not win a hero s fame 
 
 this way. 
 
 " Thus the two wood-birds did warble : Frithiof took his 
 
 war-sword good, 
 With a shudder hurled it from him, far into the gloomy 
 
 wood. 
 Coal-black bird flies down to Nastrand,* but on light, 
 
 unfolded wings, 
 Like the tone of harps, the other, sounding towards the 
 
 sun, upsprings. 
 
 " Straight the ancient king awakens. Sweet has been 
 
 my sleep, he said; 
 4 Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow, guarded by a brave 
 
 man s blade. 
 But where is thy sword, stranger? Lightning s brother, 
 
 where is he ? 
 Who thus parts you, who should never from each other 
 
 parted be ? 
 
 " It avails not, Frithiof answered; in the North are 
 
 other swords : 
 Sharp, monarch ! is the sword s tongue, and it speaks 
 
 not peaceful words ; 
 Murky spirits dwell in steel blades, spirits from the Nif- 
 
 felhem ; 
 Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks but anger 
 
 them. " 
 
 * The Strand of Corpses ; a region in the Niffelhem, or Scandi 
 navian hell. 
 
364 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 To this the old king replies, that he has not been 
 asleep, but has feigned sleep, merely to put Frithiof 
 for he has long recognized the hero in his guest 
 to the trial. He then upbraids him for having 
 come to his palace in disguise, to steal his queen 
 away ; he had expected the coming of a warrior 
 with an army ; he beheld only a beggar in tatters. 
 But now he has proved him, and forgiven ; has 
 pitied, and forgotten. He is soon to be gathered 
 to his fathers. Frithiof shall take his queen and 
 kingdom after him. Till then he shall remain his 
 guest, and thus their feud shall have an end. But 
 Frithiof answers, that he came not as a thief to 
 steal away the queen, but only to gaze upon her 
 face once more. He will remain no longer. The 
 vengeance of the offended gods hangs over him. 
 He is an outlaw. On the green earth he seeks no 
 more for peace ; for the earth burns beneath his 
 feet, and the trees lend him no shadow. " There 
 fore," he cries, " away to sea again ! Away, my 
 dragon brave, to bathe again thy pitch-black breast 
 in the briny wave ! Flap thy white wings in the 
 clouds, and cut the billow with a whistling sound ; 
 fly, fly, as far as the bright stars guide thee, and 
 the subject billows bear. Let me hear the light 
 ning s voice again ; and on the open sea, in battle, 
 amid clang of shields and arrowy rain, let me die, 
 and go up to the dwelling of the gods ! " 
 
 In the twentieth canto the death of King Ring is 
 described. The sunshine of a pleasant spring 
 morning plays into the palace-hall, when Frithiof 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 365 
 
 enters to bid his royal friends a last farewell. With 
 them he bids his native land good night. 
 
 " No more shall I see 
 
 In its upward motion 
 
 The smoke of the Northland. Man is a slave ; 
 
 The Fates decree. 
 
 On the waste of the ocean 
 
 There is my fatherland, there is my grave. 
 
 " Go not to the strand, 
 
 King, with thy bride, 
 
 After the stars spread their light through the sky. 
 
 Perhaps in the sand, 
 
 Washed up by the tide, 
 
 The bones of the outlawed Viking may lie. 
 
 " Then quoth the king, 
 
 * Tis mournful to hear 
 
 A man like a whimpering maiden cry. 
 
 The death-song they sing 
 
 Even now in mine ear. 
 
 What avails it? He who is born must die. " 
 
 He then says that he himself is about to depart 
 for Valhalla ; that a death on the straw becomes 
 not a King of the Northmen. He would fain die 
 the death of a hero ; and he cuts on his arms and 
 breast the runes of death, runes to Odin. And 
 while the blood drops from among the silvery hairs 
 of his naked bosom, he calls for a flowing goblet, 
 and drinks a health to the glorious North ; and in 
 
366 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 spirit hears the Gjallar Horn,* and goes to Val 
 halla, where glory, like a golden helmet, crowns 
 the coming guest. 
 
 The next canto is the Drapa, or Dirge of King 
 Ring, in the unrhymed, alliterative stanzas of the 
 old Icelandic poetry. The Scald sings how the 
 high-descended monarch sits in his tomb, with his 
 shield on his arm and his battle-sword by his side. 
 His gallant steed, too, neighs in the tomb, and paws 
 the ground with his golden hoofs, f But the spirit 
 of the departed rides over the rainbow, which bends 
 beneath its burden, up to the open gates of Val 
 halla. Here the gods receive him, and garlands 
 are woven for him of golden grain with blue 
 flowers intermingled, and Brage sings a song of 
 praise and welcome to the wise old Ring. 
 
 " Now rideth royal 
 Eing over Bifrost, J 
 Sways with the burden 
 The bending bridge. 
 Open spring Valhall s 
 Vaulted doors widely ; 
 Asanar s || hands are 
 Hanging in his. 
 
 * The Gjallar Horn was blown by Heimdal, the watchman of 
 the gods. He was the son of nine virgins, and was called " the 
 God with the Golden Teeth." His watch-tower was upon the 
 rainbow, and he blew his horn whenever a fallen hero rode over 
 the Bridge of Heaven to Valhalla. 
 
 t It was a Scandinavian, as well as a Scythian custom, to bury 
 the favorite steed of a warrior in the same tomb with him. 
 
 t The rainbow. II The great gods. 
 
FRITHIOP S SAGA. 367 
 
 Brage, the graybeard, 
 Gripeth the gold string, 
 Stiller now soundeth 
 Song than before. 
 Listening leaneth 
 Vanadi s % lovely 
 Breast at the banquet 
 Burning to hear. 
 
 " High sings the sword-blade 
 Steady on helmet ; 
 Boisterous the billows, and 
 Bloody alway. 
 Strength, of the gracious 
 Gods is the gift, and 
 Bitter as Berserk 
 Biteth in shield. 
 
 " Welcome, thou wise one, 
 Heir of Valhalla! 
 Long learn the Northland 
 Laud to thy name. 
 Brage doth hail thee, 
 Honored with horn-drink, 
 Nornorna s herald 
 Now from the North. " 
 
 The twenty-second canto describes, in a very 
 spirited and beautiful style, the election of a new 
 king. The yeoman takes his sword from the wall, 
 and, with clang of shields and sound of arms, the 
 people gather together in a public assembly, or 
 Ting, whose roof is the sky of heaven. Here 
 
 * Freya. 
 
368 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 Frithiof harangues them, bearing aloft on his 
 shield the little son of Ring, who sits there like a 
 king on his throne, or a young eagle on the cliff, 
 gazing upward at the sun. Frithiof hails him as 
 King of the Northmen, and swears to protect his 
 kingdom ; and when the little boy, tired of sitting 
 on the shield, leaps fearlessly to the ground, the 
 people raise a shout, and acknowledge him for 
 their monarch, and Jarl Frithiof as regent, till the 
 boy grows older. But Frithiof has other thoughts 
 than these. He must away to meet the Fates at 
 Balder s ruined temple, and make atonement to 
 the offended god. And thus he departs. 
 
 Canto twenty-third is entitled Frithiof at his 
 Father s Grave. The sun is sinking like a golden 
 shield in the ocean, and the hills and vales around 
 him, and the fragrant flowers, and song of birds, 
 and sound of the sea, and shadow of trees, awaken 
 in his softened heart the memory of other days. 
 And he calls aloud to the gods for pardon of his 
 crime, and to the spirit of his father that he should 
 come from his grave and bring him peace and 
 forgiveness from the city of the gods. And lo ! 
 amid the evening shadows, from the western wave 
 uprising, landward floats the Fata Morgana, and, 
 sinking down upon the spot where Balder s temple 
 once stood, assumes itself the form of a temple, 
 with columns of dark blue steel, and an altar of 
 precious stone. At the door, leaning upon their 
 shields, stand the Destinies. And the Destiny of 
 the Past points to the solitude around, and the 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 369 
 
 Destiny of the Future to a beautiful temple newly 
 risen from the sea. While Frithiof gazes in 
 wonder at the sight, all vanishes away, like a 
 vision of the night. But the vision is interpreted 
 by the hero without the aid of prophet or of sooth 
 sayer. 
 
 Canto twenty-fourth is the Atonement. The 
 temple of Balder has been rebuilt, and with such 
 magnificence that the North beholds in it an image 
 of Valhalla. And two by two, in solemn proces 
 sion, walk therein the twelve virgins, clad in 
 garments of silver tissue, with roses upon their 
 cheeks, and roses in their innocent hearts. They 
 sing a solemn song of Balder, how much beloved 
 he was by all that lived, and how he fell, by 
 Hoder s arrow slain, and earth and sea and heaven 
 wept. And the sound of the song is not like the 
 sound of a human voice, but like the tones which 
 come from the halls of the gods ; like the thoughts 
 of a maiden dreaming of her lover, when the night 
 ingale is singing in the midnight stillness, and the 
 rnoon shines over the beech-trees of the North. 
 Frithiof listens to the song ; and as he listens, all 
 thoughts of vengeance and of human hate melt 
 within him, as the icy breastplate melts from the 
 bosom of the fields when the sun shines in Spring. 
 At this moment the high-priest of Balder enters, 
 venerable with his long, silver beard ; and welcom 
 ing the Viking to the temple he has built, he 
 delivers for his special edification a long homily on 
 things human and divine, with a short catechism 
 
 VOL. i. 24 
 
370 FRITHIOF S SAGA. 
 
 of Northern mythology. He tells him. likewise, 
 very truly, that more acceptable to the gods than 
 the smoke of burnt-offerings is the sacrifice of one s 
 own vindictive spirit, the hate of a human soul; 
 and then speaks of the Virgin s Son. 
 
 " Sent by All-father to declare aright the rones 
 Oa Destiny s black shield-rim, unexplained till now. 
 Peace was his battle-cry, and his white sword was . 
 And innocence sat dove-like on his silver helm. 
 Holy he lived and taught, he died and he forgave, 
 And under distant palm-trees stands his grave in light. 
 His doctrine, it is said, wanders from dale to dale, 
 Melting the hard of heart, and laying hand in hand, 
 And builds the realm of Peace on the atoned earth. 
 I do not know his lore aright, but darkly still 
 In better hours I have presentiment thereof; 
 And every human heart feeleth alike with mine. 
 One day, that know I, shaH it come, and lightly wave 
 Its white and dove-like wings over the Northern hills. 
 But there shall be no more a North for us that day, 
 And oaks shall whisper soft o er the graves of the for 
 gotten." 
 
 He then speaks of Frithiors hatred to Bele s 
 
 : and tells him that Helge is dead, and that 
 
 Halfdan sits alone on Bele s throne, urging him at 
 
 the same time to sacrifice to the gods his desire of 
 
 vengeance, and proffer the hand of friendship to 
 
 the young king. This is done straightway, Halfdan 
 
 opportunely coming in at that moment : and the 
 
 forthwith the ban from the Yarg-i- 
 
 Yeum, the sacrilegious and outlawed man. And 
 
 then Ingeborg enters the vaulted temple, followed 
 
FRITHIOF S SAGA. 371 
 
 by maidens, as the moon is followed by stars in the 
 vaulted sky; and from the hand of her brother, 
 Frithiof receives the bride of his youth, and they 
 are married in Haider s temple. 
 
 And here endeth the Legend of Frithiof the 
 Valiant, the noblest poetic contribution which 
 Sweden has yet made to the literary history of 
 the world. 
 
HAWTHORNE S TWICE-TOLD 
 TALES. 
 
 1837. 
 
 
 WHEN a new star rises in the heavens, people 
 gaze after it for a season with the naked eye, and 
 with such telescopes as they can find. In the 
 stream of thought which flows so peacefully deep 
 and clear through the pages of this book, we see 
 the bright reflection of a spiritual star, after which 
 men will be fain to gaze " with the naked eye, and 
 with the spy-glasses of criticism." This star is 
 but newly risen ; and ere long the observations of 
 numerous star-gazers, perched upon arm-chairs 
 and editors tables, will inform the world of its 
 magnitude and its place in the heaven of poetry, 
 whether it be in the paw of the Great Bear, or on 
 the forehead of Pegasus, or on the strings of the 
 Lyre, or in the wing of the Eagle. Our own 
 observations are as follows. , 
 
 To this little work let us say, as was said to 
 Sidney s Arcadia : " Live ever, sweet, sweet book ! 
 the simple image of his gentle wit, and the golden 
 pillar of his noble courage ; and ever notify unto 
 
HAWTHORNE S TWICE-TOLD TALES. 373 
 
 the world that thy writer was the secretary of 
 eloquence, the breath of the Muses, the honey-bee 
 of the daintiest flowers of wit and art." It comes 
 from the hand of a man of genius. Every thing 
 about it has the freshness of morning and of May. 
 These flowers and green leaves of poetry have not 
 the dust of the highway upon them. They have 
 been gathered fresh from the secret places of a 
 peaceful and gentle heart. There flow deep 
 waters, silent, calm, and cool ; and the green trees 
 look into them and " God s blue heaven." 
 
 This book, though in prose, is written, never 
 theless, by a poet. He looks upon all things in the 
 spirit of love, and with lively sympathies ; for to 
 him external form is but the representation of 
 internal being, all things having a life, an end and 
 aim. The true poet is a friendly man. He takes 
 to his arms even cold and inanimate things, and 
 rejoices in his heart, as did St. Francis of old, 
 when he kissed his bride of snow. To his eye all 
 things are beautiful and holy ; all are objects of 
 feeling and of song, from the great hierarchy of 
 the silent, saint-like stars, that rule the night, 
 down to the little flowers which are " stars in the 
 firmament of the earth." 
 
 It is one of the attributes of the poetic mind to 
 feel a universal sympathy with Nature, both in the 
 material world and in the soul of man. It identi 
 fies itself likewise with every object of its sympathy, 
 giving it new sensation and poetic life, whatever 
 that object may be, whether man, bird, beast, 
 
374 HAWTHORNE S TWICE-TOLD TALES. 
 
 flower, or star. As to the pure mind all things 
 are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poet 
 ical. To such souls no age and no country can be 
 utterly dull and prosaic. They make unto them 
 selves their age and country; dwelling in the 
 universal mind of man, and in the universal forms 
 of things. Of such is the author of this book. 
 
 There are many who think that the ages of 
 poetry and romance are gone by. They look upon 
 the Present as a dull, unrhymed, and prosaic trans 
 lation of a brilliant and poetic Past. Their dreams 
 are of the days of eld ; of the Dark Ages, the ages 
 of Chivalry, and Bards, and Troubadours and 
 Minnesingers ; and the times of which Milton 
 says : " The villages also must have their visitors 
 to inquire what lectures the bagpipe, and the 
 rebbec reads even to the ballatry, and the gam- 
 muth of every municipal fiddler, for these are the 
 countryman s Arcadia and his Monte Mayors." 
 
 We all love ancient ballads. Pleasantly to all 
 ears sounds the voice of the people in song, 
 swelling fitfully through the desolate chambers 
 of the Past like the wind of evening among ruins. 
 And yet this voice does not persuade us that the 
 days of balladry were more poetic than our own. 
 The spirit of the Past pleads for itself, and the 
 spirit of the Present likewise. If poetry be an 
 element of the human mind, and consequently in 
 accordance with nature and truth, it would be 
 strange indeed if, as the human mind advances, 
 poetry should recede. The truth is, that, when 
 
HAWTHORNE S TWICE-TOLD TALES. 375 
 
 we look back upon the Past, we see only its bright 
 and poetic features. All that is dull, prosaic, and 
 commonplace, is lost in the shadowy distance. 
 We see the moated castle on the hill, and, 
 
 " Golden and red, above it 
 The clouds float gorgeously"; 
 
 but we see not the valley below, where the patient 
 bondman toils like a beast of burden. We see 
 the tree-tops waving in the wind, and hear the 
 merry birds singing under their green roofs ; but 
 we forget that at their roots there are swine 
 feeding upon acorns. With the Present it is not 
 so. We stand too near to see objects in a pictur 
 esque light. What to others, at a distance, is a 
 bright and folded summer cloud, is to us, who are 
 in it, a dismal, drizzling rain. Thus has it been 
 since the world began. Ours is not the only 
 Present which has seemed dull, commonplace, and 
 prosaic. 
 
 The truth is, the heaven of poetry and romance 
 still lies around us and within us. So long as 
 truth is stranger than fiction, the elements of 
 poetry and romance will not be wanting in 
 common life. If, invisible ourselves, we could 
 follow a single human being through a single day 
 of his life, and know all his secret thoughts and 
 hopes and anxieties, his prayers and tears and 
 good resolves, his passionate delights and struggles 
 against temptation, all that excites, and all that 
 soothes the heart of man, we should have poetry 
 
376 HAWTHORNE S TWICE-TOLD TALES. 
 
 enough to fill a volume. Nay, set the imagination 
 free, like another bottle-imp, and bid it lift for you 
 the roofs of the city, street by street, and after a 
 single night s observation you may sit down and 
 write poetry and romance for the rest of your 
 life. 
 
 The Twice-told Tales are so called from having 
 been first published in various annuals and maga 
 zines, and now collected together and told a second 
 time in a volume. And a very delightful volume 
 they make ; one of those which excite in you a 
 feeling of personal interest for the author. A 
 calm, thoughtful face seems to be looking at you 
 from every page, with now a pleasant smile, and 
 now a shade of sadness stealing over its features. 
 Sometimes, though not often, it glares wildly at 
 you, with a strange and painful expression, as, in 
 the German romance, the bronze knocker of the 
 Archivarius Lindhorst makes up faces at the 
 Student Anselmus. 
 
 One of the prominent characteristics of these 
 tales is, that they are national in their character. 
 The author has chosen his themes among the 
 traditions of New England; the dusty legends 
 of "the good old colony times, when we lived 
 under a king." This is the right material for story. 
 It seems as natural to make tales out of old, 
 tumble-down traditions, as canes and snuff-boxes 
 out of old steeples, or trees planted by great men. 
 The dreary, old Puritanical times begin to look 
 romantic in the distance. Who would not like to 
 
HAWTHORNE S TWICE-TOLD TALES. 377 
 
 have strolled through the city of Agamenticus, 
 where a market was held every week, on Wednes 
 day, and there were two annual fairs at St. James s 
 and St. Paul s ? Who would not like to have 
 been present at the court of the worshipful Thomas 
 Gorges, in those palmy days of the law when Tom 
 Heard was fined five shillings for being drunk, 
 and John Payne the same, "for swearing one 
 oath " ? Who would not like to have seen Thomas 
 Taylor presented to the grand jury " for abusing 
 Captain Raynes, being in authority, by thee-ing 
 and thou-ing him " ; and John Wardell likewise, 
 for denying Cambridge College to be an ordinance 
 of God ; and people fined for winking at comely 
 damsels in church ; and others for being common 
 sleepers there on the Lord s day ? Truly, many 
 quaint and quiet customs, many comic scenes and 
 strange adventures, many wild and wondrous 
 things, fit for humorous tale, and soft, pathetic 
 story, lie all about us here in New England. 
 There is no tradition of the Rhine nor of the 
 Black Forest which surpasses in beauty that of the 
 Phantom Ship of New Haven. The Flying Dutch 
 man of the Cape, and the Klabotermann of the 
 Baltic, are nowise superior. 4 The story of Peter 
 Rugg, the man who could not find Boston, is as 
 good as that told by Gervase of Tilbury, of a man 
 who gave himself to the devils by an unfortunate 
 imprecation, and was used by them as a wheel 
 barrow ; and the Great Carbuncle of the White 
 Mountains shines with no less splendor than that 
 
378 HAWTHORNE S TWICE-TOLD TALES. 
 
 which illuminated the subterranean palace in 
 Rome, as related by William of Malmesbury. 
 
 Another characteristic of this writer is the ex 
 ceeding beauty of his style. It is as clear as 
 running waters. Indeed, he uses words as mere 
 stepping-stones, upon which, with a free and 
 youthful bound, his spirit crosses and recrosses 
 the bright and rushing stream of thought. Some 
 writers of the present day have introduced a kind 
 of Gothic architecture into their style. All is 
 fantastic, vast, and wondrous in the outward form, 
 and within is mysterious twilight, and the swelling 
 sound of an organ, and a voice chanting hymns in 
 Latin, which need a translation for many of the 
 crowd. To this I do not object. Let the priest 
 chant in what language he will, so long as he 
 understands his own Mass-book. But if he wishes 
 the world to listen and be edified, he will do well 
 to choose a language that is generally understood. 
 
THE GREAT METROPOLIS. 
 
 1837. 
 
 I HAVE an affection for a great city. I feel safe 
 in the neighbourhood of man, and enjoy " the sweet 
 security of streets." The excitement of the crowd 
 is pleasant to me. I find sermons in the stones 
 of the pavement, and in the continuous sound 
 of voices and wheels and footsteps hear " the sad 
 music of humanity." I feel that life is not a 
 dream, but a reality ; that the beings around 
 me are not the insects of an hour, but the pilgrims 
 of an eternity ; each with his history of thousand 
 fold occurrences, insignificant it may be to others, 
 but all-important to himself; each with a human 
 heart, whose fibres are woven into the great web 
 of human sympathies ; and none so small that, 
 when he dies, some of the mysterious meshes are 
 not broken. The green earth, and the air, and 
 the sea, all living and all lifeless things, preach the 
 gospel of a good providence ; but most of all does 
 man, in his crowded cities, and in his manifold 
 powers and wants and passions and deeds, preach 
 this same gospel. The greatest works of his handi 
 craft delight me hardly less than the greatest works 
 
380 THE GREAT METROPOLIS. 
 
 of Nature. They are " the masterpieces of her 
 own masterpiece." Architecture, and painting, 
 and sculpture, and music, and epic poems, and all 
 the forms of art, wherein the hand of genius ia 
 visible, please me evermore, for they conduct me 
 into the fellowship of great minds. And thus my 
 sympathies are with men, and streets, and city 
 gates, and towers from which the great bells sound 
 solemnly and slow, and cathedral doors, where 
 venerable statues, holding books in their hands, 
 look down like sentinels upon the church-going 
 multitude, and the birds of the air come and build 
 their nests in the arms of saints and apostles. 
 
 And more than all this, in great cities we learn 
 to look the world in the face. We shake hands 
 with stern realities. We see ourselves in others. 
 We become acquainted with the motley, many- 
 sided life of man ; and finally learn, like Jean 
 Paul, to " look upon a metropolis as a collection 
 of villages ; a village as some blind alley in a 
 metropolis ; fame as the talk of neighbours at the 
 street door ; a library as a learned conversation ; 
 joy as a second; sorrow as a minute; life as a 
 day ; and three things as all in all, God, Creation, 
 Virtue." 
 
 Forty-five miles westward from the North Sea, in 
 the lap of a broad and pleasant valley watered by 
 the Thames, stands the Great Metropolis. It com 
 prises the City of London and its Liberties, with 
 the City and Liberties of Westminster, the Borough 
 of Southwark, and upwards of thirty of the con- 
 
THE GREAT METROPOLIS. 381 
 
 tiguous villages of Middlesex and Surrey. East 
 and west, its greatest length is about eight miles ; 
 north and south, its greatest breadth about five ; its 
 circumference, from twenty to thirty. Its popula 
 tion is estimated at two millions. The vast living 
 tide goes thundering through its ten thousand streets 
 in one unbroken roar. The noise of the great 
 thoroughfares is deafening. But you step aside 
 into a by-lane, and anon you emerge into little 
 green squares half filled with sunshine, half with 
 shade, where no sound of living thing is heard, 
 save the voice of a bird or a child, and amid soli 
 tude and silence you gaze in wonder at the great 
 trees " growing in the heart of a brick-and-mortar 
 wilderness." Then there are the three parks, 
 Hyde, Regent s, and St. James s, where you may 
 lose yourself in green alleys, and dream you are in 
 the country ; Westminster Abbey, with its tombs 
 and solemn cloisters, where, with George Herbert, 
 you may think that, " when the bells do chime, tis 
 angels music ; " and high above all, half hidden in 
 smoke and vapor, rises the dome of St. Paul s. 
 
 These are a few of the more striking features of 
 London. More striking still is the Thames. Above 
 the town, by Kingston and Twickenham, it winds 
 through groves and meadows green, a rural, silver 
 stream. The traveller who sees it here for the first 
 time can hardly believe that this is the mighty river 
 which bathes the feet of London. He asks, per 
 haps, the coachman what stream it is ; and the 
 coachman answers, with a stare of wonder and 
 
382 THE GREAT METROPOLIS. 
 
 pity, " The Thames, sir." Pleasure-boats are glid 
 ing back and forth, and stately swans float, like 
 water lilies, on its bosom. On its banks are vil 
 lages and church towers, beneath which, among 
 the patriarchs of the hamlet, lie many gifted sons 
 of song, " in sepulchres unhearsed and green." 
 
 In and below London the whole scene is changed. 
 Let us view it by night. Lamps are gleaming along 
 shore and on the bridges, and a full moon rising 
 over the Borough of Southwark. The moonbeams 
 silver the rippling, yellow tide, wherein also flare 
 the shore lamps, with a lambent, flickering gleam. 
 Barges and wherries move to and fro ; and heavy- 
 laden luggers are sweeping up stream with the 
 rising tide, swinging sideways, with loose, flapping 
 sails. Both sides of the river are crowded with 
 sea and river craft, whose black hulks lie in shadow, 
 and whose tapering masts rise up into moonlight. 
 A distant sound of music floats on the air ; a harp, 
 and a flute, and a horn. It has an unearthly sound ; 
 and lo ! like a shooting star, a light comes gliding 
 on. It is the signal-lamp at the mast-head of a 
 steam-vessel, that flits by, cloud-like and indistinct. 
 And from all this scene goes up a sound of human 
 voices, curses, laughter, and singing, mingled 
 with the monotonous roar of the city, " the clash 
 ing and careering streams of life, hurrying to lose 
 themselves in the impervious gloom of eternity." 
 
 And now the midnight is past, and amid the 
 general silence the clock strikes, one, two. Far 
 distant, from some belfry in the suburbs, comes the 
 
THE GREAT METROPOLIS. 383 
 
 first sound, so indistinct as hardly to be distinguished 
 from the crowing of a cock. Then, close at hand, 
 the great bell of St. Paul s, with a heavy, solemn 
 sound, one, two. It is answered from Southwark ; 
 then at a distance like an echo ; and then all around 
 you, with various and intermingling clang, like a 
 chime of bells, the clocks from a hundred belfries 
 strike the hour. But the moon is already sinking, 
 large and fiery, through the vapors of morning. It 
 is just in the range of the chimneys and house-tops, 
 and seems to follow you with speed as you float 
 down the river between unbroken ranks of ships. 
 Day is dawning in the east, not with a pale streak 
 in the horizon, but with a silver light spread through 
 the sky almost to the zenith. It is the mingling of 
 moonlight and daylight. The water is tinged with 
 a green hue, melting into purple and gold, like the 
 brilliant scales of a fish. The air grows cool. It 
 comes fresh from the eastern sea, toward which we 
 are swiftly gliding ; and, dimly seen in the uncer 
 tain twilight, behind us rises 
 
 " A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, 
 
 Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
 Can reach ; with here and there a sail just skipping 
 
 In sight, then lost amid the forestry 
 Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping, 
 
 On tiptoe, through their sea-coal canopy; 
 A huge dun cupola, like a fool s cap crown 
 On a fool s head; and there is London town." 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 
 
 1838. 
 
 WE read in history, that the beauty of an 
 ancient manuscript tempted King Alfred, when a 
 boy at his mother s knee, to learn the letters of the 
 Saxon tongue. A volume which that monarch 
 minstrel wrote in after years now lies before me, so 
 beautifully printed, that it might tempt any one to 
 learn, not only the letters of the Saxon language, 
 but the language also. The monarch himself is 
 looking from the ornamented initial letter of the 
 first chapter. He is crowned and careworn ; hav 
 ing a beard, and long, flowing locks, and a face of 
 majesty. He seems to have just uttered those 
 remarkable words, with which his Preface closes : 
 " And now he prays, and for God s name implores, 
 every one of those whom it lists to read this book, 
 that he would pray for him, and not blame him, if 
 he more rightly understand it than he could ; for 
 every man must, according to the measure of his 
 understanding, and according to his leisure, speak 
 that which he speaketh, and do that which he 
 doeth." 
 
 I would fain hope, that the beauty of this and 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 385 
 
 other Anglo-Saxon books may lead many to the 
 study of that venerable language. Through such 
 gateways will they pass, it is true, into no gay 
 palace of song ; but among the dark chambers and 
 mouldering walls of an old national literature, 
 weather-stained and in ruins. They will find, 
 however, venerable names recorded on those walls ; 
 and inscriptions, worth the trouble of deciphering. 
 To point out the most curious and important of 
 these is my present purpose ; and according to the 
 measure of my understanding, and according to 
 my leisure, I speak that which I speak. 
 
 The Anglo-Saxon language was the language of 
 our Saxon forefathers in England, though they 
 never gave it that name. They called it English. 
 Thus King Alfred speaks of tran slating 9 "from 
 book-Latin into English;" Abbot JElfric was re 
 quested by .ZEthelward "to translate the book of 
 Genesis from Latin into English ; " and Bishop 
 Leofric, speaking of the manuscript he gave to the 
 Exeter Cathedral, calls it " a great English book." 
 In other words, it is the old Saxon, a Gothic tongue, 
 as spoken and developed in England. That it was 
 spoken and written uniformly throughout the land 
 is not to be imagined, when we know that Jutes 
 and Angles were in the country as well as Saxons. 
 But that it was essentially the same language 
 everywhere is not to be doubted, when we com 
 pare pure West-Saxon texts with Northumbrian 
 glosses and books of Durham. Hickes speaks of a 
 Dano- Saxon period in the history of the language. 
 
 VOL. i. 25 
 
386 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 
 
 The Saxon kings reigned six hundred years ; the 
 Danish dynasty, twenty only. And neither the 
 Danish boors, who were earthlings in the country, 
 nor the Danish soldiers, who were dandies at the 
 court of King Canute, could, in the brief space of 
 twenty years, have so overlaid or interlarded the 
 pure Anglo-Saxon with their provincialisms, as to 
 give it a new character, and thus form a new period 
 in its history, as was afterwards done by the Nor 
 mans. 
 
 The Dano-Saxon is a dialect of the language, 
 not a period which was passed through in its his 
 tory. D^wn to the time of the Norman Conquest, 
 it existed in the form of two principal dialects ; 
 namely, the Anglo-Saxon in the South ; and the 
 Dano-Saxon, or Northumbrian, in the North. Af 
 ter the Norman Conquest, the language assumed a 
 new form, which has been called, properly enough, 
 Norman- Saxon and Semi-Saxon. 
 
 This form of the language, ever flowing and 
 filtering through the roots of national feeling, cus 
 tom, and prejudice, prevailed about two hundred 
 years ; that is, from the middle of the eleventh to 
 the middle of the thirteenth century, when it be 
 came English. It is impossible to fix the land 
 marks of a language with any great precision ; but 
 only floating beacons, here and there. 
 
 It is oftentimes curious to consider the far-off 
 beginnings of great events, and to study the aspect 
 of the cloud no bigger than one s hand. The 
 British peasant looked seaward from his harvest- 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 387 
 
 field, and saw, with wondering eyes, the piratical 
 schooner of a Saxon Viking making for the mouth 
 of the Thames. A few years only a few years 
 afterward, while the same peasant, driven from his 
 homestead north or west, still lives to tell the story 
 to his grandchildren, another race lords it over the 
 land, speaking a different language and living 
 under different laws. This important event in 
 his history is more important in the world s his 
 tory. Thus began the reign of the Saxons in 
 England ; and the downfall of one nation, and the 
 rise of another, seem to us at this distance only 
 the catastrophe of a stage-play. 
 
 The Saxons came into England about the middle 
 of the fifth century. They were pagans; they 
 were a wild and warlike people ; brave, rejoicing 
 in sea-storms, and beautiful in person, with blue 
 eyes, and long, flowing hair. Their warriors wore 
 their shields suspended from their necks by chains. 
 Their horsemen were armed with iron sledge 
 hammers. Their priests rode upon mares, and 
 carried into the battle-field an image of the god 
 Irminsula ; in figure like an armed man ; his hel 
 met crested with a cock ; in his right hand a ban 
 ner, emblazoned with a red rose ; a bear carved 
 upon his breast ; and, hanging from his shoulders, 
 a shield on which was a lion in a field of flowers. 
 
 Not two centuries elapsed before this whole- 
 people was converted to Christianity. JElfric, in his 
 homily on the birthday of St. Gregory, informs us, 
 that this conversion was accomplished by the holy 
 
388 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 
 
 wishes of that good man, and the holy works of 
 St. Augustine and other monks. St. Gregory, be 
 holding one day certain slaves set for sale in the 
 market-place of Rome, who were "men of fair 
 countenance and nobly-haired," and learning that 
 they were heathens, and called Angles, heaved a 
 long sigh, and said : " Well-away ! that men of so 
 fair a hue should be subjected to the swarthy Devil ! 
 Rightly are they called Angles, for they have 
 angels beauty ; and therefore it is fit that they in 
 heaven should be companions of angels." As 
 soon, therefore, as he undertook the popehood, the 
 monks were sent to their beloved work. In the 
 Witena Gemot, or Assembly of the Wise, con 
 vened by King Edwin of Northumbria to consider 
 the propriety of receiving the Christian faith, a 
 Saxon Ealdorman arose, and spoke these noble 
 words : " Thus seemeth to me, O king, this present 
 life of man upon earth, compared with the time 
 which is unknown to us ; even as if you were sitting 
 at a feast, amid your Ealdormen and Thegns in 
 winter-time. And the fire is lighted, and the hall 
 warmed, and it rains and snows and storms with 
 out. Then cometh a sparrow, and flieth about the 
 hall. It cometh in at one door, and goeth out at 
 another. While it is within, it is not touched by 
 the winter s storm ; but that is only for a moment, 
 only for the least space. Out of the winter it 
 cometh, to return again into the winter eftsoon. 
 So also this life of man endureth for a little space. 
 What goeth before it and what followeth after, we 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 389 
 
 know not. Wherefore, if this new lore bring 
 aught more certain and more advantageous, then 
 is it worthy that we should follow it." 
 
 Thus the Anglo-Saxons became Christians. For 
 the good of their souls they built monasteries and 
 went on pilgrimages to Rome. The whole country, 
 to use Malmesbury s phrase, was "glorious and 
 refulgent with relics." The priests sang psalms 
 night and day ; and so great was the piety of St. 
 Cuthbert, that, according to Bede, he forgot to 
 take off his shoes for months together, sometimes 
 the whole year round ; from which Mr. Turner 
 infers, that he had no stockings.* They also 
 copied the Evangelists, and illustrated them with 
 illuminations ; in one of which St. John is repre 
 sented in a pea-green dress with red stripes. They 
 also drank ale out of buffalo horns and wooden- 
 knobbed goblets. A Mercian king gave to the 
 Monastery of Croyland his great drinking-horn, 
 that the elder monks might drink therefrom at 
 festivals, and "in their benedictions remember 
 sometimes the soul of the donor, Witlaf." They 
 drank his health, with that of Christ, the Virgin 
 Mary, the Apostles, and other saints. Malmes- 
 bury says, that excessive drinking was the common 
 vice of all ranks of people. King Hardicanute 
 died in a revel, and King Edmund in a drunken 
 brawl at Pucklechurch, being, with all his court, 
 much overtaken by liquor, at the festival of St. 
 
 * History of the Anglo-Saxons, vol. ii. p. 61. 
 
390 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 
 
 Augustine. Thus did mankind go reeling through 
 the Dark Ages; quarrelling, drinking, hunting, 
 hawking, singing psalms, wearing breeches,* grind 
 ing in mills, eating hot bread, rocked in cradles, 
 buried in coffins, weak, suffering, sublime. Well 
 might King Alfred exclaim, " Maker of all crea 
 tures ! help now thy miserable mankind." 
 
 A national literature is a subject which should 
 always be approached with reverence. It is diffi 
 cult to comprehend fully the mind of a nation ; 
 even when that nation still lives, and we can visit 
 it, and its present history, and the lives of men we 
 know, help us to a comment on the written text. 
 But here the dead alone speak. Voices, half 
 understood ; fragments of song, ending abruptly, 
 as if the poet had sung no further, but died with 
 these last words upon his lips ; homilies, preached 
 to congregations that have been asleep for many 
 centuries ; lives of saints, who went to their reward 
 long before the world began to scoff at sainthood ; 
 and wonderful legends, once believed by men, and 
 now, in this age of wise children, hardly credible 
 enough for a nurse s tale ; nothing entire, nothing 
 wholly understood, and no further comment or 
 illustration than may be drawn from an isolated 
 fact found in an old chronicle, or perchance a 
 rude illumination in an old manuscript ! Such is 
 the literature we have now to consider. Such 
 
 * In an old Anglo-Saxon dialogue, a shoemaker says that he 
 makes " slippers, shoes, and leather breeches," (swyftleras, sceos t 
 and lether-hose.) 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 391 
 
 fragments, and mutilated remains, has the human 
 mind left of itself, coming down through the times 
 of old, step by step, and every step a century. 
 Old men and venerable accompany us through the 
 Past; and put into our hands, at parting, such 
 written records of themselves as they have. We 
 should receive these things with reverence. We 
 should respect old age. 
 
 " This leaf, is it not blown about by the wind ? 
 
 Wo to it for its fate ! Alas ! it is old." 
 What an Anglo-Saxon glee-man was, we know 
 from such commentaries as are mentioned above. 
 King Edgar forbade the monks to be ale-poets ; 
 and one of his accusations against the clergy of his 
 day was, that they entertained glee-men in their 
 monasteries, where they had dicing, dancing, and 
 singing, till midnight. The illumination of an old 
 manuscript shows how a glee-man looked. It is a 
 frontispiece to the Psalms of David. The great 
 Psalmist sits upon his throne, with a harp in his 
 hand, and his masters of sacred song around him. 
 Below stands the glee-man, throwing three balls 
 and three knives alternately into the air, and 
 catching them as they fall, like a modern juggler. 
 But all the Anglo-Saxon poets were not glee- 
 men. All the harpers were not dancers. The 
 Soeop, the creator, the poet, rose, at times, to 
 higher themes. He sang the deeds of heroes, vic 
 torious odes, death-songs, epic poems ; or sitting in 
 cloisters, and afar from these things, converted 
 holy writ into Saxon chimes. 
 
392 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 
 
 The first thing which strikes the reader of Anglo- 
 Saxon poetry is the structure of the verse ; the 
 short exclamatory lines, whose rhythm depends on 
 alliteration in the emphatic syllables, and to which 
 the general omission of the particles gives great 
 energy and vivacity. Though alliteration predom 
 inates in all Anglo-Saxon poetry, rhyme is not 
 wholly wanting. It had line-rhymes and final 
 rhymes; which, being added to the alliteration, 
 and brought so near together in the short, em 
 phatic lines, produce a singular effect upon the 
 ear. They ring like blows of hammers on an an 
 vil. For example : 
 
 " Flah mah fliteth, 
 Flan man hwiteth, 
 Burg sorg biteth, 
 Bald aid thwiteth, 
 Wraec-faec writheth, 
 Wrath ath smiteth." * 
 
 Other peculiarities of Anglo-Saxon poetry, which 
 cannot escape the reader s attention, are its fre 
 quent inversions, its bold transitions, and abundant 
 metaphors. These are the things which render 
 Anglo-Saxon poetry so much more difficult than 
 
 * " Strong dart flitteth, 
 Spear-man whetteth, 
 Care the city biteth, 
 Age the bold quelleth, 
 Vengeance prevaileth, 
 Wrath a town smiteth." 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 393 
 
 Anglo-Saxon prose. But upon these points I need 
 not enlarge. It is enough to allude to them. 
 
 One of the oldest and most important remains 
 of Anglo-Saxon literature is the epic poem of 
 Beowulf. Its age is unknown ; but it comes from 
 a very distant and hoar antiquity ; somewhere 
 between the seventh and tenth centuries. It is 
 like a piece of ancient armor ; rusty and battered, 
 and yet strong. From within comes a voice sepul 
 chral, as if the ancient armor spoke, telling a 
 simple, straight-forward narrative ; with here and 
 there the boastful speech of a rough old Dane, 
 reminding one of those made by the heroes of 
 Homer. The style, likewise, is simple, perhaps 
 one should say, austere. The bold metaphors, 
 which characterize nearly all the Anglo-Saxon 
 poems, are for the most part wanting in this. The 
 author seems mainly bent upon telling us, how his 
 Sea-Goth slew the Grendel and the Fire-drake. 
 He is too much in earnest to multiply epithets and 
 gorgeous figures. At times he is tedious, at times 
 obscure ; and he who undertakes to read the orig 
 inal will find it no easy task. 
 
 The poem begins with a description of King 
 Hrothgar the Scylding, in his great hall of Heort, 
 which reechoed with the sound of harp and song. 
 But not far off, in the fens and marshes of Jutland, 
 dwelt a grim and monstrous giant, called Grendel, 
 a descendant of Cain. This troublesome individual 
 was in the habit of occasionally visiting the Scyld- 
 ing s palace by night, to see, as the author rather 
 
394 ANGLO-SAXON LITEKATURE. 
 
 quaintly says, "how the doughty Danes found 
 themselves after their beer-carouse." On his first 
 visit, he destroyed some thirty inmates, all asleep, 
 with beer in their brains; and ever afterwards 
 kept the whole land in fear of death. At length 
 the fame of these evil deeds reached the ears of 
 Beowulf, the Thane of Higelac, a famous Viking 
 in those days, who had slain sea-monsters, and 
 wore a wild-boar for his crest. Straightway he 
 sailed with fifteen followers for the c ourt of Heort ; 
 unarmed, in the great mead-hall, and at midnight, 
 fought the Grendel, tore off one of his arms, and 
 hung it up on the palace wall as a curiosity ; the 
 fiend s fingers being armed with long nails, which 
 the author calls the hand-spurs of the heathen 
 hero. Retreating to his cave, the grim ghost 
 departed this life ; whereat there was great carous 
 ing at Heort. But at night came the Grendel s 
 mother, and carried away one of the beer-drunken 
 heroes of the ale-wassail. Beowulf, with a great 
 escort, pursued her to the fen-lands of the Gren 
 del; plunged, all armed, into a dark-rolling and 
 dreary river, that flowed from the monster s cavern ; 
 slew worms and dragons manifold ; was dragged 
 to the bottom by the old- wife ; and seizing a magic 
 sword, which lay among the treasures of that realm 
 of wonders, with one fell blow, let her heathen 
 soul out of its bone-house. Having thus freed the 
 land from the giants, Beowulf, laden with gifts and 
 treasures, departed homeward, as if nothing special 
 had happened, and, after the death of King Higelac, 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 39y 
 
 ascended the throne of the Scylfings. Here the 
 poem should end, and, we doubt not, did originally 
 end. But, as it has come down to us, eleven more 
 cantos follow, containing a new series of adven 
 tures. Beowulf has grown old. He has reigned 
 fifty years ; and now, in his gray old age, is troubled 
 by the devastations of a monstrous Fire-drake, so 
 that his metropolis is beleaguered, and he can no 
 longer fly his hawks and merles in the ,open coun 
 try. He resolves, at length, to fight with this 
 Fire-drake ; and, with the help of his attendant, 
 Wiglaf, overcomes him. The land is made rich by 
 the treasures found in the dragon s cave ; but 
 Beowulf dies of his wounds. 
 
 Thus departs Beowulf, the Sea-Goth ; of the 
 world-kings the mildest to men, the strongest of 
 hand, the most clement to his people, the most 
 desirous of glory. And thus closes the oldest epic 
 in any modern language; written in forty-three 
 cantos of some six thousand lines. The outline 
 here given is filled up with abundant episodes and 
 warlike details. We have ale-revels, and giving 
 of bracelets, and presents of mares, and songs of 
 bards. The battles with the Grendel and the 
 Fire-drake are minutely described ; as likewise 
 are the dwellings and rich treasure-houses of these 
 monsters. The fire-stream flows with lurid light ; 
 the dragon breathes out flame and pestilential 
 breath ; the gigantic sword, forged by the Jutes 
 of old, dissolves and thaws like an icicle in the 
 hero s grasp ; and the swart raven tells the eagle 
 
396 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 
 
 how he fared with the fell wolf at the death-feast. 
 Such is, in brief, the machinery of the poem. It 
 possesses great epic merit, and in parts is strikingly 
 graphic in its descriptions. As we read, we can 
 almost smell the brine, and hear the sea-breeze 
 blow, and see the mainland stretch out its jutting 
 promontories, those sea-noses, as the poet calls 
 them, into the blue waters of the solemn ocean. 
 
 The next work to which I would call the atten 
 tion of my readers is very remarkable, both in a 
 philological and in a poetical point of view ; being 
 written in a more ambitious style than Beowulf. 
 It is Caedmon s Paraphrase of Portions of Holy 
 Writ. Caedmon was a monk in the Minster of 
 Whitby. He lived and died in the seventh cen 
 tury. The only account we have of his life is 
 that given by the Venerable Bede in his Eccle 
 siastical History. 
 
 By some he is called the Father of Anglo-Saxon 
 Poetry, because his name stands first in the history 
 of Saxon song-craft ; by others, the Milton of our 
 Forefathers; because he sang of Lucifer and the 
 Loss of Paradise. 
 
 The poem is divided into two books. The first 
 is nearly complete, and contains a paraphrase of 
 parts of the Old Testament and the Apocrypha. 
 The second is so mutilated as to be only a series 
 of unconnected fragments. It contains scenes from 
 the New Testament, and is chiefly occupied with 
 Christ s descent into the lower regions ; a favorite 
 theme in old times, and well known in the history 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 397 
 
 of miracle-plays, as the Harrowing of Hell. The 
 author is a pious, prayerful monk ; " an awful, 
 reverend, and religious man." He has all the 
 simplicity of a child. He calls his Creator the 
 Blithe-heart King ; the patriarchs, Earls ; and their 
 children, Noblemen. Abraham is a wise-heedy 
 man, a guardian of bracelets, a mighty earl ; and 
 his wife Sarah, a woman of elfin beauty. The 
 sons of Reuben are called Sea-Pirates. A laugher 
 is a laughter-smith ; the Ethiopians, a people brown 
 with the hot coals of heaven. 
 
 Striking poetic epithets and passages are not 
 wanting in his works. They are sprinkled here 
 and there throughout the narrative. The sky is 
 called the roof of nations, the roof adorned with 
 stars. After the overthrow of Pharaoh and his 
 folk, he says, the blue air was with corruption 
 tainted, and the bursting ocean whooped a bloody 
 storm. Nebuchadnezzar is described as a naked, 
 unwilling wanderer, a wondrous wretch and weed- 
 less. Horrid ghosts, swart and sinful, 
 
 " Wide through windy halls 
 Wail woful." 
 
 And, in the sack of Sodom, we are told how many 
 a fearful, pale-faced damsel must trembling go into 
 a stranger s embrace ; and how fell the defenders 
 of brides and bracelets, sick with wounds. Indeed, 
 whenever the author has a battle to describe, and 
 hosts of arm-bearing and warfaring men draw from 
 
398 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 
 
 their sheaths the ring-hilted sword of edges doughty, 
 he enters into the matter with so much spirit, that 
 one almost imagines he sees, looking from under 
 that monkish cowl, the visage of no parish priest, 
 but of a grim war-wolf, as the great fighters were 
 called, in the days when Csedmon wrote. 
 
 Such are the two great narrative poems of the 
 Anglo-Saxon tongue. Of a third, a short fragment 
 remains. It is a mutilated thing, a mere torso. 
 Judith of the Apocrypha is the heroine. The part 
 preserved describes the death of Holofernes in a 
 fine, brilliant style, delighting the hearts of all 
 Anglo-Saxon scholars. But a more important 
 fragment is that on the Death of Byrhtnoth at the 
 battle of Maldon. It savors of rust and of anti 
 quity, like " Old Hildebrand" in German. .What 
 a fine passage is this, spoken by an aged vassal 
 over the dead body of the hero, in the thickest of 
 the fight ! 
 
 " Byrhtwold spoke ; he was an aged vassal ; he raised 
 his shield ; he brandished his ashen spear ; he full boldly 
 exhorted the warriors. Our spirit shall be the hardier, 
 our heart shall be the keener j our soul shall be the greater, 
 the more our forces diminish. Here lieth our chief all 
 mangled ; the brave one in the dust ; ever may he lament 
 his shame that thinketh to fly from this play of weapons ! 
 Old am I in life, yet will I not stir hence ; but I think to 
 lie by the side of my lord, by that much-loved man ! " 
 
 Shorter than either of these fragments is a third 
 on the Fight of Finsborough. Its chief value seems 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 399 
 
 to be, that it relates to the same action which 
 formed the theme of one of Hrothgar s bards in 
 Beowulf. In addition to these narrative poems 
 and fragments, there are two others, founded on 
 lives of saints. They are the Life and Passion of 
 St. Juliana, and the Visions of the Hermit Guthlac. 
 
 There is. another narrative poem, which I must 
 mention here on account of its subject, though of 
 a much later date than the foregoing. It is the 
 Chronicle of King Lear and his Daughters, in 
 Norman-Saxon ; not rhymed throughout, but with 
 rhymes too often recurring to be accidental. As a 
 poem, it has no merit, but shows that the story of 
 Lear is very old ; for, in speaking of the old king s 
 death and burial, it refers to a previous account, 
 " as the book telleth." Cordelia is married to 
 Aganippus, king of France ; and, after his death, 
 reigns over England, though Maglaudus, king of 
 Scotland, declares, that it is a " muckle shame, that 
 a queen should be king in the land." * 
 
 Besides these long, elaborate poems, the Anglo- 
 Saxons had their odes and ballads. Thus, when 
 King Canute was sailing by the Abbey of Ely, he 
 heard the voices of the monks chanting their 
 vesper hymn. Whereupon he sang, in the best 
 Anglo-Saxon he was master of, the following 
 rhyme : 
 
 * For hit was swithe mochel same, 
 and eke hit was mochel grame, 
 that a cwene solde 
 be king in thisse land. 
 
400 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 
 
 " Merie sungen the muneches binnen Ely, 
 Tha Cnut ching reuther by; 
 Roweth, cnihtes, noer the land, 
 And here we thes muneches sang." * 
 
 The best, and properly speaking, perhaps the 
 only, Anglo-Saxon odes, are those preserved in 
 the Saxon Chronicle, in recording the events they 
 celebrate. They are five in number ; JEthelstan s 
 Victory at Brunanburh ; the Victories of Edmund 
 ^Etheling ; the Coronation of King Edgar ; the Death 
 of King Edgar; and the Death of King Edward. 
 The Battle of Brunanburh is already pretty well 
 known by the numerous English versions, and 
 attempts thereat, which have been given of it. 
 This ode is one of the most characteristic speci 
 mens of Anglo-Saxon poetry. What a striking 
 picture is that of the lad with flaxen hair, mangled 
 with wounds ; and of the seven earls of Anlaf, 
 and the five young kings, lying on the battle-field, 
 lulled asleep by the sword ! Indeed, the whole 
 ode is striking, bold, graphic. The furious on 
 slaught; the cleaving of the wall of shields; the 
 hewing down of banners ; the din of the fight ; the 
 hard hand-play ; the retreat of the Northmen, in 
 nailed ships, over the stormy sea ; and the deserted 
 dead, on the battle-ground, left to the swart raven, 
 the war-hawk, and the wolf; all these images 
 
 * Merry sang the monks in Ely, 
 As King Canute was steering by ; 
 Row, ye knights, near the land, 
 And hear we these monks song. 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 401 
 
 appeal strongly to the imagination. The bard has 
 nobly described this victory of the illustrious war- 
 smiths, the most signal victory since the coming of 
 the Saxons into England ; so say the books of the 
 old wise men. 
 
 And here I would make due and honorable 
 mention of the Poetic Calendar, and of King 
 Alfred s Version of the Metres of Boethius. The 
 Poetic Calendar is a chronicle of great events in 
 the lives of saints, martyrs, and apostles, referred 
 to the days on which they took place. At the end 
 is a strange poem, consisting of a series of aphor 
 isms, not unlike those that adorn a modern almanac. 
 
 In addition to these narratives and odes and 
 didactic poems, there are numerous minor poems 
 on various subjects, some of which have been pub 
 lished, though for the most part they still lie buried 
 in manuscripts, hymns, allegories, doxologies, 
 proverbs, enigmas, paraphrases of the Lord s Prayer, 
 poems on Death and the Day of Judgment, and 
 the like. A large quantity of them is contained 
 in the celebrated Exeter Manuscript, a folio given 
 by Bishop Leofric to the Cathedral of Exeter in 
 the eleventh century, and called by the donor, " a 
 great English book about everything, composed in 
 verse." Among them is a very singular and strik 
 ing poem, entitled, " The Soul s Complaint against 
 the Body," in which the departed spirit is described 
 as returning, ghastly and shrieking, to upbraid the 
 body it had left 
 
 26 
 
402 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 
 
 " Much it behoveth 
 Each one of mortals, 
 That he his soul s journey 
 In himself ponder, 
 How deep it may be. 
 When Death cometh, 
 The bonds he breaketb 
 By which were united 
 The soul and the body. 
 
 " Long it is thenceforth 
 Ere the soul taketh 
 From God himself 
 Its woe or its weal ; 
 As in the world erst, 
 Even in its earth-vessel, 
 It wrought before. 
 
 " The soul shall come 
 Wailing with loud voice, 
 After a sennight, 
 The soul, to find 
 The body 
 
 That it erst dwelt in ; 
 Three hundred winters, 
 Unless ere that worketh 
 The Eternal Lord, 
 The Almighty God, 
 The end of the world. 
 
 " Crieth then, so care-worn, 
 
 With cold utterance, 
 
 And speaketh grimly, 
 
 The ghost to the dust: 
 
 * Dry dust ! thou dreary one ! 
 
 How little didst thou labor for me ! 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 403 
 
 In the foulness of earth 
 Thou all wearest away 
 Like to the loam ! 
 Little didst thou think 
 How thy soul s journey 
 Would be thereafter, 
 When from the body 
 It should be led forth. " 
 
 But perhaps the most curious poem in the Exeter 
 Manuscript is the Rhyming Poem, to which I have 
 before alluded.* 
 
 Still more spectral is the following Norman- 
 Saxon poem, from a manuscript volume of Hom 
 ilies in the Bodleian Library. The subject is the 
 grave. It is Death that speaks. 
 
 " For thee was a house built 
 Ere thou wast born ; 
 For thee was a mould meant 
 Ere thou of mother earnest. 
 But it is not made ready, 
 Nor its depth measured, 
 Nor is it seen 
 How long it shall be. 
 Now I bring thee 
 Where thou shalt be. 
 Now I shall measure thee, 
 And the mould afterwards. 
 
 " Thy house is not 
 Highly timbered ; 
 
 * Since this paper was written, the Exeter Manuscript hag 
 been published, with a translation by Mr. Thorpe. 
 
404 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 
 
 It is unhigh and low, 
 When thou art therein, 
 The heel-ways are low, 
 The side-ways unhigh ; 
 The roof is built 
 Thy breast full nigh. 
 So thou shalt in mould 
 Dwell full cold, 
 Dimly and dark. 
 
 " Doorless is that house, 
 And dark it is within ; 
 There thou art fast detained, 
 And Death hath the key. 
 Loathsome is that earth-house, 
 And grim within to dwell; 
 There thou shalt dwell, 
 And worms shall divide thee. 
 
 " Thus thou art laid 
 
 And leavest thy friends ; 
 
 Thou hast no friend 
 
 Who will come to thee, 
 
 Who will ever see 
 
 How that house pleaseth thee, 
 
 Who will ever open 
 
 The door for thee, 
 
 And descend after thee ; 
 
 For soon thou art loathsome 
 
 And hateful to see." 
 
 We now come to Anglo-Saxon Prose. At the 
 very boundary stand two great works, like land 
 marks. These are the Saxon Laws, promulgated 
 by the various kings that ruled the land ; and 
 the Saxon Chronicle, in which all great historic 
 events, from the middle of the fifth to the middle 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 405 
 
 of the twelfth century, are recorded by contempo 
 rary writers, mainly, it would seem, the monks of 
 Winchester, Peterborough, and Canterbury.* Set 
 ting these aside, doubtless the most important 
 remains of Anglo-Saxon prose are the writings of 
 King Alfred the Great. 
 
 What a sublime old character was King Alfred ! 
 Alfred, the Truth-teller ! Thus the ancient histo 
 rian surnamed him, as others were surnamed the 
 Unready, Ironside, Harefoot. The principal events 
 of his life are known to all men ; the nine battles 
 fought in the first year of his reign ; his flight to 
 the marshes and forests of Somersetshire ; his pov 
 erty and suffering, wherein was fulfilled the proph 
 ecy of St. Neot, that he should " be bruised like 
 the ears of wheat"; his life with the swineherd, 
 whose wife bade him turn the cakes, that they 
 might not be burnt, for she saw daily that he was a 
 great eater ; his successful rally ; his victories, and 
 his future glorious reign ; these things are known 
 to all men. And not only these, which are events 
 in his life, but also many more, which are traits in 
 his character, and controlled events ; as, for exam- 
 
 * The style of this Chronicle rises at times far above that of 
 most monkish historians. For instance, in recording the death 
 of William the Conqueror, the writer says: "Sharp Death, that 
 passes by neither rich men nor poor, seized him also. Alas ! how 
 false and how uncertain is this world s weal! He that was 
 before a rich king, and lord of many lands, had not then of all 
 his land more than a space of seven feet! and he that was 
 whilom enshrouded in gold and gems lay there covered with 
 ?. -i." A. D. 1087. 
 
406 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 
 
 pie, that he was a wise and virtuous man, a religious 
 man, a learned man for that age. Perhaps they 
 know, even, how he measured time with his six 
 horn lanterns ; also, that he was an author and 
 wrote many books. But of these books how few 
 persons have read even a single line ! And yet it 
 is well worth our while, if we wish to see all the 
 calm dignity of that great man s character, and 
 how in him the scholar and the man outshone the 
 king. For example, do we not know him better, 
 and honor him more, when we hear from his own 
 lips, as it were, such sentiments as these ? " God 
 has made all men equally noble in their original 
 nature. True nobility is in the mind, not in the 
 flesh. I wished to live honorably whilst I lived, and, 
 after my life, to leave to the men who were after 
 me my memory in good works ! " 
 
 The chief writings of this royal author are his 
 translations of Gregory s Pastoralis, Boethius s 
 Consolations of Philosophy, Bede s Ecclesiastical 
 History, and the History of Orosius, known in 
 manuscripts by the mysterious title of Hormesta. 
 Of these works the most remarkable is the Boethius ; 
 so much of his own mind has Alfred infused into it. 
 Properly speaking, it is not so much a translation 
 as a gloss or paraphrase ; for the Saxon king, 
 upon his throne, had a soul which was near akin to 
 that of the last of the Roman philosophers in his 
 prison. He had suffered, and could sympathize 
 with suffering humanity. He adorned and carried 
 out still further the reflections of Boethius. He 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 407 
 
 begins his task, however, with an apology, saying, 
 " Alfred, king, was translator of this book, and 
 turned it from book-Latin into English, as he most 
 plainly and clearly could, amid the various and 
 manifold worldly occupations which often busied 
 him in mind and body " ; and ends with a prayer, 
 beseeching God, " by the sign of the holy cross, 
 and by the virginity of the blessed Mary, and 
 by the obedience of the blessed Michael, and by 
 the love of all the saints and their merits," that 
 his mind might be made steadfast to the Divine will 
 and his own soul s need. 
 
 Other remains of Anglo-Saxon prose exist in the 
 tale of Apollonius of Tyre ; the Bible-translations 
 and Colloquies of Abbot JElfric ; Glosses of the 
 Gospels, at the close of one of which the conscien 
 tious scribe has written, " Aldred, an unworthy 
 and miserable priest, with the help of God and 
 St. Cuthbert, overglossed it in English " ; and, 
 finally, various miscellaneous treatises, among which 
 the most curious is a Dialogue between Saturn and 
 Solomon. I cannot refrain from giving a few ex 
 tracts from this very original and curious document, 
 which bears upon it some of the darkest thumb- 
 marks of the Middle Ages. 
 
 " Tell me, what man first spake with a dog? 
 " I tell thee, Saint Peter. 
 
 " Tell me, what man first ploughed the earth with a 
 plough ? 
 
 " I tell thee, it was Ham, the son of Noah. 
 44 Tell me, wherefore stones are barren V 
 
408 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 
 
 " I tell thee, because Abel s blood fell upon a stone, 
 when Cain his brother slew him with the jawbone of an 
 
 ass. 
 
 " Tell me, what made the sea salt ? 
 
 " I tell thee, the ten commandments that Moses collected 
 in the old Law, the commandments of God. He threw 
 the ten commandments into the sea, and he shed tears 
 into the sea, and the sea became salt. 
 
 " Tell me, what man first built a monastery ? 
 
 " I tell thee, Elias, and Elisha the prophet, and, after 
 baptism, Paul and Anthony, the first anchorites. 
 
 " Tell me, what were the streams that watered Para 
 dise? 
 
 " I tell thee, they were four. The first was called Pison ; 
 the second, Geon; the third, Tigris; the fourth, Eu 
 phrates ; that is, milk, and honey, and ale, and wine. 
 
 " Tell me, why is the sun red at evening? 
 
 " I tell thee, because he looks into Hell. 
 
 " Tell me, why shineth he so red in the morning? 
 
 " I tell thee, because he doubteth whether he shall or 
 shall not shine upon this earth, as he is commanded. 
 
 " Tell me, what four waters feed this earth? 
 
 " I tell thee, they are snow, and rain, and hail, and 
 dew. 
 
 " Tell me, who first made letters ? 
 
 " I tell thee, Mercury the Giant." 
 
 Hardly less curious, and infinitely more valuable, 
 is a " Colloquy" of JElfric, composed for the pur 
 pose of teaching boys to speak Latin. The Saxon 
 is an interlinear translation of the Latin. In this 
 Colloquy various laborers and handicraftsmen are 
 introduced, ploughmen, herdsmen, huntsmen, 
 shoemakers, and others ; and each has his say, even. 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 409 
 
 to the blacksmith, who dwells in his smithy amid 
 iron fire-sparks and the sound of beating sledge 
 hammers and blowing bellows. I translate the 
 close of this Colloquy, to show our readers what a 
 poor school-boy had to suffer in the Middle Ages. 
 They will hardly wonder, that Erigena Scot should 
 have been put to death with penknives by his 
 scholars. 
 
 " Magister. Well, boy, what hast thou foeen doing to 
 day? 
 
 " Discipulus. A great many things have I been doing. 
 Last night, when I heard the knell, I got out of my bed 
 and went into the church, and sang the matin-song with 
 the friars; after that we sang the hymn of All Saints, and 
 the morning songs of praise ; after these Prime, and the 
 seven Psalms, with the Litanies and the first Mass ; then 
 the nine o clock service, and the Mass for the day, and 
 after this we sang the service of mid-day, and ate and 
 drank, and slept, and got up again, and sang Nones, and 
 now are here before thee, ready to hear what thou hast to 
 say to us. 
 
 " Magister. When will you sing Vespers or the Com 
 pline ? 
 
 " Discipulus. When it is time. 
 
 " Mayister. Hast thou had a whipping to-day ? 
 
 " Discipulus. I have not, because I have behaved very 
 warily. 
 
 " Magister. And thy playmates ? 
 
 " Disdpulus. Why dost thou ask me about them ? I 
 dare not tell thee our secrets. Each one of them knows 
 whether he has been whipped or not. 
 
 " Magister. What dost thou eat every day? 
 
 " Discipulus. I still eat meat, because I am a child, 
 living under the rod. 
 
410 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 
 
 " Magister. What else dost thou eat? 
 
 " Discipulus. Greens and eggs, fish and cheese, butter 
 and beans, and all clean things, with much thankful 
 ness. 
 
 " Magister. Exceedingly voracious art thou ; for thou 
 devourest every thing that is set before thee. 
 
 " Discipulus. Not so very voracious either, for I don t 
 eat all kinds of food at one meal. 
 
 " Magister. How then ? 
 
 " Discipulus. Sometimes I eat one kind, and sometimes 
 another, with soberness, as becomes a monk, and not 
 with voracity ; for I am not a glutton. 
 
 " Magister. And what dost thou drink ? 
 
 " Discipulus. Beer, when I can get it, and water when 
 I cannot get beer. 
 
 " Magister. Dost thou not drink wine ? 
 
 " Discipulus. I am not rich enough to buy wine; and 
 wine is not a drink for boys and ignorant people, but for 
 old men and wise. 
 
 " Magister. Where dost thou sleep ? 
 
 " Discipulus. In the dormitory, with the friars. 
 
 " Magister. Who wakes thee for matins ? 
 
 " Discipulus. Sometimes I hear the knell and get up ; 
 sometimes my master wakes me sternly with a rod. 
 
 " Magister. ye good children, and winsome learners ! 
 Your teacher admonishes you to follow godly lore, and to 
 behave yourselves decently everywhere. Go obediently, 
 when you hear the chapel bell, enter into the chapel, and 
 bow suppliantly at the holy altars, and stand submissive, 
 and sing with one accord, and pray for your sins, and 
 then depart to the cloister or the school-room without 
 levity." 
 
 I cannot close this sketch of Anglo-Saxon Liter 
 ature without expressing the hope, that what I 
 have written may " stir up riper wits than mine to 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE. 411 
 
 the perfection of this rough-hewn work." The 
 history of this literature still remains to be written. 
 How strange it is that so interesting a subject should 
 wait so long for its historian ! 
 
PARIS IN THE SEVENTEENTH 
 CENTURY. 
 
 1838. 
 
 THE age of Louis the Fourteenth is one of the 
 most brilliant in history ; illustrious by its reign of 
 seventy-two years and its hundred authors known 
 to fame. The government of this monarch has 
 been called " a satire upon despotism." His vanity 
 was boundless : his magnificence equally so. The 
 palaces of Marly and Versailles are monuments of 
 his royal pride : Equestrian statues, and his figure 
 on one of the gates of Paris, represented as a naked 
 Hercules, with a club in his hand and a flowing 
 wig on his head, are monuments of his vanity and 
 self-esteem. 
 
 His court was the home of etiquette and the 
 model of all courts. " It seemed," says Voltaire, 
 " that Nature at that time took delight in producing 
 in France the greatest men in all the arts ; and of 
 assembling at court the most beautiful men and 
 women that had ever existed. But the king bore 
 the palm away from all his courtiers by the grace 
 of his figure and the majestic beauty of his counte 
 nance ; the noble and winning sound of his voice 
 
PARIS IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 413 
 
 gained over the hearts that his presence intimidated. 
 His carriage was such as became him and his rank 
 only, and would have been ridiculous in any other. 
 The embarrassment he inspired in those who spoke 
 with him flattered in secret the self-complacency 
 with which he recognized his own superiority. The 
 old officer, who became agitated and stammered in 
 asking a favor from him, and, not being able to 
 finish his discourse, exclaimed, Sire, I do not 
 tremble so before your enemies ! had no difficulty 
 in obtaining the favor he asked." 
 
 All about him was pomp and theatrical show. 
 He invented a kind of livery, which it was held the 
 greatest honor to wear ; a blue waistcoat embroid 
 ered with gold and silver ; a mark of royal favor. 
 To * all around him he was courteous ; towards 
 women chivalrous. He never passed even a 
 chamber-maid without touching his hat ; and always 
 stood uncovered in the presence of a lady. When 
 the disappointed Duke of Lauzun insulted him by 
 breaking his sword in his presence, he raised the 
 window, and threw his cane into the court-yard, 
 saying, " I never should have forgiven myself if I 
 had struck a gentleman." 
 
 He seems, indeed, to have been a strange mixture 
 of magnanimity and littleness ; his gallantries 
 veiled always in a show of decency ; severe ; ca 
 pricious ; fond of pleasure; hardly less fond of 
 labor. One day we find him dashing from Vin- 
 cennes to Paris in his hunting-dress, and standing 
 in his great boots, with a whip in his hand, dis- 
 
414 PARIS IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 missing his parliament as he would a pack of 
 hounds. The next he is dancing in the ballet of 
 his private theatre, in the character of a gypsy, and 
 whistling or singing scraps of opera songs ; and 
 then parading at a military review, or galloping at 
 full speed through the park of Fontainebleau, hunt 
 ing the deer, in a calash drawn by four ponies. 
 Towards the close of his life he became a devotee. 
 "It is a very remarkable thing," says Voltaire, 
 " that the public, who forgave him all his mistresses, 
 could not forgive him his father confessor." He 
 outlived the respect of his subjects. When he lay 
 on his death-bed, those godlike eyes that had 
 overawed the world now grown dim and lustre 
 less, all his courtiers left him to die alone, and 
 thronged about his successor, the Duke of Orleans. 
 An empiric gave him an elixir, which suddenly re 
 vived him. He ate once more, and it was said he 
 could recover. The crowd about the Duke of Or 
 leans diminished very fast. " If the king eats a 
 second time, I shall be left all alone," said he. But 
 the king ate no more. He died like a philosopher. 
 To Madame de Maintenon he said, "I thought it 
 was more difficult to die ! " and to his domestics, 
 "Why do you weep ? Did you think I was im 
 mortal ? " 
 
 Of course the character of the monarch stamped 
 itself upon the society about him. The licentious 
 court made a licentious city. Yet everywhere 
 external decency and decorum prevailed. The 
 courtesy of the old school held sway. Society, 
 
PARIS IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 415 
 
 moreover, was pompous and artificial. There were 
 pedantic scholars about town ; and learned women ; 
 and Precieuses Ridicules, and Euphuism. With all 
 its greatness, it was an effeminate age. 
 
 The old city of Paris, which lies in the Marais, 
 was once the court end of the town. It is now en 
 tirely deserted by wealth and fashion. Travellers 
 even seldom find their way into its broad and silent 
 streets. But sightly mansions and garden walls, 
 over which tall, shadowy trees wave to and fro, 
 speak of a more splendid age, when proud and 
 courtly ladies dwelt there, and the frequent wheels 
 of gay equipages chafed the now grass-grown pave 
 ments. 
 
 In the centre of this part of Paris, within pistol- 
 shot of the Boulevard St. Antoine, stands the Place 
 Royale. Old palaces of a quaint and uniform style, 
 with a low arcade in front, run quite round the 
 square. In its centre is a public walk, with trees, 
 an iron railing, and an equestrian statue of Louis 
 the Thirteenth. It was here that monarch held his 
 court. But there is no sign of a court now. Under 
 the arcade are shops and fruit-stalls ; and in one 
 corner sits a cobbler, seemingly as old and deaf as 
 the walls around him. Occasionally you get a 
 glimpse through a grated gate into spacious gardens ; 
 and a large flight of steps leads up into what was 
 once a royal palace, and is now a tavern. In the 
 public walk old gentlemen sit under the trees on 
 benches, and enjoy the evening air. Others walk 
 up and down, buttoned in long frock-coats. They 
 
416 PARIS IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 have all a provincial look. Indeed, for a time you 
 imagine yourself in a small French town, not in 
 Paris; so different is every thing there from the 
 Paris you live in. You are in a quarter where 
 people retire to live genteelly on small incomes. 
 The gentlemen in long frock-coats are no courtiers, 
 but retired tradesmen. 
 
 Not far off is the Rue des Tournelles ; and the 
 house is still standing in which lived and loved that 
 Aspasia of the seventeenth century, the celebrated 
 Ninon de 1 Enclos. From the Boulevard you look 
 down into the garden, where her illegal and ill-fated 
 son, on discovering that the object of his passion 
 was his own mother, put an end to his miserable life. 
 Not very remote from this is the house once occu 
 pied by Madame de Sevigne. You are shown the 
 very cabinet where she composed those letters 
 which beautified her native tongue, and " make us 
 love the very ink that wrote them." In a word, 
 you are here in the centre of the Paris of the seven 
 teenth century ; the gay, the witty, the licentious 
 city, which in Louis the Fourteenth s time was like 
 Athens in the age of Pericles. And now all is 
 changed to solitude and silence. The witty age, 
 with its brightness and licentious heat, all burnt 
 out, puffed into darkness by the breath of time. 
 Thus passes an age of libertinism and sedition, and 
 bloody frivolous wars, and fighting bishops, and de 
 vout prostitutes, and " factious beaux esprits impro 
 vising epigrams in the midst of seditions, and 
 madrigals on the field of battle." 
 
PARIS IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 4 I 7 
 
 Westward from this quarter, near the Seine and 
 the Louvre, stood the ever famous Hotel de Rarn- 
 bouillet, the court of Euphuism and false taste. 
 Here Catherine de Vivonne, Marchioness of Rani- 
 bouillet, gave her aesthetical soirees in her bed 
 chamber, and she herself in bed, among the cur 
 tains and mirrors of a gay alcove. The master of 
 ceremonies bore the title of the Alcoviste. He diJ 
 the honors of the house and directed the conversa 
 tion ; and such was the fashion of the day, that, im 
 possible as it may seem to us, no evil tongue soiled 
 with malignant whisper the fair fame of the Pre- 
 cieuses, as the ladies of the society were called. 
 
 Into this bed-chamber came all the most noted 
 literary personages of the day ; Corneille, Mal- 
 herbe, Bossuet, Flechier, La Rochefoucault, Balzac, 
 Bussy-Rabutin, Madame de Sevigne, Mademoiselle 
 de Scuderi, and others of less note, though hardly 
 less pretension. They paid their homage to the 
 Marchioness, under the title of Arthenice, Era- 
 cinthe, and Corinthee, anagrams of the name of 
 Catherine. There, as in the Courts of Love of a 
 still earlier age, were held grave dissertations on 
 frivolous themes ; and all the metaphysics of love, 
 and the subtilties of exaggerated passion, were dis 
 cussed with most puerile conceits and a vapid sen 
 timentality. " We saw, not long since," says La 
 Bruyere, " a circle of persons of the two sexep. 
 united by conversation and mental sympathy. 
 They left to the vulgar the art of speaking intel 
 ligibly. One obscure expression brought on an- 
 
 VOL. i. 27 
 
418 PARIS IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 other still more obscure, which in turn was capped 
 by something truly enigmatical, attended with vast 
 applause. With all this so-called delicacy, feeling, 
 and refinement of expression, they at length went 
 so far that they were neither understood by others 
 nor could understand themselves. For these con 
 versations one needed neither good sense, nor 
 memory, nor the least capacity ; only esprit, and 
 that not of the best, but a counterfeit kind, made 
 up chiefly of imagination." 
 
 Looking back from the present age, how very 
 absurd all these things seem to us ! Nevertheless, 
 the minds of some excellent men were seriously 
 impressed with their worth ; and the pulpit-orator, 
 Flechier, in his funeral oration upon the death of 
 Madame de Montausier, exclaimed, in pious enthu 
 siasm : " Remember, my brethren, those cabinets 
 which are still regarded with so much veneration, 
 where the mind was purified, where virtue was 
 revered under the name of the incomparable 
 Arthenice, where were gathered together so many 
 personages of quality and merit, forming a select 
 court, numerous without confusion, modest without 
 constraint, learned without pride, polished without 
 affectation." 
 
DANTE. 
 
 1838. 
 
 THE earliest of the Italian poets is Ciullo d Al- 
 camo, the Sicilian, who lived at the close of the 
 twelfth century. From his day to that of Dante, 
 nourished some thirty rhyme-smiths, among whom 
 Brunetto Latini wrote the most, and Beato Bene- 
 detti, Guido Guinicelli, and Fra Guittone d Arezzo 
 the best. Beato Benedetti is the reputed author of 
 the beautiful Latin hymn of " Stabat Mater ; " and 
 Guido Guinicelli is the bard whom Dante eulo 
 gizes as the writer of 
 
 " Those dulcet lays, all which, as Jong 
 As of our tongue the beauty does not fade, 
 Shall make us love the very ink that wrote them." 
 
 The age of Dante was an age of violence, when 
 the law of force prevailed. The Florentines were 
 an heroic people. They declared war by sending 
 a bloody glove to their enemy ; and the onset of 
 battle was sounded, not by the blast of trumpets, 
 but by the ringing of a great bell, which was 
 wheeled about the field. Florence was then a 
 republic. So were all the neighbouring states. 
 
420 DANTE. 
 
 The spirit of liberty was wild, not easily tamed, 
 not easily subjected to laws. Amid civil discords, 
 family feuds, tavern quarrels, street broils, and the 
 disaffection of the poor towards the rich, it was in 
 vain for Fra Giovanni to preach the " Kiss of 
 Peace." Buondelmonte was dragged from his 
 horse and murdered at the base of Mars s statue, 
 in broad day ; Eicoverino de Cerchi had his nose 
 cut off in a ball-room ; and the exile of Dante can 
 be traced back to a drunken quarrel between God 
 frey Cancellieri and his cousin Amadoro in a tavern 
 at Pistoja. 
 
 The pride of human intellect in that age was 
 displayed in the scholastic philosophy. Peter Lom 
 bard, the Wise Master of Sentences, had been 
 mouldering in his grave just one hundred years 
 when Dante was born; and the mystic poet was 
 still a child, when the Angelic Doctor, Thomas 
 Aquinas, called by his schoolmates, at Cologne, 
 the Dumb Ox, having at length fulfilled the 
 prophecy of his master, Albertus Magnus, and 
 given " such a bellow in learning as was heard all 
 over the world," had fallen asleep in the Cister 
 cian convent at Terracina, saying, " This is my 
 rest for ages without end." These great masters 
 were gone ; but others had arisen to take their 
 places, and to teach that the true religion is the 
 true philosophy, and the true philosophy the true 
 religion. Among these were Henry of Gothuls, 
 the Doctor Solemnis, and Kichard of Middletown, 
 the Doctor Solidus, and Giles of Cologne, the Doc- 
 
421 
 
 tor Fundatissimus, and John Duns Scotus, the Doc 
 tor Subtilis and founder of the Formalists, who 
 taught that the end of philosophy is, to find out the 
 quiddity of things, that every thing has a kind of 
 quiddity or quidditive existence, and that noth 
 ingness is divided into absolute nothingness, which 
 has no quiddity or thingness, and relative nothing 
 ness, which has no existence out of the understand 
 ing. Side by side with these stood Raymond Lully, 
 the Doctor Illuminatus, and Francis of Mayence, 
 the Magister Acutus Abstractionum, and William 
 Durand, the Doctor Resolutissimus, and Walter 
 Burleigh, the Doctor Planus et Perspicuus, and 
 William Occam, the Doctor Invincibilis, Singularis, 
 et Venerabilis. These were men of acute and mas 
 culine intellect : 
 
 " For in those dark and iron days of old, 
 Arose, amid the pigmies of their age, 
 
 Minds of a massive and gigantic mould, 
 Whom we must measure as the Cretan sage 
 
 Measured the pyramids of ages past, 
 
 By the far-reaching shadows that they cast." 
 
 These philosophic studies are here alluded to be 
 cause they exercised a powerful influence upon the 
 poetry of Dante and of his age. As we look back 
 upon that age with reference to the theme before 
 us, from the confused grouping of history a few 
 figures stand forth in stronger light and shade. 
 The first is a tall, thin personage, clothed in black. 
 His face is that of a scholar ; his manners are grave 
 
422 DANTE. 
 
 and modest , he has a pleasant, humorous mouth, 
 and a jesting eye, which somewhat temper his mod 
 est gravity. In his whole appearance there is a 
 strange mixture of the schoolmaster, philosopher, 
 and notary public. He has been a traveller, and a 
 soldier, and the author of much rhyme. He fought 
 in the campaign of Siena, and, after the war, wrote 
 with his own hand the treaty of peace between the 
 two republics, which, it is to be hoped, was better 
 written than his rhymes. This is Brunetto Latini, 
 the instructor of Dante in his youth, who rewards 
 his services with a place in the " Inferno," gram 
 marian, theologian, politician, poet, and Grand- 
 Master of Rhetoric in Florence. His principal 
 work is the poem of the " Tesoro," which he wrote 
 in France and in the French language. It is a 
 kind of doggerel encyclopaedia, containing, among 
 other matters, the History of the Old and New 
 Testament, to which is appended an abridgment 
 of Pliny s " Natural History," the " Ethics " of 
 Aristotle, and a treatise on the Virtues and Vices ; 
 together with the Art of speaking with Propriety, 
 and the Manner of governing the Republic ! He 
 wrote, likewise, a poem called the " Tesoretto," 
 a small treasury of moral precepts ; also a satirical 
 poem called " II Pataffio," in the vulgar Florentine 
 street-jargon, very difficult of comprehension. 
 
 He is followed by a nobler figure ; a youth of 
 beautiful but melancholy countenance, courteous 
 in manner, yet proud and solitary. He seems 
 lost in thought, and is much alone among the old 
 
DANTE. 423 
 
 tombs, the marble sepulchres about the church 
 of St. John. In vain do Betto Bruneleschi and 
 his boon companions come dashing up on horse 
 back, and make a jest of his dreams and reveries. 
 He turns away and disappears among the tombs. 
 This is Guido Cavalcanti, the bosom friend of 
 Dante, and no mean poet. But he loves the 
 dreams of philosophy better than the dreams of 
 poetry, and the popular belief is, that all his 
 solitary studies and meditations have no other 
 object than to prove that there is no God. It is 
 of this Guido that the poet speaks in the tenth 
 canto of the " Inferno," where a form looks out 
 of its fiery sepulchre and asks, " Where is my 
 son ? and why is he not with thee ? " 
 
 And now, attended by two courtly dames, a 
 maiden clad in white approaches. She is veiled ; 
 but from beneath the veil look forth soft emerald 
 eyes, eyes of the color of the sea.* Well might 
 
 it be said of her, 
 
 " An eagle 
 Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye." 
 
 So beautiful is she, that many in the crowd ex 
 claim, as she passes, " This is no mortal, but one 
 of God s angels." And this is Beatrice ; and she 
 walks all crowned and garmented with humility, 
 showing no vainglory of that which she beholds 
 and hears.-f 
 
 * Erano i suoi occhi d un turchino verdiccio, simile a quel 
 del mare. LANI, Annotazioni. 
 
 jElla, coronata e vestita d umilti, s andava, nulla gloria 
 mostrando di cio ch ella vedeva ed udiva. DANTE, Vita Nuova. 
 
424 DANTE. 
 
 The figure that advances to meet her is that 
 of a young man of middle stature, with a dark, 
 melancholy, thoughtful face. His eyes are large, 
 his nose aquiline, his lower lip projecting, his hair 
 and beard thick, black, and curled. His step is 
 quiet and solemn. He is clothed in long, flowing 
 garments, and wears sandals on his feet, and on 
 his head a cap, from which two broad bands 
 descend upon the shoulders. This is Dante. 
 
 But the crowd throng around us, and we behold 
 but indistinctly the shadowy images of Guido 
 Novello, and Francesco Malaspina, and the great 
 Lombard, Can Grande della Scala, and Giano 
 della Bella, the friend of the Florentine populace ; 
 and the superb Philippo Argenti, his horse s hoofs 
 shod with silver ; and Corso, Donati the proud, 
 bad man, but valiant cavalier and eloquent orator, 
 dragged at his horse s heels, and murdered at the 
 gate of a convent ; and Monferrato, exposed, like 
 a wild beast, in a wooden cage in the market-place, 
 and dying broken-hearted with rage and humilia 
 tion. 
 
 Dante was the son of Alighiero degli Alighieri, 
 and was christened in the church of Saint John 
 the Baptist by the name of Durante ; which name 
 was playfully changed in childhood to Dante. He 
 was born at Florence, in May, 1265, and died at 
 Ravenna, in September, 1321. 
 
 The life of Dante naturally divides itself into 
 three epochs, each of which is very distinctly 
 marked. The first is that of his early youth, - 
 
DANTE. 425 
 
 from his birth to the time when Beatrice died ; 
 a period of twenty-five years. The second, his 
 public and political life ; a period of twelve years, 
 in the prime of early manhood, from the age of 
 twenty-five to that of thirty-seven, when he was 
 banished from Florence. And the third, his exile, 
 and wanderings, and death; a period of nine 
 teen years ; namely, from the age of thirty-seven 
 to that of fifty-six. 
 
 What Dante s youth was we know from his own 
 lips, and from the busy pens of many biographers. 
 It was a quiet, peaceful youth, passed in the study 
 of philosophy, and music, and painting, and poetry ; 
 and in the companionship of learned men and 
 artists, such as Latini, Cavalcante, Giotto, and 
 Casella. Into this, perhaps, sober-colored warp 
 of life was early woven the bright, dream-like 
 figure of Beatrice. As he himself tells us, he had 
 not yet completed his ninth year when he beheld 
 her for the first time ; and to use his own words, 
 " The spirit of life, that dwelleth in the most 
 secret chambers of the heart, all-trembling, spake 
 these words : Behold a god more powerful than 
 I ! " Boccaccio says that this was at a May-day 
 festival, "in that season, when the mildness of 
 heaven reclothes the earth with its own ornaments, 
 and all with manifold flowers mingled among the 
 verdant leaves maketh her to laugh." * 
 
 *Nel tempo, nel quale la dolcezza del cielo riveste de suoi 
 ornament! la terra, e tutta per la varieti de flori mescolati tra 
 le verdi frondi la fa rideute. Vita di Dante. 
 
426 DANTE. 
 
 Beatrice died in youth. She had not yet com 
 pleted her twenty-fourth year.* Soon afterwards, 
 Dante was unhappily married to Madonna Gemma 
 de Donati. 
 
 Such was the first epoch of Dante s life. The 
 second, which embraces his public and political 
 career, was as full of trouble as the first was full 
 of peace. Now came the clash of parties, and 
 the battles of Campaldino and Pisa, and the 
 fourteen embassies treading close upon each other s 
 heels. So much astir were all men, and Dante, in 
 the midst of all, so busy with the affairs of state, 
 so necessary at home and abroad, that he ex 
 claims, despairing of the power of others to 
 govern the republic, " If I stay, who is there 
 to go ? If I go, who is there to stay ? " 
 
 It was on one of these political pilgrimages that 
 he left Florence for Rome, never more to enter 
 the gates of his native city. They were closed 
 against him forever. But in the words of Michel 
 Angelo, 
 
 " Heaven unbarred to him her lofty gates, 
 To whom his country hers refused to ope." 
 
 Being at Rome, he heard the sentence pronounced 
 against him ; perpetual exile, confiscation of his 
 property, and death by fire, should he ever again 
 set foot in Florence. 
 
 * Boccaccio says that Beatrice was married to Simone de 
 Bardi; and of Dante s marriage he says: inconceivable 
 torture ! to lire, and converse, and grow old, and die with such 
 a jealous creature ! " 
 
DANTE. 427 
 
 Thus, in the life of Dante, closes the second 
 epoch, and the third begins ; a long and sorrowful 
 period of nineteen years, closing with his death. 
 The prior of Florence was now a poor and home 
 less man. The companion of the rich and great 
 was now their pensioner. Their roofs sheltered 
 him, their hands gave him bread. Well might 
 he exclaim, in piteous accents, " I am sorry for 
 all who suffer; but I have greater pity for those 
 who, being in exile, behold their native land in 
 dreams only." One may easily believe, that to the 
 lips of those " who have drunk the waters of the 
 Arno before they had teeth," the waters of all other 
 streams would have a bitter taste. 
 
 We need not follow the poet in his wanderings, 
 blown to and fro " by the sharp wind that springs 
 from sad poverty." There are, however, one or 
 two scenes in this last mournful period of his life, 
 which cannot be passed over in silence. They 
 are too striking and characteristic, not to find a 
 place here. The first is an interview of the 
 exiled poet with Frate Ilario in the convent of 
 the Corvo. These are the monk s own words, 
 as he wrote them down at the time, in a letter 
 to Uguccione della Faggiuola, one of Dante s fast 
 and faithful friends. 
 
 " Hither he came, passing through the diocese 
 of Luni, moved either by the religion of the place, 
 or by some other feeling. And seeing him, as 
 yet unknown to me and to all my brethren, I 
 questioned him of his wishings and his seekings 
 
428 DANTE. 
 
 there. He moved not ; but stood silently con 
 templating the columns and arches of the cloister. 
 And again I asked him what he wished and whom 
 he sought. Then, slowly turning his head, and 
 looking at the friars and at me, he answered : 
 Pace ! Thence kindling more and more the 
 wish to know him and who he might be, I led him 
 aside somewhat, and, having spoken a few words 
 with him, I knew him ; for although I had never 
 seen him till that hour, his fame had long since 
 reached me. And when he saw that I hung upon 
 his countenance, and listened to him with strange 
 affection, he drew from his bosom a book, did 
 gently open it, and offered it to me, saying : Sir 
 Friar, here is a portion of my work, which perad- 
 venture thou hast not seen. This remembrance I 
 leave with thee. Forget me not/ And when he 
 had given me the book, I pressed it gratefully to 
 my bosom, and in his presence fixed my eyes upon 
 it with great love. But I beholding there the 
 vulgar tongue, and showing by the fashion of my 
 countenance my wonderment thereat, he asked 
 the reason of the same. I answered, that I mar 
 velled he should sing in that language ; for it 
 seemed a difficult thing, nay, incredible, that those 
 most high conceptions could be expressed in 
 common language ; nor did it seem to me right 
 that such and so worthy a science should be 
 clothed in such plebeian garments. You think 
 aright, he said, and I myself have thought so. 
 And when at first the seeds of these matters, 
 
DANTE. 429 
 
 perhaps inspired by Heaven, began to bud, I 
 chose that language which was most worthy of 
 them : and not alone chose it, but began forthwith 
 to poetize therein, after this wise : 
 
 <; Ultima regna canam fluido contermina mundo, 
 Spiritibus quae lata patent ; quse prsemia solvunt 
 Pro meritis cuicumque suis." 
 
 But when I recalled the condition of the present 
 age, and saw the songs of the illustrious poets 
 esteemed almost as naught, and knew that the 
 generous men, for whom in better days these things 
 were written, had abandoned, ah me ! the liberal 
 arts unto vulgar hands, I threw aside the delicate 
 lyre, which had armed my flank, and attuned 
 another more befitting the ear of moderns ; for the 
 food that is hard we hold in vain to the mouths of 
 sucklings. " 
 
 And not less striking is the closing scene of that 
 eventful life ; when, his work on earth accom 
 plished, the great poet lay down to die, in the 
 palace of Ravenna^ wrapped in the cowl and 
 mantle of a Franciscan friar. By his side was his 
 friend Guido Novello, the nephew of that lovely 
 Francesca, whose passionate desires and cruel 
 death have become immortal in the poet s song. It 
 was the day of the Holy Cross ; and, perhaps, a 
 solemn anthem was the last sound that reached the 
 ears of the dying man, when, between life and 
 death, " he beheld eyes of light, that wandered like 
 stars." And after death the cowl and mantle were 
 
430 DANTE. 
 
 removed, and he was clothed in the garments of a 
 poet ; and his friend pronounced his eulogy in the 
 palace. 
 
 Thus died the greatest of the Italian poets ; and 
 it may truly be said, that the gloomy forests of 
 Ravenna seem still to breathe forth the sighs of the 
 dying man ; so intimately associated with his spirit 
 are all the places that knew him upon earth ! 
 
 Dante s writings are the " Vita Nuova," a ro 
 mantic record of his early life and love, written in 
 prose, and interspersed with sonnets and canzoni ; 
 the " Convito," a prose commentary upon three 
 canzoni, to which the reader is invited as to a 
 festival ; the " Canzoniere," or collection of sonnets 
 and canzoni ; the two Latin treatises, " De Mo- 
 narchia," and " De Vulgari Eloquentia ; " and the 
 great masterpiece and labor of his mature life, the 
 " Divina Commedia." 
 
 The " Divina Commedia" is not what we under 
 stand by an allegorical poem in the strict sense of 
 the word, in the same sense, for instance, as the 
 " Faery Queen." And yet it is full of allegory ; 
 full of literal and figurative meanings ; full of sym 
 bols and things signified. Dante himself says, in a 
 letter which he sent with the poem to his friend 
 Can Grande della Scala : " It is to be remarked, 
 that the sense of this work is not simple ; but, on 
 the contrary, one may say, manifold. For the 
 first sense is that which it derives from its lan 
 guage ; and another is that which it derives from 
 the things signified by the language; the one, 
 
DANTE. 431 
 
 literal; the other, allegorical. . . . The subject 
 of the whole work, taken literally, is the condition 
 of the soul after death. But if you well observe 
 the express words, you will easily perceive, that, 
 in an allegorical sense, the poet is treating of "this 
 hell, in which, journeying onward like travellers, 
 we may deserve reward or punishment." The 
 machinery, then, of the poem is allegorical ; but the 
 characters are real personages, in their true forms. 
 Among these some masks and disguises are intro 
 duced : the Age ; the Church ; the Empire of 
 Rome ; the Virtues, shining as stars, &c. Properly 
 speaking, the poem is a mixture of realities and 
 symbols, as best suits the author s feeling at the 
 moment. * 
 
 We are to consider the Divine Poem as the 
 mirror of the age in which its author lived; or 
 rather, perhaps, as a mirror of Italy in that age. 
 The principal historic events and personages, the 
 character and learning of the time, are faithfully 
 imaged and reproduced therein. Most of the 
 events described had just transpired ; most of the 
 persons were just dead ; the memory of both was 
 still warm in the minds of men. The poet did not 
 merely imagine, as a possibility; but felt, as a 
 reality. He was wandering about homeless, as he 
 composed ; almost borrowing the ink he wrote 
 with. They who had wronged him still lived to 
 wrong him further. No wonder, then, that in his 
 
 * See, upon this subject, ROSSETTI, Spirito Antipapale de 
 Classici Italian i. Cap. V. 
 
432 DANTE. 
 
 troubled, burning soul arose great thoughts and 
 awful, like Farinata, from his burning sepulchre. 
 When he approached a city s gates, he could not 
 but be reminded that into the gates of Florence he 
 could go no more. When he beheld the towers of 
 feudal castles cresting the distant hills, he felt how 
 arrogant are the strong, how much abused the 
 weak. Every brook and river reminded him of 
 the Arno, and the brooklets that descend from 
 Casentino. Every voice he heard told him, by its 
 strange accent, that he was an exile ; and every 
 home he saw said to him, in its sympathies even, 
 " Thou art homeless ! " All these things found 
 expression in his poem ; and much of the beautiful 
 description of landscape, and of the morning and 
 the evening, bears the freshness of that impression 
 which is made on the mind of a foot-traveller, who 
 sits under the trees at noon, and leaves or enters 
 towns when the morning or evening bells are 
 ringing, and he has only to hear " how many a tale 
 their music tells." 
 
 Dante, in his Latin treatise " De Monarchia," 
 says, that man is a kind of middle term between 
 the corruptible and the incorruptible, and, being 
 thus twofold in his nature, is destined to a twofold 
 end ; " namely, to happiness in this life, which 
 consists in the practice of virtue, and is figured 
 forth in the Terrestrial Paradise ; and eternal 
 beatitude, which consists in the fruition of the 
 divine presence ; to which we cannot arrive by 
 any virtue of our own, unless aided by divine 
 
DANTE. 433 
 
 light ; and this is the Celestial Paradise." * This 
 idea forms the thread of the " Commedia." 
 
 Midway in life the poet finds himself lost in the 
 gloomy forest of worldly cares, beset by Pride, 
 Avarice, and Sensual Pleasure. Moral Philosophy, 
 embodied in the form of Virgil, leads him forth 
 through the Hell of worldly sin and passion and 
 suffering, through the Purgatory of repentant feel 
 ings, to the quiet repose of earthly happiness. 
 Farther than this mere philosophy cannot go. 
 Here Divine Wisdom, or Theology, in the form of 
 Beatrice, receives the pilgrim, and, ascending from 
 planet to planet, guides him through the ten 
 heavens of Paradise. 
 
 Upon this slender golden thread hangs this 
 universe of a poem; in which things visible and 
 invisible have their appointed place, and the 
 spheres and populous stars revolve harmonious 
 about their centre. 
 
 * De Monarchist, Cap. 92, 93 
 VOL,. I. 28 
 
THE DIYINA COMMEDIA. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHELLING. 
 
 1850. 
 
 [!N the following elaborate specimen of literary criti 
 cism there are many passages which will be very obscure, 
 not to say unintelligible, to those who are not familiar 
 with the philosophic phraseology of the Germans. The 
 student of Dante, however, will find in it many hints and 
 suggestions worthy his consideration. It cannot be other 
 wise than interesting to see two such minds as those of 
 Schelling and Dante brought into contact; and to hear 
 what the German philosopher has to say of the Italian 
 poet.] 
 
 IN the sanctuary where Religion " is married to 
 immortal Verse," stands Dante as highpriest, and 
 consecrates all modern Art to its vocation. Not 
 as a solitary poem, but representing the whole 
 class of the New Poetry, and itself a separate class, 
 stands the " Divine Comedy," so entirely unique, 
 that any theory drawn from peculiar forms is quite 
 inadequate to it ; a world by itself, it demands its 
 own peculiar theory. The predicate of Divine 
 
THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 435 
 
 was given it by its author, * because it treats of 
 theology and things divine ; Comedy he called it, 
 after the simplest notion of this and its opposite 
 kind, on account of its fearful beginning and its 
 happy ending, and because the mixed nature of 
 the poem, whose material is now lofty and now 
 lowly, rendered a mixed kind of style necessary. 
 
 One readily perceives, however, that, according 
 to the common notion, it cannot be called Drama 
 tic, because it represents no circumscribed action. 
 So far as Dante himself may be looked upon as the 
 hero, who serves only as a thread for the measure 
 less series of visions and pictures, and remains 
 rather passive than active, the poem seems to ap 
 proach nearer to a Romance ; yet this definition 
 does not completely exhaust it. Nor can we call 
 it Epic, in the usual acceptation of the word, since 
 there is no regular sequence in the events repre 
 sented. To look upon it as a Didactic poem, is 
 likewise impossible, because it is written with a far 
 less restricted form and aim than those of teaching. 
 It belongs, therefore, to none of these classes in 
 particular, nor is it merely a compound of them ; 
 but an entirely unique, and as it were organic, mix 
 ture of all their elements, not to be reproduced by 
 any arbitrary rules of art, an absolute individu 
 ality, comparable with itself alone, and with naught 
 else. 
 
 The material of the poem is, in general terms, 
 
 * The title of "Divina" was not given to the poem till long 
 after Dante s death. It first appears in the edition of 1516. TE. 
 
436 THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 
 
 the express identity of the poet s age ; the inter- 
 penetration of the events thereof with the ideas of 
 Religion, Science, and Poetry in the loftiest genius 
 of that century. Our intention is not to consider 
 it in its immediate reference to its age ; but rather 
 in its universal application, and as the archetype of 
 all modern Poetry. 
 
 The necessary law of this poetry, down to the 
 still indefinitely distant point where the great epic 
 of modern times, which hitherto has announced 
 itself only rhapsodically and in broken glimpses, 
 shall present itself as a perfect whole, is this : that 
 the individual gives shape and unity to that por 
 tion of the world which is revealed to him, and out 
 of the materials of his time, its history, and its 
 science, creates his own mythology. For as the 
 ancient world is, in general, the world of classes, 
 so the modern is that of individuals. In the for 
 mer, the Universal is in truth the Particular, the 
 race acts as an individual ; in the latter, the Indi 
 vidual is the point of departure, and becomes the 
 Universal. For this reason, in the former all 
 things are permanent and imperishable : number 
 likewise is of no account, since the Universal idea 
 coincides with that of the Individual ; in the lat 
 ter constant mutation is the fixed law ; no narrow 
 circle limits its ends, but one which through Indi 
 viduality widens itself to infinitude. And since 
 Universality belongs to the essence of poetry, it is 
 a necessary condition that the Individual through 
 the highest peculiarity should again become Uni- 
 
THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 437 
 
 versal, and by his complete speciality become again 
 absolute. Thus, through the perfect individuality 
 and uniqueness of his poem, Dante is the creator 
 of modern art, which without this arbitrary neces 
 sity, and necessary arbitrariness, cannot be imag 
 ined. 
 
 From the very beginning of Greek Poetry, we 
 see it clearly separated from Science and Philos 
 ophy, as in Homer, and this process of separation 
 continued until the poets and the philosophers be 
 came the antipodes of each other. They in vain, 
 by allegorical interpretations of the Homeric poems, 
 sought artificially to create a harmony between 
 the two. In modern times Science has preceded 
 Poetry and Mythology, which cannot be Mythology 
 without being universal, and drawing into its cir 
 cle all the elements of the then existing culture, 
 Science, Religion, and even Art, and joining in a 
 perfect unity the material not only of the present 
 but of the past. Into this struggle (since Art de 
 mands something definite and limited, while the 
 spirit of the world rushes towards the unlimited, 
 and with ceaseless power sweeps down all barriers) 
 must the Individual enter, but with absolute free 
 dom seek to rescue permanent shapes from the 
 fluctuations of time, and within arbitrarily assumed 
 forms to give to the structure of his poem, by its 
 absolute peculiarity, internal necessity and exter 
 nal universality. 
 
 This Dante has done. He had before him, as 
 material, the history of the present as well as of the 
 
438 THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 
 
 past. He could not elaborate tMs into a pure 
 Epos, partly on account of its nature, partly be 
 cause, in doing this, he would have excluded other 
 elements of the culture of his time. To its com 
 pleteness belonged also the astronomy, the theol 
 ogy, and the philosophy of the time. To these he 
 could not give expression in a didactic poem, for 
 by so doing he would again have limited himself 
 Consequently, in order to make his poem univer 
 sal, he was obliged to make it historical. An 
 invention entirely uncontrolled, and proceeding 
 from his own individuality, was necessary to unite 
 these materials, and form them into an organic 
 whole. To represent the ideas of Philosophy and 
 Theology in symbols was impossible, for there then 
 existed no symbolic Mythology. He could quite 
 as little make his poem purely allegorical, for 
 then, again, it could not be historical. It was 
 necessary, therefore, to make it an entirely unique 
 mixture of Allegory and History. In the emble 
 matic poetry of the ancients no clew of this kind 
 was possible. The Individual only could lay hold 
 of it, and only an uncontrolled invention follow it. 
 The poem of Dante is not allegorical in the 
 sense that its figures only signified something else, 
 without having any separate existence indepen 
 dent of the thing signified. On the other hand, 
 none of them is independent of the thing signified 
 in such a way as to be at once the idea itself and 
 more than an allegory of it. There is therefore in 
 his poem an entirely unique mean between Alle- 
 
THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 439 
 
 gory and symbolic-objective Form. There is no 
 doubt, and the poet has himself elsewhere declared 
 it, that Beatrice, for example, is an Allegory, 
 namely, of Theology. So her companions ; so 
 many other characters. But at the same time 
 they count for themselves, and appear on the 
 scene as historic personages, without on that ac 
 count being symbols. 
 
 In this respect Dante is archetypal, since he has 
 proclaimed what the modern poet has to do, in 
 order to embody into a poetic whole the entire 
 history and culture of his age, the only mytho 
 logical material which lies before him. He must, 
 from absolute arbitrariness, join together the alle 
 gorical and historical : he must be allegorical (and 
 he is so, too, against his will), because he cannot 
 be symbolical ; and he must be historical, because 
 he wishes to be poetical. In this respect his inven 
 tion is always peculiar, a world by itself, and alto 
 gether characteristic. 
 
 The only German poem of universal plan unites 
 together in a similar manner the outermost ex 
 tremes in the aspirations of the times, by a very 
 peculiar invention of a subordinate mythology, 
 in the character of Faust : although, in the Aris- 
 tophanic meaning of the word, it may far better 
 be called a Comedy, and in another and more 
 poetic sense Divine, than the poem of Dante. 
 
 The energy with which the individual embodies 
 the singular mixture of the materials which lie be 
 fore him in his age and his life determines the 
 
440 THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 
 
 measure in which he possesses mythological power. 
 Dante s personages possess a kind of eternity from 
 the position in which he places them, and which is 
 eternal : but not only the actual which he draws 
 from his own time, as the story of Ugolino and the 
 like, but also what is pure invention, as the death 
 of Ulysses and his companions, has in the connec 
 tion of his poem a real mythological truth. 
 
 It would be of but subordinate interest to repre 
 sent by itself the Philosophy, Physics, and Astron 
 omy of Dante, since his true peculiarity lies only 
 in his manner of fusing them with his poetry. The 
 Ptolemaic system, which to a certain degree is the 
 foundation of his poetic structure, has already in 
 itself a mythological coloring. If, however, his 
 philosophy is to be characterized in general as 
 Aristotelian, we must not understand by this the 
 mre Peripatetic philosophy, but a peculiar union 
 of the same with the ideas of the Platonic then 
 entertained, as may be proved by many passages 
 of his poem. 
 
 We will not dwell upon the power and solidity 
 of separate passages, the simplicity and endless 
 naivete of separate pictures, in which he expresses 
 his philosophical views, as the well-known descrip 
 tion of the soul which comes from the hand of God 
 as a little girl " weeping and laughing in its child 
 ish sport," a guileless soul, which knows nothing, 
 save that, moved by its joyful Creator, " willingly 
 it turns to that which gives it pleasure;" we 
 speak only of the general symbolic form of the 
 
THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 441 
 
 whole, in whose absoluteness, more than in any 
 thing else, the universal value and immortality of 
 this poem is recognized. 
 
 If the union of Philosophy and Poetry, even in 
 their most subordinate synthesis, is understood as 
 making a didactic poem, it becomes necessary, since 
 the poem must be without any external end and 
 aim, that the intention (of instructing) should lose 
 itself in it, and be changed into an absoluteness 
 (in eine Absolutheit verwandelt), so that the poem 
 may seem to exist for its own sake. And this is 
 only conceivable, when Science (considered as a 
 picture of the universe, and in perfect harmony 
 therewith, as the most original and beautiful Poetry) 
 is in itself already poetical. Dante s poem is a 
 much higher interpenetration of Science and 
 Poetry, and so much the more must its form, even 
 in its freer self-existence, be adapted to the uni 
 versal type of the world s aspect. 
 
 The division of the universe and the arrange 
 ment of the materials according to the three king 
 doms of Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise, indepen 
 dently of the peculiar meaning of these ideas in 
 Christian theology, are also a general symbolic 
 form, so that one does not see why under the same 
 form every remarkable age should not have its own 
 Divine Comedy. As in the modern Drama the 
 form of five acts is assumed as the usual one, be 
 cause every event may be regarded in its Begin 
 ning, its Progress, its Culmination, its Denoument, 
 and its final Consummation, so this trichotomy, or 
 
442 THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 
 
 threefold division of Dante in the higher prophetic 
 poetry, which is to be the expression of a whole age, 
 is conceivable as a general form, which in its filling 
 up may be infinitely varied, as by the power of 
 original invention it can always be quickened into 
 new life. Not alone, however, as an external form, 
 but as an emblematical expression of the internal 
 type of all Science and Poetry, is that form eternal, 
 and capable of embracing in itself the three great 
 objects of science and culture, Nature, History, 
 and Art. Nature, as the birth of all things, is the 
 eternal Night; and as that unity through which 
 these are in themselves, it is the aphelion of the 
 universe, the point of farthest removal from God, 
 the true centre. Life and History, whose nature 
 is gradual progress, are only a process of clarifica 
 tion, a transition to an absolute condition. This 
 can nowhere be found save in Art, which antici 
 pates eternity, is the paradise of life, and is truly 
 in the centre. 
 
 Dante s poem, therefore, viewed from all sides, 
 is not an isolated work of a particular age, a par 
 ticular stage of culture ; but it is archetypal, by 
 the universal interest which it unites with the most 
 absolute individuality, by its universality, in virtue 
 of which it excludes no side of life and culture, 
 and, finally, by its form, which is not a peculiar 
 type, but the type of the theory of the universe in 
 general. 
 
 The peculiar internal arrangement of the poem 
 certainly cannot possess this universal interest, 
 
THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 443 
 
 since it is formed upon the ideas of the time, and 
 the peculiar views of the poet. On the other hand, 
 as is to be expected from a work so artistic and full 
 of purpose, the general inner type is again ex 
 ternally imaged forth, through the form, color, 
 sound, of the three great divisions of the poem. 
 
 From the extraordinary nature of his material, 
 Dante needed for the form of his creations in de 
 tail some kind of credentials which only the Science 
 of his time could give, and which for him are, so 
 to speak, the Mythology and the general basis 
 which supports the daring edifice of his inventions. 
 But even in the details he remains true to his de 
 sign of being allegorical, without ceasing to be 
 historical and poetical. Hell, Purgatory, and Para 
 dise are, as it were, only his system of Theology in 
 its concrete and architectural development. The 
 proportion, number, and relations which he ob 
 serves in their internal structure were prescribed 
 by this science, and herein he renounced inten 
 tionally the freedom of invention, in order to give, 
 by means of form, necessity and limitation to his 
 poem, which in its materials was unlimited. The 
 universal sanctity and significancy of numbers is 
 another external form upon which his poetry rests. 
 So in general the entire logical and syllogistic lore 
 of that age is for him only form, which must be 
 granted to him in order to attain to that region in 
 which his poetry moves. 
 
 And yet in this adherence to religious and phil 
 osophical notions, as the most universally interest- 
 
444 THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 
 
 ing thing which his age offered, Dante never seeks 
 an ordinary kind of poetic probability ; but rather 
 renounces all intention of flattering the baser 
 senses. His first entrance into Hell takes place, as 
 it should take place, without any unpoetical attempt 
 to assign a motive for it or to make it intelligible, 
 in a condition like that of a Vision, without, how 
 ever, any intention of making it appear such. His 
 being drawn up by Beatrice s eyes, through which 
 the divine power is communicated to him, he ex 
 presses in a single line : what is wonderful in his 
 own adventures he immediately changes to a like 
 ness of the mysteries of religion, and gives it 
 credibility by a yet higher mystery, as when he 
 makes his entrance into the moon, which he com 
 pares to that of light into the unbroken surface of 
 water, an image of God s incarnation. 
 
 To show the perfection of art and the depth of 
 purpose which was carried even into the minor 
 details of the inner structure of the three worlds, 
 would be a science in itself. This was recognized 
 shortly after the poet s death by his nation, in their 
 appointing a distinct Lectureship upon Dante, 
 which was first filled by Boccaccio. 
 
 But not only do the several incidents in each of 
 the three parts of the poem allow the universal 
 character of the first form to shine through them, 
 but the law thereof expresses itself yet more defi 
 nitely in the inner and spiritual rhythm, by which 
 they are contradistinguished from each other. The 
 Inferno, as it is the most fearful in its objects, is * 
 
THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 445 
 
 likewise the strongest in expression, the severest in 
 diction, and in its very words dark and awful. In 
 one portion of the Purgatorio deep silence reigns, 
 for the lamentations of the lower world grow mute : 
 upon its summits, the forecourts of Heaven, all 
 becomes Color : the Paradiso is the true music of 
 the spheres. 
 
 The variety and difference of the punishments 
 in the Inferno are conceived with almost un 
 exampled invention. Between the crime and the 
 punishment there is never any other than a poetic 
 relation. Dante s spirit is not daunted by what is 
 terrible ; nay, he goes to its extreme limits. But 
 it could be shown, in every case, that he never 
 ceases to be sublime, and in consequence truly 
 beautiful. For that which men who are not capable 
 of comprehending the whole have sometimes pointed 
 out as low, is not so in their sense of the term, but 
 it is a necessary element of the mixed nature of the 
 poem, on account of which Dante himself called 
 it a Comedy. The hatred of evil, the scorn of a 
 godlike spirit, which are expressed in Dante s fear 
 ful composition, are not the inheritance of common 
 souls. It is indeed very doubtful still, though quite 
 generally believed, whether his banishment from 
 Florence, after he had previously dedicated his 
 poetry to Love, first spurred on his spirit, naturally 
 inclined to whatever was earnest and extraordinary, 
 to the highest invention, in which he breathed forth 
 the whole of his life, of the destiny of his heart 
 and his country, together with his indignation 
 
44G THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 
 
 thereat. But the vengeance which he takes in the 
 Inferno, he takes in the name of the Day of Judg 
 ment, as the elected Judge with prophetic power, 
 not from personal hate, but with a pious soul 
 roused by the abominations of the times, and a 
 love of his native land long dead in others, as he 
 has himself represented in a passage in the Para- 
 diso, where he says : 
 
 " If e er it happen that the Poem sacred, 
 To which both Earth and Heaven have lent their hand, 
 Til] it hath made me meagre many a year, 
 
 Conquer the cruelty that shuts me out 
 Of the fair sheepfold, where a lamb I slumbered, 
 An unemy to the wolves that war upon it, 
 
 With other voice forthwith, with other fleece, 
 The poet shall return, and at the font 
 Baptismal shall lie take the crown of laurel." 
 
 He tempers the horror of the torments of the 
 damned by his own feeling for them, which at the 
 end of so much suffering so overwhelms him that 
 he is ready to weep, and Virgil says to him, 
 " Wherefore then art thou troubled ? " 
 
 It has already been remarked, that the greater 
 part of the punishments of the Inferno are sym 
 bolical of the crimes for which they are inflicted, 
 but many of them are so in a far more general re 
 lation. Of this kind is, in particular, the repre 
 sentation of a metamorphosis, in which two natures 
 are mutually interchanged, and their substance 
 transmuted. No metamorphosis of Antiquity can 
 compare with this for invention, and if a naturalist 
 
THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 447 
 
 or a didactic poet were able to sketch with such 
 power emblems of the eternal metamorphoses of 
 nature, he might congratulate himself upon it. 
 
 As we have already remarked, the Inferno is 
 not only distinguished from the other parts by the 
 external form of its representation, but also by the 
 circumstance that it is peculiarly the realm of 
 forms, and consequently the plastic part of the 
 poem. The Purgatorio must be recognized as the 
 picturesque part. Not only are the penances here 
 imposed upon sinners at times pictorially treated, 
 even to brightness of coloring, but the journey up 
 the holy mountain of Purgatory presents in detail 
 a rapid succession of shifting landscapes, scenes, 
 and manifold play of light ; until upon its outer 
 most boundary, when the poet has reached the 
 waters of Lethe, the highest pomp of painting and 
 color displays itself, in the picturing of the divine 
 primeval forest of this region, of the celestial clear 
 ness of the water overcast with its eternal shadow, 
 of the maiden whom he meets upon its banks, and 
 the descent of Beatrice in a cloud of flowers, 
 beneath a white veil, crowned with olive, wrapped 
 in a green mantle, and " vested in colors of the 
 living flame." 
 
 The poet has urged his way to light through the 
 very heart of the earth: in the darkness of the 
 lower world forms alone could be distinguished : in 
 Purgatory light is kindled, but still in connection 
 with earthly matter, and becomes color. In Para 
 dise there remains nothing but the pure music of 
 
448 THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 
 
 the light; reflection ceases, and the Poet rises 
 gradually to behold the colorless pure essence of 
 Deity itself. 
 
 The astronomical system which the age of the 
 poet invested with a mythological value, the nature 
 of the stars and of the measure of their motion, are 
 the ground upon which his inventions, in this part 
 of the poem, rest. And if he in this sphere of the 
 unconditioned still suffers degrees and differences 
 to exist, he again removes them by the glorious 
 word which he puts into the mouth of one of the 
 sister-souls whom he meets in the moon, that 
 " every Where in heaven is Paradise." 
 
 The plan of the poem renders it natural that, on 
 the very ascent through Paradise, the loftiest 
 speculations of theology should be discussed. His 
 deep reverence for this science is symbolized by 
 his love of Beatrice. In proportion as the field of 
 vision enlarges itself into the purely Universal, it 
 is necessary that Poetry should become Music, 
 form vanish, and that, in this point of view, the 
 Inferno should appear the most poetic part of the 
 work. But in this work it is absolutely impossible 
 to take things separately ; and the peculiar excel 
 lence of each separate part is authenticated and 
 recognized only through its harmony with the 
 whole. If the relation of the three parts to the 
 whole is perceived, we shall necessarily recognize 
 the Paradiso as the purely musical and lyrical por 
 tion, even in the design of the poet, who expresses 
 
THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 449 
 
 this in the external form, by the frequent use of 
 the Latin words of Church hymns. 
 
 The marvellous grandeur of the poem, which 
 gleams forth in the mingling of all the elements of 
 poetry and art, reaches in this way a perfect mani 
 festation. This divine work is not plastic, not 
 picturesque, not musical, but all of these at once 
 and in accordant harmony. It is not dramatic, 
 not epic, not lyric, but a peculiar, unique, and un 
 exampled mingling of all these. 
 
 I think I have shown, at the same time, that it is 
 prophetic, and typical of all the modern Poetry. 
 It embraces all its characteristics, and springs out 
 of the intricately mingled materials of the same, as 
 the first growth, stretching itself above the earth 
 and toward the heavens, the first fruit of trans 
 figuration. Those who would become acquainted 
 with the poetry of modern times, not superficially, 
 but at its fountain-head, may train themselves by 
 this great and mighty spirit, in order to know by 
 what means the whole of the modern time may be 
 embraced in its entireness, and that it is not held 
 together by a loosely woven band. They who 
 have no vocation for this can apply to themselves 
 the words at the beginning of the first part : 
 
 " Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch intrate." 
 VOL. I. 29 
 
TABLE-TALK. 
 
 IF you borrow my books, do not mark them; 
 for I shall not be able to distinguish your marks 
 from my own, and the pages will become like the 
 doors in Bagdad marked by Morgiana s chalk. 
 
 DON QUIXOTE thought he could have made 
 beautiful bird-cages and tooth-picks if his brain 
 had not been so full of ideas of chivalry. Most 
 people would succeed in small things, if they were 
 not troubled with great ambitions. 
 
 A TORN jacket is soon mended ; but hard words 
 bruise the heart of a child. 
 
 AUTHORS, in their Prefaces, generally speak in 
 a conciliatory, deprecating tone of the critics, whom 
 they hate and fear ; as of old the Greeks spake of 
 the Furies as the Eumenides, the Benign God 
 desses. 
 
TABLE-TALK. 451 
 
 DOUBTLESS criticism was originally benignant, 
 pointing out the beauties of a work, rather than 
 its defects. The passions of men have made it 
 malignant, as the bad heart of Procrustes turned 
 the bed, the symbol of repose, into an instrument 
 of torture. 
 
 POPULARITY is only, in legal phrase, the " in 
 stantaneous seisin " of fame. 
 
 THE Mormons make the marriage ring, like the 
 ring of Saturn, fluid, not solid, and keep it in its 
 place by numerous satellites. 
 
 IN the mouths of many men soft words are like 
 roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their 
 muskets on holidays. 
 
 WE often excuse our own want of philanthropy 
 by giving the name of fanaticism to the more 
 ardent zeal of others. 
 
 EVERY great poem is in itself limited by neces 
 sity, but in its suggestions unlimited and infinite. 
 
452 TABLE-TALK. 
 
 IF we could read the secret history of our ene 
 mies, we should find in each man s life sorrow and 
 suffering enough to disarm all hostility. 
 
 As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, 
 so change of studies a dull brain. 
 
 THE Laws of Nature are just, but terrible. 
 There is no weak mercy in them. Cause and 
 consequence are inseparable and inevitable. The 
 elements have no forbearance. The fire burns, 
 the water drowns, the air consumes, the earth 
 buries. And perhaps it would be well for our race 
 if the punishment of crimes against the Laws of 
 Man were as inevitable as the punishment of crimes 
 against the Laws of Nature, were Man as un 
 erring in his judgments as Nature. 
 
 ROUND about what is, lies a whole mysterious 
 world of what might be, a psychological romance 
 of possibilities and things that do not happen. By 
 going out a few minutes sooner or later, by stop 
 ping to speak with a friend at a corner, by meeting 
 this man or that, or by turning down this street 
 instead of the other, we may let slip some great 
 occasion of good or avoid some impending evil, by 
 which the whole current of our lives would have 
 been changed. There is no possible solution to 
 the dark enigma but the one word, " Providence." 
 
TABLE-TALK. 453 
 
 THE Helicon of too many poets is not a hill 
 crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses 
 and the Graces, but an old mouldering house, full 
 of gloom and haunted by ghosts. 
 
 "LET us build such a church, that those who 
 come after us shall take us for madmen," said the 
 old canon of Seville, when the great cathedral was 
 planned. Perhaps through every mind passes some 
 such thought, when it first entertains the design of 
 some great and seemingly impossible action, the 
 end of which it dimly foresees. This divine mad 
 ness enters more or less into all our noblest under 
 takings. 
 
 I FEEL a kind of reverence for the first books 
 of young authors. There is so much aspiration in 
 them, so much audacious hope and trembling fear, 
 so much of the heart s history, that all errors and 
 short-comings are for awhile lost sight of in the 
 amiable self-assertion of youth. 
 
 AUTHORS have a greater right than any copy 
 right, though it is generally unacknowledged or 
 disregarded. They have a right to the reader s 
 civility. There are favorable hours for reading a 
 book, as for writing it, and to these the author has 
 a claim. Yet many people think, that when they 
 buy a book, they buy with it the right to abuse the 
 author. 
 
454 TABLE-TALK. 
 
 A THOUGHT often makes us hotter than a fire. 
 
 BLACK seals upon letters, like the black sails of 
 the Greeks, are signs of bad tidings and ill success. 
 
 LOVE makes its record in deeper colors as we 
 grow out of childhood into manhood ; as the Em 
 perors signed their names in green ink when under 
 age, but when of age, in purple. 
 
 SOME critics are like chimney-sweepers ; they 
 put out the fire below, and frighten the swallows 
 from their nests above ; they scrape a long time in 
 the chimney, cover themselves with soot, and bring 
 nothing away but a bag of cinders, and then sing 
 from the top of the house as if they had built it. 
 
 WHEN we reflect that all the aspects of Nature, 
 all the emotions of the soul, and all the events of 
 life have been the subjects of poetry for hundreds 
 and thousands of years, we can hardly wonder that 
 there should be so many resemblances and coinci 
 dences of expression among poets, but rather that 
 they are not more numerous and more striking. 
 
TABLE-TALK. 455 
 
 THE first pressure of sorrow crushes out from 
 our hearts the best wine ; afterwards the constant 
 weight of it brings forth bitterness, the taste and 
 stain from the lees of the vat. 
 
 THE tragic element in poetry is like Saturn in 
 alchemy, the Malevolent, the Destroyer of Na 
 ture ; but without it no true Aurum Potabile, or 
 Elixir of Life, can be made. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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