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 Wy-
 
 THE 
 
 PROSE WORKS 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 OUTRE-MER. DRIFT-WOOD 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street 
 
 e Pres 
 1885
 
 
 Copyright, 1845, 1857, 1866, and 1872, 
 Bv HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Copyright, 1885, 
 BY ERNEST W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Camlrrieige, Mass. : 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
 
 OUTRE-MER. 
 
 PACK 
 
 THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY 7 
 
 THE PILGRIM OF OUTRE-MER .... 9 
 
 THE NORMAN DILIGENCE 13 
 
 THE GOLDEN LION INN . . . . . 21 
 
 MARTIN FRANC AND THE MONK OF ST. ANTHONY 27 
 
 THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL 48 
 
 JACQUELINE 61 
 
 THE SEXAGENARIAN .... .71 
 
 PERE LA CHAISE 78 
 
 THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE .... 92 
 
 THE TROUVERES 108 
 
 THE BAPTISM OF FIRE 124 
 
 COQ-A-L'ANE 135 
 
 THE NOTARY OF P^RIGUEUX . . . . 147 
 
 THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN 160 
 
 SPAIN 174 
 
 A TAILOR'S DRAWER 182 
 
 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS ..... 196 
 THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO . . . .221 
 
 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN . . . 237
 
 iv Contents 
 
 THE PILGRIM'S BREVIARY ..... 267 
 
 THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY ..... 297 
 
 ROME IN MIDSUMMER 311 
 
 THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCTA .... 334 
 
 NOTE-BOOK 353 
 
 THE PILGRIM'S SALUTATION 360 
 
 COLOPHON . , 363
 
 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 ben in manye a fulle gode honour 
 able companye. Now I am comen home to reste. And thus recordynga 
 the tyme passed, I have fulfilled these thynges and putte hem wryten in 
 this boke, as it woulde come into my niynde. 
 
 Sir John Maundevillt
 
 THE 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 READER, 
 
 I DEDICATE this little book to thee with 
 many fears and misgivings of heart. Be 
 ing a stranger to thee, and having never admin 
 istered 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 amuse- 
 ment of the wise and great. 
 
 Besides, what perils await the adventurous 
 author who launches forth into the uncertain 
 current of public favor in so frail a bark as
 
 8 The Epistle Dedicatory 
 
 this ! The very rocking of the tide may over 
 set 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 with 
 out more ado. Indeed, the success of an un 
 known 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 in 
 fluences have no operation on it ; and the most 
 confident astrologers dare not foretell the di 
 verse 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 ac 
 quaintance, good Master Cobweb." 
 
 Very sincerely thine, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 BSUNSWICK, Maine, 1833.
 
 THE PILGRIM OF OUTRE-MER 
 
 I am a Palmer, as ye se, 
 
 Whiche of my lyfe muche part have spent 
 
 In many a fayre and farre cuntrie, 
 
 As pilgrims do of good intent. 
 
 THE FOUR Ps. 
 
 " T YSTENYTH, ye godely gentylmen, and 
 -1 ' all that ben hereyn ! " I am a pilgrim be 
 nighted on my way, and crave a shelter till the 
 storm is over, and a seat by the fireside in this 
 honorable company. 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, wel 
 comed the stranger to his halls, and listened 
 with delight to the pilgrim's tale and the song 
 of the troubadour. Both pilgrim and trouba 
 dour had their tales of wonder from a distant 
 land, embellished with the magic of Oriental 
 -exaggeration. Their salutation was,
 
 io The Pilgrim of Outre-Mer 
 
 " 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 child 
 hood. 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 fondness 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
 
 The Pilgrim of Outre-Mer 1 1 
 
 Land. I, too, in a certain sense, have been a 
 pilgrim of Outre-Mer ; for to my youthful im 
 agination 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 at 
 mosphere 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 
 Trekschuit ; trimmed my midnight lamp in a 
 German university ; wandered and mused amid 
 the classic 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 for 
 ever. But now I will stay the too busy hand 
 of time, and call back the shadowy past. Per 
 chance the old and the wise may accuse me of 
 frivolity ; but I see in this fair company the
 
 12 The Pilgrim of Outre-Mer 
 
 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 law of the kingdome, 
 to the more severe critic. To the one be con 
 tenting enjoyments of their auspicious desires ; 
 to the other, a happy attendance of their 
 chosen Muses." * 
 
 And now, fair dames and courteous gentle 
 men, 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.
 
 THE NORMAN DILIGENCE 
 
 The French guides, otherwise called the postilians, have one mst 
 diabolical! custome in their travelling upon the wayes. 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 prov 
 ince of Normandy. As France was the first 
 foreign country I visited, everything 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 land 
 scape. 
 
 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 the quaint language of an old romance, mak-
 
 14 The Norman Diligence 
 
 ing the " sad, pensive, and aching heart to re 
 joice, 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 scattered on the 
 slope of the hills, mingling their delicate 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 culti 
 vated 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 slowly along the paved roads of France, 
 laboring beneath a mountain of trunks and 
 bales of all descriptions ; and, like the Trojan 
 horse, bearing a groaning multitude within it. 
 It was a curious and cumbersome machine, re-
 
 The Norman Diligence 15 
 
 sembling 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 Generale des 
 Messageries Royales des Diligences pour le 
 Havre, Rouen, et Parish 
 
 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 skullcap and cloth shoes ; the priest 
 in his cassock ; the peasant in his frock ; and 
 a whole family of squalling children. My fel 
 low-travellers on top were a gay subaltern, with 
 fierce mustache, and a nut-brown village beauty 
 of sweet sixteen. The subaltern wore a mil 
 itary undress, and a little blue cloth cap, in the 
 shape of a cow-bell, trimmed smartly with sil 
 ver 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
 
 1 6 The Norman Diligence 
 
 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 dili 
 gence, and with comic gravity issued his man 
 dates 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 re 
 ceive ; 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 chambermaid 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 Conducteiir ! 
 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
 
 The Norman Diligence 17 
 
 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 be 
 tween 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 horses which drew the diligence were 
 harnessed 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 dragging along at a scram-
 
 1 8 The Norman Diligence 
 
 bling pace, between a trot and a walk. No 
 sooner did the vehicle get comfortably in mo 
 tion, 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 pos 
 tilion, 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 possible. 
 
 In this manner we toiled slowly along the 
 dusty highway. Occasionally the scene was 
 enlivened by a group of peasants, driving before 
 them a little ass, laden with vegetables for a 
 neighboring market. Then we would pass a 
 solitary shepherd, sitting by the road-side, 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 at-
 
 The Norman Diligence 19 
 
 tached to her horns, to browse along the side 
 of the ditch. Then we would all alight to as 
 cend some formidable hill on foot, and be es 
 corted up by a clamorous group of sturdy 
 mendicants, annoyed by the ceaseless impor 
 tunity of worthless beggary, or moved to pity 
 by the palsied limbs of the aged, and the sight 
 less eyeballs of the blind. 
 
 Occasionally, too, the postilion drew up in 
 front of a dingy little cabaret, completely over 
 shadowed by wide-spreading trees. A lusty 
 grape-vine clambered 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 " J 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 an 
 other ; hill, valley, stream, and woodland flitted 
 by me like the shifting scenes of a magic lan 
 tern, and one train of thought gave place to 
 another ; till at length, in the after part of the
 
 2O The Norman Diligence 
 
 day, we entered 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 ita 
 narrow streets.
 
 THE GOLDEN LION INN 
 
 Monsieur Vinot. Je veux absolument un Lion 1'Or ; parce qu'on dit, 
 Ou allez-vous? Au Lion d'Or ! D'ou venez-vous? Du Lion d'Or ! 
 Ou irons-nous ? Au Lion d'Or ! Ou y a-t-il de bon vin ? 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 por 
 ter, who took my luggage, said : 
 
 " Ou allez-vous, Monsieur ? " 
 
 I answered, without reflection (for, be it said 
 with all the veracity of a traveller, at that time 
 I did not know there was a Golden Lion in the 
 city), 
 
 "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 ! Seven stories high, by Our 
 Lady ! I counted them every one ; and when
 
 22 The Golden Lion Inn 
 
 I went down to remonstrate, I counted them 
 again ; so that there was no possibility 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 dfeolee, to have 
 Monsieur leave her, that I marched up again to 
 number thirty-five. 
 
 After finding all the fault I could with the 
 chamber, 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 possi 
 bly complain of was my being lodged in the 
 seventh story, and in the immediate neighbor 
 hood 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 cathedral, and the ruins 
 of the church and abbey of St. Ouen. 
 
 When I had fully prepared myself for a ram 
 ble through the city, it was already sunset ; 
 and after the heat and dust of the day, the 
 freshness of the long evening twilight was de 
 lightful. When I enter a new city, I cannot 
 rest till I have satisfied the first cravings of 
 curiosity by rambling through its streets. Nor
 
 The Golden Lion Inn 23 
 
 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 par 
 ticularly 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 thread 
 ing a narrow 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 instantane 
 ous. It completely overwhelmed my imagina 
 tion ; and I stood for a long time motionless, 
 gazing entranced upon the stupendous edifice. 
 I had before seen no specimen of Gothic archi-
 
 24 The Golden Lion Inn 
 
 tecture ; 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 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.
 
 The Golden Lion Inn 25 
 
 On the following day, I visited the remains 
 of an old palace, built by Edward the Third, 
 now occupied 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 pub 
 lic library. The remainder of the morning 
 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 <?Hote of the Golden Lion, I 
 fell into conversation with an elderly gentle 
 man, who proved to be a great antiquarian, 
 and thoroughly read in all the forgotten lore 
 of the city. As our tastes were somewhat sim 
 ilar, we were soon upon very friendly terms ; 
 and after dinner we strolled out to visit some 
 remarkable localities, and took the gloria to 
 gether at the Chevalier Bayard. 
 
 When we returned to the Golden Lion, he 
 entertained me with many curious stories of 
 the spots we had been visiting. Among others,
 
 26 The Golden Lion Inn 
 
 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, how 
 ever, vouch for the truth of the story ; for that 
 the antiquarian himself would not do. He 
 said he found it in an ancient manuscript 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'oi'stes sa pareille, 
 Que je vos vueil dire et conter; 
 Or metez cuer a 1'escouter. 
 
 FABLIAU DU BOUCHIER D'ABBBVIUX 
 
 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 re 
 duced from opulence to poverty. But poverty, 
 which generally makes men humble and labori- 
 
 * The outlines of the following tale were taken from a Nor 
 man 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 have 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.
 
 28 Martin Franc and 
 
 ous, only served to make him proud and lazy ; 
 and in proportion as he grew poorer 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 loi 
 tering 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 trades 
 men 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, de 
 serted 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 trades-
 
 The Monk of St. Anthony 29 
 
 man save one, and that one was Friar Gui, the 
 sacristan of the abbey of St. Anthony. He 
 was a little, jolly, red-faced friar, with a leer in 
 his eye, and rather a doubtful reputation ; but 
 as he was a kind of travelling gazette, and al 
 ways brought the latest news and gossip of 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 con 
 sidered 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 dis 
 covered two faces under the hood ; but she 
 persevered in misconstruing the friar's inten 
 tions, and in dexterously turning aside any ex 
 pressions 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 tradesman opened his eyes, and won 
 dered he had been asleep so long. Whereupon 
 he was irreverent enough to thrust Friar Gui 
 into the street by the shoulders.
 
 30 Martin Franc and 
 
 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 
 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
 
 The Monk of St. Anthony 31 
 
 Latin, with as much devotion as the most 
 learned clerk of the convent. When the ser 
 vice 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 mistaken ; for, when she arose to de 
 part, the portly figure of Friar Gui was stand 
 ing close at her elbow ! 
 
 " Good evening, fair Marguerite," said he. 
 " St. Martin has heard your prayer, and sent 
 me to relieve your poverty." 
 
 "Then," replied she, " the good saint is not 
 very fastidious in the choice of his messen 
 gers." 
 
 "Nay, goodwife," answered the friar, not at 
 all abashed by this ungracious reply, "if the 
 tidings are good, what matters it who the mes 
 senger 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."
 
 32 Martin Franc and 
 
 " He has done me wrong," continued the 
 friar. " But it is our duty to forgive our ene 
 mies ; 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 com 
 panion. I know not whether it were a sug 
 gestion 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 
 iriar. At length she said, 
 
 " Put up your purse ; to-day I can neither 
 deliver your gift nor your message. Martin 
 Franc has gone from home." 
 
 'Then keep it for yourself." 
 
 ' May/' replied Marguerite, casting down 
 her eyes ; " I can take no bribes here in the 
 church, and in the very chapel of my hus 
 band's patron saint. You shall bring it to me. 
 at my house, if you will." 
 
 The friar put up the purse, and the conver 
 sation which followed was in a low and indis 
 tinct undertone, audible only to the ears for 
 which it was intended. At length the inter 
 view ceased ; and O woman ! the last 
 words that the virtuous Marguerite uttered, as 
 she glided from the church, were,
 
 The Monk of St. Anthony 33 
 
 " 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 con 
 vent-bell sent forth its summons to call the 
 friars of St. Anthony to their midnight de 
 votions, a figure, with a cowl, stole out of a 
 postern-gate, and passing silently along the 
 deserted streets, soon turned into the littl^ 
 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 unob 
 served, 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 ! " con 
 tinued the monk, endeavoring to take her 
 hand. 
 
 " Not so, good monk," said she, disengaging 
 3* e
 
 34 Martin Franc and 
 
 herself. "You forget the conditions of our 
 meeting." 
 
 The friar paused a moment ; and then, 
 drawing a heavy leathern purse from his gir 
 dle, he threw it 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 disci 
 pline 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 excite-
 
 The Monk of St. Anthony 35 
 
 ment 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 husband, exclaiming, 
 
 " For the holy Virgin's sake, be quick ! One 
 of these keys doubtless unlocks the gate of the 
 convent-garden. Carry the body thither, and 
 leave it among the trees ! " 
 
 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 melancholy 
 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 bur 
 den of the monk's body ; and if, perchance, a
 
 36 Martin Franc and 
 
 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 col 
 umn, 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 exceedingly angry ; and no sooner were 
 the duties of the chapel finished, than he sent 
 a monk in pursuit of the truant sacristan, sum 
 moning him to appear immediately at his cell. 
 By chance it happened 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 mid 
 night adventure, he took that direction in pur 
 suit. The moon was just climbing the con 
 vent-wall, and threw its silvery light through 
 the trees of the garden, and on the sparkling
 
 The Monk of St. Anthony 37 
 
 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 sacris 
 tan, 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 pen 
 ance for thy negligence. The prior calls for 
 thee at his cell ! " continued the monk, grow 
 ing angry, and shaking the sacristan by the 
 shoulder. 
 
 But still no answer. 
 
 " Then, by Saint Anthony, I '11 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 in 
 to 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
 
 38 Martin Franc and 
 
 bottom of the basin, his eyes 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 sacristan's 
 habit, at length succeeded in drawing him 
 from the water. All efforts, however, to re 
 suscitate him were unavailing. The monk 
 was filled with terror, not doubting that the 
 friar had died untimely by his hand ; and as 
 the animosity between 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 sacristan 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 
 shoulders of some jealous husband. The 
 beauty of Martin Franc's wife had penetrat 
 ed 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
 
 The Monk of St. Anthony 39 
 
 of Martin Franc, and placed in an erect posi 
 tion 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 surfer 
 Martin Franc and his wife to close their eyes ; 
 but they lay awake lamenting the doleful 
 events of the night. 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 Martin Franc mustered 
 courage enough to dress himself 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, cross 
 ing 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 Margue 
 rite in agony.
 
 4O Martin Franc and 
 
 " Then the Devil himself has betrayed us," 
 replied Martin Franc, disengaging himself 
 from the embrace of the sacristan ; " for I met 
 not a living being ; the whole city was as si 
 lent as the grave." 
 
 " Saint Martin defend us ! " continued his 
 terrified 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 
 scapulary, with 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 shoulders, and with fearful misgivings 
 departed on his dismal errand. He kept as 
 much as possible in the shadow of the houses, 
 and had nearly reached the quay, when sud 
 denly he thought he heard footsteps 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 to 
 gether, and he staggered against the wall 
 His hand relaxed its grasp, and the monk slid
 
 The Monk of St. Anthony 41 
 
 from his back and stood ghastly and straight 
 beside him, supported by chance against the 
 shoulder of his bearer. At that moment 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 waylaid, 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 sub 
 sided, an idea came into the mind of Martin 
 Franc, very similar to what would have come 
 into the mind of almost any person in similar 
 circumstances. He took the hog out 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.
 
 42 Martin Franc and 
 
 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 frightened 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 con 
 tents, and all three disappeared. 
 
 Now it happened that the city of Rouen 
 was at that time infested by three street rob 
 bers, who walked in darkness like the pesti 
 lence, and always carried the plunder of their 
 midnight marauding to the Tete-de-Bceuf, a 
 little tavern in one of the darkest and narrow 
 est lanes of the city. The host of the Tete- 
 de-Bceuf 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 pockets 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 anything to reward their la-
 
 The Monk of St. Anthony 43 
 
 bors. At length, however, they chanced to 
 spy a hog, hanging under a shed in a butcher's 
 yard, in readiness for the next day's market ; 
 and as they were not very fastidious in select 
 ing their plunder, but, on the contrary, rather 
 addicted to taking whatever they could lay 
 their hands on, the hog was straightway pur 
 loined, 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 noc 
 turnal excursion. It was this person who had 
 been so terrified at the appearance of Martin 
 Franc and the dead monk ; and as this en 
 counter 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-Boauf. The host was impa 
 tiently waiting their return ; and, asking what 
 plunder they had brought with them, pro 
 ceeded 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
 
 44 Martin Franc and 
 
 held the light, a little surprised at seeing the 
 head covered with a coarse gray cloth. 
 
 " Sure enough he has," exclaimed another, 
 starting back in dismay, as the shaven crown 
 and ghastly 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 
 m incredulous shake of the head ; " how could 
 a. dead monk get into this sack ? No, no ; 
 Jhere is some sorcery 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, cross 
 ing himself ; " 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
 
 The Monk of St. Anthony 45 
 
 strong cord round his neck, suspended him 
 to a beam in the shed, and there left 
 him. 
 
 When the night was at length past, and day 
 light 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 rec 
 ognized the dead body of Friar Gui. 
 
 " By St. Denis ! " quoth the butcher, " I 
 always feared that this friar would not die 
 
 j 
 
 quietly in his cell ; but I never thought I 
 should find him hanging under my own roof. 
 This must not be ; it will be said that I mur 
 dered him, and I shall pay for it with my life. 
 ,[ must contrive some way to get rid of him." 
 
 So saying, he called his man, and, showing 
 him what had been done, asked him how he 
 should dispose 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 ? im-
 
 46 Martin Franc and 
 
 possible ! " interrupted the butcher. " Who 
 ever heard of a dead man on horseback ! " 
 
 " Hear me out, and then judge. We must 
 place the body 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 re 
 flection, mad as the project was, they deter 
 mined 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 ! " 
 
 As it was now sunrise, the streets were full 
 of people, peasants driving their goods to 
 market, and citizens going to their daily avo-
 
 The Monk of St. Anthony 47 
 
 cations. 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 endeavored 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 gallop of the fright 
 ened 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 
 dismay ; and the steed and rider dashed on 
 ward, overthrowing in their course men and 
 women, and stalls, and piles of merchandise, 
 and sweeping away like a whirlwind. Tramp 
 tramp tramp ! they clattered 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 cur 
 rent of the river, swept down the stream, 
 and were seen no more !
 
 II n'est tel plaisir 
 Que d'estre 4 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 lei 
 sure, a longing for the leafy shade and the 
 green luxuriance of the country. It is pleas 
 ant to interchange the din of the city, the 
 movement of the crowd, and the gossip of so 
 ciety, 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 greiK, 
 Vnder. the grene wode tre."
 
 The Village of Auteuil 49 
 
 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 vil 
 lages 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 gentlemen 
 meet in the morning to give each other satis 
 faction in the usual way. A cross-road, skirted 
 with green hedge-rows, and overshadowed by 
 tall poplars, leads you from the noisy highway 
 of St. Cloud and Versailles to the still retire 
 ment 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 beauti 
 ful though distant view of the domes and gar 
 dens 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 santi '; 
 not that I was a valetudinarian, but because I 
 there found some one to whom I could whis- 
 3 D 

 
 50 The Village of Auteuil 
 
 per, " How sweet is solitude ! " Behind the 
 house was a garden filled with fruit-trees of 
 various kinds, and adorned with gravel-walks 
 and green arbors, 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 ground, 
 to breathe the invigorating air of morning, 
 and while away the lazy noon or vacant even 
 ing with tales of the sick-chamber. 
 
 The establishment was kept by Dr. Dentde- 
 lion, a dried-up little fellow, with red hair, a 
 sandy complexion, and the physiognomy and 
 gestures of a monkey. His character corre 
 sponded to his outward lineaments ; for he had 
 all a monkey's busy and curious impertinence. 
 Nevertheless, such as he was, the village JEs- 
 culapius 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 
 everything, 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 
 potentate's imperial palace that I chose my 
 country residence. I had a chamber in the 
 second story, with a solitary window, which
 
 The Village of Auteuil 51 
 
 looked upon the street, and gave me a peep 
 into a neighbor'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. With 
 in doors had I been disposed to quarrel with 
 my household gods I might h?ive taken some 
 objection to my neighborhood ; 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 fever, often broke my slum 
 bers 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 pur 
 suit 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 memo 
 rial of a former friendship. 
 
 It was, however, to the Bois de Boulogne 
 that I looked for my principal recreation
 
 52 The Village of Auteuil 
 
 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 sur 
 vived 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 con 
 structed 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 do 
 main, 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 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
 
 The Village of Auteuil 53 
 
 lay the little silver pool, with the sky and the 
 woods painted in its mimic vault, and occasion 
 ally 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 rip 
 ples, 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 vil 
 lage. The holidays were so many little eras 
 of mirth and good feeling ; for the French 
 have that happy and sunshiny 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 
 sometimes gave me a momentary uneasiness 
 to see my rustic throne beneath the oak 
 usurped by a noisy group of girls, the silence
 
 54 The Village of Auteuil 
 
 and decorum of my imaginary realm broken 
 by music and laughter, and, in a word, my 
 whole kingdom turned topsy-turvy with romp 
 ing, fiddling, and dancing. But I am naturally, 
 and from principle, too, a lover of all those in 
 nocent 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, fan 
 tastic, and fairy look to the scene. How often 
 in such moments did I recall the lines of Gold 
 smith, describing those " kinder skies " beneath 
 which " France displays her bright domain," 
 and feel how true and masterly the sketch, -
 
 The Village of Auteuil 55 
 
 " Alike all ages ; dames of ancient days 
 Have led their children through the mirthful maze, 
 And the gray grandsire, skilled in gestic lore, 
 Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore," 
 
 Nor must I forget to mention \h& fete patro- 
 nale, a kind of annual fair, which is held at 
 midsummer, in honor of the patron saint of 
 Auteuil. Then the principal street of the vil 
 lage is rilled with booths of every description ; 
 strolling players, and rope-dancers, and jug 
 glers, 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 Pas- 
 sy 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 wives 
 with an airing in a swing, and their customers 
 with eels and crawfish ; or, as is more poeti 
 cally set forth in an old Christmas carol, 
 
 " Vous eussiez vu venir 
 
 Tous ceux de Saint -Yon, 
 
 Et ceux de Bretigny 
 Apportant du poisson, 
 
 Les barbeaux et gardens,
 
 56 The Village of Auteuil 
 
 Anguilles et carpettes 
 Etaient a bon marche 
 
 Croyez, 
 A cette journee-la, 
 
 La, la, 
 Et aussi les perchettes." 
 
 I found another source of amusement in ob 
 serving 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 gate of the village. He 
 wore a brown coat, out at elbows, the fragment 
 of a velvet waistcoat, and a pair of tight nan 
 keen trousers, so short as hardly to reach be 
 low 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, mid 
 dle-aged woman, in straw hat and wooden 
 shoes ; and a little barefooted 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, joy 
 ous air, the burden of which ran, " Chantons
 
 The Village of Auteuil 57 
 
 F 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 rem 
 nant 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 mar 
 riage-festival. The procession was led by a 
 long orang-outang of a man, in a straw hat 
 and white dimity bob-coat, playing on an asth 
 matic clarionet, from which he contrived to 
 blow unearthly sounds, ever and anon squeak 
 ing off at right angles from his tune, and wind 
 ing 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 fid 
 dle till he made all crack again. Then came 
 the happy bridegroom, dressed in his Sunday
 
 58 The Village of Auteuil 
 
 suit of blue, with a large nosegay in his but 
 ton-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 to 
 gether in the peaceful bosom of their native 
 village, far from the gilded misery and the pes 
 tilential vices of the town. 
 
 On the evening of the same day, I was sit 
 ting 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 hush of evening, 
 died gradually away, then ceased. Then it
 
 The Village of Auteuil 59 
 
 ros 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 fol 
 lowed 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 pro 
 cession 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
 
 6o The Village of Auteuil 
 
 while others weep, and others rejoice when 
 we are sad ! The light heart and the heavy 
 walk side by side and go about together ! Be 
 neath the same roof are spread the wedding- 
 feast and the funeral-pall ! The bridal-song 
 mingles with the burial-hymn ! One goes to 
 the marriage-bed, another to the grave ; and 
 all is mutable, uncertain, 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 dis 
 tinctly 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. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 EAR mother, is it not the bell I 
 
 hear?" 
 
 " 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 moth 
 er, it reminds me of the holy Sunday morn 
 ings 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 bet 
 ter 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
 
 62 Jacqueline 
 
 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 wist 
 fully upon the quiet scene without. Her 
 mother gave her the prayer-book, 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 inter 
 vals the solemn voice of the priest was heard 
 at a distance, and then the confused responses 
 of the congregation, dying away in inartic 
 ulate 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 interceding and imploring pardon for sin ; 
 and then arose louder and louder, full, harmo 
 nious, 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 whole air with their
 
 Jacqueline 63 
 
 rich, melodious music. What exquisite ac 
 cords! what noble harmonies! what touch 
 ing 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 re 
 doubling, 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 entranced in 
 prayer. Her book had fallen beside 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 cur-
 
 64 Jacqueline 
 
 tain. 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 Sunday, mother, kneel again by that 
 window as to-day. I shall not be here, upon 
 this bed of pain and sickness ; but when you 
 hear the solemn hymn of worship, and the be 
 seeching 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 hap- 
 py!" 
 
 The afflicted mother made no reply, hef 
 heart was too full to speak. 
 
 " You remember, mother, how calmly Amie 
 died. She was so young and beautiful ! I al 
 ways 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
 
 Jacqueline 65 
 
 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 na 
 ture sought relief in sleep. 
 
 The persons between whom this scene 
 passed were a widow and her sick daughter, 
 from the neighborhood of Tours. They had 
 left the banks of the Loire to consult the more 
 experienced physicians 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 uncomplaining 
 patient grew worse and worse, and it soon be 
 came evident that the closing scene was draw 
 ing 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 ap 
 proach. 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 him
 
 66 Jacqueline 
 
 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 vil 
 lagers, bearing lighted wax tapers, formed a 
 short and melancholy procession. They soon 
 entered the sick-chamber, and the glimmer of 
 the tapers mingled with the red light of the 
 setting sun that shot his farewell rays through 
 the open window. The vessel of oil and the sil 
 ver 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 approached 
 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, an i was 
 left alone with the sick girl. He seated him-
 
 Jacqueline 67 
 
 self beside her pillow, and the subdued whisper 
 of the confession 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 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 provi 
 dence of God ; no more. The confession of 
 a meek and lowly heart is soon made. The 
 door was again opened ; the attendants en 
 tered, and knelt around the bed, and the priest 
 proceeded, 
 
 "And now prepare thyself to receive with 
 contrite 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 re 
 sponse, 
 
 " 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."
 
 68 Jacqueline 
 
 * 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 sacra 
 ments 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 neighbor for all offences thou hast commit 
 ted against them, either in thought, word or 
 deed ? " 
 
 " I do ! " 
 
 " 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, according 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
 
 Jacqueline 69 
 
 girl, and, while the assistant sounded the little 
 silver bell, said, 
 
 " Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat 
 animam tuam in vitam eternam" 
 
 And the kneeling crowd smote their breasts 
 and responded in one solemn voice, 
 
 11 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 com 
 pleted, the priest and his attendants retired, 
 leaving the mother alone with her dying child, 
 who, from the exhaustion caused by the pre 
 ceding scene, sank into a deathlike 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 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 inter 
 rupted the silence of her slumber. Not a
 
 7O Jacqueline 
 
 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, 
 Faming, 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 decreasing leg ? 
 
 SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 r I "'HERE he goes, in his long russet surtout, 
 -*- sweeping down yonder gravel-walk, be 
 neath the trees, like a yellow leaf in autumn 
 wafted along by a fitful gust of wind. Now 
 he pauses, now seems to be whirled round 
 in an eddy, and now rustles and brushes on 
 ward again. He is talking to himself in an 
 undertone, as usual, and nourishes 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
 
 72 The Sexagenarian 
 
 dimity waistcoat soiled with snuff, light nan 
 keen breeches, and, over all, that 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 constant garb, morning and evening ; 
 and it gives him a cool and breezy look, even 
 in the heat of a noonday in August. 
 
 The personage sketched in the preceding 
 paragraph is Monsieur d'Argentville, a sexa 
 genarian, with whom I became acquainted 
 during my residence at the Maison de santi of 
 Auteuil. I found him there, and left him 
 there. Nobody knew when he came, he 
 had been there from time immemorial ; nor 
 when he was going away, for he himself did 
 not know ; nor what ailed him, for though 
 he was always complaining, yet he grew nei 
 ther better nor worse, never consulted the 
 physician, and ate voraciously three times a 
 day. At table he was rather peevish, troubled 
 his neighbors with his elbows, and uttered the 
 monosyllable pouah ! rather oftener than good- 
 breeding and a due deference 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
 
 The Sexagenarian 73 
 
 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 inappro 
 priately denominated, by one of our guests, 
 " unefaim canine." 
 
 The old gentleman's weak side was an af 
 fectation of youth and gallantry. Though 
 " written down old, with all the characters of 
 age," yet at times he seemed to think himself 
 in the heyday of life ; and the assiduous court 
 he paid to a fair countess, who was passing the 
 summer at the Maison de santt, 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 elo 
 quence, 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 encountered each other at every turn. At 
 first our conversation was limited to the usual 
 4
 
 74 The Sexagenarian 
 
 salutations of the day ; but erelong our cas 
 ual acquaintance ripened into a kind of inti 
 macy. 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 talk 
 er, 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 unimportant 
 events of a life of sixty years. 
 
 Monsieur d'Argentville was a shoot from a 
 wealthy family of Nantes. Just before the 
 Revolution, he went up to Paris to study law 
 at the University, and, like many other 
 wealthy scholars of his age, was soon involved 
 in the intrigues and dissipation of the metrop 
 olis. He first established himself in the Rue 
 de rUniversite' ; 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 commenced in 
 due form ; and a flag of truce, offering to ca-
 
 The Sexagenarian 75 
 
 pitulate, was sent in the shape of a billet-doux. 
 In the mean time he regularly amused his lei 
 sure hours by blowing kisses across the street 
 with an old pair of bellows. One afternoon, 
 as he was occupied in this way, a tall gentle 
 man 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 morn 
 ing a placard at the window of the Bachelor 
 of Love, with the words " Furnished Apart 
 ment to let," showed that the former occupant 
 had found it convenient to change lodgings. 
 
 He next appeared in the Chaussee-d'Antin, 
 where he assiduously prepared himself for fu 
 ture exigencies by a course of daily lessons in 
 the use of the small-sword. He soon after 
 quarrelled with his best friend, about a little 
 actress on the Boulevard, and had the satisfac 
 tion of being jilted, and then run through the 
 body at the Bois de Boulogne. This gave him 
 new edat in the fashionable world, and conse-
 
 76 The Sexagenarian 
 
 quently 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 catas 
 trophe, however, he had the good fortune to 
 discover that the lady's expectations were lim 
 ited 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 guillotine by jumping 
 on board a vessel bound for America, and ar 
 rived at Boston with only a few francs in his 
 pocket ; but, as he knew how to accommodate 
 himself to circumstances, he contrived to live 
 by teaching fencing and French, and keeping 
 a dancing-school. 
 
 At the restoration of the Bourbons, he re 
 turned to France ; and from that time to the 
 day of our acquaintance had been engaged in 
 a series of vexatious lawsuits, in the hope of 
 recovering a portion of his property, which
 
 The Sexagenarian 77 
 
 had been intrusted to a friend for safe keeping 
 at the commencement of the Revolution. His 
 friend, however, denied all knowledge of the 
 transaction, and the assignment was very diffi 
 cult to prove. Twelve years of unsuccessful 
 litigation had completely soured the old gen 
 tleman'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 amusements. 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, everything 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 BROWNE'S URN BURIAL. 
 
 THE cemetery of Pere la Chaise is the 
 Westminster 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
 
 Pere la Chaise 79 
 
 on the heart, and leave their stain upon the 
 mouldering tracery of the tomb. 
 
 Pere la Chaise stands just beyond the Bar- 
 riere d'Aulney, on a hill-side, looking towards 
 the city. Numerous gravel-walks, winding 
 through shady avenues and between marble 
 monuments, lead up from the principal en 
 trance to a chapel on the summit. There is 
 hardly a grave that has not its little enclosure 
 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 sooth 
 ing effect upon the mind ; and I doubt whether 
 any one can enter that enclosure, where re 
 pose 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 
 afternoon 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
 
 8o Pere la Chaise 
 
 stands near the entrance, in the avenue lead 
 ing 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 Abelard and 
 Helo'fse. The history of these unfortunate lov 
 ers 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. Aboard died in the monastery of 
 Saint Marcel, and was buried in the vaults 
 of the church. His body afterwards was re 
 moved to the convent of the Paraclet, at the 
 request of Heloi'se, and at her death her own 
 was deposited in the same tomb. Three cen 
 turies 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 after 
 ward, they were again united in the same tomb ; 
 and when at length the Paraclet was destroyed, 
 these 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 sin 
 gular destiny was theirs ! that, after a life of
 
 Pere la Chaise 81 
 
 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 vicissi 
 tudes, its partings and its meetings, its inquie 
 tudes 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 
 charnel-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 dis 
 tance. What a lesson for those who are en 
 dowed with the fatal gift of genius ! It would 
 seem, indeed, that He who " tempers the wind 
 to the shorn lamb " tempers also his 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 to- 
 4 F
 
 82 Pere la Chaise 
 
 kens of the Divine displeasure. He who sins 
 in the darkness of a benighted intellect sees 
 not so clearly, through the shadows that sur 
 round 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 passion has subsided, and the 
 cloud flits away from before the sun, trem 
 bles beneath the searching eye of that accus 
 ing 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. x The history 
 of Abelard and Helolse is an illustration 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, inter 
 woven with the tendrils and blossoms of the 
 honeysuckle. I now stood in the most popu-
 
 Pere la Chaise 83 
 
 lous part of this city of tombs. Every step 
 awakened a new train of thrilling recollec 
 tions ; for at every step my eye caught the 
 name of some one whose glory had exalted 
 the character of his native land, and resound 
 ed across the waters of the Atlantic. Philos 
 ophers, historians, musicians, warriors, and 
 poets slept side by side around me ; some be 
 neath the gorgeous monument, and some be 
 neath the simple headstone. But the political 
 intrigue, the dream of science, the historical 
 research, the ravishing harmony 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 busi-
 
 84 Pere la Chaise 
 
 ness, 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 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 starving 
 and penniless man of genius, deems it an hon 
 or, when death has redeemed the fame of the 
 neglected, to have his own ashes laid beside 
 him, and to claim with him the silent com 
 panionship 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
 
 Pere la Chaise 85 
 
 poor lie buried. There poverty hires its 
 grave, and takes but a short lease of the nar 
 row 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 ? 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 house. Most of the graves were sur 
 rounded 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 sculp 
 tured urn and storied monument nothing 
 more than symbols of family pride ? Is all I
 
 86 Pere la Chaise 
 
 see around me a memorial of the living more 
 than of the dead, an empty show of sorrow, 
 which thus vaunts itself in mournful 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 ? No ! I feel that 
 it is not so ! I Let the good and the great be 
 honored even in the grave. Let the sculp 
 tured marble direct our footsteps 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 equal 
 ity even there. ) The mere handful of dust and 
 ashes, the mere distinction of prince and 
 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 lev 
 eller. Such paltry distinctions 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
 
 Pere la Chaise 87 
 
 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 be 
 loved 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 dis 
 tinctions even in the grave. The superiority 
 of one over another is in the nobler and bet 
 ter emotions which it excites ; in its more fer 
 vent admonitions to virtue ; in the livelier rec 
 ollections 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 external marks of honor. These out 
 ward appliances and memorials of respect,
 
 88 Pere la Chaise 
 
 the mournful urn, the sculptured bust, 
 the epitaph eloquent in praise, cannot in 
 deed 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 
 pompous epitaph, and the dust and ashes of 
 the tomb seem struggling to maintain the su 
 periority of mere worldly rank, and to carry 
 into the grave the bawbles of earthly van 
 ity, it is then, and then only, that we feel 
 how utterly worthless are all the devices of 
 sculpture, and the empty pomp of monumental 
 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 cem 
 etery stands. Beneath me in the distance, 
 and dim-discovered through the misty and.
 
 Pere la Chaise 89 
 
 smoky atmosphere of evening, rose the count 
 less roofs and spires of the city. Beyond, 
 throwing his level rays athwart the dusky 
 landscape, sank the broad red sun. The dis 
 tant murmur of the city rose upon my ear ; 
 and the toll of the evening bell came up, min 
 gled with the rattle of the paved street and 
 the confused sounds of labor. What an hour 
 for meditation ! 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 
 antiquated 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, contain 
 ing the poem. In describing the antiquities of the church of
 
 90 Pere la Chaise 
 
 Before I left the graveyard the shades of 
 evening 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 sum- 
 
 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 visible, hav 
 ing 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-a-Becket, 
 while kneeling at the altar of St. Benedict in Canterbury ca 
 thedral ; below this was the figure of an angel, probably St. 
 Michael, supporting 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 dygnyte of noght 
 Erth ypon erth hath sett all hys thowht 
 How erth apon erth may be hey browght 
 
 " 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 goth apon erth as man apon mowld 
 Lyke as erth apon erth never goo schold
 
 Pere la Chaise 91 
 
 mit of the hill, and here and there a lofty ob 
 elisk 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 evening. 
 
 " 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 upon 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 emblem* 
 of mortality," &c
 
 THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE 
 
 fe ne consols qu'une maniere de voyager plus agreable que d'aller i 
 , Jieval; c'est d'aller ;'i pied* On part i son moment, on s'arrfete 4 sa vo- 
 lonte, on fait tant et si peu d'exercise qu'on veut. 
 
 Quand on ne veut qu'arriver, on peut courir ^n chaise de poste ; mais 
 quand on veut voyager, il faut aller a pied. 
 
 ROUSSEAU- 
 
 IN the beautiful month of October,^ 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 un 
 dulations 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. Everything around me 
 wore that happy look which makes the heart
 
 The Valley of the Loire 93 
 
 glad. In the morning 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 overburdened 
 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 even' 
 ing 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 precip 
 itous 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.
 
 94 The Valley of the Loire 
 
 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 ad 
 vanced, and at last quite disappeared. It was 
 evidently many miles distant ; and as the path 
 I followed descended from 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 
 sunet ; 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 day 
 dream of childhood, of many a poetic revery 
 of youth, was before me. I stood at sunset 
 amid the luxuriant vineyards of France ! 
 
 The first person I met was a poor old wo 
 man, a little bowed down with age, gathering 
 grapes into a large basket. She was dressed 
 like the poorest class of peasantry, and pur 
 sued 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 in-
 
 The Valley of the Loire 95 
 
 tently 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 neighborhood where I 
 could pass the night, she showed me the path 
 way through the vineyard that led to the vil 
 lage, and then added, with a look of curi 
 osity, 
 
 " You must be a stranger, sir, in these 
 parts." 
 
 " Yes ; my home is very far from here." 
 
 " How far ? " 
 
 " More than a thousand leagues." 
 
 The old woman looked incredulous. 
 
 " I came from a distant land beyond the 
 sea." 
 
 " More than a thousand leagues ! " at length 
 repeated 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?"
 
 96 The Valley of the Loire 
 
 " 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 recol 
 lections had been awakened in her bosom, 
 turned again to her solitary task. I felt re 
 buked ; for there is something almost pro 
 phetic 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 irre 
 sistibly for its sympathies ! I venerate old 
 age ; and I love not the man who can look 
 without emotion 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, forming a cross way in 
 the vineyard. He was clad in a coarse garb 
 of gray, with a pair of long gaiters or spatter 
 dashes. Beside him lay a blue cloth-cap, a 
 staff, and an old weather-beaten knapsack. I
 
 The Valley of the Loire 97 
 
 saw at once that he was a foot-traveller like 
 myself, and therefore, without more ado, en 
 tered into conversation 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 mus 
 tache which was no longer there, I judged 
 that he had been a soldier. In this opinion 
 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 meille 
 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. 
 Sacrt* nom de ! There 's a tear ! " 
 
 He wiped it away with his sleeve. 
 
 5 G
 
 98 The Valley of the Loire 
 
 Here our colloquy was interrupted by the 
 approach of a group of vintagers, who were re 
 turning homeward from their labor. To this 
 party I joined myself, and invited the old sol 
 dier to do the same ; but he shook his head. 
 
 " I thank you ; my pathway lies in a dif 
 ferent 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 
 autumnal sun was shining in at my window. 
 The merry song of birds mingled sweetly with 
 lie sound of rustling leaves and the gurgle of
 
 The Valley of the Loire 99 
 
 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 time to 
 the miller's song. I loitered about the village 
 with a feeling of calm delight. I was unwill 
 ing to leave the seclusion of this sequestered 
 hamlet ; but at length, with reluctant step, I 
 took the cross-road through the vineyard, 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 my 
 self 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 battle 
 ments rise in stern and solemn grandeur, 
 moss-grown with age, and blackened by the 
 storms of three centuries. Within, all is 
 mournful and deserted. The grass has over-
 
 ioo The Valley of the Loire 
 
 grown the pavement of the courtyard, and 
 the rude sculpture upon the walls is broken 
 and defaced. 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 pre 
 cincts of the feudal ages ; and, as I passed 
 along through echoing corridors, and vast, de 
 serted 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 was 
 sail, echoed along those high-vaulted and soli 
 tary chambers ! 
 
 My third day's journey brought me to the 
 ancient city of Blois, the chief town of the de 
 partment of Loire-et-Cher. This city is cel 
 ebrated for the purity with which even the 
 lower classes of its inhabitants speak their na 
 tive 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, over 
 looking the roofs of the city, and commanding 
 a fine view of the Loire and its noble bridge, 
 and the surrounding country, sprinkled with
 
 The Valley of the Loire 101 
 
 eottages 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 traveller 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 
 drawbridge 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 ar 
 rested 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 inter 
 est is attached, as being the scene of the mas 
 sacre of the Duke of Guise. 
 
 On the following day, I left Blois for Am-
 
 The Valley of the Loire 
 
 boise ; 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 vineyards upon the south 
 ern 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 oc 
 casionally 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 munificent Francis the 
 First. One is a specimen of strong and mas 
 sive 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 fas 
 cinating 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 extrem-
 
 The Valley of the Loire 103 
 
 ity. There is a spacious courtyard in front, 
 from which a drawbridge 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 prince had just exchanged 
 them for the silken robes of the drawing-room. 
 From this hall a door opens into a long gal 
 lery, extending the whole length of the build 
 ing across the Cher. The walls of the gallery 
 are hung with the faded portraits of the long 
 line of the descendants of Hugh Capet ; and 
 the windows, looking up and down the stream, 
 command a fine reach of pleasant river scen 
 ery. 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 cov 
 ered with faded damask and embroidery, her 
 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 ; a venerable arm-chair and an auto 
 graph letter of Henry the Fourth ; and in an 
 old laboratory, among broken crucibles, and 
 neckless retorts, and drums, and trumpets, and
 
 IO4 The Valley of the Loire 
 
 skins of wild beasts, and other ancient lumber, 
 of various kinds, are to be seen the bed-posts 
 of Francis the First ! Doubtless the naked 
 walls and the vast solitary chambers of an old 
 and desolate chateau inspire a feeling of great 
 er solemnity and awe ; but when the antique 
 furniture of the olden time remains, the 
 faded tapestry on the walls, and the arm-chair 
 by the fireside, the effect upon the mind is 
 more magical and delightful. The old inhab 
 itants of the place, long gathered to their 
 fathers, though living still in history, seem to 
 have left their halls for the chase or the tour 
 nament ; and as the heavy door swings upon 
 its reluctant hinge, one almost expects to see 
 the gallant princes and courtly dames enter 
 those halls again, and sweep in stately pro 
 cession along the silent corridors. 
 
 Rapt in such fancies as these, and gazing 
 on the beauties of this noble edifice, and the 
 soft scenery around it, I lingered, unwilling to 
 depart, till the rays of the setting sun, stream 
 ing through the dusty windows, admonished 
 me that the day was drawing rapidly to a 
 close. I sallied forth from the southern gate 
 of the chateau, and crossing the broken draw 
 bridge, pursued a pathway along the bank of
 
 The Valley of the Loire 105 
 
 the river, still gazing back upon those tow 
 ering walls, now bathed in the rich glow of 
 sunset, till a turn in the road and a clump of 
 woodland at length shut them out from my 
 sight. 
 
 A short time after candle-lighting, I reached 
 the little tavern of the Boule d'Gr, a few 
 leagues from Tours, where I passed the night. 
 The following 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 be 
 fore a high and piercing wind. This unpropi- 
 tious state of the weather detained me until 
 noon, when a cabriolet for Tours drove up ; and 
 taking a seat within it, I left the hostess of the 
 Boule d'Or in thf middle of a long story about 
 a rich countess, who always alighted there 
 when she passed that way. We drove leis 
 urely along through a beautiful country, till at 
 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.
 
 io6 The Valley of the Loire 
 
 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 desirable. After a sojourn of two cloudy 
 and melancholy 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 pre 
 cipitous hill, and almost overhangs the town 
 beneath. The French Revolution has com 
 pleted the ruin that time had already begun ; 
 and nothing now remains, but a broken and 
 crumbling bastion, and here and there a soli 
 tary 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 trav 
 eller that there lies buried the mother of the 
 " Bon Henri." To this is added a prayer that 
 the repose of the dead may be respected. 
 
 Here ended my foot excursion. The object 
 of my journey was accomplished ; and, de 
 lighted with this short ramble through the
 
 The Valley of the Loire 107 
 
 valley of the Loire, I took my seat in the dili 
 gence for Paris, and on the following day was 
 again swallowed up in the crowds of the me 
 tropolis, like a drop in the bosom of the sea.
 
 THE TROU VERES 
 
 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 mountain 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 
 
 * The following amusing description of this Restorer of Let 
 ters, 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
 
 The Trouveres 109 
 
 close of the eighth and the commencement of 
 the ninth century, seems to have breathed a 
 spirit of learning as well as of chivalry 
 throughout all France. The monarch estab 
 lished schools and academies in different parts 
 of his realm, and took delight in the society 
 and conversation of learned men. It is amus 
 ing 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 
 
 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 sinews firm. His face was thirteen inches 
 long ; his beard a palm ; 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 required eight spans for his 
 girdle beside 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 sol 
 dier on horseback, from the head to the waist, and the horse 
 likewise. He easily vaulted over four horses harnessed to 
 gether ; and could raise an armed man from the ground to his 
 head, as he stood erect upon his hand. "
 
 no The Trouveres 
 
 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 en 
 lighten by pointing out to them the stars, like 
 lamps attached 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 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 Charlemagne, animated the rude 
 soldier as he rushed to battle, and were sung 
 in the midnight bivouacs of the camp. " Per 
 haps it is not too much to say," observes the 
 literary historian Schlegel, "that we have still 
 in our possession, if not the original language 
 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 
 Nibelungenlied, and the collection which goes 
 by the name of the Heldenbuch." 
 
 When at length the old Tudesque language,
 
 The Trouveres 1 1 1 
 
 which was the court language of Charlemagne, 
 had given place to the Langue d'Oil, the north 
 ern dialect of the French Romance, these an 
 cient ballads passed from the memories of the 
 descendants of the Franks, and were succeed 
 ed by the romances of Charlemagne and his 
 Twelve Peers, of Rowland, and Olivir, and 
 the other paladins who died at Roncesvalles. 
 Robert Wace, a Norman Trouvere 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 ro 
 mances of France, are epic in their character, 
 though, without doubt, they were written to be 
 chanted to the sound of an instrument. To 
 what period many of them belong, in their 
 present form, has never yet been fully deter 
 mined ; and should it finally be proved by phil 
 ological research that they can claim no higher 
 antiquity than the twelfth or thirteenth centu 
 ry, 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
 
 1 1 2 The Trouveres 
 
 of France all originated in the fabulous chroni 
 cle of Charlemagne and Rowland, written by 
 the Archbishop Turpin in the twelfth century, 
 if not as yet generally exploded, is nevertheless 
 fast losing ground. 
 
 To the twelfth and thirteenth centuries also 
 belong most of the Fabliaux, or metrical tales 
 of the Trouveres. Many of these composi 
 tions are remarkable for the inventive talent 
 they display, but as poems they have, general 
 ly 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 liter 
 ary history of France, that, while her antiqua 
 rians 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 di 
 rected as to save from oblivion little of the 
 most valuable portions of their writings ; while 
 the more tedious and worthless parts have 
 been brought forth to the public eye, as if to
 
 The Trouveres 1 1 3 
 
 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 lewd and tire 
 some Fabliaux have been ushered into the 
 world as fair specimens of 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 judg 
 ment has been brought to the difficult task of 
 ancient research ; and, in consequence of this, 
 the long-established prejudices against the 
 crumbling monuments of the national litera 
 ture of France during the Middle Ages is fast 
 disappearing. Several learned men are en 
 gaged in rescuing from oblivion 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 Trouba- 
 
 H
 
 1 14 The Trouveres 
 
 dour literature, little else has yet been discov 
 ered than poems of a lyric character. The 
 lyre of the Troubadour seems to have respond 
 ed to the impulse of momentary feelings only, 
 to the touch of local and transitory circum 
 stances. His song was a sudden burst of ex 
 cited feeling ; it ceased when the passion 
 was subdued, or rather when its first feverish 
 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 cer 
 tain that there existed marvellous tales in the 
 Northern languages, and from these, in part at 
 least, the Trouveres imbibed the spirit of nar 
 rative 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.
 
 The Trouveres 115 
 
 Unfortunately, the neglect which has so long 
 attended 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 bal 
 lad and melancholy complaint lies buried in 
 the dust of the thirteenth century. It is not, 
 however, my object, in this paper, to give an 
 historical sketch of this ancient and almost for 
 gotten 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 high-wrought expression suited to the 
 prevailing taste of the present day. Their 
 most striking peculiarity, and perhaps their 
 greatest merit, consists in the simple and di 
 rect expression of feeling which they contain. 
 This feeling, too, is one which breathes the lan 
 guor 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 mat 
 ter-of-fact thinking, the love-conceits of a more 
 poetic state of society are generally looked up 
 on as extremely trivial and puerile. Neverthe 
 less I shall venture to present one or two of
 
 u6 The Trouveres 
 
 these simple poems, 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 great 
 est beauties of these ancient ditties is natvett 
 of thought and simplicity of expression These 
 I shall endeavor 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 doiices 
 dolors et li mat plaisant de fine amor" With 
 such feelings the beauties of the opening spring 
 are naturally associated. 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 flower and leaf 
 shoot in the groves, and the little birds warble 
 to their mates in their own sweet language, 
 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
 
 The Trouveres 1 1 7 
 
 lark. The minstrel's song to his lady-love fre 
 quently commences with an allusion to the 
 hour. 
 
 " When the rose-bud opes 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 
 prettiest 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. 
 
 " Hark ! hark ! 
 
 Pretty lark ! 
 Little heedest thou my pain 1
 
 n8 The Trouveres 
 
 Love may force me still to bear, 
 While he lists, consuming care ; 
 
 But in anguish 
 
 Though I languish, 
 Faithful shall my heart remain. 
 
 " Hark I hark ! 
 
 Pretty lark ! 
 
 Little heedest thou my pain ! 
 Then cease, Love, to V>rment me so ; 
 But rather than all tnooghts 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 mi 
 tress's eyebrow," the early lyric poet frequent 
 ly indulges in more calmly analyzing the 
 philosophy of love, or in questioning the ob 
 ject and destination of a sigh. Occasionally 
 these quaint conceits are prettily expressed, 
 and the little song flutters through the page 
 like a butterfly. The following is an ex 
 ample : 
 
 " 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 Trouveres 119 
 
 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 O ! forbear to kill. 
 
 And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, 
 Breathed so softly in my ear ? " 
 
 The ancient lyric poets of France are gen 
 erally jpoken of as a class, and their beau 
 ties 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 con 
 temporaries 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'Orleans and Clo- 
 tilde de Surville. 
 
 Charles, Duke of Orleans, the father of 
 Louis the Twelfth, and uncle of Francis
 
 1 20 The Trouveres 
 
 the First, was born in 1391. In the general 
 tenor of his life, the peculiar 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 con 
 temporary. Both were remarkable for learn 
 ing 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 cap 
 tivity. It was there that he composed the 
 greater part of his poetry. 
 
 The poems of this writer exhibit a singular 
 delicacy of thought and sweetness of expres^ 
 sion. 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.
 
 The Trouveres 121 
 
 " River, 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. 
 
 " 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, 
 
 6
 
 122 The Trouveres 
 
 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 Surville. 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 maternal ten 
 derness, 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 ; 
 'T is 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 1 
 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 !
 
 The Trouvtres 123 
 
 ' Sweet error ! he but slept ; I breathe again ; 
 
 Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile ! 
 O, 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, 
 perhaps too much. 
 
 " 'This may be poetry, for aught I know,' 
 
 Says an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning 
 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 reference and far-sought erudition ; for 
 these are ornaments 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 seri 
 ous class who love the deep wisdom which lies 
 in quoting from a quaint, forgotten tome, and 
 who are ready on all occasions to say, " Com 
 mend me to the owl ! "
 
 THE 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 elo 
 quent, 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 old 
 est 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
 
 The Baptism of Fire 125 
 
 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 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 as in our triumphal chariot. No won 
 der, then, such passive heroes please not those 
 they vanquish with such conquering suffer 
 ings. And therefore we pass for men of de 
 spair, and violently bent upon our own de 
 struction. 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 ex 
 claimed, "give me strength to die like those
 
 12 6 The Baptism of Fire 
 
 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 conscience' sake, he was 
 now himself an accused, a convicted heretic, 
 condemned to the Baptism of Fire, because he 
 would not unrighteously condemn others. He 
 had dared to plead the cause of suffering hu 
 manity 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 dungeon, 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
 
 The Baptism of Fire 127 
 
 childhood, amid the green valleys of Riom and 
 the. Golden Mountains 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 shout 
 ing 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 for 
 mer colleague, De Harley, stood at his side. 
 
 " Thou here ! " exclaimed the prisoner, sur 
 prised at the visit. " Thou in the dungeon of 
 a heretic ! On what errand hast thou come ? " 
 
 " On an errand of mercy," replied De Har 
 ley. "I come to tell thee " 
 
 " 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 eter 
 nity 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 
 abominable heresy, and return again to the
 
 128 The Baptism of Fire 
 
 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 Eli 
 jah to Ahab, ' It is thou who troublest Israel! ' 
 
 Where is the king ? Called, through a sud 
 den and violent death, to the judgment-seat of 
 Heaven ! Where is Minard, the persecutor 
 of the just? Slain by the hand of an assas 
 sin ! 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 before 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 
 condemnation. Minard was slain by the Hu 
 guenots, and it is whispered that thou wast 
 privy to his death." 
 
 "This, at least, might have been spared a
 
 The Baptism of Fire 129 
 
 dying man ! " replied the prisoner, much agi 
 tated by so unjust and so unexpected an accu 
 sation. " 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 ? If so, 
 I pray thee, leave me. My moments are pre 
 cious. 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 nis 
 day were unjustly loaded with public odium 
 and oppression." 
 
 He opened the volume before him and 
 read : 
 
 " I could wish you would take this also into 
 consideration, that what we say is really for 
 your own good ; for it is in our power at any
 
 1 30 ~I'ke Baptism of Fire 
 
 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 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 confess 
 ing and finishing our faith ; being fully per 
 suaded that we shall arrive at this blessed 
 state, if we approve ourselves to God by our 
 works, and by our obedience express our pas 
 sion for that divine life which is never inter 
 rupted by any clashing evil." 
 
 The Catholic and the Huguenot reasoned 
 long and earnestly together ; but they rea 
 soned in vain. Each was firm in his belief; 
 and they parted to meet no more on earth. 
 
 On the following day, Du Bourg was sum 
 moned 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
 
 The Baptism of Fire 131 
 
 take vengeance upon those who do evil, be 
 ware, I charge you, beware how you condemn 
 us. Consider well what evil we have done ; 
 and, before all things, decide 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 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 obe 
 dience 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 re 
 joice 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.
 
 132 The Baptism of Fire 
 
 " No ! whatever snares are spread for us, 
 whatever 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 Chris 
 tian, 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 happy, 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 him forth from the council-chamber, 
 placed him upon the cart that was to bear 
 him to the Place de Greve. Before and be 
 hind marched a guard of five hundred sol 
 diers ; for Du Bourg was beloved by the peo 
 ple, and a popular tumult was apprehended. 
 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
 
 The Baptism of Fire 133 
 
 dense and silent crowd. In the centre stood 
 the gallows, with a pile of fagots beneath it, 
 and the executioner with a burning 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 coun 
 tenance shone like that of an angel. With 
 his own hands he divested himself of his outer 
 garments, and, gazing round upon the breath 
 less and sympathizing crowd, exclaimed, 
 
 " 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 moment the burning torch of the execu 
 tioner was applied 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 upward 
 and around ; and an agonizing cry broke from 
 the murky cloud, 
 
 " My God ! my God ! forsake me not, that I 
 forsake not thee ! "
 
 ,* ,*,,..' 
 
 134 The Baptism of Fire 
 
 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 
 forsake not thee ! " 
 
 Once more the quivering body descended in 
 to 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 despair 
 ing, suffocating voice, exclaimed, 
 
 " O God ! I cannot die ! " 
 
 The 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.
 
 Los 
 
 COQ-A-L'ANE 
 
 My brain, methinks, is like an hour-glass, 
 Wherein ray 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 jusi 
 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 metropolis, drowsily one by 
 one its clanging horologes 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 postil 
 ion and his horses ; a fresh team stood ready 
 in harness at each stage ; and notwithstanding 
 the slippery pavement of the causeway, the 
 long and tedious climbing of the hillside, and
 
 1 36 Coq-a-rAne 
 
 the equally long and tedious descent with 
 chained wheels and the drag, just after night 
 fall the lumbering vehicle of Vincent Caillard 
 stopped at the gateway of the " Three Empe 
 rors," in the famous city of Orleans. 
 
 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, mo 
 notonous rumbling of the wheels reach my 
 ear, than, like Nick Bottom, " I have an expo 
 sition of sleep come upon me." It is not, 
 however, the deep, sonorous slumber of a la 
 borer, "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 demarcation between 
 truth and fiction is rendered thereby so indefi 
 nite and indistinct, that I cannot always de 
 termine, with unerring certainty, whether an 
 event really happened to me, or whether I 
 only dreamed it. 
 
 On this account I shall not attempt a de-
 
 Coq-a-l'Ane 137 
 
 tailed description of my journey from Paris to 
 Bordeaux. I was travelling like a bird of pas 
 sage ; 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 disagreeable ; nay, if the country is 
 flat and uninteresting, and you are favored 
 with a moon, it may be very pleasant. As 
 the night advances, the conversation 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 si 
 lence 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 carriage, and the fresh night-air cools 
 your flushed and burning cheek. The land 
 scape, th^agh in reality dull and uninteresting, 
 seems beautiful as it floats by in the soft 
 moonshine. Every ruined hovel is changed
 
 138 Coq-a-l'Ane 
 
 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 ro 
 mance. 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 bal 
 lad, 
 
 " 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 postilion, 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 un 
 caged, 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 coun 
 tenances 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 im 
 movable, but snores like a priest ; the head of 
 a third is dangling over his shoulder, and the 
 tassel of his nightcap tickles his neighbor'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, Poi 
 tiers, and Angouleme, and thence on to Bor 
 deaux, I struck across the departments of the 
 Indre, Haute-Vienne, and the Dordogne, pass 
 ing through the provincial capitals of Chateau-
 
 140 Coq-a-l'Ane 
 
 roux, Limoges, and Perigueux. South of the 
 Loire the country assumes a more mountain 
 ous aspect, and the landscape 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 pictu 
 resque landscape of the valley of the Creuse, and 
 the beautiful highland scenery near Perigueux. 
 There are also many objects of art and anti 
 quity which arrest his attention. Argenton 
 boasts its Roman amphitheatre, and the ruins 
 of an old castle built by King Pepin ; at Cha- 
 lus 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 pre-eminently a talking people ; 
 and every new object afforded a topic for light 
 and animated discussion. The affairs of church 
 and state were, however, the themes oftenest 
 touched upon. The bill for the suppression of 
 the liberty of the press was then under discus 
 sion in the Chamber of Peers, and excited the 
 most lively interest through the whole king-
 
 Coq-a-l'Ane 141 
 
 dom. Of course it was a subject not likely to 
 be forgotten in a stage-coach. 
 
 " Ah ! mon Dieu ! " said a brisk little man, 
 with snow-white hair and a blazing red face, 
 at the same time drawing up his shoulders to 
 a level with his ears ; " the ministry are de 
 termined 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 
 imbecile monarch, and it is their miserable 
 policy to keep the people in darkness." 
 
 "No doubt of that," rejoined the first speak 
 er. "Why, no longer ago than yesterday I 
 read in the Figaro that a printer had been 
 prosecuted for publishing 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 an 
 other revolution." 
 
 "If history speaks true, you have had rev 
 olutions enough, during the last century or 
 two, to satisfy the most mercurial nation on
 
 142 Coq-a-VAne. 
 
 earth. You have hardly been quiet a moment 
 since the day of the Barricades and the mem 
 orable war of \hepots-de-chambre in the times 
 of the Grand Conde." 
 
 "You are pleased to speak lightly of our 
 revolutions, sir," rejoined the politician, grow 
 ing warm. " You must, however, confess that 
 each successive one has brought us nearer to 
 our object. Old institutions, whose founda 
 tions lie deep in the prejudices of a great na 
 tion, are not to be toppled down by the spring 
 ing 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 gen 
 erally ascribed to them. From this circum 
 stance we have everything to hope. Our revo 
 lutions, likewise, must necessarily change their 
 character and secure to us more solid advan 
 tages than heretofore." 
 
 " Luck makes pluck, as the Germans say. 
 You go on bravely ; but it gives me pain to 
 see religion and the church so disregarded." 
 
 " Superstition and the church, you mean," 
 said the gray-headed man. " Why, sir, the
 
 Coq-a-VAne 143 
 
 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 1 " 
 
 It was now very evident that I had un 
 earthed a radical ; and there is no knowing 
 when his harangue 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 Pat de Peri- 
 gueux, 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 appearance arrested my atten 
 tion, and gave subject for future conversation 
 to our party. He was a tall, thin figure, 
 armed with a long whip, brass spurs, and 
 black whiskers. He wore a bell-crowned, 
 varnished hat, a blue frock-coat with standing 
 collar, a red waistcoat, a pair of yellow leather 
 breeches, and 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 
 ovrn fancy.
 
 1 44 Coq-a-l'A ne 
 
 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 peo 
 ple." 
 
 " I had not been long in France, before I 
 discovered that a man may dress as he pleases, 
 without 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." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 Here the little man in gosling-green pulled 
 up the horns of his cotton shirt-collar.
 
 Coq-a-l'Ane 145 
 
 " I recollect," said I, " that your Madame de 
 Pompadour in one of her letters says some 
 thing to this effect : ' 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 Maintenons, and Montespans were the 
 authors of much woe to France. Their follies 
 and extravagances exhausted the public treas 
 ury, 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 mo 
 ment 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!" exclaimed he, " speak 
 ing of boots, and notaries public, and such 
 7 J
 
 146 Coq-a-FAne 
 
 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 political discussions, 
 no offence, sir, I will tell it, for the sake of 
 changing the conversation." 
 
 Whereupon, without further preamble or 
 apology, 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 '11 make thy foolish bones 
 go without flesh in a fortnight, and thy soul walk without a body a sen 
 night after. 
 
 SHIRLEY. 
 
 YOU must know, gentlemen, that there 
 lived some years ago, in the city of Peri- 
 gueux, an honest notary-public, the descend 
 ant of a very ancient and broken-down family, 
 and the occupant of one of those old weather- 
 beaten tenements which remind 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 overcrowed the 
 cock," and the neighbors, when they spake 
 of the notary, shrugged their shoulders, and 
 exclaimed, " Poor fellow ! his spurs want sharp 
 ening." In fine, you understand me, gen 
 tlemen, 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,
 
 148 The Notary of Perigueux 
 
 far beyond the cares and clamors of domes 
 tic life. This was a little Cafe Estaminet, a 
 short way out of the city, whither he re 
 paired 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 man 
 ners, the bad practices of the wine-dealer won 
 insensibly upon the worthy notary ; and before 
 he was aware of it, he found himself weaned
 
 The Notary of P'erigueux 149 
 
 from domino and sugar-water, and addicted to 
 piquet and spiced wine. Indeed, it not unfre- 
 quently 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 con 
 duct the other home. 
 
 Though this course of life agreed well 
 enough with the sluggish, phlegmatic tem 
 perament of the wine-dealer, it soon began to 
 play the very deuse 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 and 
 irons, he substituted a short-stemmed one, 
 which, for safe keeping, he carried in his 
 waistcoat-pocket.
 
 150 The Notary of Perigueux 
 
 Thus the unhappy notary ran gradually 
 down at the heel. What with his bad habits 
 and his domestic grievances, he became com 
 pletely hipped. He imagined that he was go 
 ing to die ; and suffered in quick succession 
 all the diseases that ever beset mortal man. 
 Every shooting pain was an alarming symp 
 tom, every uneasy feeling after dinner a 
 sure prognostic of some mortal disease. In 
 vain did his friends endeavor to reason, and 
 then to laugh him out of his strange whims ; 
 for when did ever jest or reason cure a sick 
 imagination ? His only answer was, " Do let 
 me alone ; I know better than you what ails 
 me." 
 
 Well, gentlemen, things were in this state, 
 when, one afternoon in December, as he sat 
 moping in his 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 mes 
 sage 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 ur-
 
 The Notary of Perigmux 151 
 
 gent, 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 everything 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 house 
 keeper for the wine-dealer was an old bach 
 elor 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 call 
 ing 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 hydro 
 phobia, which seemed suddenly to have left 
 him. 
 
 When the sick man saw who stood by his 
 bedside, he stretched out his hand and ex 
 claimed,
 
 152 The Notary of Perigueux 
 
 "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, wa 
 ter ! 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 readi 
 ness ; and in a short time the last will and tes 
 tament 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 bot 
 tom. 
 
 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 Cre 
 do 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 !
 
 The Notary of Perigueux 153 
 
 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-dealer expired. Meanwhile the notary 
 sat cowering over the fire, aghast at the fearful 
 scene that was passing before him, and now 
 and then striving 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," 
 continued 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."
 
 154 The Notary of Perigueux 
 
 "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. 
 
 " O, what a fool I was to come here ! " 
 
 In vain did the housekeeper and the apothe 
 cary 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 de 
 lay. Unfortunately, the vehicle he came in 
 had returned to the city ; and the whole neigh 
 borhood 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. Overhead the leaden clouds
 
 The Notary of Perigueux 155 
 
 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 road-side 
 groaned with a sound of evil omen ; and be 
 fore 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 tremen 
 dous gallop, and now relaxing into a long, 
 hard trot ; while the rider, filled with symp 
 toms of disease and dire presentiments of 
 death, urged him on, as if he were fleeing be 
 fore the pestilence. 
 
 In this way, by dint of whistling and shout 
 ing, and beating right and left, one mile of the 
 fatal three was safely passed. The apprehen 
 sions of the notary had so far subsided, that he 
 even suffered the poor horse to walk up hill ; 
 but these apprehensions were suddenly re 
 vived 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,
 
 156 The Notary of Perigmux 
 
 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 com 
 menced, snow mingled with rain. But snow, 
 and rain, and cold were naught to him ; for, 
 though his arms and legs were frozen to ici 
 cles, he felt it not ; the fatal symptom was up 
 on him ; he was doomed to die, not of cold, 
 but of scarlet fever ! 
 
 At length, he knew not how, more dead 
 than 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
 
 The Notary of P'erigueux 157 
 
 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 bedroom. The good wo 
 man 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." 
 
 " 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 domicile, pale 
 and haggard in aspect, and as stiff and straight 
 as a ghost. Cased from head to heel in an ar-
 
 158 The Notary of Perigueux 
 
 mor of ice, as the 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, waistcoat, and linen were 
 burnt through and through, and there was a 
 blister on his side as large as your hand ! 
 
 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 ? "
 
 The Notary of Perigueux 159 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " Yes ; he died afterwards," replied the sto 
 ry-teller, rather annoyed by the question. 
 
 "And what did he die of? " continued gos 
 ling-green, following him up. 
 
 " What did he die of ? why, he died of a 
 sudden ! "
 
 THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN 
 
 A Tissue de Pyver que le joly temps de primavere commence, et qu'on 
 -roll a/bres verdoyer, fleurs espanouir, et qu'on oil les oisillons chanter en 
 toute joie et doulceur, tant que les verts bocages retentissent de leurs sons 
 et que cceurs tristes pensifs y dolens s'en esjouissent, s'emeuvent a delaii- 
 ser deuil et toute tristesse, et se parforcent a valoir niieux. 
 
 LA PLAISANTB 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 Guadal- 
 quiver, or traced thy footsteps slowly climb 
 ing the sunny slope of Alp or Apennine, 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-drifting cloud, and the 
 flocks of wild fowl wheeling in long-drawn
 
 The Journey into Spain 161 
 
 phalanx through the air, and screaming 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 sea 
 son 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 dis 
 cordant music of the wandering 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 miracles of a showman's box. 
 In a word, all was so full of mirth and merri- 
 make, that even beggary seemed to have for-
 
 1 62 The Journey into Spain 
 
 gotten that it was wretched, and gloried in the 
 ragged masquerade of one poor holiday. 
 
 To this scene of noise and gayety succeeded 
 the silence and solitude of the Landes of Gas- 
 cony. The road from Bordeaux to Bayonne 
 winds along through immense pine-forests and 
 sandy plains, spotted here and there with a 
 dingy little hovel, and the silence is inter 
 rupted only by the dismal hollow roar of the 
 wind among the melancholy and majestic 
 pines. Occasionally, however, the way is enli 
 vened by a market-town or a straggling vil 
 lage ; and I still recollect the feelings of de 
 light which I experienced, when, just after sun 
 set, 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 
 character of greater beauty and sublimity. To 
 the vast forests of the Landes of Gascony suc 
 ceeds a scene of picturesque beauty, delightful 
 to the traveller's eye. Before him rise the 
 snowy Pyrenees, a long line of undulating 
 hills, 
 
 " Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold, 
 -.ike giant capped with helm of burnished gold."
 
 The Journey into Spain 163 
 
 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 peb 
 bly margin of its silver beach, forming a thou 
 sand little bays and inlets, or comes tumbling 
 in among the cliffs of a rock-bound coast, and 
 beats against its massive barriers with a dis 
 tant, hollow, continual roar. 
 
 Should these pages meet the eye of any soli 
 tary traveller who is journeying into Spain by 
 the road I here speak of, I would advise him 
 to travel 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, 
 I have seen it nowhere else. The saddle is 
 constructed with a large frame-work extend 
 ing 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 prefer 
 able to being cooped up in a diligence. Th^
 
 164 The Journey into Spain 
 
 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 expressive black 
 eyes, teeth like pearls, a rich and sunburnt 
 complexion, and hair of a glossy blackness, 
 parted on the forehead, and falling down be 
 hind 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. 
 Jean de Luz, and dashed down its narrow 
 streets at full gallop. The little madcap pos 
 tilion 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 ; win 
 dow-shutters flew open in all directions ; a 
 thousand heads popped out from cellar and
 
 The Journey into Spain 165 
 
 upper story ; " Sacr-r-rt? mdtin ! " shouted the 
 postilion, and we rattled on like an earth 
 quake. 
 
 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 Bi- 
 dasoa, which forms the boundary between 
 France and Spain ; and when the morning 
 broke, found myself far up among the moun 
 tains of San Salvador, the most westerly links 
 of the great Pyrenean chain. The mountains 
 around me were neither rugged nor precipi 
 tous, but they rose one above another in a 
 long, majestic swell, and the trace of the 
 ploughshare was occasionally visible to their
 
 i6b The Journey into Spain 
 
 summits. They seemed entirely destitute of 
 trees ; 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 enliv 
 ened 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 cas 
 cade, and now foaming and chafing beneath 
 a rustic bridge. Now and then we drove 
 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 deso 
 late tract of country, cheered only by the 
 tinkle of a mule-bell, or the song of a mule 
 teer ; 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
 
 The Journey into Spain 167 
 
 ruined cottages around it ; and whenever our 
 carriage stopped at the relay, or loitered slow 
 ly up the hillside, a crowd of children would 
 gather around us, with little images and cruci 
 fixes for sale, curiously ornamented with rib 
 bons and 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 day 
 light in rambling about the streets of the city, 
 with no other guide than the whim of the mo 
 ment. Now I plunged down a dark and nar 
 row 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 de 
 scriptions of churches and public squares are 
 dull and tedious matters for those readers who 
 are in search of amusement, and not of in 
 struction ; and if any one has accompanied 
 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 fore 
 noon's journey the postilion drew up at an inn,
 
 1 68 The Journey into Spain 
 
 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 plastered 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 curiously carved wood-work that support 
 ed the little balcony over the principal en 
 trance, spoke of better days gone by. The 
 whole building reminded me of a dilapidated 
 Spanish Don, down at the heel and out at el 
 bows, but with here and there a remnant of 
 former magnificence peeping through the loop 
 holes 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 common privileges, 
 and mule and muleteer lay cheek by jowl. In 
 one corner a poor jackass was patiently de 
 vouring a bundle of musty straw, in an*
 
 The Journey into Spain 169 
 
 other, its master lay sound asleep, with his 
 saddle-cloth for a pillow ; here a group of 
 muleteers were quarrelling over a pack of 
 dirty cards, and there the village barber, 
 with a self-important air, stood laving the Al 
 calde's chin from the helmet of Mambrino. 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 form of a long, nar 
 row pyramid, with an opening at the top for 
 the escape of the smoke. Quite round this lit 
 tle 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 ket 
 tles, and a long wreath of smoke wound lazily 
 8
 
 170 The Journey into Spain 
 
 up through the huge tunnel of the roof above. 
 The walls were black with soot, and orna 
 mented 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 moments afterward the kitch 
 en-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 leather belt, with a 
 cartouch-box on one side ; a pair of loose 
 trousers of black serge hung in ample folds to
 
 The Journey into Spain 171 
 
 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 a Ustedes, caballeros " (God guard 
 you, Gentlemen), took a seat by the fire, and en 
 tered 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 travelling companion, who sat at my elbow, 
 who and what this new-comer was. From 
 him I learned that he was a muleteer of the 
 Maragaten'a, 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 coun 
 try. For instance, the Catalonians wear crim 
 son caps, hanging down upon the shoulder 
 like a sack ; wide pantaloons of green velvet, 
 long enough in the waistband to cover the 
 whole breast ; and a little strip of a jacket,
 
 172 The Journey into Spain 
 
 made of the same material, and so short as to 
 bring the pocket directly under the armpit. 
 The Valencians, on the contrary, go 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 in 
 dulge in the luxury of a jacket. The most 
 beautiful and expensive costume, however, is 
 that of Andalusia ; it consists of a velvet jack 
 et, faced with rich and various-colored em 
 broidery, and covered with tassels and silken 
 cord ; a waistcoat of some gay color ; a silken 
 handkerchief round the neck, and a crimson 
 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 Mar- 
 agateria the costume varies a little from the 
 rest of Leon and Castile."
 
 The Journey into Spain 173 
 
 " If he is indeed a Maragato," said I, jesting 
 ly, "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 Santilla- 
 na ? " 
 
 " I Quien sabe f " was the reply. " Notwith 
 standing the pride which even the meanest 
 Castilian feels in counting over a long line of 
 good-for-nothing ancestors, the science of gen 
 ealogy has become of late a very intricate 
 study in Spain." 
 
 Here our conversation was cut short by the 
 Mayoral 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 Ma 
 drid, by the Puerta de Fuencarral.
 
 SPAIN 
 
 Santiago y cierra Espana ! 
 
 SPANISH WAR-CRT. 
 
 IT is a beautiful morning in June; so 
 beautiful, that I almost fancy myself in 
 Spain. The tesselated shadow of the honey 
 suckle 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 whirring 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
 
 Spain 175 
 
 the climate of the South ! How like a sum 
 mer morning in Spain ! 
 
 My recollections of Spain are of the most 
 lively and delightful kind. The character of 
 the soil 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 mar 
 tial music on the ear, and a literature rich in 
 the attractive lore of poetry and fiction, 
 these, but not these alone, are my reminis 
 cences of Spain. With these I recall the 
 thousand little circumstances and enjoyments 
 which always give a coloring to our recollec 
 tions of the past ; the clear sky, the pure, 
 balmy air, the delicious fruits and flowers, 
 the wild-fig and the aloe, and the olive by 
 the wayside, all, all that makes existence 
 so joyous, and renders the sons and daugh 
 ters 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 glo 
 rious land might be, and what it is, wkat
 
 1 76 Spain 
 
 nature intended it should be, and what man 
 has made it, my very heart sinks within me. 
 My mind instinctively reverts from the degra 
 dation of the present to the glory of the past ; 
 or, looking forward with strong misgivings, but 
 with yet stronger hopes, interrogates 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 of Isabel, of Guzman the Good and of Gon- 
 zalo de Cordova, and 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 
 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 bur 
 ied with his ashes. It sleeps, but is not dead.
 
 Spain 177 
 
 The day will come, when the foot of the tyrant 
 shall be shaken from the neck of Spain ; when 
 a brave and generous people, though now igno 
 rant, degraded, and much abused, shall " know 
 their rights, and knowing dare maintain." 
 
 Of the national character of Spain I have 
 brought away this impression ; that its promi 
 nent traits are a generous pride of birth, a 
 superstitious devotion to the dogmas of the 
 Church, and an innate dignity, which exhibits 
 itself even in the common and every-day em 
 ployments of life. Castilian pride is proverb 
 ial. 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. 
 
 I have thought, too, that there was a tinge 
 of sadness in the Spanish character. The na 
 tional 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 fu 
 neral chant. Even a Spanish holiday wears a 
 look of sadness, a circumstance which some 
 writers attribute to the cruel and overbearing 
 spirit of the municipal laws. "On the greatest 
 festivals," says Jovellanos, " instead of that
 
 1 78 Spain 
 
 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 per 
 sons 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, leaning 
 against a corner, seated on a bench, or loung 
 ing to and fro, without object, aim, or pur 
 pose, they pass their hours, their whole even 
 ings, without mirth, recreation, or amusement. 
 When you add to this picture the dreariness 
 and filth of the villages, the poor and slovenly 
 dress of the inhabitants, 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 phenomenon ? This 
 is not, indeed, the place to expose the errors 
 which conspire to produce it ; but, whatever 
 those errors may be, one point is clear, that 
 they are all to be found in the laws ! " * 
 
 * Informe dado a la Real Academia de Historia sobre Jue- 
 gos, Espectaculos, y Diversiones Piiblicas.
 
 Spain 1 79 
 
 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 upon 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 he 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. 
 
 " 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 tur 
 moil.
 
 1 80 Spain 
 
 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, ye 
 
 see. 
 
 " 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 fear 
 less one ! " 
 
 There are various circumstances closely 
 connected with the train of thought I have 
 here touched upon ; but I forbear to mention 
 them, for fear of drawing out this chapter to
 
 Spain 1 8 1 
 
 too great a length. Some of them will natu 
 rally find a place hereafter. Meanwhile let us 
 turn the leaf to a new chapter, and to subjects 
 of a livelier nature.
 
 A TAILOR'S DRAWER 
 
 Nedyls, threde, thymbell, shers, and all suche knackcs. 
 
 THE FOUK 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 pil 
 grim's breviary ; albeit it well befits the mot 
 ley character of the following pages. It is a 
 title which the Spaniards give to a desulto 
 ry 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 inappropri 
 ate to a chapter whose contents are of every 
 shape and hue, and "do no more adhere and 
 keep pace together than the hundredth psalm 
 to the tune of Green Sleeves." 
 
 n. 
 
 IT is recorded in the Adventures of Gil Bias 
 de Santillana, that, when this renowned per 
 sonage first visited the city of Madrid, he took
 
 A Tailor's Drawer 183 
 
 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, thi? illustrious example ; but, as 
 the kind-hearted Mateo had been long gath 
 ered to his fathers, I was content to take up 
 my residence in the hired house of Valentin 
 Gonzalez, at the foot of the Calle de la Mon- 
 tera. 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 busybody 
 seeks the daily news, and picks up the crumbs
 
 184 A Tailor's Drawer 
 
 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 ? 
 
 in. 
 
 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 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, forc 
 ing 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 pet 
 ticoats, her blue bodice, her coral necklace
 
 A Tailor's Drawer 185 
 
 ^ 
 
 and ear-rings. 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 gar 
 ters, driving before him a flock of gabbling 
 turkeys, (and crying, at the top of his voice, 
 " Pao, pao, pavitos, paos ! "J Next comes a 
 lencian, with his loose linen trousers and san 
 dal 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 
 the 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 blood!) His companion near 
 him has a pair of scales thrown over his shoul 
 der, and holds both arms full of muskmelons. 
 He chimes into the harmonious ditty with 
 " Melo melo-o-o meloncitos ; aqui estd el 
 azucar ! " (Melons, melons ; here is the 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,
 
 1 86 A Tailor's Drawer 
 
 swings in each hand a bunch of live chickens, 
 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 " i Quien 
 me compra un gallo y un par de gal Unas ? " 
 (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 V 
 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 ped- 
 ler 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.
 
 A Tailor's Drawer 187 
 
 IV. 
 
 CHITON ! A beautiful girl, with flaxen hair, 
 blue eyes, and the form of a fairy in a midsum 
 mer 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 Andalu- 
 sian, 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. 
 
 v. 
 
 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 !
 
 1 88 A Tailor's Drawer 
 
 Tell me, thou gallant cavalier, 
 
 Whose shining arms I see, 
 If steed, or sword, or battle-field 
 
 Be half so fair as she ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 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 bor- 
 rico ! " 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 cachipor- 
 razo. 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-suffer 
 ing are very amiable qualities, and, consider 
 ing 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 
 eo beaten and abused as he ?
 
 A Tailor's Drawer 189 
 
 VII. 
 
 HERE comes a gay gallant, with white kid 
 gloves, an eye-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 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 ambition 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 Dona 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."
 
 A Tailors Drawer 
 
 VIII. 
 
 WHAT a contrast between this personage 
 and the sallow, emaciated being who is now 
 crossing the street ! It is a barefooted Car 
 melite, a monk of an austere order, wasted 
 by midnight vigils and long penance. Absti 
 nence is written on that pale cheek, and the 
 bowed head and downcast eye are in accord 
 ance with the meek profession of a mendicant 
 brotherhood. 
 
 What is this world to thee, thou man of 
 penitence 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 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 en 
 dearments of earthly love, thy shoulder bear- 
 eth not the burden with thy fellow-man, in 
 all this vast crowd thou hast no friends, no 
 hopes, no sympathies. Thou standest aloof
 
 A Tailor's Drawer 191 
 
 from man, and art thou nearer God ? 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 
 moralist ; " the wise man who lifts himself 
 above the storms of time, and from aloof looks 
 down upon them, and yet takes no part there 
 in, or he who, from the height of quiet and 
 repose, throws himself boldly into the battle- 
 tumult of the world ? Glorious 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 downward 
 to his aerie on the cliff, where cower his un 
 fledged brood, and tremble." 
 
 IX. 
 
 vj SULTRY grows the day, and breathless ! The 
 lately crowded street is silent and deserted, 
 hardly a footfall, hardly here and there a 
 solitary figure stealing along in the narrow 
 strip of shade beneath the eaves ! Silent, too, 
 and deserted is the Puerta del Sol ; so silent, 
 that even at this distance the splashing of its 
 fountain is distinctly audible, so deserted, 

 
 192 A Tailor's Drawer 
 
 that not a living thing is visible there, save the 
 outstretched and athletic form of a Galician 
 water-carrier, who lies asleep upon the pave 
 ment 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 ci 
 gar of Don Diego, master of the noble Spanish 
 tongue, y hem bv^de-^mtehos dingohndang&s. 
 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 pa 
 tron saint has a festival to-day, and at what 
 hour to-morrow the " King of Spaiiv Jerusa 
 lem, and the Canary Islands " will take Ms de 
 parture for the gardens of Aranjuez. -jj ' 
 
 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 
 exquisite luxury of a siesta. I confess that I 
 love this after-dinner nap. Vjf I have a gift, a
 
 A Tailor's Drawer 193 
 
 vocation for anything, 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 anything 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, hasta la vista ! 
 
 x. 
 
 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 bo 
 som." 
 
 The city awakens from its slumber. The 
 convent-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 fol- 
 9 M
 
 194 ^ Tailor's Drawer 
 
 lowed by a long train of uncouth, antiquated 
 vehicles drawn by mules. 
 
 The living tide now sets towards the Prado, 
 and the beautiful gardens of the Retire. Beau 
 tiful 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 fragrance of the orange and 
 the lemon, with the beauty of a thousand flow 
 ers, with the soothing calm and the dewy 
 i 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 lull 
 ing fall of waters in their marble fountains, 
 and watch the moon as it rises over the gar 
 dens of the Retiro, brighter than a northern 
 sun. The beautiful scene lies half in shadow, 
 half in light, almost a fairy-land. Occasion 
 ally the sound of a guitar, or a distant voice, 
 breaks in upon my re very. Then the form of 
 a monk, from the neighboring convent, sweeps 
 by me like a shadow, and disappears 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.
 
 A Tailor's Drawer 195 
 
 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 deli 
 cious 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 TALR 
 
 HOW universal is the love of poetry ! Ev 
 ery nation has its popular songs, the 
 offspring of a credulous simplicity and an un 
 schooled fancy. The peasant of the North, as 
 he sits by the evening fire, sings the tradition 
 ary 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 even 
 ing hymn ; the fisherman of Naples his boat-
 
 Ancient Spanish Ballads 197 
 
 song ; the gondolier of Venice his midnight 
 serenade. The goatherd of Switzerland and 
 the Tyrol, the Carpathian boor, the Scotch 
 Highlander, the English ploughboy, sing 
 ing as he drives his team afield, peasant, 
 serf, slave, all, all have their ballads 
 and traditionary songs. Music is the univer 
 sal language of mankind, poetry their uni 
 versal pastime and delight. 
 
 The ancient ballads of Spain hold a promi 
 nent rank in her literary history. Their num 
 ber is truly astonishing, and may well startle 
 the most enthusiastic lover of popular song. 
 The Romancero General* contains upwards 
 of a thousand ; 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 Shep 
 herd, "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 bal 
 lad. Don Roderick, Bernardo del Carpio, and 
 
 * Romancero General, en que se contiene todos los Ro 
 mances que andan impresos. 410. Madrid, 1604.
 
 198 Ancient Spanish Ballads 
 
 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 an 
 historian in the wandering ballad-singer no 
 less authentic than the good Archbishop Tur- 
 pin. 
 
 Most of these ancient ballads had their 
 origin 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 wander 
 ing minstrel, and recorded in a more perma 
 nent form ? 
 
 The seven centuries of the Moorish sover 
 eignty in Spain are the heroic ages of her his 
 tory and her poetry. What the warrior 
 achieved with his sword the minstrel pub 
 lished 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 character-
 
 Ancient Spanish Ballads 199 
 
 istic of the ancient Spanish ballads is their 
 warlike spirit. They shadow forth the ma 
 jestic lineaments of the warlike ages ; and 
 through every line breathes a high and pecu 
 liar 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 lamenta 
 tion, the requiem for the slain, with a melan 
 choly sweetness : 
 
 " Rio 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 kidalgo 
 Of the noblemen of Spain." 
 
 Another prominent characteristic of these 
 ancient ballads is their energetic and beau 
 tiful simplicity. A great historic event is de-
 
 2OO Ancient Spanish Ballads 
 
 scribed 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 ro 
 mances by this single circumstance. When 
 Bernardo del Carpio leads forth his valiant 
 Leonese against the host of Charlemagne, he 
 animates their courage by alluding to their 
 battles with the Moors, and exclaims, " Shall 
 the lions that have bathed their paws in Lib 
 yan 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 Ber 
 nardo ; and my sword is not subject even to 
 kings ! " When the Count Alarcos prepares to 
 put to death his own wife at the king's com 
 mand, 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 Ho 
 mer an incident more touching, or more true 
 to nature ? 
 The ancient Spanish ballads naturally divide
 
 Ancient Spanish Ballads 201 
 
 themselves into three classes : the Historic, 
 the Romantic, and the Moorish. It must be 
 confessed, however, that the line of demarca 
 tion between these three classes is not well 
 defined ; for many of the Moorish ballads are 
 historic, and many others occupy a kind of de 
 batable 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 Bernardo del Carpio, the Cid, Martin Pelaez, 
 Garcia Perez de Vargas, Alonso de Aguilar, 
 and many others whose names stand conspicu 
 ous 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 con 
 trast of light and shade, yet the free and spir 
 ited touches of a master's hand are recognized 
 in all. They are instinct, too, with the spirit 
 of Castilian pride, with the high and dauntless 
 spirit of liberty that burned so fiercely of old
 
 2O2 Ancient Spanish Ballads 
 
 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 far 
 things upon each of the Castilian hidalgos, in 
 order to defray the expenses of a journey from 
 Burgos to Cuenca. This proposition of the 
 ting was met with disdain by the noblemen 
 vho had been assembled on the occasion. 
 
 " Don Nuno, 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 203 
 
 " ' 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 fer 
 vently 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 Al 
 fonso ; " sweet to ,us is liberty, and bondage 
 odious ! " " The king may give his castles to 
 the Frank, but not his vassals ; for kings them 
 selves 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-souled Span 
 iards of the eighth century. 
 
 One of the finest of the historic ballads is 
 that which describes Bernardo's march to Ron- 
 cesvalles. He sallies forth "with three thou 
 sand 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.
 
 204 Ancient Spanish Ballads 
 
 " The peasant leaves his plough afield, 
 
 The reaper leaves his hook, 
 And from his hand the shepherd-by 
 Lets fall the pastoral crook. 
 
 " 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 bom,' '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 ? 
 
 Shall he a bloodless victory have T 
 
 No, not while we have hands.
 
 Ancient Spanish Ballads 205 
 
 " ' He shall learn that the gallant Leonese 
 
 Can bravely fight and fall ; 
 But that they know not how to yield ; 
 They are Castilians all. 
 
 " ' Was it for this the Roman 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 Romances del Cid, and those that rehearse 
 the gallant achievements of many other cham 
 pions, 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 bal 
 lads 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 exaggeration in the
 
 206 Ancient Spanish Ballads 
 
 prowess of these heroes of romance which is in 
 accordance with the warmth of a Spanish im 
 agination ; 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 pre-eminent ; not so much 
 for their 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 pala 
 dins, " que en una mesa comian pan" These 
 ballads are of different length and various 
 degrees of merit. Of some a few lines only 
 remain ; they are evidently fragments of larger 
 works ; while others, on the contrary, aspire to 
 the length and dignity of epic poems; wit 
 ness the ballads of the Conde de Irlos and the 
 Marques de Mantua, each of which consists of 
 nearly a thousand long and sonorous lines. 
 
 Among these ballads of the Twelve Peers 
 there are many of great beauty ; others possess 
 little merit, and are wanting in vigor and con-
 
 Ancient Spanish Ballads 207 
 
 ciseness. From the structure of the versifica 
 tion, I should rank them among the oldest of 
 the Spanish ballads. They are all monorhyth- 
 mic, with full consonant rhymes. 
 
 To the romantic ballads belong also a great 
 number which recount the deeds of less cele 
 brated heroes; but among them all none is 
 so curious as that of Virgil. 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 in 
 forms us that a certain king kept him impris 
 oned seven years, for what old Brantome 
 would call outrecuydance with a certain Dona 
 Isabel. But being at mass on Sunday, the 
 recollection 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 become of Virgil. One of 
 them replies, " Your Highness has him impris 
 oned 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
 
 2o8 Ancient Spanish Ballads 
 
 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 philosophi 
 cal 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 removed by the promise 
 of a new suit from the king ; and they go to 
 dinner. Virgil delights both knights and dam 
 sels, but most of all Dona Isabel. The arch 
 bishop is called in ; they are married forth 
 with, 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. 
 
 I now turn to one of the most beautiful of 
 these ancient Spanish poems ; it is the Ro 
 mance del Conde Alarcos ; a ballad full of in 
 terest and of touching pathos. The story is 
 briefly this. The Count Alarcos, after being
 
 Ancient Spanish Ballads 209 
 
 secretly betrothed to the Infanta Solisa, for 
 sakes 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 sor 
 row to the king her father ; and, after confess 
 ing 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 acknowledges the just 
 ness 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 saying within himself, " How 
 shall I look upon her smile of joy, when she 
 comes forth to meet me ? " The Countess wel 
 comes his return with affectionate tenderness ; 
 but he is heavy at heart and disconsolate. 
 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 retire to their chamber. In the language 
 of Mr. Lockhart's translation,
 
 2io Ancient Spanish Ballads 
 
 " They came together to the bower, where they were used to 
 
 rest, 
 
 None with them but the little babe that was upon the breast : 
 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, 't is 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. 
 
 " ' 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 O, 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 ? 
 O, 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. ' 
 ' O, well 't is seen how all alone upon the earth am I !
 
 Ancient Spanish Ballads 211 
 
 My father is an old, frail man ; my mother 's in her grave ; 
 And dead is stout Don Garci, alas ! my brother brave ! 
 
 ' ' 'T was at this coward king's command they slew my brother 
 
 dear, 
 
 And now I 'm helpless in the land ! 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, ' O 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 ; 
 
 " ' But they have not my pardon, the king and his proud 
 
 daughter ; 
 
 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 ! ' "
 
 212 Ancient Spanish Ballads 
 
 The Count then strangles her with a scarf, 
 and the ballad concludes with the fulfilment of 
 the dying 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 a 
 refined and cultivated taste 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 Cas- 
 tilian hidalgos, and their frequent rebellions 
 against the crown, a deep reverence for the 
 divine right of kings, and a consequent dispo 
 sition 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 circum 
 stances, the story of this old ballad ceases to 
 be so grossly improbable as it seems at first 
 sight ; and, indeed, becomes an illustration of 
 national character. In all probability, the
 
 Ancient Spanish Ballads 213 
 
 story of the Conde Alarcos had some foun 
 dation in fact* 
 
 The third class of the ancient Spanish bal 
 lads 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 Bernardo, the Cid, and Mudarra 
 have passed away ; the mail-clad forms of Gua- 
 rinos, Orlando, and Durandarte are not here : 
 the scene is changed ; it is the bridal of An- 
 dalla ; 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 tahah'es, 
 sweep like the wind through the square of Vi- 
 varambla. They ride to the Tournament of 
 Reeds ; the Moorish maiden leans from the 
 balcony ; bright eyes glisten from many a lat 
 tice ; and the victorious knight receives the 
 prize of valor from the hand of her whose 
 
 * 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 Sfvilla, by 
 Lope de Vega, and Del Rey abajo Ninguno, by Francisco dc 
 Rojas.
 
 214 Ancient Spanish Ballads 
 
 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 of the Vega. Alhama has 
 fallen ! woe is me, Alhama ! 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 Spaniard. 
 
 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."
 
 Ancient Spanish Ballads 215 
 
 But the spirit of Arbolan the Moor, though 
 resolute in camps, is effeminate in courts ; he 
 is a diamond among scymitars, yet graceful in 
 the dance ; 
 
 " Diamante entre los alfanges, 
 Gracioso en baylar las zambras. " 
 
 The ancient ballads are stamped with the char 
 acter of their heroes. Abundant illustrations 
 of this could be given, but it is not necessary. 
 
 Among the most spirited of the Moorish 
 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 Conquest of Alhama," is 
 very beautiful ; and such was the effect it pro 
 duced upon the Moors, that it was forbidden, 
 on pain of death, to sing it within the walls of 
 Granada. The translation, which is executed 
 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 Alhama's city fell;
 
 2i6 Ancient Spanish Ballads 
 
 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 1 
 
 " 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 : 
 4 Wherefore call on us, O king ? 
 What may mean this gathering T ' 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 *' ' Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 
 Of a most disastrous blow,
 
 Ancient Spanish Ballads 217 
 
 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 : 
 ' 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 ! 
 
 " ' And for this, O 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 ! 
 
 M ' There is no law to say such things 
 As may disgust the ear of kings ! ' 
 10
 
 218 Ancient Spanish Ballads 
 
 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 wander 
 ing, 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 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
 
 Ancient Spanish Ballads 219 
 
 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 esti 
 mated ; 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 ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, where 
 in 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 Dray- 
 ton, beginning, 
 
 " Fair stood the wind for France, 
 As we our sails advance,
 
 220 Ancient Spanish Ballads 
 
 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 Car- 
 pio is hardly inferior to Chevy Chase ; and the 
 ballad of the Conde Alarcos, in simplicity and 
 pathos, has hardly a peer in all English bal 
 ladry, it is superior to Edem o' Gordon. 
 
 But a truce to criticism. Already, methinks, 
 I hear the voice of a drowsy and prosaic her 
 ald proclaiming, in the language of Don Quix 
 ote to the puppet-player, " Make an end, Mas 
 ter Peter, for it grows toward supper-time, and 
 I have some symptoms of hunger upon me."
 
 THE 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. 
 
 IN that delicious season when the coy and 
 capricious 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 villages 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 peasantry of the land in 
 their native homes, to see how far the shep 
 herds of Castile resemble those who sigh and 
 sing in the pastoral romances of Montemayor 
 and Caspar 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
 
 222 The Village of El Pardillo 
 
 tongues which persecute one in villages and 
 provincial towns. I love the country, too, in 
 its season ; and there is no scene over which 
 my eye roves with more delight than the face 
 of a summer landscape dimpled with soft sun 
 ny 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 record 
 ed. 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 everything 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 melan 
 choly image of the decay and imbecility of old 
 age ! In the beautiful language of an English 
 poet,
 
 The Village of El Pardillo 223 
 
 " Your voiceless lips, O 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 ; 
 
 " 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 tr'.m -cottages, and gar 
 dens, 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 sin 
 gle tree to lend him shade or shelter ; and in-
 
 224 The Village of El Pardillo 
 
 stead of green meadows and woodlands vocal 
 with the song of birds, he will find bleak and 
 rugged mountains, and vast extended 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 Pardillo 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 most other Castilian villages, 
 is only a cluster of weather-stained and dilapi 
 dated 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 background 
 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 lan 
 guage of Don Valentin, " un hombre muy infe-
 
 The Village of El Pardillo 225 
 
 Us, y sin malicia ninguna." Not so his wife 
 Matina ; 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 cruci 
 fix 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, study 
 ing the beautiful landscape that spread before 
 me, and watching the occasional gathering of 
 a storm about the blue peaks of the Guadar- 
 rama Mountains. My favorite haunt was a 
 secluded spot in a little woodland valley, 
 through which a crystal brook ran brawling 
 along its pebbly channel. There, stretched in 
 the shadow of a tree, I often passed the hours 
 of noontide heat, now reading the magic num 
 bers of Garcilaso, and anon listening to the 
 song of the nightingale overhead ; or watch 
 ing the toil of a patient ant, as he rolled his 
 stone, like Sisyphus, up hill, or the flight of a 
 10* o
 
 226 The Village of El Pardillo 
 
 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 moments are not wholly thrown away. 
 In the language of Goethe, " I lie 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-benevolent 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 beau 
 ty, 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 re 
 sembles not this picture of thy well-tutored 
 fancy. It is a gloomy little edifice, standing 
 upon the outskirts of the village, and built of 
 dark and unhewn stone, with a spire like a su-
 
 Tkc Village of El Par ditto 227 
 
 gar-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 doorstep, 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 youth 
 ful 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 th^ 
 Virgin : 
 
 "Ave, Regina ccelorum, 
 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 cher 
 ubs 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
 
 228 The Village of El Pardillo 
 
 funeral bell, to question this class of roguish 
 catechumens, whom he was initiating into the 
 mysterious doctrines of the mother 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 
 catechisms. 
 
 " 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
 
 The Village of El Pardillo 229 
 
 before the heavens and the earth were cre 
 ated?" 
 
 " 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 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 remain 
 
 unbroken, so the Virgin Mary, after the birth of 
 
 her son, was a pure and holy virgin as before." * 
 
 * 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 salvaire ; 
 Si com ses trencamens faire 
 Intra'l bel rais quan solelha 
 Per la fenestra veirina."
 
 230 The Vill.ig: of El Par ditto 
 
 " 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 per 
 son ? " 
 
 " As in a heated bar of iron upon which wa 
 ter 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?" 
 
 " 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 un 
 sheathes his sword, remains united both with 
 the sword and the sheath, though they are sep 
 arated from each other, so did the divinity re 
 main united both with the spirit and the 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
 
 The Village of El Pardillo 231 
 
 from mine ; but as I left the church and saun 
 tered 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 ex 
 plain ? " 
 
 I must not forget, in this place, to make 
 honorable mention of the little great men of 
 El Pardillo. 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 glowworm. His house 
 keeper was a brisk, smiling little woman, on 
 the shady side of thirty, and a cousin 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,
 
 232 The Village of El Par ditto 
 
 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 up and see 
 what was going on around him without mov 
 ing 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 stud 
 ied at the University of Salamanca, and was 
 pompous and pedantic, ever and anon quoting 
 some threadbare maxim from the Greek phi 
 losophers, and embellishing it with a commen 
 tary of his own. Then there was the gray- 
 headed Sacristan, who rang the church-bell, 
 played on the organ, and was learned in tomb 
 stone lore ; a Politician, who talked me to death' 
 about taxes, liberty, and the days of the con 
 stitution ; 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 233 
 
 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 devoted 
 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 holi 
 day 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
 
 234 The Village of El Pardillo 
 
 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, 
 
 " beneath soft eve's consenting star, 
 Fandango twirls his jocund castanet. " 
 
 Not many miles from the village of El Par 
 dillo stands the ruined castle of Villafranca, an 
 ancient stronghold of the Moors of the fif 
 teenth century. It is built upon the summit 
 of a hill, of easy ascent upon one side, but pre 
 cipitous and inaccessible on the other. The 
 front presents a large, square tower, constitut 
 ing the main part of the castle ; on one side of 
 which an arched gateway leads to a spacious 
 court-yard within, surrounded by battlements. 
 The corner towers are circular, with beetling 
 turrets ; and here and there, apart from the 
 main body of the castle, stand several circular 
 basements, whose towers have fallen and moul 
 dered into dust. From the balcony in the 
 square tower, the eye embraces the level land 
 scape for leagues and leagues around ; and 
 beneath, in the depth of the valley, lies a beau-
 
 The Village of El Pardillo 235 
 
 tiful grove, alive with the song of the nightin 
 gale. The whole castle is in ruin, and occu 
 pied 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 al 
 cazar. Our cavalcade was as motley as that of 
 old, the pilgrims " 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 hours and fast ; 
 and sitting after dinnei in the gloomy hall of 
 that old castle, many a tale was told, and many 
 a legend and tradition of the past conjured 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 se 
 cret of raising the devil ; how he went to the 
 tastle at midnight with a book which the Jew
 
 236 The Village of El Par ditto 
 
 gave him, and, to make the charm sure, car 
 ried with him a loadstone, 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-vitae charcoal 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 
 dollars 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 ap 
 peared who do you think ? the alcalde 
 with half the village at his 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. 
 
 CRASHAW. 
 
 r I ''HERE is hardly a chapter in literary his- 
 -*- tory more strongly marked with the 
 peculiarities of national character than that 
 which contains the moral and devotional 
 poetry of Spain. It would naturally be ex 
 pected 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 relig 
 ion is everywhere essentially the same feeling, 
 though modified in its degree and in its action 
 by a variety of physical causes and local cir 
 cumstances, and as the subject of the didac 
 tic 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
 
 238 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 
 
 devotional poetry of Christian countries would 
 never be very strongly marked with national 
 peculiarities. In other words, we should ex 
 pect it to correspond to the warmth or cold 
 ness of national feeling, for it is the external 
 and visible expression of this feeling ; but not 
 to the distinctions of national character, be 
 cause, 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 embod 
 ies and represents them must, from this very 
 circumstance, be the same in its spirit through 
 all Christian lands. The same, however, is 
 not necessarily true of devotional 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 doc 
 trines. As these are different in different na 
 tions, the spirit that breathes in religious song, 
 and the letter that gives utterance to the doc 
 trine of faith, will not be universally the same. 
 Thus, Catholic nations sing the praises of the
 
 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 239 
 
 Virgin Mary in language in which nations of 
 the Protestant faith do not unite ; and among 
 Protestants themselves, the difference of inter 
 pretations, and the consequent belief or disbe 
 lief of certain doctrines, give a various spirit 
 and expression to religious poetry. And yet, 
 in all, the devotional feeling,, the heavenward 
 volition, is the same. 
 
 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 exhibit the characteristic peculiari 
 ties resulting from this influence of faith, and 
 its assimilation with the national mind. Now 
 Spain is by pre-eminence the Catholic land of 
 Christendom. Most of her historic recollec 
 tions are more or less intimately associated 
 with the triumphs of the Christian faith ; and 
 many of her warriors of her best and brav 
 est were martyrs in the holy cause, per 
 ishing in that war of centuries which was car 
 ried on within her own territories between the 
 crescent of Mahomet and the cross of Christ. 
 Indeed, the whole tissue of her history is inter 
 woven with miraculous traditions. The inter 
 vention of her patron saint has saved her hon-
 
 240 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 
 
 or 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 peo 
 ple, and devotional offerings for signal preser 
 vation in times of danger and distress cover the 
 consecrated walls of churches. An enthusi 
 asm of religious feeling, and of external ritual 
 observances, prevails throughout the land. 
 But more particularly is the name of the Vir 
 gin 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 midnight it echoes along the sol 
 itary 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
 
 
 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 24 1 
 
 martyrs. 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 Ben 
 edictine 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 poe 
 try has left a monument of his existence in up 
 wards of thirteen thousand alexandrines, cele 
 brating the lives and miracles of saints and 
 the Virgin, as he found them written in the 
 Latin chronicles and dusty legends of his mon 
 astery. In embodying these in rude verse in 
 roman paladino, or the old Spanish romance 
 tongue, intelligible to the 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 cen 
 tury. They are more ghostly than poetical ; 
 ii p
 
 242 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 
 
 and throughout, unction holds the place of 
 inspiration. 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 touching the events and 
 miracles described. 
 
 The following extract is taken from one of 
 Berceo's poems, entitled " Vida de San Millan" 
 It is a description of the miraculous appear 
 ance of Santiago and San Millan, mounted 
 on snow-white steeds, and fighting for the 
 cause of Christendom, at the battle of Siman- 
 cas 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 their 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 ; 
 The one, he held a crosier, a pontiff's mitre wore ; 
 The other held a crucifix, such man ne'er saw before.
 
 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 243 
 
 "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 near had seen 
 
 before. 
 
 " 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.
 
 244 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 
 
 " 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 neighborhood." 
 
 Berceo's longest poem is entitled Miraclos de 
 Nuestra ScTwra, " Miracles of Our Lady." It 
 consists of nearly four thousand lines, and con 
 tains the description of twenty-five miracles. 
 It is a complete 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 character of the 
 subject. Thus, in the twentieth miracle, we 
 have the account of a monk who became intox 
 icated in a wine-cellar. Having lain on the 
 floor till the vesper-bell aroused him, he stag 
 gered off towards the church in most melan 
 choly 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
 
 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 245 
 
 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 pallet, 
 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 
 something interesting and even affecting in 
 descriptions which represent the spirit of a de 
 parted saint as thus assuming a corporeal 
 shape, in order to assist and console human 
 nature even in its baser infirmities ; 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 heav 
 enly 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 descrip 
 tions of this kind, as in the representations of 
 our Saviour and of sainted spirits in human 
 shape, execution must of necessity fall far 
 short of the conception. The handiwork can 
 not equal the glorious archetype, which is visi-
 
 246 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 
 
 ble only to the mental eye. Painting and 
 sculpture are not adequate to the task of em 
 bodying in a permanent shape the glorious 
 visions, the radiant forms, the glimpses of 
 heaven, which fill the imagination, when puri 
 fied 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 anything, either directly or indi 
 rectly, from these bodily and imperfect repre 
 sentations, must partake of their imperfection, 
 and assume a more earthly and material char 
 acter than these which come glowing and 
 burning from the more spiritualized percep 
 tions 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 
 exhibition 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
 
 Los 
 
 Devotional Poetry of Spain 247 
 
 fiand of a master is visible, when the marble 
 almost moves before you, and the painting 
 starts into life from the canvas, the effect 
 upon an enlightened mind will generally, if 
 not universally, be to quicken its sensibilities 
 and excite to more ardent devotion, by carry 
 ing the thoughts beyond the representations of 
 bodily suffering, to the contemplation of the 
 intenser mental agony, the moral sublimity 
 exhibited 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 im 
 pulses and vibrations of the air, so is there no 
 moral impression, no voice of instruction 
 from all the works ol 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 pro 
 duced only when and where the cause has 
 room to act, and just in proportion as it has 
 room to act. Hence the various moral im 
 pressions, and the several degrees of the same 
 moral impression, which an object may produce
 
 248 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 
 
 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 favor 
 able 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 calcu 
 lated 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 intelligence ; 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
 
 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 249 
 
 gloomy tapestry, the dusty curtain. The strag 
 gling 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 smouldering in 
 its ashes, and now shooting forth a quivering 
 flame, casts fantastic shadows through the 
 chambers of the soul. Within the spirit sits, 
 lost in its own abstractions. The voice of na 
 ture from without is hardly audible ; her beau 
 ties 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 mysterious 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 contrast 
 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 discriminate, 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 treas-
 
 250 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 
 
 ures it up as an ultimate fact, upon such a 
 mind, representations of Scripture-scenes, like 
 those mentioned above, exercise an unfavora 
 ble influence. Such a mind cannot rightly 
 estimate, it cannot feel, the work of a master ; 
 and a miserable painting, or a still more mis 
 erable caricature carved in wood, will serve 
 only the more to drag the spirit down to earth. 
 Thus, in the unenlightened mind, these repre 
 sentations have a tendency to sensualize and 
 desecrate the character of holy things. Being- 
 brought constantly before the eye, and repre 
 sented in a real and palpable form to the ex 
 ternal senses, they lose, by being made too 
 familiar, that peculiar sanctity with which the 
 mind naturally invests the unearthly and invis 
 ible. 
 
 It is curious to observe the influence of the 
 circumstances just referred to upon the devo 
 tional poetry of Spain.* Sometimes it exhibits 
 
 * The following beautiful Latin hymn, written by Francisco 
 Xavier, the friend and companion of Loyola, and from his 
 zeal in the Eastern missions surnamecl the Apostle of the In 
 dies, would hardly have originated in any mind but that of 
 one familiar with the representations of which I have spoken 
 above. 
 
 " O Deus ! ego amo te : 
 Nee amo te, ut salves me,
 
 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 2 5 1 
 
 itself directly and fully, sometimes indirectly 
 and incidentally, but always with sufficient 
 
 Aut quia non amantes te 
 ./Eterno punis igne. 
 
 "Tu, tu, mi Jesu, totum me 
 Amplexus es in cruce. 
 Tulisti clavos, lanceam, 
 Multamque ignominiam : 
 Innumeros dolores, 
 Sudores et angores, 
 Ac mortem : et haec propter me 
 
 Ac pro me peccatore. 
 
 t 
 " Cur igitur non amem te, 
 
 O Jesu amantissime ? 
 Non ut in coelo salves me, 
 Aut ne selenium damnes me, 
 Nee proemii ullius spe : 
 Sed sicut tu amasti me, 
 Sic amo et amabo te : 
 Solum quia rex meus es, 
 Et solum quia Deus es. 
 Amen." 
 
 " O God ! my spirit loves but thee : 
 Not that 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,
 
 252 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 
 
 clearness to indicate its origin. Sometimes it 
 destroys the beauty of a poem by a miserable 
 conceit ; at other times it gives it the charac 
 ter of a beautiful allegory.* 
 
 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 ? 
 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 forevermore as now. 
 
 Amen." 
 
 * I recollect but few instances of this kind of figurative 
 poetry in our language. There is, however, one of most ex 
 quisite beauty and pathos, far surpassing anything I have seeo 
 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 253 
 
 The following sonnets will serve as illustra 
 tions. They are from the hand of the wonder 
 ful 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, 
 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, 
 O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 
 Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 
 O, 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 ? " 
 
 " 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 ? 
 O strange delusion ! that I did not greet 
 Thy blessed approach ! and O, to Heaven how lost, 
 If my ingratitude's unkindly frost 
 Hast 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 O, 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!'"
 
 254 Tke Devotional Postry of Spain 
 
 The most remarkable portion of the devo 
 tional 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 representations of their 
 miracles, and of the wonderful traditions con 
 cerning them. The Autos Sacramentales have 
 particular reference to the Eucharist and the 
 ceremonies of the Corpus Christi. In these the 
 atrical pieces are introduced upon the stage, 
 not only angels and saints, but God, the Sav 
 iour, the Virgin Mary ; and, in strange juxta 
 position with these, devils, peasants, and kings ; 
 in fine, they contain the strangest medley of 
 characters, real and allegorical, which the im 
 agination can conceive. As if this were not 
 enough, in the midst of what was intended as 
 a solemn, religious celebration, scenes of low 
 buffoonery are often introduced. 
 
 The most remarkable of the sacred dramas 
 which I have read is La Devotion de la Cruz, 
 "The Devotion of the Cross," by Calderon ; and 
 it will serve as a specimen of that class of writ 
 ing. The piece commences with a dialogue
 
 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 255 
 
 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 es 
 tates, Lisardo is deeply offended that Eusebio 
 should aspire 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 dia 
 logue which precedes the combat, Eusebio re 
 lates 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 
 preserved him from the wild beasts ; that, be 
 ing found by a peasant three days after his 
 birth, he was carried to a neighboring vil 
 lage, 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 Cor 
 pus Christi day ; and, in fine, after relating 
 many other similar miracles, worked by the 
 power of the cross, at whose foot he was born,
 
 256 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 
 
 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 Ju 
 lia, 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 conversing, the dead body of 
 Lisardo is brought in by peasants, and Eusebio 
 is declared to be the murderer. 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 trav 
 eller, 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 prevented 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 forti 
 tude, Christ triumphed over death ; in fine, 
 the book is called the ' Miracles of the Cross.' " 
 They suffer the priest to depart unharmed, 
 who in consequence promises Eusebio that he
 
 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 257 
 
 shall not die without confession, but that wher 
 ever 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 of Euse- 
 bio, 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 corridor. Julia is discovered sleep 
 ing in her cell, with a taper beside her. He 
 is, however, deterred from executing his mali 
 cious 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 a Dios, y como 
 a esfosa" pursues him, descends the ladder 
 from the convent-wall, and, when she seeks to 
 return to her cell, finds the ladder 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 jomada transports the scene back
 
 258 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 
 
 to the mountains. Julia, disguised in man's 
 apparel, with her face concealed, is brought to 
 Eusebio by a party of the banditti. She chal 
 lenges him to single combat ; and he accepts 
 the challenge, on condition that his antago 
 nist shall declare who he is. Julia discovers 
 herself; and relates several horrid murders 
 she has committed since leaving the convent. 
 Their interview is here interrupted by the en 
 trance of banditti, who inform Eusebio that 
 Curcio, with an armed force, from all the 
 neighboring villages, is approaching. The at 
 tack commences. Eusebio and Curcio meet, 
 but a secret and mysterious sympathy pre 
 vents them from fighting ; and a great num 
 ber of peasants, coming in at this moment, 
 rush upon Eusebio in a body, and he is thrown 
 down a precipice. There Curcio discovers him, 
 expiring with his numerous wounds. The cti- 
 nouement of the piece commences. Curcio, 
 moved by compassion, examines a wound in 
 Eusebio'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.
 
 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 259 
 
 ALBERTO. 
 
 Homeward now from Rome returning, 
 In the deep and silent pauses 
 Of the night, upon this mountain 
 I again have lost my way ! 
 This must be the very region 
 Where my life Eusebio gave me, 
 And I fear from his marauders 
 Danger threatens me to-day ! 
 
 EUSEBIO. 
 Ho ! Alberto ! 
 
 ALBERTO. 
 
 What breath is it 
 Of a voice so full of terror, 
 That aloud my name repeating 
 Sounded then upon mine ear ? 
 
 EUSEBIO. 
 Ho ! Alberto ! 
 
 ALBERTO. 
 
 It pronounces 
 
 Yet again my name ; methought it 
 Came in this direction. Let me 
 Go still nearer. 
 
 GiL. 
 
 Santo Dios ! 
 
 'T is Eusebio, and my terror 
 Of all terrors is the greatest ! 
 
 EUSEBIO. 
 Ho ! Alberto ! 
 
 ALBERTO. 
 
 Nearer sounds it! 
 O thou voice that ridest swift
 
 260 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 
 
 On the wind, my name repeating, 
 Who art them ? 
 
 EUSEBIO. 
 
 Eusebio am I. 
 
 Come, Alberto, hither hasten, 
 Hither, where I buried lie ; 
 Come, and lift aside these branches ; 
 Do not fear. 
 
 ALBERTO. 
 No fear have I. 
 
 GIL. 
 I have ! 
 
 ALBERTO (uncovering Eusebio). 
 Now thou art uncovered, 
 Tell me, in the name of God, 
 What thou wishesL 
 
 EUSEBIO. 
 
 In his name 
 
 'T was my Faith, Alberto, called thee, 
 So that ere my life be ended 
 Thou shouldst hear me in confession. 
 Long ago I should have died, 
 For remained untenanted 
 By the spirit this dead body ; 
 But the mighty blow of death 
 Only robbed it of its motion, 
 Did not sever it asunder. 
 
 He rises, 
 
 Come where I may make confession 
 Of my sins, Alberto, for they 
 More are than the sands of ocean, 
 Or the atoms in the sun ! 
 So much doth avail with Heaven 
 The Devotion of the Cross !
 
 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 26 1 
 
 Eusebio then retires to confess himself to Al 
 berto ; and Curcio afterward relates, that, when 
 the venerable saint had given him absolution, 
 his body again fell dead at his feet. Julia dis 
 covers herself, overwhelmed with the thoughts 
 of her passion for Eusebio and her other crimes, 
 and as Curcio, in a transport of indignation, 
 endeavors to kill her, she seizes a cross which 
 stands over Eusebio's grave, and with it as 
 cends to heaven, while Alberto shouts, " Gran 
 milagro ! " and the curtain falls. 
 
 Thus far I have spoken of the devotional 
 poetry of Spain as modified by the peculiari 
 ties of religious faith and practice. Consid 
 ered apart from the dogmas of a creed, and as 
 the expression of those pure and elevated feel 
 ings of religion which are not the prerogative 
 of any one sect or denomination, but the com 
 mon privilege of all, it possesses strong claims 
 to our admiration and praise. I know of noth 
 ing in any modern tongue so beautiful as 
 some of its finest passages. The thought 
 springs heavenward from the soul, the lan 
 guage comes burning from the lip. The imag 
 ination of the poet seems spiritualized ; with 
 nothing of earth, and all of heaven, a heaven 
 like that of his own native clime, without a
 
 262 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 
 
 cloud, or a vapor of earth, to obscure its 
 brightness. His voice, speaking the harmo 
 nious 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 Alda- 
 na, a writer remarkable for the beauty of his 
 conceptions and the harmony of his verse, are 
 illustrations of this remark. In what glowing 
 language he describes the aspirations of the 
 soul for its paternal heaven, its celestial home ! 
 how beautifully he portrays 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 heav 
 enly country ; it whispers to the soul, High 
 er, 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 deatk
 
 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 263 
 
 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." 
 
 " O 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. 
 Celestial King ! O, 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 
 devotional poetry are warmth of imagination, 
 and depth and sincerity of feeling. The con 
 ception 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 up-
 
 264 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 
 
 on 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 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 far 
 ther 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 something 
 in its discipline and privations which has a 
 tendency to wean the mind from earth, and
 
 
 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 265 
 
 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 solitude 
 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 her 
 mits. 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 solitudes 
 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
 
 266 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 
 
 and human actions, they were not hypocrites. 
 During the Middle Ages, there was corrup 
 tion in the Church, foul, shameful corrup 
 tion ; and now also hypocrisy may scourge it 
 self in feigned repentance, and ambition hide 
 its face beneath a hood ; yet all is not there 
 fore rottenness that wears a cowl. Many a 
 pure spirit, through heavenly-mindedness, and 
 an ardent though mistaken zeal, 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, travel 
 lers 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 devotional poe 
 try 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 peni 
 tence, meditation, and prayer.
 
 THE PILGRIM'S BREVIARY 
 
 If thou vouchsafe to read this treatise, it shall seem no otherwise to thee 
 than the way to an ordinary traveller, sometimes fair, sometimes foul ; 
 here champaign, there enclosed ; barren in one place, better soyle in an 
 other ; by woods, groves, hills, dales, plains, I shall lead thee. 
 
 BURTON'S ANATOMIE OF MELANCHOLY. 
 
 THE glittering spires and cupolas of Ma 
 drid 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 disap 
 peared, and I gaze only upon the sky above it. 
 And now the sultry day is passed ; the 
 freshening 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.
 
 268 The Pilgritrfs Breviary 
 
 WE have now entered the vast and melan 
 choly plains of La Mancha, a land to which 
 the genius of Cervantes has given a vulgo-clas- 
 sic 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 trav 
 eller, too, yields himself to the delusion ; and 
 as he traverses the arid plains of La Mancha, 
 pauses with willing credulity to trace the foot 
 steps of the mad Hidalgo, with his "velvet 
 breeches on a holiday, and slippers of the 
 same." The high-road from Aranjuez to Cor 
 dova crosses and recrosses the knight-errant's 
 path. Between Manzanares and Valdepenas 
 stands the inn where he was dubbed a knight ; 
 to the northward, the spot where he encoun 
 tered 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
 
 The Pilgriwts Breviary 269 
 
 to the southward, the Sierra Morena, where 
 he did penance, 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 imagination ; and if this harmless folly but 
 lends its wings to a dull-paced hour, I am even 
 ready to believe a fairy tale. 
 
 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
 
 270 The Pilgrim's Breviary 
 
 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 gui 
 tar. 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 song, we invited him to the rem 
 nant of a Vich sausage, a bottle of Valdepe- 
 nas, bread at his own discretion, and a pure 
 Havana cigar. The stranger made a leg, and 
 accepted these signs of good company 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
 
 The Pilgrim? s Breviary 271 
 
 told us his own story, beginning with his birth 
 and parentage, like the people in Gil Bias. 
 
 " I am 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 un 
 cle, 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 phy 
 sician of me ; and to this end taught me Latin 
 and Greek. 
 
 " In due time I was sent to the University 
 of 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 wor-
 
 272 The Pilgrints Breviary 
 
 thy uncle had passed to a better world. I 
 was now left to shift for myself. I was penni 
 less, and lived as I could, not as I 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 allowance 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; studied in other peo 
 ple'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 Ta- 
 cano, by Quevedo ? In the first book you 
 have a faithful picture of life in a Spanish 
 University. What was true in his day is true 
 in ours. O Alcald ! Alcala ! if your walls had 
 tongues as well as ears, what tales could they 
 repeat ! what midnight frolics ! what madcap 
 revelries ! what scenes of merriment and mis 
 chief ! How merry is a student's life, and yet
 
 The Pilgrims Breviary 273 
 
 how changeable ! Alternate feasting and fast 
 ing, alternate Lent and Carnival, alter 
 nate want and extravagance ! Care given to 
 the winds, no thought beyond the pass 
 ing 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 Pe 
 dro 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 
 favorable moment arrives. Some eager play 
 er 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- 
 
 12* R
 
 274 The Pilgriwts Breviary 
 
 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 asserting 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 dis 
 graceful, dishonest. Our maxim is, that all 
 is fair among sharpers ; Baylar al son que se 
 toca, Dance to any tune that is fiddled. Be 
 sides, as I said before, poverty is demoralizing. 
 One loses the nice distinctions of right and 
 wrong, of mewn 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 industrious ant, in summer I 
 provide for winter ; for in vacation we have 
 time for reflection, and make the great discov 
 ery, 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
 
 The Pilgrim 's Breviary 275 
 
 which I pass, and before the end of my tour 
 I find myself 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 after 
 noon. God be with you, gentlemen ! " 
 
 IN general, the aspect of La Mancha is des 
 olate and sad. Around you lies a parched 
 and sunburnt 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 half-depopulated ; and the squal 
 id inhabitants wear a look of misery that 
 makes the heart ache. Every league or two, 
 the ruinc of a post-house, or a roofless cottage 
 with shattered windows and blackened walls, 
 tells a sad tale of the last war. It was there
 
 276 The Pilgrirrfs Breviary 
 
 that a little band of peasantry made a des 
 perate 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 repaired 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 Valdepefias southward the country 
 wears a more lively and picturesque aspect. 
 The landscape breaks into hill and valley, cov 
 ered with vineyards and olive-fields ; and be 
 fore you rise the dark ridges of the Sierra 
 Morena, lifting their sullen fronts into a heav 
 en all gladness and sunshine. Ere long you 
 enter the wild mountain-pass of Despena- 
 Perros. A sudden turn in the road brings 
 you to a stone column, surmounted by an 
 iron cross, marking the boundary line be 
 tween La Mancha and Andalusia. Upon one 
 side of this column is carved a sorry-looking 
 face, not unlike the death's-heads on the tomb 
 stones of a country church-yard. Over it is 
 written this inscription : " EL VERDADERO 
 RETRATO DE LA SANTA CARA DEL DIGS DE 
 XAEN," The true portrait of the holy coun-
 
 The Pilgrints Breviary 277 
 
 tenance 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 
 pretends 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 por 
 trait 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, mirac 
 ulously preserved upon the folds of a hand 
 kerchief, with which St. Veronica wiped the 
 sweat from his brow, on the day of the cruci 
 fixion. One of these is at Toledo, another in 
 the kingdom of Xaen, and the third at Rome. 
 
 THE impression which this monument of 
 superstition made upon my mind was soon
 
 278 The Pilgriiris Breviary 
 
 effaced by 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 
 hundreds of feet in depth. Its sides are black 
 with ragged pines, and rocks that have top 
 pled down from above ; and at the bottom, 
 scarcely visible, wind the silvery waters of a 
 little stream, a tributary of the Guadalquivir. 
 The road skirts the ravine fcr 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 val 
 leys of Andalusia, bathed in the gorgeous 
 splendor of a southern sunset. The land 
 scape 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 Pilgrirrfs Breviary 279 
 
 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 beautiful 
 than this. 
 
 THE approach to Cordova from the east is 
 enchanting. The sun was just rising as we 
 crossed the Guadalquivir and drew near to the 
 city ; and, alighting from the carriage, I pur 
 sued 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 burn 
 ing sun had not yet climbed the tall hedge-row 
 of wild figs and aloes which skirts the roadside. 
 The highway wound along through gardens, 
 orchards, and vineyards, and here and there 
 above me towered the glorious palm in all 
 its leafy magnificence. On my right, a swell 
 ing 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 wa 
 ters of the Guadalquivir, pursuing their silent
 
 280 The Pilgrim 's Breviary 
 
 journey through a verdant reach of soft low 
 land landscape. There, amid all the luxuri 
 ance 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 Chris 
 tian 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 ? 
 
 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 Se villa, 
 No ha visto mara villa," 
 
 He who has not seen Seville has seen no 
 marvel, is an Andalusian gasconade. This, 
 however, is the judgment of a traveller weary 
 and wayworn with a journey of twelve succes 
 sive days in a carriage drawn by mules ; and 
 I am well aware how much our opinions of
 
 The Pilgrims Breviary 281 
 
 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 an 
 other 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 pur 
 pose of having it violently torn from me by a 
 fierce-whiskered highwayman, with his blun 
 derbuss 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. Al 
 most every village we passed through had 
 its tale to tell of atrocities committed in the 
 neighborhood. In one place, the stage-coach 
 had been stopped and plundered ; in another, 
 a man had been murdered and thrown into 
 ihe 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 
 converse in a mysterious undertone of the dan-
 
 282 The Pilgrints Breviary 
 
 gers we were to pass through on the morrow. 
 But the morrow came and went, and, alas ! 
 neither salteador, nor ratero moved a finger. 
 At one place, we were a day too late ; at an 
 other, a day too early. 
 
 I am now at the Fonda de los Americanos. 
 My chamber-door opens upon a gallery, be 
 neath which is a little court paved with mar 
 ble, having a fountain in the centre. As I 
 write, I can just distinguish 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 pleasant rooms, which look out upon the 
 Plaza de San Antonio, the public square of the 
 city. The morning sun awakes me, and at 
 evening the sea-breeze comes in at my window.
 
 The Pilgrim! s Breviary 283 
 
 At night the square is lighted by lamps sus 
 pended from the trees, and thronged with a 
 brilliant crowd of the young and gay. 
 
 Cadiz is beautiful almost beyond imagina 
 tion. 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, burn 
 ing clime. What a faultless figure ! what a 
 dainty foot ! what dignity ! what matchless 
 grace ! 
 
 " What eyes, what lips, what everything 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,
 
 284 The Pilgrim 's Breviary 
 
 While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you 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, recalling what is now the present, 
 but will then be the distant and almost forgot 
 ten 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, they 
 will be bowed with age and sorrow, saying 
 their paternosters with a tremulous voice. 
 
 Old age is a Pharisee ; for he makes broad 
 his phylacteries, and wears them upon his 
 brow, inscribed with prayer, but in the " crook 
 ed autograph " 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 
 anything." 
 
 Were I to translate these sombre reflections
 
 The Pilgrints Breviary 285 
 
 into choice Castilian, and read them to the 
 bright-eyed maiden who is now leaning over 
 the balcony opposite, she would laugh, and 
 laughing say, " Cuando el demonio es viejo, se 
 metefrayle." 
 
 THE devotion paid at the shrine of the Vir 
 gin is one of the most prominent and charac 
 teristic 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 ti- 
 erra de Maria Santhima" the land of the 
 most holy Mary, this adoration is ardent 
 and enthusiastic. There is one of its outward 
 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 multi 
 tudes that crowd the public walks stand mo 
 tionless ; the angry dispute ceases ; the laugh 
 of merriment dies away ; life seems for a mo 
 ment to be arrested in its career, and to stand
 
 286 The Pilgrim's Breviary 
 
 still. The multitude uncover their heads, and, 
 with the sign of the cross, whisper their even 
 ing prayer to the Virgin. Then the bells ring 
 a merrier 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 an 
 nounced the close of day, it seemed also to call 
 the soul from its worldly occupations to repose 
 and devotion. There is something beautiful 
 in thus measuring the march of time. The 
 hour, too, naturally brings the heart into 
 unison with the feelings and sentiments of de 
 votion. The close of the day, the shadows of 
 evening, the calm of twilight, inspire a feeling 
 of tranquillity ; and though I may differ from 
 the Catholic in regard to the object of his sup 
 plication, 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 hu 
 man family, the voice of a whole people, and 
 of the whole world, should go up to heaven in 
 praise, and supplication, and thankfulness.
 
 
 The Pilgrim's Breviary 287 
 
 ' ' 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 Span 
 ish ballads, commemorating the downfall of 
 the city of Alhama, where we have stopped to 
 rest our horses on their fatiguing march from 
 Velez-Malaga to Granada. Alhama was one 
 of the last strongholds of the Moslem power in 
 Spain. Its fall opened the way for the Chris 
 tian 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. 
 
 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 ath 
 letic man, and rode a spirited horse of the 
 Arab breed. A black bearskin jacket covered 
 his broad shoulders, and around his waist was
 
 288 The Pilgrim's Breviary 
 
 wound the crimson fa/a, so universally 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 out 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 fore 
 head, and a bright-colored woollen tassel be 
 tween 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 conies the Ronda, 
 And I hear their rifles crack ! 
 Ay, jaleo ! Ay, ay, jaleo ! 
 Ay, jaleo ! they cross our track ! " * 
 
 * I here transcribe the original of which this is a single 
 stanza. Its only merit is simplicity, and a certain grace which
 
 The Pilgrints Breviary 289 
 
 The air to which these words are sung is 
 wild and high ; and the prolonged and mourn 
 ful 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. 
 
 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, 
 Porque a naide tengo mieo. 
 i Ay, jaleo ! j Muchachas, jaleo ! 
 i Quien me compra jilo negro ? 
 
 " Mi caballo esta cansao, 
 Y yo me marcho corriendo. 
 ; Anda, caballito mio, 
 Caballo mio care to ! 
 i Anda, que viene la ronda, 
 Y se mueve el tiroteo ! 
 j Ay, jaleo ! i Ay, ay, jaleo ! 
 i 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, jaleo I 
 i Quien me compra jilo negro ? " 
 
 13 *
 
 290 The Pilgrints Breviary 
 
 Then the harsh tones come softened to the 
 ear, and, in unison with the hour and the 
 scene, produce a pleasing melancholy. 
 
 The contrabandista accompanied us to Gra 
 nada. The sun had already set when we en 
 tered 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 dis 
 tance, 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 sol 
 emn roar." 
 
 Is this reality and not a dream ? Am I in 
 deed 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 ! It is midnight. 
 The bell has tolled the hour from the watch- 
 tower of the Alhambra ; and the silent street
 
 Tke Pilgrim's Breviary 291 
 
 echoes only to the watchman's cry, Ave, Ma 
 ria purissima ! 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 sud 
 den radiance brightens in the east. It is the 
 moon, rising behind the Alhambra. I can 
 faintly discern the dusky and indistinct out 
 line of a massive tower, standing amid the un 
 certain 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 pal 
 pable, 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 vis 
 ion for thy votary. Thou hast baptized me 
 with thy baptism. Thou hast nourished my 
 soul with fervent thoughts and holy aspira 
 tions, 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 pres 
 ent and the future, a revelation of man's
 
 292 The Pilgrim's Breviary 
 
 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. Generations per 
 ish, like the leaves of the forest, passing 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 perfec 
 tion of its nature. And in these high revela 
 tions, thou hast taught me more, thoti hast 
 taught me to feel that I, too, weak, humble, 
 and unknown, feeble of purpose and irreso 
 lute of good, have something to accomplish 
 upon earth, like the falling leaf, like the 
 passing wind, like the drop of rain. O glo 
 rious 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, i 
 the end for which an all-wise Providence cre 
 ated me as I am, and placed me where I am ; 
 but I do know for in such things faith is 
 knowledge that my being has a purpose in 
 the omniscience of my Creator, and that all 
 my actions tend to the completion, to the full
 
 The Pilgrims Breviary 293 
 
 accomplishment of that purpose. Is this fatal 
 ity ? No. I feel that I am free, though an in 
 finite and invisible power overrules me. Man 
 proposes, and God disposes. This is one of 
 the many mysteries in our being which hu 
 man reason cannot find out by searching. 
 
 Yonder towers, that stand so huge and mas 
 sive in the midnight air, the work of human 
 hands that have long since forgotten their cun 
 ning in the grave, and once the home of hu 
 man beings immortal 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 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 ac 
 complished, 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 shad-
 
 294 Th e PUgrints Breviary 
 
 owed 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 autumnal sun, 
 Through travelling rain and mist, 
 Shines on the evening hills." 
 
 THIS morning I visited the Alhambra ; an 
 enchanted palace, whose exquisite beauty baf 
 fles the power of language to describe. Its 
 outlines may be drawn, its halls and gal 
 leries, its court-yards and its fountains, num 
 bered ; but what skilful limner shall portray 
 in words its curious architecture, the grotesque 
 ornaments, the quaint devices, the rich tracery 
 of the walls, the ceilings inlaid with pearl and 
 tortoise-shell ? what language paint the magic 
 hues of light and shade, the shimmer of the 
 sunbeam as it falls upon the marble pavement, 
 and the brilliant panels inlaid with many-col 
 ored stones ? Vague recollections fill my 
 mind, images dazzling but undefined, like 
 the memory of a gorgeous dream. They
 
 The Pilgrints Breviary 295 
 
 crowd my brain confusedly, but they will 
 not stay ; they change and mingle, like the 
 tremulous sunshine on the wave, till imagi 
 nation itself is dazzled, bewildered, over 
 powered ! 
 
 What most arrests the stranger's foot within 
 the walls of the Alhambra is the refinement of 
 luxury which he sees at every step. He lin 
 gers in the deserted 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-breath 
 ing 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 
 the nightingale still wooes the blushing rose ? 
 What more fanciful, more exquisite, more like 
 a creation of Oriental magic, than the lofty 
 tower of the Tocador, its airy sculpture re 
 sembling the fretwork of wintry frost, and 
 its windows overlooking the romantic valley 
 of the Darro ; and the city, with its gar 
 dens, 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 wa-
 
 296 The Pilgriwts Breviary 
 
 ter, 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 overhead is a sky 
 where not a vapor floats, as soft, and blue, 
 and radiant as the eye of childhood ! 
 
 Such is the Alhambra of Granada ; a for 
 tress, a palace, an earthly paradise, a 
 ruin, wonderful in its fallen greatness 1
 
 THE JOURNEY 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 i$th of Decem 
 ber, in the year of grace one thousand 
 eight hundred and twenty-seven, I left Mar 
 seilles for Genoa, taking the sea-shore road 
 through Toulon, Draguignan, and Nice. This 
 journey is written in ray memory with a sun 
 beam. 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 me- 
 thinks some lucky star must have ruled the 
 hour that brought us five so auspiciously 
 together. But where is now that merry com 
 pany ? 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 into Italy. 
 13*
 
 298 The Journey into Italy 
 
 At Toulon we took a private carriage in or 
 der to pursue our journey more leisurely and 
 more at ease. I well remember the strange, 
 outlandish 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 mould 
 ering arches of the Roman aqueducts at Fre- 
 jus, standing in the dim twilight 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 Mo 
 naco, 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 thou 
 sand varied scenes and landscapes of this jour--
 
 The Journey into Italy 299 
 
 ney, 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 de 
 scription 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 admi 
 rable ! " 
 
 ON * the tenth day of our journey, we 
 reached Genoa, the city of palaces, the su 
 perb 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 Appenines, at the foot of a mountaine ; 
 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, gaz 
 ing 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 dis-
 
 3OO The Journey into Italy 
 
 tant 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 perspec 
 tive, like the long vapory opening of a cloud 
 in the summer sky. Following the various 
 groups that were passing onward towards the 
 public square, I entered the church, where 
 midnight mass was to be chanted. A daz 
 zling blaze of light from the high altar shone 
 upon the red marble columns which support 
 the roof, and fell with a solemn effect upon 
 ihe kneeling 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
 
 The Journey into Italy 301 
 
 unworthy motives, motives even more un 
 worthy than mere idle curiosity ! How many 
 sinful purposes 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 heed 
 lessly 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 mid 
 night hour, this holy place, this solemn sacri 
 fice, 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 sepa 
 rated. The young man continued leaning 
 against the column, and the girl, gliding si 
 lently 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 undone ! And I almost 
 heard the evil spirit whisper, as in the Faust, 

 
 302 The Journey into Italy 
 
 " 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 car 
 riages ; and these three form but one contin 
 uous street, the street of palaces. They are 
 the Strada Nuova, the Strada Novissima, and 
 the Strada Balbi, which connect the Piazza 
 Amorosa with the Piazza dell' Annunziata. 
 These palaces, the Doria, the Durazzo, the 
 Ducal Palace, and others of less magnifi 
 cence, with their vast halls, their marble 
 staircases, vestibules, and terraces, and the as 
 pect 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 Ital-
 
 The Journey into Italy 303 
 
 ian cities has launched at her a biting sar 
 casm in the well known proverb, "Mare senza 
 pesce, uomini senza fede, e donne senza vergo- 
 gna" A sea without fish, men without faith, 
 and women without shame ! 
 
 THE road from Genoa to Lucca strong 
 ly resembles 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 toppling crags, and yawn 
 ing 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 crys 
 tal 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 ail that glowed above, 
 Till a new sky, softer but not so gay, 
 Arched in its bosom, trembled like a dove."
 
 304 The Journey into Italy 
 
 PISA, the melancholy city, with its Leaning 
 Tower, its Campo Santo, its bronze-gated ca 
 thedral, and its gloomy palaces, Florence 
 the Fair, with its magnificent Duomo, its 
 gallery of ancient art, its gardens, its gay so 
 ciety, and its delightful environs, 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. 
 
 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 Ma 
 ria Novella, in whose gloomy aisles Boccaccio 
 has placed the opening scene of his Decame- 
 rone. 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 in the envi 
 rons, 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 representa-
 
 The Journey into Italy 305 
 
 tion 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 described with such simplicity 
 and power in the introduction of his Decame- 
 rone. 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 imagi 
 nation, 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 rep 
 resentation 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 taran 
 tula at work." You breathe more freely as 
 you step out into the open air again ; 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 Flo 
 rentine prose-poet equally admirable as a piece
 
 306 The Journey into Italy 
 
 of eloquence. " 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 families, how many 
 ample heritages, how many renowned posses 
 sions, were left without an heir ! How many 
 valiant men, how many beautiful women, how 
 many gentle youths, breakfasted in the morn 
 ing 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 travelled post, with a double-bar 
 relled gun, two pairs of pistols, and a vio 
 lin 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 London.
 
 The Journey into Italy 307 
 
 He had been in Naples without visiting Pom 
 peii, 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 
 countryman of my own, who made it a point 
 to see everything which was mentioned in 
 the guide-books ; and boasted how much he 
 could accomplish in a day. He would de 
 spatch a city in an incredibly short space of 
 time. A Roman aqueduct, 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 un 
 turned. A city was like a Chinese 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," says Hippo 
 crates ; yet spare me from thus travelling with 
 the speed of thought, and trotting, from day 
 light 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.
 
 308 The Journey into Italy 
 
 I COPIED the following singular inscription 
 from a tombstone in the Protestant cemetery 
 at Leghorn. It is the epitaph of a lady, writ 
 ten 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 the'e, 
 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 him 
 self to heaven. Day after day the mist and
 
 The Journey into Italy 309 
 
 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 land 
 scape and 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 northern winter, 
 give way to the illusions of fancy, and dream 
 of Italy as a sunny land, where no wintry tem 
 pest 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 peasant, 
 and inviolate from his axe. I passed a night 
 at Montefiascone, renowned for a delicate Mus 
 cat 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 this wine of Montefiascone.
 
 310 The Journey into Italy 
 
 "Propter nimium Est, Est, Est, 
 Dominus meus mortuus est." 
 
 A marble slab in the pavement, worn by the 
 footsteps of pilgrims like myself, covers the 
 dominie's ashes. There is a rude figure carved 
 upon it, at whose feet I traced out the cabalis 
 tic words, "Est, Est, Est." The remainder of 
 the inscription was 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 deso 
 late Campagna ; we passed the tomb of Nero, 
 we approached 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, soli 
 tude, and desolation.
 
 ROME IN MIDSUMMER 
 
 She who tamed the world seemed to tame herself at last, and, falling 
 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 desolation. 
 
 HOWELL'S SIGNORIE OF VENICE. 
 
 r I "*HE 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 barbarians of the 
 North have retreated from the gates of Rome, 
 and left the Eternal City silent and deserted. 
 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 
 antiquity ; and the idle facchino lounges in 
 the market-place, and plays at mom by the 
 fountain. Midsummer has come ; and you 
 may now hire a palace for what, a few weeks 
 ago, would hardly have paid your night's lodg 
 ing in its garret.
 
 312 Rome in Midsummer 
 
 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 largest and most magnificent 
 squares of modern Rome. It occupies the site 
 of the ancient amphitheatre of Alexander Sev- 
 erus ; and the churches, palaces, and shops 
 that now surround it are built upon the old 
 foundations of the amphitheatre. At each 
 extremity of the square stands a fountain ; the 
 one with a simple jet of crystal water, the oth 
 er 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 circumference. From the 
 midst uprises a huge rock pierced with grot 
 toes, 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 hie 
 roglyphics, and fifty feet in height, a relic of 
 the amphitheatre of Caracalla. 
 
 In this quarter of the city I have domicili- 
 ated myself, in a family of whose many kind 
 nesses I shall always retain the most lively
 
 Rome in Midsummer 313 
 
 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 conversa 
 zione, 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 cham 
 ber, and, poring 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 en 
 joyment to me. Directly in front, with its fan 
 tastic 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 fountain, 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 
 14
 
 314 Rome in Midsummer 
 
 with a noisy crowd of the Roman populace, 
 and the peasantry from the neighboring vil 
 lages 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 flow 
 ers, the various costumes of the peasantry, 
 the constant movement of the vast, fluctuat 
 ing 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 ,jf August, this spacious square is con 
 verted into a lake, by stopping the conduit- 
 pipes which carry off the water of the foun 
 tains. 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 an 
 other splasKing in the water in pursuit of a 
 mischievous spaniel, who is swimming away 
 with his shoe ; while from a neighboring bal 
 cony a noisy burst of military music fills the
 
 Rome in Midsummer 315 
 
 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 mar 
 ket-place to sing in high-sounding rhyme, "// 
 Lago di Piazza Navona" 
 
 I have before me one of these sublime effu 
 sions. 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 
 holiday, 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 that bore away 
 Europa, they would neither have wept nor 
 screamed ! "
 
 316 Rome in Midsummer 
 
 ON the eastern slope of the Janiculum, now 
 called, from its yellow sands, Montorio, or the 
 Golden Mountain, stands the fountain of Ac- 
 qua 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. Be 
 neath 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 over 
 flowing 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 enchant 
 ments 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 !
 
 Rome in Midsummer 317 
 
 In the immediate neighborhood of the foun 
 tain are many objects worthy of the stranger's 
 notice. 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 martyrdom. 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. Passing 
 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 magnificent of the numerous villas that 
 crowd the immediate environs of Rome. Its 
 spacious terraces, its marble statues, its wood 
 lands and green alleys, its lake and waterfalls 
 and fountains, give it an air of courtly splendor 
 and of rural beauty, which realizes the beau 
 ideal of a suburban villa. 
 
 This is our favorite resort, when we have 
 passed the day at the fountain, and the after 
 noon shadows begin to fall. There we sit on 
 the broad marble steps of the terrace, gaze 
 upon the varied landscape stretching to the
 
 318 Rome in Midsummer 
 
 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 farther-aspiring throb, to its en 
 joyment, then were I happy, yes, thrice 
 happy ! But no ; this fluttering, 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 moun 
 tains, to the fleeting clouds of the future ; and 
 yet I know, that ere long, weary, and wayworn, 
 and disappointed, they shall return to nestle 
 in the bosom of the past ! 
 
 This day, also, I have passed at Acqua Pa- 
 ola. 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 ol 
 home, a liquid star stood trembling like a tear
 
 Rome in Midsummer 319 
 
 upon the closing eyelid of the day. Which of 
 us wrote 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 sim 
 ple 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 Sor 
 rento 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
 
 320 Rome in Midsummer 
 
 of the Roman Capitol, where, after long years 
 of sickness, sorrow, and imprisonment, the lau 
 rel 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 ? Erelong, 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 superadded to my customary infirmities, and 
 by which, 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
 
 Rome in Midsummer 321 
 
 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 oth 
 er part of Rome, but that I may, as it were, 
 commence, in this high place, and in the con 
 versation of these devout fathers, my conversa 
 tion in heaven. Pray God for me ; and be as 
 sured 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 pil 
 grims' 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 beautiful. I saw a large 
 pile of these letters a few weeks ago in Gon- 
 zaga's chapel, at the church of St. Ignatius. 
 They were lying at the foot of the altar, pret- 
 14* u
 
 322 Rome in Midsummer 
 
 tily written on smooth paper, and tied with 
 silken ribands of various colors. Leaning 
 over the marble balustrade, I read the follow 
 ing superscription upon one of them : " Air 
 Angelica Giovane S. Ltdgi Gonzaga, Paradiso, 
 To the angelic youth St. Louis Gonza- 
 ga, Paradise." A soldier, with a musket, kept 
 guard over this treasure ; and I had the audaci 
 ty 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 im 
 aginable, 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 circenses, says the Latin satirist, 
 when chiding the degraded propensities of his 
 countrymen ; Pancm et circenses, they are 
 content with bread and the sports of the cir 
 cus. 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
 
 Rome in Midsummer 323 
 
 Augustus, to be choked with the smoke of 
 fireworks, and see deformed and humpback 
 dwarfs tumbled into the 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 op 
 pressive and dispiriting, and quite unmans one, 
 like the dog-days 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 wintiy snows, 
 Then give me ale ! " 
 
 I should think that stark English beer 
 might have a potent charm against the pow 
 ers of the foul fiend that rides this steaming, 
 reeking wind. A flask of Montefiascone, or a 
 bottle of Lacrima Christi does very well.
 
 324 Rome in Mihsummer 
 
 BEGGARS all, beggars all ! The Papal city 
 is full of them ; and they hold you by the but 
 ton 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 : 
 
 " Ak signore ! Qualche piccola cosa, per ca- 
 rita ! Vi dirb la buona ventura ! C' una bella 
 signorina, che vi ama molto ! Per il Sacro Sa 
 cramento ! Per la Madonna ! " 
 
 Which being interpreted, is, " Ah, Sir, a tri 
 fle, 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 woe-begone 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 re 
 ceive the stranger's charity, though pride re 
 strains them from asking it. Moved with com-
 
 Rome in Midsummer 325 
 
 passion, I threw into the hat the little I had to 
 give ; when, instead of thanking me with a 
 blessing, my man with the threadbare coat 
 showered upon me the most sonorous maledic 
 tions 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 infi 
 nite amusement of a green-grocer, who stood 
 at his shop-door bursting with laughter. No 
 time was given me for an apology ; but I re 
 solved to be for the future more discriminating 
 in my charities, and not to take for a beggar 
 every poor gentleman 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 le^ 
 gends and the lives of saints through the 
 streets of Rome, with a sharp, cracked voice, 
 that knows no pause nor division in the sen 
 tences it utters. I just heard him cry at a 
 breath : 
 
 "La Vita di San Giuseppe quel fidel servitor 
 di Dio santo e maraviglioso mezzo bajocco,
 
 326 Rome in Midsummer 
 
 The Life of St. Joseph that faithful servant ot 
 God holy and wonderful ha'penny ! " 
 
 This is the way with some people ; everything 
 helter-skelter, heads and tails, prices cur 
 rent 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 neighbor 
 ing street and crossed the square. First came 
 a long train of priests, clad in black, and bear 
 ing in their hands large waxen tapers, which 
 flared in every gust of wind, and were now and 
 then extinguished by the rain. The bier fol 
 lowed, 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, ia the attitude of prayer. His face
 
 Rome in Midsummer 327 
 
 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 mo 
 nastic brotherhood, a long and melancholy pro 
 cession, 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 ap 
 plied the rhyming Latin distich, written for 
 the monks of old : 
 
 " O Monachi, 
 Vestri stomach! 
 Sunt amphora Bacchi ; 
 Vos estis, 
 Deus est testis, 
 Turpissima pestis." 
 
 The graphic description which Thomson 
 gives in his " Castle of Indolence " would read 
 ily find an impersonation among the Roman 
 priesthood : 
 
 " Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod, 
 Of clerks good plenty here you mote espy ;
 
 328 Rome in Midsummer 
 
 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 plebe 
 ian exquisite of the western bank of the Tiber, 
 with a swarthy face and the step of an em 
 peror. 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 dia 
 lect : 
 
 "Uno, due, e tre, 
 E lo Papa non e Re." 
 
 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 some interesting subject that ex 
 cites him so much, and gives such energy to 
 his gestures and his language. No ; he only 
 wants to light his pipe !
 
 Rome in Midsummer 329 
 
 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 marvel 
 lously beautiful by moonlight. 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 up 
 on your guard, and betrayed into an enthu 
 siasm which perhaps you had silently resolved 
 you would not feel. 
 
 On my way to the Coliseum, I crossed the 
 Capitoline 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
 
 330 Rome in Midsummer 
 
 the Phocian Column, an isolated shaft, like 
 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 hillside, 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 encom 
 passed by three of the Seven Hills of Rome, 
 
 the Palatine, the Ccelian, and the Esquiline, 
 
 the majestic ruin in all its solitary grandeur 
 " swelled vast to heaven." 
 
 A single sentinel was pacing to and fro be 
 neath 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
 
 Rome in Midsummer 331 
 
 morning sports ! Nor was the contrast within 
 less striking. Silence, and the. quiet moon 
 beams, 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 dedication of this imperial slaugh 
 ter-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 fes 
 tival of blood, and "butchered to make a Ro 
 man holiday " ? The awful silence answered, 
 " They are mine ! " The dust beneath me 
 answered, " They are mine ! " 
 
 I crossed to the opposite extremity of the 
 amphitheatre. A lamp was burning in the lit 
 tle chapel, which has been formed from what 
 was once a den for the wild beasts of the Ro 
 man 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 fol-
 
 332 Rome in Midsummer 
 
 lowed him up a narrow wooden staircase, and 
 entered one of 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 brilliant light of the full moon, 
 casting gigantic shadows around me, and dif 
 fusing 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 be 
 neath me, with such a soft and indefinite out 
 line 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
 
 Rome in Midsummer 333 
 
 foreshortened shadows. The sound of their 
 voices reached me in a whisper ; 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 ma 
 jestic forms. The arbitrary distinctions of 
 time, years, ages, centuries were annihilated. 
 I was a citizen of Rome ! This was the am 
 phitheatre of Flavius Vespasian ! 
 
 Mighty is the spirit of the past, amid the 
 ruins of the Eternal City !
 
 THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA 
 
 Egressum magnl me excepit Aricia Romft, 
 Hospitio modico. 
 
 HORACE. 
 
 I PASSED the month of September at the 
 village of La Riccia, 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 luxu 
 riant 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 Village of La Riccia 335 
 
 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. 
 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 gorgeous frescoes. 
 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 generous 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, be-
 
 336 The Village of La Riccia 
 
 ing 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 circum 
 stance 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 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 
 askeH th^ 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,
 
 The Village of La Riccia 337 
 
 who murdered 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 counte 
 nance of that sinful man, a face that wore an 
 expression of savage ferocity and coarse sen 
 suality. I had heard his story told in the vil 
 lage ; 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 re 
 buke 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 depraved 
 should be left entirely to his evil nature, with 
 out one patient monitor, a wife, a daugh 
 ter, a fawning, meek-eyed dog, whose silent, 
 supplicating 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 common" 
 place ! 
 
 15 v
 
 338 The Village of La Riccia 
 
 On another occasion, I saw an overladen 
 ass fall on the steep and slippery pavement of 
 the street. He made violent but useless ef 
 forts to get upon his feet again ; and his brutal 
 driver more brutal than the suffering beast 
 of burden beat him unmercifully with his 
 heavy whip. Barbarian ! is it not enough that 
 you have laid upon your uncomplaining ser 
 vant 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 an 
 other theme for commonplace reflection ! 
 
 Again. A little band of pilgrims, clad in 
 white, with staves, and scallop-shells, and san 
 dal 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 no 
 tion of a pilgrimage, drawn from novels. And 
 now they disappear behind the hill ; and hark ! 
 they are singing a mournful hymn, like Chris 
 tian and Hopeful on their way to the Delecta 
 ble Mountains. How strange it seems to me, 
 that I should ever behold a scene like this ! a
 
 The Village of La Riccia 339 
 
 pilgrimage 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 di 
 verge 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 conducts 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 
 hillside and overlooks the Campagna. 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 up 
 on the lake passes through a magnificent gal-
 
 340 The Village of La Riccia 
 
 lery of thick embowering trees, whose dense 
 and luxuriant foliage completely shuts out the 
 noonday sun, forming 
 
 " A greensward wagon-way, that, like 
 Cathedral aisle, completely roofed with branches, 
 Runs through the gloomy wood from top to bottojn, 
 And has at either end a Gothic door 
 Wide open." 
 
 This long sylvan arcade is called the Galle- 
 ria-di-sopra, to distinguish it from the Galleria- 
 di-sotto, a similar, though less beautiful avenue, 
 leading from Castel Gandolfo to Albano, un 
 der the brow of the hill. In this upper gal 
 lery, and almost hidden 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 
 southern shore of the Alban Lake, and, after 
 passing the site of the ancient Alba Longa, 
 and the convent of Palazzuolo, turns off to the 
 right through a luxuriant forest, and climbs 
 the rugged precipice of Rocca di Papa. Be 
 hind this village swells the rounded peak of
 
 The Village of La Riccia 34 1 
 
 Monte Cavo, the highest pinnacle of the Al 
 banian 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 ascend 
 ed 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 temple, and the disciples of Loy 
 ola are now the only conquerors that tread the 
 pavement of the Triumphal 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 cov 
 erts, Genzano, La Riccia, Castel Gandolfo 
 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, whirl 
 ing in rapid eddies, and yellow with much
 
 34 2 The Village of La Riccia 
 
 sand, rushes forward into the sea." The scene 
 of half the yEneid is spread beneath you like a 
 map ; and it would need volumes to describe 
 each point that arrests the eye in this magnifi 
 cent panorama. 
 
 As I stood leaning over the balcony of the 
 convent, giving myself up to those reflections 
 which the scene inspired, one of the brother 
 hood came from a neighboring cell, and en 
 tered into conversation 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 be 
 fore us ! I have been an inmate of these walls 
 for thirty years, and yet this prospect is as 
 beautiful to my 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 ad 
 mire. My heart is still alive to the beauties of 
 the scene, and to all the classic associations 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
 
 The Village of La Riccia 343 
 
 my youth up I have been a disciple of Chry- 
 sostom, who often slept with the comedies of 
 Aristophanes beneath his pillow ; and yet I 
 confess that the classic associations of Roman 
 history and fable are not the most thrilling 
 which this scene awakens in my mind. Yon 
 der is the bridge from which Constantine be 
 held 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 sea 
 shore, is renowned as the spot where the Tro 
 jan fugitive first landed on the coast of Italy. 
 But other associations than this have made the 
 spot holy in my sight. Marcus Minutius Fe 
 lix, 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." 
 
 I replied that I had never so much as heard 
 the book mentioned before ; and the monk 
 continued : 
 
 "It is a dialogue upon the vanity of pagan
 
 344 The Vintage of La Riccia 
 
 idolatry and the truth of the Christian religion, 
 between Caecilius, a heathen, and Octavius, a 
 Christian. The style is rich, flowing, and po 
 etical ; and if the author handles his weapons 
 with less power than a Tertullian, yet he ex 
 hibits 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 vol 
 ume ; 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, turn 
 ing over its well worn leaves, continued : 
 
 " In the introduction, the author describes 
 himself as walking upon the sea-shore at Ostia, 
 in company with his friends Octavius and Cae 
 cilius. 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 Village of La Riccia 345 
 
 the season after the summer's heat, when au 
 tumn promised fair, and put on the face of 
 temperate. We set out, therefore, in the 
 morning early, and as we were walking upon 
 the sea-shore, and a kindly breeze fanned and 
 refreshed our limbs, and the yielding sand soft 
 ly 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 Mar 
 cus, 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, however, 
 still they are ; for you cannot but be sensible 
 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 our 
 selves upon the free and open shore. There 
 the gently washing waves had spread the ex- 
 tremest sands into the order of an artificial 
 walk ; and as the sea always expresses some
 
 346 The Village of La Riccia 
 
 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 on, and kept 
 upon the brim of the gently declining shore, 
 beguiling the way with our stories." 
 
 Here the sound of the convent-bell inter 
 rupted 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 
 favorite resort of foreign artists who are pursu 
 ing 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
 
 T/ie Village of La Riccia 347 
 
 landscape. The peasantry, too, are fine mod 
 els for their study. The women of Genzano 
 are noted for their beauty, and almost every 
 village in the neighborhood has something pe 
 culiar 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 dis- 
 
 <% 
 
 tance, half-hidden, half-revealed, lay floating 
 like a mote in the broad and misty sunbeam. 
 The woodland walk before me seemed roofed 
 with 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. Beneath me the lake slept quiet 
 ly. 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 surface, and I could 
 even hear the sound of the laboring oar, so 
 motionless and silent was the air around me. 
 I soon reached the convent of Castel Gan- 
 dolfo. Upon one of the stone benches of the
 
 348 The Village of La Riccia 
 
 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 ac 
 cent 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 An 
 glo-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 detained here many weeks beyond the 
 time I had fixed for my departure by the ill 
 ness of a friend, who lies at the point of death 
 within the walls of this convent." 
 
 " 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."
 
 The Village of La Riccia 349 
 
 " Is there, then, no hope of his recovery ? " 
 " None whatever," answered the monk, shak 
 ing 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 vic 
 tim 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, ascend 
 ing a flight of steps beside the altar, passed in 
 to 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 moment, and softly entered a 
 neighboring cell. He soon returned and beck 
 oned me to come in. The room was dark and 
 hot ; for the window-shutters had been closed 
 to keep out the rays of the sun, that in the af 
 ter 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,
 
 350 The Village of La Riccia 
 
 " 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 shutters and let in the light and 
 air ; and as the bright sunbeam through the 
 wreathing 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 attenu 
 ated by long illness. But it soon passed off: 
 and as the conversation changed to other top 
 ics, 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 denied him, that death 
 would thwart even these fond anticipations. 
 
 " I shall soon be well enough," said he, " to 
 undertake the journey ; and, O, with what
 
 The Village of La Riccia 35 1 
 
 delight shall I turn my back upon the Apen 
 nines ! We shall cross the Alps into Switzer 
 land, then go down the Rhine to England, and 
 soon, soon we shall see the shores of the Em 
 erald Isle, and once more embrace father, 
 mother, sisters ! By my profession, I have 
 renounced the world, but not those holy emo 
 tions of love which are one of the highest 
 attributes of the soul, and which, though sown 
 in corruption here, shall hereafter be raised in 
 incorruption. No ; even he that died for us 
 upon the cross, in the last hour, in the unutter 
 able 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 clois 
 ters ; the monks were chanting their even 
 ing hymn in the chapel ; and one unbroken 
 shadow spread through the long cathedral
 
 352 The Village of La Riccia 
 
 aisle ol forest-trees which led me homeward. 
 There, in the silence of the hour, and amid 
 the almost sepulchral 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 departed, not for an earthly, but for a 
 heavenly home.
 
 NOTE-BOOK 
 
 Qncr. more among the old, gigantic hills. 
 
 With vapors clouded o'er, 
 The vales of Lombardy grow dim behind, 
 
 And rocks ascend before, 
 lliey beckon me, the giants, from afar, 
 
 They wing my footsteps on ; 
 Xheir helms of ice, their plumage of the pine, 
 
 Their cuirasses of stone. 
 
 OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 THE glorious autumn closed. From the 
 Abruzzi Mountains came the Zampo- 
 gnari, playing their rustic bagpipes beneath 
 the images of the Virgin in the streets of 
 Rome, and hailing with rude minstrelsy the 
 approach of merry Christmas. The shops 
 were full of dolls and playthings for the Bi- 
 fana, who enacts in Italy the same merry in 
 terlude for children that Santiclaus does in 
 the North ; and travellers from colder climes 
 began to fly southward, like sun-seeking swal 
 lows. 
 
 I left Rome for Venice, crossing the Apen 
 nines by the wild gorge of the Strettura, in a 
 drenching rain. At Fano we struck into the 
 sands of the Adriatic, and followed the sea-
 
 354 Note -Book 
 
 shore northward to Rimini, where in the mar 
 ket-place stands a pedestal of stone, from 
 which, as an officious cicerone informed me, 
 "Julius Caesar preached to his army, before 
 crossing the Rubicon." Other principal points 
 in my journey were Bologna, with its Campo 
 Santo, its gloomy arcades, and its sausages ; 
 Ferrara, 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 fe 
 lucca, and entered the Grand Canal. A thou 
 sand 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 occasion 
 ally the twinkling lamp of a gondola darted 
 across the water like a shooting star, and sud 
 denly 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,
 
 Note -Book 355 
 
 " 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 wa 
 ters ; she melts in softness and sensuality, 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 crimson 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, who sees thee not doth not 
 prize thee ; but who hath too much seen thee 
 doth despise thee ! 
 
 Should you ever want a gondolier at Venice 
 to sing you a passage from Tasso by moon 
 light, inquire 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."
 
 356 Note -Book 
 
 THE road from Venice to Trieste traverses 
 a vast tract of level land, with the Friulian 
 Mountains 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 in 
 tersecting each other at right angles. It is 
 a mart for all nations. Greeks, Turks, Ital 
 ians, Germans, French, and English meet you 
 at every corner and in every coffee-house ; and 
 the ever-changing variety of national counte 
 nance 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 morn 
 ing sunbeam, as by Ithuriel's spear, they as 
 sume 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
 
 Note -Book 357 
 
 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 Schott- 
 wien. A castle built like an eagle's nest upon 
 the top of a perpendicular crag. A little ham 
 let 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 midnight. 
 
 ON the southern bank of the Danube, about 
 sixteen miles above Vienna, stands the ancient 
 castle of Greifenstein, where if the tale be 
 true, though many doubt and some deny it 
 Richard the Lion-heart of England was impris 
 oned, when returning from the third crusade. 
 It is built upon the summit of a steep and 
 rocky hill, that rises just far enough from the 
 river's brink to leave a foothold for the high 
 way. At the base of the hill stands the village 
 of Greifenstein, from which a winding path 
 way leads you to the old castle. You pass 
 through an arched gate into a narrow court 
 yard, and thence onward to a large, square
 
 358 Note -Book 
 
 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 
 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 trap-door, 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 en 
 trance but the trap-door 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 grossest lie that 
 ever cheated the gaping curiosity of a traveller. 
 The balcony commands some fine and pic 
 turesque 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
 
 Note -Book 359 
 
 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 antiqua 
 ries say that Richard was not imprisoned 
 there ; this story being at best a bold conjec 
 ture of what is possible, though not probable. 
 
 FROM Vienna I passed northward, visiting 
 Prague, Dresden, and Leipsic, and then fold 
 ing 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 Mi- 
 cromegas, making but one step from the Adri 
 atic to the German Ocean. I leave untold the 
 wonders of the wondrous Rhine, a fascinating 
 theme. Not even the beauties of the Vauts- 
 burg 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. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 THESE, fair dames and courteous gentle 
 men, are some of the scenes and musings 
 of my pilgrimage, 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 succession of images that were con 
 tinually 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 sea-shore, and 
 listened to the melancholy and familiar roar of 
 its waves, it seemed but a step from the thresh 
 old 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,
 
 The Pilgrim's Salutation 361 
 
 and I turned away fancy-sick with the bless 
 ings of home and the endearments of domestic 
 love. 
 
 " 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 Hespe 
 rian 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 
 16
 
 362 The Pilgrim's Salutation 
 
 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 
 through the parting clouds the radiant sun 
 shine 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 pil 
 grimage ; and I bear your kindness meekly, 
 for I come not like Theudas of old, " boasting 
 myself to be somebody." 
 
 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 
 company. Pax vobiscum !
 
 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. 
 
 HEYUN. 
 
 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 ?
 
 364 Colophon 
 
 Alas ! this little book is but a bubble on the 
 stream ; and although it may catch the sun 
 shine for a moment, yet it will soon float 
 down the swift-rushing current, and be seen 
 no more !
 
 DRIFT-WOOD 
 
 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.
 
 ANCIENT FRENCH ROMANCES 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF PAULIN PARIS* 
 1833 
 
 THE very name of Queen Bertha carries 
 us back to the remotest period of the 
 good old times. Many an ancient romance 
 records the praises of her unspotted virtue ; 
 and, if we may rely upon the testimony of a 
 song-writer of the nineteenth century, it was 
 she who founded the monastery of Sainte- 
 Avelle, dedicated to Our Lady of the Woods. 
 I know not whether you have ever observed 
 among the statues that look down upon us 
 from the portals of our Gothic churches, the 
 figure known throughout France by the name 
 of la Reine Pedauqiie, Queen Goose-Foot. She 
 is the heroine of our romance ; and, be it said 
 with all the veracity of an historian, for this 
 opprobrious surname she must thank her own 
 
 * A Letter to M. de Monmerque prefixed to Li Romans de 
 fierte aus Grans Pi&, and reprinted in Ferussac's Bulletin 
 Universel, from which this translation was made.
 
 4 Drift -Wood 
 
 feet, whose vast dimensions are revealed to us 
 by the indiscretion of the statuary. During 
 her lifetime she was surnamed Bertha of the 
 Great-Feet ; after her death, she was neither 
 more nor less than Bertha of the Goose-Feet. 
 So true is it that the origin of the custom of 
 flattering the great while living, and reviling 
 them when dead, is lost in the night of ages. 
 The story of Queen Pedauque reminds me of 
 poor Midas ; perhaps the ears of the Phrygian 
 monarch, who fell a victim to the malevolence of 
 his barber, were in truth only somewhat long. 
 This statue of Queen Pedauque has long 
 exercised the imagination of the antiquaries. 
 They have successively imagined it to be Clo- 
 tilde, wife of Clovis, Brunehault, and Frede- 
 gonde. The Abbe" Lebceuf, however, supposes 
 it to be the queen of Sheba ; though it is no 
 easy matter to devise why the Abbe* Leboeuf, 
 generally so very considerate, should thus 
 have felt himself obliged to call in question 
 the beauty of the Oriental princess, and the 
 practised taste of Solomon, the wisest of men. 
 He remarks, in his learned dissertation, that 
 the Masorites, who were great admirers of the 
 hands of the queen of Sheba, have maintained 
 the most scrupulous silence in regard to her
 
 Ancient French Romances 5 
 
 feet : there is, however, a vast distance be 
 tween the silence of Biblical commentators, 
 and the conjecture he allows himself. 
 
 Now both the historians and the poets, who 
 make mention of Queen Bertha, affirm that 
 she had large feet ; and this is the first point 
 of analogy between her and the celebrated 
 statue. Moreover, the inhabitants of Tou 
 louse, according to the author of the Contes d* 
 Eutrapel, are in the habit of swearing by the 
 distaff of Queen Pedauque, par la quenouille 
 de la reine Pcdanqiic ; while we speak pro 
 verbially of the time when Bertha span, du 
 temps que Bcrthe filait ; and the Italians say, 
 in nearly the same signification, " The days 
 when Bertha span have gone by," Non piu 
 il tempo che Berta filava. After all this, and 
 especially after the direct testimony of the 
 poem which I now present you, how can any 
 one doubt the perfect identity of Bertha of 
 the Great Feet, and the Queen of the Goose 
 Feet ? I entertain a high respect for the Abbe 
 Leboeuf, but a higher for the truth ; and I 
 cannot refrain from expressing my opinion, 
 that he would have done better to look to 
 the court of Pepin-le-Bref for the model of 
 the statue which he saw at the church of
 
 6 Drift-Wood 
 
 Saint-Be"nigne in Dijon, at the cathedral of 
 Nevers, at the priory of Saint-Pourgain, and 
 at the abbey of Nesle. 
 
 Bertha, the wife of Pepin, has been often 
 named by the most respectable historians. 
 She died in 783, and until the revolution of 
 1793 her tomb was still to be seen in the 
 vaults of Saint-Denis. It bore this beauti 
 ful inscription : Berta mater Caroli Magni. 
 
 Eginhart speaks of the respectful defer 
 ence which the hero of the West generally 
 paid to the virtues of his mother. All histo 
 rians coincide in regard to the time of her cor 
 onation and her death ; but in regard to the 
 name of her father, some difference of opin 
 ion prevails. According to the " Annals of 
 Metz," she was the daughter of Caribert, 
 Count of Laon ; but unfortunately for this 
 hypothesis, the city of Laon was not at that 
 time governed by a count. Some trace her 
 origin to the court of Constantinople, and 
 others to the kingdom of Germany. You will 
 perceive that our poet has embraced this last 
 opinion. In the romance, Flores, king of Hun 
 gary, is father of Bertha of the Great Feet. 
 This Flores himself and his wife Blanche- 
 fleurs are the hero and heroine of another
 
 Ancient French Romances 7 
 
 celebrated poem of the Middle Ages, and 
 their adventures, badly enough analyzed in 
 one of the numbers of the Bibliothcque des 
 Romans, seem to have been put into rhyme 
 before those of Queen Bertha their daughter. 
 
 Thus, it appears that Bertha can boast her 
 statuaries as well as her poets ; but whilst 
 the former have given to her countenance a 
 marked and striking character, the latter, by 
 recording her touching misfortunes, have only 
 followed the beaten path, and added another 
 delicate flower to that poetic wreath, which 
 was woven in the heroic ages of our history. 
 The poem of Bertha is one of the series of 
 " Romances of the Twelve Peers." It belongs 
 to the number of those great epic composi 
 tions, whose origin is incontestably linked 
 to the cradle of the modern languages, and 
 whose subjects are always borrowed from our 
 old national traditions. 
 
 Until the present day, both critics and an 
 tiquaries have neglected to examine these sin 
 gular creations of the human mind. Even 
 those who have been wise enough to avail 
 themselves of them in the composition of 
 their learned works, have gone no farther 
 than to make such extracts as would throw
 
 8 Drift-Wood 
 
 light upon the subjects of heraldry or phi 
 lology, hardly bestowing a passing glance 
 upon those questions of manners and litera 
 ture which they might suggest, enlighten, 
 and perhaps resolve. It is strange that the 
 press should have been so busy in giving to 
 the world the Fabliaux, which lay buried in 
 our vast libraries, and yet should never have 
 preserved from the most unmerited oblivion a 
 single one of these ancient epics ! If by a 
 catastrophe, improbable, yet not impossible, 
 the Royal Cabinet of Manuscripts should be 
 destroyed, nothing of our old heroic poetry 
 would remain but a few shreds scattered here 
 and there through the " Glossary" of Ducange 
 and the " History of Lorraine " by Dom Cal- 
 met. Such a loss would indeed be immense 
 and irreparable to those who wish, even at this 
 distant period, to study the manners and cus 
 toms of our ancestors. 
 
 Perhaps, then, I may justly claim some right 
 to the thanks of the friends of letters for this 
 attempt to preserve and perpetuate the "Ro 
 mances of the Twelve Peers of France." I 
 now commence the series of these publica 
 tions with Bcrte aus Grans Pi/s. In selecting 
 this poem of the minstrel-king Adenes, I have
 
 Ancient French Romances 9 
 
 been guided by the consideration, that, in or 
 der to gain readers for our ancient poets, it 
 would be necessary to commence, not with 
 the most beautiful, but with the shortest, and 
 the least encumbered with philological diffi 
 culties. And again, the romance of Bertha, 
 however inferior it may be to some of the 
 longer romances of the twelfth century, as, 
 for example, Raoul de Cambrai, Guillaume au 
 Court Nez, or Garin de Loherain, nevertheless 
 possesses the most lively interest for readers 
 of the present age. Besides, as its subject is 
 drawn from the close of the reign of Pepin- 
 le-Bref, it has the advantage of commencing 
 that series of historic paintings, of which the 
 eighth and ninth centuries are the frame. 
 
 And now I will venture a few reflections 
 upon the structure of all these great works, 
 which I would willingly call our French 
 Epics, had it not been decided, since the 
 days of Ron sard, Chapelain, and Voltaire, 
 that the French have no genius for epic 
 poetry, and had not the word Epic, which 
 always recalls the Iliad of Homer, been of 
 late so much abused. But in thus submit 
 ting my opinions to your judgment, I feel 
 myself bound to advance nothing either in-
 
 io Drift- Wood 
 
 correct or imaginary. Besides, I am well 
 aware that at length we have become quite 
 weary of those long and admirable theories, 
 to which nothing is wanting but proof. All 
 mine will be found in the works concerning 
 which I now write to you, and which I intend 
 to publish in succession, if leisure and the fa 
 vor of the public permit. 
 
 Independently of sacred subjects, the early 
 French poets or Trouvtres of the Middle Ages 
 possessed three distinct sources of inspiration ; 
 the traditions of classic antiquity, of the Brit 
 ons, and of the French. All the chief com 
 positions in the vulgar tongue, down to the 
 thirteenth century, may be traced back to one 
 of these three sources. 
 
 To the first belong the numerous poems 
 of Alexander the Great, Philip of Macedon, 
 ^Eneas, the valiant Hector, Jason, and The 
 seus. But this class of traditions has. lost 
 all its value, through our study of the ele 
 ments of ancient history. In proportion as 
 we have been farther removed from antiquity, 
 we have become better acquainted with it. 
 The writers of the Middle Ages were all 
 more or less the dupes of the simplicity of 
 their own times ; they could never compre-
 
 Ancient French Romances 11 
 
 hend the distinction between the fictions of 
 the poets of the historic ages, and the nar 
 ratives of prose-writers. And hence, blend 
 ing the most marvellous tales with the more 
 authentic events of history, they have made of 
 the records of antiquity a confused picture, 
 totally destitute of every kind of perspective. 
 We can derive no possible advantage, then, 
 from their undiscriminating imitations ; and 
 their simple credulity, exercised alike towards 
 Ovid and Cornelius Nepos, soon becomes in 
 supportable. 
 
 The traditions of the Britons, however, are 
 full of lively interest. The romances of the 
 Round Table, which have sprung from these 
 traditions, refer us back to a glorious epoch in 
 the history of Albion ; an epoch, of which, by 
 some strange fatality, no distinct account has 
 been transmitted to us. All that we can be 
 said to know is, that in the fifth century, whilst 
 Clovis was laying the foundation of the French 
 empire, the Britons, more successful than the 
 Gauls, repulsed the hordes of Picts, Angles, 
 and Saxons who menaced them on all sides. 
 Arthur was then their king. A century later, 
 naving fallen a prey to those fierce barbari 
 ans, the Britons cherished the memory of a
 
 1 2 Drift- Wood 
 
 hero, whose name represented all that a noble- 
 minded people esteems most dear on earth, 
 religion and liberty. Songs of departed glory 
 are the privilege of a conquered people, and 
 prophetic hopes are a consolation seldom want 
 ing to the oppressed. Thus sprang up and 
 multiplied those marvellous tales, which re 
 corded the glory of Arthur, and in which the 
 recollection of former victories was joined to 
 the promise of victories yet to come. Not far 
 from the twelfth century, a priest collected 
 various traditions, and wrought them up into 
 those religious forms in which his zeal prompt 
 ed him to embody them. This collection, origi 
 nally written in Latin, was afterwards trans 
 lated into the vulgar tongue in prose during 
 the reign of Henry the Second, father of Rich 
 ard Cceur de Lion. Erelong it reappeared in 
 a poetic dress in all the modern languages of 
 Europe. Even at the present day the old 
 prose translation would be a work full of 
 pleasant reading. 
 
 Still we cannot hope to trace the footsteps of 
 history in these romances of the Round Table ; 
 for the primitive story is lost amid the multi 
 tude of episodes and embellishments. Except 
 ing the name of the hero, whose deeds they
 
 Ancient French Romances 13 
 
 celebrate, there is nothing I do not say Cel 
 tic, for that would be too indefinite nothing 
 Armoric about them. The heroic valor of King 
 Arthur is displayed throughout ; but it is 
 directed against giants, wild beasts, or the ad 
 versaries of persecuted beauty, and not against 
 the oppressors of his country. His steed is 
 barbed with iron, and we recognize the gallant 
 warrior's shield by its golden crowns in a field 
 of blue ; but his good sword Excalibur seems 
 rather the handiwork of a skilful Norman ar 
 tisan, than of an ancient blacksmith of Ar- 
 morica. Let us not, then, seek in these old 
 romances the history of ages anterior to the 
 Roman, Saxon, or even Norman conquest ; 
 it would be a loss of time and labor. But 
 if we desire only piquant adventures of love 
 and gallantry, fierce sabre-blows, and terrible 
 encounters of Pagans and Christians, we shall 
 find enough to repay the study of this ancient 
 lore ; particularly if we take care to peruse 
 the oldest prose translations. 
 
 We now come to the old romances, which 
 have their source in our national traditions. 
 These are the true standard of our ancient 
 poetry ; for surely you would not pretend, that 
 it could claim a very elevated rank in the his-
 
 H Drift -Wood 
 
 tory of the human mind, if it could boast no 
 other masterpieces than such epics as the 
 Alexandreide or Perceval ; such dramas as the 
 Mysore de Saint Christophe, or even the curi 
 ous and simple pastoral of Robin et Marion, 
 for whose publication we are indebted to you ; 
 and, in fine, such satires as our coarse and 
 vulgar Fabliaux, which (as one of our most 
 profound and erudite scholars has remarked) 
 are generally full of such insipid marvels. Not 
 having sufficiently compared the various pro 
 ductions of the Middle Ages, we have hitherto 
 been in the habit of passing judgment upon 
 them, if I may use the phrase, in the lump, 
 and with a sweeping expression of unlimited 
 praise or censure. Those who have been dis 
 heartened by the " Romance of the Rose," * 
 
 * " Ce est li Rommanz de la Roze 
 
 Ou 1'art d'amors est tote enclose. " 
 
 The " Romance of the Rose " is an allegorical poem of no 
 inconsiderable fame. It was commenced about the middle of 
 the thirteenth century by Guillaume de Lorris, and completed 
 nearly a half-century later by Jean de Meun. The bitter sar 
 casms against the corruption and hypocrisy of the priesthood 
 contained in this Romaunt drew upon it and its authors the 
 anathemas of the clergy. A certain Gerson, then Chancellor 
 of Paris, writes thus of Meun and his book : " There is one 
 Johannes Meldinensis, who wrote a book called ' The Ro 
 maunt of the Rose ' ; which book, if I only had, and that
 
 Ancient French Romances 1 S 
 
 or the " Tales of Barbazan," * can discover 
 nothing in our ancient literature but a con 
 fused mass of coarse and tedious fictions. To 
 others, whom a more superficial study of the 
 classics has rendered more indulgent in their 
 opinions, these same productions appear in a 
 far different light, possessing a grace, a charm, 
 a simplicity, that no language can describe ; 
 nay, the very sight of a manuscript blotted 
 with ink of the fourteenth century is enough 
 to excite their enthusiasm. Midway between 
 these two contending parties, and on the field 
 which you have trodden before them, all ju 
 dicious critics will hereafter pitch their tents. 
 True, it is painful thus to annoy the doughty 
 champions of the ancient Muse of France ; 
 but the love of the Middle Ages bears an en 
 chanter's wand, and leads its votaries blind- 
 there were no more in the world, if I might have five hundred 
 pound for the same, I would rather burn it than take the 
 money." About the middle of the fourteenth centuiy the 
 " Romance of the Rose " was translated into English by 
 Chaucer, under the title of "The Romaunt of the Rose ; or 
 the Art of Love ; wherein is showed the helpes and further 
 ances, and also the lets and impediments that lovers have in 
 their suits." TR. 
 
 * Fabliaux et Contes des Poetes Fra^ois des XI., XII., 
 XIII., XIV. et XV. Siecles, tires des Meilleurs Auteursr 
 oublies par Barbazan. 4 vols. 8vo. TR.
 
 16 Drift -Wood 
 
 fold ; and I fear, that if, like them, we should 
 proclaim the merit of so many productions, 
 composed by ignorant mountebanks to amuse 
 the populace, we should give occasion for the 
 belief, that we are incapable of appreciating 
 the full value of those great poems, which 
 were destined to charm the most brilliant as 
 semblies, and grace the most magnificent fes 
 tivals. 
 
 The same remark is true of the Middle 
 Ages, as of our own, and of every age. If 
 the state of society is shadowed forth in its 
 literature, then this literature must necessari 
 ly represent two distinct and strongly marked 
 characters ; one, of the castle and the court ; 
 another, of the middle classes and the popu 
 lace ; the former, elegant, harmonious, and 
 delicate ; the latter, rude, grotesque, and vul 
 gar. Each of these classes has its own pecu 
 liar merits ; but our manuscripts, by presenting 
 them to us united, sometimes in the same vol 
 ume, and always upon the same shelves of our 
 libraries, have led us insensibly into the habit 
 of confounding the manners of the court with 
 those of the city. Hence great prejudices 
 have arisen against the purity of some of our 
 most estimable writers, and against the refine-
 
 Ancient French Romances 17 
 
 ment of society in those ages in which they 
 were admired. Hence, too, all the difficulties 
 which later historians have encountered, when, 
 before classifying their authorities, they have 
 sought to examine anew the manners and cus 
 toms of an age. 
 
 But the desire of proving that even in the 
 twelfth century there was a refined and pol 
 ished class in society, would lead me too far 
 from my original design, and I will therefore 
 resist the temptation. I would only ask those 
 whom the love of a native land they do know 
 has too strongly prejudiced against that other 
 and earlier native land they do not know, to 
 cast their eyes for a moment upon some no 
 ble monument of Gothic architecture ; for ex 
 ample, upon the cathedral of Rheims. When 
 they have contemplated this " Pantheon of our 
 glory," as a writer of our own day has appro 
 priately called it, let them ask themselves 
 whether those ages which conceived the de 
 sign and completed the construction of that 
 noble edifice, ignorant as they were of Homer, 
 Cicero, and Quinctilian, must not have pos 
 sessed a native literature worthy, in some de 
 gree, of such a stupendous style of architec 
 ture ? What ! Villehardouin, Joinville, Philip
 
 1 8 Drift -Wood 
 
 Augustus, and Saint Louis ignorant of all 
 other poetry but the burlesque proverbs of 
 Marcon, the superstitious reveries of Gautier 
 de Coinsy, and the indecent profanities of 
 such writers as Rutebeuf and Jean de Cond6 ! 
 Were it true it would not be probable, and, in 
 such a case, we must say that Gothic architec 
 ture is an effect without a cause, prolem sine 
 matre creatam. 
 
 But it is not true. We possessed in former 
 times great epic poems, which, for four centu 
 ries, constituted the principal study of our 
 fathers. And during that period all Europe, 
 Germany, England, Spain, and Italy, hav 
 ing nothing of the kind to boast of, either in 
 their historic recollections or in their historic 
 records, disputed with each other the second 
 ary glory of translating and imitating them. 
 
 Even amid the darkness of the ninth and 
 tenth centuries, the French still preserved 
 the recollection of an epoch of great national 
 glory. Under Charlemagne, they had spread 
 their conquests from the Oder to the Ebro, 
 from the Baltic to the Sicilian sea. Mussul 
 mans and Pagans, Saxons, Lombards, Bava 
 rians, and Batavians, all had submitted to 
 the yoke of France, all had trembled at the
 
 Ancient French Romances 19 
 
 power of Charles the Great. Emperor of the 
 West, King of France and Germany, restorer 
 of the arts and sciences, wise lawgiver, great 
 converter of infidels, how many titles to the 
 recollection and gratitude of posterity ! Add 
 to this, that long before his day the Franks 
 were in the habit of treasuring up in their 
 memory the exploits of their ancestors ; that 
 Charlemagne himself, during his reign, caused 
 all the heroic ballads, which celebrated the 
 glory of the nation, to be collected together ; 
 and, in fine, that the weakness of his succes 
 sors, the misfortunes of the times, and the in 
 vasions of the Normans must have increased 
 the national respect and veneration for the 
 illustrious dead, and you will be forced to 
 confess that, if no poetic monuments of the 
 ninth century remained, we ought rather to 
 conjecture that they had been lost, than that 
 they had never existed. 
 
 As to the contemporaneous history of those 
 times, it offers us, if I may so speak, only the 
 outline of this imposing colossus. Read the 
 Annals of the Abbey of Fulde and those of 
 Metz, Paul the Deacon, the continuator of 
 Frede"gaire, and even Eginhart himself, and 
 you will there find registered, in the rapid
 
 20 Drift-Wood 
 
 style of an itinerary, the multiplied conquests 
 of the French. The Bavarians, the Lombards, 
 the Gascons revolt ; Charles goes forth to 
 subdue the Bavarians, the Lombards, and the 
 Gascons. Witikind rebels ten times, and ten 
 times Charles passes the Rhine and routs the 
 insurgent army ; and there the history ends. 
 Nevertheless, the Emperor had his generals, 
 his companions in glory, his rivals in genius ; 
 but in all history we find not a whisper of 
 their services, hardly are their names men 
 tioned. It has been left to the popular ballads, 
 barren as they are of all historic authority, to 
 transmit to posterity the proofs of their ancient 
 renown. 
 
 But although these ancient Chansons de 
 Geste, or historic ballads, fill up the chasms of 
 true history, and clothe with flesh the meagre 
 skeleton of old contemporaneous chroniclers, 
 yet you must not therefore conclude that I 
 am prepared to maintain the truth of their 
 narratives. Far from it. Truth does not reign 
 supreme on earth ; and these romances, after 
 all, are only the expression of public opinion, 
 separated by an interval of many generations 
 from that whose memory they transmit to us. 
 But to supply the want of historians, each
 
 Ancient French Romances 21 
 
 great epoch in national history inspires the 
 song of bards ; and when the learned and the 
 wise neglect to prepare the history of events 
 which they themselves have witnessed, the 
 people prepare their national songs ; their so 
 norous voice, prompted by childish credulity 
 and a free and unlimited admiration, echoes 
 alone through succeeding ages, and kindles 
 the imagination, the feelings, the enthusiasm 
 of the children, by proclaiming the glory of 
 the fathers. Thus Homer sang two centuries 
 after the Trojan war ; and thus arose, two or 
 three centuries after the death of Charle 
 magne, all those great poems called the " Ro 
 mances of the Twelve Peers." 
 
 And now let us suppose for a moment, that, 
 after the lapse of two centuries, the mirror of 
 history should reflect nothing of the reign of 
 Napoleon, but the majestic figure of the con 
 queror himself, and a chronological list of his 
 victories and defeats. Then the exploits of 
 his marshals and the deeds of his high digni 
 taries would excite the suspicion and the scep 
 ticism of the historian ; but then, too, would 
 songs and popular ballads proclaim loudly, not 
 the final treason of Murat, but his chivalrous 
 gallantry ; they would repeat the pretended
 
 22 Drift -Wood 
 
 death of Cambronne, and the odious crimes 
 with which the people so blindly charge M. 
 de Raguse. Nor would a Roland and a 
 Ganelon suffice ; around the new Charle 
 magne would be grouped another warlike 
 Almoner, another prudent Duke Naimes. 
 Such, were history silent, would be outlines 
 of the poetic tale ; and our children would 
 easily supply the coloring. 
 
 To return to the Romances of the Twelve 
 Peers. They recommend themselves equally 
 to the admiration of the poet, and to the at 
 tention of the antiquary. Whilst the former 
 will be astonished at the unity of the plots, 
 the connection of the episodes, the interest of 
 the stories, and the originality of the descrip 
 tions they contain, the latter will find new 
 light thrown by them upon the ancient topog 
 raphy of France, upon the date of many ven 
 erable structures, and upon the history of an 
 infinite number of cities, fiefs, chateaux, and 
 seigniories. When these singular productions 
 shall appear in the broad daylight of the press, 
 then shall we see France enveloped in a bright 
 poetic glory, new and unexpected. And, on 
 the other hand, what an ample field will then 
 be laid open for new doubts concerning our
 
 Ancient French Romances 23 
 
 ancient jurisprudence, our ancient political 
 constitution, and the nature of the feudal sys 
 tem, so complicated in modern theory, but so 
 natural in its origin and so simple in its form ! 
 In the writings of our old romancers, the feu 
 dal system is embodied ; it moves, acts, speaks, 
 battles ; now with the monarch at its head, it 
 is present at the tilts and tournaments, and 
 now it discusses the affairs of state ; now it 
 suffers penalties, and now cries aloud for ven 
 geance. I assert, then, without fear of contra 
 diction, that, in order to become thoroughly 
 acquainted with the history of the Middle 
 Ages, I do not mean the bare history of 
 facts, but of the manners and customs which 
 render those facts probable, we must study 
 it in the pages of old romance ; and this is 
 the reason why the history of France is yet 
 unwritten. 
 
 Hitherto the fate of these great works has 
 been a singular one. I have already remarked, 
 that for the space of four hundred years, that 
 is from the eleventh to the fifteenth century, 
 they constituted almost the only literature of 
 our ancestors. Immediately afterward foreign 
 nations took possession of them ; first the Ger 
 mans, and next the Italians ; and it would
 
 24 Drift -Wood 
 
 seem, that, in thus relinquishing them to our 
 neighbors, we have had some scruples as to 
 the propriety of retaining even so much as the 
 memory of them. Thus by slow degrees they 
 have quite disappeared from our literature. 
 The renown, however, of the enchanting fic 
 tions of Pulci and Ariosto gave birth to a few 
 lifeless and paltry imitations ; only one point 
 was forgotten, and that was to have recourse 
 to the old Gallic originals. But, alas ! what 
 was ancient France, her history, her manners, 
 and her literature, to a class of writers who 
 only dreamed of reviving once more the ages 
 of Rome and Athens, and who, in their strange 
 hallucination, hoped to persuade the people to 
 suppress all rhyme in their songs, and to sup 
 ply its place by dactyls and anapests. 
 
 This exclusive love of classic antiquity ac 
 quired new force during the whole of the sev 
 enteenth century : so that no one thought of 
 contradicting Boileau, when he so carelessly 
 called Villon 
 
 " The first who, in those rude, unpolished times, 
 Cleared the dark mystery of our ancient rhymes. " 
 
 In the eighteenth century a kind of conser 
 vative instinct seemed to bring our men of 
 letters back to the productions of the Middle
 
 Ancient French Romances 25 
 
 Ages ; but by their anxiety to remove all philo 
 logical difficulties from the old romances, they 
 have retarded the time when these poems shall 
 be as universally read among us, as the Ro- 
 manceros are in Spain, and Dante and Boccac 
 cio in Italy. The imitations of Tressan and 
 Caylus had their day ; but as these produc 
 tions were tricked out to suit the fashion of 
 the age, they disappeared with the fashion 
 which gave them birth. 
 
 But the moment seems at length to have 
 arrived when these ancient poems shall be 
 raised from the dead. A desire to know more 
 of the earliest monuments of modern literature 
 is at length manifesting itself among us ; and 
 before the expiration of ten years, it is probable 
 that the most important of these works will 
 have emerged, so to speak, into the perpetual 
 light of the press. 
 
 One word concerning the metre of these po 
 ems. They were written to be sung ; and this 
 is one point of resemblance observable between 
 the old Greek rhapsodies and the heroic ballads 
 of France. Doubtless the music of these poems 
 was solemn and monotonous, like that of our 
 devotional chants, or those village songs, whose 
 final notes mark the recommencement of the
 
 26 Drift- Wood 
 
 tune. The ancient ballad of Count Orri is a 
 piece of this kind ; and so also is the burlesque 
 description of the death of Malbrouk, if you 
 suppress the refrain.* This kind of music 
 strikes the ear agreeably, though its cadence 
 is monotonous ; in proof of which I appeal to 
 all our recollections of childhood. 
 
 In these old romances, as in the song to 
 which I have just alluded, the verse is mono- 
 rhythmic, and the metre either pentameter or 
 Alexandrine. As these poems were written to 
 be sung, it is evident that the pause or rest 
 would naturally come after the fourth syllable 
 in pentameter lines, and after the sixth in Al- 
 exandrines.f Nor is this all. This necessary 
 rest in the middle of the line gave the poet an 
 
 * Though this song is certainly well enough known, yet it 
 may be necessary to quote a few lines in proof of my asser 
 tion. It will be seen that the measure is Alexandrine, and 
 the verse monorhytkmic* 
 
 " Madame a sa tour monte, si haut qu'el peut monter, 
 Elle aperfoit son page de noir tout habille. 
 ' Beau page, mon beau page, quel' nouvelle a ortes ? ' 
 ' La nouvell' que j'aporte, vos beaux yeux vont pleurer ; 
 Monsieur Malbrough est mort, est mort et enterre,' " etc. 
 
 t To this rest, which was absolutely essential to the mu 
 sical accompaniment, we can trace back the use of the hemi 
 stich, which is still preserved by the French, though all othei 
 modern nations have abandoned it.
 
 Ancient French Romances 27 
 
 opportunity of introducing at the close of the 
 hemistich an unaccented syllable, as at the 
 end of the feminine rhymes of the present 
 day. 
 
 After an attentive examination of our an 
 cient literature, it is impossible to doubt for a 
 moment, that the old monorhythmic romances 
 were set to music, and accompanied by a viol, 
 harp, or guitar ; and yet this seems hitherto to 
 have escaped observation. In the olden time 
 no one was esteemed a good minstrel, whose 
 memory was not stored with a great number 
 of historic ballads, like those of Ronccsvalles, 
 Garin de Loherain, and Gerars de Roussillon. 
 It is not to be supposed that any one of these 
 poems was ever recited entire ; but as the 
 greater part of them contained various de 
 scriptions of battles, hunting adventures, and 
 marriages, scenes of the court, the council, 
 and the castle, the audience chose those stan 
 zas and episodes which best suited their taste. 
 And this is the reason why each stanza con 
 tains in itself a distinct and complete narra 
 tive, and also why the closing lines of each 
 stanza are in substance repeated at the com 
 mencement of that which immediately suc 
 ceeds.
 
 28 Drift-Wood 
 
 In the poem of Gerars de Nevers I find the 
 following curious passage. Gerars, betrayed 
 by his mistress and stripped of his earldom of 
 Nevers by the Duke of Metz, determines to 
 revisit his ancient domains. To avoid detec 
 tion and arrest, he is obliged to assume the 
 guise of a minstrel. 
 
 " Then Gerars donned a garment old, 
 And round his neck a viol hung, 
 
 For cunningly he played and sung 
 
 Steed he had none ; so he was fain 
 To trudge on foot o'er hill and plain, 
 Till Nevers' gate he stood before. 
 There merry burghers full a score, 
 . Staring, exclaimed in pleasant mood : 
 ' This minstrel cometh for little good ; 
 I ween, if he singeth all day long, 
 No one will listen to his song. ' " 
 
 In spite of these unfavorable prognostics, 
 Gerars presents himself before the castle oi 
 the Duke of Metz. 
 
 " Whilst at the door he thus did wait, 
 A knight came through the courtyard gate, 
 Who bade the minstrel enter straight, 
 And led him to the crowded hall, 
 That he might play before them all. 
 The minstrel then full soon began, 
 In gesture like an aged man, 
 But with clear voice and music gay, 
 The song of Guillaume au Cornez.
 
 Ancient French Romances 29 
 
 Great was the court in the hall of Loon, 
 The tables were full of fowl and venison, 
 On flesh and fish they feasted every one ; 
 But Guillaume of these viands tasted none, 
 Brown crusts ate he, and water drank alone. 
 When had feasted every noble baron, 
 The cloths were removed by squire and scullion. 
 Count Guillaume then with the king did thus reason : 
 ' What thinketh now, ' quoth he, ' the gallant Charlon?* 
 Will he aid me against the prowess of Mahon ? ' 
 Quoth Loeis, ' We will take counsel thereon, 
 To-morrow in the morning shalt thou conne, 
 If aught by us in this matter can be done.' 
 Guillaume heard this, black was he as carbon, 
 He louted low, and seized a baton, 
 And said to the king, ' Of your fief will I none, 
 I will not keep so much as a spur's iron ; 
 Your friend and vassal I cease to be anon ; 
 But come you shall, whether you will or non.' 
 Thus full four verses sang the knight, 
 For their great solace and delight." 
 
 Observe the expression "full four verses," 
 which very evidently means four stanzas or 
 couplets. 
 
 Thus, then, we may consider the fact as well 
 established, that the old romances were sung ; 
 and that hence there was a good reason for di 
 viding them into monorhyme stanzas. 
 
 And thus, too, we discover the reason why 
 
 * Charlemagne.
 
 30 Drift- Wood 
 
 these romances were called chansons, or songs, 
 and why they generally commenced with some 
 such expressions as the following : 
 
 " Good song, my lords, will it please you to hear ? . . ." 
 
 " Listen, lordlings, to a merry song ..." 
 
 " Historic song, and of marvellous renown ..." 
 
 We shall no longer look for the famous 
 Chanson de Roland or de Roncevaux in some 
 forgotten page of our ancient manuscripts ; 
 nor shall we longer insist upon its having the 
 brevity, the form, and even the accustomed 
 burden of the modern ballad. We shall now 
 be content with a reference to the manu 
 scripts entitled Li Romans, or La Chansons de 
 Roncevals, which can be easily found in the 
 Royal Library; and after having read them, 
 we shall no longer believe that this precious 
 monument of our national traditions and liter 
 ature has forever perished. 
 
 It is because we have not already done this, 
 that we have always interpreted so incorrectly 
 the passage in the romance of the Brut* where 
 
 * The original of this romance was an ancient chronicle 
 entitled Bruty Brenhined, or Brutus of Brittany, written in the 
 old Armoric dialect, and first brought into England at the 
 commencement of the twelfth century by Walter or Gualter, 
 Archdeacon of Oxford. It was given by him to Geoffrey o>
 
 Ancient French Romances 31 
 
 the author, after enumerating the army of Wil 
 liam the Conqueror, adds : 
 
 " Taillefer, who sung full well, I wot, 
 Mounted on steed that was swift of foot, 
 Went forth before the armed train 
 Singing of Roland and Charlemain, 
 Of Oliver and the brave vassals, 
 Who died at the pass of Roncesvals. " 
 
 Monmouth, a Benedictine monk, who translated it into Latin 
 prose. Afterwards, by the order of Henry II. of England, it 
 was translated into French verse by Robert Wace, under the 
 title of Le Brut d ' 'Engleterre. From this romance originated 
 the Romances of King Arthur and the Round Table. The 
 following quaint notice of this old chronicle is from the pen of 
 an English writer of the sixteenth century. 
 
 " Among our owne ancient chronicles, John of Wetham- 
 sted, Abbot of S. Alban, holdeth the whole narration of Brute 
 to be rather poeticall, than historicall, which me thinkes, is 
 
 agreable to reason The first that ever broached it 
 
 was Geffry of Monmoth aboute foure hundred yeares agoe, 
 during the raigne of Henry the Second, who, publishing the 
 Brittish story in Latine, pretended to have taken it out of 
 ancient monuments written in the Brittish tongue : but this 
 booke, as soone as it peeped forth into the light, was sharply 
 censured both by Giraldus Cambrensis, and William of New- 
 berry who lived at the same time, the former tearming it no 
 better than Fabulosam histortam, a fabulous history, and the 
 latter, Ridicule figmenta, ridiculous fictions, and it now stands 
 branded with a blacke cole among the bookes prohibited by 
 the Church of Rome." An Apologie of the Power and 
 Providence of God in the Government of the World, p. 8. 
 TR.
 
 32 Drift-Wood 
 
 We formerly thought, with the Due de 
 la Valliere, that some short ballad was here 
 spoken of; and M. de Chateaubriand was the 
 first to suspect the truth, when he said, "This 
 ballad must still exist somewhere in the ro 
 mance of Oliver, which was formerly preserved 
 in the Royal Library." The whole truth is 
 that the Chanson de Roncevaux exists nowhere 
 but in the Chanson de Roncevaux. 
 
 Hitherto, by way of excuse for not reading 
 these old romances, it has been fashionable to 
 load them with all kinds of censure. It may 
 not be amiss to examine some of the charges 
 brought against them. 
 
 It has been said that they contain nothing 
 but ridiculous and incredible adventures ; that 
 these adventures are all founded upon a pre 
 tended journey of Charlemagne to Jerusalem ; 
 and that they are a copy or a paraphrase of 
 that absurd and insipid history of Charle^ 
 magne attributed to the Archbishop Turpin. 
 Consequently their date is fixed no earlier 
 than the close of the twelfth or the com 
 mencement of the thirteenth century. But 
 these opinions will not bear a very rigid scru 
 tiny. 
 
 Those who urge the improbability of the
 
 Ancient French Romances 33 
 
 adventures contained in these writings, con 
 found together two classes of works, which 
 have no kind of connection, that is to say, 
 the old traditions of Brittany, and the ancient 
 heroic ballads of France. The former, indeed, 
 founded upon the marvels of the Saint Graal* 
 contain nothing but strange and miraculous 
 adventures ; but the Romances of the Twelve 
 Peers contain a continued narrative, the more 
 probable in its detail, inasmuch as these ro 
 mances belong to a period of greater antiqui 
 ty. The impossible forms no part of their 
 plan, and Lucan is not more sparing of the 
 marvellous than the first poets who sang the 
 praises of Roland and Guillaume an Comes. 
 Nay, if any one should compare the details of 
 the lives of our ancient kings, as they are de 
 scribed in the Chronicle of Saint-Denis, and 
 in our oldest romances, he would soon be per- 
 
 * The Saint Graal was the dish in which Joseph of 
 Arimathea is said to have caught the blood which flowed 
 from the Saviour's wounds, when he embalmed the body. 
 According to the traditions of old romance, he afterwards 
 carried it to Great Britain, where he made use of it in con 
 verting the inhabitants to Christianity, or, as it is expressed 
 in the Romance of Tristan, ''''pour la terre susdite peupler 
 de bonne gent.' 1 '' It figures in all the romances of the Round 
 Table. TR.
 
 34 Drift- Wood 
 
 suaded that the latter have incontestably the 
 advantage in point of probability. 
 
 The second charge is equally ill-founded. 
 I am well aware, that the antiquarians of the 
 last century discovered a legend describing the 
 journey of Charlemagne to the Holy Land ; I 
 am equally well aware, that in addition to this 
 there exists a very ancient romance, whose 
 subject is the conquest of a part of the Gre 
 cian empire by Charlemagne, and his pilgrim 
 age to Jerusalem. But it is very unfair to 
 conclude from this, that all the romances of 
 the Twelve Peers have the same chimerical 
 foundation ; for the only one which treats of 
 the war in the East was first discovered by 
 the Abb6 de la Rue, not in France, but in the 
 British Museum. With regard to the other 
 monorhythmic romances, far from being found 
 ed on the same event, the greater part of them 
 do not even belong to the age of Charlemagne. 
 Thus, Gerars de Rotissillon, of which nothing 
 now remains but an imitation of a later date, 
 records the wars of Charles Martel ; Garin le 
 Loherain, Girbert, and Berte aus Grans Pi/s 
 embrace the reign of P6pin-le-Bref ; Raoul de 
 Cambray, Guillaume au Cornez, Gerars de Ne- 
 vers, transport us to the days of Louis-le-De"-
 
 Ancient French Romances 35 
 
 bonnaire ; and others refer back to the age of 
 Charles-le-Chauve. Of the poems which em 
 brace the age of Charlemagne, the most an 
 cient and authentic are the following : Agolant, 
 or the expulsion of the Saracens from Italy ; 
 Jean de Lanson, or the Lombard war ; 
 Guiteclin de Sassoigne, or the wars of Saxony 
 against Witikind ; Les Quatre Fils Aymon 
 and Girard de Vianne, or the wars of Au- 
 vergne and Dauphiny ; and Ogicr le Danois 
 and Roncevaux, or the expedition to Spain. 
 In all these there is not one word about Jeru 
 salem, not even so much as an allusion to 
 that chimerical pilgrimage. We must not, 
 then, condemn these romances, because " they 
 are all founded on the pretended journey of 
 Charlemagne to Jerusalem." 
 
 I now come to the last charge. And are 
 the " Romances of the Twelve Peers " a para 
 phrase of the chronicle of Turpin, and conse 
 quently of a later date than this chronicle ? 
 
 All your friends are well aware that you 
 have been long engaged in preparing a val 
 uable edition of the work of the Archbishop 
 of Rheims. You have consulted the various 
 manuscripts, and the numerous translations of 
 this work ; you have compared the most cor-
 
 36 Drift- Wood 
 
 rect texts and the most ancient readings. It 
 is then for you to decide, whether our ancient 
 poems, being only an imitation of this chroni 
 cle, are to be dated no farther back than the 
 thirteenth, or, at farthest, than the twelfth cen 
 tury. And if I venture to offer you, in antici 
 pation of your judgment, my own imperfect 
 views upon this subject, I am urged to this 
 step by the conviction, that my researches, 
 though far less enlightened than your own, 
 will notwithstanding coincide with them. 
 
 The author of this chronicle, whoever he 
 may be, is very far from having made good 
 the title of his work, De Vitd et Gestis Caroli 
 Magni. With the exception of a few sen 
 tences which are bestowed upon the first ex 
 ploits and upon the death of Charlemagne, 
 the whole work is taken up in describing the 
 crusade against the Saracens of Spain, and 
 the defeat of the French rear-guard near Ron- 
 cesvalles. According to the chronicler, the 
 true motive of this expedition was a dream, 
 in which Saint James commanded the Em 
 peror to go and rescue his precious relics from 
 the hands of the Saracens. In return for this, 
 the Saint promised him victory on earth and 
 paradise in heaven. The first care of Charle-
 
 Ancient French Romances 37 
 
 magne was, therefore, to build churches to 
 Saint James, and to honor his relics. Not 
 withstanding all this, his rear-guard, as every 
 body knows, was cut to pieces ; but this, 
 according to the same chronicler, was the 
 fault of the French themselves, who were en 
 ticed from their duty by the allurements of 
 the Moorish maidens. At all events, he de 
 clares that Charlemagne would have been 
 damned after death, had it not been for the 
 great number of churches which he built or 
 endowed. 
 
 This brief analysis of the famous chronicle 
 affords us a glimpse of its design. The au 
 thor was, without doubt, a monk ; and Geof 
 frey, Prior of Saint-Andre"-de-Vienne, who first 
 brought it from Spain, was living in the year 
 1092. Until that time, the very existence of 
 that legend was unknown in France ; and 
 there can be little doubt, that even the pro 
 tection of the monk of Dauphiny would not 
 have rescued it from the obscurity into which 
 all the pious frauds of the same kind have so 
 justly fallen, had it not been for the infallible 
 recommendation, which Pope Calixtus II., for 
 merly Archbishop of Vienne, let fall upon it 
 from the height of his pontifical throne. But
 
 38 Drift-Wood 
 
 after all, the Holy Father never declared that 
 this chronicle gave birth to the old French ro 
 mances ; and we may therefore, with all due 
 respect to his decision, maintain that .the great 
 er part of these romances are anterior in date 
 to the chronicle. 
 
 Indeed, who does not perceive, that, if free 
 scope had been given to the pious chronicler, 
 if he had not been restrained by the neces 
 sity of adapting his work to the exigency of 
 traditions generally adopted, he would have 
 omitted the defeat at Roncesvalles, which so 
 unfortunately deranges the promises made to 
 Charlemagne by Monseigneur Saint Jacques ? 
 
 But there are other proofs even more incon 
 testable than these. In the epistle which the 
 Prior of Vienne wrote to the clergy of Limoges 
 when he sent them the chronicle of Turpin, he 
 observes that he had been the more anxious to 
 procure the work from Spain, because that, pre 
 vious to that time, the expedition of Charle 
 magne was known in France by the songs of 
 the Troubadours only. It would seem, then, 
 that these Troubadours, or Jongleurs, did not 
 wait for the inspiration of the Spanish legend 
 in order to enable them to celebrate the ex 
 ploits of Roland, and to sing the sad but glo 
 rious day of Roncesvalles.
 
 Ancient French Romances 39 
 
 In the course of this miserable monkish 
 chronicle, the fictitious Turpin happens to 
 name the principal leaders of the army of 
 Charlemagne. In doing this he confounds, 
 with the most singular ignorance, the poetic 
 heroes of different generations; as, for exam 
 ple, Garin le Loherain and Oliver, the former 
 of whom lived at the commencement of the 
 reign of Pe"pin, and the latter in the last years 
 of l^ie reign of Charlemagne. On the same 
 occasion he speaks of the valiant Ogier le Da- 
 nois, who, says he, did such marvels " that his 
 praise is sung in ballads even down to the 
 present day." The Chansons of Roland and of 
 Ogier, which are still preserved, are not, then, 
 mere imitations of the legend of Turpin. 
 
 I feel that all further proof would be super 
 fluous. Still, I cannot refrain from mention 
 ing the fact, that this Turpin, whom the forger 
 of these writings has transformed into an his 
 torian, far from being cited in the Chanson de 
 Roland as the guarantee of the circumstances 
 accompanying the death of this Paladin, ex 
 pires covered with wounds some time before 
 the death of Roland. But in the chronicle, 
 which was made for and by the monks, and 
 with the simple design of exciting the zeal of
 
 40 Drift-Wood 
 
 the pilgrims to the shrine of Saint James, Tur- 
 pin appears only in order to confess the dying, 
 and afterwards to carry to Charlemagne the 
 story of the disastrous defeat. Surely, if the 
 poets had followed this chronicle, and had 
 taken it, as has been pretended, for the foun 
 dation of their poems, they would have rep 
 resented the good Archbishop in the same 
 manner in which he has represented himself. 
 And if his testimony had been of any impor 
 tance in their opinion, as it was in that of all 
 the annalists of the twelfth and thirteenth cen 
 turies, they surely would not have begun by 
 entirely overthrowing the authority of this tes 
 timony. 
 
 The following is the description given in the 
 famous Chanson de Roland of the death of Tur- 
 pin. I have praised these ancient poems so 
 highly, that I might be accused of prejudice in 
 their favor, if I brought forward no quotations 
 to sustain my opinion. 
 
 " The Archbishop, whom God loved in high degree, 
 Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free ; 
 And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan, 
 And a faint shudder through his members ran. 
 Upon the battle-field his knee was bent ; 
 Brave Roland saw, and to his succor went, 
 Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced, 
 And tore the shining hauberk from his breast
 
 Ancient French Romances 4 1 
 
 Then raising in his arms the man of God, 
 
 Gently he laid him on the verdant sod. 
 
 ' Rest, Sire,' he cried, ' for rest thy suffering needs.' 
 
 The priest replied, ' Think but of warlike deeds 1 
 
 The field is ours ; well may we boast this strife ! 
 
 But death steals on, there is no hope of life ; 
 
 In paradise, where Almoners live again, 
 
 There are our couches spread, there shall we rest from pain.' 
 
 Sore Roland grieved ; nor marvel I, alas ! 
 That thrice he swooned upon the thick green grass. 
 When he revived, with a loud voice cried he, 
 ' O Heavenly Father ! Holy Saint Marie ! 
 Why lingers death to lay me in my grave ! 
 Beloved France ! how have the good and brave 
 Been torn from thee, and left thee weak and poor ! ' 
 Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o'er 
 His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow, 
 ' My gentle friend ! what parting full of woe ! 
 Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see ; 
 Whate'er my fate, Christ's benison on thee ! 
 Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath, 
 The Hebrew Prophets from the second death.' 
 Then to the Paladins, whom well he knew, 
 He went, and one by one unaided drew 
 To Turpin's side, well skilled in ghostly lore ; 
 No heart had he to smile, but, weeping sore, 
 He blessed them in God's name, with faith that he 
 Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity. 
 
 ; The Archbishop, then, on whom God's benison rest, 
 Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast ; 
 His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore, 
 And many a wound his swollen visage bore.
 
 42 Drift- Wood 
 
 Slow beats his heart, his panting bosom heaves, 
 Death comes apace, no hope of cure relieves. 
 Towards heaven he raised his dying hands, and prayed 
 That God, who for our sins was mortal made, 
 Born of the Virgin, scorned and crucified, 
 In paradise would place him by his side. 
 
 " Then Turpin died in service of Charlon, 
 In battle great and eke great orison ; 
 'Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion ; 
 God grant to him his holy benison. " * 
 
 One question more remains to be touched 
 upon. To what century do these historic 
 songs, or Romances of the Twelve Peers, be 
 long ? Some have been so sceptical in regard 
 to their antiquity as to fix their date as late as 
 the thirteenth century; let us not fall into 
 the opposite extreme, by referring them back 
 to so early a period as that in which occurred 
 the events they celebrate. But this discussion 
 would demand a more profound erudition, and 
 a more experienced judgment, than I can 
 bring to the task; and above all a more 
 extended view of the whole ground of contro- 
 
 * The stanzas of this extract, like those of the extract from 
 Gerard de Nevers, are monorhythmic. This peculiarity it was 
 not thought necessary to preserve in the translation, as the 
 preceding extract will serve as an example of that kind ol 
 verse. TR.
 
 Ancient French Romances 43 
 
 versy than my present limits allow. Nor shall 
 I ever undertake this task, unless more skil 
 ful critics should be backward in maintaining 
 the good cause ; a supposition which is by no 
 means probable, for on all sides a taste, nay a 
 passion, for these earliest monuments of mod 
 ern literature is springing up. Even before a 
 professorship has been endowed in the College 
 de France, for the purpose of thoroughly investi 
 gating the early stages of the French language, 
 the public welcomes with avidity whatever is 
 thus dug up from the fruitful soil of our an 
 cient country. The mine is hardly open ; 
 and yet every day we hear of the publication 
 of some old manuscript before unknown. Im 
 mediately subsequent to the publication of Le 
 Roman de Renard, appeared under your own 
 auspices our earliest comic opera, Le Jeu de 
 Robin et Marion, and our earliest drama, Le Jeu 
 d' Adam le Bossu d' Arras. M. de Roquefort 
 has presented, as his offering, the poems of 
 Marie de France ; and M. Crapelet, the agree 
 able romance of Le Chdtelain de Coucy. M. F. 
 Michel, not satisfied with having published the 
 romance of Le Comte de Poitiers, is about bring 
 ing forward, with the assistance of an able Ori 
 entalist, a poem entitled Mahomet, which will
 
 44 Drift- Wood 
 
 show us in what light the religion and the per 
 son of the Arab lawgiver were regarded in the 
 East during the thirteenth century. M. Bour- 
 dillon, who has long felt all the historic and 
 literary importance of the Chanson de Ronce- 
 vaux, is now occupied in preparing an edition 
 for the press ; and M. Robert, already favora 
 bly known by his work upon La Fontaine, will 
 soon publish an edition of the fine old romance 
 of Partenopex de Blots. Meanwhile the cele 
 brated M. Raynouard is about completing his 
 Glossaire des Langues Vulgaires ; and the Abbe* 
 de la Rue is superintending the publication of 
 a large work on les Bardes, les Jongleurs, et les 
 Trouveres. Thus the knowledge of our ancient 
 literature develops itself more and more daily ; 
 and thus will arise, if indeed it has not already 
 arisen, a sober and enlightened judgment con 
 cerning the productions of the human mind, 
 during that long period, bounded on one side 
 by antiquity and on the other by the sixteenth 
 century, the epoch of the revival of the arts 
 and sciences. 
 
 The author of the romance of Berte aus 
 Grans Pi/s flourished about the close of the 
 thirteenth century. His name was Adans or 
 Adenes, according to the general custom of
 
 Ancient French Romances 45 
 
 designating an individual indifferently by his 
 patronymic name or by its diminutive. The 
 greater part of the manuscripts give him the 
 surname of Roi, or King ; and M. Roquefort 
 thinks that it was bestowed upon him because 
 one of his poems bore off the palm at a puy 
 d' amour, or Court of Love ; * whilst the learned 
 authors of the Histoire Littifraire de la France 
 suppose that Adenes was indebted for this title 
 to the justice of his contemporaries and to the 
 superiority of his poetic talent. I shall hazard 
 an opinion of my own, which does not conform 
 to either of these. We are acquainted with 
 several Trouveres, whose works obtained prizes 
 in the Puys of Valenciennes or Cambray ; 
 they all took the surname of couronnf, and not 
 that of roi. 
 
 But in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries 
 there was a King of the Minstrels (Roi des 
 Mcnestrels). This pacific sovereign had the 
 
 * The puys d" 1 amour were assemblies in which questions of 
 love and gallantry were discussed in poetry. The name of 
 pity comes from the low Latin podium, " balcony " or "stage," 
 as the poets on these occasions recited their verses from an 
 elevated place. For an account of these Puys or Cours 
 d' Amour, see Roquefort, De la Poesie Franfoise, p. 93. 
 Raynouard, Choix de Pohies des Troubadours, Tom. II. p. 79 
 et seq. TR.
 
 46 Drift-Wood 
 
 direction of the Jongleurs or Troubadours of 
 the court, and I am inclined to think that 
 his duties bore no inconsiderable resemblance 
 to those of a modern leader of an orchestra. 
 To him people addressed themselves, when 
 they wanted a good singer, a good lute-player, 
 or a good harper ; and the King of the Min 
 strels, as the most skilful of all, directed and 
 animated the concert by voice and gesture. 
 Such were probably the prerogatives and func 
 tions of le Rot Adents. 
 
 However this may be, and although no 
 one can doubt, on running over the names of 
 his numerous and illustrious protectors, that 
 Adenes enjoyed a high reputation as Trouvere 
 and minstrel, yet I do not find that any con 
 temporary writer makes mention of him. It is 
 true, that in one of the copies of the fables of 
 Marie de France, this poetess designates le Roi 
 Adans as the author of the first English trans 
 lation of the fables of Esop : 
 
 "Esop call we this book; 
 King Adans did highly rate it, 
 And into English did translate it." 
 
 But this copy deceived the learned author of 
 the catalogue of the La Valliere manuscripts. 
 All other copies of Marie de France read Li
 
 Ancient French Romances 47 
 
 rots Henrys, instead of Li rois Adans. At all 
 events, as many of the manuscripts of Marie de 
 France belong to the commencement of the 
 thirteenth century, it is evident that they can 
 make no mention of the works of Adenes, who 
 did not flourish till near its close. 
 
 It is, then, to the writings of Adenes, and 
 particularly to his romance of Cleomadh, that 
 we must look for information respecting the 
 time in which he flourished, and for some cir 
 cumstances of his life. 
 
 Adenes was born in the duchy of Brabant 
 about 1240. He doubtless exhibited, at an 
 early age, a remarkable talent for poetry ; for 
 Henry III., then Duke of Brabant, the warm 
 friend of poets and yet a poet himself, had him 
 educated with care, and afterward chose him 
 for his minstrel. It is very possible that the 
 pretty songs of Henry III., which are still pre 
 served in the Royal Library, were submitted 
 to the correction of the young Adenes, before 
 they were sung in public. Nearly all the 
 princes of the thirteenth century give proofs 
 of great talent, and sometimes of true poetic 
 genius. But perhaps their highest, their most 
 indisputable merit was mainly owing to the 
 choice of their minstrels. Thus, Blondel was
 
 48 Drift-Wood 
 
 distinguished by the patronage of Richard 
 Coeur-de-Lion, and Gaces Brules by that of 
 the king of Navarre ; Charles d'Anjou, king of 
 Naples, was accompanied by the Bossu d' Ar 
 ras, and we have seen that Adenes had mer 
 ited the good graces of the Duke of Brabant. 
 
 " Minstrel was I to the good Duke Henry ; 
 
 He it was that brought me up and nourished me, 
 And made me learn the art of minstrelsy. " 
 
 Henry died in 1260, regretted by his sub 
 jects, and above all by the poets, whose labors 
 he liberally rewarded. Adenes, who, after the 
 death of his benefactor, took every opportunity 
 of praising his virtues, soon gained the affec 
 tion of the Duke's children. Jean and Guyon 
 preserved the poet from the ills of penury, 
 and when Marie de Brabant became queen 
 of France, she took him with her to Paris. 
 There, in his double capacity of poet and cour 
 tier, he was honored with the most marked 
 distinction. In those days, poets were per 
 mitted to eulogize the great, and to celebrate 
 their numerous virtues. In doing this Adenes 
 had no peer ; but whilst he rendered due hom 
 age to those whom fortune surrounded with 
 all the splendor of power, he listened also to 
 the natural promptings of his heart, and both
 
 Ancient French Romances 49 
 
 respected and cherished all self-acquired re 
 nown. He somewhere says in Buevon de Co- 
 marchis : 
 
 " If it please God and his saints, through all my earthly days, 
 Of good men and of valiant, I will gladly speak in praise ; 
 What good I hear of them, I will record it in my lays, 
 If aught I hear that 's ill, I will hold my peace always. " 
 
 The precise date of the death of Adenes is 
 unknown. The last poem to which he has 
 prefixed his name is Cleomadh, whose story 
 transports us back to the reign of Diocletian. 
 This is the longest of the author's poems, and 
 contains no less than nineteen thousand octo 
 syllabic lines. The principal narrative is of 
 ten interrupted by agreeable episodes, such as 
 the history of the miraculous deeds of the 
 poet Virgil, " the greatest magician of Rome." 
 Among other marvels, which unfortunately 
 time hath put into his wallet as "alms for 
 oblivion," Adenes mentions the baths of Poz- 
 zuoli. On each of these Virgil had inscribed 
 the name of that disease which was instantly 
 cured by the virtue of its waters. 
 
 "But the Physicians every one, 
 Who much ill and much good have done, 
 All of these writings did decry ; 
 For nothing could they gain thereby.
 
 50 Drift -Wood 
 
 And if those baths existed now, 
 
 They 'd like them little enough, I trow." 
 
 A great number of copies of Ctiomadh are 
 still extant, some of them under the title of 
 Cheval de Fust. This cheval defust, or wooden 
 horse, takes a very active part in the romance. 
 He traversed the air, you know, with incon 
 ceivable rapidity, and was guided in his course 
 by turning a peg, which is sufficient to prove 
 that this famous courser is the type of the 
 horse on which Pierre de Provence carried 
 away the fair Maguelonne, and which, at a 
 later period, under the name of Clavileno, bore 
 the divine Sancho so high in air as to make 
 him confound the earth with a grain of mus 
 tard-seed, and its inhabitants with filberts. 
 
 Cteomadh was written at the joint request 
 of Marie de Brabant and Blanche de France, 
 who was married in 1269 to the Infante of 
 Castile. The names of these two princesses 
 determine very nearly the date of its composi 
 tion. Marie de Brabant was married in 1 274 
 to Philippe-le-Hardi ; and Blanche, on the 
 death of her husband, returned to France in 
 1275. Ctiomadh must, therefore, have been 
 written between 1275 and 1283, the year in 
 which Philippe-le-Hardi died.
 
 Ancient French Romances 5 1 
 
 I have one word more to say of this ro 
 mance. It thus commences : 
 
 " He who did write Ogier the Dane, 
 And She of the wood, yclept Bertaine, 
 And Buevon of Comarchis make, 
 Another book doth undertake. " 
 
 These three romances are still preserved in 
 the Royal Library, all of them complete, ex 
 cept Buevon de Comarchis, of which the first 
 part only remains. Buevon de Comarchis is a 
 kind of appendage to the old romances which 
 immortalize the family of Guillaume an Cor- 
 tie's ; in the same manner that the Enfances 
 Ogier are the sequel of the romances of Ogier. 
 It has been often supposed, that Adenes was 
 the author of all the poems of Guillaume au 
 Comes, and also of Ogier le Danois ; but this 
 is an error ; for the origin of the greater part 
 of these romances can be traced back to the 
 very cradle of French poetry, to a period 
 far beyond the thirteenth century. ' 
 
 Adenes, on the contrary, is one of the last 
 poets, who sang, in monorhythmic verse, the 
 traditions of our fabulous and heroic ages. 
 His versification is pure and correct ; but it 
 may be said, that the subject of his narratives 
 is the less poetic in proportion as his style is 
 the more so.
 
 52 Drift -Wood 
 
 But this letter is already a thousand times 
 too long ; and I therefore close these desultory 
 remarks upon Adenes and his works, leaving 
 it to the romance of Berte aus Grans Pi/s to 
 plead its own cause, and to justify the impor 
 tance which I attach to its publication.
 
 FRITHIOF'S SAGA 
 
 1837 
 
 HERE beginneth the Legend of Frithiof 
 the Valiant. He was the son of Thors- 
 ten Vikingsson, a thane, and loved fair Inge- 
 borg, 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 TegneY is 
 founded. 
 
 Esaias Tegner, 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 beautiful im 
 agination, a poetic genius of high order. 
 His countrymen are proud of him, and rejoice 
 in his fame. If you speak of their literature, 
 TegneY will be the first name upon their lips.
 
 54 Drift- Wood 
 
 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, 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, 
 composed of a series of ballads, each describ 
 ing some event in the hero's life, and each writ 
 ten in a different measure, according with the 
 action described in the ballad. This is a nov 
 el 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 innova 
 tion 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 Tegn6r, with some 
 show of truth, that he is too profuse and elab 
 orate in his use of figurative language, and 
 that the same figures are sometimes repeated 
 with little variation. But the reader must 
 bear in mind that the work before him is writ
 
 Frithiofs Saga 55 
 
 ten 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 Broth 
 er ; 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 credulous 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 neighboring 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
 
 56 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 writ 
 ten, 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 sit 
 ting 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 seven 
 stars in his hand, and Charles's Wain.* In 
 the village of Gamla Upsala there is an an 
 cient church. It was once a temple, in which 
 the gods of the old mythology were wor 
 shipped. In every mysterious sound that fills 
 the air the peasant still hears the trampling of 
 Odin's steed, which many centuries ago took 
 
 * Thor Gudh war hogsten aff them 
 Han satt naken som ett Barn 
 Siv stiernor i handen och Karlewagn. 
 
 Old Swedish Rhyme-Chronicle.
 
 Frithiof's Saga 57 
 
 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 spin 
 ning-wheel still glimmers in the stars of the 
 constellation Orion. The sound of Strom- 
 karl's flute is heard in tinkling brooks, and his 
 song in waterfalls. In the forest the Skogs- 
 frun, of wondrous beauty, leads young men 
 astray ; and Tomtgubbe hammers and pounds 
 away, all night long, at the peasant's unfin 
 ished cottage. 
 
 Almost primeval simplicity reigns over this 
 Northern land, almost primeval solitude and 
 stillness. You pass out from the gate of the 
 city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes to 
 a wild, woodland landscape. Around you are 
 forests of fir. Overhead hang the long fan- 
 like branches trailing with moss, and heavy 
 with red and blue cones. Underfoot is a car 
 pet 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 
 fences divide the adjoining fields. Across the 
 road are gates, which are opened for you by 
 troops of flaxen-haired children. The peas 
 ants take off their hats as you pass. You
 
 58 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 curdled 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. 
 
 * 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 roadside long rows of young pines stripped of 
 their bark, in answer to his question wherefore this is so, 
 hears, and truly not without emotion, his postilion's reply; 
 ' To make bread for ourselves and for our children.' "
 
 Frithiof's Saga, 59 
 
 Most of them have pipes in their mouths, 
 and, hanging around their 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 un 
 der the hollow of the foot, and the soles of 
 birch-bark. 
 
 Frequent, too, are the village churches stand 
 ing by the roadside, each in its own little gar 
 den of Gethsemane. In the parish register 
 great events are doubtless recorded. Some 
 old king was christened 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 
 index 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
 
 60 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 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 peas 
 ants 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 har 
 vests, and of the parable of the sower that 
 went forth to sow. He leads them to the 
 Good Shepherd, and to the pleasant pastures
 
 Frithiof's Saga 6r 
 
 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 de 
 voutly to the good man's words. But the 
 young men, like Gallic, 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 Swe 
 den. 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 ; and the sun, the heav 
 enly 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 neighbor 
 ing farms come riding in, their blue cloaks
 
 62 Drift- Wood 
 
 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 blow 
 ing and drumming 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 trium 
 phal arch, adorned with flowers and ribbons 
 and evergreens ; 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 
 after eating and drinking and loud hurrahs, 
 the procession moves forward again, and at 
 length draws near the house of the bride.
 
 Frithiofs Saga 63 
 
 Four heralds ride forward to announce that 
 a knight and his attendants are in the neigh 
 boring 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 welcome ; 
 and in token thereof receive this cup." Where 
 upon 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 cen 
 tre, 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 below it an 
 other 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
 
 64 Drift-Wood 
 
 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, 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 wed 
 ded 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 in 
 herit, and all the rights which Upland's laws 
 provide, and the holy King Erik gave." 
 
 The dinner is now served, and the bride sits 
 between the bridegroom and the priest. The 
 Spokesman delivers an oration, after the an 
 cient custom of his fathers. He interlards it 
 well with quotations from the Bible ; and in 
 vites the Saviour to be present at this mar 
 riage 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
 
 Frithiofs Saga 65 
 
 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 endeavor 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 to her mar 
 riage chamber, not to her grave ; and the wed 
 ding guests follow her with lighted candles in 
 their hands. And this is a village bridal. 
 
 Nor must we forget the sudden changing 
 seasons of the Northern clime. There is no 
 long and lingering Spring, unfolding leaf and 
 blossom one by one ; no long and lingering 
 Autumn, pompous with many-colored leaves 
 and the glow of Indian summers. But Win 
 ter and Summer are wonderful, and pass into 
 each other. The quail has hardly ceased pip 
 ing 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
 
 66 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 southern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sun 
 set, burns along the horizon, and then goes 
 out. And pleasantly under the silver moon, 
 and under the silent, solemn 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 crim 
 son 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 
 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
 
 Frithiof's Saga 67 
 
 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 gar 
 landed with apples, and upholding a three- 
 armed candlestick over the Christmas feast. 
 They may tell tales, too, of Jons Lunds- 
 bracka, and Lunkenfus, and the great Riddar 
 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 vil 
 lage there is a May-pole fifty feet high, with 
 wreaths and roses and ribbons streaming in 
 the wind, and a noisy 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 
 
 * Titles of Swedish popular tales.
 
 68 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 beautiful is the summer night, which 
 is not night, but a sunless yet unclouded day, 
 descending upon earth with dews, and shad 
 ows, 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 
 Evening thus sit together, hand in hand, be 
 neath 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 bel 
 fry, blows a blast in his horn for each stroke 
 of the hammer, and four times to the four cor 
 ners of the heavens, in a sonorous voice, he 
 chants : 
 
 " Ho ! watchman, ho ! 
 Twelve is the clock ! 
 God keep our town 
 From fire and brand, 
 And hostile hand ! 
 Twelve is the clock ! " 
 
 From his swallow's nest in the belfry he can 
 see the sun all night long ; and farther north 
 the priest stands at his door in the warm mid-
 
 Frithiofs Saga 69 
 
 night, and lights his pipe with a common burn 
 ing-glass. 
 
 And all this while the good Bishop of 
 Wexio is waiting, with his poem in his hand. 
 And such a poem, 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 consequently the admi 
 ration of my readers will probably lag some 
 what 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
 
 70 Drift- Wood 
 
 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. 
 
 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 god 
 dess, 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 be 
 neath her silken vest, but beneath the silken 
 vest of Ingeborg two Elves of Light leap up 
 with rose-buds in their hands. And she em 
 broiders in gold and silver the wondrous deeds
 
 Frithiofs Saga /i 
 
 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 Hilding 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 an 
 cestors from the star-clear hall of Odin him 
 self. 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. 
 
 ii 
 
 Thus closes the first canto. In the second, 
 old 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
 
 72 Drift- Wood 
 
 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. Foremost 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 ap 
 proaches 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 be 
 tween 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 not
 
 Frithiofs Saga 73 
 
 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 dy 
 ing lips ; and then Thorsten Vikingsson, who 
 means to die with his king as he has lived 
 with him, arises and addresses his son Fri- 
 thiof. He tells him that old age has whis 
 pered 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 ad 
 vice ; 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
 
 74 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 be 
 hoved 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, 
 by the billow blue, for its song is pleasant to 
 the spirit evermore, and, like a funeral dirge, 
 its blows ring against the strand. 
 
 in 
 
 And now King Bele and Thorsten Vikings- 
 son are gathered to their fathers ; Helge and 
 Halfdan share the throne between them, and 
 Frithiof retires to his ancestral estate at Fram- 
 na's ; 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 homestead, 
 
 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 hillsides 
 Flourished the golden corn, and man-high was waving the 
 
 rye-field. 
 Lakes, full many in number, their mirror held up for the 
 
 mountains,
 
 Frithiofs Saga 75 
 
 Held for the forests up, in whose depths the high-horned 
 reindeers 
 
 Had their kingly walk, and drank of a hundred brooklets. 
 
 But in the valleys widely around, there fed on the green 
 sward 
 
 Herds with shining hides and udders that longed for the 
 milk-pail. 
 
 'Mid these scattered, now here and now there, were num 
 berless flocks of 
 
 Sheep with fleeces white, as thou seest the white-looking 
 stray clouds, 
 
 Flock-wise spread o'er the heavenly vault, when it bloweth 
 in spring-time. 
 
 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. 
 
 I'horough 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 % with the sun on his 
 frontlet 
 
 * An old fashion of reckoning in the North. 
 f Odin, the All-father ; the Jupiter of the Scandinavian 
 mythology. 
 
 t Frey, the god of Fertility ; the Bacchus of the North.
 
 Drift- Wood 
 
 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 Glad 
 ness. 
 Oft, when the moon through the cloud-rack flew, related 
 
 the old man 
 Wonders from distant lands he had seen, and cruises of 
 
 Vikings * 
 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,f 
 Where, with his silver beard, and runes on his tongue, he is 
 
 seated 
 
 Under the leafy beach, and tells a tradition by Mimer's + 
 Ever-murmuring wave, himself a living tradition. 
 Midway the floor (with thatch was it strewn) burned evel 
 
 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. 
 
 Round the walls, upon nails of steel, were hanging in order 
 Breastplate and helmet together, and here and there among 
 
 them 
 
 * The old pirates of the North. 
 
 t Brage, the god of Song ; the Scandinavian Apollo. 
 J Mimer, the Giant, who possessed the Well of Wisdom, 
 under one of the roots of the Ash Igdrasil.
 
 Frithiofs Saga 77 
 
 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 disk 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." 
 
 Among the treasures of Frithiof's house are 
 three of transcendent worth. The first of these 
 is the sword Angurvadel, brother of the light 
 ning, handed down from generation to genera 
 tion, since the days of Bj orn 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 Vaulund, the limping Vulcan 
 of the North ; and containing upon its border 
 the signs of the zodiac, the Houses of the 
 Twelve Immortals. This ring had been hand-
 
 78 Drift -Wood 
 
 ed down in the family of Frithiof from the 
 days when it came from the hands of Vau- 
 lund, the founder of the race. It was once 
 stolen and carried to England by Viking Sote, 
 who there buried himself alive in a vast tomb, 
 and with him his pirate-ship and all his treas 
 ures. 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 tomb asunder with his 
 lance, and, entering, does 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 drown 
 ing, somewhat as Saint Christopher did the 
 angel. The ancient mariner was homeward 
 bound, when at a distance on the wreck of a 
 
 * 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.
 
 Frithiofs Saga 79 
 
 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 bedtime 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. 
 
 These were Frithiofs treasures, renowned 
 in the North ; and thus in his hall, with Bjorn, 
 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
 
 8o Drift -Wood 
 
 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. 
 
 IV 
 
 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 rem 
 iniscences of childhood ; their names carved 
 in the birch-tree's bark ; the well-known val 
 ley 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.
 
 Frithiof *s Saga 81 
 
 " It pleased not Bjb'rn these things to see : 
 ' What ails the young eagle now,' said he, 
 ' 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. 
 Right 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 
 promulgating laws, and he boldly asks the 
 hand of their sister Ingeborg, this alliance be 
 ing 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
 
 82 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 away in disdain, de 
 parts over the blue sea homeward. 
 
 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 re 
 nowned in the North, beloved 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
 
 Frithiofs Saga 83 
 
 in person to seek his bride. Old King Ring 
 is wroth at the reply, and straightway pre 
 pares 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* 
 
 VI 
 
 In the next canto, which is the sixth, Fri- 
 thiof and Bjorn are playing chess together, 
 when old Hilding comes in, bringing the 
 prayer of Helge and Halfdan, that Frith iof 
 would aid them in the war against King 
 Ring. Frithiof, instead of answering 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 rescu 
 ing 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 
 
 * Balder, the god of the Summer Sun.
 
 84 Drift-Wood 
 
 that he will never be their bondman. So 
 closes this short and very spirited canto. 
 
 VII 
 
 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 pas 
 sionate vows are retold ; he swears to protect 
 her with his sword while here on earth, and 
 to sit by her side hereafter in Valhalla, when 
 the champions ride forth to battle from the 
 silver gates, and maidens bear round the 
 mead-horn mantled with golden foam. 
 
 VIII 
 
 The eighth canto commences in this wise. 
 Ingeborg 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 thou 
 sand swords hammered applause upon a thou 
 sand shields, and the ancient Hilding with
 
 Frithiofs Saga 85 
 
 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 
 profaned the temple of Balder by daring to 
 visit Ingeborg there. Death or banishment 
 is the penalty of the law ; but instead of be 
 ing sentenced to the usual punishment, Fri- 
 thiof is ordered to sail to the Orkney Islands, 
 in order to force from Jarl Angantyr the pay 
 ment 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 Thors- 
 ten 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 shad-
 
 86 Drift- Wood 
 
 owy eagle-wings ; but Ingeborg refuses to es 
 cape. King Bele's daughter will not deign to 
 steal her happiness. In a beautiful and pas 
 sionate appeal, she soothes her lover's wounded 
 pride, and at length he resolves to undertake 
 the expedition to Jarl Angantyr. He gives 
 her the golden arm-ring of Vaulunder, and 
 they part, she with mournful forebodings, and 
 he with ardent hope of ultimate success. This 
 part of the poem is a dramatic sketch in blank 
 verse. It is highly wrought, and full of poetic 
 beauties. 
 
 IX 
 
 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 Fri- 
 thiof'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. 
 
 x 
 
 And now follows the ballad of Frithiof at
 
 Frithiof' s Saga 87 
 
 Sea ; one of the most spirited and character 
 istic cantos of the poem. The versincation ? 
 likewise, is managed with great skill ; each 
 strophe consisting of three several parts, each 
 in its respective metre. King 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 ; 
 Whiter than the sea-foam 
 Swelled the maiden's breast." 
 
 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
 
 88 Drift-wood 
 
 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 transfixed 
 with Northern spears hurled from a hero's 
 hand. And thus the storm is stilled, and 
 Frithiof reaches at length the shores of An- 
 gantyr. 
 
 XI 
 
 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, watchful alike of things 
 within doors and without ; for ever and anon 
 he drains the mead-horn to the bottom, 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 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
 
 Frithiof's Saga 89 
 
 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 welcome the stranger 
 with warlike sword-play. A single combat en 
 sues between Frithiof and Atle. Both shields 
 are cleft in twain at once ; Angurvadel bites 
 full sharp, and Atle's sword is broken. Fri 
 thiof, 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 Atle bids 
 him go and recover his sword, promising to lie 
 still and await death, which promise he fulfils. 
 Frithiof seizes Angurvadel, and when he re 
 turns 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 ban 
 quet-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
 
 90 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 win 
 dows, there are locks on the doors ; and in 
 stead of torches, silver chandeliers stretch forth 
 their arms with lights over the banquet-table, 
 whereon is a hart 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 An- 
 gantyr, 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 ad 
 ventures 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
 
 Frithiofs Saga 91 
 
 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 wel 
 come and hospitality. And Frithiof remains 
 his guest till spring. 
 
 XII 
 
 In the twelfth canto we have a description 
 of Frithiofs 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 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 be 
 tween 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
 
 92 Drift- Wood 
 
 bride of King Ring. He describes the bridal, 
 as the train went up to the temple, with vir 
 gins 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. 
 
 XIII 
 
 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 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
 
 Frithiof' s Saga 93 
 
 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 attempts 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 ! 
 
 XIV 
 
 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, 

 
 94 Drift -Wood 
 
 of a king who oppresses thee at his own 
 rill 
 
 " Thy king is he 
 Among the free, 
 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 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 sailing out to attack him. But 
 anon the ships sink down into the sea, as if 
 drawn downward by invisible hands, and Hel 
 ge 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,
 
 Fritkiof's Saga 95 
 
 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 bid 
 ding his native land farewell, Frithiof the Vi 
 king sailed forth to scour the seas. 
 
 xv 
 
 The fifteenth canto contains the Viking's 
 Code, the laws of the pirate-ship. No tent 
 upon deck, 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 warrior's 
 steel is never too short if he goes near enough 
 to the foe. Hoist high the sail when the wild 
 storm blows ; 't is merry in stormy seas ; on 
 ward 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 merchantman 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
 
 96 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 Vi 
 king 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 the glory 
 of battle. The flag at the mast-head pointed 
 northward ; there lay the beloved land ; he 
 resolved to follow the course of the winds of 
 heaven, and steer back again to the North. 
 
 XVI 
 
 Canto sixteenth is a dialogue between Fri- 
 thiof and his friend Bjorn, in which the latter 
 gentleman exhibits some of the rude and un-
 
 Frithiof 's Saga 97 
 
 civilized 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 companion, 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 holmgtng,* 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 fare 
 well of Ingeborg. These delicate feelings can 
 not penetrate the hirsute breast of Bruin. He 
 knows not what this love may be ; this sigh 
 ing 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 
 
 * A duel between the Vikings of the North was called a 
 holmgang, because the two combatants met on an island to de 
 cide 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. 

 
 98 Drift -Wood 
 
 the glowing South, all red as roses and gentle 
 as lambs. But Frithiof will not stay. He re 
 solves to go to King Ring ; but not alone, for 
 his sword goes with him. 
 
 XVII 
 
 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 hight, 
 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
 
 Frithiof s Saga 99 
 
 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 and went in the cheek of the 
 queen like the Northern 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 kneel 
 ing 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 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 Chau 
 cer 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."
 
 ioo Drift-Wood 
 
 the great champion, so help him Frey and 
 Odin, and the mighty Thor. With a disdain 
 ful 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 
 protect 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 ; bidding Ingeborg fill a 
 goblet with the choicest wine for the stranger. 
 With downcast eyes and trembling hand she 
 presented Frithiof a goblet, which 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 Romeo 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."
 
 Frithiofs Saga 101 
 
 XVIII 
 
 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 farq, 
 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 ; 
 ' 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. 
 
 " But the steel-shod champion standeth not still, 
 He passeth them by as swift as he will. 
 
 " He carves many nines 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 f lies in 
 
 * The steed of Odin, 
 
 t A giantess holding dominion over the waters.
 
 102 Drift-Wood 
 
 ambush. She breaks a hole in her silver 
 roof, the sledge is sinking, 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 sin 
 gle 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. 
 
 XIX 
 
 The nineteenth canto is entitled Frithiof's 
 Temptation. 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 ; 
 Bows ring loud, and quivers rattle, stallions paw the ground 
 
 alway, 
 And, with hoods upon their eyelids, scream the falcons for 
 
 their prey.
 
 Frithiof s Saga 103 
 
 " 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 Rota,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 ! 
 
 O beware ! her waist is slender, full her bosom is, beware ! 
 Look not at the rose and lily on her cheek that shifting 
 
 play, 
 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 Val 
 kyr comes." 
 
 The old king cannot keep pace with the 
 chase. Frithiof rides beside him, silent and 
 sad. Gloomy musings rise within him, and 
 
 * 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.
 
 104 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 rose 
 bud 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 over 
 shadowed 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 green 
 sward 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, or as an infant sleeps upon 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. '
 
 Frithiofs Saga 105 
 
 " 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, un 
 folded 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 ; 
 
 ' Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow, guarded by a brave 
 man's blade. 
 
 But where is thy sword, O stranger ? Lightning's brother, 
 where is he ? 
 
 Who thus parts you, who should never from each other part 
 ed be !' 
 
 " ' It avails not,' Frithiof answered ; ' in the North are other 
 
 swords : 
 Sharp, O monarch ! is the sword's tongue, and it speaks not 
 
 peaceful words ; 
 Murky spirits dwell in steel blades, spirits from the Niffel- 
 
 hem ; 
 Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks but anger 
 
 them.'" 
 
 * The Strand of Corpses ; a region in the Niffelhem, or 
 Scandinavian hell.
 
 io5 Drift -Wood 
 
 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 up 
 braids him for having come to his palace in 
 disguise, to steal his queen away ; he had ex 
 pected 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 gath 
 ered 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 out 
 law. 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
 
 Fritkiofs Saga . 107 
 
 bear. Let me hear the lightning'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 ! " 
 
 xx 
 
 In the twentieth canto the death of King 
 Ring is described. The sunshine of a pleas 
 ant spring morning plays into the palace-hall, 
 when Frithiof 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, 
 Ring, 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.' "
 
 io8 . Drift-Wood 
 
 He then says that he himself is about to de 
 part 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 breasts the runes of 
 death, runes to Odin. And while the blood 
 drops from among the silvery hairs of his na 
 ked bosom, he calls for a flowing goblet, and 
 drinks a health to the glorious North ; and in 
 spirit hears the Gjallar Horn,* and goes to 
 Valhalla, where glory, like a golden helmet, 
 crowns the coming guest. 
 
 XXI 
 
 The next canto is the Drapa, or Dirge of 
 King Ring, in the unrhymed alliterative stan 
 zas 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 
 
 * 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. 
 
 f It was a Scandinavian, as well as a Scythian custom, to
 
 Frithiof's Saga 109 
 
 departed rides over the rainbow, which bends 
 beneath its burden, up to the open gates of 
 Valhalla. 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 
 Ring over Bifrost, * 
 Sways with the burden 
 The bending bridge. 
 Open spring Valhall's 
 Vaulted doors widely ; 
 Asanar'sf hands are 
 Hanging in his. 
 
 "Brage, the graybeard, 
 Gripeth the gold string, 
 Stiller now soundeth 
 Song than before. 
 Listening leaneth 
 Vanadi's J lovely 
 Breast at the banquet, 
 Burning to hear. 
 
 " ' High sings the sword-blade 
 Steady on helmet ; 
 Boisterous the billows, and 
 Bloody alway. 
 
 bury the favorite steed of a warrior in the same tomb with 
 him. 
 * The rainbow. + The great gods. J Freya.
 
 i io Drift -Wood 
 
 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. ' " 
 
 XXII 
 
 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 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 peo 
 ple raise a shout, and acknowledge him for
 
 Fritkiofs Saga in 
 
 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. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 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 for 
 giveness from the city of the gods. And lo ! 
 amid the evening shadows, from the western 
 wave uprising, landward floats the Fata Mor 
 gana, 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 Des 
 tinies. And the Destiny of the Past points to
 
 H2 Drift -Wood 
 
 the solitude around, and the 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. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 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 procession, walk therein the twelve 
 virgins, clad in garments of silver tissue, with 
 roses upon their cheeks, and roses in their in 
 nocent 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 
 nightingale is singing in the midnight still 
 ness, and the moon shines over the beech- 
 trees of the North. Frithiof listens to the
 
 Frithiofs Saga 113 
 
 song ; and as he listens, all thoughts of ven 
 geance 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, wel 
 coming 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 of Northern mythology. He 
 tells him, likewise, very truly, that more ac 
 ceptable to the gods than the smoke of burnt- 
 offerings is the 'sacrifice of one's own vindic 
 tive spirit, the hate of a human soul ; and then 
 speaks of the Virgin's Son, 
 
 "Sent by All-father to declare aright the nines 
 On Destiny's black shield-rim, unexplained till now. 
 Peace was his battle-cry, and his white sword was love, 
 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, shall it come, and lightly wave 
 Its white and dove-like wings over the Northern hills.
 
 ii4 Drift -Wood 
 
 But there shall be no more a North for us that day, 
 
 And oaks shall whisper soft o'er the graves of the forgotten. " 
 
 He then . speaks of Frithiof's hatred to 
 Bele's sons ; 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 opportune 
 ly coming in at that moment ; and the priest 
 removes forthwith the ban from the Varg-i- 
 Veum, the sacrilegious and outlawed man. 
 And then Ingeborg enters the vaulted temple, 
 followed 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 Balder'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.
 
 
 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 erelong the observations of numer 
 ous 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. My 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
 
 ii 6 Drift -Wood 
 
 the golden pillar of his noble courage ; and 
 ever notify unto 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. Everything about it has the 
 freshness of morning and of May. These flow 
 ers 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 nev 
 ertheless by a poet. He looks upon all things 
 in the spirit of love, and with lively sympa 
 thies ; for to him external form is but the rep 
 resentation 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."
 
 Twice -To Id Tales 117 
 
 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 identifies itself likewise with every object of 
 its sympathy, giving it new sensation and poet 
 ic life, whatever that object may be, whether 
 man, bird, beast, flower, or star. As to the 
 pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic 
 mind all things are poetical. To such souls 
 no age and no country can be utterly dull and 
 prosaic. They make unto themselves 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 translation 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 gammuth 
 of every municipal fiddler, for these are the 
 countryman's Arcadia and his Monte Mayors."
 
 n8 Drift -Wood 
 
 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 we look back upon 
 the Past, we see only its bright and poetic 
 features. All that is dull, prosaic, and com 
 monplace, 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 picturesque light. What to
 
 Twice -To Id Tales 119 
 
 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 ro 
 mance still lies around us and within us. So 
 long as truth is stranger than fiction, the ele 
 ments of poetry and romance will not be want 
 ing 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 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 magazines, and now collected together and
 
 120 Drift- Wood 
 
 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 inter 
 est 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 uncjer a king." This is the 
 right material for story. It seems as natural 
 to make tales out of old, tumble-down tradi 
 tions, as canes and snuff-boxes out of old 
 steeples, or trees planted by great men. The 
 dreary, old Puritanical times begin to look ro 
 mantic in the distance. Who would not like 
 to have strolled through the city of Agamenti- 
 cus, where a market was held every week, on 
 Wednesday, and there were two annual fairs at
 
 Twice -Told Tales 121 
 
 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 Cap 
 tain Raynes, being in authority, by thee-ing 
 and thou-ing him " ; and John Wardell like 
 wise, for denying Cambridge College to be an 
 ordinance of God ; and people fined for wink 
 ing 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 humor 
 ous tale and soft, pathetic story, lie all about 
 us here in New England. There is no tradi 
 tion of the Rhine nor of the Black Forest 
 which surpasses in beauty that of the Phantom 
 Ship of New Haven. The Flying Dutchman 
 of the Cape, and the Klabotermann of the Bal 
 tic, are nowise superior. 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
 
 122 Drift-Wood 
 
 unfortunate imprecation, and was used by them 
 as a wheelbarrow ; and the Great Carbuncle 
 of the White Mountains shines with no less 
 splendor than that which illuminated the sub 
 terranean palace in Rome, as related by Wil 
 liam of Malmesbury. 
 
 Another characteristic of this writer is the 
 exceeding 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 neighborhood of man, and 
 enjoy "the sweet security of streets." The ex 
 citement 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-impor 
 tant 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,
 
 124 Drift-Wood 
 
 and in his manifold powers and wants and pas 
 sions and deeds, preach this same gospel. The 
 greatest works of his handicraft delight me 
 hardly less than the greatest works of Nature. 
 They are " the masterpieces of her own master 
 piece." Architecture, and painting, and sculp 
 ture, and music, and epic poems, and all the 
 forms of art, wherein the hand of genius is 
 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 metrop 
 olis as a collection of villages ; a village as 
 some blind alley in a metropolis ; fame as the 
 talk of neighbors at the street door ; a library
 
 The Great Metropolis 125 
 
 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 val 
 ley watered by the Thames, stands the Great 
 Metropolis. It comprises the City of London 
 and its Liberties, with the City and Liberties 
 of Westminster, the Borough of Southwark, 
 and upwards of thirty of the contiguous vil 
 lages 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 population 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 deaf 
 ening. 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 solitude and si 
 lence 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
 
 126 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 fea 
 tures 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, 
 perhaps, the coachman what stream it is ; and 
 the coachman answers, with a stare of wonder 
 and pity, "The Thames, sir." Pleasure-boats 
 are gliding back and forth, and stately swans 
 float, like water-lilies, on its bosom. On its- 
 banks are villages and church towers, beneath 
 which, among the patriarchs of the hamlet, lie 
 many gifted sons of song, "in sepulchres un- 
 hearsed 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
 
 The Great Metropolis 127 
 
 a full moon rising over the Borough of South- 
 wark. 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 ris 
 ing tide, swinging sideways, with loose, flap 
 ping 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 the 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 a 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 clashing and careering streams of 
 life, hurrying to lose themselves in the imper 
 vious 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 first sound, so indistinct as hard 
 ly to be distinguished from the crowing of a 
 cock. Then, close at hand, the great bell of
 
 128 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 hun 
 dred 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 Al 
 fred, 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 print 
 ed, that it might tempt any one to learn not 
 only the letters of the Saxon language, but the 
 language also. The monarch himself is look 
 ing from the ornamented initial letter of the 
 first chapter. He is crowned and care-worn ; 
 having 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 
 ivhom 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
 
 130 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 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 inscrip 
 tions, 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 ac 
 cording to my leisure, I speak that which I 
 speak. 
 
 The Anglo-Saxon language was the lan 
 guage of our Saxon forefathers in England, 
 though they never gave it that name. They 
 called it English. Thus King Alfred speaks 
 of translating " from book-Latin into English" ; 
 Abbot vElfric was requested by ^Ethelward 
 " to translate the book of Genesis from Latin 
 into English "; and Bishop Leofric, speaking 
 of the manuscript he gave to the Exeter Ca-
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature 131 
 
 thedral, 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 every 
 where is not to be doubted, when we compare 
 pure West-Saxon texts with Northumbrian 
 glosses and books of Durham. Hickes speaks 
 .of a Dano-Saxon period in the history of the 
 language. The Saxon kings reigned six hun 
 dred years ; the Danish dynasty, twenty only. 
 And neither the Danish boors, who were 
 earthlings in the country, nor the Danish sol 
 diers, 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 Normans. 
 
 The Dano-Saxon is a dialect of the lan 
 guage, not a period which was passed through 
 in its history. Down to the time of the Nor 
 man Conquest, it existed in the form of two
 
 132 Drift -Wood 
 
 principal dialects ; namely, the Anglo-Saxon 
 in the South ; and the Dano-Saxon, or Nor 
 thumbrian, in the North. After the Norman 
 Conquest, the language assumed a new form, 
 which has been called, properly enough, Nor 
 man-Saxon and Semi-Saxon. 
 
 This form of the language, ever flowing 
 and filtering through the roots of national 
 feeling, custom, and prejudice, prevailed about 
 two hundred years ; that is, from the middle 
 of the eleventh to the middle of the thirteenth 
 century, when it became English. It is im 
 possible to fix the landmarks 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-field, and saw, with wondering eyes, 
 the piratical schooner of a Saxon Viking mak 
 ing 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
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature 133 
 
 under different laws. This important event 
 in his history is more important in the world's 
 history. 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 dis 
 tance only the catastrophe of a stage-play. 
 
 The Saxons came into England about the 
 middle of the fifth century. They were pa 
 gans ; 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 helmet 
 crested with a cock ; in his right hand a 
 banner, 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. ^Elfric, 
 in his homily on the birthday of St. Gregory, 
 informs us, that this conversion was accom 
 plished by the holy wishes of that good man,
 
 *34 Drift-Wood 
 
 and the holy works of St. Augustine and other 
 monks. St. Gregory, beholding 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 an 
 gels." As soon, therefore, as he undertook 
 the popehood, the monks were sent to their 
 beloved work. In the Witena Gemot, or As 
 sembly of the Wise, convened by King Edwin 
 of Northumbria to consider the propriety of 
 receiving the Christian faith, a Saxon Ealdor- 
 man 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 Ealdorman 
 and Thegns in winter-time. And the fire is 
 lighted, and the hall warmed, and it rains and 
 snows and storms without. Then cometh a 
 sparrow, and flieth about the hall. It cometh 
 in at one door, and goeth out at another
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature 135 
 
 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 fol- 
 loweth after, we 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 monas 
 teries 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, ac 
 cording 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 illu 
 minations ; in one of which St. John is rep 
 resented in a pea-green dress with red stripes. 
 They also drank ale out of buffalo horns and 
 wooden - knobbed goblets. A Mercian king 
 
 * History of the Anglo-Saxons, VoL II. p. 61.
 
 136 Drift -Wood 
 
 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 apos 
 tles, and other saints. Malmesbury 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. Augustine. Thus did mankind go reeling 
 through the Dark Ages ; quarrelling, drink 
 ing, hunting, hawking, singing psalms, wear 
 ing breeches,* grinding in mills, eating hot 
 bread, rocked in cradles, buried in coffins, 
 weak, suffering, sublime. Well might King 
 Alfred exclaim, " Maker of all creatures ! help 
 now thy miserable mankind." 
 
 A national literature is a subject which 
 should always be approached with reverence. 
 It is difficult to comprehend fully the mind of 
 a nation ; even when that nation still lives, 
 
 * In an old Anglo-Saxon dialogue, a shoemaker says that 
 he makes " slippers, shoes, and leather breeches " (swyftlerat 
 sceos, and lether-hose. )
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature 137 
 
 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 re r 
 ward long before the world began to scoff at 
 sainthood ; and wonderful legends, once be 
 lieved by men, and now, in this age of wise 
 children, hardly credible enough for a nurse's 
 tale ; nothing entire, nothing wholly under 
 stood, and no further comment or illustration 
 than may be drawn from an isolated fact found 
 in an old chronicle, or perchance a rude illu 
 mination in an old manuscript ! Such is the 
 literature we have now to consider. Such 
 fragments, and mutilated remains, has the hu 
 man mind left of itself, coming down through 
 the times of old, step by step, and every step 
 a century. Old men and venerable accom 
 pany us through the Past ; and put into our 
 hands, at parting, such written records of! 
 themselves as they have. We should re 
 ceive these things with reverence. We should, 
 respect old age.
 
 138 Drift-Wood 
 
 " This leaf, is it not blown about by the wind ? 
 Woe to it for its fate ! Alas ! it is old." 
 
 What an Anglo-Saxon glee-man was, we 
 know from such commentaries as are men 
 tioned 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 Sceop, 
 the creator, the poet, rose, at times, to higher 
 themes. He sang the deeds of heroes, victo 
 rious odes, death-songs, epic poems ; or, sitting 
 in cloisters, and afar from these things, con 
 verted holy writ into Saxon chimes. 
 
 The first thing which strikes the reader oi 
 Anglo-Saxon poetry is the structure of the
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature 139 
 
 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 vi 
 vacity. Though alliteration predominates 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 anvil. For example : 
 
 " Flah mah fliteth, 
 Flan man hwiteth, 
 Burg sorg biteth, 
 Bald aid thwiteth, 
 Wraec-faec writheth, 
 Wrath athsmiteth."* 
 
 Other peculiarities of Anglo-Saxon poetry, 
 which cannot escape the reader's attention, 
 are its frequent inversions, its bold transi 
 tions, and abundant metaphors. These are 
 
 * " Strong dart flitteth, 
 Spear-man whetteth, 
 Care the city biteth, 
 Age the bold quelleth, 
 Vengeance prevaileth, 
 Wrath a town smiteth."
 
 140 Drift- Wood 
 
 the things which render Anglo-Saxon poetry 
 so much more difficult than Anglo-Saxon 
 prose. But upon these points I need not en 
 large. It is enough to allude to them. 
 
 One of the oldest and most important re 
 mains of Anglo-Saxon literature is the epic 
 poem of Beowulf. Its age is unknown ; but 
 it comes from a very distant and hoar antiq 
 uity ; 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 sepulchral, as 
 if the ancient armor spoke, telling a sim 
 ple, straightforward 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 sim 
 ple, 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 gor 
 geous figures. At times he is tedious, at times 
 obscure ; and he who undertakes to read the 
 original will find it no easy task.
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature 141 
 
 The poem begins with a description of King 
 Hrothgar the Scylding, in his great hall of 
 Heort, which re-echoed 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 Scylding's 
 palace by night, to see, as the author rather 
 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 fol 
 lowers for the court 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
 
 1 42 Drift- Wood 
 
 there was great carousing at Heort. But at 
 night came the Grendel's mother, and car 
 ried away one of the beer-drunken heroes of 
 the ale-wassail. Beowulf, with a great escort, 
 pursued her to the fenlands of the Grendel ; 
 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 treas 
 ures, departed homeward, as if nothing special 
 had happened, and, after the death of King 
 Higelac, 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 adventures. Beowulf has grown 
 old. He has reigned fifty years ; and now, in 
 his gray old age, is troubled by the devasta 
 tions of a monstrous Fire-drake, so that his 
 metropolis is beleaguered, and he can no longer 
 fly his hawks and merles in the open country. 
 He resolves, at length, to fight with this Fire-
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature 143 
 
 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 pesti 
 lential 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 how he fared with the fell wolf 
 at the death-feast. Such is, in brief, the ma 
 chinery of the poem. It possesses great epic 
 merit, and in parts is strikingly graphic in its 
 descriptions. As we read, we can almost smell
 
 1 44 Drift- Wood 
 
 the brine, and hear the sea-breeze blow, and 
 see the mainland stretch out its jutting promon 
 tories, 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 
 attention 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 Para 
 phrase of Portions of Holy Writ. Casdmon 
 was a monk in the Minster of Whitby. He 
 lived and died in the seventh century. The 
 only account we have of his life is that given 
 by the Venerable Bede in his Ecclesiastical 
 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 para 
 phrase 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
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature 145 
 
 into the lower regions ; a favorite theme in 
 old times, and well known in the history 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 sprin 
 kled 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. Nebuchad 
 nezzar is described as a naked, unwilling wan 
 derer, a wondrous wretch and weedless. Hor 
 rid ghosts, swart and sinful, 
 
 " Wide through windy halls 
 Wail woful."
 
 146 Drift -Wood 
 
 And, in the sack of Sodom, we are told how 
 many a fearful, pale-faced damsel must trem 
 bling 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 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 schol 
 ars. But a more important fragment is that 
 on the Death of Byrhtnoth at the battle of 
 Maldon. It savors of rust and of antiquity, 
 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 !
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature 147 
 
 " 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, 
 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 weap 
 ons ! 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 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 fore 
 going. It is the Chronicle of King Lear and 
 his daughters, in Norman-Saxon ; not rhymed 
 throughout, but with rhymes too often recur 
 ring to be accidental. As a poem, it has no
 
 148 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 Maglau- 
 dus, 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. Where 
 upon he sang, in the best Anglo-Saxon he was 
 master of, the following rhyme : 
 
 " Merie sungen the muneches binnen Ely, 
 Tha Cnut ching reuther by ; 
 Roweth, cnihtes, noer the land, 
 And here we thes muneches sang. " f 
 
 * For hit was swithe mochel same, 
 and eke hit was mochel grame, 
 that a cwene solde 
 be king in thisse land. 
 
 f 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 r 49 
 
 The best, and, properly speaking, perhaps 
 the only, Anglo-Saxon odes, are those pre 
 served in the Saxon Chronicle, in recording 
 the events they celebrate. They are five in 
 number ; ^Ethelstan's Victory at Brunan- 
 burh ; the Victories of Edmund yEtheling ; 
 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 character 
 istic specimens 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 onslaught ; the cleaving of the wall 
 of shields ; the hewing down of banners ; the 
 din of the fight : the hard hand-play ; the re 
 treat 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 appeal 
 strongly to the imagination. The bard has 
 nobly described this victory of the illustrious
 
 150 Drift -Wood 
 
 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 apos 
 tles, referred to the days on which they took 
 place. At the end is a strange poem, consist 
 ing of a series of aphorisms, not unlike those 
 that adorn a modern almanac. 
 
 In addition to these narratives and odes 
 and didactic poems, there are numerous mi 
 nor poems on various subjects, some of which 
 have been published, though for the most 
 part they still lie buried in manuscripts, 
 hymns, allegories, doxologies, proverbs, enig 
 mas, 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 oi 
 Exeter in the eleventh century, and called by 
 the donor, " a great English book about every 
 thing, composed in verse." Among them is 
 a very singular and striking poem, entitled,
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature 151 
 
 " The Soul's Complaint against the Body," in 
 which the departed spirit is described as re 
 turning, ghastly and shrieking, to upbraid the 
 body it had left. 
 
 " 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 breaketh 
 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.
 
 152 Drift -Wood 
 
 "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 I 
 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 Nor 
 man-Saxon poem, from a manuscript volume 
 of Homilies 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 
 
 * Since this paper was written, the Exeter Manuscript has 
 been published, with a translation by Mr. Thorpe.
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature 
 
 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 ; 
 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
 
 154 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 
 landmarks. These are the Saxon Laws, pro 
 mulgated 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 of the twelfth century, are 
 recorded by contemporary writers, mainly, it 
 would seem, the monks of Winchester, Peter 
 borough, and Canterbury.* Setting 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 historian surnamed him, as others 
 
 * 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 germ 
 lay there covered with mould. " A. D. 1087.
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature *55 
 
 were surnamed the Unready, Ironside, Hare- 
 foot 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 
 poverty and suffering, wherein was fulfilled 
 the prophecy 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 suc 
 cessful rally ; his victories, and his future glo 
 rious 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 
 example, 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 mans character, and how in him 
 the scholar and the man outshone the king. 
 For example, do we not know him better, and
 
 156 Drift -Wood 
 
 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 myste 
 rious 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 trans 
 lation 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 human 
 ity. He adorned and carried out still further 
 the reflections of Boethius. He begins his 
 task, however, with an apology, saying, " Al 
 fred, king, was translator of this book, and 
 turned it from book-Latin into English, as he
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature r 57 
 
 most plainly and clearly could, amid the vari 
 ous 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 Abbott ^Ifric ; 
 Glosses of the Gospels, at the close of one 
 of which the conscientious scribe has written, 
 "Aldred, an unworthy and miserable priest, 
 with the help of God and St. Cuthbert, over- 
 glossed 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 
 extracts 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.
 
 158 Drift- Wood 
 
 i 
 
 "Tell me, what man first ploughed the earth 
 with a plough ? 
 
 " I tell thee, it was Ham, the son of Noah. 
 
 " Tell me, wherefore stones are barren ? 
 
 " 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 be 
 came 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 anchor 
 ites. 
 
 " Tell me, what were the streams that watered 
 Paradise ? 
 
 "I tell thee, they were four. The first was 
 called Pison ; the second, Geon ; the third, Ti 
 gris ; the fourth, Euphrates ; 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 morn- 
 ing?
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature 159 
 
 " 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 val 
 uable, is a " Colloquy " of ylfric, composed 
 for the purpose of teaching boys to speak 
 Latin. The Saxon is an interlinear transla 
 tion of the Latin. In this Colloquy various 
 laborers and handicraftsmen are introduced, 
 ploughmen, herdsmen, huntsmen, shoemak 
 ers, and others ; and each has his say, even 
 to the blacksmith, who dwells in his smithy 
 amid iron fire-sparks and the sound of beat 
 ing 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 been do 
 ing to-day ? 
 
 " Discipulus. A great many things have I been
 
 160 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 
 Compline ? 
 
 " Disripulus, When it is time. 
 
 " Magister. Hast thou had a whipping to-day ? 
 
 " Discipulus. I have not, because I have be 
 haved very warily. 
 
 " Magister. And thy playmates ? 
 
 " Discipulus. 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. 
 
 " Magister. What else dost thou eat ? 
 
 " Discipulus. Greens and eggs, fish and cheese, 
 butter and beans, and all clean things, with much 
 thankfulness.
 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature 161 
 
 " Magister. Exceedingly voracious art thou ; for 
 thou devourest everything 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 glut 
 ton. 
 
 " Magister. And what dost thou drink ? 
 
 " Discipulus. Beer, when I can get it, and wa 
 ter 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 igno 
 rant 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. O ye good children, and winsome 
 learners ! Your teacher admonishes you to fol 
 low godly lore, and to behave yourselves decently 
 everywhere. Go obediently, when you hear the 
 chapel bell, enter into the chapel, and bow sup- 
 pliantly at the holy altars, and stand submissive, 
 and sing with one accord, and pray for your sins,
 
 1 62 Drift -Wood 
 
 and then depart to the cloister or the school-room 
 without levity." 
 
 I cannot close this sketch of Anglo-Saxon 
 Literature without expressing the hope, that 
 what I have written may " stir up riper wits 
 than mine to 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 ; illustri 
 ous by its reign of seventy-two years and its 
 hundred authors known to fame. The govern 
 ment 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 de 
 light in producing in France the greatest men 
 in all the arts ; and of assembling at court 
 the most beautiful men and women that had
 
 1 64 Drift - Wood 
 
 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 coun 
 tenance ; the noble and winning sound of his 
 voice 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 stammer 
 ed 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 embroidered with gold and silver ; 
 a mark of royal favor. To all around him 
 he was courteous ; towards women chivalrous. 
 He never passed even a chambermaid without 
 touching his hat ; and always stood uncovered 
 in the presence of a lady. When the disap 
 pointed Duke of Lauzun insulted him by 
 breaking his sword in his presence, he raised
 
 Paris in the Seventeenth Century 1 6$ 
 
 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 ; capricious ; fond of pleasure ; hardly 
 less fond of labor. One day we find him dash 
 ing from Vincennes to Paris in his hunting- 
 dress, and standing in his great boots, with 
 a whip in his hand, dismissing 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 pa 
 rading at a military review, or galloping at 
 full speed through the park of Fontainebleau, 
 hunting the deer, in a calash drawn by four 
 ponies. Towards the close of his life he be 
 came a devotee. " It is a very remarkable 
 thing," says Voltaire, " that the public, who 
 forgave him all his mistresses, could not for 
 give 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 lus 
 treless, all his courtiers left him to die alone,
 
 166 Drift-Wood 
 
 and thronged about his successor, the Duke 
 of Orleans. An empiric gave him an elixir, 
 which suddenly revived him. He ate once 
 more, and it was said he could recover. The 
 crowd about the Duke of Orleans 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 domes 
 tics, " Why do you weep ? Did you think I 
 was immortal ? " 
 
 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, moreover, was pompous 
 and artificial. There were pedantic scholars 
 about town ; and learned women ; and Prt- 
 cieuses 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 entirely deserted by wealth and 
 fashion. Travellers even seldom find their 
 way into its broad and silent streets. But
 
 Paris in the Seventeenth Century 167 
 
 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 
 pavements. 
 
 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. Oc 
 casionally 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 have all a provincial look. In 
 deed, for a time you imagine yourself in a
 
 1 68 Drift -Wood 
 
 small French town, not in Paris ; so different 
 is everything there from the Paris you live in. 
 You are in a quarter where people retire to 
 live genteelly on small incomes. The gentle 
 men 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 discov 
 ering 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 occupied by Madame de Se"vigne\ You 
 are shown the very cabinet where she com 
 posed those letters which beautified her na 
 tive 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 seventeenth 
 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 licen 
 tious heat, all burnt out, puffed into dark-
 
 Paris in the Seventeenth Century 169 
 
 ness 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 
 improvising epigrams in the midst of sedi 
 tions, and madrigals on the field of battle." 
 
 Westward from this quarter, near the Seine 
 and the Louvre, stood the ever famous Hotel 
 de Rambouillet, the court of Euphuism and 
 false taste. Here Catherine de Vivonne, Mar 
 chioness of Rambouillet, gave her aesthetical 
 soirees in her bedchamber, and she herself in 
 bed, among the curtains and mirrors of a gay 
 alcove. The master of ceremonies bore the 
 title of the Alcoviste. He did the honors of 
 the house and directed the conversation, and 
 such was the fashion of the day, that, impos 
 sible as it may seem to us, no evil tongue 
 soiled with malignant whisper the fair fame 
 of the Pr^cieuses, as the ladies of the society 
 were called. 
 
 Into this bedchamber came all the most 
 noted literary personages of the day ; Cor- 
 neille, Malherbe, Bossuet, F16chier, La Roche- 
 foucault, Balzac, Bussy-Rabutin, Madame de 
 Sevigne, Mademoiselle de Scud^ri, and others 
 of less note, though hardly less pretension.
 
 1 70 Drift -Wood 
 
 They paid their homage to the Marchioness, 
 under the title of Arthenice, Eracinthe, and 
 Corinthe'e, anagrams of the name of Catherine. 
 There, as in the Courts of Love of a still ear 
 lier age, were held grave dissertations, on friv 
 olous themes : and all the metaphysics of love, 
 and the subtilties of exaggerated passion, were 
 discussed with most puerile conceits and a 
 vapid sentimentality. " We saw, not long 
 since," says La Bruyere, " a circle of persons 
 of the two sexes, united by conversation and 
 mental sympathy. They left to the vulgar 
 the art of speaking intelligibly. One obscure 
 expression brought on another still more ob 
 scure, 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 conversations 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 imagina 
 tion." 
 
 Looking back from the present age, how 
 very absurd all these things seem to us ! Nev-
 
 Paris in the Seventeenth Century i/ 1 
 
 ertheless, the minds of some excellent men 
 were seriously inpressed with their worth ; 
 and the pulpit-orator, Flechier, in his funeral 
 oration upon the death of Madame de Mon- 
 tausier, exclaimed, in pious enthusiasm : " Re 
 member, 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 incom 
 parable Arthenice, where were gathered to 
 gether so many personages of quality and 
 merit, forming a select court, numerous with 
 out confusion, modest without constraint, 
 learned without pride, polished without affec 
 tation."
 
 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 be 
 come, like the doors in Bagdad, marked by 
 Morgiana's chalk. 
 
 Don Quixote thought he could have made 
 beautiful bird-cages and toothpicks 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 crit 
 ics, whom they hate and fear ; as of old the 
 Greeks spake of the Furies as the Eumenides, 
 the benign Goddesses.
 
 Table -Talk J 73 
 
 Doubtless criticism was originally benig 
 nant, 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 re 
 pose, 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 philan 
 thropy by giving the name of fanaticism to 
 the more ardent zeal of others. 
 
 Every great poem is in itself limited by 
 necessity, but in its suggestions unlimited 
 and infinite. 
 
 If we could read the secret history of our 
 enemies, we should find in each man's life
 
 174 Drift-Wood 
 
 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 unerring in his 
 judgments as Nature. 
 
 Round about what is, lies a whole mysteri 
 ous 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 stopping 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
 
 Table-Talk 175 
 
 whole current of our lives would have been 
 changed. There is no possible solution to 
 the dark enigma but the one word, " Provi 
 dence." 
 
 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 a great and seemingly 
 impossible action, the end of which it dimly 
 foresees. This divine madness enters more 
 or less into all our noblest undertakings. 
 
 I feel a kind of reverence for the first books 
 of young authors. There is so much aspira 
 tion in them, so much audacious hope and 
 trembling fear, so much of the heart's history, 
 that all errors and short-comings are for a 
 while lost sight of in the amiable self-assertion 
 of youth.
 
 Drift- Wood 
 
 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 peo 
 ple think, that when they buy a book, they 
 buy with it the right to abuse the author. 
 
 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 Emperors signed their names in green ink 
 when under age, but when of age, in purple. 
 
 x Some critics are like chimney-sweepers ; 
 they put out the fire below, or 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.
 
 Table-Talk 177 
 
 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 coincidences of ex 
 pression among poets, but rather that they 
 are not more numerous and more striking. 
 
 The first pressure of sorrow crushes out v 
 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 Nature ; but without it no true Aurum 
 Potabile, or Elixir of Life, can be made.
 
 UC SOUTHERN REG ONAL L BRARY FACIL TY