.1* ?-r'f'5''^'4; '^i^^.K'-^ '^^r^' liONGFELlJDW OlJTPF-fVfFR It ^^^3^ni.^. ... t ^6 S>alem, Portland, anH ^Srungtoiclt (Etiitiong OF WELL-KNOWN BOOKS. THE SCARLET LETTER. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. i8mo, 30 cents. THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. By Haw- thorne. i8mo, 30 cents. TWICE-TOLD TALES. By Hawthorne. i8mo, socts. MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE. By Hawthorne. iSmo, 30 cents. THE SNOW-IMAGE. By Hawthorne. iSmo, socents. A WONDER-BOOK. By Hawthorne. i8mo, 30 cents. THE BLITHEDALE ROMANCE. By Hawthorne. i8mo, 30 cents. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. By Goldsmith. i8mo, 30 cents. PARADISE LOST. By Milton. i8mo, 30 cents. TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. By Lamb. i8mo,3octs. }3ortTanti ^Stiitioni^. THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP. By Bret Harte. iSmo, 30 cents. EVANGELINE. By Longfellow. i8mo, 30 cents. HYPERION: A Romance. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. i8mo, 30 cents. OUTRE-MER. By Longfellow. i8mo, 30 cents. KAVAN AG H : A Tale. By Longfellow. i8mo, 30 cents. ^runstDicli 4Btittion. UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. By Harriet Beecher Stowk. iSmo. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, Boston and New York. OUTRE-MER A PILGRIMAGE BEYOND THE SEA BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW PORTLAND EDITION The House in Portland, Maim PUBLiu liiijii^iitlY. BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY ^Je JItibersibe pre^j^, Cambribge 1894 "PSE2.T3 .at Entered according to Aei of Congress, in the year 1866, by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Maasachusetts. r EXCHANGE SROWN UNIV LIBRArn- OCT 7. 1938 w^ CONTENTS OUTRE-MER. Pagb The Epistle Dedicatory . , . . . 7 The Pilgrim of Outre-Mer • o • • 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 PfeRE LA Chaise ....... 78 The Valley of the Loire .... 92 The Trouveres 108 The Baptism of Fire .^ ^' t "'' % ^-"^ • • . 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 Cofitenfs The Pilgrim's Breviary . , . . • 267 The Journey into Italy . . • • • 297 Rome in Midsummer , . • • « - 3^1 The Village of La Riccia • « • • 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 recordyng© the tyme passed, I have fulfilled these thynges and putte hem wrytea in this boke, as it woulde come into my mynde. Sir Jehn MaundevilU, 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 n'^thing 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, prowUng 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. Brunswick, 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 YSTEN YTH, ye godely gentylmen, and -L-' 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, — 10 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 meiy 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 ii 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 wiUing 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 most diabolicall 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, A lions ^ 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 ofif 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 Norma7i 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 Diligaices pour le Havre y Rotceii^ et Paris!' It would be useless to describe the motley groups that filled the four quarters of this little world. There was the dusty tradesman, with green coat and cotton umbrella ; the sallow invalid, in 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 t6 The Norman Diligence world with absolute sway was a short, pursy man, with a busy, self-satisfied air, and the sonorous title of Moftsieur le Co7iducteiir. 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 Condiccteur ! here; Monsieur le Conducteur ! 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 horsea 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 CondiLcteitr 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 w^e 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 " ; 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 20 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 its narrow streets. THE GOLDEN LION INN Monsieur Vinot, Je veux absolument un Lion I'Or ; parce qu*on dit, OA allez-vous? Au Lion d'Or ! — D'ou venez-vous? Du Liond'Or! — Ou irons-nous ? Au Lion d'Or ! — Ou y a-t-il de bon vin ? Au Lion d'Or I La Rose Rouge. THIS answer of Monsieur Vinot must have been running in my head as the dihgence stopped at the Messagerie ; for when the por- ter, who took my luggage, said : — " Ou allez-vous y Monsietcr ? " 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), — " Ate Lion (TOrr 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 Lio7i 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 desoleey 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 possu 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 dHote 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'oistes sa pareille, Que je vos vueil dire et conter; Or metez cuer a I'escouter. Fabliau du Bouchier d'Abbeviixb 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 Mohie, 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 modem 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 Httle, 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 aTid 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 ibout 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 en- emies ; 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 friar. 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." "Nay," 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, — "fhe 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 little alley which led to the dwelling of Martin Franc. It was none other than Friar Gui. He rapped softly at the tradesman's door, and casting a look up and down the street, as if to assure himself that his motions were 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 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, ai?d 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. Antho7iy 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 cons^cience would not suffer 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. 40 Martin F^^anc 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 tnen 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, telUng 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-Boeuf, a little tavern in one of the darkest and narrow- est lanes of the city. The host of the Tete- de-Boeuf was privy to all their schemes, and had an equal share in the profits of their night- ly excursions. He gave a helping hand, too, by the length of his bills, and by plundering the 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-Boeuf. 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 1 Your hog wears a cowl ! " ** The poor devil has become disgusted with the world, and turned monk ! " saicj he who 44 Martin Prafic 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 an incredulous shake of the head ; " how could a dead monk get into this sack } No, no ; there 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 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. I 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 t — 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 ! THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL II n*est lei plaisir Que d'estre i gesir Parmy les beaux champs, L'herbe verde choisir, Et prendre bon temps. Martial D'Auvergnb, 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 sc tlie dere draw to the dale And leve the hilles hee, And shadow hem in the leves grenc, 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 httle 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 inaiso7t de sanie; not that I was a valetudinarian, but because I there found some one to whom I could whis- J i> 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 th« 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 -^s- 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 solitaiT window, which Tlie 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 huve 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 i.n 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 T^^^ Village of Autettil and decorum of my imaginary realm broken by m.usic 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 th^ 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 filled 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 gardons, 56 The Village of Auteuil Angfuilles et carpettes Etaient a bon marche Croyez, A cette joumee-1^, 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, " Chantoiis The Village of Auteuil ^y T 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 rose again, nearer and more distinct, and soon after a funeral procession appeared, and passed directly beneath my window. It was led by a priest, bearing the banner of the church, and followed by two boys, holding long flambeaux in their hands. Next came a double file of priests in their surplices, with a missal in one hand and a lighted wax taper in the other, chanting the funeral dirge at intervals, — now pausing, and then again taking up the mournful burden of their lamentation, accompanied by others, who played upon a rude kind of bassoon, with a dismal and wailing sound. Then 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 Attteuil 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 th-e 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, Hke an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. Shakes PEARS. • T^ EAR mother, is it not the bell I -L^ 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 Jacqiieline 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 yacqueline 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 w^as kneehng by the window, with her face concealed in the folds of the cur- 64 yacqueline 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, — hei 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 yacqueline 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 yacqueline 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 1 " " Holy father, no." " Confess thyself, then, that thy sins may be forgiven, and thy name recorded in the book of life." And, turning to the kneeling crowd around he waved his hand for them to retire, and was left alone with the sick girl. He seated hnn- yacqueline 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 t " " I believe." 68 jfacqueliTie •"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 1 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 jFacqueline 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, — " 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 mora, 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 70 Jacqueline movement of the heavy and sunken eyeHd, not a trembling of the lip, not a shadow on the marble brow, told when the spirit took its flight. It passed to a better world than this: — ** There 's a perpetual spring, — perpetual youth ; No joint-benumbing cold, nor scorching heat, Famine, nor age, have any being there." THE SEXAGENARIAN Do you set down your name in the scroll of youths 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. THERE 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 flourishes a pinch of snuff between his forefinger and his thumb, ever and anon drumming on the cover of his box, by way of emphasis, with a sound like the tap of a woodpecker. He always takes a morning walk in the garden, — in fact, I may say he passes the greater part of the day there, either strolling up and down the gravel-walks, or sitting on a rustic bench in one of the leafy arbors. He always wears that same dress, too ; a bell-crowned hat, a frilled bosom, and white 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 residen(!:e at the Maison de sante 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, " une faim ca^ziner 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 sante, was the. source of no little merriment to all but himself He loved, too, to recall the golden age of his amours ; and would discourse with prolix 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 ^^ 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 eclat in the fashionable world, and conse- 76 The Sexagenarian quently he pursued pleasure with a keener reHsh than ever. He next had the grande fassioHy 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 Sexage7iarian 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 sa7ite\ 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 footfkll 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 Heloise. 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. Abelard 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 Heloise, 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 i Pere la Chaise 8i 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 bum 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. The history of Abelard and Helo'fse 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 t 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 ! 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 P^re 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 apon erth wynnys castellys and towrys Then seth erth unto erth thys ys all owrys When erth apon erth hath bylde hys bowrys Then schall erth for erth suffur many hard schowrys " Erth goth apon erth as man apon mowld Lyke as erth apon erth never goo schold Pere la Chaise 91 mit of the hill, and here and there a lofty ol> 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. Erth goth apon erth as gelsteryng gold And yet schall erth unto erth rather than he wold ** Why that erth loveth erth wondur me thynke Or why that erth wold for erth other swett or swynke When erth apon erth ys broght wtyn 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 tome 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 emblems of mortahty," &c THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE [e ne consols qu*unc maniere de voyager plus agreable que d'allcr ^ Gheval ; c'est d'aller ^l pied. On part a son moment; on s'arrete k sa vo- lonte, on fait tant et si peu d'exercise qu'on veut. Quand on ne veut qu'arriver, on peut courir en chaise de poste ; mais quand on veut voyager, il faut aller a pied. Rousseau- IN the beautiful month of October, I made a foot excursion along the banks of the Loire, from Orleans to Tours. This luxuriant region is justly called the garden of France. From Orleans to Blois, the whole valley of the Loire is one continued vineyard. The bright green foliage of the vine spreads, like the 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 TJie Valley of tJie Loire 93 glacL 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 \'illage inn stands upon the highway ; but the \'illage itself is not \dsible 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, w^hich the passing footstep almost treads upon, and yet it is not seen. I passed Dy without suspecting that a village was near ; and the little inn had a look so unin\iting 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 sunset ; and the last golden rays lingered on the rich and mellow scenery around me. The peasantry were still busy at their task ; and the occasional bark of a dog, and the distant sound of an evening bell, gave fresh romance to the scene. The reality of many a 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 V " To travel ; — to see how you live in this country." " Have you no relations in your own t " "Yes ; I have both brothers and sisters, a father and — " "And a mother.?" 96 The Valley of the Loir^ ''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 crossway 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 vieille moustache, he spake with enthusiasm of the Little Corporal, and cursed the English, the Germans, the Spanish, and every other race on earth, except the Great Nation, — his own. " I like," said he, "after a long day's march, to lie down in this way upon the grass, and enjoy the cool of the evening. It reminds me of the bivouacs of other days, and of old friends who are now up there." Here he pointed with his finger to the sky. " They have reached the last etape before me, in the long march. But I shall go soon. We shall all meet again at the last roll-call. Sacre nam de ! There 's a tear !" He wiped it away with his sleeve. 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 the 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, ft moss-grown with age, and blackened by the storms of three centuries. Within, all is mournful and deserted. The grass has over- lOO 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 loi cottages and chateaux, runs an ample terrace, planted with trees, and laid out as a public walk. The view from this terrace is one of the most beautiful in France. But what most strikes the eye of the 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- I02 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 thfe 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 I04 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 dump 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'Or, 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 the 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 feut 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 I'hyver est passez, Et oil 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, ^vith brown hair ; of a well-made, handsome form, but a stem 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 likevdse. 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 iii 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 112 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 113 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 prejudice 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- 114 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 Ian*- 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 ii6 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 naiveti 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 deHght to sing ^' les donees dolors et li mal plaisant de fine amorr 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, tho The Trouveres 117 lark. The minstrers 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 ! Ii8 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 ! hark ! Pretty lark ! Little heedest thou my pain 1 Then cease, Love, to V)nnent me so ; But rather than all tnuughts 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 mis. 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 spoken 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 I20 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 141 5, 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 Re7ioiiveaiiXy or songs on the return of spring, are full of delicacy and beauty. **Now Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and wdnd, and rain. Pi vA 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 jewelr)'- ; In new-made suit they merr}' 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 Tlie Trouveres And the earth looks bright, — and winter surly, Who has toiled for naught both late and early. Is banished afar by the new-bom year, When thy merry step draws near." The only person of that age who can dispute the laurel with Charles d'Orleans is Clotilda 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 I ** 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 I ** His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his brow ; His eye is closed ; he sleeps, — how still and calm I 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 ! Eren at the price of thine, give me repose 1 The Trouvlres 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 sen- 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 cUmbed 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 sufier- 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 126 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 gratmg 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 t " " 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 Ttie 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 m^re 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 t — 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 jgtand 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, 1 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 t These holy men of old shall answer for me. Hear what Justin Martyr says, in his earnest appeal to Antonine the Pious, in behalf of the Christians who in his day were unjustly loaded with public odium and 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 6* I 1 30 The Baptism of Fire time to escape your torments by denying the faith, when you question us about it : but we scorn to purchase Hfe at the expense of a he ; for our souls are winged with a desire of a Hfe 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 ! whateve-r 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 prisoners 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 ^>^^ Baptis^n 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. \ coq-A-l'Ane My brain, methinks, is like an hour-glass, Wherein my imaginations run like sands, Filling up time ; but then are turned, and turned. So that I know not what to stay upon And less to put in art. Ben Jonson. A RAINY and gloomy winter was just drawing to its close, when I left Paris for the South of France. We started at sunrise ; and as we passed along the solitary streets of the vast and silent 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 sluggisii 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 veiy 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, though in reality dull and uninteresting, seems beautiful as it floats by in the soft moonshine. Every ruined hovel is changed 138 Coq-a-VAne 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 Coq-a-rAne. 139 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-VAne 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- ins 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-VAne 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 t " 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-rAne. earth. You have hardly been quiet a moment since the day of the Barricades and the mem- orable war of \ht pots-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-rAfie 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 I " 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 stuiBfed with truffles, and accompanied by a Pate 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 own fancy. A 144 Cog-d-l'Ane 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. ca k Coq-a-VAne 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- inent 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 ^^//^^.^ " exclaimed he, " speak- ing of boots, and notaries public, and such 7 J 146 Coq-a-VAne matters, -r— 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 worda 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 fax beyond the cares and clamors of domes- tic life. This was a little Cafe Estaminety 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 Perigueux 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 Estammet, 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 dense with the more sensitive organization of the notary, and finally put his nervous system completely out of tune. He lost his appetite, became gaunt and haggard, and could get no sleep. Legions of blue-devils haunted him by day, and by night strange faces peeped through his bed-curtains, and the nightmare snorted in his ear. The worse he grew, the more he smoked and tippled ; and the more he smoked and tippled, — why, as a matter of course, the worse he grew. His wife alternately stormed, remonstrated, entreated ; but all in vain. She made the house too hot for him, — he retreated to the tavern ; she broke his long-stemmed pipes upon the and- irons, — he substituted a short-stemmed one, which, for safe keeping, he carried in his waistcoat-pocket. 1 50 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 grov/ing 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 Perigueux 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-Hng-Hng ! 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 vitatn 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 1 " " What disease ? Why^ scarlet fever, to be sure." 7* 154 ^'^^ Notary of Periguetix "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 Perigtceux 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 Perigueux 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 ai The Notary of Perigiceux 157 night, and only here and there a soHtary 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 Perigiteux 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 t why, he died — of a sudden ! " THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN A Tissue de I'j'ver que le joly temps de primavere commence, et qu'on Toit arbres verdoyer, fleurs espanouir, et qu'on oit les oisillons chanter en toutt joie et doulceur, tant que les verts bocages retentissent de leurssons et que coeurs tristes pensifs y dolens s'en esjouissent, s'emeuvent di delais- ser deuil et toute tristesse, et se parforcent a valoir mieux. La Plaisante Histoire de Guerin de Monglavk. 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 port'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 i6i 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 m.asks^ — 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 ruifBes ; 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- raake, that even beggary seemed to have for- 1 62 The yourney 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, Like giant capped ^vith helm of burnished gold." The yourney into Spain 163 To the left, as far as the eye can reach, stretch the deHcious 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 travelHng far prefer- able to being cooped up in a diligence. The 164 The yourney 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-re matin I " 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 1 66 The yourney into Spain summits. They seemed entirely destitute of trees ; and as the season of vegetation had not yet commenced, their huge outhnes 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 o£ 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 yourney 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 01 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 comer 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 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 yourney 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 giiarde a UstedeSy 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 Maragateria, — a name given to a cluster of small towns which lie in the mountainous country between Astorga and Villafranca, in the western corner of the kingdom of Leon. " Nearly every province in Spain," said he, "has its peculiar costume, as you will see, when you have advanced farther into our 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 yourney 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 yourney 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 sabef' 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, — what 176 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 t The ruins of Christian castle and Moorish alcAz^iv 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. " Chi the greatest festivals," says Jovellanos, " instead of that 178 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 Publicas. 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 Pait y ToroSy " 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 tiir- moil. l8o 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 hes 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 i8i 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 knackes. The Four Ps I. 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." II. 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, this 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 ta^ticlia 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 ? III. 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 ! " Next comes a Va- 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-0-0. 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 ; aqiii 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 '' ^ Qiden vie compra tin gallo, — ten par de gallinas ? '* (Who buys a cock, — a pair of fowls ?) That tall fellow in blue, with a pot of flowers upon his shoulder, is a wag, beyond all dispute. See how cunningly he cocks his eye up at us, and cries, '' Si yo tuviera balcon!'' (If I only had a balcony !) What next ? A Manchego with a sack of oil under his arm ; a Gallego with a huge water-jar upon his shoulders ; an Italian ped- ler with images of saints and madonnas ; a Tazor-grinder with his wheel ; a mender of pots and kettles, making music, as he goes, tvith 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. 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 I 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 Httle 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- raze. 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 80 beaten and abused as he ^ A TailoT^s Drawer 189 , VII. Hepie 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 sero" igo A Tailor^ s 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 morahst ; " the wise man who Ufts 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. 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 hoinbre de micchos dingolondaiigos. 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 Spain, Jerusa- lem, and the Canary Islands " will take his de- parture for the gardens of Aranjuez. You have a proverb in your language, Don Diego, which says, — ** Despues de comer Ni un sobrescrito leer " ; — after dinner read not even the superscription of a letter. I shall obey, and indulge in the exquisite luxury of a siesta. I confess that I love this after-dinner nap. If 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 ! 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 Retiro. 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 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 revery. 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 Talel 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-browii 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. 4to. Madrid. 1604. 1 98 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 %vith 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 hidalgo 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- 200 Ancient Spanish Ballads scribed in the fewest possible words ; there is no ornament, no artifice. The poet's intention was to narrate, not to embeUish. 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- rnand, 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 t 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 Hne 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 202 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 king was met with disdain by the noblemen who 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-bom 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 paltr)^ sum of gcii ; 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- iai ds of the eighth century. One of the finest of the historic ballads is that which describes Bernardo's march to Ron- cesvalles. He salHes forth '*with three thou- sand Leonese and more," to protect the glory and freedom of his native land. From all sides, the peasantrv 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-boy 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 ? 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-bom 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 2o6 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 eit una mesa comia^i 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 outrecuy dance 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 4 clandestine love f^r 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. Lockharf s translation, — N 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.' *0, well 't is seen how all alone upon the earth am 1 1 — 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 1 * ' '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 I ' "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 l^reast 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 tlie 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 dymg breath, ere thirty days be gone, To meet me in the realm of death, and at God's awful throne ! ' " 212 Ancient Spa^iish 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 tahalies, 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 Sevilla^ by Lope de Vega, and Del Rey abajo Nznguno, by Francisco de 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 hed 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 I ** 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 f 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 ! ** 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 therej One by one, and two by two. To a mighty squadron grew. Woe is me, Alhama ! ** Out then spake an aged Moor In these words the king before : * Wherefore call on us, O king ? What may mean this gathering ? ' Woe is me, Alhama ! C4 < Friends ! ye have, alas ! to knov Of a most disastrous blow, — Ancient Spanish Ballads 21 J That the Christians, stem and bold, Have obtained Alhama's hold.' Woe is me, Alhama ! ** Out then spake old Alfaqui, With his beard so white to see 2 ' 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 m.ust perish by the law ; And Granada must be won, And thyself with her undone.' Woe is me, Alhama ! **Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes; The monarch's wrath began to rise, Because he answered, and because He spake exceeding well of laws. Woe is me, Alhama ! ** * There is no law to say such things As may disgust the ear of kings ! * lO 2i8 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 swelKng 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 Gaspar Gil Polo. I love the city and its busy hum ; I love that glad excitement of the crowd which makes the pulse beat quick, the freedom from restraint, the absence of those curious eyes and idle 22 2 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 columil 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 ^vinds and waves, its organ thunder, Its dome the sky. ** There, amid solitude and shade, I wander Through the green aisles, and, stretched upon the sod. Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God."' But the traveller who journeys through the northern provinces of Spain will look in vain for the charms of rural scenery in the villages he passes. Instead of trim cottages, and 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 miiy infe- The Village of El Pardillo 225 liz, y sin malicia ningunay 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 ol dark and unhewn stone, with a spire like a su- The Village of El Pai^'dillo 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 o£ children, who were singing a hymn to the Virgin : — "Ave, Regina coelorum, Ave, Domina angelorum. " There is something exceedingly thrilling in the voices of children singing. Though their music be unskilful, yet it finds its way to the heart with wonderful celerity. Voices of 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 ^ 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 T enfantamens, Et apres tot eissamens, De vos trais sa cam humana Jhesu-Christ ncstre salvaire ; Si com ses trencamens faire Intra'l bel rais quan solelha Per la fenestra veirina." 230 The Village of El Pardillo " 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 Pardillo 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 goi.^g 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 o^ 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 T^^^ 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- teejith 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 castle at midnight with a book which the Jew 236 The Village of El Pardillo 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, THERE 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 2 39 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 w^ole 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 D.evotional Poetry of Spain 241 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 ; XI 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 Millanr 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 v^^hite 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 thereithey made the foremost ranks along, A panic terror spread unto the hindmost of the throngs ** 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 ^'^^ 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 Senoray " 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 J hit XtOy 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, assum.ing 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, v^hich 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 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 247 hand 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 of nature, and all the imita- tions of art, — unless there be within the soul itself a capacity for hearing the voice and receiving the moral impulse. The cause exists eternally and universally ; but the effect is 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 0/ 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 ^nd superstitious mind. It is filled with its own antique and mouldy furniture, — the moth-eaten tome, the The Devotional Poetry of Spam 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 miade 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 zejjl in the Eastern missions surnamed 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 251 itself directly and fully, sometimes indirectly and incidentally, but always with sufficient Aut quia non amantes te -^temo 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 m^ Ac pro me peccatore. " Cur igitur non amem te, O Jesu amantissime ? Non ut in coelo salves me, Aut ne seternum 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 s 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 seen of the kind in Spanish. It is a passage from Cowpen " 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-mof- 254 ^^^ Devotional Poetry 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 Sacrament ales. 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 ChristL 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 Devocioii de la CriiZy ''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 th-e 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, ox 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 ta the mountains. Julia, counting her honor lost, having offended God, " como a Dios, y canto a esposal' 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 \ki\x^ Jornada 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 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 The 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 TJu 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 351 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 twihght 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 3 352 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 <)nc«t more among the old, gigantic hills. With vapors clouded o'er, The vales of Lombardy grow dim behind, And rocks ascend before. Trhey beckon me, — the giants, — from afar. They wing my footsteps on ; Ifheir helms of ice, their plumage of the pine, Their cuirasses of stone. OeHLENSCH LAGER. 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 ^nds of the Adriatic, and followed the sea- w 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 loscan. 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 Toscaru" 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 thac 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 Hfe 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. Heylin. 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! ^Snoftd of jFfction Nathaniel Hawthorne. Works. Little Classic Edition. Each volume contains vignette illustration. 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