The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 13, by Various
V >>
Various >> The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 13,
Whilst Arthur was receiving from his guide a full account of the
peculiarities of King Rene, they entered the territories of that merry
monarch. It was late in the autumn, and about the period when the
south-eastern counties of France rather show to least advantage. The
foliage of the olive tree is then decayed and withered, and as it
predominates in the landscape, and resembles the scorched complexion
of the soil itself, an ashen and arid hue is given to the whole.
Still, however, there were scenes in the hilly and pastoral parts of
the country, where the quality of the evergreens relieved the eye even
in this dead season.
The appearance of the country, in general, had much in it that was
peculiar. The travellers perceived at every turn some marks of the
king's singular character. Provence, as the part of Gaul which first
received Roman civilization, and as having been still longer the
residence of the Grecian colony who founded Marseilles, is more full
of the splendid relics of ancient architecture than any other country
in Europe. Italy and Greece excepted. The good taste of King Rene had
dictated some attempts to clear out and to restore these memorials of
antiquity. Was there a triumphal arch, or an ancient temple--huts and
hovels were cleared away from its vicinity, and means were used at
least to retard the approach of ruin. Was there a marble fountain,
which superstition had dedicated to some sequestered naiad--it was
surrounded by olives, almond, and orange trees--its cistern was
repaired, and taught once more to retain its crystal treasures. The
huge amphitheatres, and gigantic colonnades, experienced the same
anxious care, attesting that the noblest specimens of the fine arts
found one admirer and preserver in King Rene, even during the course
of those which are termed the dark and barbarous ages.
A change of manners could also be observed in passing from Burgundy
and Lorraine, where society relished of German bluntness, into the
pastoral country of Provence, where the influence of a fine climate
and melodious language, joined to the pursuits of the romantic old
monarch, with the universal taste for music and poetry, had introduced
a civilization of manners, which approached to affectation. The
shepherd literally marched abroad in the morning, piping his flocks
forth to the pasture, with some love sonnet, the composition of an
amorous troubadour; and his "fleecy care" seemed actually to be under
the influence of his music, instead of being ungraciously insensible
to its melody, as is the case in colder climates. Arthur observed,
too, that the Provencal sheep, instead of being driven before the
shepherd, regularly followed him, and did not disperse to feed, until
the swain, by turning his face round to them, remaining stationary,
and executing variations on the air which he was playing, seemed to
remind them that it was proper to do so. While in motion, his huge
dog, of a species which is trained to face the wolf, and who is
respected by the sheep as their guardian, and not feared as their
tyrant, followed his master with his ears pricked, like the chief
critic and prime judge of the performance, at some tones of which he
seldom failed to intimate disapprobation; while the flock, like the
generality of an audience, followed in unanimous though silent
applause. At the hour of noon, the shepherd had sometimes acquired an
augmentation to his audience, in some comely matron or blooming
maiden, with whom he had rendezvoused by such a fountain as we have
described, and who listened to the husband's or lover's chalumeau, or
mingled her voice with his in the duets, of which the songs of the
troubadours have left so many examples. In the cool of the evening,
the dance on the village green, or the concert before the hamlet door;
the little repast of fruits, cheese, and bread, which the traveller
was readily invited to share, gave new charms to the illusion, and
seemed in earnest to point out Provence as the Arcadia of France.
But the greatest singularity was, in the eyes of Arthur, the total
absence of armed men and soldiers in this peaceful country. In
England, no man stirred without his long bow, sword, and buckler. In
France, the hind wore armour even when he was betwixt the stilts of
his plough. In Germany, you could not look along a mile of highway,
but the eye was encountered by clouds of dust out of which were seen,
by fits, waving feathers and flashing armour. Even in Switzerland, the
peasant, if he had a journey to make, though but of a mile or two,
cared not to travel without his halbert and two-handed sword. But in
Provence all seemed quiet and peaceful, as if the music of the land
had lulled to sleep all its wrathful passions. Now and then a mounted
cavalier might pass them, the harp at whose saddle-bow, or carried by
one of his attendants, attested the character of a troubadour, which
was affected by men of all ranks; and then only a short sword on his
left thigh, borne for show rather than use, was a necessary and
appropriate part of his equipment.
[Next is a finely-wrought scene of Arthur's interview with Margaret in
a monastery, "on the very top of Mount Saint Victoire."]
So much was Arthur awed by the scene before him, that he had almost
forgotten, while gazing from the bartizan, the important business
which had brought him to this place, when it was suddenly recalled by
finding himself in the presence of Margaret of Anjou, who, not seeing
him in the parlour of reception, had stept upon the balcony, that she
might meet with him the sooner.
The Queen's dress was black, without any ornament except a gold
coronal of an inch in breadth, restraining her long black tresses, of
which advancing years, and misfortunes, had partly altered the hue.
There was placed within the circlet a black plume with a red rose, the
last of the season, which the good father who kept the garden had
presented to her that morning, as the badge of her husband's house.
Care, fatigue, and sorrow, seemed to dwell on her brow and her
features. To another messenger, she would in all probability have
administered a sharp rebuke, for not being alert in his duty to
receive her as she entered; but Arthur's age and appearance
corresponded with that of her loved and lost son. He was the son of a
lady whom Margaret had loved with almost sisterly affection, and the
presence of Arthur continued to excite in the dethroned queen the same
feelings of maternal tenderness which they had awakened on their first
meeting in the Cathedral of Strasburg. She raised him as he kneeled at
her feet, spoke to him with much kindness, and encouraged him to
detail at full length his father's message, and such other news as his
brief residence at Dijon had made him acquainted with.
* * * * *
As she spoke, she sunk down as one who needs rest, on a stone-seat
placed on the very verge of the balcony, regardless of the storm,
which now began to rise with dreadful gusts of wind, the course of
which being intermitted and altered by the crags round which they
howled, it seemed as if in very deed Boreas, and Eurus, and Caurus,
unchaining the winds from every quarter of heaven, were contending for
mastery around the convent of our Lady of Victory. Amid this tumult,
and amid billows of mist which concealed the bottom of the precipice,
and masses of clouds which racked tearfully over their heads, the roar
of the descending waters rather resembled the fall of cataracts than
the rushing of torrents of rain. The seat on which Margaret had placed
herself was in a considerable degree sheltered from the storm, but its
eddies, varying in every direction, often tossed aloft her dishevelled
hair; and we cannot describe the appearance of her noble and
beautiful, yet ghastly and wasted features, agitated strongly by
anxious hesitation, and conflicting thoughts, unless to those of our
readers who have had the advantage of having seen our inimitable
Siddons in such a character as this.
* * * * *
As Margaret spoke, she tore from her hair the sable feather and rose,
which the tempest had detached from the circlet in which they were
placed, and tossed them from the battlement with a gesture of wild
energy. They were instantly whirled off in a bickering eddy of the
agitated clouds, which swept the feather far distant into empty space,
through which the eye could not pursue it. But while that of Arthur
involuntarily strove to follow its course, a contrary gust of wind
caught the red rose, and drove it back against his breast, so that it
was easy for him to catch hold of and retain it.
"Joy, joy, and good fortune, royal mistress!" he said, returning to
her the emblematic flower; "the tempest brings back the badge of
Lancaster to its proper owner."
"I accept the omen," said Margaret; "but it concerns yourself,
noble youth and not me. The feather, which is borne away to waste
and desolation, is Margaret's emblem. My eyes will never see the
restoration of the line of Lancaster. But you will live to behold it,
and to aid to achieve it, and to dye our red rose deeper yet in the
blood of tyrants and traitors. My thoughts are so strangely poised,
that a feather or a flower may turn the scale. But my head is still
giddy, and my heart sick--To-morrow you shall see another Margaret,
and till then adieu."
[Oxford attempts to win over Charles the Bold to the Lancastrian
cause, and proposes an invasion of England, while Edward, with his
army, is in France. Charles acquiesces; but capriciously breaks off
the treaty, and rashly commences an attack on the Swiss Cantons. In
his first attempt at Granson, his vanguard is cut off, and he is
compelled to retreat into Burgundy. He, however, resolves to wipe out
the disgrace of his defeat, raises a powerful army, and fights the
memorable battle of Morat. His army is utterly ruined by the stern
valour of the Swiss; he is compelled to fight for Lorraine, before
Nancy; the treachery of an Italian leader of Condittierri, gives the
enemy access to his camp; and his army is surprised, and routed:]
It was ere daybreak of the first of January, 1477, a period long
memorable for the events which marked it, that the Earl of Oxford,
Colvin, and the young Englishman, followed only by Thiebault and two
other servants, commenced their rounds of the Duke of Burgundy's
encampment. For the greater part of their progress, they found
sentinels and guards all on the alert and at their posts. It was a
bitter morning. The ground was partly covered with snow--that snow had
been partly melted by a thaw, which had prevailed for two days, and
partly congealed into ice by a bitter frost, which had commenced the
preceding evening, and still continued. A more dreary scene could
scarcely be witnessed.
* * * * *
A broad red glare rising behind the assailants, and putting to shame
the pallid lights of the winter morning, first recalled Arthur to a
sense of his condition. The camp was on fire in his rear, and
resounded with all the various shouts of conquest and terror that are
heard in a town which is stormed. Starting to his feet, he looked
around him for his father. He lay near him senseless, as were the
gunners, whose condition prevented their attempting an escape. Having
opened his father's casque, he was rejoiced to see him give symptoms
of reanimation.
* * * * *
They looked back more than once on the camp, now one great scene of
conflagration, by whose red and glaring light they could discover on
the ground the traces of Charles's retreat. About three miles from the
scene of their defeat, the sound of which they still heard, mingled
with the bells of Nancy, which were ringing in triumph, they reached
an half-frozen swamp, round which lay several dead bodies. The most
conspicuous was that of Charles of Burgundy, once the possessor of
such unlimited power--such unbounded wealth. He was partly stripped
and plundered, as were those who lay round him. His body was pierced
with several wounds, inflicted by various weapons. His sword was still
in his hand, and the singular ferocity which was wont to animate his
features in battle, still dwelt on his stiffened countenance. Close
behind him, as if they had fallen in the act of mutual fight, lay the
corpse of Count Albert of Geierstein; and that of Ital Schreckenwald,
the faithful though unscrupulous follower of the latter, lay not far
distant. Both were in the dress of the men-at-arms composing the
Duke's guard, a disguise probably assumed to execute the fatal
commission of the Secret Tribunal. It is supposed that a party of the
traitor Campo-Basso's men had been engaged in the skirmish in which
the Duke fell, for six or seven of them, and about the same number of
the Duke's guards, were found near the spot.
[Previous to the battle of Nancy, Rudolf falls by the hand of Arthur:]
A pursuivant brought greetings from the family of the Biedermans to
their friend Arthur, and a separate letter addressed to the same
person, of which the contents ran thus:--
"Rudolf Donnerhugel is desirous to give the young merchant, Arthur
Philipson, the opportunity of finishing the bargain which remained
unsettled between them in the castle-court of Geierstein. He is the
more desirous of this, as he is aware that the said Arthur has done
him wrong, in seducing the affections of a certain maiden of rank, to
whom he, Philipson, is not, and cannot be, any thing beyond an
ordinary acquaintance. Rudolf Donnerhugel will send Arthur Philipson
word, when a fair and equal meeting can take place on neutral ground.
In the meantime, he will be as often as possible in the first rank of
the skirmishers."
Young Arthur's heart leapt high as he read the defiance, the piqued
tone of which showed the state of the writer's feelings, and argued
sufficiently Rudolf's disappointment on the subject of Anne of
Geierstein, and his suspicion that she had bestowed her affections on
the youthful stranger. Arthur found means of dispatching a reply to
the challenge of the Swiss, assuring him of the pleasure with which he
would attend his commands, either in front of the line or elsewhere,
as Rudolf might desire.
They met, as was the phrase of the time, "manful under shield." The
lance of the Swiss glanced from the helmet of the Englishman, against
which it was addressed, while the spear of Arthur, directed right
against the centre of his adversary's body, was so justly aimed, and
so truly seconded by the full fury of the career, as to pierce, not
only the shield which hung round the ill-fated warrior's neck, but a
breastplate, and a shirt of mail which he wore beneath it. Passing
clear through the body, the steel point of the weapon was only stopped
by the backpiece of the unfortunate cavalier, who fell headlong from
his horse, as if struck by lightning, rolled twice or thrice over on
the ground, tore the earth with his hands, and then lay prostrate a
dead corpse.
There was a cry of rage and grief among those men-at-arms whose ranks
Rudolf had that instant left, and many couched their lances to avenge
him; but Ferrand of Lorraine, who was present in person, ordered them
to make prisoner, but not to harm the successful champion. This was
accomplished, for Arthur had not time to turn his bridle for flight,
and resistance would have been madness.
When brought before Ferrand, he raised his visor, and said, "Is it
well, my lord, to make captive an adventurous Knight, for doing his
devoir against a personal challenger?"
"Do not complain, Sir Arthur of Oxford," said Ferrand, "before you
experience injury.--You are free, Sir Knight. Your father and you were
faithful to my royal aunt Margaret, and although she was my enemy, I
do justice to your fidelity in her behalf; and from respect to her
memory, disinherited as she was like myself, and to please my
grandfather, who I think had some regard for you, I give you your
freedom. But I must also care for your safety during your return to
the camp of Burgundy. On this side of the hill we are loyal and
true-hearted men, on the other they are traitors and murderers.--You,
Sir Count, will, I think, gladly see our captive placed in safety."
[Margaret of Anjou sinks amidst the ruin of her hopes, and dies in her
chair amidst a scene of royal festivity:]
To close the tale, about three months after the battle Nancy, the
banished Earl of Oxford resumed his name of Philipson, bringing with
his lady some remnants of their former wealth, which enabled them to
procure a commodious residence near to Geierstein; and the Landamman's
interest in the state procured for them the right of denizenship. The
high blood, and the moderate fortunes, of Anne of Geierstein and
Arthur de Vere, joined to their mutual inclination, made their
marriage in every respect rational. Arthur continued to prefer the
chase to the labours of husbandry, which was of little consequence, as
his separate income amounted, in that poor country, to opulence. Time
glided on, till it amounted to five years since the exiled family had
been inhabitants of Switzerland. In the year 1482, the Landamman
Biederman died the death of the righteous, lamented universally, as a
model of the true and valiant, simple-minded and sagacious chiefs, who
ruled the ancient Switzers in peace, and headed them in battle. In the
same year, the Earl of Oxford lost his noble Countess.
But the star of Lancaster, at that period, began again to culminate,
and called the banished lord and his son from their retirement, to mix
once more in politics. A treasured necklace of Margaret was then put
to its destined use, and the produce applied to levy those bands which
shortly after fought the celebrated battle of Bosworth, in which the
arms of Oxford and his son contributed so much to the success of Henry
VII. This changed the destinies of De Vere and his lady; and the
manners and beauty of Anne of Geierstein attracted as much admiration
at the English Court as formerly in the Swiss Chalet.
[1] The word Wehme, pronounced Vehme, is of uncertain derivation,
but was always used to intimate this inquisitorial and secret
Court. The members were termed Wissenden, or Initiated,
answering to the modern phrase of Illuminati.
[2] _Baaren-hauter_,--be of the Bear's hide,--a nickname for a
German private soldier.
* * * * *
THE SELECTOR AND LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS._
* * * * *
LORD BYRON.
Mr. Nathan, the musical composer, has just published a pleasant volume
of "_Fugitive Pieces and Reminiscences of Lord Byron_," with a new
edition of the celebrated "Hebrew Melodies," and some never before
published, of which the following are three, with Mr. Nathan's
Notes:--
SPEAK NOT--I TRACE NOT.
I speak not--I trace not--I breathe not thy name,
There is grief in the sound--there were guilt in the fame,
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart
The deep thought that dwells in that silence of heart.
Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace,
Where those hours can their joy or their bitterness cease,
We repent--we abjure--we will break from our chain,
We must part--we must fly to--unite it again.
Oh! thine be the gladness and mine be the guilt,
Forgive me adored one--forsake if thou wilt,
But the heart which I bear shall expire undebased,
And man shall not break it--whatever thou mayest.
And stern to the haughty--but humble to thee,
My soul in its bitterest blackness shall be;
And our days seem as swift--and our moments more sweet
With thee by my side--than the world at our feet.
One sigh of thy sorrow--one look of thy love
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove;
And the heartless may wonder at all we resign,
Thy lip shall reply not to them--but to mine.
Many of the best poetical pieces of Lord Byron, having the least
amatory feeling, have been strangely distorted by his calumniators, as
if applicable to the lamented circumstances of his latter life.
The foregoing verses were written more than two years previously to
his marriage; and to show how averse his lordship was from touching in
the most distant manner upon the _theme_ which might be deemed to have
a personal allusion, he requested me the morning before he last left
London, either to suppress the verses entirely or to be careful in
putting the date when they were originally written.
At the close of his lordship's injunction, Mr. Leigh Hunt was
announced, to whom I was for the first time introduced, and at his
request I sang "O Marianne," and this melody, both of which he was
pleased to eulogize; but his lordship again observed, "Notwithstanding
my own partiality to the air, and the encomiums of an excellent judge,
yet I must adhere to my former injunction."
Observing his lordship's anxiety, and fully appreciating the noble
feeling by which that anxiety was augmented, I acquiesced, in
signifying my willingness to withhold the melody altogether from the
public rather than submit him to any uneasiness. "No, Nathan,"
ejaculated his lordship, "I am too great an admirer of your music to
suffer a single _phrase_ of it to be lost; I insist that you publish
the melody, but by attaching to it the date it will answer every
purpose, and it will prevent my lying under greater obligations than
are absolutely necessary for the _liberal encomiums_ of my _friends_."
IN THE VALLEY OF WATERS.
In the valley of waters we wept o'er the day
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey,
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,
And our hearts were so full of the land far away.
The song they demanded in vain--it lay still
In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill;
They call'd for the harp--but our blood they shall spill
Ere our right hand shall teach them one tone of their skill.
All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree,
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be.
Our hands may be fettered--our tears still are free,
For our God and our glory--and Sion!--Oh thee.
THEY SAY THAT HOPE IS HAPPINESS.
"_Felix qui potuit ferum cognoscere causas_."--Virgil.
They say that Hope is happiness;
But genuine Love must prize the past,
And mem'ry wakes the thoughts that bless:
They rose the first--they set the last;
And all that mem'ry loves the most
Was once our only hope to be,
And all that Hope ador'd and lost
Hath melted into memory.
Alas! it is delusion all:
The future cheats us from afar,
Nor can we be what we recall
Nor dare we think on what we are.
The foregoing lines were officiously taken up by a person who
arrogated to himself some self-importance in criticism, and who made
an observation upon their demerits, on which his lordship quaintly
observed, "they were written in haste and they shall perish in the
same manner," and immediately consigned them to the flames; as my
music adapted to them, however, did not share the same fate, and
having a contrary opinion of any thing that might fall from the pen of
Lord Byron, I treasured them up, and on a subsequent interview with
his lordship I accused him of having committed suicide in making so
valuable a _burnt offering_: to which his lordship smilingly replied,
"the act seems to _inflame_ you: come, Nathan, since you are
displeased with the _sacrifice_, I give them to you as a _peace
offering_, use them as you may deem proper."
When the Hebrew Melodies were first published, Sir Walter, then Mr.
Scott, honoured me with a visit at my late residence in Poland Street:
I sang several of the melodies to him--he repeated his visit, and
requested I would allow him to introduce his lady and his daughter;
they came together, when I had the pleasure of singing to them
Jephtha's Daughter and one or two more of the most favourite airs;
they entered into the spirit of the music with all the true taste and
feeling so peculiar to the Scotch.
Mr. Scott again called on me to take leave before his return to
Scotland; we entered into conversation respecting the sublimity and
beauty of Lord Byron's poetry, and he spoke of his lordship with
admiration, exclaiming "He is a man of wonderful genius--he is a
great man."
I called on Lord Byron the same day, and mentioned to him that Walter
Scott had been with me that morning. His lordship observed, "Then,
Nathan, you have been visited by the greatest man of the age, and,"
continued his lordship, "I suppose you have read _Waverley_." I
replied in the negative. "Then," returned his lordship, "you have a
pleasure to come, let me recommend it to you; it is decidedly the best
novel I ever read; you are of course aware that it was written by
Walter Scott." It had at this period scarcely been rumoured that such
was actually the case, but Lord Byron was more than usually positive
in identifying the author with his writings.
In speaking of Moore, as a poet, Lord Byron acknowledged his powers,
and spoke highly of his effusions generally. "The Irish Melodies,"
said his lordship, "will outlive all his other productions, and will
be hailed by the Irish nation as long as music and poetry exist in
that country."