"Hush, my lord! Mention no names," replied the terrified friend. "I

have really nothing to do with this," he continued, addressing the

Squire; "and I insist on leaving the room."

"Not yet," replied the Squire with a smile. "We must teach you

fine-feathered birds from Grosvenor Square to keep to your own

grounds. I am Sergeant Smiffins of the police, and you must both

come with me on charge of an assault--give your names or not, as you

like. Many anonymous gentlemen step up and down the mill, and enjoy

teazing oakum in the house of correction for two months, for far

less than this."

"All in the newspapers to-morrow, gub'nor," said Earl Maudlin, who

evidently enjoyed the confusion and despair of his companion.

"Do any of you know this man," inquired Sergeant Smiffins, who

seemed to enter into the fan of the scene himself.

"For any sake," whispered the prisoner, taking his captor aside;

"don't push this any farther. I am his lordship's tutor. I dined

with his lordship at the Clarendon. I accompanied his lordship here

with no evil intention."

"But only because you can't get manliness into your heart to say

no to a lord," replied the sergeant. "I've met with many fellows

like you before, and think you far worse than any of the thieves

and pickpockets my duty brings me acquainted with. Has anybody lost

a handkerchief, or a watch?" he cried aloud. "This man must be

detained and I will take him on suspicion if any of you have missed

anything. I can't let him go without ascertaining his name."

"I can tell you his name," I said; and a circle was made round me.

"He is the Reverend Mr Vatican Scowl, a wolf in sheep's clothing,

and I have every reason to believe a Jesuit in disguise."

"All up, gub'nor!" chuckled Lord Maudlin. "The _Times_ will have

you at full length; and what will the bishop say--not to mention

the pope?" Mr Scowl sank in despairing silence, and seemed little

moved with the hisses of the assembly. "But where is the gentleman

who planted that one-two?" inquired Lord Maudlin. His antagonist

stept forward. "I am sorry," continued his lordship, "that the

difference of our position can't allow me to settle this matter as I

should like. But as I should infallibly have apologised to you after

receiving your fire, I don't see why I shouldn't do so now after

feeling your bunch of fives. I beg to tell you, I am very sorry for

what has occurred, and feel that I behaved like an ass."

"Do you give his lordship in charge after this?" inquired the

sergeant.

"Not I," said his antagonist; "he only tried to take my partner from

me. I bear no malice, and am sorry I put so much force into the

blow I gave. A China vase is soon cracked, and I regret very much I

didn't hit him a gentler tap."

"In that case I have nothing more to say," answered the sergeant,

letting his prisoner go; "and the ball had better proceed." I

therefore hurried back to my place in the orchestra, but not

before I had whispered in Mr Scowl's ear, in a voice borrowed from

Fitz-Edward, with a tap on the breast borrowed from Edmund Kean,--

"Raro antecedentem scelestum

Deseruit pede Poena claudo."

"Remember your examination of Puddlecombe-Regis school!" Mr Scowl,

I am happy to say, appeared at full length in the newspapers,

and lost the patronage of the Marquis of Missletoe. Catsbach

applauded my conduct very much, and offered me fifteen shillings

as my share of the orchestral profits, which I need not say I

declined; and having refused all his solicitations to accompany

him to his musical engagements, sometimes at public assemblages,

and sometimes at dances and quadrilles in private houses, I braced

myself for the decisive event, and on the morning of Thursday

set off with solemn steps and slow, towards the Stepney Star. I

determined not to enter the theatre till the play was fairly begun,

and I anticipated the rapture with which an author hears his own

words delivered by intelligent actors to a delighted audience. On

arriving at the little passage which led through a house in the

long row of buildings, shops, offices, store-rooms, and humble

private dwellings that constitute a main street in the district,

I was surprised to see none of the lower potentates of the stage

lounging on the step, and looking on the passengers in a heroic

and presumptuous manner, as if to persuade them that they were

Coriolanuses or Brutuses. There was not even the dirty-faced little

errand boy, who on previous occasions used to spy me from the end

of the row, and prepare his expectant hand for the half-crown as he

opened the swinging door. People passed and repassed, on business

thoughts intent, as if that entrance conducted to a warehouse,

and were not the gates that opened into a newer and nobler world.

O blind pursuers of mammon! I thought, are you aware that within

thirty feet of where you are bustling and struggling about bills

of lading, and the prices of chicoried coffee, there is a scene

at this moment going on that would rivet your souls to higher and

purer thoughts? Know you not that the heroic Hengist is developing

his grandeur and generosity,--Horsa, the fiery courage that made

the Saxons triumphant in this land,--and over all an atmosphere of

love and poetry, breathed from the impassioned bosom of Editha the

British maid, that would elevate and refine the soul of a ship-agent

or bill-broker, if he once placed himself within their influence?

How can you be so absurd, I continued, getting angry at the evident

ignorance of the busy crowd that there was a rehearsal of a new

play going on so near them? How can you be so disgustingly dull,

you miserable pork butcher, as to deny yourself such gratification?

Insane grocer--delirious coal-merchant--cowardly lawyer's clerk!

But the loss is yours, I went on, tossing my head, after mentally

addressing the people I met, affixing trades and occupation to them

according to their respective looks--the loss is yours, not mine.

Here I have touched the haven's mouth, and beyond it is romance,

beauty, happiness, fame! By this time I had reached the door, and

was rather surprised to see it shut,--a vast red expanse of wood,

with the name of the theatre conspicuously painted on it in white

letters. "Every individual about the building," I thought, "so

intent on the proceedings on the stage, that they have closed the

entrance, to enjoy them without interruption." I felt in my pocket

for five shillings to reward the errand boy's good sense, instead

of the usual half-crown, and knocked gently with my cane. There

was no answer, and I increased the vigour of my application. "They

must be terribly interested in Hengist," I thought, and waited

with patience, till I concluded they must have finished the first

act. I turned about with the intention of knocking again in a more

authoritative manner, when a man with a long stick in his hand, and

a tin case hung round his neck, stopt at the door. He unfolded an

immense bill in green and blue letters, and was proceeding to paste

it up over the very name of the Stepney Star.

"What are you doing there?" I said--"Mr Montalban will give you in

charge of the police. You mustn't stick your disgusting rubbish

here."

"P'raps you'll let me paste it over your tatae trap," said the man,

going on brushing his paste over the door. "A very fine advertising

post you would make; and folks would think you was one of 'em

yourself."

"One of whom?" I inquired, getting wroth at the man's impertinence.

"Why, one of the chickens," he said. "It only needs your nose to

be a little sharper to make you pass for a prize bantam." Before I

had time to make any retort either with stick or tongue, the man

completed his work, and on the enormous expanse of paper I read

"Incubitorium! Chickens hatched here by artificial heat. Admittance

twopence. Parties are requested to bring their own eggs."

"There!" he said, "ain't that a finer name than the Stepney Star.

Incubitorium! It fills a bill well, and will be a far better concern

than the last."

"Does Mr Montalban know of this?"

"He's bolted--him and all the kit."

"And are they not at rehearsal on the stage?"

"No; they're fitting up nests for the young poultry, and won't let

you in at no price. You needn't kick at the door; you'll disturb the

old hens, and p'raps they wouldn't do their duty to-night."

So saying, the man passed on to ornament the neighbouring walls with

the announcements of the Incubitorium. The passengers must have

thought me mad, so continued and powerful were my kicks upon the

unopening door. I paused for breath--tried to laugh myself out of

the belief that the whole proceeding wasn't a ludicrous mistake; and

just as I was going at it again with fresh vigour, a hand was laid

on my arm.

"Are you going to crack the eggs before they're hatched?" said Miss

Claribel. "They'll take you up for a housebreaker, if you're not

quiet."

"For heaven's sake," I said, "tell me what is all this?"

"It is that you are swindled by Mr Montalban; and if you have only

lost the money you advanced, you may hold yourself very fortunate."

"But he is to give me a hundred pounds," I said.

"You've accepted a bill?"

"I have."

"I thought so. Do you see that man with the fishy kind of eyes, the

large nose beginning in the middle of his forehead, and the white

hat perched on one side of his head?"

"Yes; I see him. A blackguard Jew-looking fellow he is."

"He has been taking note of you for some time, that he may know

you when the bill is due. He is a bailiff, and, I believe,

brother-in-law of Mr Montalban."

"But I have not had a farthing; how can they ask me to pay it?"

"O, that makes no difference. I hear a great deal of talk on these

subjects, and I fear you will have to advance the full amount. When

was it due?"

"In two months. The amount a hundred and fifty pounds."

"We must make the money," she said, "before that time. We must make

our _debût_ in Hamlet. Now I am free from the Stepney Star, I feel

that I am certain of success. Have you any friend who could get us

an engagement in some country theatre, for our first appearance? I

want nothing more than an opportunity of showing what I can do."

"Ha!" I said; "yes. I have a friend--a German. His name is Catsbach.

I know he can do what we require. Long before the two months are

over we shall both be rolling in wealth; and who knows, after all,

if this disappointment may not turn out the best piece of good

fortune that could have befallen us?"

Full of brighter anticipations than ever, I went up stairs that

evening to consult with Mr Tooks. He entered most warmly into the

scheme; undertook to get us permission to give a taste of our

quality at a theatre a few miles from town, to act as leader of the

band; and, in short, was the very best man I could have applied to

on the subject. In return, however, he insisted on my accompanying

him to his musical engagements, where he felt sure my flute would be

as popular as it had proved on the last occasion. He added, also,

that he could not allow me to be so useful without being paid; and,

in short, I saw the good fellow's design was to be useful to me, at

the same time that he put it entirely on the awkward position it put

him into if I declined all compensation. I told him he might arrange

about that entirely as he pleased, and we shook hands half-a-dozen

times in satisfaction of the new agreement.

"Consider, my dear fellow," he said, as he made me my fourth

tumbler, "consider what respectability it brings to the profession

that we have the heir of the De Bohuns first flute in the orchestra.

I feel as the tailors must have felt when the King of Prussia and

Alexander of Russia used to cut out the soldiers' jackets. It isn't

the profession that makes the gentleman, it's the gentleman that

makes the profession."

LONGFELLOW'S GOLDEN LEGEND.

There must, after all, be some occult but irresistible charm in the

leading idea of old Goethe's _Faust_. We say this, not on account

of the numerous translations of that poem which have appeared in

our language--though the names of Shelley, Gower, Anstey, Hayward,

Blackie, Syme, and perhaps two dozen more, testify that it has been

selected by a large section of German scholars, as a master-piece

every way worthy of being converted into our native tongue--but from

the numerous efforts which have been made to produce imitations of

it. From Byron to Festus Bailey--a sad declension, we admit--poets

and poetasters have thought it their privilege to make free with

the Satanic character, and to introduce the author of evil, or at

least one of his subordinate imps, in the capacity of a tempter.

Leaving Byron altogether out of the question, we must say that

most of the imitators of Goethe have represented their fiends as

taking a great deal of unnecessary trouble. In perusing their

grand dramatic efforts, the question ever and anon occurs to us,

what temptation the tempter could have in besetting such pitiable

milksops and nincompoops as the gentlemen who are selected for

seduction? Astaroth may assault Saint Anthony, Apollyon wrestle

with Bunyan, or Sathanas disturb Martin Luther at his meditations

with perfect propriety--there is at least some measure of equality

between the two contending parties. But why Lucifer, fallen angel

though he be, should stoop so low as to attach himself personally

to a hazy maunderer like Festus, when he might be doing an infinite

deal of more effectual mischief elsewhere, entirely baffles our

comprehension. We had given him credit for a keener sense of his own

dignity and position. However, as Mr Bailey is no doubt an inspired

poet, we must suppose that he knows best; though certainly, Lucifer,

in his hands, is anything but a Morning Star.

It is rather remarkable that the majority of the poets who make

free with Satan, or rather with Lucifer--for they affect the more

dazzling and less murky name--restrict his apparition and familiar

intercourse with their heroes to the Middle Ages. Their poems

exhibit a sprinkling of alchemists, minnesingers, and crusaders,

which abundantly mark out the period; and they seem to think that,

by throwing back the epoch of the infernal visitation, they increase

the elements of credulity, and establish a certain fitness of

relation between Diabolus and his proposed victim. In this they

commit a gross mistake. The fiend of the Middle Ages was not, as

they represent him, a mere metaphysical atheist--a tiresome arguer

on abstract principles, who could do little else than reproduce the

most pernicious doctrines of a depraved scholastic philosophy for

the recreation of his particular pupil. He was, on the contrary,

a fellow of infinite fancy. Rely upon it, Saint Dunstan took him

by the nose for something else than a mere foreshadowing of the

opinions of Kant or Hegel. He did not visit Saint Anthony to pester

him with perplexing questions. His allurements were of the flesh,

fleshly; and, if monkish legends say true, they were oftentimes

difficult to resist. He ensnared the avaricious through promises

of gold, the sensual by pandering to their lusts, the ambitious by

false pretences of worldly pre-eminence and honour. But everything

was based on delusion. None of the Devil's gifts turned out worth

the having; and Johann Faust himself in his conjuring-book, which

still exists, and which we have seen, has borne sad testimony to

the juggling of the infernal agents. As to the gifts of knowledge

which the tempter could convey, these were limited to such feats of

hocus-pocus as Hermann Boaz or the Wizard of the North could rival.

To bring wine out of a wooden table--to change a truss of straw into

a steed--or to produce the phantasm of a deer-hunt in a banqueting

hall--were the masterpieces of demoniacal lore: and, paltry as

they were, it must be confessed that, if any gentleman was willing

to subscribe a scroll with his blood, such acquirements were a

more likely bribe than the privilege of conversing with an imp as

stupid as any lecturer on modern German rationalism. Therefore,

in selecting the Middle Ages for their time, our poetasters have

greatly erred. Lucifer, as they portray him, might possibly have

cut a figure in a mechanics' institute--he is sadly out of place in

the part and period which they have assigned him. In our deliberate

opinion, they had better have let the Devil alone.

We repeat it--they had better let Lucifer alone. It is dangerous

meddling with edge-tools. Temptations enough beset even the best

of us, without the realisation of the actual corporeality of the

tempter. Most hideously alarmed, we doubt not, would Mr Bailey be,

if his poetical imaginations became practical realities, and Lucifer

were to enter his study some time about midnight, when every other

light in the house was extinguished, in the garb of a travelling

_scholasticus_! If not more loftily elevated than the second

story, he would bolt through the window like an arrow. We mean no

reflection upon his personal valour; under such circumstances we

should do the same, and consider it to be our bounden duty, even

though a whole legion of cats were serenading beneath. But we have

this safeguard against such visits, that we never represented

ourselves as intimate with the opinions of Abaddon. Mr Bailey, on

the contrary, knows all about him--nay, has no doubt whatever as to

his ultimate felicitous destination. He is several universes beyond

Milton. He foresees restoration to the whole powers of evil; and

having thus, in his philosophy, kindly reinstated the fallen angels,

of course those who have fallen by their agency become at once

immaculate. But the subject is too grave to be pursued in a light

strain. Great allowance is always to be made for poetic license;

but there is a bound to everything; and we are compelled to record

our deliberate opinion, that nowhere, in literature, can we find

passages more hideously and revoltingly presumptuous than occur in

the concluding pages of the _Festus_ of Mr Bailey.

We have not now to deal with Mr Bailey. The author before us,

Professor Longfellow, is infinitely his superior in poetical

accomplishment, in genius, in learning, and in delicacy of

sentiment. It was, we think, very well remarked by a former critic

in this Magazine, that "he has studied foreign literature with

somewhat too much profit." We adopt that observation as rather

addressed to the form or shape of his compositions, than to the

intrinsic value of his thoughts, or to their expression. For, in

perfect candour, we must own that, in our opinion, Longfellow at

this moment stands, beyond comparison, at the head of the poets of

America, and may be considered as an equal competitor for the palm

with any one of the younger poets of Great Britain. We cannot pass

a higher eulogy; and it is not the less impartial, because in this

his latest poem, _The Golden Legend_, he has laid himself open to

censure, not only on the ground of palpable imitation of design,

from the model of Goethe, but in other respects more nearly and more

seriously affecting his ultimate reputation as a creative poet.

We have no hesitation in expressing our opinion that there is nearly

as much fine poetry in Mr Longfellow's _Golden Legend_ as in the

celebrated drama of Goethe. In the latter there are, unquestionably,

isolated scenes of singular power and magnificence. The opening

song of the angels is, in point of diction, a grand effort of

genius; and the wonderful conception of the "Walpurgis-Nacht on

the Brocken," with all its weird and fantastic accessories, has

been, and will be, cited by the admirers of the German poet as a

proof of the vastness of his imagination, and of his consummate

dexterity as an artist. To these, as specimens of first-class

poetry, we may add the lyrical passages which are put into the mouth

of Gretchen; but, granting all this, much matter still remains

of inferior merit. The scenes in the witch's apartment, and in

Auerbach's cellar--the conversations of Wagner, and even some of

the more recondite dialogue between Faust and Mephistopheles--are

clearly unworthy of Goethe. Notwithstanding an occasional affected

mysticism, as if they conveyed, or were intended to convey, some

occult or allegorical significance to the reader, these latter

passages are, take them all in all, both dull and monotonous. In a

drama like the _Faust_, we do not insist upon continuous action; but

where action is excluded, we expect at least to find the absence

of that grand source of interest compensated by a more than common

display of poetical accomplishment. In the later Greek drama, the

chorus, by the splendour of its lyrical outbursts, causes us to

overlook the fact that it does not materially aid the action of the

piece; but, in order to achieve this, who does not perceive that the

genius of Euripides was strained to its utmost point? Sometimes,

according to our view, Goethe is too metaphysical--at other times

he condescends to a style beneath the dignity of a poet. Humour

was by no means his forte. Whenever he intended to be humorous he

failed; and a failure in that respect, as we all know, is peculiarly

distressing. Out of the orgies of the drunken Leipzigers, and the

hocus-pocus which is practised upon them, we can extract no food

for merriment--the German Canidia, with her filthy attendants, is

simply sickening--and Wagner is no better than an ass. Again, if we

look to the relation which the represented characters bear to the

world without, it is impossible to deny that Goethe has failed in

giving extrinsic interest to his drama. There is nothing in it to

indicate time, which, as much as locality, is an implied requisite

in a poem, especially if it be cast in the dramatic form. The reason

of this is obvious. Unless time and locality be distinctly marked,

there is no room for that interest which is created by our willing

surrender of belief to the poet. What we require from him is, that

he shall establish that degree of probability which gives life and

animation to the poem, by identifying it, to a certain extent, with

human action and character. This hardly can be accomplished, unless,

within the poem itself, we find distinct and unmistakeable materials

for ascertaining the period to which it properly refers. Whatever

may be the genius of the author, and however beautiful may be the

form and disposition of his abstract conceptions, we still maintain

that he sacrifices much, if he dispenses with or rejects those

peculiar associations which enable the reader at once to recognise

the tale as belonging to some known period of the world's history.

Now, in the _Faust_, there is very little to mark the period. We

may not feel the want, accepting the poem as we have it, on account

of its intrinsic beauty: nevertheless it does appear to us that the

effect might have been materially heightened, had Goethe introduced

some accessories characteristic of the age in which Johann Faust of

Wittenberg really lived; and that thus a greater degree of energy,

as well as of verisimilitude, would have been imparted to his poem.

Many, we are well aware, will dissent from the opinions we have just

expressed. The thorough disciple of Goethe has such an unbounded and

obstinate admiration of his master, that he can discern beauties

in passages which, to the sense of the ordinary reader, appear

essentially commonplace; and he never will admit that any one of

his works could have been improved by the adoption of a different

plan. We honour such enthusiasm, though we cannot share in it now. A

good many years have gone by since we, in the first fervour of our

Teutonic zeal, actually accomplished a complete translation of the

_Faust_, a treasure which we would very willingly have submitted to

the public gaze, had we been intimately acquainted with a publisher

of more than common daring. At that time we should have done eager

battle with any man who ventured to impugn the merit of any portion

of the drama. But, since then, our opinions on matters of taste have

undergone considerable modification; and, whilst expressing, as we

hope we have distinctly done, the highest admiration for the genius

displayed in many parts of the work, we cannot regard it, on the

whole, either as a perfect poem, or as one which, from its form,

should recommend itself to later poets as a model.

Mr Longfellow will, in all probability, not receive that credit

which is really his due, for the many exquisite passages contained

in his _Golden Legend_, simply on account of its manifest

resemblance to the _Faust_. Men in general look upon the inventive

faculty as the highest gift of genius, and are apt to undervalue,

without proper consideration, everything which appears to be not

original, but imitative. This is hardly fair. The inventive faculty

is not always, indeed it is very rarely, combined with adequate

powers of description. The best inventors have not always taken the

trouble to invent for themselves. Shakspeare stole his plots--so did

Scott; and perhaps no more imitative poet than Virgil ever existed.

Even in the instance before us, Goethe can hardly be said to have a

right to the priority of invention, since Marlowe preceded him in

England, and Friedrich Müller in Germany. But it must be confessed

that Mr Longfellow does not possess the art of disguising his stolen

goods. It is one thing to take a story, and to dress it up anew,

and another to adopt a story or a plot, which, throughout, shall

perpetually put you in mind of some notorious antecedent. Could we

endure a second _Hamlet_, even though, in respect of genius, it

were not inferior to the first? We do not think so. The fault lies,

not in the conveyance of ideas, but in the absence of their proper

disguise. No man can read six pages of _The Golden Legend_, without

being reminded of the _Faust_, and that so strongly that there is a

perpetual challenge of comparison. So long as the popularity of the

elder poem continues, the later one must suffer in consequence.

Whether Mr Longfellow could have avoided this, is quite another

question. We confess that we entertain very great doubts as to that

point. In respect of melody, feeling, pathos, and that exquisite

simplicity of expression which is the criterion of a genuine poet,

Mr Longfellow need not shun comparison with any living writer. He

is not only by nature a poet, but he has cultivated his poetical

powers to the utmost. No man, we really believe, has bestowed

more pains upon poetry than he has. He has studied rhythm most

thoroughly; he has subjected the most beautiful strains of the

masters of verbal melody, in many languages, to a minute and careful

analysis; he has arrived at his poetical theories by dint of long

and thoughtful investigation; and yet, exquisite as the product is

which he has now given us, there is a large portion of it which

we cannot style as truly original. In the honey which he presents

to us--and a delicious compound it is--we can always detect the

flavour of the parent flowers. He possesses, more than any other

writer, the faculty of assuming, for the time, or for the occasion,

the manner of the poet most qualified by nature to illustrate his

immediate theme. He not only assumes his manner, but he actually

adopts his harmonies. Those who do not understand the subject of

poetic harmonies will be able, perhaps, to realise our meaning, if

they will imagine what effect would be excited on their minds by

hearing the air of "The Flowers of the Forest" reproduced with the

accompaniment of new words. Just so is it with Mr Longfellow. He is

a great master of harmonies, but he borrows them too indiscreetly.

He gives us a very splendid concert; but then the music is not

always, nor indeed in the majority of instances, his own.

Do we complain of this? By no manner of means. We are thankful

that the present age is graced by such a poet as Mr Longfellow,

whose extraordinary accomplishment, and research, and devotion to

his high calling, can hardly be overrated. His productions must

always command our deep attention, for in them we are certain to

meet with great beauty of thought, and very elegant diction. He

ought to be one of the best of translators; for, in consequence of

the peculiarity which we have noticed, many of his original poems

sound exactly like translations. At one time we hear the music of

Uhland, at another of Grillparzer, at another of Goethe, and at

another of Calderon. He has even thrown some of his poetry into

the mould of Massinger and Decker; and, if we mistake not much,

Paul Gerhard is one of his especial favourites. To the wideness

of this harmonic range we should be inclined to ascribe many of

his shortcomings. It is not an unqualified advantage to a poet to

be able to assume at will the manner of another, and even, as Mr

Longfellow frequently does, to transcend him. Every poet should have

his own style, by which he is peculiarly distinguished. He should

have his own harmonies, which cannot be mistaken for another's. When

such is not the case, the poet is apt to go on experimenting too

far. He is tempted, in versification, to adopt new theories, which,

upon examination, will not bear to be tried by any æsthetical test.

Southey was one instance of this, and Mr Longfellow is another.

Southey had a new theory for every poem; Mr Longfellow, within the

compass of the same poem, presents us with various theories. This

surely is a blemish, because it necessarily detracts from unity of

tone and effect. We are no advocates for close poetical precision,

or the maintenance of those notes which, a century ago, were deemed

almost imperative; but we think that poetic license may sometimes

be carried too far. In various passages of _The Golden Legend_, Mr

Longfellow, acting no doubt upon some principle, but one which is

wholly unintelligible to us, discards not only metre, but also rhyme

and rhythm--an experiment which has rarely been tried since Karl

Wilhelm Justi presented the German public with the Song of Solomon

in the novel form of an opera. The following dialogue may be sweetly

and naturally expressed, but the reader will no doubt be at a loss

to determine whether it belongs to the domain of poetry, or to that

of prose:--

ELSIE.

"Here are flowers for you,

But they are not all for you.

Some of them are for the Virgin,

And for Saint Cecilia.

PRINCE HENRY.

As thou standest there

Thou seemest to me like the angel

That brought the immortal roses

To Saint Cecilia's bridal chamber.

ELSIE

But these will fade.

PRINCE HENRY.

Themselves will fade,

But not their memory;

And memory has the power

To recreate them from the dust.

They remind me, too,

Of martyred Dorothea,

Who, from celestial gardens, sent

Flowers as her witnesses

To him who scoffed and doubted.

ELSIE.

Do you know the story

Of Christ and the Sultan's daughter?

That is the prettiest legend of them all.

PRINCE HENRY.

Then tell it to me;

But first come hither.

Lay the flowers down beside me,

And put thy hands in mine.

Now, tell me the story."

This, whatever else it may be, has certainly no pretensions to the

name of verse.

Occasionally, whilst retaining rhyme and the semblance of metre,

Mr Longfellow is betrayed into great extravagance. What plea of

justification can be urged in behalf of the construction of the

following lines, which are put into the mouth of Lucifer?--

"My being here is accidental;

The storm, that against yon casement drives,

In the little village below waylaid me.

And there I heard, with a secret delight,

Of your maladies physical and mental,

Which neither astonished nor dismayed me.

And I hastened hither, though late in the night,

To proffer my aid!"

We are almost tempted to say, with old Mr Osbaldistone, that the

bellman makes better verses: certainly he could hardly construct

more dislocated specimens of versification than these.

Sometimes, even when revelling in the luxuriance of verse, Mr

Longfellow commits strange improprieties. To the structure and music

of the lines which we shall now transcribe, no abstract objection

need be stated, though such objection could be found; but they are

terribly out of place in a poem of this kind, and inconsistent with

its general structure. An eclogue after the manner of Virgil or

Theocritus would hardly appear more incongruous if introduced in the

middle of a Shakspearean drama--

ELSIE.

"Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city,

impatiently bearing

Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, of doing

and daring!

PRINCE HENRY.

This life of ours is a wild æolian harp of many a joyous strain,

But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls

in pain.

ELSIE.

Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart that aches and

bleeds with the stigma

Of pain, alone bears the likeness of Christ, and can comprehend

its dark enigma.

PRINCE HENRY.

Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure with little care of what may

betide;

Else why am I travelling here beside thee, a demon that rides by

an angel's side?"

We were wrong in limiting our remark to the incongruity. To such

verse as this, if verse it can be termed, there are serious

objections. We presume it is constructed on some rhythmical

principle; but what that principle may be, we defy any living artist

to discover.

From reading the foregoing extracts, any one might naturally

conclude that Mr Longfellow has no ear. So far from this being the

case, he is one of the most accomplished and skilful versifiers of

his time, and therefore we regret the more that he will not confine

him to the safe, familiar, and yet ample range of recognised Saxon

metres. We could almost find it in our heart to wish that Evangeline

had proved a decided failure, if by that means his return could

have been secured to simpler habits of composition. Surely he must

see, on reflection, that there are natural limits to the power and

capacity of each language, and that it is utterly absurd to strain

our own in order to compass metres and melodies which peculiarly

belong to another. There can be no doubt that the German language,

from its construction and sound, can be adapted to many of the most

intricate of the Grecian metres. But the English language is not so

easily welded, and beyond a certain point it is utterly hopeless to

proceed. Mr Longfellow thoroughly understands the value of pure and

simple diction--why will he not apply the same rules to the form and

structure of his verse? As sincere admirers of his genius, we would

entreat his attention to this; for he may rely upon it that, if he

continues to give way to this besetting sin of experiment, he is

imperilling that high position which his poetical powers may well

entitle him to attain.

After this lecture to the author, we are bound, for the satisfaction

of our readers, to look a little more closely into the poem in

question. We have already said that, in general form and design,

it has too near a resemblance to the _Faust_. We might even extend

this observation to details; for there are several scenes evidently

suggested by passages in the German drama. Those who remember

Goethe's prayer of Margaret addressed to the Virgin, will at once

understand the suggestion that led to the insertion of Elsie's

prayer in _The Golden Legend_. We insert it here on account of its

intrinsic beauty; and, being beautiful, no comparison with any other

poet is required.

_Night._--ELSIE _praying_.

"My Redeemer and my Lord,

I beseech thee, I entreat thee,

Guide me in each act and word,

That hereafter I may meet thee,

Watching, waiting, hoping, yearning,

With my lamp well trimmed and burning!

Interceding,

With those bleeding

Wounds upon thy hands and side,

For all who have lived and erred

Thou hast suffered, thou hast died,

Scourged, and mocked, and crucified,

And in the grave hast thou been buried!

If my feeble prayer can reach thee,

O my Saviour, I beseech thee,

Even as thou hast died for me,

More sincerely

Let me follow where thou leadest,

Let me, bleeding as thou bleedest,

Die, if dying I may give

Life to one who asks to live,

And more nearly,

Dying thus, resemble thee!"

Sweet, virginal thoughts--not such as poor Margaret, in the

intense anguish of her soul, poured forth at the shrine of the

Mater Dolorosa! Still, by close adherence to form, even though the

situations are changed, Longfellow provokes comparison--in this

instance not wisely, for Margaret's prayer might wring tears from a

heart of stone.

If, however, we go on in this way, looking alternately towards

Goethe and Longfellow, we shall never reach the poem. Therefore

we return the _Faust_ to its proper place on our book-shelves,

solemnly vowing not to allude, to it again in the course of the

present article, or to repeat the name of Goethe, under the penalty

of reviewing--which, according to our scrupulous notions, implies

reading--even at this late period of time, Lord John Russell's

tragedy of _Don Carlos_.

The story of _The Golden Legend_ is not very intelligible, and has

received by far too little consideration from the author. Whether it

be taken or not from the venerable tome printed by our typographical

Father Caxton, we cannot say; because we are unable, from its

scarcity, to lay our hands upon the old book bearing that name. As

Mr Longfellow gives it to us, it would appear that a certain Prince

Henry of Hoheneck, on the Rhine--not a very young gentleman, but one

who has attained nearly the middle period of existence--is afflicted

with some disease, nearly corresponding to that doubtful malady the

vapours. He does not know what is the matter with him; and, what is

worse, none of the doctors, either allopathic or homoeopathic, whom

he has consulted, can enlighten him on the subject. He describes his

symptoms thus:--

"It has no name.

A smouldering, dull, perpetual flame,

As in a kiln, burns in my veins,

Sending up vapours to the head;

My head has become a dull lagoon,

Which a kind of leprosy drinks and drains;

I am accounted as one who is dead,

_And, indeed, I think that I shall be soon_."

A very melancholious view, indeed, for a patient!

Under these circumstances, Lucifer, who, it seems, is always ready

for a job, drops in under the disguise of a quack physician, and

proceeds, with considerable skill, to take his diagnosis. Prince

Henry tells him that he has consulted the doctors of Salerno, and

that their reply to the statement of his case is as follows:--

"Not to be cured, yet not incurable!

The only remedy that remains

Is the blood that flows from a maiden's veins,

Who of her own free will shall die,

And give her life as the price of yours."

Lucifer, with much show of propriety, laughs at the prescription;

and, in place of it, recommends his own, which we take to be not at

all unsuited to the peculiar feelings and unnatural despondency of

the patient. So far as we can make out from Mr Longfellow, he simply

advises a caulker--not by any means a bad thing in muggy weather,

if used in moderation, or likely to produce any very diabolical

consequences. Thus speaks Lucifer, displaying at the same time his

bottle:--

"This art the Arabian Gebir taught,

And in alembics, finely wrought,

Distilling herbs and flowers, discovered

The secret that so long had hovered

Upon the misty verge of Truth,

The Elixir of Perpetual Youth,

Called ALCOHOL, in the Arab speech!

Like him, this wondrous lore I teach!"

The result is that Prince Henry adopts the prescription, imbibes a

considerable quantity of the stimulant, which seems presently to

revive him--and then falls asleep. This is plain enough, but surely

there was no occasion for the Devil to appear in person, simply to

administer a dram. But what follows? That is a grand mystery which

Mr Longfellow has not explained in a satisfactory manner. There is

no insinuation that the Prince, in his cups, committed any gross

act of extravagance. He may, indeed, on this occasion have applied

himself to the alcohol rather too freely, as would appear from the

subsequent account of a servant.

"In the Round Tower, night after night,

He sat, and bleared his eyes with books;

Until one morning we found him there

Stretched on the floor, as if in a swoon

He had fallen from his chair.

We hardly recognised his sweet looks!"

But surely this temporary aberration from the paths of sobriety

would not justify the conduct of the monks, who appear shortly

afterwards to have taken Hoheneck by storm, compelled the Prince to

do penance in the Church of St Rochus, and then excommunicated him.

We were not aware that the clergy in those days were so extremely

ascetic. There is no sort of allegation that they suspected the

nature of the cellar from which the Devil's Elixir was drawn, or

that they were resolved to punish the Prince for having unwittingly

pledged Sathanas. This story, however, which appears entirely

unintelligible to us, seems to have satisfied the curiosity of the

minstrel, Walter von der Vogelweide, whom Mr Longfellow has once

more pressed into his service, and who, as an old friend of the

Prince, has called at the castle to inquire after his welfare. He

learns that the Prince is now residing at the house of a small

farmer in the Odenwald; whereupon he of the Bird-meadows determines

to make himself comfortable for the evening.

"But you, good Hubert, go before,

Fill me a goblet of May-drink,

As aromatic as the May

From which it steals the breath away,

And which he loved so well of yore;

It is of him that I would think.

You shall attend me, when I call,

In the ancestral banquet-hall."

Previous to retiring, however, he utters the following soliloquy,

which we transcribe as a passage of considerable descriptive merit.

"The day is done; and slowly from the scene

The stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts,

And puts them back into his golden quiver!

Below me in the valley, deep and green

As goblets are, from which in thirsty draughts

We drink its wine, the swift and mantling river

Flows on triumphant through those lovely regions,

Etched with the shadows of its sombre margent,

And soft, reflected clouds of gold and argent!

Yes, there it flows for ever, broad and still,

As when the vanguard of the Roman legions

First saw it from the top of yonder hill.

How beautiful it is! Fresh fields of wheat,

Vineyard, and town, and tower with fluttering flag,

The consecrated chapel on the crag,

And the white hamlet gathered round its base,

Like Mary sitting at her Saviour's feet,

And looking up at his beloved face!

O friend! O best of friends! Thy absence more

Than the impending night darkens the landscape o'er!"

The scene then changes to the farm where Prince Henry is residing.

Elsie, the farmer's daughter, scarcely more than a child in years,

but a woman in tenderness and devotion, is as beautiful a conception

as ever was formed in the mind of the poet. She resolves, in

conformity with the mysterious remedy suggested by the doctors of

Salerno, to offer her life for that of her Prince, and communicates

her resolution to her parents. We regard this scene as by far the

most touching in the drama; and, as we have quoted passages in which

the author does not appear to great advantage, we gladly request the

attention of the reader to extracts of another kind. We regret that

our limits will not permit us to transcribe the scene at length.

URSULA.

"What dost thou mean? my child! my child!

ELSIE.

That for our dear Prince Henry's sake,

I will myself the offering make,

And give my life to purchase his.

URSULA.

Am I still dreaming or awake?

Thou speakest carelessly of death,

And yet thou knowest not what it is.

ELSIE.

'Tis the cessation of our breath.

Silent and motionless we lie:

And no one knoweth more than this.

I saw our little Gertrude die;

She left off breathing, and no more

I smoothed the pillow beneath her head.

She was more beautiful than before.

Like violets faded were her eyes;

By this we knew that she was dead.

Through the open window looked the skies

Into the chamber where she lay,

And the wind was like the sound of wings

As if angels came to bear her away.

Ah! when I saw and felt these things,

I found it difficult to stay;

I longed to die as she had died;

And go forth with her side by side.

The saints are dead, the martyrs dead,

And Mary, and our Lord; and I

Would follow in humility

The way by them illumined!

* * * * *

URSULA.

Alas! that I should live to see

Thy death, beloved, and to stand

Above thy grave! Ah, woe the day!

ELSIE.

Thou wilt not see it. I shall lie

Beneath the flowers of another land;

For at Salerno, far away

Over the mountains, over the sea,

It is appointed me to die!

And it will seem no more to thee

Than if at the village on market-day

I should a little longer stay

Than I am used.

* * * * *

URSULA.

Not now! not now!

ELSIE.

Christ died for me, and shall not I

Be willing for my Prince to die?

You both are silent; you cannot speak.

This said I, at our Saviour's feast,

After confession to the priest,

And even he made no reply.

Does he not warn us all to seek

The happier, better land on high,

Where flowers immortal never wither;

And could he forbid me to go thither?

GOTTLIEB.

In God's own time, my heart's delight!

When he shall call thee, not before!

ELSIE.

I heard him call. When Christ ascended

Triumphantly, from star to star,

He left the gates of heaven ajar;

I had a vision in the night,

And saw him standing at the door

Of his Father's mansion, vast and splendid,

And beckoning to me from afar.

I cannot stay!"

We need not point out the exquisite simplicity of the language here

employed, or the beauty and tenderness of the thought. It is in such

passages that Mr Longfellow's genius is most eminently apparent;

because in them all is nature, and there is no indication of a

model. In his more laboured scenes there is generally an appearance

of effort, beside the imitative propensity, to which we have already

sufficiently alluded.

The acceptance of Elsie's offer, on the part of Prince Henry of

Hoheneck, seems to be the turning-point of the story and the

temptation. Here again Lucifer interposes, in the character of

a monk, who, from the Confessional, gives unholy advice to the

Prince; but this scene does not strike us with peculiar admiration.

In brief, the offer is accepted. Prince Henry and the peasant's

daughter set out together for Salerno, and the greater portion

of the remainder of the drama is occupied with the description

of their route, and what befel them on their way. Mr Longfellow

has made excellent use of this dioramic method. He has contrived

to throw himself entirely into the age which he has selected for

illustration; and crusaders, monks, pilgrims, and minstrels pass

before us in varied procession, giving life and animation to the

scenery through which the voyagers move.

The most remarkable passages are the Friar's Sermon, and the Miracle

play represented in the cathedral of Strasburg. We observe that

several critics have already fallen foul of the author on account of

those scenes, denouncing him in no measured terms for the levity,

and even the profanity, of his tone. One or two have even gone

the length of declaring that he is more impious than Lord Byron;

and that _Cain_ is, in the hands of the youthful reader, a less

dangerous work than the _Golden Legend_. This is sheer nonsense.

Mr Longfellow, as the general tenor of his writings discloses, is

eminently a Christian poet, and the last charge which can be brought

against him is that of scepticism and infidelity. His aim, in this

part of the _Golden Legend_, is to reproduce a true and vivid

picture of the manners, the customs, and even the superstition of

the age; and this he has been enabled to do, through his intimate

familiarity with writings which are very little studied at the

present day. He is deeply versed, not only in the monkish legends

and traditions, but in that kind of theological literature which, in

the thirteenth century, and even much later, was mixed up with the

pure evangelical doctrine, and retailed to the people as truth, by

the ministers of a corrupted Church. That the sermon delivered by

Friar Cuthbert, in the square of Strasburg, must sound irreverent

to modern ears, is a proposition which no one can deny. It is

irreverent, but not a whit more so than were all the sermons of the

period. It is intended to mark, and does mark more accurately than

anything we ever read, the license of language which was employed

by the emissaries of the Church of Rome--the haughty claims and

systematic usurpations of that Church--and the mixture of truth

and fable which then constituted the staple of her doctrine. Friar

Cuthbert is not preaching from the Evangelists: he is preaching

half from his own invention, and half from the spurious Gospel of

Nicodemus. His sermon is nothing more nor less than a satire upon

the teaching of the Church of Rome, and a most effective one it

is. Into what, then, do the objections of our scrupulous brethren

resolve themselves? Is it wrong to depict, in prose or verse--for

the lesson may be conveyed in either--the ignorance of the people

of Europe in past ages, and the exceeding presumption and monstrous

latitude of their teachers? If so, it would be better for us at

once to get rid of history. A work of fiction, which does nothing

more than reproduce historical truths, can never, in our opinion,

be condemned for giving a faithful picture of the manners of the

time; and that Mr Longfellow's is a faithful picture, no one who

has studied the manners and perused the literature of the middle

ages will deny. It is very possible, however, that our purists

never heard of the Gospel of Nicodemus, and are not aware that such

liberties were ever taken with the revealed truths of religion.

That is no fault of Mr Longfellow's. But if the _Golden Legend_ is

to be condemned on account of these scenes, we very much fear that

Chaucer must also be voted unfit for reading, and our old friend

and favourite Sir David Lindesay consigned to entire oblivion. What

is more, the ban must be extended to many of the early reformers,

nay, martyrs of the Protestant Church. The sermons of Latimer, from

their familiarity of allusion and illustration, and their frequent

reference to tradition, would sound strangely in modern Calvinistic

ears. It is a notorious fact that, for a considerable period after

the Reformation, the most eminent divines, finding that the people

were greatly attached to the legendary tales and fictions which

formed so large a portion of the teaching of the Romish Church, were

compelled in some measure to continue the practice, and to look for

illustrations beyond the compass of the sacred writings, in order to

give effect to their discourses. This of course was only a temporary

expedient, but still it was employed, in order that the change

might appear less sudden and violent. But on that account, are the

writings of Latimer and many more of the early reformers to be

condemned? We should be sorry to think so. What sort of picture of

the age would have been presented to us, had Mr Longfellow put into

the mouth of Friar Cuthbert the language of an adherent of Geneva?

Is the sermon towards the conclusion of _Queenhoo Hall_, written

by Sir Walter Scott, to be pronounced blasphemous, because it is

conceived in the manner of the times? If not, Mr Longfellow also

must be relieved from this preposterous censure, which one or two

critics, wishing to be thought more reverent--being, in fact, more

ignorant--than their neighbours, have attempted to fasten upon him.

As to the Miracle play, we look upon it as a most successful

reproduction, or rather image, of those strange religious shows

which were long represented in the Romish churches all over

Europe, and which, though somewhat altered in their form, are

not yet abolished in some parts of the Continent. Mr Longfellow,

whilst preserving so much of the spirit of the old Mysteries as to

convey an adequate idea of their grotesqueness, has lent to this

composition a charm which none of the old plays possess. Those who

are anxious to ascertain what a Miracle play really was, will find a

fair specimen in the first volume of Hawkins' _English Drama_. The

general reader may, however, content himself with Mr Longfellow's

production, which is, in many points of view, remarkable. The scenes

represented are principally taken from the Apocryphal Gospels,

attributed to St Thomas, of the Infancy of our Saviour--which

gospels were long read in some of the Nestorian churches. Here,

again, Mr Longfellow has been charged with impiety, as if, by his

own invention, he were supplementing Scripture. He has done nothing

of the kind. He has simply reproduced, in a peculiar form, a legend

or tradition well known in the middle ages; and if this license

is to be prohibited, what imaginative or poetical author who has

treated of sacred subjects can escape? Milton has sinned in this

respect far more deeply than Longfellow. But we really do not think

it necessary to pursue this subject further.

We must not, any more than the travellers, loiter on the road,

therefore we pass over the scenes at the Convent of Hirschau, as

also that in the neighbouring nunnery. We confess that the carousal

of the monks, in which Lucifer bears a share, (for the fiend

continues to travel in disguise along with his expected victim,)

does not strike us as being happily conceived. It is coarse, and we

are sorry to say, vulgar; though it may be, doubtless, that such

things were often said and enacted within convent walls. But the

poet is bound to use a certain degree of discretion in his choice of

materials, and in his manner of setting them forth. We think some of

the ribaldry in this scene might have been spared with advantage,

without in the least injuring that contrast between outward

profession and real purity which the author evidently intended to

draw; and we would urge upon Mr Longfellow the propriety of revising

in future editions the passages to which we refer, as tending in no

way to promote the strength, whilst they undoubtedly diminish the

pleasure which we receive from other parts of the drama. The scene

in the nunnery, in which the Abbess Irmengarde relates to Elsie the

tale of her youthful attachment, and the preference which she gave

to Walter of the Vogelweide over Prince Henry of Hoheneck, when both

of them were her suitors, is very sweetly written, and entirely in

keeping with the times.

Then follow several scenes of much beauty, which conduct us through

Switzerland into Italy. The travellers embark from Genoa in a

felucca, bound for Salerno; and thus speaks the captain or padrone

of the vessel, as the wind is freshening. It is a strange piece

of rhyme, but worth listening to, were it only on account of its

singularity.

IL PADRONE.

"I must entreat you, friends, below!

The angry storm begins to blow,

For the weather changes with the moon.

All this morning, until noon,

We had baffling winds, and sudden flaws

Struck the sea with their cat's-paws.

Only a little hour ago

I was whistling to Saint Antonio

For a capful of wind to fill our sail,

And instead of a breeze he has sent us a gale.

Last night I saw Saint Elmo's stars,

With their glimmering lanterns, all at play

On the tops of the masts and the tips of the spars,

And I knew we should have foul weather to-day.

Cheerly, my hearties! yo heave ho!

Brail up the mainsail, and let her go

As the winds will and Saint Antonio!

Do you see that Livornese felucca,

That vessel to the windward yonder,

Running with her gunwale under?

I was looking when the wind o'ertook her.

She had all sail set, and the only wonder

Is, that at once the strength of the blast

Did not carry away her mast.

She is a galley of the Gran Duca,

That, through fear of the Algerines,

Convoys those lazy brigantines,

Laden with wine and oil from Lucca.

Now all is ready, high and low;

Blow, blow, good Saint Antonio!

Ha! that is the first dash of the rain,

With a sprinkle of spray above the rails,

Just enough to moisten our sails,

And make them ready for the strain,

See how she leaps, as the blasts o'ertake her,

And speeds away with a bone in her mouth!

Now keep her head towards the south,

And there is no danger of bank or breaker.

With the breeze behind us, on we go;

Not too much, good Saint Antonio!"

The verse sounds like an echo of the shrill piping of the

Mediterranean wind.

The voyagers arrive at Salerno; and we are immediately introduced

to the schools, sonorous with academical wrangling. Mr Longfellow

displays much humour in this part of his poem, having, we think, hit

off excellently the extreme acerbity exhibited by the scholastic

disputants on the most worthless of imaginable subjects. He has

given us a vivid picture of the war which was so long maintained

between the sect of the Nominalists and that of the Realists; and

not less of the fury which possessed the souls of ancient hostile

grammarians. "The heat and acrimony of verbal critics," says

Disraeli the elder, "have exceeded description. Their stigmas and

anathemas have been long known to bear no proportion against the

offences to which they have been directed. 'God confound you,' cried

one grammarian to another, 'for your theory of impersonal verbs!'"

In the _Golden Legend_ we have first a travelling Scholastic

affixing, as was the usual custom, his Theses to the gate of the

college, and offering to maintain his one hundred and twenty-five

propositions against all the world. Then appear two Doctors

disputing, followed by their pupils.

DOCTOR SERAFINO.

"I, with the Doctor Seraphic, maintain

That a word which is only conceived in the brain

Is a type of eternal Generation;

The spoken word is the Incarnation.

DOCTOR CHERUBINO.

What do I care for the Doctor Seraphic,

With all his wordy chaffer and traffic?

DOCTOR SERAFINO.

You make but a paltry show of resistance;

Universals have no real existence!

DOCTOR CHERUBINO.

Your words are but idle and empty chatter;

Ideas are eternally joined to matter!

DOCTOR SERAFINO.

May the Lord have mercy on your position,

You wretched, wrangling, culler of herbs!

DOCTOR CHERUBINO.

May he send your soul to eternal perdition,

For your Treatise on the Irregular Verbs!"

(_They rush out fighting._)

The sort of intellectual diet supplied to the students of Salerno

is next explained by a hopeful votary of Sangrado. It seems very

tempting.

SECOND SCHOLAR.

"What are the books now most in vogue?

FIRST SCHOLAR.

Quite an extensive catalogue;

Mostly, however, books of our own;

As Gariopontus' Passionarius,

And the writings of Matthew Platearius;

And a volume universally known

As the Regimen of the School of Salern,

For Robert of Normandy written in terse

And very elegant Latin verse.

Each of these writings has its turn.

And when at length we have finished these,

Then comes the struggle for degrees,

With all the oldest and ablest critics;

The public thesis and disputation,

Question, and answer, and explanation

Of a passage out of Hippocrates,

Or Aristotle's Analytics.

There the triumphant Magister stands!

A book is solemnly placed in his hands,

On which he swears to follow the rule

And ancient forms of the good old School;

To report if any confectionarius

Mingles his drugs with matters various,

And to visit his patients twice a-day,

And once in the night, if they live in town;

And if they are poor, to take no pay.

Having faithfully promised these,

His head is crowned with a laurel crown;

A kiss on his cheek, a ring on his hand,

The Magister Artium et Physices

Goes forth from the school like a lord of the land.

And now, as we have the whole morning before us,

Let us go in, if you make no objection,

And listen awhile to a learned prelection

On Marcus Aurelius Cassiodorus."

Lucifer now comes upon the stage in the garb of the Doctor who is

to decide regarding Elsie's fate. The main plot of the story, as we

have already stated, is at once so obscure and unnatural that it

will not stand examination. It is, therefore, rather from conjecture

than assertion that we presume the author intended to represent the

power of the Evil Spirit over the Prince, as depending upon his

acceptance or rejection of the innocent self-offered sacrifice. Be

that as it may, the Prince and Elsie appear; and, in spite of the

remonstrances of the former, the girl persists in her resolution.

Let us quote one more passage in Mr Longfellow's best and most

pathetic manner.

ELSIE.

"O my Prince! remember

Your promises. Let me fulfil my errand.

You do not look on life and death as I do.

There are two angels that attend unseen

Each one of us, and in great books record

Our good and evil deeds. He who writes down

The good ones, after every action closes

His volume, and ascends with it to God.

The other keeps his dreadful day-book open

Till sunset, that we may repent; which doing,

The record of the action fades away,

And leaves a line of white across the page.

Now, if my act be good, as I believe it,

It cannot be recalled. It is already

Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed accomplished.

The rest is yours. Why wait you? I am ready.

(_To her Attendants._)

Weep not, my friends! rather rejoice with me.

I shall not feel the pain, but shall be gone,

And you will have another friend in heaven.

Then start not at the creaking of the door

Through which I pass. I see what lies beyond it.

(_To_ PRINCE HENRY.)

And you, O Prince! bear back my benison

Unto my father's house, and all within it.

This morning in the church I prayed for them,

After confession, after absolution,

When my whole soul was white, I prayed for them.

God will take care of them, they need me not.

And in your life let my remembrance linger,

As something not to trouble or disturb it,

But to complete it, adding life to life.

And if at times beside the evening fire

You see my face among the other faces,

Let it not be regarded as a ghost

That haunts your house, but as a guest that loves you.

Nay, even as one of your own family,

Without whose presence there were something wanting.

I have no more to say. Let us go in.

PRINCE HENRY.

Friar Angelo! I charge you on your life,

Believe not what she says, for she is mad,

And comes not here to die, but to be healed.

ELSIE.

Alas! Prince Henry!

LUCIFER.

Come with me; this way.

(ELSIE _goes in with_ LUCIFER, _who thrusts_

PRINCE HENRY _back and closes the door_.)"

There is, however, happily no occasion for the expenditure of our

tears. Prince Henry plucks up heart of grace, bursts open the door,

and rescues Elsie just as she is on the point of submitting to the

Luciferian lancet. The pair return in triumph to the Rhine--the

hearts of the old people are made glad by the recovery of their

daughter--and the drama ends, not with horror, but with the

agreeable finale of a marriage.

Such is the nature of the poem, which does undeniably exhibit

many proofs of genius, accomplishments, power of expression, and

learning; but which, nevertheless, we cannot accept as a great work.

It is like an ornament in which some gems of the purest lustre

are set, side by side with fragments of coloured glass, and even

inferior substances. The evident presence of the latter sometimes

shakes our faith in the absolute value of the jewels, which are

deserving of better association; and we cannot help wishing that

the whole work could be taken to pieces, the counterfeit materials

thrown aside, and the remainder entirely reconstructed on a new

principle and design. There is ever an intimate connection between

the design and the material. Thoughts, however rich in themselves,

lose their effect when ill displayed; and the want of the knowledge

of this has ere now proved fatal to the fame of many a promising

artist. The language and sentiments of Elsie, however beautiful

in themselves--and that they are beautiful we most unhesitatingly

maintain--excite in our minds no sympathy. They are simply

portions of an ill-constructed drama, almost aimless in purpose,

and without even an intelligible moral; they do not tend to any

point upon which our interest or expectations are concentrated,

and therefore, in order to do justice to them, we are forced to

regard them as fragmentary. Mr Longfellow has not succeeded in

giving a human interest to his drama. His story is poor, or rather

incomprehensible, and his plan essentially vicious; and these are

faults which no brilliancy of execution can ever serve to redeem.

We are deeply disappointed to find that such is the case, for we

can assure the author that we have watched his poetical career

with no common interest--that we have long been aware of the great

extent of his powers--and that we have waited, with much anxiety,

in the expectation of seeing those powers exhibited in their full

measure. We fear that we must wait a little longer before he shall

do justice to himself. It is a sound rule in criticism that every

work is to be judged according to its profession; an epic as an

epic--a drama as a drama--a ballad as a ballad. After making every

allowance for the avowed irregularity of this composition, we cannot

admit that it satisfies even the requirements of a dramatic romance.

It cannot be said that it was purposely constructed to exclude

belief, and therefore, interest; because Mr Longfellow has taken

obvious pains to mark the time by the accessories, in which he has

perfectly succeeded; and also to give us a vivid sketch of society

as it then existed. His radical error, we think, may be traced to

two things--the want of a life-like plot, and the introduction of

supernatural machinery.

No reader of _The Golden Legend_ will venture to aver that he has

derived the slightest interest from the story, apart from the poetry

with which it is surrounded. Now, although there is undoubtedly

a great deal in the manner of telling a story, the matter of the

story itself is obviously of greater consequence. The matter is the

body of the tale--the manner its dress and ornament. And inasmuch

as no accumulation of ornament will suffice to make up for want of

symmetry, or disguise deformity in the body to which it is applied,

how can we expect that a poem radically defective in plan, can be

rendered interesting by any amount of adventitious accomplishment?

In the acted drama we know very well that a bad or uninteresting

plot can never be redeemed, even by the most brilliant speeches. To

the epos, or narrative tale, the same rule applies; for episodes,

however spirited or pathetic, never can make up for the want of

interest in the leading story. The fault is not peculiar to Mr

Longfellow--it is discernible in most of the compositions, both

in prose and poetry, of the present age. Aptitude of handling is

considered a greater accomplishment than unity or strength of

design; and the consequence is that we lay down works, written by

many of our best authors, with a vague feeling of disappointment,

which can be attributed only to their total disregard of that

preliminary consideration of story and plan which occupied the

attention, as it constituted the triumph, of our older literary

masters. Surely, when a man sits down to write, his first care

ought to be that his subject is not only intelligible, but also

interesting to his readers. We have already, at the commencement

of this paper, expressed our decided objection to the machinery

employed by Mr Longfellow. It is the reverse of original, being now

very hackneyed; and it is absurdly disproportionate to the object

for which it is introduced. Most devoutly do we trust that both

poets and poetasters will henceforth refrain from including Lucifer

in their _dramatis personæ_. By introducing him as they have done,

they have read no valuable lesson in ethics to mankind. If they

represent him as a talented fiend, he is certain to blaspheme--if

as an amiable one, they mistake the character altogether. If

malice, envy, and a desire to plunge others into perdition, are the

characteristic impulses which a poet thinks necessary to portray,

surely he can find samples enough of these upon earth, without

invoking the presence of an actual demon. Even in poetry or fiction,

familiarity with the Powers of Darkness is a thing by no means to be

coveted.

We hope hereafter to find Mr Longfellow engaged on some subject more

worthy of his genius. Of his powers there can be no doubt, nor of

his success, provided he will apply those powers properly. We are

fully sensible of the many beauties contained within the compass

of this volume; and our only regret, while laying down the pen, is

that we cannot yet congratulate the author on having achieved a

work, fully developing his excellencies, natural and acquired, and

entitling him to assume a higher rank among the masters of English

song.

BULL-FIGHTS, IN PICTURES AND PROSE.[60]

[60] _Tauromachia; or, The Bull-fights of Spain_: Illustrated by

Twenty-six Plates, representing the most remarkable Incidents and

Scenes in the Arenas of Madrid, Seville, and Cadiz. The whole drawn

and lithographed from Studies made expressly for the Work, by LAKE

PRICE: with Preliminary Explanations by RICHARD FORD. London:

Hogarth. 1852.

_Spain, as it is._ By G. A. HOSKINS, Esq. London: Colburn. 1851.

"To see a bull-fight," says Mr Ford, "forms, and has long formed,

one of the first objects of most travellers in Spain." But, although

Spanish inns may be better, and Spanish brigands less numerous, than

of yore--although we have railway to beyond Tours, and tri-monthly

steam to the Peninsular ports--and although a certain _Handbook_,

writ by one Ford, and published by Murray, greatly facilitates and

tempts to trans-Pyrenean travel, it still is fact that English

travellers in Spain are but as one in a thousand. The other nine

hundred and ninety-nine are fain to content themselves, in respect

of matters Tauromachian, with such delineations as pen and pencil

afford--as artists and authors publish. We thought, until lately,

that in this respect the public had been indifferently well catered

for. We now suspect ourselves to have been mistaken, and that,

until Mr Lake Price painted, and Messrs Ford and Hoskins wrote, the

bull-fights of Spain had never been fully elucidated and displayed

to the eyes of England.

Every writer of travels in Spain thinks it his duty to describe a

bull-fight; but such descriptions are too frequently spoiled by

injudicious straining after picturesque effects. French writers are

especially open to this reproach. They walk about the bull-ring on

stilts. There can be no greater mistake. To attempt to embroider a

Spanish bull-fight is akin to painting the lily. Nothing can add

to its originality and picturesque character. Every circumstance

connected with it is so striking, so thoroughly national, so unlike

civilised Europe, that no effort of imagination or inflation of

language can heighten the general effect, although they may, and

usually do, materially impair it. A plain and accurate description

is the one thing needful. This we have in the two books before

us; but with a difference. Mr Ford, minutely acquainted with his

subject, and thoroughly versed in things of Spain, writes of a

bull-fight as might write some enlightened Spanish man of letters,

who had miraculously divested himself of national prejudices.

Mr Hoskins writes in pure John Bull style, giving a plain

matter-of-fact account of what he saw and was struck by--such an

account as he might give of a boxing or wrestling match, or of any

other athletic or hazardous sport he for the first time witnessed.

He does not trace the history, or go into the æsthetics of

bull-fighting, but limits himself to a clear and off-hand relation

of what he attentively and carefully observed. His is a thoroughly

English narrative of a strictly Spanish spectacle. As such we like

it. Both Mr Ford's and Mr Hoskins' pages will be found most useful

and interesting companions to Mr Price's spirited drawings.

Mr Price has travelled much in Spain, and witnessed many

bull-fights. Whoever has seen one will be convinced of this by a

single glance at his work. For those whose own experience does

not constitute them judges, there is Mr Ford's assurance (no mean

guarantee) that his friend "has made himself perfectly acquainted

with the whole performance, has studied the changes of acts, scenes,

and characters, and has fixed on the spot, with his accurate pencil,

every salient feature and impressive incident. A mirror of the

bull-fight, from the beginning to the end, is now held up in his

series of plates."

For phrases a translator can always contrive a just equivalent,

but not always for a word. "Our boxing term, Bull-_fight_,"

says Mr Ford, "is a very low translation of the time-honoured

Castilian title, _Fiestas de Toros_, the Feasts, Festivals, Holy

Days of Bulls." The difference is as great as between the burly

prize-fighter, big-boned, broken-nosed, and brutal, and the graceful

and dignified _matador_, the magnificent dandy of the circus, the

beloved of women, the cherished of his tailor. Hear Mr Ford describe

him, since we cannot here present Mr Price's admirable plate:--

"The _Matador_, or slayer, is the most important personage

of the performance; his is the dangerous part of killing the

bull, the catastrophe with which the Tauromachian tragedy is

concluded. He can only arrive at this height of his hazardous

profession by long study, experience, and practice, and by

ascending regularly from the inferior grades. As he is the

star, the observed and admired of all observers, his costume

is worthy of his eminent rank; and as his gains are great, and

commensurate with the perils to which he is exposed, he can

afford to indulge in personal decoration, the dearest delight

of the semi-oriental Spaniard. He adheres to the fashion of

the _majos_, or fancy men of Andalusia, the native province

of the celebrities of his gentle craft. He displays his taste

and magnificence in a prodigal richness of silks and velvets,

gold and silver embroidery. His wardrobe is as extensive as it

is expensive, for he seldom makes his appearance twice in the

same dress in the same city. He wears on his head a _montera_,

or small cap, decked with black ribbons; his hair is gathered

behind into a thick pigtail, like those of which our sailors

were wont to be so proud; a gaudy silk handkerchief is passed

once round his naked throat, and often through a jewelled ring;

his short jacket--the type of which is quite Moorish--glitters

all gorgeous with epaulettes, fringes, tags, and bullion lace;

his loins are girded up with the national sash--the zone of

antiquity; his short tight breeches, enriched with a gold or

silver band and knee-knots, his silk stockings and ball-room

pumps, show off to advantage a light, sinewy, active figure.

When not called on the stage, he carries a gay silken cloak,

that is laid aside when the death-signal is given, and a long

Toledan blade, and blood-red flag, are substituted.

"The majority of these worthies are known by some endearing

nickname, derived from the place of their birth, or from some

peculiarity of person or conduct. Such nicknames are familiar

as household words to the million, whose idols these heroes

of the ring are, even more than our champions, the Cribbs and

Springs, used to be, when prize-fights were in vogue; and

in the Matadors there is much to fascinate their countrymen

and women. To personal form and courage--sure passports of

themselves to popular favour--the attraction of dress, of

extravagant expenditure, and boon companionship, are added.

Theirs, moreover, is the peculiar dialect, half gipsy and half

slang, which, pregnant with idiomatic pungency, gives a racy

expression to the humours of the ring, and to the epigrammatic

wit of the south, which is termed throughout the Peninsula the

_Sal Andaluza_, 'Andalucian salt:' this, it must be confessed,

can scarcely be pronounced Attic.

"The names of the two best Matadors that ever graced the arenas

of Spain live immortal in the memories of Spaniards. Both

excelled equally with pen and sword. Joseph Delgado, _alias_

Pepe Illo, wrote a profound treatise on Tauromachia, which has

gone through several editions. He was killed at Madrid, May

11, 1801, by a Penaranda bull. The veteran had felt unwell in

the morning, and had a presentiment of his fate, but declared

that "he would do his duty," and, like Nelson, fell gloriously,

his harness on his back. Scarcely second to him was Francisco

Montes,'the first sword of Spain.' He was the author of a most

_Complete Art of Bull-Fighting_. All amateurs who contemplate

going the circuit of the plazas of the Peninsula will do well

to study these works. The more the toresque intellect is

cultivated, the greater the consequent enjoyment; a thousand

minute beauties in the conduct and character of the combatants

are caught, and relished by the learned, which are lost upon the

ignorant and uneducated.

"Montes, also, like his renowned predecessor, was severely

wounded, July 21, 1850, but was snatched from death by his

nephew, _el Chiclanero_, whose portrait is given by Mr Lake

Price. The youth rushed forth, and pierced with his sword the

spinal narrow of the goring bull, who fell at his feet. He then

bowed to the spectators and retired, amid thunders of applause,

to attend his wounded uncle. An additional bull was conceded to

his honour, and sacrificed as a blood-offering to the adored

Montes. The remark of Seneca, that the world had seen as many

examples of courage in gladiators of the Roman amphitheatre as

in the Catos and Scipios, may be truly applied to the gallant

Matadors of Spain. Montes is no more, but his mantle has

descended to his nephew, who rules now decidedly the champion

of the Spanish ring, and is considered by many eminent judges a

greater man than even his illustrious uncle."

We revert to Plate No. I. of Mr Price's series, with its

accompanying explanatory notice. The subject is the office where

tickets for the amphitheatre are sold. The heart-flutterings of

the emancipated school-girl, on the brink of her first ball, the

eagerness of the Etonian, who, to-morrow, for the first time, is

to sport pink and cross a hunter, are faint and feeble emotions

compared to the Spaniard's vehement desire for his darling sport. In

the choice of places many things are to be considered. The prices

depend upon position--enclosed boxes being much dearer than open

benches, and shade than sun.

"The sun of tawny, torrid Spain, on whose flag it once never

set, is not to be trifled with; and its _coup_ is, indeed,

frequent and fatal in summer, the season selected perforce

for the bull-fight. In winter the bulls fall off, from the

want of artificial green crops, which are hardly known in the

Peninsula; they only recover their prime condition, courage,

and fierceness, when refreshed, like giants, by a free range

over the rich pastures which the spring of the south calls into

life and luxuriance. Again, it is in summer that fine weather

is certain, and the days are long--considerations of importance

in a spectacle that is to be enacted out of doors, and which

lasts many hours. The glare and heat of a vertical summer sun in

Spain, when the heavens and earth seem on fire, is intolerable

to man and beast; the bull-fights, therefore, are naturally

deferred until the afternoon, when a welcome shade is cast over

the northern portion of the amphitheatre. The sun's transit,

or zodiacal progress into Taurus, is not the worst calculated

astronomical observation in Spain. The line of subdued coolness,

as divided from burning brightness, is sharply marked on the

circular arena; and this demarcation determines the relative

prices, which range from one to five shillings each, and are

very high for Spain considering the wages of labour.... The

love of the bull-fights amounts to madness in the masses of

Spaniards. There is no sacrifice, no denial, that they will not

endure, to save money to go to their national exhibition!"

"The Bulls in the Court of the Plaza" is the subject of the

second plate. Here the bulls are seen in the yard attached to the

amphitheatre in which, to-morrow, they are to combat and die. Groups

of amateurs are enjoying a "private view," scanning their points

and conjecturing their prowess. "The white and brown bull in front

proved so unusually savage and murderous in the ring of Madrid, that

a Spanish nobleman caused its head to be mounted in silver, and

placed among the most cherished memorials of his ancient palace."

After a picture of the Madrid "Place of Bulls," which is capable

of containing eighteen thousand spectators, comes the processional

entrance of the _toreros_ or bull-fighters, all in full costume.

"The locality selected by Mr Lake Price for this opening scene is

the Plaza of Seville; and a most picturesque one it is, although not

finished--the usual fate of many splendid beginnings and promises of

Spain. The deficient portion lets in, as if on purpose, a view of

the glorious cathedral. On grand occasions this side is decorated

with flags; and when the last crimson sun ray sets on the Moorish

belfry, and brings it out like a pillar of fire, and the flapping

banners wave in triumph as the evening breeze springs up, no more

beautiful conclusion of a beautiful spectacle can be imagined by

poet or painter." Preceding the procession, the _alguazil_, in his

ancient Spanish costume of Philip IV.'s day, applies to the chief

personage present for the key of the _toril_ or bull-den. When Mr

Hoskins visited the circus at Seville--Seville, once "the capital

of the bull-fight," but now surpassed by Madrid in the ceremony and

magnificence of that spectacle--the Duke de Montpensier occupied the

state-box. "The alguazil rode beneath the prince's box for the key

of the cell of the bulls, which the prince threw; but in catching

it the alguazil displayed such bad horsemanship, that the crowd

were convulsed with laughter." The alguazil ought to catch the key

in his hat, but seldom does. When he has handed it to one of the

_chulos_ or footmen, he gallops off full speed, "amid the hootings

of the populace, who instinctively persecute the finisher of the

law, as little birds mob a hawk: more than a thousand kind wishes

are offered up that the bull may catch and toss him. The brilliant

army of combatants now separate like a bursting shell, and take up

their respective places, as our fielders do at a cricket-match. The

spectacle, which consists of three acts, now commences in earnest;

from six to eight bulls are generally killed for the day's feast."

In the first act, the principal performers, besides the bull, are

the _picadors_. Mr Price has illustrated their proceedings and

exploits in six plates. "When the bull-calf is one year old," says

Mr Ford, "his courage is tested by the mounted herdsman, who charges

him violently with his _garrocha_, or sharp goad. If the bold brute

turns twice on his assailant, facing the steel, he is set apart for

the future honours of the arena." Sometimes, when, emerging from

his dark cell into the dazzling glare of the amphitheatre, the bull

beholds, presented to his charge, the sharp spear of the expectant

picador, he calls to mind his calf-days and the keen goad, swerves

in his headlong and seemingly irresistible rush, and passes on to a

second and a third antagonist. "If still baffled, stunning are the

pæans raised in honour of the men. Such bulls as will not fight at

all, and show a white feather, become the objects of popular insult

and injury; they are hooted at as 'cows,' which is no compliment to

a bull, and, as they sneak by the barriers, are mercilessly punished

with a forest of _porros_, or lumbering cudgels, with which the mob

is provided for the nonce. When the bull is slow to charge, the

picador rides out into the arena, and challenges him with his _vara_

(spear.) Should the bull decline his polite invitation and turn

tail, he is baited by dogs, which is most degrading." If execrations

and abuse are lavished upon a craven, on the other hand frantic is

the applause and enthusiasm when the bull displays unusual pluck. Mr

Hoskins saw some capital fights.

"A brown bull with white spots," he writes, "then came in and

soon rolled on the ground two picadors and their worthless

steeds: one of the animals was killed on the spot, and the other

soon dropped. Immediately the bull upset the third horse and his

rider, and was rapturously cheered: '_Viva, toro! viva, toro!

Bravo, toro!_' Again he upset two more steeds, and the picadors

fell heavily to the ground; the plaudits were deafening. Soon

he raised from the earth the third horse and his rider, who

kept his seat at first; but both fell--the picador underneath,

stunned, but able, after a short time, to mount again. Horse

after horse this fine beast attacked: one poor animal and

his rider were soon prostrate on the ground, and immediately

afterwards another. The _banderillas_ made him still more mad,

and the _chulos_ were obliged to run their best to escape

his rage. It was most exciting to see them vaulting over the

barriers, flying, as it were, out of his horns. At last the

matador struck him; and though the sword was, as usual, deep

between the left shoulder and the blade, he seemed as fierce as

ever. He was near the enclosure, and a man adroitly drew it out.

The matador was preparing to strike him again, when he lay down

as if to die, but soon rose, apparently desirous of revenge:

after one effort he sank on the arena, and the matador gave him

his _coup de grace_. The band played, and the teams dragged out

his carcase and three dead horses, besides two which he had

wounded dreadfully: the Spaniards sang with delight."

A little black bull, which in Smithfield would have been slightly

esteemed, next rushed into the circle, and quickly cleared it,

rolling over the picadors, and making the chulos fly for dear

life. After one of these "he galloped at a fearful speed. Not a

voice was heard, so deep was the anxiety; but the chulo flew over

the barricade as if the bull had pitched him, so near to his legs

were its horns. The animal seemed astonished at having lost its

victim, and then vented its rage on the red cloak the chulo had

been obliged to drop." This fierce little bull killed and badly

wounded half-a-dozen horses, goring them disgustingly when on the

ground, and galloped round the arena in triumphant defiance, until

the terrible matador, with red flag and straight blade, answered the

challenge, and slew him with a thrust.

The risks run by the picadors are terrible; although less, perhaps,

from the horns of the bull than from bad falls, and from their

horses rolling over them. Few of them, Mr Ford assures us, have a

sound rib in their body.

"Occasionally, the bull tosses man and steed in one ruin, and,

when they fall, exhausts his fury on the poor beast; for the

picador either manages to make him a barrier, or is dragged of

by the attendant chulos, who always hover near, and with their

cloaks entice the bull from the man, leaving the horse to his

sad fate. When these deadly struggles take place, when life

hangs on a thread, every feeling of eagerness and excitement is

stamped on the countenances of the spectators. Their rapture is

wrought to its pitch, when the horse, maddened with the wounds

and terror, the crimson seams streaking his foam-and-sweat

whitened body, flies from the still pursuing bull: then are

displayed the nerve and horsemanship of the picador. It is a

piteous sight to behold the mangled horses treading out their

protruding and quivering entrails, and yet carrying off their

riders unhurt. This too frequent occurrence, and which horrifies

every Englishman, has, with some other painful incidents, been

kindly kept out of sight by our artist, whose object is to

please. Spaniards are no more affected with the reality, than

Italians are moved by the abstract _tanti palpiti_ of Rossini.

The miserable horse, when dead, is rapidly stripped of his

accoutrements by his rider, who hobbles off, and the carcass is

then dragged out by the mules, often leaving a bloody furrow

on the sand, as Spain's river-beds are marked with the scarlet

fringe of flowering oleanders. The riders have a more than

veterinary skill in pronouncing off-hand what wounds are mortal

or not. Those thrusts which are not immediately fatal, are

plugged up by them with tow, and then they remount the crippled

steed, and carry him, like a battered battle-ship, again into

action."

Mr Lake Price has certainly shown good taste in suppressing the

more revolting and painful details of bull-fights. The bloody

minutiæ of the spectacle would have spoiled his pictures. In

painting bull-fights, as in painting battles, the artist must

leave to imagination by far the greater part of the gaping wounds

and streaming blood, and horrible mutilations. No field of severe

battle was ever painted, we apprehend, exactly as it appeared to him

who walked over it just as the fight was done. The fidelity of a

daguerreotype would be inadmissible in such cases. Imagine an exact

representation of Borodino's redoubt, or Albuera's heights, at the

very moment of the battle's close, before the fast-accumulating

wounded were half removed, or the ghastly dead committed to the

shallow grave. From such a picture, whatever its artistic merit, all

would turn with shuddering and sickness. If we may compare small

things with great, so it is with bull-fights. The painter, if he

does not actually suppress fact, must at least choose his moment

well, and spare his admirers the more revolting circumstances of

the barbarous sport. For barbarous it really is, and some of the

occurrences incidendal to it doubtless "horrify every Englishman,"

as Mr Ford says; but, at the same time, we have observed that nearly

all Englishmen who pass even a short time in Spain get over their

horror, and become pretty regular attendants at the bull-ring. So

that we must not press too severely on Spaniards for their ardent

and passionate love of a spectacle which, from childhood, they are

accustomed to hear spoken of with enthusiasm, as the finest and most

essentially national sport in the world.

No less than eight of Mr Price's pictures are devoted to the second

act of the Bull's Tragedy, in which the chulos chiefly figure. This

employment is the noviciate of bull-fighting. Great activity and

speed of foot are the chief qualifications requisite.

"The duty of this light division is to skirmish and draw off

the bull when the picador is endangered, which they do with

their particoloured silken cloaks. Their mercurial address and

agility is marvellous; they skim over the sand like glittering

humming-birds, seeming scarcely to touch the earth. The most

dangerous position is when they venture into the middle of the

Plaza, and are pursued by the bull to the barrier, over which

they bound. The escape often takes place in the very nick of

time, and they win by a neck; and frequently so close is the

run, that they seem to be helped over the fence by the bull's

horns; nay, so active are the bulls, that they often clear the

six feet high palisado, on which occasion an indescribable

hubbub and confusion take place amid the combatants,

water-sellers, alguazils, and persons within; all the doors are

immediately opened, and the perplexed beast soon finds his way

back again into the arena, to new inflictions. The Plates XIV.

and XVII. represent two of the most difficult and dangerous

performances of the combatants on foot, and which are rarely

attempted, except by the most skilful and experienced toreros

and matadors, who take part in these interludes. Such is the

_Suerte de la Capa_, or feat of the cloak. When the infuriated

bull, foaming with rage, stands lord of all he surveys, Montes

would coolly advance, and, when within two yards, turn his back

to the animal, and, holding his cloak behind his shoulders,

receive the rushing charge five or six times, stepping adroitly

aside at each. The second, _El Salto trascuerno_, is even

more hazardous. The performer advances as before, and when

the bull lowers his head to charge, places his foot between

the horns, is lifted up, and lights on the other side. These

touch-and-go experiments form no part of the strict duties of

the _chulo_; his exclusive province is the _banderilla_. This

implement consists of a barbed dart or arrow, which is wrapt

round with papers of different colours, cut in fanciful patterns

of ornamental cruelty; the bearer, holding one in each hand,

approaches the bull, presenting the point to him, and at the

instant when he stoops to toss him, jerks them into his neck,

turns aside, and eludes him. To do this neatly requires a quick

eye, and a light hand and foot. The ambition of the performer is

to place the barbs evenly and symmetrically, one on each side

of the bull's neck. Three and four pairs of these are usually

stuck in. Sometimes, when the bull has given dissatisfaction,

these banderillas are armed with crackers, which, by means of

detonating powder, explode the moment they are fixed; the agony

of the scorched animal makes him plunge and snort frantically,

to the delight of a people whose ancestors welcomed the _Auto da

Fé_, and the perfume of burning living flesh."