place, and was full of old recollections to them—more bitter than
sweet, perhaps, most of them—but still such as it would have been pain
to separate themselves from entirely, as, indeed, it is always sad to
part from things and places which years, either of joy or sorrow, have
made us used to. So they did not leave it, but chose a little cottage, a
mile or so from their former house—a pleasant little cottage in a dell,
looking to the south, with honeysuckle and ivy twining together over it,
up to the thatched roof. A cheerful little nook it was, not over bright
or gay, but shaded with large trees all round it, through whose green
branches the sunlight came, softened and mellowed, into the quiet rooms.
An old garden, too, there was, closed in all round with elm trees—a
peaceful, quiet place, where one would love to wander, or to lie for
hours upon the grass, looking through the green leaves upward to the
calm blue sky.
To Gabrielle, wearied with her sorrow, this place was like an oasis in
the desert. It was so new a thing to her to find rest anywhere: to find
one little spot where she could lay her down, feeling no care for the
morrow. Like one exhausted with long watching, she seemed now for a time
to fall asleep.
The summer faded into autumn; the autumn into winter. A long, cold
winter it was, the snow lying for weeks together on the frozen ground;
the bitter, withering east wind moaning day and night through the great
branches of the bare old elms, swaying them to and fro, and strewing the
snowy earth with broken boughs; a cold and bitter winter, withering not
only trees and shrubs, but sapping out the life from human hearts.
He was a little, delicate boy, that child of Gabrielle’s. To look at
him, it seemed a wonder how he ever could have lived through all their
poverty and daily struggles to get bread; how that little feeble body
had not sunk into its grave long ago. In the bright summer’s days a ray
of sunlight had seemed to pierce to the little frozen heart, and warming
the chilled blood once more, had sent it flowing through his veins,
tinging the pale cheek with rose; but the rose faded as the summer
passed away, and the little marble face was pale as ever when the winter
snow began to fall; the large, dark eyes, which had reflected the
sunbeams for a few short months, were heavy and dim again. And then
presently there came another change. A spot of crimson—a deep red
rose—not pale and delicate like the last, glowed often on each hollow
cheek; a brilliant light burned in the feverish, restless eye; a hollow,
painful cough shook the little emaciated frame. So thin he was, so
feeble, so soon wearied. Day by day the small, thin hand grew thinner
and more transparent; the gentle voice and childish laugh lower and
feebler; the sweet smile sweeter, and fainter, and sadder.
And Gabrielle saw it all, and bowing to the earth in bitter mourning,
prepared herself for this last great sorrow.
The spring came slowly on—slowly, very slowly. The green leaves opened
themselves, struggling in their birth with the cold wind. It was very
clear and bright; the sun shone all day long; but for many weeks there
had been no rain, and the ground was quite parched up.
“No, Willie, dear,” Gabrielle said, “you mustn’t go out to-day. It is
too cold for you yet, dear boy.”
“But, indeed, it isn’t cold, mother. Feel here, where the sun is
falling, how warm it is; put your hand upon it. Oh, mother, let me go
out,” poor Willie said, imploringly. “I am so weary of the hours. I wont
try to run about, only let me go and lie in the sunlight!”
“Not to-day, my darling, wait another day; perhaps the warm winds will
come. Willie, dear child, it would make you ill, you must not go.”
“You say so every day, mother,” Willie said sadly, “and my head is
aching so with staying in the house.”
And at last, he praying so much for it, one day they took him out. It
was a very sunny day, with scarcely a cloud in the bright, blue sky; and
Bertha and Gabrielle made a couch for him in a warm, sheltered corner,
and laid him on it. Poor child, he was so glad to feel himself in the
open air again. It made him so happy, that he laughed and talked as he
had not done for months before; lying with his mother’s hand in his,
supported in her arms, she kneeling so lovingly beside him, listening
with a strange, passionate mingling of joy and misery to the feeble but
merry little voice that, scarcely ever ceasing, talked to her.
Poor Gabrielle, it seemed to her such a fearful mockery of the happiness
that she knew could never be hers any more for ever; but, forcing back
her grief upon her own sad heart, she laughed and talked gayly with him,
showing by no sign how sorrowful she was,
“Mother, mother!” he cried, suddenly clapping his little, wasted hands,
“I see a violet—a pure white violet, in the dark leaves there. Oh,
fetch it to me! It’s the first spring flower. The very first violet of
all! Oh, mother, dear, I love them—the little sweet-smelling flowers.”
“Your eyes are quicker than mine, Willie; I shouldn’t have seen it, it
is such a little thing. There it is, dear boy. I wish there were more
for you.”
“Ah, they will soon come now. I am so glad I have seen the first.
Mother, do you remember how I used to gather them at home, and bring
them to papa when he was ill? He liked them, too—just as I do now.”
“I remember it well, dear,” Gabrielle answered softly.
“How long ago that time seems now,” Willie said; then, after a moment’s
peace, he asked a little sadly, “Mother, what makes me so different now
from what I used to be? I was so strong and well once, and could run
about the whole day long; mother, dear, when shall I run about again?”
“You are very weak, dear child, just now. We mustn’t talk of running
about for a little time to come.”
“No, not for a little time; but when do you think, mother?” The little
voice trembled suddenly: “I feel sometimes so weak—so weak, as if I
never could get strong again.”
Hush, Gabrielle! Press back that bitter sob into thy sorrowful heart,
lest the dying child hear it!
“Do not fear, my darling, do not fear. You will be quite well, very soon
now.”
He looked into her tearful eye, as she tried to smile on him, with a
strange, unchildlike look, as if he partly guessed the meaning in her
words, but did not answer her, nor could she speak again, just then.
“Mother, sing to me,” he said, “sing one of the old songs I used to
love. I haven’t heard you sing for—oh so long!”
Pressing her hand upon her bosom, to still her heart’s unquiet beating,
Gabrielle tried to sing one of the old childish songs with which, in
days long past, she had been wont to nurse her child asleep. The long
silent voice—silent here so many years—awoke again, ringing through
the still air with all its former sweetness. Though fainter than it was
of old, Bertha heard it, moving through the house; and came to the open
window to stand there and listen, smiling to herself to think that
Gabrielle could sing again, and half weeping at some other thoughts
which the long unheard voice recalled to her.
“Oh, mother, I like that,” Willie murmured softly, as the song died
away, “it’s like long ago to hear you sing.”
They looked into one another’s eyes, both filling fast with tears; then
Willie, with childish sympathy, though knowing little why she grieved,
laid his arm round her neck, trying with his feeble strength to draw her
toward him. She bent forward to kiss him; then hid her face upon his
neck that he might not see how bitterly she wept, and he, stroking her
soft hair with his little hand, murmured the while some gentle words
that only made her tears flow faster. So they lay, she growing calmer
presently, for a long while.
“Now, darling, you have staid here long enough,” Gabrielle said at last,
“you must let me carry you into the house again.”
“Must I go so soon mother? See how bright the sun is still.”
“But see, too, how long and deep the shadows are getting, Willie. No, my
dear one, you must come in now.”
“Mother dear, I am so happy to-day—so happy, and so much better than I
have been for a long time, and I know it is only because you have let me
come out here, and lie in the sunlight. You will let me come
again—every day, dear mother?”
How could she refuse the pleading voice its last request? How could she
look upon the little shrunken figure, upon the little face, with its
beseeching, gentle eyes, and deny him what he asked—that she might keep
him to herself a few short days longer?
“You shall come, my darling, if it makes you so happy,” she said, very
softly: then she took him in her arms, and bore him to the house,
kissing him with a wild passion that she could not hide.
And so for two or three weeks, in the bright, sunny morning, Willie was
always laid on his couch in the sheltered corner near the elm trees; but
though he was very happy lying there, and would often talk gayly of the
time when he should be well again, he never got strong any more.
Day by day Gabrielle watched him, knowing that the end was coming very
near; but, with her strong mother’s love, hiding her sorrow from him.
She never told him that he was dying; but sometimes they spoke together
of death, and often—for he liked to hear her—she would sing sweet
hymns to him, that told of the heaven he was so soon going to.
For two or three weeks it went on thus, and then the last day came. He
had been suffering very much with the terrible cough, each paroxysm of
which shook the wasted frame with a pain that pierced to Gabrielle’s
heart: and all day he had had no rest. It was a day in May—a soft, warm
day. But the couch beneath the trees was empty. He was too weak even to
be carried there, but lay restlessly turning on his little bed, through
the long hours, showing by his burning cheek, and bright but heavy eye,
how ill and full of pain he was. And by his side, as ever, Gabrielle
knelt, soothing him with tender words; bathing the little hands, and
moistening the lips; bending over him and gazing on him with all her
passionate love beaming in her tearful eyes. But she was wonderfully
calm—watching like a gentle angel over him.
Through the long day, and far into the night, and still no rest or ease.
Gabrielle never moved from beside him: she could feel no fatigue; her
sorrow seemed to bear her up with a strange strength. At last, he was so
weak that he could not raise his head from the pillow.
He lay very still, with his mother’s hand in his; the flush gradually
passing away from his cheek, until it became quite pale, like marble,
the weary eye half closed.
“You are not suffering much, my child?”
“Oh! no, mother, not now. I am so much better!”
So much better! How deep the words went down into her heart.
“I am so sleepy,” said the little plaintive voice again. “If I go to
sleep, wouldn’t you sleep, too? You must be so tired, mother.”
“See, my darling, I will lay down here by you; let me raise your head a
moment—there—lay it upon me. Can you sleep so?”
“Ah! yes, mother; that is very good.”
He was closing his eyes, when a strong impulse that Gabrielle could not
resist, made her rouse him for a moment, for she knew that he was dying.
“Willie, before you sleep, have you strength to say your evening
prayer?”
“Yes, mother.”
Meekly folding the little thin white hands, he offered up his simple
thanksgiving, then said, “Our Father.” The little voice toward the end
was very faint and weak; and as he finished, his head, which he had
feebly tried to bend forward, fell back more heavily on Gabrielle’s
bosom.
“Good night, mother dear. Go to sleep.”
“Good night, my darling. God bless you, Willie, my child!”
And then they never spoke to one another any more. One sweet look upward
to his mother’s face, and the gentle eyes closed for ever.
As he fell asleep, through the parted curtains, the morning light stole
faintly in. Another day was breaking; but before the sun rose,
Gabrielle’s child was dead. Softly in his sleep the spirit had passed
away. When Bertha came in, after the few hours’ rest that she had
snatched, she found the chamber all quiet, and Gabrielle still
holding—folded in her arms—the lifeless form that had been so very
dear to her.
There was no violent grief in her. His death had been so peaceful and
holy, that at first she did not even shed tears. Quite calmly she knelt
down by his side when they had laid him in his white dress on the bed,
and kissed his pate brow and lips, looking almost reproachfully on
Bertha, as—standing by her side—she sobbed aloud; quite calmly, too,
she let them lead her from the room, and as they bade her, she lay down
upon her bed, and closed her eyes as if to sleep. And then in her
solitude, in the darkened room, she wept quite silently, stretching out
her arms, and crying for her child.
For many years two gentle, quiet women lived alone in the little cottage
in the dell, moving amongst the dwellers in that country village like
two ministering angels; nursing the sick, comforting the sorrowful,
helping the needy, soothing many a deathbed with their gentle, holy
words; spreading peace around them wheresoever their footsteps went. And
often in the summer evenings, one of them—the youngest and most
beautiful—would wend her quiet way to the old church-yard, and there,
in a green, sunny spot, would calmly sit and work for hours, while the
lime-trees waved their leaves above her, and the sunlight shining
through them, danced and sparkled on a little grave.
* * * * *
=LAY OF THE CRUSADER.=
=BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.=
Ginevra! Ginevra!
Thy girlish lip is mute;
And silent, in ancestral hall,
Hangs now thy gilded lute;
With trophies from the Holy Land
Hath come thine own true Knight,
To wildly wish the desert sand
Had drank his blood in fight.
Ginevra! Ginevra!
By palmer wert thou told,
That on the plains of Palestine
My corse was lying cold;
And credence giving to the tale,
Went up wild prayer to _die_,
While suddenly thy cheek grew pale,
And lustreless thine eye.
Ginevra! Ginevra!
No more thy lulling voice,
When twilight paints the sky, will trill
The ballad of my choice;
Thy parting gift, my buried bride,
Will nerve this arm no more,
When speeds my barb with fetlock dyed
In Saracenic gore.
Ginevra! Ginevra!
Death holds in icy thrall
Thy loveliness of form and face,
In his unlighted hall;
With laurels from the Holy Land
Hath come thine own true Knight,
To wildly wish the desert sand
Had drank his blood in fight.
* * * * *
=JOY MURMURS IN THE OCEAN.=
=BY CHARLES H. STEWART.=
Joy murmurs in the ocean,
And laughs on shore outright;
The world’s in glorious motion—
Save mine, all hearts are light.
To tread in sunlight places,
With heart so strange the while—
To gaze in gladsome faces,
When all but you can smile—
To live while Hope’s high heaven
To others lends a ray,
To you no gleam is given—
Is this not grief, O say?
* * * * *
=A VISIT.[2]=
=BY FREDERIKA BREMER.=
One winter evening it so happened that I was alone at home. A slight
indisposition had kept me for two or three days within doors, and,
though I was now well, it was thought advisable for me to remain quiet
this night, and not go to any of the parties that carried off the rest
of the family. And I was quite satisfied—then I used most to enjoy
myself, when all alone at home; and with much good humor and many good
wishes I said adieu to father and mother, sister and brothers, as some
went to the opera, and some to a ball, and some to a concert. Then,
though we were generally a very quiet household, with a drop or two of
gloominess coming from . . . . . no matter what—we had just obtained a
brighter place than usual: my eldest sister having become engaged to an
excellent young man, and my youngest brother being just returned from
college with very flattering testimonials, and full of hope and
joyfulness, and love of his youngest sister, who also was equally in
love with her brother. For myself, I was at that interesting period in a
woman’s life where she, young still, but not in her first youth, feels
disposed to settle down in some way, and is not without offers or
opportunities, but still does not feel bound to sacrifice her freedom to
any thing below her heart’s choice.
Well, they—my kith and kin—all went out, and I was left alone. I felt
quite pleased with it. Putting out the lights, except one in each of the
chandeliers in the two drawing-rooms, I began to walk slowly up and down
the soft carpets, enjoying the solitude, and the pleasant light shedding
itself from above over the rooms and their furniture. It was a romantic
_clair obscur_, soft, and a little melancholy—and this evening I felt
very romantic. A slight, not unpleasant, weakness remained after the
past illness; but I was perfectly well, and with every moment a fresh
gush of health and delicious life seemed to swell my heart and pervade
my whole being: a certain soft emotion kept rising within me. On the
whole, I felt not quite so happy at being alone the whole evening. I
wished somebody would come and partake of my solitude; it was too full
for me. My heart bounded with sympathy toward my fellow creatures; with
good will to love, and to be loved; to interchange endearing words and
good offices. I wanted only to give; I wanted only somebody good enough
to receive; I felt my heart overflowing with good will for all the world
and all the people in it. I left the door to the vestibule unlocked, in
hope—not as in the extravagant fancies of my childhood—in hope that
robbers and burglars would come in and give me an opportunity to develop
some wonderful acts of courage or _présence d’ésprit_;—no, I did not
wish for robbers to come, but I did wish for somebody; and I had a
strong presentiment that somebody would come, that I should not remain
alone the whole evening. I felt sure that I should have a visit—a visit
that could not but become of importance either to me or to somebody
else. Then, any body that would come in this evening must feel my
influence—must experience something uncommon from the very volume of
life that rolled in my veins, and that I would roll on him or her. A
thousand feelings—a thousand thoughts—were in my heart and mind. But I
walked silently to and fro in the rooms, now and then looking curiously
down the street. Our house was a corner house: at the corner of the
house opposite hung a street-lamp, not very bright nor brilliant, but
still shedding a light, clear enough on the spot under it, and on the
objects nearest around. Right under the lamp hung, and swung in the
evening wind, a huge, red wooden glove (a glove-maker’s sign) with the
forefinger (a very long forefinger) pointing right down. The snow fell
in large flakes round the lamp and the red glove on the frozen white
ground. Now and then came persons—mostly men—wrapped up in their
cloaks, passing right under the lamp and the red glove, and were, as
they passed, lighted up by the former. I thought I recognized friends or
acquaintances in some of them, and often it would seem as if they
steered their way directly toward my house, but then again they were
wrapped up in the darkness, and the great red glove swung, and the lamp
shed its light, and the snow fell fast over the solitary spot—and again
I paced the carpets of the drawing-rooms. No matter: it was yet good
time for visiting, it was early yet, and a visit I should certainly have
that night; and many a face passed in the _camera obscura_ of my
mind—many a vision of my expected visitor. First, I saw one that had
been very kind to me, but that I had been less kind to; one of these
that we esteem, but can neither like nor love; but now, this night, if
that person would come, I should be so kind, so—it would not be my
fault if that person did not feel amiable and loveable. And then there
was somebody who had wronged me, and made me suffer. Oh! that _she_
might come, that I might do her good instead—that I might make her rich
and happy; it would give me the greatest pleasure. And then there was a
man that was more to me than I to him—that I liked; a brilliant,
interesting man, that did not like me, but who was interested by me,
liked to talk with me, and was a friend of mine. Oh! if he should come;
he would love me, perhaps fall in love with me that evening! There was
in me so much of that fire which makes every thing light up and radiate.
Was he quite fire-proof? Well, still his spirit would light up by the
light of mine; I knew it, and we would have such a talk about stars and
showers of stars; about Copernicus, and Taylor, and Newton; and about
electricity, and alchemy, and Berzelius: we would have such a great
intellectual treat and conversation! And then there was another man,
that liked me well, and would offer me heart and hand, if I would like
him. Like him I could not; but feel very kindly, respectfully, almost
tenderly for him, that I could—I did; and then he was a very good and
very stately gentleman, and of a rank and fortune that well could
flatter a little worldly vanity, and I had my share. Ah! if he should
come this evening, and ask the question, I fear that I should not find
heart to ask delay to consider, and so forth; I fear I should say “Yes,”
at once, and fix my destiny before I was sure it was well. My heart was
too warm to be wise. I almost feared that he would come and ask me. But
then there was an elderly married man, and a genius, that I loved as
young women love elderly gentlemen who are geniuses, and are kind to
them—adoringly, passionately. Oh! that he might come. No danger of his
asking dangerous questions; no danger of becoming engaged to him, and
fixing one’s destiny before the heart was right fixed. If he should but
come—what a delight to indulge looking at him—to give vent to the flow
of thoughts and feelings with such a mind—to be inspired, and foolish,
and nonsensical, in a sublime sense, as well he could be—to hear the
effusions of that great heart, great as the world. He never had quite
understood me; I never had been quite myself with him; this evening I
should be so, he should know my heart. May-be he would ask me to do
something for him—to give my purse, every shilling I possessed, to some
poor persons—what a delight! And how I should treat him with tea, and
wine, and cake, just as Hebe did Jupiter; and how he should enjoy it.
Dear me, what an Olympian treat it would be! And then I saw a lady,
whose very shadow on the wall I loved. Oh! that if she would but come,
my dear, my bosom friend! What a delightful time we should have
together, with tea and chat, and the outpourings of the heart. I would
tell her every thing: she would counsel me wisely, as she was wont to
do. Dear soul, how I loved her; tears filled my eyes in thinking of her,
and that she would come—to be sure she was a hundred miles away, on her
estate; but, no matter, it could very well happen that she should come.
She liked to surprise people, and come unawares upon them, like the
Emperor Nicholas. Very likely she would come this evening. My heart
asked for it, and then I looked out of the window; the street-lamp
flamed and flickered red; the great red glove swung to and fro, with the
long forefinger pointing right out; the snow fell fast. I heard
sleigh-bells ringing—a carriage was coming—may-be my friend in it.
There it comes, right up against the house—my house. The light of the
lamp glances over it—how snow-covered! Oh! I will kiss off the snow
from her clothes—I will make her so comfortable and happy!
Away flew the carriage, with the lady and the snow-cloak, and the merry
jingling bells. But there, now, the great red glove stands still, and
the long forefinger points right down on a man wrapped up in a big
cloak! I am sure it is the genius, and he is coming to pay me a visit.
Dear great man! he comes right up to the house—yes, no—he comes not he
turns to the left hand, it could not be he, he would not have passed me
so! There, again the glove stands still, the finger points, and a
slender figure passes under it—how like my friend the naturalist!—and
he is coming right here—no, he is not—he turns to the right hand. And
the light flickers, and the snow falls, and the glove swings over the
now solitary spot—and I am still alone, and walk up and down the soft
carpets in the romantic twilight.
After all, how gaudily life wears away! why should we not make the best
of it? why not take the love and kindness that are offered, and make
happy those that we can make happy? Why should we think so much of
ourselves alone, and be so afraid of not being so happy as happy can be?
we must think also of others, and be content for ourselves with a
moderate share of happiness.
Well! if the friend so kind and noble-hearted, whose heart I can claim,
now claims my hand, this evening he shall have it, I believe. I will
make him happy, and his whole house comfortable, and everybody about
him! I must have something to do, to love, to live for. Well!—if he
comes! . . . And then I looked out of the window. There now, this time
the forefinger of the red hand points most decidedly down on a tall,
stately figure—and he is coming—yes, he is certainly coming—coming
right to this house; he enters the door. It must be he! how I felt my
heart beat! I almost wished it was not he. And to be sure, if it were he
who entered the house, he never came up the steps, nor opened the
unlocked door of my house and heart—no, not this time; and the
half-dreaded, half-wished-for question was not asked now.
The next time that I looked out of the window the lamp was obscured by a
lowering mist, and the great red hand was swinging—and black figures
were seen passing under it, as through a black veil—my heart began to
feel a little low and sad. But—it was not too late yet for a visit;
some of our friends used to come very late; somebody would yet come.
Next time I looked again for my visitor, the mist had fully come down,
and I could not see a bit more of the lamp, nor the red glove, nor of
the mystical figures passing under it. But as I happened to look upward
I saw that the sky had cleared, and that the stars shone bright and
brilliant; the City of God stood all in light over the earthly city,
obscured by mist and darkness. I was struck by the sight of a
constellation that I had not seen before; and the truth was, that taken
up by earthly objects since a time, I had forgotten to follow up the
study of the firmament that I had begun, with the help of my friend the
naturalist. Now I took my map and globe, and began to study: I put out
the light in the great drawing-room, so as to leave the starlight alone,
and made there my observatory. That side of the room looking toward a
square was a fine space of sky to range over; and I began to range among
the stars. After a while, I ascertained the names of several of the
constellations new to me, and the names of their brightest stars; I made
the acquaintance of several greater and smaller notabilities of the
higher sphere, and read about them what wise men have thought and said.
Then would come of themselves enlarging thoughts about the connexion of
our planet and its human beings, and those shining worlds where lights
and shadows, and weight and measure, are the same as here, and who,
consequently, are related to us in soul and matter, in weal and wo, and
who tell us of it in lovely shining stars. All this gave me great
pleasure.
The servant came with the tea-tray; I was sitting alone, but had
forgotten it. I enjoyed my tea and sandwiches, but only to return fresh
to my study; and continued visiting among the stars, and making friends
with them, till I felt bodily weary. I looked at the watch—it was near
midnight; I sat down on the sofa in the small drawing-room: the light
shone calmly and romantically as before; and I was as before—alone. Yet
there was a pleasant calm—a feeling of plenitude and elevation in my
soul—my heart was at rest. What was it that made me feel so well,
though I had been disappointed in my visit? Left alone, I had not felt
lonely nor at loss: I had studied the works of the Great Father; I had
learned and adored, and so forgotten time, solitude, myself, earth and
earthly wishes, and my expected visit. Oh! was it not clear that I had
had a visit after all—a visit, not from mortal friends, but from
immortal? They had whispered to me—“Hereafter thou shalt never feel
lonely when alone; then we will come to thee.” And I was glad and
thankful!
-----
[2] It will no doubt add to the interest with which this paper may be
read, to know that it was written in English by Miss Bremer, and that it
has not been necessary to alter a dozen words.—Ed.
* * * * *
=THE WORLD-CONQUEROR.=
=BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.=
“And looking round, he sat down and wept,
because he saw no other worlds to conquer!”
Alone! alone with night and Heaven,
The mighty Macedonian stood;
The searching stars looked down on him,
To whom their glorious light seemed dim,
To whom such boundless thoughts seemed given
By old Hyphasis’ flood!
Boundless yet on those haughty features
There dwelt a mournfulness profound;
And the shadow of a painful thought
Upon that kingly brow was wrought,
He who subdued earth’s countless creatures—
_He_—the world-conqueror crowned!
Yes! there, beside the silent river,
On which the moonbeams sweetly slept—
By which the green and graceful palm,
Rose ever stately still and calm—
There did the monarch’s heart-strings quiver—
For lo! the victor wept!
Yea, wept, though all the nations rendered
Meek homage to his sovereign will;
His soldier-bands their king adored—
And all victorious with his sword,
’Mid trophies, crowns, and laurels splendid—
Mark what was wanting still!
“_I see no other worlds!_—and Heaven
Bends o’er me with prophetic eye;
Alas! my wild and wildering glance
Can never pierce that starred expanse,
Yon radiant sphere may not be given,
My aims to gratify!
Hath not this oft-told tale a moral,
Impressive of the vanity
To which all human hopes must tend—
To where ambitious flights must end!—
For still Earth’s proudest crown and laurel,
Mock poor mortality!”
* * * * *
=GATHER RIPE FRUIT, OH DEATH!=
Gather ripe fruit, oh death! exclaims the gifted,
Full of fresh blossoms for the ripening hour;
Adown whose sky the clouds afar have drifted—
Whose golden hopes are gilding bud and flower;
Who, through the vista long, of years advancing,
Sees fame and honors round his pathway spread,
And views green laurels in the distance glancing,
All wreathed in beauty for his waiting head.
Gather ripe fruit, oh death! the young bride crieth,
Whilst blushing joys her trembling bosom thrill,
And each enchanted hour so noiseless flieth,
That no distracting fears her bright hopes fill.
The future, all in rainbow-tints is glowing,
Painted with hues from Love’s own gorgeous dyes;
And life seems but a river, softly flowing
’Mid fragrant banks, ’neath bland and sunny skies.
Gather ripe fruit, oh death! is ever ringing
From anxious lips, with deep and earnest tone;
Some joy, some hope, is ever fondly springing,
Which clinging fancy deemeth theirs alone.
All, youth and age alike, the reaper spurneth,
The young in triumph point to those before;
And age, from the grim spectre trembling turneth,
And bids him glean from fields all ripened o’er!
* * * * *
=THE LUCKY PENNY.=
=BY MRS. S. C. HALL.=
CHAPTER I.
“And what will you do with yours, Willy?”
“I dun know,” replied the heavy-looking urchin, while he turned the
half-pence over and over in his hand; “two ha p’nees; it’s not much.”
Ned pirouetted on one broad, bare foot, and tossed a summerset on the
pavement, close to the pretty basket-shop at a corner of Covent-Garden
Market, while “Willy” pondered over the half-pence. When “Ned” recovered
his breath, and had shouldered the door-post for half a minute, he again
spoke—
“And that one, just riding away on his fine responsible horse, thought
he’d make our fortune this frosty new-year’s morning, with his
three-pence betwixt three of us—and his grand condition, that we should
meet him on this spot, if living, this day twel’-months, and tell him
what we did with the pennies! Hurroo! as if we could remember. I say,
Willy, suppose you and I toss up for them—head wins?”
“No, no,” replied the prudent Willy, putting the half-pence into his
pocket, and attempting to button the garment; an unsuccessful attempt,
inasmuch as there was no button: “No; I’ll not make up my mind jist
yet—I’ll may-be let it lie, and show it to him this day twal’-month. He
may give more for taking care of un.”
“Easy, easy,” persisted Ned, “let tail win, if you don’t like head.”
“I’ll not have it, no way.”
“But where’s Richard gone?” inquired the careless boy, after varying his
exercise by walking on his hands, and kicking his feet in the air.
“I dun know,” replied the other; “it’s most like he’s gone home: that’s
where he goes most times: he comes the gentleman over us because of his
edication.”
“He has no spirit,” said Ned, contemptuously; “he never spends his money
like—like me.”
“He got the ‘lucky penny,’ for all that,” answered Willy, “for I saw the
hole in it myself.”
“Look at that, now!” exclaimed Ned; “it’s ever the way with him; see
now, if that don’t turn up something before the year’s out. While we
sleep under bridges, in tatur-baskets, and ‘darkies,’ he sleeps on a
bed; and his mother stiches o’ nights, and days too. He’s as high up as
a gentleman, and yet he’s as keen after a job as a cat after a sparra.”
The two boys lounged away, while the third—the only one of the three
who had earned his penny, by holding a gentleman’s horse for a moment,
while the others looked on—had passed rapidly to a small circulating
library near Cranbourne Alley, and laying down his penny on the counter,
looked in the bookseller’s face, and said—
“Please, sir, will you lend me the works of Benjamin Franklin—for a
penny?”
The bookseller looked at the boy, and then at the penny, and inquired if
he were the lad who had carried the parcels about for Thomas Brand, when
he was ill.
The boy said he was.
“And would you like to do so now, on your own account?” was the next
question. The pale, pinched-up features of the youth crimsoned all over,
and his dark, deep-set eyes were illumined as if by magic.
“Be your messenger, sir?—indeed I would.”
“Who could answer for your character?”
“My mother, sir; she knows me best,” he replied with great simplicity.
“But who knows her?” said the bookseller, smiling.
“Not many, sir; but the landlady where we live, and some few others.”
The bookseller inquired what place of worship they attended.
The lad told him, but added, “My mother has not been there lately.”
“Why not?”
The deep flash returned, but the expression of the face told of pain,
not pleasure.
“My mother, sir, has not been well—and—the weather is cold—and her
clothes are not warm.” He eagerly inquired if he was wanted that day.
The bookseller told him to be there at half-past seven the next morning,
and that meanwhile he would inquire into his character.
The boy could hardly speak; unshed tears stood in his eyes, and after
sundry scrapes and bows, he rushed from the shop.
“Holloa, youngster!” called out the bookseller, “you have not told me
your mother’s name or address.” The boy gave both, and again ran off.
Again the bookseller shouted, “Holloa!”
“You have forgotten Franklin.”
The lad bowed and scraped twice as much as ever; and muttering something
about “joy” and “mother,” placed the book inside his jacket and
disappeared.
Richard Dolland’s mother was seated in the smallest of all possible
rooms, which looked into a court near the “Seven Dials.” The window was
but little above the flags, for the room had been slipped off the narrow
entrance; and stowed away into a corner, where there was space for a
bedstead, a small table, a chair, and a box; there was a little
bookshelf, upon it were three or four old books, an ink-bottle, and some
stumpy pens; and the grate only contained wood-ashes.
Mrs. Dolland was plying her needle and thread at the window; but she did
not realise that wonderful Daguerreotype of misery which one of our
greatest poets drew; for she was _not_ clad in
“Unwomanly rags,”
though the very light-colored cotton-dress—the worn-out and faded blue
“comforter” round her throat—the pale and purple hue of her face
proclaimed that poverty had been beside her many a dreary winter’s day.
The snow was drizzling in little hard bitter knots, not falling in soft
gentle flakes, wooing the earth to resignation; and the woman whose
slight, almost girlish figure, and fair braided hair gave her an aspect
of extreme youth, bent more and more forward to the light, as if she
found it difficult to thread her needle; she rubbed her eyes until they
became quite red; she rubbed the window-glass with her handkerchief
(that _was_ torn), and at last her hands fell into her lap, and large
tears coursed each other over her pale cheeks; she pressed her eyes, and
tried again; no—she could not pass the line thread into the fine
needle.
Oh! what an expression saddened her face into despair. She threw back
her head as if appealing to the Almighty; she clasped her thin palms
together, and then, raising them slowly, pressed them on her eyes.
A light, quick, bounding step echoed in the little court—the mother
knew it well: she arose, as if uncertain what to do—she shuddered—she
sat down—took up her work, and when Richard, in passing, tapped against
the window, she met the flushed, excited face of her son with her usual
calm, quiet smile.
“Here’s a bright new-year’s-day, mother!” he exclaimed.
“Where?” she said, looking drearily out at the falling snow, and dusting
it off her son’s coat with her hand.
“Every where, mother!”—he laid the book on the table—“I earned a
penny, and I’ve got a place—there!”
“Got a place!” repeated the woman; and then her face flushed—“with
whom? how?”
He detailed the particulars. “And I gave the penny, mother dear,” he
added, “to read the ‘Works of Benjamin Franklin,’ which will teach me
how to grow rich and good; I’ll read the book to you this evening, while
you work.”
The flush on her cheek faded to deadly paleness.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with my eyes, Richard—they are so
weak.”
“Looking on the snow, mother; mine grow weak when I look on the snow.”
How she caught at the straw!—“I never thought of that, Richard; I dare
say it is bad. And what did ye with the penny, dear?”
“I told you, mother; I got the reading of the ‘Works of Benjamin
Franklin’ for it, and it’s a book that will do me great good; I read two
or three pages here and there of it, at the very shop where I am to be
employed, when I was there for Thomas Brand, before he died. It was just
luck that took me there to look for it—the book, I mean—and then the
gentleman offered me the place; I’m sure I have worn, as Ned Brady says,
‘the legs off my feet,’ tramping after places—and _that_ to offer
itself to _me_—think of that, mother! Poor Tom Brand had four shillings
a-week, but he could not make out a bill—I can; Benjamin Franklin (he
wrote ‘Poor Richard’s Almanac,’ you know) says, ‘there are no gains
without pains;’ and I’m sure poor father took pains enough to teach me,
though I have the gains, and he had the——”
The entrance of his future master arrested Richard’s eloquence; he made
a few inquiries, found his way into a back kitchen to the landlady, and,
being satisfied with what he heard, engaged the lad at four shillings
a-week; he looked kindly at the gentle mother, and uncomfortably at the
grate; then slid a shilling into Mrs. Dolland’s hand, “in advance.”
“It was not ‘luck,’ Richard,” said she to her son, after the long,
gaunt-looking man of books had departed; “it’s all come of God’s
goodness!”
There was a fire that evening in the widow’s little room, and a whole
candle was lit; and a cup of tea, with the luxuries of milk, sugar, and
a little loaf, formed their new-year’s fête; and yet two-pence remained
out of the bookseller’s loan!
When their frugal meal was finished, Mrs. Dolland worked on
mechanically, and Richard threaded her needle; the boy read aloud to her
certain passages which he thought she might like, he wondered she was
not more elated at his success; she seemed working unconsciously, and
buried in her own thoughts; at last, and not without a feeling of pain,
he ceased reading aloud, and forgot all external cares in the deep
interest he took in the self-helping volume that rested on his lap.
Suddenly he looked up, aroused by a sort of half-breathed sigh; his
mother’s large eyes were fixed upon him—there was something in the look
and the expression he thought he had never seen before.
“Richard,” she said, “is there any hope in that book?”
“Hope, mother! why, it is full, full of hope; for a poor lad, it is one
great hope from beginning to end. Why, many a copy my father set from
Poor Richard’s Almanac, though I don’t think he knew it. Don’t you
remember ‘Help hands, for I have no lands,’ and ‘Diligence is the mother
of good luck,’ and that grand, long one I wrote in small-hand—‘Since
thou art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour.’”
“Yes, dear, those were pleasant days; I mind them well; when _he_ went,
_all_ went.”
“No, mother,” replied the boy; “and I don’t know what is the matter
to-day, you are not a bit like yourself; you used to say that God was
always with us, and that hope was a part of God. And it is new-year’s
day, and has begun so well; I have got a place—and a nice one; suppose
it had been at a butcher’s or green-grocers? we should have been
thankful—but among books and such like, with odd minutes for reading,
and every penny of four shillings a-week—mother, you need not work so
hard now.”
“I can’t, Richard,” she said; and then there was a long pause.
When she spoke again her voice seemed stifled. “I have been turning in
my own mind what I could do; what do you think of ballad-singing—and a
wee dog to lead me?”
“What is it, mother?” inquired the boy; and he flung himself on his
knees beside her. “What sorrow is it?”
She laid her cheek on his head, while she whispered—so terrible did the
words seem—“I am growing _dark_, my child; I shall soon be quite, quite
BLIND.” He drew back, pushed the hair off her brow, and gazed into her
eyes steadily.
“It is over-work—weakness—illness—it cannot be blindness; it will
soon be all right again; they are only a very little dim, mother.” And
he kissed her eyes and brow until his lips were moist with her tears.
“If God would but spare me my sight, just to keep on a little longer,
and keep me from the parish (though we have good right to its help,) and
save me from being a burden—a millstone—about your neck, Richard!”
“Now don’t mother; I will not shed a tear this blessed new-year’s day; I
wont believe it is as you say; it’s just the trouble and the cold you
have gone through; and the tenderness you were once used to—though I
only remember my father a poor school-master, still he took care of you.
You know my four shillings a-week will do a great deal; it’s a capital
salary,” said the boy, exultingly; “four broad white shillings a-week!
you can have some nourishment then.” He paused a moment and opened his
eyes. “I suppose I am not to live in the house; if I was, and you had it
ALL—Oh, mother, you wouldn’t be so comfortable!”
Presently he took down his father’s Bible, and read a psalm—it was the
first Psalm:
“Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the
ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the
seat of the scornful;
“But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in his law doth
he meditate day and night;
“And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water,
that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall
not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper”—
The boy paused.
“There, mother! is there not hope in that?”
“There is, indeed—and comfort,” answered the widow; “and I am always
glad when you read a book containing plenty of hope. The present is
often so miserable that it is natural to get away from it, and feel and
know there is something different to come; I have often sat with only
hope for a comforter when you have been seeking employment; and I have
been here without food or fire, or any thing—but hope.”
“And I used to think you so blythe, mother, when I came into the court,
and heard you singing.”
“I have often sobbed through a song, Richard, and yet it was comfort,
somehow, to sing it. I dare say there is a deal of hope in that new book
of yours, but I wish it may be sanctified hope—hope of the right kind.
Your poor father used to talk of unsanctified philosophy; but he was too
wise, as well as too good for me—you ought to be good and wise, my
child—God grant it!”
“To look at it, mother,” said the boy, with an earnestness beyond his
years; “I was so full of joy at being employed, that I thought my heart
would break, and now—” his young spirit bounded bravely above the
trial—“no—not now will I believe what you fear; rest and comfort; you
need not embroider at nights now; you can knit, or make nets, but no
fine work.”
Strangers, to have heard him talk, would have imagined that his
luxuriant imagination was contemplating four pounds instead of four
shillings a-week; only those who have wanted, and counted over the
necessaries to be procured by peace, can comprehend the wealth of
shillings.
These two were alone in the world; the husband and father had died of
consumption; he had been an earnest, true, book-loving man, whose
enthusiastic and poetic temperament had been branded as
“dreamy”—certainly, he was fonder of thinking than of acting; he had
knowledge enough to have given him courage, but perhaps the natural
delicacy of his constitution rendered his struggles for independence
insufficient; latterly, he had been a schoolmaster, but certain
religious scruples prevented his advancing with the great education
movement beginning to agitate England; and when his health declined, his
scholars fell away: but as his mental strength faded, that of his wife
seemed to increase. She was nothing more than a simple, loving,
enduring, industrious woman, noted in the village of their adoption as
possessing a most beautiful voice; and often had the sound of her own
minstrelsy, hyming God’s praise, or on week-days welling forth the
tenderness or chivalry of an old ballad, been company and consolation to
her wearied spirit.
Books and music refine external things; and born and brought up in their
atmosphere, Richard, poor, half-starved, half-naked, running hither and
thither in search of employment, and cast among really low, vicious,
false, intemperate, godless children, was preserved from contagion. It
was a singular happiness that his mother never feared for him; one of
the many bits of poetry of her nature, was the firm faith she
entertained that the son of her husband—whose memory was to her as the
protection of a titular saint—could not be tainted by evil example. She
knew the boy’s burning thirst for knowledge; she knew his struggles, not
for ease, but for labor; she knew his young energy, and wondered at it;
she knew the devotional spirit that was in him;—yet in all these things
she put no trust: but she felt as though the invisible but present
spirit of his father was with him through scenes of sin and misery, and
encompassed him as with a halo, so that he might walk, like the prophets
of Israel, through a burning fiery furnace unscathed.
These two—mother and son—were alone in their poverty-stricken sphere;
and that new-year’s-day had brought to the mother both hope and despair;
but though an increasing film came between her and the delicate
embroidery she wrought with so much skill and care—though the
confession that she was growing “dark,” caused her sharper agony than
she had suffered since her husband’s death—still, as the evening drew
on, and she put by her work, her spirit lightened under the influence of
the fresh and healthful hope which animated her son. She busied herself
with sundry contrivances for his making a neat appearance on the
following day; she forced him into a jacket which he had out-grown, to
see how he looked, and kissed and blessed the bright face which, she
thanked God, she could still see. Together they turned out, and over and
over again, the contents of their solitary box; and Richard, by no means
indifferent to his personal appearance at any time, said, very frankly,
that he thought his acquaintances, Ned Brady and William, or Willy
“No-go,” as he was familiarly styled, would hardly recognise him on the
morrow, if they should chance to meet.
“But if I lend you this silk handkerchief, that was your poor father’s,
to tie round your neck, don’t let it puff you up,” said the
simple-minded woman, “don’t; and don’t look down upon Ned Brady and
William No-go, (what an odd name;) if they are good lads, you might ask
them in to tea some night (that is, when we have tea;) they must be good
lads, if you know them.”
And then followed a prayer and a blessing, and, much later than usual,
after a few happier tears, another prayer, and another blessing, the
worn-out eyes, and those so young and fresh, closed in peaceful sleep.
* * * * *
“Neddy, my boy!” stammered Mrs. Brady to her son, as she staggered to
her wretched lodging that night, “it’s wonderful luck ye’ had with that
penny; the four-pence ye’ won through it at “pitch and toss” has made a
woman of me; I am as happy as a queen—as a queen, Neddy.” The
unfortunate creature flourished her arm so decidedly that she broke a
pane of glass in a shopkeeper’s window, and was secured by a policeman
for the offence; poor unfortunate Ned followed his mother, with loud,
incoherent lamentations, wishing “bad luck” to every one, but more
especially to the police, and the gentleman that brought him into misery
by his mean penny;—_if it had_ been a sum he could have done any thing
with—but a penny! what could be done with one poor penny, but spend it!
* * * * *
Willy’s penny went into a box with several other coins; _his_ mother
lacked the common necessaries of life—still Willy hoarded, and
continued to look after his treasure as a magpie watches the silver coin
she drops into a hole in a castle wall.
[_To be continued._
* * * * *
=TO MARY, ASKING FOR A SONG.=
=BY MATTHIAS WARD.=
The song, dear maid, you deign to ask,
What churlish mortal could refuse;
Then, while I ply my pleasing task,
Be thou at once my theme and muse.
While to such theme my gift I bring,
Fair muse, inspire me as I sing.
A song you ask—if music flow,
To make thy gentle heart rejoice;
Ope but thy lips, and soon thou’lt know
’Tis but the echo of thy voice.
Such tones, if kindly, still prolong—
I cannot ask a sweeter song.
There’s music beaming from thy brow—
Within thine eyes a tuneful tongue;
And gazing there, I fancy how
The morning stars together sung.
Through passion’s waste, when wandering far,
Heaven grant thee for my guiding star.
Ask you for music? Go but forth,
And air salutes each varied charm;
The wildest tempest from the north,
Melodious dances o’er thy form.
Would that my tones had winning powers,
Like breezes when they kiss the flowers!
The birds are dumb in dreamy night,
And silent wait the opening day;
But when he brings his wakening light,
The morn rejoices in their lay.
From grove and brook sweet music floats,
Responsive to their happy notes.
Thus mute my voice when thou art gone,
And thus my vigil waits thine eyes;
But when once more I view their dawn,
My matin song will gladly rise,
E’er may it reach a willing ear,
And welcome prove, when thou art near.
* * * * *
=A POET’S THOUGHT.=
=BY WM. ALBERT SUTLIFFE.=
A thought that lay anear a Poet’s heart,
Found utterance into this cloudy world,
And stirred some souls with rapture. This poor bard,
Whose home was where the rugged mountains stoop
Their foreheads o’er small streams that plash their feet,
Sang a sweet note that through a palace stole,
Fluttering a queen’s proud breast until she wept.
For the same God doth deftly tune the strings
Of all men’s souls to one melodious strain,
And Nature runs one silver chord through all,
Which, sadly touched, gives each a tearful thrill.
* * * * *
=THE COUNTESS OF MONTFORT;=
=OR, THE RELIEF OF HENNEBON.=
=BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.=
I wish now to return to the Countess of Montfort, who possessed
the courage of a man and the heart of a lion.
Froissart—Chronicles, VOL. I. C. 72.
The age of knight errantry, as we read of it, and in some degree
believe, as recited in the Morte d’Arthur, and the other British or
Breton romances, had never any real existence more than its heroes,
Lancelot du Lac, Tristran le Blanc, or Pellinant or Pellinore, or any of
the heroes of “the table round;” the very date of whose alleged
existence, centuries before chivalry or feudalism was heard of,
precludes the possibility of their identity.
The age of chivalry, however, had a real being; it was in very truth
“the body of a time, its form and pressure;” and that was the age of
Edward the Third, and the Black Prince of England, of the Captal de Buch
and Sire Eustache de Ribeaumont, of Bertrand du Gueselin, and Charles of
Luxemburg, the valiant blind king of Bohemia, and those who won or died
at Crecy and Poictiers.
That was the age, when knights shaped their conduct to the legends which
they read in the old romances, which were to them the code of honor,
bravery and virtue.
That was the age when “_Dieu, son honneur et sa dame_,” was the war-cry
and the creed of every noble knight, when _noblesse oblige_ was a
proverb not—as now—without a meaning. And of that age I have a legend,
reproduced from the old chronicles of old Froissart, so redolent of the
truth, the vigor, and the fresh raciness of those old days, when manhood
was still held in more esteem than money, and the person of a man
something more valuable than his purse, that I think it may be held
worthy to arrest attention, even in these days of sordid deference to
the sovereign dollar, of stolid indifference to every thing in humanity
that is of a truth good or great or noble.
“I wish now to return,” says Froissart, in a fine passage, a portion of
which I have chosen as my motto, “to the Countess of Montfort, who
possessed the courage of a man and the heart of a lion.”
Previous to this, the veracious chronicler of the antique wars of France
and England has related, how by the death of the Duke of Brittany, who
left no issue, the ducal coronet of that province, which together with
Normandy and Anjou, had always since the Norman conquest maintained
relations with the crown of England, was left in dispute between John
Count de Montfort, the half-brother of the late duke, who had married
the sister of Lewis Earl of Flanders, and a daughter of the late duke’s
brother german, who was wedded to Charles, younger son of Guy Count de
Blois, by the sister of Philip of Valois, the reigning king of France.
With which of these the absolute right rested, is not a matter of much
moment; as it is with the romance of feudalism, not the accuracy of
heraldic genealogies, that I am now dealing. Nor, were it important,
have I at hand the means of deciding certainly; since the solution of
the question depends on facts not clearly presented, as regarding the
seniority of the brothers, the precise degrees of consanguinity, and the
local laws of the French provinces.
Both parties appear to have relied on alleged declarations, each in his
own favor, by the late duke, John of Brittany.
The Bretons it would seem, almost to a man, sided with the Count de
Montfort; and this would in these days go very far toward settling the
question.
King Philip of France, naturally took part with his niece, the wife of a
great feudatory of his crown; Edward the Third of England, as naturally,
favored the opposite claimant; expecting doubtless that he should
receive the count’s homage as his vassal for Brittany, in case of his
recovering his duchy by the aid of British arms.
The Count de Montfort was summoned before the king and peers of France
to answer to the charge of having already done homage to the English
king, as suzerain of a French province—a charge, by the way, which he
absolutely denied—and to prove his title to the duchy before
Parliament. To their decision he expressed his willingness to defer, and
offered to abide by their judgment, but the same night, suspecting ill
faith on the part of his rival and the French king, and fearing
treachery, he withdrew secretly into his own duchy, of which he had
already gained absolute possession, holding all its strong places with
the free consent of the lords, the burgesses, the clergy and the
commonalty of the chief towns, and being every where addressed as Duke
of Brittany.
After the departure of the count from Paris, the Parliament, almost as a
matter of course, decided against him—firstly, _par contumace_, or as
we should now say, _by default_—secondly, for treason, as having done
homage to a foreign liege lord—and thirdly, because the Countess of
Blois was the daughter of the next brother of the late duke, while the
Count John de Montfort was the youngest of the family.
I may observe here, that it is more than doubtful whether the alleged
homage to Edward was at this time rendered; that the fact was positively
denied by Montfort himself, and by his other historians; and
furthermore, that the descent to the female line is very questionable in
any French province or principality, the _Salique_ law, adverse to the
succession of females, prevailing in that country.
Be this, however, as it may, the princes and peers of France considering
that the dispute between the rival claimants had resolved itself into a
question between the rival crowns of France and England, which it
virtually had, espoused to a man the party of Charles of Blois.
Thereupon, the dukes of Normandy, of Alençon, of Burgundy, of Bourbon,
the Lord Lewis of Spain, the Constable of France, the Count de Blois,
and the Viscount de Rohan, with all the princes and barons present,
undertook to maintain the rights of Charles; entered Brittany with
powerful forces; and, after some sharp fighting, shot the Count of
Montfort up in Nantes, where he was shortly after delivered to the
enemy, not without suspicion of treachery on the part of Sir Hervè de
Léon, his late chief adviser, whom he had blamed severely for retreating
too readily into the city, before the troops of Charles de Blois.
John de Montfort hereupon nearly disappears from history; Froissart
supposing that he died a prisoner in the tower of the Louvre. But it
appears that, after three years’ confinement, he made good his escape to
England, and _then, not before_, did homage to Edward; who aided him
with a force under William de Bohun, Earl of Northampton, to recover his
duchy, which his sudden death after an unsuccessful attempt on
Quimperlè, finally prevented. This is, however, in anticipation of the
current of history, and more especially of those events which it is my
purpose to illustrate in this sketch; for, from the very moment of his
capture, the affairs, both civil and military, of the duchy were
administered with the most distinguished energy, ability and success by
his wife, sister of Lewis Count of Flanders, a race noble and brave by
descent and nature, “the Countess of Montfort, who possessed the courage
of a man and the heart of a lion.”
“She was in the city of Rennes,” says her historian, “when she heard of
the seizure of her lord; and, notwithstanding the great grief she had at
heart, she did all she could to reanimate her friends and soldiers.
Showing them a young child, called John, after his father, she said,
‘Oh, gentlemen, do not be cast-down for what we have suffered by the
loss of my lord; he was but one man. Look at my little child here, if it
please God, he shall be his restorer and shall do you much service. I
have plenty of wealth, which I will distribute among you, and will seek
out for such a leader as may give you a proper confidence.’ When the
countess had, by these means, encouraged her friends and soldiers at
Rennes, she visited all the other towns and fortresses, taking her young
son John with her. She addressed and encouraged them in the same manner
as she had done at Rennes. She strengthened her garrisons both with men
and provisions, paid handsomely for every thing, and gave largely
wherever she thought it would have a good effect. She then went to
Hennebon, near the sea, where she and her son remained all that winter,
frequently visiting her garrisons, whom she encouraged and paid
liberally.”
Truly a noble woman—a true wife, a true mother, a true princess of her
principality—she sought no woman’s rights, but did a woman’s duty—her
duty as her absent husband’s representative—her duty as her orphaned
son’s protectress—her duty as her unsovereigned people’s sovereign
lady. Nobility and circumstance obliged her; and nobly she discharged
the obligation.
Much as I contemn women, whom a morbid craving after notoriety and
excitement urges to grasp the attire, the arms, the attributes of the
other sex; in the same degree do I honor, in the same degree admire and
laud, the true-hearted woman, the true heroine, who not forcing or
assailing, but obeying the claims of her nature, compels her temper to
put on strength instead of softness, steels herself to do what she
shrinks from doing, not because she arrogates the power of doing it
better than the man could do it, but because she has no man to whom she
might confide the doing of it.
The hen fighting the sparrow-hawk careless of self for her defenseless
brood, is a spectacle beautiful to behold, filling every heart with
genuine sympathy, because her act itself is genuine; is part and parcel
of her sex, her circumstances, her maternity; in a word, is the act of
the God of nature. The hen gaffed and cropped and fighting mains against
the males of her own family in the beastly and bloody cock-pit, is a
spectacle that would make the lowest frequenter of such vile arenas
shudder with disgust, would wring from his lips an honest cry of shame.
Margaret of Anjou, in Hexham forest awing the bandit into submission by
the undaunted royalty of her maternal eye—the Countess of Montfort,
reanimating her faint-hearted garrisons, even by donning on steel
harness for “her young child John”—Elizabeth of England, a-horse at
Tilbury, for her protestantism and her people—Maria Theresa, waving her
sabre from the guarded mount to the four quarters of heaven in the
maintenance of her kingdom and her cause—Marie Antoinette of France,
defying her accusers at the misnamed judgment seat, fearless of her
butchers at the guillotine—these are the true types of nature, the true
types of their sex, the true heroines, mastering the weakness of their
sexual nature, through the might of their maternal nature—these are the
hens championing their broods against the falcon.
But of this day of cant and fustian, the man-women, not heroines, called
by no duty to the attire or the attributes of men, but panting
indelicately for the notoriety, the fierce, passionate excitement of the
political, nay! for aught that appears, of the martial arena—these are
the hens, if they could but see themselves as they see effeminate,
unsexed men, gaffed and cropped and fed to do voluntary battle in the
sinks and slaughterhouses of humanity, against the gamecocks of their
species.
The Lady Macbeths of a falser period, who fancy that, by proving
themselves so much less the woman, they can shine out so much more the
man.
“But I wish now to return,” with my old friend Froissart, “to the
Countess de Montfort, who possessed the courage of a man, and the heart
of a lion,” and I will add—the soul, the instincts and the excellence
of a true woman.
During the winter succeeding the seizure of her lord, and the treason of
Sir Hervè de Léon, who had attached himself to the Count de Blois, she
remained peacefully occupied in Hennebon, in the education of her young
child John; and how she educated him was seen in his after career, as a
knight valorous and gentle, a prince beloved and popular.
But with the summer there came strife and peril, and protection became
paramount to every thing beside.
During the winter, while the Countess de Montfort lay tranquil in
Hennebon, the Count Charles de Blois lay as tranquilly in Nantes,
which—as I have before related—had been treasonably surrendered to him
by Sir Hervè de Léon and the citizens of the place. But now, that the
fair weather had returned, that the swallows were disporting themselves
in the summer air, the cuckoos calling by the river-sides, now that
armies could hold themselves in the fields with plenty of all sorts
around them, he summoned to him all those great princes of the royal
blood, and all the noble barons and valiant knights who had fought with
him in the last campaign. And, mindful of their promises, they drew all
their forces to a head, and came with a great array of spears of France,
and Genoese cross-bowmen, and Spanish men-at-arms, under the leading of
the Lord Lewis d’Espagne, to re-conquer for him all that remained
unconquered of the fair land of Brittany.
During the last year the strong Castle of Chateau-ceux had been won by
them by sheer dint of arms, and Nantes, the capital of the province, by
the vileness of the traitor Hervè de Léon; the next strongest place to
these was the city of Rennes, which had been put into complete readiness
for war by its late lord, and further fortified by the countess, who had
entrusted it to Sir William de Cadoudal, a brave Breton knight, and in
all probability an ancestor of the no less valiant George, of the same
patronymic, the great Vendean chief and victim of Napoleon, co-murdered
with the princely Duc d’Enghien.
This town the French lords surrounded on all sides, and assailed it with
fierce and continual skirmishes at the barricades, and wrought it much
damage by the persistency of their onslaughts; but still the defenders
defended themselves so valiantly, resolute not to lose their
liege-lady’s city, that the besiegers lost more than they gained—for
many lives were lost on both sides, but far most on the French part; and
yet more wounded—nor could they amend it any thing, nor win a tower,
nor force a gate, though they made assaults daily, and plied the walls
from mighty engines, with great store of artillery.
Now, when the Countess of Montfort heard how the French lords had
returned into Brittany, and were laying waste the country and besieging
her strong city, she sent one of the best of all her knights, Sir Amauri
de Clisson, who should repair straightway to King Edward, in England, to
entreat his assistance, upon condition that her young son should take
for his wife one of the daughters of the king, and give her the title of
Duchess of Brittany.
And the king, well pleased to strengthen his claim on that fair
province, readily assented, and ordered Sir Walter Manny, one of the
prowess and most skilled in war of all his knights, to gather together
so many men-at-arms as he should with Sir Amauri’s advice judge proper;
and to take with him three or four thousand of the best archers in
England, and to take ship immediately to the succor of the Countess of
Montfort.
And Sir Walter embarked with Sir Amauri de Clisson, and the two brothers
Sir Lewis and Sir John de Land-Halle, the Haze of Brabant, Sir Herbert
de Fresnoi, Sir Alain de Sirefonde, and many others, leaders of note;
and men-at-arms not a few; and archers of England, six thousand, the
best men in the realm, whose backs no man had seen. And they took their
ships, earnest to aid the countess with a speed; but they were overtaken
by a mighty storm and tempest, and forced to remain at sea forty days so
that much ill fell out, and more would have befallen, but that it was
not to be otherwise in the end, but that the countess should hold the
duchy as her own, and her son’s for ever.
In the meantime, the Count Charles of Blois pressed closer and closer to
the town, and harassed the people sorely, so that the gentlemen and
soldiers being but a few, and the rogue townsmen many, when they saw
that no succors came nor seemed like to come, they grew impatient; and
when Sir William de Cadoudal was determined to make no surrender, they
rose on him by night, and cast him into prison; and so basely and
treacherously yielded up the place to the Count Charles, on condition
only that the men of the Montfort party should have so let or hindrance
to go whither they would, with their effects and followings, under
assurance.
Then Sir William de Cadoudal joined the Countess de Montfort where she
abode in Hennebon, but where she had yet no tidings from the King Edward
of England, or from Sir Amauri de Clisson, or any whom she had sent in
his company.
And she had with her in Hennebon the Bishop of Léon, the uncle of that
traitor Sir Hervè de Léon, Sir Yves de Tresiquidi, the Lord of
Landreman, Sir William de Cadoudal, the Governor of Gesincamp, the two
brothers of Quirich, Sir Oliver, and Sir Henry de Spinefort, and many
others.
Now the Count de Blois well foresaw that the countess once delivered
into his hands with the child John de Montfort, the war was at an end
for ever; and, without tarrying at Rennes when he had taken it, he
marched direct upon Hennebon, to take it if he might by assault, and if
not, to sit down before it; and the numbers of his host without was, as
by thousands to hundreds of those within; and there were among them many
great names for valor and for prowess—but there was that within which
without was lacking, the indomitable heart, the immortal love of a true
woman.
It was a little before noon on the 20th day of May, 1342, when the
vanguard of that great host might be seen from the walls of Hennebon;
and a beautiful sight it was to see them come; to behold the pennons and
pennoncelles, the helmets and habergeons, the plumes and surcoats,
flashing and shimmering in the sunshine, and waving in the light airs;
and such numbers of men-at-arms that the eye might not compass them; all
marshaled fairly beneath the square banners of their lordly and princely
leaders, so that they seemed like a moving forest, so upright did they
hold their lances. Then came the dense array, on foot, of the Genoese
cross-bows, in their plate coats of Italian steel, with terrible
arbalests; and the unrivaled infantry of Spain, a solid column,
bristling like the Greek phalanx of old, with serried lines of spears.
The earth shook under the thick thunder of their horse-hoofs; the air
was alive with the clash and clang of their steel harness; and all the
echoes rang with the shrill flourishes of their trumpets, and the stormy
roar of their kettle-drums.
But no terror did such sights or sounds strike to the hearts of that
undaunted garrison—the deafening clang of the alarm-bells, the
tremendous tocsin answered the kettle-drums and clarions; and all within
the city armed themselves in hot haste. The flower of the French and
Spanish chivalry galloped up to skirmish at the barriers, and the iron
bolts and quarrels of the Genoese cross-bows fell like a hail-storm,
even within the ramparts.
But ere that fierce storm had endured many minutes, up grated the
portcullises, down rattled the drawbridges, and as the barriers were
withdrawn—banners and spears, and barded destriers and knightly
burgonets poured out from all the city gates at once, and burst in full
career upon the skirmishers of the besiegers; then many a knight was
borne to earth, and the chivalry of France and Spain fared ill before
the lances of the Bretons; for they could not bide the brunt, but
scattered back, dismantled and discomfited, to their main body; while
the maces and two-handed glaives and battle-axes of the men-at-arms did
bloody execution on the Genoese, who were not armed to encounter the
charge of steel-clad horse, and to whom no quarter was given, not only
that they were foreigners and _Condottieri_, but that themselves sparing
none, they neither looked for, nor received mercy.
At vesper-time, on both sides they retired; the French in great fury at
their repulse, the garrison of Hennebon well content with themselves and
with that they had done.
On the next day again with the first rays of the sun, “the French made
so very vigorous an attack on the barriers, that those within made a
sally. Among them were some of their bravest, who continued the
engagement till noon with great courage, so that the assaillants retired
a little to the rear, carrying with them numbers of their wounded, and
leaving behind them a great many dead.”
But not for that had they any respite or relaxation; for the lords of
the French were so enraged at the dishonor which had thus twice befallen
their arms, that they ordered them up a third time to the attack, in
greater numbers than before, swearing that they would win the walls ere
the sun should set; but for all their swearing they did not win that
day, nor for all their fighting; for those of the town were earnest to
make a handsome defense, combating under the eyes of their heroic
chatelaine; and so stoutly held they out, that the assailants sent still
to the host for succors till their last men were in the field, and none
were left, with the baggage and the tents, but a sort of horseboys,
scullions, and such rascals.
And still from the hot noontide, till the evening breeze began to blow
in cool from the sea, the din of arms, and shouts, and war-cries, and
the clamor of the wounded, rose from the barricades; and many gallant
deeds of arms were done on that day on both sides, and many doughty
blows given and received; but still the Lord Charles and his men made no
way, but lost more than they gained.
And in the end the _los_ and glory of the day, for the most daring deed,
rested with a woman.
For the countess on that day had clothed herself _cap-a-pie_ in armor,
and mounted on a war-horse; though ever till that day she had been
tender and delicate among women, of slender symmetry and rare soft
beauty, with large blue eyes and a complexion of snow and golden
tresses; and she galloped up and down the streets encouraging the
inhabitants to defend themselves honorably—for she had no thought yet
but to comfort them and kindle their spirit by her show of example; nor
as yet did she know her own courage, or the strength that resides in the
heart of a true woman.
“She had already,” to quote old Froissart, whose account is here so
spirited and graphic in his own words, that I prefer giving the
narration in that old quaint language, to adding any thing, or expanding
the striking relation of facts too strong to bear expansion, “she had
already ordered the ladies and other women to cut short their kirtles,
carry the stones to the ramparts, and throw them on their enemies. She
had pots of quicklime brought to her for the same purpose. That same day
the countess performed a very gallant deed: she ascended a high tower,
to see how her people behaved; and, having observed that all the lords
and others of the army had quitted their tents, and were come to the
assault, she immediately descended, mounted her horse, armed as she was,
collected three hundred horsemen, sallied out at their head by another
gate that was not attacked, and galloping up to the tents of her
enemies, cut them down, and set them on fire, without any loss, for
there were only servants and boys, who fled upon her approach. As soon
as the French saw their camp on fire, and heard the cries, they
immediately hastened thither, bawling out, ‘Treason! Treason!’ so that
none remained at the assault. The countess seeing this, got her men
together, and finding that she could not reënter Hennebon without great
risk, took another road, leading to the castle of Brest, which is
situated near. The Lord Lewis of Spain, who was marshal of the army, had
gone to his tents, which were on fire; and, seeing the countess and her
company galloping off as fast as they could, he immediately pursued them
with a large body of men-at-arms. He gained so fast upon them, that he
came up with them, and wounded or slew all that were not well mounted;
but the countess, and part of her company, made such speed that they
arrived at the castle of Brest, where they were received with great joy.
“On the morrow, the lords of France, who had lost their tents and
provisions, took counsel, if they should not make huts of the branches
and leaves of trees near to the town, and were thunder-struck when they
heard that the countess herself had planned and executed this
enterprise: while those of the town, not knowing what was become of her,
were very uneasy; for they were full five days without gaining any
intelligence of her. The countess, in the meanwhile, was so active that
she assembled from five to six hundred men, well armed and mounted, and
with them set out, about midnight, from Brest, and came straight to
Hennebon about sunrise, riding along one side of the enemy’s host, until
she came to the gates of the castle, which were opened to her: she
entered with great triumph and sounds of trumpets and other warlike
instruments, to the astonishment of the French, who began arming
themselves to make another assault upon the town, while those within
mounted the walls to defend it. This attack was very severe, and lasted
till past noon. The French lost more than their opponents: and then the
lords of France put a stop to it, for their men were killed and wounded
to no purpose. They next retreated, and held a council whether the Lord
Charles should not go to besiege the castle of Aurai, which King Arthur
had built and inclosed. It was determined that he should march thither,
accompanied by the Duke of Bourbon, the Earl of Blois, Sir Robert
Bertrand, Marshal of France; and that Sir Hervè de Léon was to remain
before Hennebon, with a part of the Genoese under his command, and the
Lord Lewis of Spain, the Viscount of Rohan, with the rest of the Genoese
and Spaniards. They sent for twelve large machines which they had left
at Rennes, to cast stones and annoy the castle of Hennebon; for they
perceived that they did not gain any ground by their assaults. The
French divided their army into two parts: one remained before Hennebon,
and the other marched to besiege the castle of Aurai. The Lord Charles
of Blois went to this last place, and quartered all his division in the
neighborhood.”
With the Count Charles de Blois we have naught to do, save in so much as
his doings or sufferings have to do absolutely with the Countess de
Montfort; I shall leave him, therefore, to win or lose the castle of
Aurai, under the fortunes of war, while I shall follow the chances of
that noble chatelaine, the countess, who remained, as we shall see, not
only beset by enemies without, but by traitors within, the walls of
Hennebon.
It may be as well to state here, however, that the Count Charles of
Blois did not take Aurai, whether it was built by King Arthur or
no—which, despot Dom Froissart, is rather more than doubtful—any more
than the Lord Lewis d’Espagne took Hennebon, which he came perilous nigh
to doing, yet had to depart frustrate.
So soon as the French host had divided itself into two parts, after the
taste it had received of the quality of the Breton garrison within the
walls of Hennebon, and of the noble character of its heroic chatelaine,
they made no attempt any more to skirmish at the barriers, or to assault
the walls, for in good sooth they dared not, but day and night they
plyed those dreadful engines hurling in mighty beams of wood,
steel-headed, and ponderous iron bars and vast blocks of stone, shaking
the walls and ramparts, wheresoever they struck them, so that the
defenders knew not at what moment they would be breached, and the city
laid open to the pitiless foe.
And now the hearts of all, save of that delicate and youthful lady,
failed them; and if she had set them, before, a fair example of
chivalric daring, she set them now a fairer of constancy, more heroical
than any action; of feminine endurance, and fortitude and faith, grander
than any daring.
The false bishop, Guy de Léon, contrived to leave the town, on some
false pretext, and hold a parley with his traitor kinsman, Hervè de
Léon—but for whose villainy that bright young dame never had cased her
gentle form in steel, nor wielded the mortal sword in warfare. Where
traitors are on both sides, treason is wont to win; and so it well nigh
proved in this instance; for the bishop returned with offers of free
pardon to the garrison and passports to go whither they would, with
their effects unhurt, so they would yield the town to Sir Hervè.
And, though the countess perceived what was on the wind, and besought
the lords of Brittany with tears and sighs, that made her but more
lovely, “for the love of herself, and of her son; friendless but for
them; for the love of God himself, to have pity on her, and faith in
heaven, that they should receive succor within three days,” it seemed
that she could not prevail.
Nor was there not cause for apprehension; since it was clear to all that
the ramparts could not stand one more day’s breaching; and, those once
battered down, Hennebon and all within it were at the mercy of the
merciless.
The bishop was eloquent, and fear and hope more eloquent yet; and ere,
long after midnight, the council closed, all minds but those of three,
Sir Yves de Tresiquidi, Sir Waleran de Landreman, and the governor of
Guincamp, were won over to yield up the city to Sir Hervè; and even
those three doubted. None so hopeful but to trust that to-morrow’s
conference would be final; none so strong in courage as to dare support
one other day’s assault.
All passed the night in doubt and fear; the countess alone in brave
hope, and earnest prayer.
The day dawned, and—as men crowded to the ramparts, gazing toward the
camp and the plain where Sir Hervè might be seen approaching with his
Genoese, closing up to the town to receive possession—the countess
arose from her knees, and she alone, of all in Hennebon, turned her eyes
toward the sea; for she alone, of all to Hennebon, had faith in her God.
The sea! the sea! it was white with sails, from the mouth almost of the
haven, to the dark line of the horizon, flashing to the new-risen sun
with lanceheads and clear armor, fluttering with pennoncolles and
banners, blazing with embroidered surcoats and emblazoned shields.
And the lady flung her casement wide, and gazed out on her people, in
the market-place, along the ramparts, in the tumultuous streets, with
disheveled hair, and disordered raiment, and clasped hands and flushed
cheeks, and eyes streaming with tears of joy—“God and St. George!” she
cried, in tones that rang to every heart like the notes of a silver
trumpet—“God and St. George! an English fleet! an English fleet! It
_is_ the aid of God!”
And, as the people crowded to the seaward bastions, and saw the great
ships rushing in before a leading wind, with their sails all emblazoned
with Edward’s triple leopards; and the banners and shields of the
English Manny, and of their own Amauri de Clisson, displayed from the
yard-arms, and the immortal red cross blazing, above all, on its argent
field, they, too, took up the cry.
“God and St. George! God and St. George! It _is_ the aid of England! it
is the aid of God!”
“Thereafter,” adds my author, whom I quote once more, for the last time,
“when the Governor of Guincamp, Sir Yves de Tresiquidi, Sir Waleran de
Landreman, and the other knights, perceived this succor coming to them,
they told the bishop that he might break up his conference, for they
were not now inclined to follow his advice. The bishop, Sir Guy de Léon,
replied, ‘My lords, then our company shall separate; for I will go to
him who seems to me to have the clearest right.’ Upon which he sent his
defiance to the lady, and to all her party, and left the town to inform
Sir Hervè de Léon how matters stood. Sir Hervè was much vexed at it, and
immediately ordered the largest machine that was with the army to be
placed as near the castle as possible, strictly commanding that it
should never cease working day nor night. He then presented his uncle to
the Lord Lewis of Spain, and to the Lord Charles of Blois, who both
received him most courteously. The countess, in the meantime, prepared,
and hung with tapestry, halls and chambers, to lodge handsomely the
lords and barons of England whom she saw coming, and sent out a noble
company to meet them. When they were landed, she went herself to give
them welcome, respectfully thanking each knight and squire, and led them
into the town and castle, that they might have convenient lodging: on
the morrow she gave them a magnificent entertainment. All that night,
and the following day, the large machine never ceased from casting
stones into the town.
“After the entertainment, Sir Walter Manny, who was captain of the
English, inquired of the countess the state of the town, and of the
enemy’s army. Upon looking out of the window, he said, he had a great
inclination to destroy the large machine which was placed so near, and
much annoyed them, if any would second him. Sir Yves de Tresiquidi
replied, that he would not fail him in this his first expedition; as did
also the Lord of Landreman. They went to arm themselves, and sallied
quietly out of one of the gates, taking with them three hundred archers;
who shot so well, that those who guarded the machine fled; and the
men-at-arms who followed the archers, falling upon them, slew the
greater part, and broke down and cut in pieces this large machine. They
then dashed in among the tents and huts, set fire to them, and killed
and wounded many of their enemies before the army was in motion. After
this, they made a handsome retreat. When the enemy were mounted and
armed, they galloped after them like madmen. Sir Walter Manny, seeing
this, exclaimed, ‘May I never be embraced by my mistress and dear
friend, if I enter castle or fortress before I have unhorsed one of
these gallopers.’ He then turned round, and pointed his spear toward the
enemy, as did the two brothers of Land-Halle, le Haze de Brabant, Sir
Yves de Tresiquidi, Sir Waleran de Landreman, and many others, and
spitted the first coursers. Many legs were made to kick the air. Some of
their own party were also unhorsed. The conflict became very serious,
for reinforcements were perpetually coming from the camp; and the
English were obliged to retreat toward the castle, which they did in
good order until they came to the castle ditch: there the knights made a
stand, until all their men were safely returned. Many brilliant actions,
captures, and rescues might have been seen. Those of the town who had
not been of the party to destroy the large machine now issued forth,
and, ranging themselves upon the banks of the ditch, made such good use
of their bows, that they forced the enemy to withdraw, killing many men
and horses. The chiefs of the army, perceiving they had the worst of it,
and that they were losing men to no purpose, sounded a retreat, and made
their men retire to the camp. As soon as they were gone, the townsmen
reëntered, and went each to his quarters. The Countess of Montfort came
down from the castle to meet them, and with a most cheerful countenance,
kissed Sir Walter Manny, and all his companions, one after the other,
like a noble and valiant dame.”
Such was the heroism of that true lady. And so was her heroism and her
faith rewarded. Hennebon was relieved; and the Count Charles de Blois
soon died, but died not Duke of Brittany.
* * * * *
=THE MYSTERIES OF A FLOWER.=
=BY PROFESSOR R. HUNT.=