went across country to Kampen, admiring on their road the beautiful
fields with the cows almost hidden in the long grass, the farms on
little hillocks looking like miniature fortified castles, and the
other farms surrounded by tall trees, where all is of a blue color,
from the small milk-pails to the wheelbarrow, and the ladder leading
to the loft. Kampen dates only from the thirteenth century, but it
grew rapidly, and two hundred years later became an Imperial town,
governed itself, and had the right of coining money. At the
Reformation there was no breaking of images or destruction of works of
art, neither was there any outbreak against the religious orders.
Large, massive towers with pointed roofs overhang the quay and flank
an enormous wall, through which an arched doorway leads into the town.
The Celle-broeders-Poort dates from the sixteenth century, and is
built of brick and stone, with octagonal towers, oriel windows, and
carved buttresses, besides a gallery projecting over the door. This
gate was named after the convent of Brothers of the Common Life,
formerly situated in the street leading to the Poort. The order has
been made famous by the author of the _Imitation_. It was one of the
most popular in the Low Country, and was founded at Deventer by
Gerhard Groot, a young and luxurious ecclesiastic, whose life reminds
one of De Rancé, and who, giving up his preferments, retired to his
own house, where he lived with a few other men in apostolical
simplicity. The services of his followers were invaluable during the
plague, or Black Pest, in the fourteenth century. His successor was
Florent Radewyns, a learned priest, also in high ecclesiastical favor,
but who gave up his canon’s stall at Utrecht to embrace the life of a
Brother of the Common Life. This institute is not unlike the original
one of St. Francis of Assisi, founded in Italy a hundred years
earlier; only these brothers lived by the work of their hands, mostly
as copyists, and as revisers of the manuscripts scattered over the
town, comparing them with the originals and rectifying the mistakes of
inexperienced or careless copyists. Pope Gregory XI. sanctioned the
regulations of the order in 1376, and in 1431, 1439, and 1462 Eugenius
IV. and Pius II. confirmed the privileges of the rapidly-growing
community, which counted convents by the score all over Holland. About
this time they opened schools for the young, and “their instruction
was everywhere courted, and their virtues, as well as their great
talents, made them welcome even in the most distant countries. Their
colleges were dedicated either to St. Jerome or St. Gregory, and
multiplied with astonishing rapidity.… In their convent (at Brussels)
they had a printing-office.” Their devotion to the poor and
uneducated, and their endeavors to counteract the progress of the
Reformation by expounding to the people the authorized version of the
Scriptures in the vulgar tongue, and also uniting their hearers in
prayers and offices in Dutch, Flemish, and other vernacular, were
misrepresented by their enemies, and twisted into evidence of their
heretical leanings.
Kampen was rich in religious orders; there were the Minorites
(Franciscans), whose church was built in the fourteenth century, and
is still the most ancient monument in the town, but is now used as a
school; the Recollects, the Carthusians, the Alexians, besides six
convents for women. The church of St. Nicholas, with its double aisles
and its grand simplicity, its beautiful antique pulpit and Renaissance
panelling in the choir, is well worth a visit, were it not for the
detestable impression likely to be made on the visitor by the excesses
in plaster and paint that disfigure the building. Notre Dame, a church
almost as large and as old, has been restored, and its sombre, simple,
and grand decoration, its panelling in imitation of the Gothic, and
its careful imitation of the spirit of ancient ornamentation make it a
more satisfactory object of pilgrimage. But the pearl of Kampen is the
_Stadhuis_, or Guildhall――or rather what remains of it; for part of it
was destroyed by fire in 1543. The façade is very much like the
Chancellerie at Leeuwarden, and the niches still contain their
original statuettes of the sixteenth century. “This corner of the
townhall is a real delight to behold, and to come upon a relic of this
sort, religiously preserved from ancient times, is a great source of
joy to an artist.” But the special attractions are in the interior,
especially in “two rooms, unique in their way, … decorated with carved
wainscoting, which have remained intact from the early part of the
seventeenth century, when they were used as the council-chamber and
judgment-hall.… The walls are furnished with flags, standards,
halberds, pikes, … and above the door I noticed some formidable-looking
syringes in polished leather, shining like gold, which were used in
former times to squirt boiling oil on those of the assailants who
approached too close. A magnificent balustrade, crowned by an open
gallery with columns supporting arched openings, separates this hall
from the other, through which the persuasive eloquence of the
advocates penetrated the council-chamber.… Running round the chamber
is a huge carved bench, divided into stalls by jutting pedestals which
support a pillar of Ionic base and Composite capital. An entablature
also running the round of the room, projecting above the pillars, but
receding over the stalls, completes this kind of high barrier between
the councillors, and adds considerably to the majestic elegance which
charms and impresses one. At the end of the hall there is a fine
chimney-piece, comprising four divisions. To mention its date, 1543,
is quite enough to give an idea of the beauty of its workmanship and
the elegance of its curves.” Among its curiosities are some fine
silver goblets given to the town, and some pieces of gold-plate
belonging to the old guilds, as well as the _box of beans_, which
served to determine the election of the municipality. It is a small
_bonbonnière_ holding twenty-four beans, six silver-gilt and eighteen
of polished silver. “When it was a question of deciding which of the
members of the council should be chosen for the administration, the
beans were put in a hat, and each drew out one by chance, and those
who drew forth the silver-gilt beans immediately entered on their new
functions. This custom was not confined especially to Kampen, as it
was formerly in vogue in the province of Groningen.”
Zwolle (not a sea city) is a very old town, but has a modern life
tacked on to it, and few of its public buildings, churches included,
are worth commenting upon at length, though its history is interesting
and stirring. It was the birth-place and home of Thomas à Kempis,
known in his own day as Hamerken, but the convent where he lived has
unfortunately disappeared.
Harderwyk, on the Zuyder-Zee, or the “Shepherd’s Refuge,” was founded
at the time of the disastrous flood which made the present sea. Some
shepherds collected there from the flooded meadows, and were joined by
a few fishermen. A hundred years after its incorporation as a town, it
was already prosperous enough to be named in the Hanseatic Union by
the side of Amsterdam, Kampen, and Deventer; but it can boast of a
better claim to notice than its material prosperity alone, for it had
a famous academy, founded in 1372, and specially devoted to theology
and what was then known of physical sciences. Except during an
interval of half a century, after an inundation that devastated and
unpeopled the little city, this school existed uninterruptedly till
the French occupation, a little less than a hundred years ago, and
among its native scholars, many of whom are honorably known in the
history of science, it reckons the botanist Boerhaave. Linnæus spent a
short time there in study and research, and the town is not a little
proud of having been sought out by distant scholars as a centre of the
natural science of that day. Both these famous men have a memorial in
Harderwyk, the former a bronze statue, and the latter a bust in the
public gardens. One of the few interesting remains of the old town is
the square tower of Notre Dame, where fires were burnt, by way of a
beacon, to guide fishermen and sailors out at night, and indicate the
position of Harderwyk. “The sea,” says Havard, “is very wayward in
these parts. Formerly it was at some little distance from the town,
but gradually it advanced, and ended by washing its walls; now,
however, it has in some measure receded.… When the tide is low,
fishermen often discover under the sand roads washed up by the waves,
paved with stones and bricks, which prove that at some distant period
streets existed where now the sea rules.” At present Harderwyk is the
depot of the troops intended for the Indian and colonial army of
Holland, and is, in consequence, rather a gay little place.
The charming, antique, and formerly turbulent town of Amersfoort, the
birth-place of the heroic Jan van Olden Barneveldt, truly the “father
of his country,” was the last comparatively forgotten place where our
author passed before he got back to the beaten track of travel,
through Utrecht down the Dutch Rhine to Amsterdam. Of this hardy,
learned, and brave people of the Netherlands he says but too truly
that they are unknown outside their own frontiers. “Nobody outside”
(of course he speaks of popular, world-wide reputation; for they are
known in scientific and literary circles) “knows that among the Dutch
are to be found honesty, cordiality, and sincere friendship; they do
not know that the language of Holland is rich and poetic; that the
Netherlanders have exceptionally fine institutions, sincere
patriotism, and absolute devotion to their country.” He complains,
however, that the country or its representative, the government, does
not sufficiently encourage native artists, authors, and _savants_, and
forces her statesmen to “submit to paltry coteries.” He also says that
the decay of trade in the “dead cities” is partly attributable to the
supineness of the inhabitants themselves, though that certainly does
not tally with their enterprising spirit of old, and adds that
Amsterdam, when threatened with the same danger――the moving sands and
the encroaching waters, which have turned the harbors of the once
wealthy Hanseatic cities into deserts――did not “sleep,” but “with all
their ancient energy, not fearing to expend their wealth,” the
inhabitants “cut through the whole length of the peninsula of Noord
Holland, and created a canal 40 miles long and 120 feet wide, wide
enough for two frigates to pass one another”; and when that was found
insufficient for their commerce, “they again cut through the width of
the peninsula, as they had cut through its length, giving to ships of
the heaviest tonnage two roads to their magnificent port. This was how
the sons of old Batavia fought against the elements――nothing stopped
them; and we see that the generations which succeed them are animated
by the same spirit, the same firm will, the same calm energy, never to
be beaten by difficulties.” And now the last news of importance from
the same spot is that of the projected draining of the Zuyder-Zee,
which is a plan of gigantic magnitude, the cost being estimated at
£16,000,000 sterling――_i.e._, not far from $100,000,000――but the
allotted time scarcely more than two years. The Dutch is a race
tenacious of vitality and power, and its future in its colonial
empire, which it is now thoroughly and scientifically surveying, bids
fair to rival its past. Even these “dead cities,” when they cease to
be fishing hamlets and relic-museums, and, by the draining of the
inland sea, have to turn for their support to new industries, have a
chance of revival. The last marvellous Dutch work――the completion of
the North Sea Canal――is a proof that the old energy is yet there, and
that great things may yet be expected, nautically, scientifically,
commercially, and even agriculturally, of the sturdy old stock of the
“Sea Beggars.”
[195] _The Dead Cities of the Zuyder-Zee_: A voyage to the
picturesque side of Holland. By Henri Havard. Translated by
Annie Wood. London: Bentley & Son.
[196] The author has unfortunately omitted to give some of
these proofs, and we have only his word for this assertion.
[197] Probably _lightest_.
[198] Cornelius Kempius.
THE GREAT STRIKE AT ERRICKDALE.
Errickdale is famous for its coal-pits. It has dozens of them. All
night long their fires glow red through the darkness, and all day the
sound of pick and hammer, and the creak of rusty iron chains dragging
heavily-loaded cars up the slope of the mines into the light, and the
cry of the miners, and the tramp of their hob-nailed shoes as they
come and go, fill the place with noisy life. It is a lonely place
otherwise, close to the sea-coast. A ponderous stone wharf juts far
out into the water, and a tramway runs down to it for the use of the
cars which take the coal to the vessels that are constantly loading.
The village of Errickdale, at the time of our story, consisted of the
black buildings connected with the mines, the rows of tumble-down
tenements where the miners lived, and one spacious, rambling,
old-fashioned dwelling, built a century previous by the first owner
and opener of the mines, and preserved intact ever since, in its
antique and solid elegance, by each new owner of the place. Eight
months of the year it was closed, with the exception of a few rooms
occupied by the agent, the old housekeeper, and two servants; one
other apartment being always kept in readiness to receive the master
whenever, for any reason, he chose to make his appearance.
But for four months, from June to October, the whole house was thrown
open and filled with a brilliant company, who spent the summer days in
merry idleness, and made Errickdale a scene of delight. Beautiful it
was always, in spite of its loneliness――a loneliness so extreme that
not another town or village, or house or hut, was to be met with for a
dozen miles around it, except Teal, lying hidden from sight behind the
hills, and five good miles away at that, and the lighthouse which rose
up eerily on the summit of the dangerous, ugly rock-ledge in the
centre of Errick Bay. That bay gave ample opportunity for sailing,
rowing, bathing, fishing; the beach was firm and good for those who
cared to walk; the rocks were bold and tempting for those who cared to
climb. In the fields the wild pink roses bloomed, and strawberries,
raspberries, baked-apple berries, and blueberries followed one upon
the other in superabundance. The heaps of coal-dust, the begrimed men,
the care-worn women and dirty children, the comfortless dwellings,
marred very much the beauty of the place; but what would be the place
without them? The guests who came there soon forgot such trifles as
the days sped by in merry-making; and in the city of Malton a summer
at Errickdale was spoken of as a season of unrivalled pleasure.
It was in Malton that John Rossetti, the present owner of Errick
mines, had his palace-like city home. There he had collected such
treasures as few men could boast, even in that city, famed for its
eager pursuit of the beautiful and the costly; and all of them he
lavished upon the only being who made life dear to him――the daughter
whom his idolized young wife had left to him when, at the child’s
birth, she died.
It is a marvel that Eleanora Rossetti grew up as amiable and gentle as
she was; for she scarcely knew what it meant to have a wish thwarted
or the merest whim of her fancy ungratified. Delicate and fair like
some sheltered plant, she won love and tenderness wherever she went,
and it seemed to her only as the air she breathed――she knew nothing
else. That she should yield her will to another’s never entered her
mind; that she was to do anything for others was an idea quite unknown
to her. Life was hers to enjoy; hearts were hers to command; let her
do what she would, no one wished to hinder her. She saw the beggars in
the streets of Malton, she saw the poorly-clad people in Errickdale,
but they never weighed upon her heart in the least. They must be very
lazy or very shiftless, she thought――if she ever thought of them at
all.
With the approaching winter of her eighteenth birthday――the winter of
that great strike at Errickdale which was to set the country
ringing――there came many prophecies of want and famine, but Eleanora
did not heed them. She had a little dinner-party one evening. They
were sitting around the table loaded with costly silver and
delicately-painted china and rare viands. “Papa,” cried Eleanora from
the head of the board, where she presided in girlish state, her clear
voice ringing down to him like a flute and attracting every one’s
attention――“papa, I mean to keep my eighteenth birthday by a
masque-ball at Errickdale.” And then, glancing along each file of
delighted and expectant guests with her brightest smile, “You are all
invited at once,” she said, “without further ceremony. The night of
the 20th of January, remember. How I hope there will be snow underfoot
and stars overhead and a biting frost! There will be bed and board for
all, though some of the beds may have to be on the floor; and sleighs
or carriages will be waiting at Teal station. Oh! how delightful it
will be!”
Nobody waited to see if permission would be granted her. Eleanora
Rossetti always had her way. At once a Babel of voices arose.
“We will make summer of winter,” Eleanora said. “The whole
conservatory shall be sent down. It shall be a ball of the old
_régime_; and mind, all of you, no one shall be admitted who does not
come dressed as a courtier of some sort to grace my palace halls. I
shall never be eighteen again, and I mean to celebrate it royally.”
“She looks like a princess this moment,” said a youth on her right,
loudly enough for her to hear, and to make her blush with pleasure;
and like a princess she looked indeed, slender and tall and stately,
in her heavy purple robe, with ermine and rare laces at the neck and
wrists, and diamonds in her ears that sparkled no more brightly than
her eyes.
Down in Errickdale that night a northeast gale was blowing, the waves
were dashing their spray high up over the wharf and against the
cliffs, and the rain drove in slant sheets across the bay, where the
red eye of the lighthouse glared steadily.
In a cottage of three rooms, apart from the tenements, yet little
better than they, another John is sitting. John O’Rourke this, an
Irishman, come eighteen years since from the old country; and with him
sits his only daughter, who will be eighteen in February. Bridget
O’Rourke has no need to fear the verdict if she is compared with the
heiress of Errickdale; she is full as tall and stately, and her dark,
severe beauty would be noticeable anywhere. But there is no sparkle in
her eyes, that are heavy with unshed tears, and no smile is on her
lips.
These people are not poor, as Errickdale counts poverty. It is much,
very much, to have a house to yourself, even though it be of three
rooms only, and floor and walls are bare. It is much to wear whole
clothes, though the dress is cotton print and the coat is fustian. It
is much to have plenty of bread and cheese and a bit of cold meat on
your table, and to have a decent table to sit at. Errickdale counts
these things luxuries. John O’Rourke is a sort of factotum for the
agent, and, next to him, has higher wages than any other man on the
place; but, for all that, his brow is lowering to-night, and as he
sits in moody silence his fingers work and his hands are clenched, as
though he were longing for a fight with some one.
“You’re not eating, Bridget, my girl,” he said at last, draining the
last drop of his cup of tea. “You’re not as hungry as I.”
She pushed her plate away. “I can’t eat, father,” she said. “Down in
the hollow Smith’s wife and babes are crying with hunger, and over at
Rutherford’s the girls haven’t a shoe to their feet in this bitter
weather.”
“And so you must go hungry too, girl?” he asked.
“I can’t eat,” she said again. “It chokes me. Why should I have good
things, and they go starving? I wish I was starving with them!”
“Tut, tut, girl! What help would that be? And what’s Smith, anyhow,
and Smith’s boys, but Orangemen, that hoot at ye Sundays, and laugh at
your going ten miles, all, as they say, to worship images?”
Bridget smiled faintly. This righteous John O’Rourke was no very
fervent Catholic in his deeds, whatever his words might go to prove.
It was seldom that he found himself able to foot those good ten miles
with her, though she did it regularly, in spite of ridicule and
difficulty.
“Orangemen or not,” she answered, “they’re flesh and blood like me.
God made ’em. If I try to eat, I think I see them with nothing, and I
long to give all I have to them.”
“I tell ye,” O’Rourke exclaimed, “times are bad enough now, but
they’ll be worse soon, if master don’t take heed. There’ll be a strike
in Errickdale before the winter’s out.”
“O father! no. I hope not. Nothing like that would ever move the
master. He’s that set in his own way, he would only hold out stronger
against ’em――he would.”
“I think so myself, girl――I think so myself. I’ve known him well these
eighteen years; he’s firm as rock. But the men don’t credit it. They
are murmuring low now, but it will be loud shouting before we know it.
Bridget, I’ll to Malton and see the master myself, come morning.”
“Yes, father,” said Bridget; “and I’ll go with you and speak with Miss
Eleanora.”
A few hours later, the city lady and the Irish girl stood face to face
in Eleanora’s boudoir. There was a startled look in Eleanora’s eyes.
What strange story is this which Bridget tells her? There must be some
mistake about it.
“They are very poor in Errickdale,” Bridget said slowly, keeping down
the quiver from her voice and the tears from her eye. “House after
house they have nothing but potatoes or mush to eat, and nothing but
rags to wear. I don’t think it’s the master’s fault maybe. Sometimes I
fear the agent is not all he should be, miss.”
As if John Rossetti did not know the character of the man whom he had
left in power among his miners! Alas for Bridget! and alas for
Errickdale!
“But do _you_ suffer, Bridget?” and Eleanora looked at her
compassionately, and then with deep admiration. She had let her talk,
had let her stay, where carelessly she would have sent off any other,
because it was such a delight to her to see that face in its grave and
regular beauty, and to hear the rich voice with its sorrowful cadence
like the minor note of an organ chant. Even had she been of like
station and wealth with herself, Eleanora would have felt no pangs of
jealous fear; for her own beauty and that of Bridget were of too
perfect and delicious a contrast for that, and her trained artistic
taste was considering it with pleasure all the while that their talk
went on.
“Not that way,” Bridget answered her. “I’ve food and clothes a plenty
myself. But it’s as if the hunger and want were tugging at my heart
instead of my body, by day and by night. The lean faces and the
wailing come between me and all else. Miss Eleanora, I wish you could
once see them――only once.”
“What’s this! Bridget O’Rourke here too? A well-planned plot, truly.”
And John Rossetti strode into the room as though on the point of
turning the girl out from it, only his daughter, coming to meet him,
stepped unwittingly between.
“Yes, papa,” she said, “it’s Bridget, come to the city, I suppose, for
the first time in her life. And, papa, she tells such a sad story
about Errickdale. Will you please send them some money at once?”
“Not a penny,” her father answered. “Not one penny of mine or yours
shall they have. These people think to force me to their will by a
strike! They shall learn what manner of master they have. Do they not
know that Errick mines might lie idle a year, and I hold my head above
water bravely? And do they dream there are no men willing and glad to
be hired for the price they cavil at? Let them strike when they
please. That is the only message John O’Rourke has to carry home with
him for his pains, and all that you shall have either, Bridget. Take
it and be gone.”
“Oh! no, Bridget, not yet,” Eleanora cried. “I am not ready. Papa,
what can you be thinking of――sending her away when I am not ready to
have her go? Let us consider for a minute, papa. She is so troubled”;
and, indeed, Bridget’s face was livid in its distress, and when she
strove to speak her voice died away in a moan. “How much do the people
want, papa?”
He laughed grimly. “I shall grant them nothing,” he said. “However,
since you are curious, they do not want as much as your ball will cost
me, my love. How would you like to give that up for them?”
“My ball! Of course not. What a ridiculous idea! All Malton knows of
it by this time, and twenty people are invited already, and I have
sent for my dressmaker. Of course I could not give that up for
anything! But you were only jesting, papa dear. I know you could not
mean it. Bridget, papa knows best, you may be sure. I never trouble my
head about business. But I will tell you what you shall do. I am going
to have a masque-ball at Errickdale in January――such grand doings as
were never known there before――and you shall come to it! You shall be
where you can see the splendid court-dresses and the flowers and the
feast, and hear the music――the very best music that Malton can
furnish. So don’t worry any more, Bridget, and you shall surely be
there.”
Bridget looked slowly round the room, full of warmth and light, and
comfort and beauty. From the picture-frames haggard eyes seemed to
stare at her; in the corners, and half hidden by the velvet hangings,
figures wasted by want seemed to stretch their bony fingers towards
her; through the canary’s song and the splash of the scented fountain
voices weak with fasting seemed to call on her for aid. But it had
become impossible for her to utter another word in their behalf. A
plan, a hope, flashed through her mind.
“Yes, Miss Eleanora,” she said, “I will come to your ball.” And
waiting for no more words, she went away.
“She is worrying her life out,” Eleanora said pityingly. “I don’t
believe she eats properly.” And taking more trouble for a poor person
than she had ever done before, she wrote to the housekeeper at
Errickdale to send Bridget O’Rourke every day substantial and tempting
food enough for an entire meal. Then she dismissed the whole matter;
or rather the dressmaker was announced, and the important question as
to whether her balldress should be of velvet or satin drove all minor
subjects, such as hunger and cold and nakedness, from her mind.
Meanwhile, Bridget strove to calm her father’s wrath, which he poured
forth volubly as the train carried them home; and when he was still,
she thought out to its full scope the plan which had occurred to her.
She would go to the ball, and, when the guests were assembled, she
would step forth from her hiding-place, and stand before them all, and
plead the people’s cause. But the more she thought of it the more her
heart misgave her. Why should she hope they would heed her then rather
than to-day? Would not the master only be the more incensed against
his miners, because of the shame to which he would be exposed? Yes,
she felt sure that this would be the result. And then the long, long
days and weeks which must elapse before the chance would come at all!
How could she endure it? She put that sudden hope and plan away.
Instead of it, she prayed again and again with smothered sobs: “O
Christ! who for love of us died for us, save thy people now.”
But she walked the long walk home from Teal station without fatigue,
and came into Errickdale strong and well, to meet the woes she yearned
to heal. The children had learned to understand her pity for them.
They welcomed her return with cries for food; she gave them what she
could, and lay down supperless herself that night to rest. After that,
each day brought her a full meal from the great house, but she never
tasted of it; there were those who needed it more, she said.
Once, on her way to a poor family with a basket of these provisions,
the smell of the well-cooked food produced such a violent craving that
it seemed to her for a moment that she should go mad. With a great
effort she controlled herself and stood still. “Christ,” she prayed,
“have mercy! Shall I eat dainties while the children starve?”
The craving did not cease, but strength to resist it came. She entered
the wretched room to which she was bound, and fed the inmates who
crowded around her; then she hurried home. In the cupboard were a few
crusts and a bone already well picked. How sweetly they tasted! And
while she feasted on them a woman crawled feebly in. “I’ve fasted
long,” she said, and quietly Bridget gave her all she had.
Twice afterward she felt that horrible craving, and then it ceased.
Her father saw that she ate little, but never guessed how little it
really was; he saw that she grew pinched and pale, but fancied it was
grief alone that caused it. He did not know, and no one knew, that,
with what Errickdale counted “plenty” at her command, Bridget was
living like the poorest. The thirst for self-sacrifice, the thirst of
a supernatural love, consumed her. “HE did it,” she used to say to
herself. “He was poor for us, and he died for us.” From her room one
by one her possessions departed; she carried them to those who, as she
thought, needed them more, or she disposed of them for their use. Soon
the attic room, which no one but herself ever entered, held literally
nothing but the crucifix on the wall. Laying her weary limbs on the
hard floor at night, she thought of the hard cross whereon her Lord
had died. “Mine is an easier bed than his,” she said, and smiled in
the darkness. “May he make me worthier to share his blessed pains!”
But the nights were few that she spent on even so poor a couch as
this. There was sickness in Errickdale as well as want, and Bridget
was nurse, and doctor, and servant, and watcher beside the dead. And
in her princess life at Malton Eleanora Rossetti counted the same long
hours blithely, eager for her festival to come.
* * * * *
The 20th of January! Stars overhead, and snow underfoot, and a biting
frost to make Errickdale as merry as its heiress wished. Winter
without, and want and woe perhaps; but who needed to think of that? In
the old mansion summer itself was reigning. Orange and lemon trees
mingled their golden fruits and spicy bloom in the corridors and halls
and up and down the winding stairs. Lamps burned some faintly-scented
oil, that filled the warm air with a subtle, delicious odor, and lamps
and tall wax tapers flooded the room with golden but undazzling light.
Fountains played among beds of rare ferns and exotics; and magnificent
blossoms lay in reckless profusion upon the floor, to be trodden upon,
and yield their perfume, and die unheeded. And in doublet and hose and
cap and plume, and all the gay festival gear of a king’s court of
mediæval times, hosts of servants waited upon Eleanora’s word.
The winter twilight fell soon over Errickdale. In its gathering
shadows John Rossetti was galloping home from Teal on his swiftest
horse, when the creature shied suddenly, then stopped, trembling all
over. A woman stood in the path, ghostly and strange to see through
the gloom. Fearless John Rossetti started at the unexpected sight.
“What do you want of me?” he asked.
“Food,” the woman answered, in a voice that thrilled him with
inexplicable awe; from some far-off land it seemed to come――a land
that knew nothing of ease and joy. “Your people die of want, and cold,
and pain,” it said. “In the name of God Almighty, and while you have
time, hear me and help them.”
Then this fearless John Rossetti sneered. “While I have time?” he
said. “I have no time to-night, I warrant you. Choose better seasons
than this for your begging, Bridget O’Rourke.”
He struck the spurs into his horse, but, though it quivered all over
again, it would not move an inch. The woman lifted her hands to
heaven. “God, my God! I have done all I can,” she said. “I leave it
now with thee.” And so she vanished.
In Errick Hall Eleanora was speaking to a servant. “Make haste,” she
said. “I had almost forgotten it. Make haste and bring Bridget
O’Rourke to me. I promised she should see it all.”
The servant hurried obediently to John O’Rourke’s cottage. Its owner
was crouching sullenly over the fire. “Where’s my girl?” he said.
“Miss Eleanora wants her to see the sights? See ’em she shall, then.
It’s little she gets of brightness now, poor thing. Bridget! Bridget!”
But though he called loudly, no one answered. He climbed the stairs to
the dark attic, and still no reply.
“Give me the light, boy,” he cried, with a dull foreboding at his
heart, and he and the servant entered the room together.
She was not there. What was more, nothing was there――literally
nothing――except the cross of Him who gave his all, his very life, for
men.
“I fear, I fear,” this John said, trembling; and he took the crucifix
down, and carried it with him for defence against invisible foes whom
he dreaded far more than anything he could see.
“We will go look for her, O’Rourke,” the servant said. “I must find
her for Miss Eleanora, if not for her own sake.”
In the kitchen supper was on the table, and the fire crackled on the
hearth. Her loving father had been waiting long for her. Where was the
child?
They asked the question at every tenement and every room. The people
joined them in the search for her whom they all held dear. On the
outskirts of the place, and where the road stretched out without
another sign of habitation for five miles to Teal, was a lonely hovel.
“She’s there,” one woman said to another. “’Course she’s there. Might
’a’ known it. Jake Ireton’s wife had twins yesterday, and it’s little
else they have. She’s there, caring for ’em.”
Yet they paused at the door, as if loath to open it. The whole throng
seemed to feel that vague foreboding which John O’Rourke had felt;
those who were able to crowd into the narrow room entered it timidly.
What was it that they dreaded?
In the grand saloon of Errick mansion, decked like a regal ballroom,
John Rossetti’s daughter, attired gorgeously like the French queen in
the famous painting which is Malton’s pride, received her courtiers;
and the band played the gay dance-music, and the light feet of the
dancers glided over the floors.
In the poorest hut of Errickdale John O’Rourke’s daughter received her
courtiers, too, in regal state.
It was dark and silent there before the torches were brought in. By
their flaring light the people saw the poor mother on a bed of rags
and straw.
“Be still as ye can,” she said softly. “Is’t thee, O’Rourke? Thy good
girl’s been wi’ me this four hours. One o’ my babbies died, thank God!
She laid it out there all decent.”
And then, in the dim light, they saw the outline of a tiny form beside
the bed; such being the roses and adornings of Bridget’s court.
“She heard a horse go trampling by, and went to see ’t,” the woman
said. “When she came back, says she: ‘’Twas master. I’ve pleaded my
last plea for my people. My heart’s broke.’ Then t’other babby cried,
and she took’t to still it, and she lay down wi’ it, and, ever since,
they’ve both been still, and I hope she’s sleepit and forgot her woes
awhile, God bless her!”
Sleeping on the hard floor, but she does not feel it. They bring the
torches near her; she does not heed the glare, though the baby on her
bosom starts and wakes and weeps. She does not hear it weep. In truth,
this queen has forgotten her woes in a dreamless slumber, and truly
God has blessed her; but with bitter wailing her courtiers kneel
before her in the court of Death, the king.
There is food on the table which her own hands had placed there; there
is fire on the hearth which her own hands kindled. She who lies there
dead has not died of cold or hunger; she has died of a broken heart.
And the viol and flute and harp ring sweetly, and the trumpet and drum
have a stately sound in Errick Hall, and youths and maidens dance and
make merry. The great doors were flung open, and in long procession
the guests passed into the banqueting-hall, where was room for every
one to sit at the magnificent tables, and Eleanora was enthroned on a
dais, queen of them all. Reproduced as in a living picture was a ball
of _Le Grand Monarque_. “John Rossetti has surpassed himself,” his
guests said with admiring wonder. In a pause of the music Eleanora’s
silvery laugh was heard; she looked with pride at her father, and
spoke aloud so that all might hear: “Yes, there never was such a
father as mine. His birthday gift is beyond my highest expectations.”
“_Rossetti of Errickdale!_”
From above their heads the strange voice came. Far up in the embrasure
of a window a man with a lighted torch was standing. John O’Rourke’s
eyes met John Rossetti’s, and commanded them, and held them fast.
“We mean no harm,” he said. “We come peaceable, if you meet us
peaceable; but if not, there’s danger and death all round ye. I warn
ye fairly. Miss Eleanora bade my Bridget come to see her feast, and
we’ve come to bring her. Ye’d best sit quiet, all of ye, for we’ve
fire to back us.” And he held his torch dangerously near to the
curtains. Errickdale hall and Errickdale master were in his power.
Coming through the hall they heard it――the steady, onward tramp of an
orderly and determined crowd; the notes of a weird Irish dirge
heralded their coming. Two and two the courtiers of Bridget O’Rourke
marched in.
Men in rags, their lips close-shut and grim, a rude and flaring torch
borne in each man’s hand; haggard women with wolfish eyes and scantly
clad, leading or carrying children who are wailing loudly or moaning
in a way that chills the blood to hear, while the women shrilly sing
that dirge for a departed soul――would the terrible procession never
cease? Blows and clamor would be easier to bear than this long-drawn
horror, as two and two the people filed around the loaded tables and
gayly-attired guests.
Rising in amazement at the first entrance of these new-comers,
throughout their coming Eleanora stood upright, one hand pressed upon
her heart, as if to quell its rapid beating. Beautiful, and queenly
despite her pallid cheeks, she stood there, yet two and two the people
passed slowly up the hall, and slowly passed before her dais, and made
no sign of homage. It was another queen who held them in her sway.
Was it over at last?――for the procession that seemed to have no end
ceased to file through the lofty doors. The men stood back against the
wall, still with their lips close-shut and grim; they lowered their
torches as banners are lowered to greet a funeral train. The women
flung up their lean, uncovered arms, and shrieked out one more wail of
bitter lamentation, then stood silent too. The very babes were still.
And all eyes were fixed upon the door――all except John O’Rourke’s,
that never stirred from John Rossetti’s face.
Borne in state, though that state was but a board draped with a ragged
sheet――her face uncovered to those stars and to that biting frost, her
feet bare to those snows for which Eleanora wished; the face marked by
a suffering which was far deeper than any that mere cold or hunger
causes, yet sealed by it to an uplifted look which was beyond all
earthly loveliness; the hands crossed on a heart that ached no longer,
over the crucifix which was this queen’s only treasure――so Bridget
O’Rourke had come to Eleanora’s feast.
And so they bore her up the hall; and before the regal dais this more
regal bier stood still.
Then at last Eleanora moved, and started, and stretched out her hands.
“What do you want of me?” she said. “What is it that you want of me?
Speak to me, Bridget O’Rourke. Speak to me.”
They were face to face again in their youth and beauty, but the
contrast between them now brought no delight. They were face to face
again; but let this heiress command as she might or beg as she might,
never again would the rich voice speak to her with passionate
pleading, or the grave eyes meet her own with a stronger prayer than
words. This Queen of Death made no answer to her royal sister, except
the awful answer of that silence which no power of earth can break.
“_Rossetti of Errickdale!_”
Once again from far above their heads they heard him calling――the man
whose earthly all lay dead before them.
“We threatened to strike for food, and we feared ye. We suffered sore
like slaves, for we feared ye. It’s ye that may fear us now, I tell
ye, for to-night we strike for a life. Give us my good girl’s life
again――my good girl’s life.”
He was wild with grief, and the people were wild with want and grief.
Echoing up to the arches, their shout rang loud and long. “We strike
for a life,” they cried. “Give us back that life, or we burn ye all
together.”
Owner of princely wealth was he upon whom they called. Seven hours ago
that life was in his gift――one act of pity might have saved it, one
doled-out pittance kept the heart from breaking. Let him lavish his
millions upon her now; he cannot make her lift a finger or draw a
breath.
“John O’Rourke!”
It was not the master’s voice that answered. For the first time John
O’Rourke’s eyes turned from the master and looked upon Eleanora. The
queen of a night held out her hands again to her who had gone to claim
the crown of endless ages.
“John O’Rourke,” she said, gently and slowly, so that each word
carried weight, “what is it that Bridget wants of me? What would she
ask if she could speak to me to-night? I will give her whatever she
would ask. _Does she want her life back again?_”
The unexpected question, the gentle words, struck home. Suddenly
O’Rourke’s defiant eyes grew dim; and through his tears he saw his
good girl’s face, with the deep lines of suffering plain upon it, and
the new and restful look of perfect peace. It pleaded with him as no
words could plead.
“Miss Eleanora,” he cried, “I wouldn’t have her back. Not for all the
world I wouldn’t call her back. She’s been through sore anguish, and I
thank God it’s over. Give us food and fair wages, miss――that’s all she
would ask of ye.”
He paused, and in the pause none dreamed how wild a fight the man was
fighting with his wrath and hatred. But still that worn and silent
form pleaded with him and would not be gainsaid. At length he spoke,
huskily:
“And she would ask of us, miss, not to harm one of ye, but to let
master and all go free for the love of God. Shall we do what Bridget
would ask of us, my men?”
His strained voice faltered, he burst into loud Irish weeping――a
lonely father’s weeping, touching to hear in its patient resignation.
“Yes! yes!” the men and women answered him; and in the hall rich and
poor wept and laughed together, for the great strike of Errickdale was
over, and peace was made, and want supplied. But through the tumult of
sorrow and rejoicing she alone lay utterly unmoved and silent who had
won life at the price of life.
The story is often told in Malton of a young girl, very beautiful and
much beloved, who renounced the world on the night of her eighteenth
birthday, in the very midst of a feast of unequalled splendor, and at
the threshold of a future full of brilliant promise. They say she
dwelt in lonely Errickdale, among the poor and ignorant, and lived
like them and for them. And now and then they add that, when once some
one ventured to ask her why she chose so strange a life, she answered
that she had seen death at her feast in the midst of pomp and
splendor, and had learned, once for all, their worth. But when she was
further asked if she could not be willing, like many others present at
that feast, to care for the poor and to give to them, and yet have joy
and comfort too, the fire of a divine love kindled in her eyes, and
she answered that she counted it comfort and joy to live for the
people for whom she had seen another content and glad to die.
MODERN MELODISTS.
SCHUMANN.[199]
Robert Schumann was the true successor of Schubert. The impassioned
admirer of him whom he designated as “the Prince of Melody,” Schumann,
though not equalling his inimitable predecessor, succeeded
nevertheless in winning for himself a lofty place among the masters of
lyric music.
We say that Schumann has not equalled Schubert; but it must not thence
be concluded that he is necessarily inferior to his rival each time
that he treats an analogous subject. Schumann has perhaps rendered all
the shades of human love with as much truth and depth as Schubert, but
scarcely ever has he reached the dramatic power of “The Erl King” and
“The Young Nun”; never has he found the brilliant coloring and light
which shines out in “The Mariner,” “The Departure,” and “The Stars.”
Thus Schumann’s _Hidalgo_ is evidently the same cavalier as he of
Schubert’s “Departure.” In Schubert he quits his German Fatherland and
hurries forth to seek new pleasures. Schumann takes him into Spain:
“Mine be fresh flow’rets rare,” he cries, “the hearts of ladies fair,
and mine the combat fierce.” Alas! _Quantum mutatus!_ The beauties of
Spain bring small inspiration, and Schumann’s bolero resembles the
joyous song of Schubert just as much as a military band of Madrid
resembles an orchestra of Vienna. In the same way, in dramatic
situations, Schumann is not always well inspired. Instead of being
simple, his thought is vulgar (as in “The Hostile Brothers” and “The
Two Grenadiers”), or else, in larger works, his search for the
dramatic accent gives a strained expression to his style and a
wearisome obscurity to his intention. This, however, is not always the
case. Who does not know the admirable “Funeral March” of his
Quintette, assuredly the most beautiful of his symphonic works, and
excelling all the _musique de chambre_ of Schubert?
The overture to _Manfred_ has many sombre beauties; but instead of
following these lugubrious accents by a plaint more melodious, more
human, and less infernal――instead of letting in a little light to make
his “darkness” yet more “visible”――Schumann only quits the shadows to
precipitate himself into utter blackness, and horror succeeds alarm.
We find, however, the true note of dramatic inspiration in the _Lied_
“J’ai pardonné,” with its cry of love betrayed and of terrible
malediction.
“J’ai vu ton âme en songe,
J’ai vu la nuit où sa douleur la plonge,
Et le remords à tes pas enchainé.
Et ton printemps aux larmes destiné.”[200]
The effect is all the more striking because absolutely new: an
harmonic sequence of incredible boldness, resolving itself into fresh
discords more audacious still, and, hovering above, a simple phrase of
song, which falls cold and solemn, like a malediction from on high!
Towards the middle the discords resolve themselves regularly; and
before resuming the original idea, before returning to the expressions
of anguish uttered by the first harmonies, Schumann allows us, through
eight bars, a breathing-time, on a very simple phrase which he keeps
in the proximate keys to the primitive. If, with regard to the
overture to _Manfred_, Schumann is to be reproached with having
allowed so little light to find entrance among its shadows, he has, at
any rate in this case, had the good sense to submit to the necessary
laws of contrast, and thus gains much by allowing us to breathe a few
moments, that we may realize more fully the depth of despair to which
he is about to drag us down. He returns to the first phrase, and we
hear again the chords which have already so deeply moved us; still the
melodic phrase enlarges and mounts upward, while the discords take a
new development. After this tempest of the soul we reach the haven,
the key returns to ut on the words _J’ai pardonne_ (“I have
pardoned”), and Schumann leaves us filled with admiration, not unmixed
with horror.
Strange eccentricity of the human genius! In this sublime _Lied_,
perhaps the most powerful page which Schumann has written, we can
discover the germ of those defects which too often mar his more
extended works, and begin to understand why Schumann has fallen into
the obscurities we just now named. What is, in fact, the especial
characteristic of this wonderful melody? Despair; but despair under
tortuous and exaggerated forms.
If only Schumann would have been content to paint the sufferings of
the heart, all might have gone well; but no, he exhausts himself in
attempting also to render the tortures of the mind, the anxious
doubting of Manfred, the absolute negation incarnate in Faust. Now, if
the torments of the heart furnish one of the most powerful elements of
the drama (_Orestes_, _Œdipus_, and _Phædrus_ prove this truth), there
is absolutely nothing artistic whatever in mental torments,
philosophic doubt, and scepticism. The true artist, by his very
nature, must believe and love.
If against this assertion Goethe, Byron, and Alfred de Musset are
quoted――three great poets, with whom Schumann has some analogy――we
would say: All three were poets, not because, but in spite, of doubt;
and, what is truer still, they are poets when they cease to doubt, or
when they struggle against it. Even Alfred de Musset was no sceptic
when he exclaimed in his immortal “August Night” (_Nuit d’Août_):
“O ma muse, ne pleurez pas;
A qui perd tout, Dieu reste encore.
Dieu là-haut, l’espoir ici-bas!”[201]
Alas! Schumann also knew the evil of our time. Was it not doubt which
made him lose his way in the search after some impossible and
anti-artistic ideal? Was it not doubt which, by day and night,
tortured his sick soul and urged him on to commit suicide? Doubt, in
his impassioned mind, engendered madness; need we, after this, wonder
that his artistic ideas were confused, his tone unhealthy, and that
his music oftener makes us think of death than life, darkness than
light? But when Schumann succeeds in tearing himself from the fatal
embrace of scepticism, his musical inspirations take sublime flights.
When he sang of love he was truly great, because he believed in love.
While Schubert was content to throw off, one by one, without apparent
connection, his admirable _Lieder_,[202] Schumann gathered all the
shades of tenderness into a marvellous unity――as, for instance, in the
“Loves of a Poet” and “Woman’s Love,” in which we are made to traverse
all its phases.
Before saying any more about these two important works, we would name
several detached _Lieder_ of singular gracefulness: “Désir,” or
“Chanson du Matin” (A Morning Song), and “O ma Fiancée.” Nor must we
forget a reverie, “Au Loin” (Far Away), on which is the impress of an
infinite sadness. We seem in it to be listening, at the dead of night,
to the lament of an exile weeping at the thought of his country and
all whom he loves. It reminds us of a Daniel singing, on the banks of
the Euphrates, the divine plaint of captivity: _Super flumina
Babylonis, illic sedimus et flevimus_.
The “Loves of a Poet” open with a series of little melodies full of
poesy――a little nosegay of fragrant flowers which the poet offers to
his beloved. It is when, alas! he has been betrayed by the faithless
one that he sings his sublime song “J’ai pardonné”――a pardon which is,
nevertheless, worse than a malediction.
If only the “Loves of a Poet” ended with this admirable melody, the
work would be complete; and the effect marvellous. But no; Henri
Heine, the author of the poem, prolonged in an inexplicable fashion
the situation, henceforth without interest, and the betrayed poet
comes back to tell us that he is――unfortunate! Did we not know it
already? He repeats this stale bit of information _nine_ times over
consecutively, in _nine_ “Lieder,” and under _nine_ different
forms!――a literary impossibility which inevitably reminds us of the
despair of the Cid, persistently offering his head to Chimenes.
At the fourth reapparition Heine seems at last to begin to suspect
that the plaintive tone is wearisome; but he finds nothing better, by
way of a change, than to throw his hero into the humoristic style――we
had almost said the grotesque. Our readers shall judge:
“A man loves a woman,
Of whom one, more fortunate, has the love.”
Already we have a trio of lovers. We continue:
“But he who reigns in this heart
Fancies another, in _his_ turn.”
Here, then, is an interesting quarternion of people who cannot
contrive to come to an understanding with one another; but we are not
at the end. Enter another individual――Number 5.
“The fair one, in revenge,
Makes choice of an unknown.”
And now, place for the last lover,
Whose “hand and heart alike
Will be for the first comer.”
A jurisconsult would simply have told us: _Primus_ amat _Secundam_,
quæ _Tertium_, qui _Quartam_, quæ _Quintum_, qui Sextam … (cætera
desiderantur)――which, at any rate, would have had the merit of
clearness; and, on remarking immediately that the _species_ contained
three feminine terminations and three masculine, he would have
celebrated three marriages.
Even the genius of Goethe, which imagined the _Elective affinities_,
would never have sufficed to create these _Repulsive affinities_. But
the one most to be pitied is the unfortunate Schumann, who had
condemned himself to set this _theory of Elective Repulsions_ to
music. In his place one would have preferred, like Rameau, to seek
one’s inspirations fron the _Gazette de Hollande_.
Henri Heine, after this _tour de force_, has nothing left but to kill
his poet; and he kills him accordingly. After a few more insipidities
which fill the twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth
_Lieder_, the poet will order his coffin――
“Of wood encircled with iron,
Bigger than the tun of Heidelberg,
Longer than the bridge of Treves
Or that of Frankfort,” etc.
The last feature might have been touching, if it had been better
managed. “Know you,” asks the poet, “what makes my coffin so heavy?
“It is that it contains my joy,
My sorrow, and my love.”
The music of Schumann is affected by the feebleness of the poem. The
melodies which follow “J’ai pardonné” are inferior to the preceding
ones. It is only towards the end that the musician escapes from the
material hindrances of the subject; the air gains in freedom, the
harmonies in richness; the poor poet recovers some of his first
accents when he sings: “It is that it contains my joy, my sorrow, and
my love.”
“A Woman’s Love.” Here is a little poem far superior to the preceding.
The author is Adalbert de Chamisso, well known for his _Wonderful
History of Peter Schlemihl_. This time poet and musician identify
themselves with each other marvellously, and Schumann lives and
breathes in every verse of the poet.
In the first song the young girl owns her love:
“Have I, then, had a dream?
But him I see!
* * * * *
What makes me tremble thus,
And takes my sleep from me,
And makes my heart beat fast?
――Yes; it is he!”
Throughout this melody one is conscious of a deep and inward
happiness, which is not without a pleasing touch of melancholy.
In that which next follows the young girl sings her beloved. The
rhythm is lofty, the melody brilliant. There are, however, in this
_Lied_ parts which are not equal to the preceding, and which are
wanting in naturalness. But listen; she is loved:
“Why tremble thus? why doubt, my heart?
Thou beatest nigh to breaking. Ah!
Me has he chosen among all;
And thou, my heart, believ’st it not!”
The enthusiasm which fills this melody makes it comparable to the
deepest melodies of Schubert. What we feel peculiar in it to Schumann
is a feverish tone, a shade of delirium, if we may say so, which we
might seek for in yain in Schubert. The ternary rhythm, especially
when the measure is rapid, is singularly suitable to impassioned
movements. A chord, detached not too strongly falls upon the first
beat of each bar; the hurrying melody stops upon the word _Ah_, on a
concord of the seventh, very simple, but of a pleasing effect after
the regular ascent of the bass. Then it continues, rapid and fevered,
and the first phrase closes in C, on the words: “And thou, my heart,
believ’st not.”
Then, more slowly, the maiden caresses her precious memories:
“His mouth has said to me:
I love thee.”
The melody softens, the phrase is more free and becomes freshly
animated on the words, “A dream bewilders me,” then bursts out
powerfully when the young girl exclaims:
“O Heaven! if this is but a dream,
Then may I wake no more.”
This phrase, by its lofty accent and a certain lyric transport,
pleasantly recalls certain movements of Gluck’s.
When, in a low voice, the maiden resumes, “Why tremble thus,” etc., we
might think the melody terminated. But the artist has kept us a few
last notes, breathed from the depths of his soul. After an eager
repetition of the words, “Me has he chosen among all, and thou, my
heart, believ’st it not,” she once more utters them, very slowly and
very softly, in a melodic phrase full of tenderness and supplication.
She is more calm; her heart belies her mouth, and she believes.
The fourth and fifth _Lieder_ are two songs of an affianced maiden.
The young girl at first sings to herself of her betrothed, and the
sentiment of the music is inward, tranquil, and deep; but on quitting
her father’s roof to meet her husband the _fiancée_ sings to her
sisters, with a youthful pride and gladness, “If I am fair, I owe it
only to my happiness,” and the melody breaks into a song of exceeding
beauty.
A wife, she murmurs soon into her husband’s ear, “I hope,” and in the
following _Lied_ we see her as a mother. She presses her little one to
her heart, and a melody of exquisite sweetness expresses the words:
“Fresh brightness and new love
In a cradle are revealed.”
Alas! the eighth _Lied_ recalls us to sorrow, the great reality of
life. “O bitter woe! my best-beloved beneath the wing of death is
sleeping; forlorn, I shrink within myself, and solace my sad heart
with weeping.” Then the veil falls.
“Again I see thee, happiness gone by
Of former days.”
So ends the poem. But if the part of the poet is finished when he has
made this sorrowful appeal to the past, there is nothing to enchain
the inspiration of the musician. From the depth of his grief, at the
foot of this coffin, the poet has just evoked the memories of
happiness for ever fled. The musician will give a voice to that soul
which is called music――O marvellous power! Words would be misplaced;
harmonies are more discreet, more silent. There is nothing outward
here; it is the soul, contemplating the past, to which music lends its
poignant reality.
We cannot quit Schumann without a few words on the wife he so loved,
and who has shown herself worthy of his love by a steadfast devotion
to the memory of her husband, so long and so unjustly unappreciated.
The author of a number of remarkable _Lieder_, Mme. Clara Schumann
deserves a place among the most distinguished representatives of the
melodic style. Her place should be elsewhere, among living composers,
but we could not separate her even in thought from the husband to
whom, in death, she proves so faithful.
We have read with exceeding pleasure a little collection of _Lieder_,
of which the idea is touching. The husband and wife contributed each
their flowers (of melody) to the garland they have woven. We even
doubt whether the best page of this collection is not a melody by Mme.
Schumann, entitled “Love for Love.”
If we were asked, What is the style of Mme. Schumann? we should
answer, That of Robert Schumann. Can we wonder at it? They loved each
other so much that their souls must gradually have come to bear a
mutual resemblance, and they would have but one inspiration, as they
had but one love.
Schubert and Schumann are the two composers of the past who occupy the
first rank in the melodic style; they have in common that the _Lied_
has been carried by them to its highest expression, and that in return
they owe to it their most lasting renown.
In a complete work we should have now to inquire what the different
great composers have been at the time when they were drawn by their
inspirations on melodic ground. Without entering into disquisitions
which would here be out of place, we ought nevertheless, from the fear
of being too incomplete, bring forward certain _Lieder_ which, however
small a place they may claim among the works of the masters of whom we
are about to speak, none the less reveal an illustrious origin. Haydn,
Mozart, and Beethoven have written a tolerably large number of
melodies, very little known until twenty years ago, when an
intelligent editor had the happy idea of collecting in one volume
forty of these melodies, chosen from the most beautiful.[203] It needs
no long examination to show that Haydn and Beethoven, always inspired,
but above all symphonists, generally take some large phrase which one
would suppose borrowed from one of their symphonies. Thus Haydn’s
“Love Song” reminds us of those fine themes with which his andantes
open; and in the same manner Beethoven, who, by exception, has found
in his charming “Adelaide” the true form of the melody, surprisingly
recalls, in the canzonetta, “In questa tomba,” the admirable adagio of
the grand Sonata Appassionnata in F minor.
Mozart, who was more of a melodist[204] than these two masters, has
composed real _Lieder_, in which, at times, we seem to have a
presentiment of Schubert. Thus, “The Cradle Song” might very suitably
bear the signature of the author of “The Young Mother.” Elsewhere, on
the contrary, in “L’Amour Malheureux” and “Loin de toi,” we find the
style and the dramatic accent of the author of _Don Juan_ and _The
Magic Flute_.
The _Lieder_ of Weber and Mendelssohn, of Meyerbeer, of Berlioz and
Richard Wagner, will not detain us longer. These illustrious masters
have cultivated the _Lied_ with too little zeal to have won from it
any lasting fame. Even Meyerbeer would gain nothing by our dwelling on
this subject in regard to him. He has a certain “Monk” upon his
conscience, of which the less we say the better. On the other hand,
other artists, greatly inferior to those just named, have given in
their melodic compositions the full measure of their talent. We may
quote, as examples, Niedermeyer, an accomplished musician, whose
“Lake” has obtained a great and deserved success; Monpou, the author
of “Castibelza,” whose merit must not be confounded with that of such
contemporaries as Abbadie, Arnaud, and Loïsa Puget.
In Italy Rossini and Donizetti have left melodies to which they have
given the singular name of _Soirées_. Our readers will recall
Rossini’s “Mira la bianca luna,” which has a real charm, but which
reminds one rather of the author of the “Gazza ladra” than of the
inspired singer of “William Tell.”
In the “Abbandonata” Donizetti reaches a truth of expression of which,
unfortunately, he has not been too lavish. In listening to those
prettinesses, written chiefly to obtain pleasing vocal effects, and
which, in the hands of writers like Bordogni, Gordigiani, and their
compeers, have been lowered to the level of the most vulgar
vocalization, we find ourselves regretting the old masters of the
Italian school――Scarlatti, Lotti, Marcello, Durante, whose melodies
are incontestably more youthful and fresh than the romances of the
modern Italian composers.
[199] See “Les Mélodistes,” by M. Arthur Coquard in _Le
Contemporain_ for Nov. 1, 1872.
[200] “In dreams I have seen thy soul; I have seen the night
in which she hides her woe; I have seen remorse to thy
footsteps chained, and thy springtime doomed to tears.”
[201] “Weep not, my Muse; oh! weep no more. God stays with
him who loses all beside――God on high, and hope below!”
[202] We hope that in a former notice we have shown that
there is an artistic connection between them. (See THE
CATHOLIC WORLD for February, 1877.)
[203] _Quarante Mélodies de Beethoven, Mozart, et Haydn,
chez Flaxland._
[204] We say _melodist_, and not _melodic_. One may be a
musician of the first order without being a great melodist.
Thus Meyerbeer, so great in other respects, is a poor
melodist; but will any one say that he is not melodic?
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
THE BROWN HOUSE AT DUFFIELD; or, Life within and without the Fold.
By Minnie Mary Lee. Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. 1876.
A good Catholic novel is still, we fear,
Nigro simillima cygno.
The great majority of semi-controversial tales which have been written
during the last twenty years, by well-intentioned but injudicious
writers of our faith, have no claim to be recognized as works of art;
for their execution has been in general too hasty to admit of that
careful study and elaboration indispensable to the production of an
enduring work. Neither can they be fairly considered as natural or
practical illustrations of the influence of our holy religion in
social and domestic life, still less as successful means of initiating
outsiders into the beauties of the church’s doctrines. It is not the
legitimate aim of a novel to be prosaically didactic. One page of
Bellarmine or Petavius contains more sound doctrinal position than the
fresh cut leaves of any modern controversial tale. Of course in
master-hands the difficult task of blending narrative and dogma has
succeeded, but it took no less a writer than Cardinal Wiseman to
render _Fabiola_ interesting, and it required the pen of Father Newman
to write _Loss and Gain_. Narrative is better suited than controversy
to most of our lay writers. In every case the silent example of a
noble character is more potent for good than the most ingenious
arguments or most earnest exhortations. The book before us is not free
from the strictures we have passed on its numerous train of
companions. There is much improbability in the plot, and a decided
lack of naturalness in the characters. It is a mistake to elevate an
ordinary heroine to the highest plane of wisdom; she ceases to be
flesh and blood, and then our interest in her ceases likewise.
The tale is replete with the holiest examples for imitation and the
highest lessons in self sacrifice, devotion, and duty.
FRANK BLAKE. By Dillon O’Brien. St. Paul: Pioneer Press Co. 1876.
So long as works of fiction constitute an important department of
literature of which the supply is rarely in excess of the demand, it
is well for critics to insist that at least no morbid products of
fancy tinged with a vile pruriency be admitted to take rank under this
head. We are glad that the author of _Frank Blake_ has appreciated
this truth; for though he has worked up some delicate situations, he
has been a most strict observer of propriety and has tempered
sentiment with sense. _Frank Blake_ is an oft-told Irish story. The
incidents are not such as we meet in _Orlando Furioso_, but still such
as are calculated to enlist a sober interest. The plot is natural and
ripens with ease. For once the Irish peasant is represented as though
seven centuries of English misrule had at least enabled him to acquire
a decent knowledge of the language of his subjugator. But he is not by
any means Saxonized, as is made evident by his unmistakable Celtic wit
and adequacy to meet and make the best of sudden emergencies.
THE WISE NUN OF EASTONMERE, AND OTHER TALES. By Miss Taylor.
Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. 1876.
This unpretentious volume derives its chief attraction from the fact
that every line bears testimony to the modest estimate the writer has
formed of her powers. We will not vouch for the amount of instruction
to be derived from Miss Taylor’s little book, but there can be no
doubt that it is edifying, and in a wise, sober sense. Its simplicity
in style and construction makes up for the absence of more conspicuous
qualities.
“And few, of all, at once could make pretence
To royal robes and rustic innocence.”
Transcriber’s Note:
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Dialect, obsolete, alternative, and misspelled words were not
changed.
Obvious printing errors, such as duplicate words, backwards, upside
down, unprinted, or partially printed letters and punctuation, were
completed. Letters were added that had been dropped in typesetting
when a word was hyphenated and split between two lines. Final stops
missing at the end of sentences were added. Missing punctuation was
added or corrected at beginning and ends of sentences, lines of
poetry, and abbreviations.
The copyright line at the bottom of the first page of each monthly
volume was moved to follow the volume number and date. Footnotes were
numbered sequentially and moved to the end of the article in which
the related anchors occur.
The following were adjusted:
added anchor for Footnote [188]
added hyphens:
bare-headed, … waits bare-headed …
sister-in-law, … her sister-in-law, and other …
Fitz-James, … said Sir John Fitz-James in a low voice …
added close parenthesis, … (Ps. xc. 11, 12.[87]) …
changed accent marks:
Ou to Où, … Où allons nous …
Hyeres to Hyères, … wishing for news from Hyères …
caléche to calèche, … return in the calèche …
Châteaubriand to Chateaubriand, … in his mouth by Chateaubriand.
Noted, left unchanged: there is no decimal between dollars and
cents in price of books in New Publications sections.