CHAPTER XII.

"But how on earth did you get into my new Stocks?" asked the Squire,

scratching his head.

"My dear sir, Pliny the elder got into the crater of Mount Etna."

"Did he, and what for?"

"To try what it was like, I suppose," answered Riccabocca.

The Squire burst out a-laughing.

"And so you got into the Stocks to try what it was like. Well, I can't

wonder--it is a very handsome pair of Stocks," continued the Squire,

with a loving look at the object of his praise. "Nobody need be ashamed

of being seen in those Stocks--I should not mind it myself."

"We had better move on," said the Parson drily, "or we shall be having

the whole village here presently, gazing on the lord of the manor in

the same predicament as that from which we have just extricated the

Doctor. Now pray, what is the matter with Lenny Fairfield? I can't

understand a word of what has passed. You don't mean to say that good

Lenny Fairfield (who was absent from church by the bye) can have done

anything to get into disgrace?"

"Yes, he has though," cried the Squire. "Stirn, I say--Stirn." But

Stirn had forced his way through the hedge and vanished. Thus left to

his own powers of narrative at secondhand, Mr Hazeldean now told all

he had to communicate: the assault upon Randal Leslie, and the prompt

punishment inflicted by Stirn; his own indignation at the affront to

his young kinsman, and his good-natured merciful desire to save the

culprit from the addition of public humiliation.

The Parson, mollified towards the rude and hasty invention of the

beer-drinking, took the Squire by the hand. "Ah, Mr Hazeldean, forgive

me," he said repentantly; "I ought to have known at once that it was

only some ebullition of your heart that could stifle your sense of

decorum. But this is a sad story about Lenny, brawling and fighting on

the Sabbath-day. So unlike him, too--I don't know what to make of it."

"Like or unlike," said the Squire, "it has been a gross insult to young

Leslie; and looks all the worse because I and Audley are not just

the best friends in the world. I can't think what it is," continued

Mr Hazeldean, musingly, "but it seems that there must be always some

association of fighting connected with that prim half-brother of mine.

There was I, son of his own mother--who might have been shot through

the lungs, only the ball lodged in the shoulder--and now his wife's

kinsman--my kinsman, too--grandmother a Hazeldean--a hard-reading sober

lad, as I am given to understand, can't set his foot into the quietest

parish in the three kingdoms, but what the mildest boy that ever was

seen--makes a rush at him like a mad bull. It is FATALITY!" cried the

Squire solemnly.

"Ancient legend records similar instances of fatality in certain

houses," observed Riccabocca. "There was the House of Pelops--and

Polynices and Eteocles--the sons of OEdipus!"

"Pshaw," said the Parson; "but what's to be done?"

"Done?" said the Squire; "why, reparation must be made to young Leslie.

And though I wished to spare Lenny, the young ruffian, a public

disgrace--for your sake, Parson Dale, and Mrs Fairfield's;--yet a good

caning in private--"

"Stop, sir!" said Riccabocca mildly, "and hear me." The Italian then,

with much feeling and considerable tact, pleaded the cause of his poor

protégé, and explained how Lenny's error arose only from mistaken zeal

for the Squire's service, and in the execution of the orders received

from Mr Stirn.

"That alters the matter," said the Squire, softened; "and all that is

necessary now will be for him to make a proper apology to my kinsman."

"Yes, that is just," rejoined the Parson; "but I still don't learn how

he got out of the Stocks."

Riccabocca then resumed his tale; and, after confessing his own

principal share in Lenny's escape, drew a moving picture of the boy's

shame and honest mortification. "Let us march against Philip!" cried

the Athenians, when they heard Demosthenes--

"Let us go at once and comfort the child!" cried the Parson, before

Riccabocca could finish.

With that benevolent intention, all three quickened their pace, and

soon arrived at the widow's cottage. But Lenny had caught sight of

their approach through the window; and not doubting that, in spite of

Riccabocca's intercession, the Parson was come to upbraid, and the

Squire to re-imprison, he darted out by the back way, got amongst the

woods, and lay there _perdu_ all the evening. Nay, it was not till

after dark that his mother--who sate wringing her hands in the little

kitchen, and trying in vain to listen to the Parson and Mrs Dale, who

(after sending in search of the fugitive) had kindly come to console

the mother--heard a timid knock at the door and a nervous fumble at the

latch. She started up, opened the door, and Lenny sprang to her bosom,

and there buried his face, sobbing loud.

"No harm, my boy," said the Parson tenderly; "you have nothing to

fear--all is explained and forgiven."

Lenny looked up, and the veins on his forehead were much swollen.

"Sir," said he sturdily, "I don't want to be forgiven--I ain't done no

wrong. And--I've been disgraced--and I won't go to school, never no

more."

"Hush, Carry!" said the Parson to his wife, who, with the usual

liveliness of her little temper, was about to expostulate. "Good night,

Mrs Fairfield. I shall come and talk to you to-morrow, Lenny; by that

time you will think better of it."

The Parson then conducted his wife home, and went up to the Hall to

report Lenny's safe return; for the Squire was very uneasy about him,

and had even in person shared the search. As soon as he heard Lenny

was safe--"Well," said the Squire, "let him go the first thing in the

morning to Rood Hall, to ask Master Leslie's pardon, and all will be

right and smooth again."

"A young villain!" cried Frank, with his cheeks the colour of scarlet;

"to strike a gentleman and an Etonian, who had just been to call on

_me_! But I wonder Randal let him off so well--any other boy in the

sixth form would have killed him!"

"Frank," said the Parson sternly, "if we all had our deserts, what

should be done to him who not only lets the sun go down on his own

wrath, but strives with uncharitable breath to fan the dying embers of

another's?"

The clergyman here turned away from Frank, who bit his lip, and seemed

abashed--while even his mother said not a word in his exculpation; for

when the Parson did reprove in that stern tone, the majesty of the

Hall stood awed before the rebuke of the Church. Catching Riccabocca's

inquisitive eye, Mr Dale drew aside the philosopher, and whispered

to him his fears that it would be a very hard matter to induce Lenny

to beg Randal Leslie's pardon, and that the proud stomach of the

pattern-boy would not digest the Stocks with as much ease as a long

regimen of philosophy had enabled the sage to do. This conference Miss

Jemima soon interrupted by a direct appeal to the Doctor respecting the

number of years (even without any previous and more violent incident)

that the world could possibly withstand its own wear and tear.

"Ma'am," said the Doctor, reluctantly summoned away, to look at

a passage in some prophetic periodical upon that interesting

subject--"ma'am, it is very hard that you should make one remember

the end of the world, since, in conversing with you, one's natural

temptation is to forget its existence."

Miss Jemima blushed scarlet. Certainly that deceitful heartless

compliment justified all her contempt for the male sex; and yet--such

is human blindness--it went far to redeem all mankind in her credulous

and too confiding soul.

"He is about to propose," sighed Miss Jemima.

"Giacomo," said Riccabocca, as he drew on his nightcap, and stepped

majestically into the four-posted bed, "I think we shall get that boy

for the garden now!"

Thus each spurred his hobby, or drove her car, round the Hazeldean

whirligig.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] "_Entre tout, l'état d'une prison est le plus doux, et le plus

profitable!_"

[8] Munito was the name of a dog famous for his learning (a Porson of a

dog) at the date of my childhood. There are no such dogs now-a-days.

BIOGRAPHY.[9]

Although history and biography both relate to the affairs of men, and

are employed in the narrative of human events, they are governed by

opposite principles, and require, for their successful prosecution,

different powers and habits of thought. The main object of history is

the tracing out the growth of nations, the great events which lead to

their rise or fall, the causes operating on the social body, which at

one period conduct to power and greatness, at another induce weakness

and decay. Biography is concerned with individual life. Its aim is to

trace the annals, not of nations, but of persons; to portray, not the

working of general causes on the progress of empires, but the influence

of particular characters on their most interesting episodes. The former

requires habits of general thought, and the power of tracing one common

principle through a great variety of complicated details; the latter,

close attention to individual incidents, and a minute examination of

the secret springs of human conduct. The first is closely allied to

the generalisations of the philosopher; the latter requires the powers

of the dramatist. The two branches of composition, however, are nearly

allied, and frequently run into each other. History generally finds its

most interesting episodes, often its most important subjects, in the

narrative of individual greatness; biography is imperfect unless, in

addition to tracing the achievements of the individuals it records, it

explains their influence upon the society among whom they arose.

What we call the histories of antiquity were, for the most part,

only biographies, and they owe their principal interest to that

circumstance. The _Cyropædia_ of Xenophon is a philosophical romance,

clothed with the eloquence of an orator; the fragments which remain of

Sallust, the rhetorical narrative of Quintus Curtius, are the avowed

biographies of individual men. Even the regular histories of classical

times owe their chief charm to the simplicity of the subject, in

which one state or contest stands prominently forward, and the others

are thrown into a shade which only renders the more striking the

light thrown on one particular subject, or the efforts of individual

greatness. Herodotus has earned his deathless fame by the narrative

he has given of the great war between Persia and Greece, on which the

destinies of mankind depended; Thucydides by his profound exposition

of the strife of aristocracy and democracy in the contest between

Lacedæmon and Athens. The long narrative of Livy has survived the

floods of Time almost entirely from the charming episodes descriptive

of character or manners which he has introduced, and the dramatic

power with which he has narrated the exploits of individual men; and

what has given Tacitus immortality, is neither any luminous views on

the progress of mankind, nor any just appreciation of the causes of

greatness in particular states, but the depth to which he has fathomed

the real springs of action in particular men, and the terrible truth

with which he has unveiled that most appalling of all spectacles--a

naked human heart.

The great difficulty of history, as it must be written in modern

times, arises from the multitude and complication of the events

which have to be recorded. So intimately connected have the States

of Europe been since the rise of modern civilisation, that he who

writes the annals of one must write the history of all. The progress,

internal and external, of all its powers must be brought forward

abreast; and such is their number and importance, that not only is

the historian oppressed with the variety and complication of his

materials, but he finds it next to impossible to produce interest in

the reader amidst such a sea of details; and often fails, from the

impossibility of attaining that essential requisite in the rousing of

human sympathy--unity of emotion. Add to this the infinity of subjects

a historian even of an individual state must now embrace, and which

almost overwhelm the exploits of particular men by their multitude

and complication. Strategy, statistics, trade, navigation, commerce,

agriculture, taxation, finance, currency, paper credit, poor laws,

agriculture, socialism, chartism, form a few of the topics, any one

of which would require volumes for its elucidation, yet none of which

can be omitted without exposing the historian to the imputation, from

some one or other, of having overlooked the most important part of his

subject. So great is this difficulty, so extensive the embarrassment it

produces, that it may safely be pronounced to be insurmountable by any

effort, how great soever, unless the endeavours of the historian are

aided by unity of interest in the subject, or overpowering greatness

of influence in the characters with whom he has to deal. But it is,

perhaps, only in the wars of the Crusades, of the Succession in Spain,

and of the French Revolution, that such unity of interest is to be

looked for, or such surpassing grandeur of character is to be found,

from the achievements of a Richard Coeur-de-Lion, a Marlborough, or a

Napoleon.

From this great difficulty, biography is entirely free, and thence

the superior interest with which, when properly treated, works of

that description are attended. We are so constituted that we must

concentrate our interest; dispersion is fatal to its existence. Every

novelist and romance-writer knows this; there must always be a hero and

a heroine; but two or three heroes and heroines would prove fatal to

the interest. Ariosto tried to divide the interest of the reader among

the adventures of a dozen knights-errant; but even his genius proved

unequal to the task, and he was obliged to concentrate the whole around

the fabulous siege of Paris to restore the broken unity of his power.

The great and signal advantage of biography is, that, from its very

nature, it possesses that personal interest and individual character

which the epic poet and novelist feel to be essential to the moving of

the human heart, but which the historian so often finds himself unable

to attain, without omitting some important parts of his subject, or

giving undue prominence to the characters of individual men.

For this reason it is, that the most popular works which ever have been

written have been biographies of illustrious men. No one would think of

comparing the intellect of Plutarch to that of Tacitus, his eloquence

to that of Cicero's, yet he has made perhaps a greater impression on

the imagination of subsequent ages than either of these illustrious

men. If we examine the images of the mighty of former days which

are engraven on our minds, we shall find that it is not so much the

pictured pages of Livy or Quintus Curtius, as the "Lives of Plutarch,"

which have given them immortality. We complain of his gossip, we lament

his superstition, we smile at his credulity, but we devour his pages;

and, after the lapse of seventeen hundred years, they remain one of the

most generally popular works in existence. It is the same in modern

times. No one would think of comparing Boswell, in point of intellect,

to Johnson; in point of eloquence to Burke; in point of genius to

Gibbon; yet he has produced a work superior in general interest to any

of these illustrious men, and which is daily read by thousands, to whom

the "Reflections on the French Revolution," the moral essays of the

"Rambler," and the "History of the Decline and Fall," will for ever

remain unknown.

To render biography, however, thus generally attractive, it is

indispensable that its basis should be that first element in the

narration of human action--TRUTH. Without this, it wants the great

superiority of the narrative of real event over fictitious creations,

how interesting soever they may be--that of recording what has actually

occurred in real life. How important an element this is in awakening

the sympathies of the human heart, may be seen even in children who,

when particularly fascinated by any story they are told, invariably

end by asking, "But is it all true?" The value of truth, or rather of

what is "_vraisemblable_," is felt even in imaginary conceptions, which

it is well known are never so attractive, or interest so powerfully,

as when they most closely resemble the events and characters of actual

existence. The real is, and ever must be, the only sure foundation

of the ideal. Novels are most delightful when they approach nearest

to what we behold around us in real life, while yet containing

a sufficient blending of romance and sentiment, of heroism and

magnanimity, to satisfy the higher aspirations of our being. Biography

is most charming when it depicts with fidelity those characters,

and records with truth those events, which approach nearest to that

imaginary perfection to which every generous mind aspires, but to which

none ever has attained, or ever will.

It has been said with truth, that the events which are suitable for

epic poetry are such as are "probable but yet elevating." We are so

constituted by our bonds to earth, that our chief interest must ever be

derived from the virtues or the vices, the joys or sorrows, of beings

like ourselves; but we are so filled with more ennobling thoughts and

aspirations, by our destiny in Heaven, that we can be satisfied only

by what points to a higher state of existence, and feel the greatest

enjoyment by being elevated, either by the conceptions of fancy or

the records of reality, to a nearer view of its perfection. If novels

depict merely imaginary existences, they may charm for a season, like

the knights of Ariosto, or the heroes of Metastasio; but they are too

much in the clouds permanently to interest sublunary mortals. If they

record merely the adventures of low, or the vulgarity of middle life,

they may amuse for a season, like the characters of Smollett; but they

will sink ere long, from the want of that indispensable lifeboat in

the sea of time, an elevating tendency. It is characters like those

of the _Iliad_, of Shakspeare, of Scott, and Schiller, which combine

the well-known and oft-observed characteristics of human nature with

the oft-imagined but seldom seen traits of heroism and magnanimity

which border on the realms of the ideal that for ever fascinate the

imagination, and dwell in the heart of man. The reason is, they contain

enough of reality to tell us it is of humanity that the story is told,

and enough of the ideal to make us proud of our connection with it.

The great and chief charm of biography is to be found in this, that

it unites, from its very nature and object, those two indispensable

requisites to durable popularity in works of fiction, and combines

them with the value and the solid information of truthful narrative.

It possesses the value of history, without its tedium--the interest

of romance, without its unsubstantiality. It culls the flowers from

the records of time, and casts into the shade all the accompanying

weeds and briars. If a judicious and discriminating selection of

characters were made--if those persons were selected for the narrative

who have been most illustrious by their virtues, their genius, or

their magnanimity, or, as a contrast, by their vices, and who have

made the greatest and most durable impression on human affairs, a work

might be produced exceeding any one of history in its utility, any

of romance in its popularity. David Hume strongly advised Robertson,

eighty years ago, instead of writing the _Life of Charles the Fifth_,

to write a series of biographies, on the plan of Plutarch, for modern

times; and it is, perhaps, to be regretted that the advice was not

followed. Yet were the abilities of the Scotch Principal, great as they

were, not such as peculiarly fitted him for the task. His mind was too

philosophical and discursive to give it its chief interest. He wanted

the dramatic turn, the ardent soul, the graphic power, the magnanimous

disposition, which was essential to its successful accomplishment. A

work in three thousand pages, or six volumes, recording the lives of

fifty of the greatest and most illustrious men in Europe, from the days

of Alfred to those of Napoleon, executed in the right spirit, and by a

man of adequate genius, would be the most popular and elevating book

that ever appeared in Modern Europe. Many such have been attempted, but

never with any success, because they were not set about by the proper

minds. To do justice to such an undertaking would require a combination

of opposite qualities rarely to be met with in real life.

As biography deals with individual characters, and is relieved from

the extended and perplexing subjects which overwhelm the general

historian, it admits, in return, of an expansion into many topics

which, although often in the highest degree amusing, and sometimes not

a little interesting, would yet be felt to be misplaced in the annals

of the great changes of nations or of the world. As the delineation

of character is its avowed object, and the events of individual

life its principal subject, it not only admits of but requires a

thousand incidents and descriptions, which are essential to a right

understanding of those characters, and form, as it were, the still

life of the picture in which their features are to be portrayed.

Such descriptions are not unsuitable to general history. Mr Macaulay

has shown in his History that his observations on that head in the

_Edinburgh Review_ were founded on a just appreciation of the object

and limits of his art. But they must be sparingly introduced, or they

will become tedious and unprofitable: if any one doubts this, let him

_try_ to read Von Hammer's _History of the Ottoman Empire_, one-half

of which is taken up with descriptions of dresses, receptions, and

processions. But in biography we readily give admission to--nay,

we positively require--such details. If they are not the jewels of

history, they are the setting which adds to their lustre. They fill up

our conception of past events; they enable us to clothe the characters

in which we are interested in the actual habiliments in which they were

arrayed; they bring before our eyes the dwellings, the habits, the mode

of life, the travelling, the occupations of distant ages, and often

give more life and reality to the creatures of our imaginations than

could have been attained by the most laboured general descriptions, or

the most emphatic assertions of the author.

For this reason, as well as on account of the known influence of

individual character, rather than abstract principle, on the fair sex,

there is no branch of historical composition so suitable for woman

as biography; and Miss Strickland has shown us that there is none

which female genius can cultivate with greater success. The general

bent of the female mind, impressed upon it for the wisest purposes by

its Creator, is to be influenced in its opinions, and swayed in its

conduct, by individual men, rather than general ideas. When Milton said

of our first parents--

"Not equal, as their sex not equal seemed:

For valour he and contemplation formed;

For beauty she, and sweet attractive grace;

_He for God only, she for God in him_;"

He foreshadowed man as the appropriate historian of the general march

of human events--woman, as the best delineator of individual character,

the most fascinating writer of biography. The most gifted of her sex

is a proof of this; for if a few men have exceeded Madame de Stael in

the broad view she takes of human affairs, none have equalled her in

the delineation of the deepest feelings and most lasting passions of

the human heart. As it is the nature of woman's disposition to form an

idol, (and it is for that very reason that she proves so attractive to

that of man,) so, when she comes to composition, we rejoice to see her

form idols of her heroes, provided only that the limits of truth are

observed in their delineation, and that her enthusiasm is evinced in

depicting the real, not in colouring the imaginary.

As graphic and scenic details are so valuable in biography, and

give such life and animation to the picture which it exhibits, so

we willingly accept from a female biographer, whether of her own or

others' life, details which we could not tolerate in the other sex.

When the Duchess of Abrantes, writing after the fall of Charles X.,

recounts in her charming memoirs the enchanting _Schall de Cachemire_,

which excited her envy on the shoulders of Josephine--or tells us that

at a certain ball in Paris, in 1797, she wore her blue satin dress

and pearl ornaments, and at another, her pink silk, and diamonds, we

perhaps smile at the simplicity which made her recount such things

of herself; but still we gratefully accept them as characteristic

of the costume or manners of the time. But we would never tolerate a

male biographer of Murat, who should tell us that at a certain ball

at Naples he wore his scarlet trowsers and black furred jacket, and

on his coronation looked irresistible in his blue and silver uniform

and splendid spare jacket;--not even though we know that in Russia he

often returned to his lines with his sabre dripping wet with the blood

of the Cossacks whom he had challenged and slain in single combat,

and although the experience of all ages has confirmed the truth of

Philopoemen's observation, that "to soldiers and women, dress is a

matter of no small consequence."

Though details of this description, however, are valuable and

admissible in biography, and come with peculiar propriety and grace

from a female hand, it must be observed, on the other hand, that there

is a limit, and a very obvious one, to the introduction of them, and

that, if not inserted with caution, they may essentially injure the

popularity or utility of a work. In particular, it is seldom safe

to carry to any considerable length in the text the introduction of

quotations from old histories or chronicles of the period, which

often are filled with them to the exclusion of all other subjects. We

know that such original documents have a great charm in the eyes of

antiquarians or antiquarian biographers, the more especially if they

have brought them to light themselves; but such persons learned in

ancient lore constitute but a small fraction of the human race. The

great body of readers, at least nineteen out of twenty, care nothing

at all for such original authorities, but wish to see their import

condensed into a flowing easy narrative in the author's own words. For

this reason it is generally safest to give such original documents

or quotations in notes or an appendix, and to confine quotations in

the text to characteristic expressions, or original words spoken on

very important occasions. Barante and Sismondi in France, Tytler in

Scotland, and Lingard in England, have essentially injured the general

popularity of their great and learned works, by not attending to this

rule. The two Thierrys have chiefly won theirs by attending to it.

The great popularity and widely extended sale of Miss Strickland's

_Queens of England_, almost equalling, we believe, that of any living

author in this country, and much exceeding that of any prior writer,

whether of her own or the other sex, in the same period in biography,

is a proof both of the intrinsic excellence of that work, and the

thirst which exists in the public mind for works of that description.

We have long been of opinion that the narrative of human events

might be rendered as popular in the outset, and far more and durably

interesting in the end, than any works of fiction; and that the only

reason why this has so seldom taken place, was because historical works

were in general constructed on wrong principles. The great success

which has recently attended historical composition in this country,

especially in the case of Mr Macaulay's History and Miss Strickland's

Lives, is a proof that this view of the subject is well founded. And of

the two, biography, when supported by learning, and handled by genius

such as both these learned writers possess, is much more likely to be

generally popular than extended history, because it partakes more of

the character of Romance, and possesses in a higher degree that _unity_

of interest which is the most essential element in all arts which aim

at pleasing or fascinating mankind.

Scotland is a country peculiarly fortunate in the characters it

presents for biographical genius. This arises from its physical

weakness when compared to the strength of its formidable neighbour,

and the resources which it has ever found in the persevering and

indomitable character of its inhabitants. The former in every age

of the wars with England has made its plains the seat of conflict;

while the latter has always secured their success in the end, though

often after fearful reverses, and always against tremendous odds. The

proof of this is decisive. Scotland, after three centuries of almost

incessant conflict, first with the arms, and then, more formidable

still, with the gold of England, was still unsubdued when her monarchs

ascended the English throne, and the rivalry of two noble nations was

turned into the blissful emulation of peace. It is this combination

of circumstances which has caused her history to be so prolific of

incident, and has rendered, as strangers so often have remarked, every

step in her surface historical. Her physical weakness filled it with

incident--her moral strength with heroic incident. Go where you will,

you meet with some traces of the great or the beautiful, the gifted

or the fascinating, of former days. The ancient walls and castellated

rocks of Edinburgh teem with historical recollections of the highest

interest, which the kindred spirit of modern chivalry has done so much

to illustrate.[10] In the short space of twenty miles--between Falkirk

and Stirling--are four battlefields,[11] on each of which the fate

of Britain was determined, or armies as numerous as those which met

at Waterloo encountered each other. Lochleven exhibits the mournful

prison of beauty: Niddry Castle, of her evanescent joys; the field of

Langside, of her final overthrow. Cartlan Crags still show the cave of

Wallace; Turnberry Castle the scene of Bruce's first victory; Culloden,

the last battle-field of generous fidelity. Every step in Scotland is

historical: the shades of the dead arise on every side: the very rocks

breathe--

"Yet, Albyn, yet the praise be thine,

Thy scenes and story to combine!

Thou bid'st him who by Roslin strays,

List to the tale of other days;

Midst Cartlan Crags thou show'st the cave,

The refuge of the champion brave;

Giving each rock its storied tale,

Pouring a lay for every dale,

Knitting, as with a moral band,

Thy native legends with thy land,

To give each scene the interest high,

Which Genius lends to Beauty's eye."

Miss Strickland's talents as a writer, and turn of mind as an

individual, in a peculiar manner fit her for painting a historical

gallery of the most illustrious or dignified female characters in that

land of chivalry and of song. Her disposition is at once heroic and

pictorial. She has the spirit of chivalry in her soul, and the colours

of painting in her eye. She sympathises with all the daring spirit, the

bold adventure, the chivalrous devotion, of the cavaliers of former

days; and she depicts with not less animation and force the stately

scenes of departed times--the dignified processions, the splendid

ceremonials, the imposing pageants. She has vast powers of application,

and her research is unbounded; but these qualities, so necessary as the

foundation of a historian's fame, are in her united with the powers

of painting and the soul of poetry, and dignified by the elevated

objects to which they are directed. The incidents of individual life

are of peculiar importance in Scottish annals, because, with the

exception of two periods--the war of independence under Wallace and

Bruce, and the national struggle for emancipation from Popish tyranny

at the Reformation--there have seldom been what we now call _popular_

movements in Scotland. Everything, or next to everything, depended

on individual character; the great game of the world was played by

kings and queens, nobles and knights. On this great theatre the queens

played, as they do everywhere, a most important part. The instruction

of man in childhood, the object of his adoration in youth, of lasting

influence in manhood, woman has, in modern Europe where her destiny was

first fully developed, exercised an important sway, and more so than is

generally supposed on national affairs. But nowhere has this influence

been more strongly felt than in Scotland, where queens have appeared,

whose beauty and misfortunes have become immortal in story, and been

for ever engraven on the human heart by the hand of genius, and where

the chivalrous and daring disposition of the country, the _perfervidum

Scotorum ingenium_, at once penetrated some with the most devout

adoration of their charms, and inspired others with the most vehement

jealousy of their ascendency.

In her delineation of individual character, Miss Strickland evidently

takes the greatest pains to be impartial; and the multitude of new

documents and facts which she has brought on both sides of the

question in regard to her heroines, is a sufficient proof that this

most laudable principle is a ruling one in her mind. But she would

be something more or something less than mortal, if no trace of

predilection was to be found in her pages. It is rather, however, in

regard to families than individuals that this leaning is apparent.

She is evidently inimical to the Tudor and friendly to the Stuart

race. In this she only shares the feelings of the chivalrous and the

enthusiastic of every age and country; for the leading qualities of

the one were as calculated, on a retrospect, to inspire aversion as

those of the other were to awaken sympathy. The first was selfish,

overbearing, cruel, but often exceedingly able: the latter generous,

unsuspecting, heroic, but sometimes sadly imprudent. Success at

the time crowned the worldly wisdom of the one, and disaster,

long-continued and crushing, at length punished the unhappy want of

foresight of the other. But the results of the time are not always

indicative of the opinion of futurity: and already the verdict of

mankind has been secured in regard to the rival Queens who brought

their fortunes into collision, by two pleaders of surpassing power in

swaying the human heart. Scotland may be proud that one of these was

found in the most gifted of her sons, whose genius has, in one of his

most perfect historical novels, immortalised the prison of Lochleven

and the field of Langside; and Germany may well exult in the reflection

that the other appeared in that matchless genius who three centuries

after her death imbibed, on the banks of the Saale, the very soul and

spirit of the age of Mary in England, and has for ever engraven her

heroic death, and the imperishable scenes of Fotheringay, on the hearts

of men.[12]

Miss Strickland's partiality for the Stuart and aversion to the

Tudor race, may be explained by another and still more honourable

circumstance. It is the inevitable effect of a long course of

injustice, whether in the rulers of men, or the judges of those rulers,

the annalists of their lives, to produce in the end a reaction in

the general mind. This is more particularly the case in persons like

Miss Strickland, actuated by generous and elevated feelings, and who

feel conscious of power to redress much of the injustice which the

long-continued ascendency of a particular party, whether in religion

or politics, has inflicted on the characters of History. Nowhere has

this injustice been more strongly experienced than in Great Britain

during the last two centuries. The popular party in politics, and

the reformed in religion, having in both these countries, after a

sanguinary struggle, been successful, and a family seated on the throne

which embodied, and in a manner personified, both these triumphs,

nearly the whole historians who treated of the period for a century and

a half were entirely one-sided. When Hume wrote his immortal history,

he complained, with justice, that for seventy years power, reward, and

emolument had been confined to one party in the state, and that the

sources of History had in consequence been irremediably corrupted. His

rhetorical powers and impartial spirit did much to remedy the evil, but

he had not industry and research sufficient to do the whole. Much was

left to the just feelings, and generous because disinterested effort,

of the high-minded who succeeded him in the path of historical inquiry.

Mr Tytler's great and authentic _History of Scotland_, and Lingard's

able and valuable, though one-sided, _History of England_, have gone

far to give the opposite side of the picture which Malcolm Laing

and Burnet had painted in so vehement a party spirit, and Macaulay

has since continued with such remarkable historical power. But much

remained yet to be done. Antiquarian industry, chivalrous zeal, have of

late brought many of the concealed or suppressed treasures of History

to light; and it is those which Miss Strickland proposes to embody in

her _Queens of Scotland_.

Of the general plan which she proposes to adopt in this work, our

author gives the following admirable account:--

"As long as Scotland, in consequence of bad roads and tedious

travelling, remained a sort of _terra incognita_, vulgar

prejudice prevailed among the ignorant and narrow-minded

portion of society in England; but Scotland only required to be

seen to be appreciated. Strong in native talent, rich in native

worth, valiant, persevering, and wise, her sons have been ever

foremost in the field of honourable enterprise, whether in

deeds of arms, science, jurisprudence, or the industrial arts

of peaceful life. In poetry, music, and song, she has certainly

never been surpassed. It was, however, reserved for the genius

of Sir Walter Scott to draw English hearts and English gold to

Scotland, and to knit those bonds of brotherly regard which no

act of legislature could do. His graphic pictures of Scotland

and the Scotch acted like a spell of enchantment on the

imaginations of the English. Those who were able to indulge the

enthusiastic feelings which his writings had excited, crossed

the Border, rushed into Highland glens, scaled Highland hills,

congregated at Scotch hostelries, peeped into Scotch cottages,

were invited to partake of Scotch hospitality--and found

themselves in a land flowing with milk and honey, not merely

in its festive character, but in its kindliness to strangers,

which is the glory of all lands.

"Yet among the numerous visitors whom the sight-seeing

instincts of this age of locomotion have rendered familiar

with the ancient seats of Scottish regality, how few know

anything about the Queens who once held their courts within

the now deserted walls of Dunfermline, Falkland, Linlithgow,

and Stirling!--gems which, even in their desolation, are

surviving monuments of the graceful tastes of their founders,

and incline the musing antiquary, who realises in fancy for a

moment their pristine glory, to smite his breast and exclaim

'Ichabod!' With the exception of Windsor Castle, England has

certainly no vestige of palatial architecture which may compare

with the royal homes of Scotland, of whose former tenants a few

particulars may be no less acceptable to the sons and daughters

of the land, than to the southern stranger who visits them.

"The Maiden Castle, sitting enthroned on her dun rock, the

Acropolis of Edinburgh, at once a relic and a witness of

the immutable Past, is full of memories of eventful scenes

connected with Queens whose hearts would have leaped with

exultation could their eyes have looked on such a vision of

national prosperity as the bright New Town, with its gay

streets, and shops full of costly merchandise; its spacious

squares, crescents, and noble public buildings, rising on

the outer _ballium_ of that grim fortress whose base is now

surrounded by green flowery gardens, for the joyance of a

peace-loving generation. Mons Meg and her brethren have lost

their vocation through the amended temper of the times, and

hold sinecure posts in silence--their destructive thunders

being superseded by the din of the railway trains bringing

hourly freights of wealth and wisdom to the good town of

Edinburgh and its inhabitants.

* * * * *

"Many original royal letters will be embodied in these volumes,

with facts and anecdotes carefully verified. Local traditions,

not unworthy of attention, have been gathered in the desolate

palaces and historic sites where every peasant is an oral

chronicler, full of spirit-stirring recollections of the past.

These are occasionally connected with themes which were the

fountains whence Sir Walter Scott drew his inspiration for

the chivalric poetry and romance which has rendered Scotland

classic ground. The tastes of those who were the rising

generation, when the Waverley romances were the absorbing

theme of interest in the literary world, have become matured.

They require to have history rendered as agreeable without

the mixture of fiction as with it; they desire to have it so

written, without sacrificing truth to fastidiousness, that they

may read it with their children, and that the whole family

party shall be eager to resume the book when they gather round

the work-table during the long winter evenings.

"Authors who feel as they ought to feel, should rejoice in

seeing their productions capable of imparting pleasure to the

simple as well as the refined; for a book which pleases only

one grade of society may be fashionable, but cannot be called

popular. That which interests peasants as well as peers, and is

read with equal zest by children and parents, and is often seen

in the hands of the operative classes, speaks to the heart in a

language intelligible to a widely-extended circle of humanity,

has written its own review, and needs no other."

In the last lines of these admirable observations, we doubt not Miss

Strickland has, without intending it, foreshadowed the destiny of her

own undertaking.

The work begins with the Life of Margaret Tudor, daughter of Henry VII.

of England, and married at the early age of fourteen to James IV., the

heroic and brilliant King of Scotland. This choice, in many respects,

was fortunate, as it commences with the period when the fortunes of the

two kingdoms became closely interlaced, and with the princess whose

marriage with James was the immediate cause of the union of the two

crowns on the same head, and the placing of the Stuart, and through it

of the Hanoverian family, on the British throne.

The first chapter is occupied with the details of the journey of

the royal bride from London to Edinburgh, which was somewhat a more

tedious and fatiguing undertaking than it is now when performed by her

descendant Queen Victoria, for it took above _three weeks_ to perform.

The reception of the youthful princess at York, Newcastle, and Durham,

where she was met and attended by the whole nobility and gentry of the

northern counties, who accompanied her on her progress northward on

horseback, gives occasion for several faithful and animated pictures.

Her first day's journey in Scotland, however, brought her into ruder

scenery, characteristic of the stormy life which lay before her; and

she rested the first night at _Fastcastle_, then a stronghold of the

Home family, now belonging to Sir John Hall of Dunglass, which modern

genius, under a feigned name, has done so much to celebrate.

"Fastcastle is no other than the veritable Wolf-Crag Tower,

celebrated in Scott's _Bride of Lammermoor_ as the abode of the

Master of Ravenswood. It is seated on a lofty promontory, which

commands the lonely indented bay of which St Abb's Head forms

the extreme point to the right, with a wild array of rifted

rocks terminating in the Wolf-Crag, which soars high in mid air

above the fortress--black, gloomy, and inaccessible. The way by

which the southern bride and her company reached this rugged

resting-place lay across the Lammermuir, several miles of wild

heath and treacherous bog, which no stranger might traverse in

safety without guides well acquainted with the track. Before

they entered on this pass, they had to descend a hill which was

so steep and precipitous that, even within the last century,

it was customary for the passengers by the mail-coach between

Berwick and Edinburgh to alight and cross it on foot, while

the carriage was taken off the wheels and carried over by a

relay of men, stationed on the spot for that purpose. Of course

the roads were not better in the beginning of the sixteenth

century. Fastcastle is approached by one or two descents and

ascents of this kind, and is separated from the mainland by a

cleft between the rocks, which has to be crossed by a natural

bridge formed of a ledge of rock, without rail or guard, with

the vexed billows boiling and thundering sixty feet below.

"When the young Tudor Queen made her passage across this Al

Arat of the Caledonian coast, she had the German Ocean before

her, which beats against the rocky battlements and defences

with which the basement of the castle is surrounded. One of

these masses resembles the upturned keel of a huge man-of-war

stranded among other fragments, which, like the relics of a

former world, lay scattered at the foot of the precipice, with

the wild breakers rushing through their clefts, forming a grand

_jet-d'eau_, and tossing the light feathery foam on high. The

larger rocks are the haunt of innumerable sea-birds. Fastcastle

had formerly been the stronghold of some of those ferocious

feudal pirates who may be regarded as the buccaneers of the

Caledonian coast. Many a bloody deed had been perpetrated

within its isolated and inaccessible circuit; but the festive

solemnities and ceremonials that surrounded the royal bride

allowed no leisure or opportunity for whispers of the dark

tales and romantic traditions connected with its history."

Hitherto the Tudor princess had not seen her royal lover. Their

first interview, and his personal appearance, are described in these

characteristic lines:--

"James entered the presence of Margaret Tudor with his

hawking-lure flung over his shoulder, dressed simply in a

velvet jacket; his hair and beard, curling naturally, were

rather long, his complexion glowing from the manly exercise he

had just been engaged in. He was the handsomest sovereign in

Europe, the black eyes and hair of his elegant father, James

III., being softened in his resemblance to the blonde beauty

of his Danish mother. Sir Walter Scott has drawn James IV.'s

portrait _con amore_, and has not exaggerated the likeness--

'For hazel was his eagle eye,

And auburn of the darkest dye

His short curled beard and hair.

Light was his footstep in the dance,

And firm his stirrup in the lists,

And oh, he had that merry glance

Which seldom lady's heart resists.'"

The young Queen met her royal lord at the doorway of her great

chamber. The King of Scotland uncovered his head and made a

deep obeisance to her, while she made a lowly reverence to

him. He then took her hand and kissed her, and saluted all her

ladies by kissing them. It was noticed that he welcomed the

chivalric Earl of Surrey with especial cordiality.

"Then the King of Scotland took the Queen on one side, and they

communed together for a long space. She _held good manner_,

[was unembarrassed;] and the King remained bare-headed during

the time they conversed, and many courtesies passed between

them. _Incontinent_ [immediately] the board was set and served.

The King and Queen washed their hands with humble reverence,

and after that set them down at table together."

The entry of the royal pair into Edinburgh is thus described; and it

seems to have been attended with one remarkable and characteristic

circumstance, for she _rode behind her destined husband on the same

horse_:--

"Half way to Edinburgh, James IV. was seen advancing with his

company. He was this time attired in grand costume. 'His steed

was trapped with gold, and round its neck was a deep gold

fringe; the saddle and harness were of gold, but the bridle and

head-gear of burnished silver. The King wore a jacket of cloth

of gold, lined and bordered with violet velvet and fine black

_bouge_ or _budge_ fur; his waistcoat was of violet satin, his

_hoses_ of scarlet, his shirt confined with bands of pearl and

rich stones; his spurs were long and gilt. He rode towards the

Queen in full course, at the pace at which the hare is hunted.

On seeing her, he made very humble obeisance, and, leaping

down from his horse, he came and kissed her in her litter.

Then mounting in his usual gallant fashion, without touching

stirrup, a gentleman-usher unsheathed the sword of state, and

bore it before his King in regal fashion. The Scottish sword

was enclosed in a scabbard of purple velvet, whereon was

written, in letters of pearl, _God my defende_. The like words

are on the pommel, the cross, and the _chap_ also. The Earl of

Bothwell bore this sword when the royal party reached Edinburgh

town.'

"The King placed himself by the Queen's litter, and passed all

the time conversing with her and entertaining her, as he rode

by her side.

"'Before they entered Edinburgh, one of the King's gentlemen

brought out a fair courser, trapped in cloth of gold, with

crimson velvet, interlaced with white and red: the King went

to the horse, mounted him without touching the stirrup in the

presence of the whole company, then tried his paces--choosing

to judge himself whether it were safe for his bride to ride on

a pillion behind him, which was the mode in which he intended

to enter the city.' Likewise he caused one of his gentlemen

to mount behind him, as a lady would ride, to see whether the

proud courser would submit to bear double or not.

"When he had concluded all his experiments, he decided that

it was not proper to trust the safety of his bride to his

favourite charger; 'so King James dismounted from him, and

condescended to ride on the Queen's gentle palfrey. He mounted,

and the Queen was placed on a pillion behind him.'"

The real tragedy and most interesting period of Margaret Tudor's life,

is that which preceded and followed the fatal expedition to Flodden, to

which the genius of Mr Aytoun has lately added such additional interest

in his exquisite ballads. Miss Strickland has also been strongly moved

by the same catastrophe.--

"There are traditions still current in the neighbourhood of the

beautiful palatial ruin of Linlithgow relative to her parting

with James IV.

"Near the King's bed-chamber, and a beautiful little apartment

overlooking the lake, supposed to be his dressing-room, is

a turnpike stair, at the corner of the east side of the

quadrangle erected by James IV. This leads to a lofty turret or

mirador, called by popular tradition 'Queen Margaret's Bower.'

It is surrounded by a stone bench or divan, and had once a

small stone table in the centre. Here the Queen spent in tears

the live-long summer's day on which her husband left her to

march against England. Here, too, she is said to have passed

'the weary night of Flodden fight,' expecting news of the

engagement, which came at last, but too soon.

"The fatal field of Flodden not only made Queen Margaret a

widow, but rendered Scotland desolate and almost desperate.

All the hope that remained to the people of averting the fury

of Henry VIII., and the cruelty of his successful general,

centred solely in the Queen--being founded on the near

relationship of herself and their infant King to the southern

sovereign."

* * * * *

"The Queen convened such of the nobility as survived the red

field of Flodden to meet the clergy at Perth immediately. So

prompt were all their proceedings, that the young King was

crowned at Scone, near that city, within twenty days of his

father's death. It was called the Mourning Coronation; for the

ancient crown of Scotland being held over on the baby-brow of

the royal infant, most of the witnesses and assistants of the

ceremony burst into an 'infectious passion' of sobs and tears.

They wept not only their own recent losses on the battle-field,

but their late monarch, 'who was,' as Buchanan says, albeit no

commender of kings, 'dear to all men while living, and mightily

lamented by his people at his death.'

"When the first agony of grief was abated at the loss of the

King and the terrible slaughter of the best of the nobility

and gentry who fought in the serried phalanx of spears

about his person, the discovery was made by the Scottish

people that no other injury was like to accrue from Flodden

fight. It was, to all intents and purposes, one of those bad

expenditures of human life called a drawn battle. Had it taken

place on Scottish ground, it would have been reckoned another

Bannockburn: the English must have retreated, (for they did

so on their own ground,) and the Scots would have retained

possession of the field. As it was, the English had the moral

advantages of being an invaded people; and, as such, their

success in making a great slaughter of those who were arrayed

in battle on their soil, redounded more to their true glory

than is the case in most great victories. But they did not

purchase it easily. Stark and stiff as James IV. lay under

heaps of slain, he kept possession of that well-stricken field.

The despatch of Lord Dacre clearly proves that when the English

left the field at nightfall, they were ignorant to whom the

victory belonged. Then the Homes and other Border chieftains

plundered the dead at their leisure; their countrymen strongly

suspected that they slew their King, and turned the scale of

victory against their countrymen. There is the more probability

in this supposition when it is remembered how inflexibly James

IV. had maintained justice on his Borders--therefore he had

honestly won the enmity of those rapacious septs.

"Lord Dacre made an excursion of observation, with a party

of cavalry, in the morning after the battle of Flodden,

to ascertain who possessed the field; he saw the King of

Scotland's formidable train of brass cannon dominant over the

scene, but mute and motionless; the artillerymen gone; the

Scottish cannon and the silent dead were solely in possession

of the battle-ground. The thickest heaps cumbered it on the

spot where the royal James and his phalanx had fought; the

breathless warriors lay just as death had left them, for the

marauding Borderers had not dared to pursue their occupation of

stripping and plundering in the full light of day."

Queen Margaret, however, did not remain long inconsolable; she had too

much of the disposition of her brother Henry VIII. in her to remain

long without a husband; and she fixed her eyes on a handsome youth,

the Earl of Angus, whom she soon afterwards married, to the no small

annoyance of her brother and his subjects. Her marriage with him gave

occasion to the following pleasing verses by Gawin Douglas, the uncle

of the nobleman thus honoured by the smiles of royalty:--

"Amidst them, borne within a golden chair,

O'er-fret with pearls and colours most preclair,

That drawen was by hackneys all milk-white,

Was set a queen as lily sweetly fair,

In purple robe hemmed with gold ilk-where;

With gemmed clasps closed in all perfite,

A diadem most pleasantly polite,

Sate on the tresses of her golden hair,

And in her hand a sceptre of delight.

So next her rode in granate-violet,

Twelve damsels, ilka ane on their estate,

Which seemed of her counsel most secrete;

And next them was a lusty rout, God wot!

Lords, ladies, and full mony a fair prelate,

Both born of low estate and high degree,

Forth with their queen they all by-passed me,

At easy pace--they riding forth the gate,

And I abode alone within the tree."

Margaret's life, after her second marriage, was a series of adventures

and disasters partly occasioned by the turbulent spirit and endless

disorders of the times, partly by her own passions. She was a true

Tudor in her disposition. Like her brother, "she spared no man in

her lust, and no woman in her hate." When she died, at the age of

forty-eight, she had already married four husbands, of whom _three

were still alive_. She divorced, not beheaded, when she was tired of

her lovers: in that respect she was better than Henry. By the second

of these husbands she had a daughter, named Margaret, whose birth took

place in the following circumstances, characteristic alike of the age

and country:--

"The welcome message of Dacre arrived at Coldstream almost

in the last minute that Queen Margaret could be moved. So

desperately ill was she taken on the road, that her convoy

were forced to stop by the way, and hurry her into Harbottle

or Hardbattle Castle, one of the grimmest and gauntest

stone-donjons that frowned on the English frontier. It was just

then garrisoned by Lord Dacre in person, who had commenced

the fierce war on the Borders to which the arrival of the

Duke of Albany in Scotland had given rise. The portcullis of

Harbottle was raised to admit the fainting Queen of Scotland;

but not one Scot, man or woman, Lord Dacre vowed, should enter

with her. Here was a terrible situation for Margaret. She was

received into the rugged Border-fortress, October 5, and, after

remaining in mortal agony for more than forty-eight hours, gave

birth to a daughter, the Lady Margaret Douglas, whose name is

familiar to every one on the pages of general history, as the

immediate ancestress of our present royal family."

The death of Margaret Tudor suggests the following reflections to our

author, the justice and beauty of which makes us regret that she does

not more frequently speak in her own person, instead of the quaint

style of ancient annalists.

"Some of Margaret Tudor's mistakes in government, it is

possible, may be attributed to the fact that she is the first

instance that occurs, since Christianity was established in

the island, of regnant power being confided to the hands of a

woman who was expected to reign as _femme seule_. She had no

education, scarcely any religion, and was guided entirely by

her instincts, which were not of an elevated character. Her

misdeeds, and the misfortunes attributable to her personal

conduct, gave rise to most of the terrible calamities which

befell her descendants. Some persons among the aristocracy of

Scotland followed her evil example of divorce, which caused

long and angry litigation concerning the birthrights of their

descendants. The fearful feud between the houses of Arran and

Darnley-Stuart was of this kind, which deeply involved the

prosperity of her granddaughter, Mary Queen of Scots. And that

hapless Princess was likewise marked as a victim by the cold

and crafty Ruthven, on account of his family interests being

affected by Queen Margaret's marriages and divorces.

"A succession of tragedies, for three generations, was the

consequence of Margaret Tudor's indulgence of her selfish

passions. Nor are the woes attendant on contempt of the divine

institution of marriage limited to the great ones of the earth.

Many a domestic tragedy, though shrouded in the obscurity of

every-day life, may be traced to the same cause. Sorrow enters

with sin; it desolates the peace of home; and unoffending

children suffer for the evil of their parents, whenever persons

are found to break, either by wilful passions or litigious

contest, the earliest law given by the Almighty."

The second Life in the volume is that of Magdalene of Valois, the

beautiful first Queen of James V., the brevity of whose reign of

_forty_ days in Scotland was the subject of such lamentation to the

country. James went to Paris, in the true spirit of chivalry, to choose

and win a Queen in person; and after a rapid and somewhat discreditable

homage to Mary of Vendôme, on the banks of the Loire, his inconstant

affections were at length fixed by Magdalene daughter of Francis

I., whom he soon after married, and who became his much loved but

short-lived Queen. Their entrance into Scotland is thus described:--

"The royal voyagers made the port of Leith, Saturday, May 19,

being the fifth day from their embarkation, and Whitsuneve.

They landed at the pier amidst the acclamations of a mixed

multitude of loving lieges of all degrees, who came to welcome

their sovereign home, and to see their new Queen. Magdalene

endeared herself for ever to the affections of the people

by the sensibility she manifested on that occasion; for

when 'she first stepped on Scottish ground, she knelt, and,

bowing herself down, kissed the moulds thereof for the love

she bore the King, returned thanks to God for having brought

the King and her safely through the seas, and prayed for the

happiness of the country.' This was indeed entering upon her

high vocation, not like the cold state puppet of a public

pageant, but in the spirit of a queen who felt and understood

the relation in which she stood both to the King and people

of that realm. A touching sight it must have been to those

who saw that young royal bride thus obey the warm impulse of

a heart overflowing with gratitude to God, and love to all

she then looked upon. The venerable Sir David Lindsay of the

Mount, and other contemporary poets, who were so soon to hang

elegiac wreaths of mournful verse on the early bier of her

who then stood among them in her fragile and almost unearthly

loveliness, radiant with hope, and joy, and happy love, called

her 'the pleasant Magdalene,' and 'the sweet Flower of France.'

"King James blithely conducted his Queen to his palace of

Holyrood; and, to increase the universal satisfaction which

her appearance and manners had given, the auspicious news

quickly spread through Edinburgh, that she was likely to bring

an heir to Scotland. Great were the rejoicings in consequence.

The ancient prediction 'that the French wife should bring a

child the ninth in degree from the left side of the stem of

Bruce, that should rule England and Scotland from sea to sea,'

was revived in anticipation of the offspring of James V. of

Scotland by Magdalene of France, although it would only have

been the eighth in descent from that illustrious stock."

Her premature and lamented death is recorded in these feeling

paragraphs:--

"The early death of Magdalene was not only a misfortune to

her royal husband, but a serious loss to Scotland, and even

to Christendom, on account of the enlightened views she had

received on the all-important subject of religion. Brantôme

tells us that 'she was very deeply regretted not only by James

V. but by all his people, for she was very good, and knew how

to make herself truly beloved. She had a great mind, and was

most wise and virtuous.' The first general mourning ever known

in Scotland was worn for her, and her obsequies were solemnised

with the greatest manifestation of sorrow of which that nation

had ever been participant. The lamentations for the premature

death of this youthful Queen, and the hopes that perished with

her of an heir of Scotland, appear to have been of a similar

character to the passionate and universal burst of national

sorrow which, in the present century, pervaded all hearts in

the Britannic empire, for the loss of the noble-minded Princess

Charlotte of Wales and her infant.

'How many hopes were borne upon thy bier,

O stricken bride of love!'

"The epitaph of this lamented Queen was written by Buchanan in

elegant Latin verse, of which the following is a translation:--

'MAGDALENE OF VALOIS, QUEEN OF SCOTLAND, DIED IN THE XVI YEAR

OF HER AGE.

'I was a royal wife, from monarchs sprung,

A sovereign's daughter, and in hope to be

The royal mother of a regal line;

But lest my glory should exceed the height

Of mortal honour, Death's invidious dart

Hath laid me in my morning freshness here.

Nature and virtue, glory, life, and death,

Strove to express in me their utmost power.

Nature gave beauty; virtue made me good;

Relentless death o'er life too soon prevail'd.

But my fair fame shall flourish evermore,

To compensate for that brief mortal span

By lasting meed of universal praise.'"

Mary of Lorraine, daughter of the great Duke of Guise, and a lineal

descendant of Charlemagne, was the second Queen of James V.: she is

peculiarly interesting, as her daughter was Queen Mary; and she was the

ancestress of our present illustrious sovereign. We have room only,

however, for one extract:--

"'Let us,' says an eloquent French writer of the present day,

'enter the grand gallery of the Chateau d'Eu, and contemplate

the noble portraits of the line of Guise. There we shall view

that old Claud of Lorraine, clad in his heavy cuirass, bearing

his long sword, first dyed in blood at Marignan, having for his

cortege and companions his six glorious sons; then we shall see

Francis of Lorraine, rival of the Emperor Charles the Fifth,

and conqueror of Calais; near him that Cardinal of Lorraine,

eloquent as an orator, gallant and magnificent as a prince,

yet an ambitious and cruel priest. And there is the grandchild

of Duke Claud, Mary Stuart, angel of grief and poesy, whose

charming head bore a crown-regnant, and yet fell beneath the

axe of the executioner.'

* * * * *

"The Duke and Duchess of Longueville were both present at the

bridal of James V. and Magdalene of France. Little did the

Duchess imagine, when she, as the wife of the representative

of the brave Dunois, and the eldest daughter of the house

of Guise-Lorraine, proudly took high place among the great

ladies of France, near the person of the royal bride, that the

crown-matrimonial of Scotland--never to be worn by her on whose

finger she saw the enamoured bridegroom place the nuptial

ring--was destined to encircle her own brow. Far less could she

have believed, even if it had been predicted to her, that from

her union with that Prince should proceed a line of sovereigns

who would reign not only over the Britannic isles from sea

to sea, but whose empire, far exceeding that of her mighty

ancestor Charlemagne, should extend over India, a considerable

section of America, and include vast portions of the habitable

globe whose existence was then unknown. Before the anniversary

returned of the day that witnessed the nuptials of James and

Magdalene, all these apparently impossible events were in an

active state of progression."

Miss Strickland has announced in her Preface that two volumes are to

be devoted by her to the life of Queen Mary; and that great light has

been thrown upon that interesting subject by the important original

letters which Prince Labanoff's recent researches and publication

have brought to light. We look with impatience for the fulfilment of

the promise; for, although nothing can exceed in pathos and interest

Mr Tytler's entrancing account of the captivity and death of that

celebrated and heroic princess, yet we are well aware that much light

has since his time been thrown on the subject, by the zealous labours

of chivalrous antiquaries. That she may succeed in vindicating her

memory from much of the obloquy which, despite her many great and noble

qualities, and matchless charms of person and manner, still oppresses

it, is, we need hardly say, our most anxious wish; and if any one can

do it, it is herself. But we confess we have little expectation that

it is possible even for her chivalrous mind and untiring industry to

effect the object. Our _present_ view of this interesting question

is as follows:--The strength of the case against Queen Mary, during

her reign in Scotland, is such that it remains much the same upon the

admitted and incontestible facts of history, though all the disputed

points were decided in her favour. No original letters of hers, or

others which can be produced--no complete disproval of those which

were charged, we believe falsely and treacherously, against her--can

do away with her _acts_, whatever light they may throw upon her

motives, or the unparalleled network of treachery, selfishness, and

duplicity, with which she was surrounded. Can it be reasonably hoped

that any subsequent effort of industry or ability will be able to do

more for Queen Mary's memory than has been done by her gifted dramatic

biographer Schiller, who, in the awful scene of her last confession to

the priest in prison, immediately before being conducted to the block,

makes her admit her failings in the indulgence of undue hatred against

some, and impassioned love to others; and recount, with sincerity,

her stings of conscience for having permitted the King, her husband,

to be put to death, and thereafter loaded with favours and bestowed

her hand on the party charged with his murder? It is hopeless to deny

the magnitude of these delinquencies, though men, at least, should

view them with an indulgent eye; for they arose, as Schiller makes her

say, on that dread occasion, from the self-forgetfulness and generous

feelings which led her to trust in a sex by whom she was forsaken

and betrayed.[13] Such is our present view of the case; but we have

every confidence in Miss Strickland's powers and research, and shall

impatiently await the new light she will doubtless throw on that most

fascinating and tragic of all biographies.

The truth appears to be, that Mary was a mixed character: no uncommon

thing in every age, and especially so in that disastrous and profligate

one in which Mary's lot was cast. She was as charming and heroic as her

most impassioned advocates would represent, and as impassioned, and in

one matter guilty, as her worst enemies allege. Her virtues, however,

were her own; her delinquencies, of the religion in which she had been

bred, and the age in which she lived. It was the age, and she had been

bred in the court, which witnessed the successive murders of the Duke

of Guise and the Admiral Coligni at the court of France; the Massacre

of St Bartholomew by a French king, and the fires of Smithfield lighted

by an English queen. To one period, and that the most interesting of

her life, unmixed praise may be given. From the day of her landing in

England, her conduct was one of dignity, innocence, and heroism; and if

her previous life was stained by the imputation of having _permitted_

one murder, suggested to herself by despair, and recommended by others

from profligacy, she expiated it by being the victim of another,

suggested by jealousy, executed by rancour, and directly ordered by a

cruel relative and a vindictive rival.

If there is any blemish in the very interesting volume, of which our

limits will only permit a more cursory notice than its high merits

deserve, it is to be found in the too frequent use of quotations from

old authorities or original letters _in the text_, and the mosaic-like

appearance which is often given to her pages, by the introduction of

quaint and antiquated expressions drawn from contemporary writers in

the body of the narrative. We are well aware of the motive which has

led to this, and we respect it as it deserves: it arises from the wish

to be accurate and trustworthy, the anxious desire to make her Lives

a faithful transcript of the times--to exhibit their very "form and

pressure." The object was good, the desire was laudable; but it is

quite possible to be carried too far, even in working out the most

praiseworthy principle. Long accounts of dresses, decorations, and

processions; entries of expenses in Treasurers' accounts; even original

letters, unless on very particular occasions, are the materials of

biography, but they are not biography itself. It is _living_ character,

not still life, which we desire to see delineated: the latter is the

frame of the picture, but it is not the picture itself. Such curious

details are characteristic, generally amusing, often interesting; but

they, in general, do better in foot-notes than in the body of the

narrative. We must admit, however, that Miss Strickland has exhibited

equal judgment and skill in the manner in which she has _fitted in_

those contemporary extracts into the body of the narrative, and the

selection she has made of such as are most curious and characteristic

of the times. By many, we are well aware, they will be considered

as not the least interesting part of her very interesting volumes.

It is the principle of introducing them in the _text_ that we wish

her to reconsider. Unity of composition is not less essential to the

higher productions of art, in history or biography, than in painting

or the drama; and Miss Strickland writes so powerfully, and paints so

beautifully, that we cannot but often regret when we lose the thread of

her flowing narrative, to make way for extracts from a quaint annalist,

or entries from the accounts of a long-forgotten exchequer.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] _Lives of the Queens of Scotland._ By AGNES STRICKLAND. Vol. I.

William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh and London.

[10] Mr Aytoun's noble _Lyrical Ballads_, and Mr Grant's admirable

_History of the Castle of Edinburgh_.

[11] Falkirk, Torwood, Bannockburn, Stirling Bridge.

[12] Schiller, in his noble drama of _Maria Stuart_.

[13]

"Ach! nicht durch hass allein, durch sund' ge Liebe

Noch mehr hab' Ich hochste Gott beleidigt.

Das Eitle herz ward zudern Mann gezogen,

Der treulos mich verlassen und betrogen."

"Ah! not through hatred only, but still more through sinful love, have

I offended Almighty God! My tender heart was too strongly drawn to man,

by whose faithlessness I have been forsaken and betrayed."--_Maria

Stuart_, Act v. scene 7.

THE LAY OF THE NIEBELUNGEN.[14]

Wolf, the learned German, was certainly very far wrong--as Germans

in their endless speculations are apt to be--when he set himself to

explain the _Iliad_ without Homer; an attempt which, to our British

ears, generally sounded pretty much as profane as to explain the world

without God, or, according to Cicero's simile against the Epicureans,

to explain the existence of a book by the mere accidental out-tumbling

of alphabetic counters on the ground. The _Iliad_ could not have

existed without Homer--so the rude instinct of the most unlearned and

most unmetaphysical English Bull declared against the cloud-woven

theories and the deep-sunk lexicographical excavations of the famous

Berlin professor; and the rude instinct, after much philological

sapping and mining, stands ground. But Wolf did not labour in vain.

Though he did not take the citadel, he made breaches into many parts

of our classical circumvallation, formerly deemed most strong, and

made us change, in great measure, the fashion of our fortifications.

In the same manner Niebuhr, with his knotty club, made sad havoc among

the waxen images of the old Romans, which the piety of Livy--taking

them for genuine granite statues--had set forth with such a wealth of

fine patriotic elocution; but after all this work of destruction, Rome

still remains with its Tiber, and, in the minds of most sane persons,

Romulus also, we imagine; while the great Julius shines a kingly star

every inch, as much after Niebuhr's strong brush as before. What, then,

was the great truth by virtue of which--as stupid sermons are redeemed

by a good text--Wolf, with his startling anti-Homeric gospel, made so

many proselytes, and such fervid apostles, among the learned and the

poetic of his countrymen? Plainly this, that he seized with a keen

glance, and a grand comprehensiveness, the minstrel character of the

POPULAR EPOS of early ages, as distinguished from the more artificial

and curiously-piled compositions of more polished times, bearing the

same name. Wolf was wrong--say mad, if you please--in asserting that

Pisistratus, with a whole army of such refurbishers of old wares as

Onomacritus, could have put together such a glowing vital whole as the

_Iliad_; but he was right, and altogether sound, when he looked upon

the great Epic song of the wrath of Achilles as a thing essentially

different, not only in degree, but in kind, from the _Æneid_ of Virgil,

or the _Paradise Lost_ of our Milton. Many men of learning and taste,

from Scaliger downwards, have instituted large and curious comparisons

between the great national Epos of the Greeks, and that of the Romans;

but the comparison of things that have a radically different character

can seldom produce any result beyond the mere expression of liking and

disliking; as if, among critics of trees, one should say, _I prefer a

bristling pine_, while another says, _Give me the smooth beech_. Or, a

result even more unsatisfactory might be produced. Starting from the

beech as a sort of model tree, a forest critic, predetermined to admire

the pine also, might spin out of his brain a number of subtle analogies

to prove that a pine, though bearing a different name, is, in fact,

the same tree as a beech, and possesses, when _more_ philosophically

considered, all the essential characteristics of this tree. You

laugh?--but so, and not otherwise, did it fare with old Homer, at the

hands of many professional philologists and literary dilettantes,

who, with a perfect appreciation of such works of polished skill as

the _Æneid_ and the _Jerusalem Delivered_--as being akin to their own

modern taste--must needs apply the same test to take cognisance of

such strange and far-removed objects as the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_.

Such transference of the mould that measures one thing to another,

and an altogether different thing, is indeed a common enough trick of

our every-day judgments; but it is, nevertheless, a sort of criticism

altogether barren of any positive results, and which ends where it

begins--in talk. To the character and certainty of a science, it can

assuredly have no claim. If you wish to descant with any beneficial

result upon roses, pray compare one English rose with another, and not

with a Scotch thistle. Bring not the fine city dame into contact with

the brown country girl; but let Lady B's complexion be more delicate

than Lady C's, and the brown of Bessie be more healthy than that of

Jessie. Jessie, if you will consider the matter, has nothing in common

with Lady B, except this, that she is a woman. As little has Homer in

common with Virgil, or Tasso, or Milton. With whom, then, is Homer to

be compared? A hundred years ago, Voltaire, with all his wit, could

not have answered that question--the whole age of European criticism

of which Voltaire was the oracle and the god could not have answered

it; but thanks--after the Percy Ballads, and Cowper, and Wordsworth,

and Southey, and Burns--to Frederick Augustus Wolf, that question we

can answer now in the simplest and most certain way in the world, by

pointing to the famous Spanish CID, and the old Teutonic LAY of the

NIEBELUNGEN.

To the Cid, we may presume that those of our readers who love popular

poetry, and are not happy enough to know the sonorous old Castilian,

have been happily introduced by the great work of Southey. But, with

respect to the other great popular Epos of Western Europe, we suspect

Mr LETTSOM is only too much in the right when he says, that this

venerable monument of the old German genius is "so little known amongst

us, that most ordinary readers have not so much as heard of it. Even

amongst the numerous and increasing class of those who are acquainted

with German, few pay attention to the ancient literature of Germany:

they are generally conversant only with the productions of the day, or,

at farthest, with those of the most celebrated authors." So, indeed, it

must be; the necessary business and amusements of life leave but few of

us at liberty to follow the example of the learned Germans, and refuse

to look at Helen before we have critically investigated the history of

Jove's amours, and of Leda's egg. So much the more are we beholden to

gentlemen like the present translator, who, by the patient exercise

of those pious pains which are the pleasure of poets, put us into the

condition of being able to hear the notes of that strange old Teutonic

lyre prolonged through the aisles of an English echo-chamber. Mr

Lettsom has done a work, much wanted for the English lover of poetry,

honestly and well: this we can say from having compared it in various

places with a prose translation of the old German poem, published at

Berlin in 1814;[15] also from the distinct recollection which we have

of the character and tone of the modern German version of Marbach,

which we read for the first time several years ago. But Mr Lettsom's

translation bears also internal evidence of its excellence: there is a

quiet simplicity and easy talkative breadth about it, characteristic

no less of the general genius of the Germans than of the particular

mediæval epoch to which it belongs. With a perfect confidence,

therefore, in the trustworthiness of the present English version, we

proceed to lay before our readers a rapid sketch of the Epic story of

the Niebelungen, accompanied with such extracts as may serve to convey

an idea of the general tone and character of the composition.

At Worms, upon the Rhine, (so the poem opens,) there dwelt three

puissant kings--Gunther and Gernot and Gieselher--three brothers, of

whom Gunther was the eldest, and, in right of primogeniture, swayed the

sceptre of Burgundy.[16] These kings had a sister named Kriemhild, the

real heroine and fell female Achilles of the Epos; for though she is

as gentle and mild as a Madonna till her love is wounded, after that

she nourishes a desire of vengeance on the murderers of her husband,

as insatiate and inexorable as that which the son of Peleus, in the

_Iliad_, nurses against the son of Atreus for the rape of the lovely

Briseis. In fact, as the great work of Homer might be more fully

designated _the wrath of Achilles_, so the most significant designation

for this mediæval Iliad of the Germans would be _the revenge of

Kriemhild_. After naming these, and other notable personages of the

Burgundian court at Worms, the poet makes use of a dream, as Æschylus

in the _Agamemnon_ uses an omen, to open up, in a fitful glimpse of

prophecy, the general burden and fateful issue of his tale.

"A dream was dreamed by Kriemhild, the virtuous and the gay,

How a wild young falcon she trained for many a day,

Till two fierce eagles tore it; to her there could not be

In all the world such sorrow as this perforce to see.

To her mother Uta at once the dream she told;

But she the threatening future could only thus unfold--

'The falcon that thou trainedst is sure a noble mate;

God shield him in his mercy, or thou must lose him straight.'

'A mate for me! What say'st thou, dearest mother mine?

Ne'er to love, assure thee, my heart will I resign.

I'll live and die a maiden, and end as I began,

Nor (let what else befall me) will suffer woe for man.'

'Nay!' said the anxious mother, 'renounce not marriage so;

Wouldst thou true heartfelt pleasure taste ever here below,

Man's love alone can give it. Thou'rt fair as eye can see:

A fitting mate God send thee, and naught will wanting be.'

'No more,' the maiden answered, 'no more, dear mother, say;

From many a woman's fortune, this truth is clear as day,

That falsely smiling pleasure with pain requites us ever.

I from both will keep me, and thus will sorrow never.'

So in her lofty virtue, fancy-free and gay,

Lived the noble maiden many a happy day;

Nor one more than another found favour in her sight;

Still, at the last, she wedded a far-renowned knight.

He was the self-same falcon she in her dream had seen,

Foretold by her wise mother. What vengeance took the queen

On her nearest kinsmen, who him to death had done!

That single death atoning died many a mother's son."

With these words ends the very short first canto, or, in the

phraseology of the bard, "adventure" of the poem. The second introduces

us to the most prominent male character in the first part of the

poem--for it is divided into two distinct parts or acts--the famous

SIEGFRIED, "with the horny hide," as the old German chap-book has it,

which any of our readers may have for a groschen or two in Leipzig, and

not more, we suppose, than a sixpence here.

"In Netherland there flourished a prince of lofty kind,

(Whose father hight Siegmund, his mother Siegelind)

In a sumptuous castle, down by the Rhine's fair side;

Men did call it Xanten; 'twas famous far and wide."

This princely youth, who, like the Spanish Cid, is perfect even to

the smallest hair on his beard, after having employed his early days,

like ancient Hercules and Theseus, in attacking and overcoming every

sort of terrible monster, in bestial or human guise, that came in his

way, is dubbed knight with the stroke of the chivalrous sword, in due

form, and a festival is held in honour of the event, the description

of which occupies the "second adventure." Like a dutiful son, as well

as a fearless knight, he will accept no royal honours, or share in the

official dignities of government, so as long as his father and mother

live.

"While Siegelind and Siegmund yet lived and flourished there,

Full little recked their offspring the royal crown to wear.

He only would be master, and exercise command,

'Gainst those whose pride o'erweening disturbed the peaceful land.

None ventur'd to defy him; since weapons first he took,

The bed of sloth but seldom the noble knight could brook!

He only sought for battles: his prowess-gifted hand

Won him renown eternal in every foreign strand."

But even the sturdy mail-clad heroes of mediæval knighthood sometimes

tired of "battles;" and when they were thus aweary, they had one other

serious occupation, and that, of course, was love. With the entrance on

this new career, the third adventure is occupied.

"'Twas seldom tear or sorrow the warrior's breast assayed;

At length he heard a rumour how a lovely maid

In Burgundy was dwelling, the fairest of the fair;

For her he won much pleasure, but dash'd with toil and care."

Siegfried opens his determination to his parents to follow the fortune

of this rumour, and take to wife none other than--

"The bright Burgundian maiden, best gem of Gunther's throne,

Whose far-renowned beauty stands unapproached alone."

This resolution, of course, as is the fortune of true love, meets with

opposition, at first, from the parents of the youth; but with a calm

and decided answer, such as true love knows how to give, the difficulty

is overcome.

"Dearest father mine,

The love of high-born women for ever I'll resign

Rather than play the wooer but where my heart is set."

Forthwith, therefore, he sets out on an expedition to Worms,

predetermined, after the common fashion of mediæval love-romances, to

marry the woman whom he had never seen; for in these matters, rumour,

it was thought--that plays so falsely elsewhere--could not err. To make

the necessary impression on so mighty a king as Gunther, the Prince of

the Netherland is pranked out most gorgeously with all that woman's

needle can produce of chivalrous embroidery; and, thus accoutred,--

"On the seventh fair morning, by Worms along the strand,

In knightly guise were pricking the death-defying band;

The ruddy gold fair glittered on every riding vest;

Their steeds they meetly governed, all pacing soft abreast.

Their shields were new and massy, and like flame they glowed;

As bright, too, shone their helmets; while bold Siegfried rode

Straight to the court of Gunther to woo the stately maid.

Eye never looked on champions so gorgeously arrayed.

Down to their spurs, loud clanging, reached the swords they wore;

Sharp and well-tempered lances the chosen champions bore;

One, two spans broad or better, did Siegfried sternly shake,

With keen and cutting edges grim and ghastly wounds to make.

Their golden-coloured bridles firm they held in hand:

Silken were their poitrals: so rode they through the land.

On all sides the people to gaze on them began;

Then many of Gunther's liegemen swift to meet them ran."

Then follows the formal reception at the court of Worms, and, as on all

great festival occasions in those days, a tournament is held, where the

stranger knight, of course, acquits himself like a god rather than a

man, to the admiration of all beholders, but specially of the gentle

ladies, who, on occasions when propriety did not allow them publicly to

appear, enjoy the dear delight of gazing on bearded swordsmen even more

exquisitely from behind a window.

"At court the lovely ladies were asking evermore,

Who was the stately stranger that so rich vesture wore,

At once so strong of presence and so strong of hand?

When many a one gave answer, 'Tis the King of Netherland.'

He ever was the foremost, whate'er the game they played.

Still in his inmost bosom he bore one lovely maid,

Whom he beheld had never, and yet to all preferred;

She too of him, in secret, spoke many a kindly word.

When in the court contending, fierce squire and hardy knight,

As fits the young and noble, waged the mimic fight,

Oft Kriemhild through her windows would look, herself unseen--

Then no other pleasure needed the gentle Queen."

But though Kriemhild saw Siegfried through the window, Siegfried

remained with Gunther a whole year,

"Nor all that weary season a single glimpse could gain

Of her who after brought him such pleasure and such pain."

Like the disciples of Pythagoras, the amorous knights of those days

had first to serve a long apprenticeship of the severe discipline of

abstinence, before they were permitted to kiss the hand of beauty,

or to meet even its distant glance. The fourth adventure, therefore,

goes on to tell how Siegfried showed his prowess by fighting with the

Saxons, who had come under the guidance of their king, Ludeger the

Bold, and leagued with him King Ludegast of Denmark, to attack the

realm of the Burgundians. Coming home, like a Mars-subduing Diomede,

from this fierce encounter, the knight of the Netherland is at length

deemed worthy to be introduced to his destined fair. Another tourney is

held, at which Kriemhild publicly appears.

"Now went she forth the loveliest, as forth the morning goes,

From misty clouds out-beaming: then all his weary woes

Left him in heart who bore her, and so long time had done.

He saw there stately standing the fair, the peerless one.

Many a stone full precious flashed from her vesture bright;

Her rosy blushes darted a softer, ruddier light.

Whate'er might be his wishes, each could not but confess

He ne'er on earth had witnessed such perfect loveliness.

As the moon arising out glitters every star,

That through the clouds so purely glimmers from afar,

E'en so love-breathing Kriemhild dimmed every beauty nigh.

Well might, at such a vision, many a bold heart beat high."

With not less of serene beauty, and a quiet naturalness that is

peculiar to him, the old bard describes the feelings of Siegfried on

first coming within the sweet atmosphere of woman's love.

"There stood he, the high-minded, beneath her star-bright eye,

His cheek as fire all glowing; then said she modestly,

'Sir Siegfried, you are welcome, noble knight and good!'

Yet loftier at that greeting rose his lofty mood.

He bowed with soft emotion, and thanked the blushing fair;

Love's strong constraint together impelled the enamoured pair;

Their longing eyes encountered, their glances, every one,

Bound knight and maid for ever; yet all by stealth was done.

That in the warmth of passion he pressed her lily hand,

I do not know for certain, but well can understand.

'Twere surely past believing they ventured not on this;

Two loving hearts, so meeting, else had done amiss.

No more in pride of summer, nor in bloom of May,

Knew he such heart-felt pleasure as on this happy day,

When she, than May more blooming, more bright than summer's pride,

His own, a dream no longer, was standing by his side.

Then thought full many a champion, 'Would this had happ'd to me,

To be with lovely Kriemhild, as Siegfried bold I see,

Or closer e'en than Siegfried; well were I then, I swear,'

None yet was champion who so deserved a queen."

Thus far well. But his probation was not yet finished. Before finally

joining hand and heart with the peerless sister of King Gunther,

Siegfried must assist her brother in a yet more difficult work than

anything that he had hitherto achieved--in gaining the love of

Brunhild, a doughty princess of Iceland, "far beyond the sea," who,

being of a masculine temper and strength, had determined to submit

herself to no male lord who had not proved himself worthy to wield the

marital sceptre, by actually mastering his spouse in strong physical

conflict.

"There was a queen high-seated afar beyond the sea,

None wielded sceptre a mightier than she;

For beauty she was matchless, for strength without a peer;

Her love to him she offered who could pass her at the spear.

She threw the stone, and bounded behind it to the mark;

At three games each suitor, with sinews stiff and stark,

Must conquer the fierce maiden whom he sought to wed,

Or, if in one successless, straight must lose his head.

E'en thus for the stern virgin had many a suitor died.

This heard a noble warrior, who dwelt the Rhine beside,

And forthwith resolved he to win her for his wife;

Thereby full many a hero thereafter lost his life."

Doubtful of his single strength to subdue so mettlesome a maid,

Gunther enters into a compact with Siegfried to assist him in his

enterprise--_by fair means or foul_, as it appears; and in this evil

compact, and the underhand work to which it gives rise, lies already

visible before the unveiled eye of the reader, the little black spot

on the fair blue of the epic sky, which is destined (and the bard is

ever forward to hint this catastrophe,) at a day though distant yet

sure, to dilate into a wide-spreading cloud, and to burst in a fearful

deluge that shall sweep hundreds and thousands of the guilty and the

guiltless into destruction. This is neither more nor less than the

dark old doctrine of retribution, which in the Greek tragedians, and

especially Æschylus, plays so awful a part; only with this difference,

that in the Niebelungen, as in the Odyssey, the punishment overtakes

the offending parties, and not, as in the tragedians, their sons and

grandsons. But to proceed: Siegfried, like Jack the Giant-killer,

though commencing his career as a single mortal with no miraculous

power, had in the course of his chivalrous exploits, and as the reward

of his extraordinary prowess, got possession of certain wonder-working

instruments, that rendered him, when he chose to use them, sure of

victory against mere mortal strength. With the aid of these, Siegfried,

for the sake of the love of Kriemhild, had determined (secretly and

unfairly) to assist Gunther in subduing the stout Brunhild.

"I have heard strange stories of wild dwarfs, how they fare:

They dwell in hollow mountains; and for protection wear

A vesture, that hight cloud-cloak, marvellous to tell;

Whoever has it on him, may keep him safe and well

From cuts and stabs of foemen; him none can bear or see

As soon as he is in it, but see and hear can he

Whate'er he will around him, and thus must needs prevail;

He grows besides far stronger: so goes the wondrous tale.

And now with him the cloud-cloak took fair Siegelind's son,

The same the unconquered warrior, with labour hard, had won

From the stout dwarf Albrecht, in successful fray.

The bold and ready champions made ready for the way.

So, as I said, bold Siegfried the cloud-cloak bore along;

When he but put it on him, he felt him wondrous strong:

Twelve men's strength then had he in his single body laid.

By trains and close devices he wooed the haughty maid.

Besides, in that strange cloud-cloak was such deep virtue found,

That whosoever wore it, though thousands stood around,

Might do whatever pleased him, unseen of friend and foe:

Thus Siegfried won fair Brunhild, which brought him bitterest woe."