continued in our family, from generation to generation, since the days of
Hercules. Several kings, from time to time, have caused the gate to be
thrown open, and have attempted to enter, but have paid dearly for their
temerity. Some have perished within the threshold, others have been
overwhelmed with horror at tremendous sounds, which shook the foundations
of the earth, and have hastened to re-close the door, and secure it with
its thousand locks. Thus, since the days of Hercules, the inmost recesses
of the pile have never been penetrated by mortal man, and a profound
mystery continues to prevail over this great enchantment. This, O King, is
all we have to relate; and our errand is to entreat thee to repair to the
tower and affix thy lock to the portal, as has been done by all thy
predecessors.' Having thus said, the ancient men made a profound reverence
and departed from the presence chamber.
Don Roderick remained for some time lost in thought after the departure of
the men: he then dismissed all his court, excepting the venerable Urbino,
at that time archbishop of Toledo. The long white beard of this prelate
bespoke his advanced age, and his overhanging eye-brows showed him a man
full of wary counsel.
'Father,' said the king, 'I have an earnest desire to penetrate the
mystery of this tower.' The worthy prelate shook his hoary head: 'Beware,
my son,' said he; 'there are secrets hidden from man for his good. Your
predecessors for many generations have respected this mystery, and have
increased in might and empire. A knowledge of it, therefore, is not
material to the welfare of your kingdom. Seek not then to indulge a rash
and unprofitable curiosity, which is interdicted under such awful
menaces.'
'Of what importance,' cried the king, 'are the menaces of Hercules, the
Lybian? Was he not a pagan? and can his enchantments have aught avail
against a believer in our holy faith? Doubtless, in this tower are locked
up treasures of gold and jewels, amassed in days of old, the spoils of
mighty kings, the riches of the pagan world. My coffers are exhausted; I
have need of supply; and surely it would be an acceptable act in the eyes
of Heaven, to draw forth this wealth which lies buried under profane and
necromantic spells, and consecrate it to religious purposes.'
The venerable archbishop still continued to remonstrate, but Don Roderick
heeded not his counsel, for he was led on by his malignant star. 'Father,'
said he, 'it is in vain you attempt to dissuade me. My resolution is
fixed. To-morrow I will explore the hidden mystery, or rather the hidden
treasures of this tower.'
The morning sun shone brightly upon the cliff-built towers of Toledo, when
King Roderick issued out of the gate of the city, at the head of a
numerous train of courtiers and cavaliers, and crossed the bridge that
bestrides the deep rocky bed of the Tagus. The shining cavalcade wound up
the road that leads among the mountains, and soon came in sight of the
necromantic tower.
Of this renowned edifice marvels are related by the ancient Arabian and
Spanish chroniclers; 'and I doubt much,' adds the venerable Agpaida,
'whether many readers will not consider the whole as a cunningly devised
fable, sprung from an oriental imagination; but it is not for me to reject
a fact which is recorded by all those writers who are the fathers of our
national history: a fact, too, which is as well attested as most of the
remarkable events in the story of Don Roderick. None but light and
inconsiderate minds,' continues the good friar, 'do hastily reject the
marvellous. To the thinking mind the whole world is enveloped in mystery,
and every thing is full of type and portent. To such a mind the
necromantic tower of Toledo will appear as one of those wondrous monuments
of the olden time; one of those Egyptian and Chaldaic piles, storied with
hidden wisdom and mystic prophecy, which have been devised in past ages,
when man yet enjoyed an intercourse with high and spiritual natures, and
when human foresight partook of divination.'
This singular tower was round, and of great height and grandeur; erected
upon a lofty rock, and surrounded by crags and precipices. The foundation
was supported by four brazen lions, each taller than a cavalier on
horseback. The walls were built of small pieces of jasper, and various
colored marbles, not larger than a man's hand; so subtilely joined,
however, that but for their different hues they might be taken for one
entire stone. They were arranged with marvellous cunning, so as to
represent battles and warlike deeds of times and heroes long since passed
away; and the whole surface was so admirably polished that the stones were
as lustrous as glass, and reflected the rays of the sun with such
resplendent brightness as to dazzle all beholders.[7]
[7] From the minute account of the good friar, drawn from the
ancient chronicles, it would appear that the walls of the
tower were pictured in mosaic work.
King Roderick and his courtiers arrived wondering and amazed, at the foot
of the rock. Here there was a narrow arched way cut through the living
stone; the only entrance to the tower. It was closed by a massive iron
gate, covered with rusty locks of divers workmanship, and in the fashion
of different centuries, which had been affixed by the predecessors of Don
Roderick. On either side of the portal stood the two ancient guardians of
the tower, laden with the keys appertaining to the locks.
The king alighted, and, approaching the portals, ordered the guardians to
unlock the gate. The hoary-headed men drew back with terror. 'Alas!' cried
they, 'what is it your majesty requires of us? Would you have the
mischiefs of this tower unbound, and let loose to shake the earth to its
foundations?'
The venerable archbishop Urbino likewise implored him not to disturb a
mystery which had been held sacred from generation to generation, within
the memory of man; and which even Cæsar himself, when sovereign of Spain,
had not ventured to invade. The youthful cavaliers, however, were eager to
pursue the adventure, and encouraged him in his rash curiosity.
'Come what come may,' exclaimed Don Roderick, 'I am resolved to penetrate
the mystery of this tower.' So saying, he again commanded the guardians to
unlock the portal. The ancient men obeyed with fear and trembling, but
their hands shook with age, and when they applied the keys, the locks were
so rusted by time, or of such strange workmanship, that they resisted
their feeble efforts; whereupon the young cavaliers pressed forward and
lent their aid. Still the locks were so numerous and difficult, that with
all their eagerness and strength a great part of the day was exhausted
before the whole of them could be mastered.
When the last bolt had yielded to the key, the guardians and the reverend
archbishop again entreated the king to pause and reflect. 'Whatever is
within this tower,' said they, 'is as yet harmless, and lies bound under a
mighty spell: venture not then to open a door which may let forth a flood
of evil upon the land.' But the anger of the king was roused, and he
ordered that the portal should be instantly thrown open. In vain, however,
did one after another exert his strength; and equally in vain did the
cavaliers unite their forces, and apply their shoulders to the gate:
though there was neither bar nor bolt remaining, it was perfectly
immoveable.
The patience of the king was now exhausted, and he advanced to apply his
hand; scarcely, however, did he touch the iron gate, when it swung slowly
open, uttering, as it were, a dismal groan, as it turned reluctantly upon
its hinges. A cold, damp wind issued forth, accompanied by a tempestuous
sound. The hearts of the ancient guardians quaked within them, and their
knees smote together; but several of the youthful cavaliers rushed in,
eager to gratify their curiosity, or to signalise themselves in this
redoubtable enterprise. They had scarcely advanced a few paces, however,
when they recoiled, overcome by the baleful air, or by some fearful
vision. Upon this, the king ordered that fires should be kindled to dispel
the darkness, and to correct the noxious and long imprisoned air: he then
led the way into the interior; but, though stout of heart, he advanced
with awe and hesitation.
After proceeding a short distance, he entered a hall, or antechamber, on
the opposite side of which was a door; and before it, on a pedestal, stood
a gigantic figure, of the color of bronze, and of a terrible aspect. It
held a huge mace, which it whirled incessantly, giving such cruel and
resounding blows upon the earth as to prevent all further entrance.
The king paused at sight of this appalling figure; for whether it were a
living being, or a statue of magic artifice, he could not tell. On its
breast was a scroll, whereon was inscribed in large letters, 'I do my
duty.' After a little while Roderick plucked up heart, and addressed it
with great solemnity: 'Whatever thou be,' said he, 'know that I come not
to violate this sanctuary, but to inquire into the mystery it contains; I
conjure thee, therefore, to let me pass in safety.'
Upon this the figure paused with uplifted mace, and the king and his train
passed unmolested through the door.
They now entered a vast chamber, of a rare and sumptuous architecture,
difficult to be described. The walls were incrusted with the most precious
gems, so joined together as to form one smooth and perfect surface. The
lofty dome appeared to be self-supported, and was studded with gems,
lustrous as the stars of the firmament. There was neither wood, nor any
other common or base material to be seen throughout the edifice. There
were no windows or rather openings to admit the day, yet a radiant light
was spread throughout the place, which seemed to shine from the walls, and
to render every object distinctly visible.
In the centre of this hall stood a table of alabaster, of the rarest
workmanship, on which was inscribed in Greek characters, that Hercules
Alcides, the Theban Greek, had founded this tower in the year of the world
three thousand and six. Upon the table stood a golden casket, richly set
round with precious stones, and closed with a lock of mother-of-pearl; and
on the lid were inscribed the following words:
'In this coffer is contained the mystery of the tower. The hand of none
but a king can open it; but let him beware! for marvellous events will be
revealed to him, which are to take place before his death.'
King Roderick boldly seized upon the casket. The venerable archbishop laid
his hand upon his arm, and made a last remonstrance. 'Forbear, my son!'
said he; 'desist while there is yet time. Look not into the mysterious
decrees of Providence. God has hidden them in mercy from our sight, and it
is impious to rend the veil by which they are concealed.'
'What have I to dread from a knowledge of the future?' replied Roderick,
with an air of haughty presumption. 'If good be destined me, I shall enjoy
it by anticipation: if evil, I shall arm myself to meet it.' So saying, he
rashly broke the lock.
Within the coffer he found nothing but a linen cloth, folded between two
tablets of copper. On unfolding it, he beheld painted on it figures of men
on horseback, of fierce demeanor, clad in turbans and robes of various
colors, after the fashion of the Arabs, with scimetars hanging from their
necks, and cross-bows at their saddle backs, and they carried banners and
pennons with divers devices. Above them was inscribed in Greek characters,
'Rash monarch! behold the men who are to hurl thee from thy throne, and
subdue thy kingdom!'
At sight of these things the king was troubled in spirit, and dismay fell
upon his attendants. While they were yet regarding the paintings, it
seemed as if the figures began to move, and a faint sound of warlike
tumult arose from the cloth, with the clash of cymbal and bray of trumpet,
the neigh of steed and shout of army; but all was heard indistinctly, as
if afar off, or in a reverie or dream. The more they gazed, the plainer
became the motion, and the louder the noise; and the linen cloth rolled
forth, and amplified and spread out, as it were, a mighty banner, and
filled the hall, and mingled with the air, until its texture was no longer
visible, or appeared as a transparent cloud: and the shadowy figures
become all in motion, and the din and uproar became fiercer and fiercer;
and whether the whole were an animated picture, or a vision, or an array
of embodied spirits, conjured up by supernatural power, no one present
could tell. They beheld before them a great field of battle, where
Christians and Moslems were engaged in deadly conflict. They heard the
rush and tramp of steeds, the blast of trump and clarion, the clash of
cymbal, and the stormy din of a thousand drums. There was the clash of
swords, and maces, and battle-axes, with the whistling of arrows, and the
hurling of darts and lances. The Christians quailed before the foe; the
infidels pressed upon them and put them to utter rout; the standard of the
cross was cast down, the banner of Spain was trodden under foot, the air
resounded with shouts of triumph, with yells of fury, and with the groans
of dying men. Amidst the flying squadrons, King Roderick beheld a crowned
warrior, whose back was turned toward him, but whose armor and device were
his own, and who was mounted on a white steed that resembled his own war
horse Orelia. In the confusion of the flight, the warrior was dismounted,
and was no longer to be seen, and Orelia galloped wildly through the field
of battle without a rider.
Roderick stayed to see no more, but rushed from the fatal hall, followed
by his terrified attendants. They fled through the outer chamber, where
the gigantic figure with the whirling mace had disappeared from his
pedestal; and on issuing into the open air, they found the two ancient
guardians of the tower lying dead at the portal, as though they had been
crushed by some mighty blow. All nature, which had been clear and serene,
was now in wild uproar. The heavens were darkened by heavy clouds; loud
bursts of thunder rent the air, and the earth was deluged with rain and
rattling hail.
The king ordered that the iron portal should be closed; but the door was
immoveable, and the cavaliers were dismayed by the tremendous turmoil, and
the mingled shouts and groans that continued to prevail within. The king
and his train hastened back to Toledo, pursued and pelted by the tempest.
The mountains shook and echoed with the thunder, trees were uprooted and
blown down, and the Tagus raged and roared and flowed above its banks. It
seemed to the affrighted courtiers as if the phantom legions of the tower
had issued forth and mingled with the storm; for amidst the claps of
thunder and the howling of the wind, they fancied they heard the sound of
the drums and trumpets, the shouts of armies and the rush of steeds. Thus
beaten by tempest, and overwhelmed with horror, the king and his courtiers
arrived at Toledo, clattering across the bridge of the Tagus, and entering
the gate in headlong confusion, as though they had been pursued by an
enemy.
In the morning the heavens were again serene, and all nature was restored
to tranquillity. The king, therefore, issued forth with his cavaliers and
took the road to the tower, followed by a great multitude, for he was
anxious once more to close the iron door, and shut up those evils that
threatened to overwhelm the land. But lo! on coming in sight of the tower,
a new wonder met their eyes. An eagle appeared high in the air, seeming to
descend from heaven. He bore in his beak a burning brand, and lighting on
the summit of the tower, fanned the fire with his wings. In a little while
the edifice burst forth into a blaze as though it had been built of rosin,
and the flames mounted into the air with a brilliancy more dazzling than
the sun; nor did they cease until every stone was consumed and the whole
was reduced to a heap of ashes. Then there came a vast flight of birds,
small of size and sable of hue, darkening the sky like a cloud; and they
descended and wheeled in circles round the ashes, causing so great a wind
with their wings that the whole was borne up into the air and scattered
throughout all Spain, and wherever a particle of those ashes fell it was
as a stain of blood. It is furthermore recorded by ancient men and writers
of former days, that all those on whom this dust fell were afterwards
slain in battle, when the country was conquered by the Arabs, and that the
destruction of this necromantic tower was a sign and token of the
approaching perdition of Spain.
'Let all those,' concludes the cautious friar, 'who question the verity of
this most marvellous occurrence, consult those admirable sources of our
history, the chronicle of the Moor Rasis, and the work entitled 'The Fall
of Spain,' written by the Moor, Abulcasim Tarif Abentarique. Let them
consult, moreover, the venerable historian Bleda, and the cloud of other
Catholic Spanish writers, who have treated of this event, and they will
find I have related nothing that has not been printed and published under
the inspection and sanction of our holy mother church. God alone knoweth
the truth of these things; I speak nothing but what has been handed down
to me from times of old.'
ANACREONTIC.
[Greek: To de cheilos, ouk et oida
Tini moi tropô poiêseis.]
Maiden! first did Nature seek
Lilies for thy spotless cheek;
When with roses came she next
Half delighted, yet more vex'd,
For the lilies there, to see
Blushing at their purity!
Since her labor now was lost,
Roses to the wind she tost.
One, a bud of smiling June,
Falling on thy lips, as soon
Left its color, and in death
Willed its fragrance to thy breath!
Then two drops of crystalled dew
From the hyacinth's deep hue,
Brought she for thine eyes of blue;
And lest they should miss the sun,
Bade thy soul to shine thereon.
Lilies, Nature gave thy face--
Say, thy _heart_ do lilies grace?
_St. Paul's College._ G. H. H.
LITERARY NOTICES.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL, IN PROSE: Being a Ghost-Story of Christmas. By
CHARLES DICKENS. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.
If in every alternate work that Mr. DICKENS were to send to the London
press he should find occasion to indulge in ridicule against alleged
American peculiarities, or broad caricatures of our actual vanities, or
other follies, we could with the utmost cheerfulness pass them by unnoted
and uncondemned, if he would only now and then present us with an
intellectual creation so touching and beautiful as the one before us.
Indeed, we can with truth say, that in our deliberate judgment, the
'Christmas Carol' is the most striking, the most picturesque, the most
truthful, of all the limnings which have proceeded from its author's pen.
There is much mirth in the book, says a competent English critic, but more
wisdom; wisdom of that kind which men possess who have gazed thoughtfully
but kindly on human life, and have pierced deeper than their fellows into
all the sunny nooks and dark recesses of the human breast. The barbarous
notion has long been exploded, that comic writers were only to be esteemed
for their jests, and useful for provoking laughter. CERVANTES, first among
the moderns, sent it out of fashion, and blessed that union of wit, sense,
and pathos, which so many renowned writers have since confirmed; until it
has come to be acknowledged, that rich genuine humor is rarely an inmate
of the mind, if there be not a corresponding depth of earnestness and
feeling in the heart. Many of DICKENS' writings, it is justly claimed,
exhibit this fine, healthy, benevolent spirit. 'His sympathy for human
suffering is strong and pure, and he reserves it not for imaginary and
fictitious distress, but for the real grinding sorrows of life.' And this
sympathy is more finely displayed in the work under notice, than in any of
his previous productions. The design is very fanciful, and there is
crowded into it, brief as it is, a world of character and observation. It
is truly a reflection of life in miniature. Before proceeding to a few
illustrative extracts, we shall avail ourselves in part of a clear
synopsis of the inception and progress of the story, from the pen of a
London contemporary.
SCROOGE is a very rich citizen; a 'squeezing, grinding, grasping,
scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner.' He has lost all recollection of
what he once was, and what he once felt; is dead to all kindly impulses,
and proof against the most moving tale. He is almost as keen and gruff as
old RALPH NICKELBY, to whom he bears a strong family resemblance, and uses
his poor clerk, BOB CRATCHIT, just as badly, and has as little feeling for
his merry-hearted nephew, who has married for love. The 'carol' begins on
Christmas-eve. SCROOGE calls his nephew a lunatic for wishing him 'A merry
Christmas!' and sends him home, sad as harsh words can make him. He keeps
his poor shivering clerk in a small tank-like ground-room till the last
minute of his stipulated time, and then dismisses him with an angry growl.
He goes to his usual melancholy tavern to eat his melancholy dinner,
amuses himself in the evening with his banker's book, and then retires to
his dreary chambers. He had once a partner, a counterpart of himself, who
has been dead for many a year; and while sitting in his lonely room, over
a low fire, the ghost of the deceased partner enters, although the door is
double-locked. He wears a heavy chain, forged of keys and safes; and, like
Hamlet's ghost, tells of the heavy penance he is doomed to suffer in
spirit for sins committed in the flesh. He has come to warn his partner,
and to give him a chance of amendment. He tells him he will be visited by
three Spirits, on the three following nights, and bids him mark well what
they shall disclose. SCROOGE instantly falls asleep, and does not wake
till the appointed hour. The three spirits are of Christmas Past,
Christmas Present, and Christmas to Come. The ghost of Christmas Past
stands by SCROOGE'S bedside, of an uncertain form, though the belt round
its body is wondrous light, and a flame shoots up from its head. Yet the
figure fluctuates in distinctness, now one part being visible and now
another. The spirit seizes the hand of SCROOGE, and they float through the
air together. The old man is taken to the haunts of his childhood, and he
is conscious of 'a thousand odors floating in the air, each one connected
with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long
forgotten.' Each circumstance of the time past is restored. The village
school; a boy left deserted in the school-room, whom SCROOGE recognises as
his former self reading 'Robinson Crusoe;' till at last a lovely girl, who
throws her arms round the boy's neck, and bids him come home to a 'merry,
merry Christmas.' Then the scene changes, and SCROOGE is once more in the
house of the kind-hearted master of his youth, who loved to keep Christmas
as it was kept in the olden time, and he recognises himself the most
joyous of the joyous group. Then comes the scene of his manhood, when he
deserted his betrothed for a wealthier bride; and last, he views the girl
he had deserted, the mother of a happy blooming family. This picture is
delightfully sketched; it is enough to make a bachelor in love with
wedlock. The scene is too affecting for the changed and worldly miser; he
implores to be removed from the familiar place; he wrestles with the
spirit, and awakened by the struggle, finds himself once more in his own
room, and in darkness.
Again he has a long sleep. Christmas Present comes in the shape of a
giant, with a holly-green robe. SCROOGE perceives him seated in his room,
with his noble head crowned with holly wreath studded with icicles,
reaching to the ceiling. His throne is a wine-cask and his foot-stool a
twelfth-cake. In his hand he bears a blazing torch, from which he
sprinkles down gladness upon every threshhold he enters. An immense fire
glows and crackles in the grate, the walls and ceiling are hung with
living green, and all around are heaped up the choice provisions collected
to make Christmas glad. The giant leads SCROOGE forth. They pass through
streets and lanes, with every house bearing token of rejoicing by its
roaring fire or its sprig of holly, till they come to the dwelling of poor
BOB CRATCHIT, old SCROOGE'S clerk. And here ensues a picture worthy of
WILKIE in his best days: