grassy green. All the "old familiar faces" of nature are for awhile out
of sight, and out of mind. That white silence shed by heaven over earth
carries with it, far and wide, the pure peace of another region--almost
another life. No image is there to tell of this restless and noisy
world. The cheerfulness of reality kindles up our reverie ere it becomes
a dream; and we are glad to feel our whole being complexioned by the
passionless repose. If we think at all of human life, it is only of the
young, the fair, and the innocent. "Pure as snow" are words then felt to
be most holy, as the image of some beautiful and beloved being comes and
goes before our eyes--brought from a far distance in this our living
world, or from a distance--far, far, farther still--in the world beyond
the grave--the image of a virgin growing up sinlessly to womanhood among
her parents' prayers, or of some spiritual creature who expired long
ago, and carried with her her native innocence unstained to heaven.
Such Spiritual Creature--too spiritual long to sojourn below the
skies--wert Thou, whose rising and whose setting--both most
starlike--brightened at once all thy native vale, and at once left it in
darkness. Thy name has long slept in our heart--and there let it sleep
unbreathed--even as, when we are dreaming our way through some solitary
place, without speaking, we bless the beauty of some sweet wild-flower,
pensively smiling to us through the snow!
The Sabbath returns on which, in the little kirk among the hills, we saw
thee baptized. Then comes a wavering glimmer of seven sweet years, that
to Thee, in all their varieties, were but as one delightful season, one
blessed life--and, finally, that other Sabbath, on which, at thy own
dying request--between services thou wert buried!
How mysterious are all thy ways and workings, O gracious Nature! Thou
who art but a name given by our souls, seeing and hearing through the
senses, to the Being in whom all things are and have life! Ere two years
old, she, whose dream is now with us, all over the small silvan world,
that beheld the revelation, how evanescent! of her pure existence, was
called the "Holy Child!" The taint of sin--inherited from those who
disobeyed in Paradise--seemed from her fair clay to have been washed out
at the baptismal font, and by her first infantine tears. So pious people
almost believed, looking on her so unlike all other children, in the
serenity of that habitual smile that clothed the creature's countenance
with a wondrous beauty, at an age when on other infants is but faintly
seen the dawn of reason, and their eyes look happy, just like the
thoughtless flowers. So unlike all other children--but unlike only
because sooner than they--she seemed to have had given to her--even
in the communion of the cradle--an intimation of the being and the
providence of God. Sooner, surely, than through any other clay that ever
enshrouded immortal spirit, dawned the light of reason and of religion
on the face of the "Holy Child."
Her lisping language was sprinkled with words alien from common
childhood's uncertain speech, that murmurs only when indigent nature
prompts;--and her own parents wondered whence they came in her
simplicity, when first they looked upon her kneeling in an unbidden
prayer. As one mild week of vernal sunshine covers the braes with
primroses, so shone with fair and fragrant feelings--unfolded, ere they
knew, before her parents' eyes--the divine nature of her who, for a
season, was lent to them from the skies. She learned to read out of the
Bible--almost without any teaching--they knew not how--just by looking
gladly on the words, even as she looked on the pretty daisies on the
green--till their meanings stole insensibly into her soul, and the sweet
syllables, succeeding each other on the blessed page, were all united by
the memories her heart had been treasuring every hour that her father or
her mother had read aloud in her hearing from the Book of Life. "Suffer
little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the
kingdom of Heaven"--how wept her parents, as these the most affecting of
our Saviour's words dropt silver-sweet from her lips, and continued in
her upward eyes among the swimming tears!
Be not incredulous of this dawn of reason, wonderful as it may seem to
you, so soon becoming morn--almost perfect daylight--with the "Holy
Child."--Many such miracles are set before us; but we recognise them
not, or pass them by, with a word or a smile of short surprise. How
leaps the baby in its mother's arms, when the mysterious charm of music
thrills through its little brain! And how learns it to modulate its
feeble voice, unable yet to articulate, to the melodies that bring forth
all round its eyes a delighted smile! Who knows what then may be the
thoughts and feelings of the infant awakened to the sense of a new
world, alive through all its being to sounds that haply glide past our
ears, unmeaning as the breath of the common air! Thus have mere infants
sometimes been seen inspired by music, till like small genii they
warbled spell-strains of their own, powerful to sadden and subdue
our hearts. So, too, have infant eyes been so charmed by the rainbow
irradiating the earth, that almost infant hands have been taught, as if
by inspiration, the power to paint in finest colours, and to imitate
with a wondrous art, the skies so beautiful to the quick-awakened spirit
of delight. What knowledge have not some children acquired, and gone
down scholars to their small untimely graves! Knowing that such things
have been--are--and will be--why art thou incredulous of the divine
expansion of soul--so soon understanding the things that are divine--in
the "Holy Child?"
Thus grew she in the eye of God, day by day waxing wiser and wiser
in the knowledge that tends towards the skies, and as if some angel
visitant were nightly with her in her dreams, awakening every morn with
a new dream of thought that brought with it a gilt of more comprehensive
speech. Yet merry she was at times with her companions among the woods
and braes, though while they all were laughing, she only smiled; and the
passing traveller, who might pause a moment to bless the sweet creatures
in their play, could not but single out one face among the many fair, so
pensive in its paleness, a face to be remembered, coming from afar, like
a mournful thought upon the hour of joy!
Sister or brother of her own had she none--and often both her
parents--who lived in a hut by itself up among the mossy stumps of
the old decayed forest--had to leave her alone--sometimes even all
the day long, from morning till night. But she no more wearied in her
solitariness than does the wren in the wood. All the flowers were her
friends--all the birds. The linnet ceased not his song for her, though
her footsteps wandered into the green glade among the yellow broom,
almost within reach of the spray from which he poured his melody--the
quiet eyes of his mate feared her not when her garments almost touched
the bush where she brooded on her young. Shyest of the winged silvans,
the cushat clapped not her wings away on the soft approach of her
harmless footsteps to the pine that concealed her slender nest.
As if blown from heaven, descended round her path the showers of the
painted butterflies, to feed, sleep, or die--undisturbed by her--upon
the wild flowers--with wings, when motionless, undistinguishable from
the blossoms. And well she loved the brown, busy, blameless bees, come
thither for the honey-dews from a hundred cots sprinkled all over the
parish, and all high over-head sailing away at evening, laden and
wearied, to their straw-roofed skeps in many a hamlet-garden. The leal
of every tree, shrub, and plant, she knew familiarly and lovingly in its
own characteristic beauty; and was loath to shake one dew-drop from
the sweetbriar-rose. And well she knew that all nature loved her in
return--that they were dear to each other in their innocence--and that
the very sunshine, in motion or in rest, was ready to come at the
bidding of her smiles. Skilful those small white hands of hers among
the reeds, and rushes, and osiers--and many a pretty flower-basket
grew beneath their touch, her parents wondering on their return home
to see the handiwork of one who was never idle in her happiness.
Thus, early--ere yet but five years old--did she earn her mite for
the sustenance of her own beautiful life! The russet garb she wore she
herself had won--and thus Poverty, at the door of that hut, became even
like a Guardian Angel, with the lineaments of heaven on her brow, and
the quietude of heaven beneath her feet.
But these were but her lonely pastimes, or gentle task-work self-imposed
among her pastimes; and itself, the sweetest of them all, inspired by a
sense of duty, that still brings with it its own delight--and hallowed
by religion, that even in the most adverse lot changes slavery into
freedom--till the heart, insensible to the bonds of necessity, sings
aloud for joy. The life within the life of the "Holy Child," apart from
even such innocent employments as these, and from such recreations as
innocent, among the shadows and the sunshine of those silvan haunts,
was passed, let us fear not to say the truth, wondrous as such worship
was in one so very young--was passed in the worship of God; and her
parents--though sometimes even saddened to see such piety in a small
creature like her, and afraid, in their exceeding love, that it
betokened an early removal from this world of one too perfectly pure
ever to be touched by its sins and sorrows--forbore, in an awful pity,
ever to remove the Bible from her knees, as she would sit with it there,
not at morning and at evening only, or all the Sabbath long as soon as
they returned from the kirk, but often through all the hours of the
longest and sunniest week-days, when there was nothing to hinder her
from going up to the hillside, or down to the little village, to play
with the other children, always too happy when she appeared--nothing to
hinder her but the voice she heard speaking to her in that Book, and the
hallelujahs that, at the turning over of each blessed page, came upon
the ear of the "Holy Child" from white-robed saints all kneeling before
His throne in heaven!
* * * * *
THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS_.
* * * * *
ROMANCE OF HISTORY.
_France. By Leitch Ritchie_.
The design of moulding the romantic annals of different countries into
so many series of Tales--is one of unquestionable beauty. It originated,
we believe, with the late Mr. Henry Neele, who was in every sense well
qualified for so poetical an exercise of ingenuity. He commenced with
"England;" but, unfortunately, did not live to complete a Second Series;
neither had he the gratification of seeing his design fully appreciated
by the public. The "Romantic Annals of England," on their first
appearance, made but slow progress in popularity: the author trusted,
and the publisher hoped, and, to use a publishing phrase, the work
gradually made its way--slow but sure--if we may judge from the
wished-for "new editions." How unlike is this course of favour to the
blaze of fashionable annals, or novels of high life, that are born and
die in a day, or with one reading circle of a subscription library. They
strut and fume in the publisher's newspaper puffs; but their light is
put out within a few brief hours, and they are laid to sleep on the
capacious shelves of the publisher's warehouse. Not so with the Tales of
Historical Romance: they have fancy enough to embellish sober fact.
The _second_ series--_Spain_--is from a Spanish hand of some
pretension, but less power than that of Mr. Neele.
The _third_ series--_France_--by another hand, is now before us.
In his advertisement, the author says, when he undertook the present
series, "he proposed to himself to fulfil what 'the Romance of History'
seemed to require, by presenting a succession of romantic pictures
illustrative of the historical manners of the French Nation." We incline
to his conception of the task. He further notes that "he has taken pains
to go for information to the original sources of French History. These
he found in reasonable abundance, in the old Collegiate Library of Caen,
and in the British Museum." There are in the Series nineteen Tales,
with historical summaries where requisite for their elucidation.
The titles are irresistible invitations--as Bertha, or the Court
of Charlemagne--Adventures of Eriland--the Man-Wolf--the Phantom
Fight--the Magic Wand--the Dream Girl, &c. Their style may be called
spirit-stirring, while it has much of the graceful prettiness of
love-romance.--The author, too, has caught the very air of chivalric
times, and his pages glitter with the points of their glories;--not
unseasonably mixed with the delightful quaintnesses and descriptive
minuteness of the old chroniclers.
To condense either of the stories would be neither advantageous to the
author nor reader. We therefore extract a scene or two from "the
Bondsman's Feast," and an exquisite portrait of "the Dream Girl:"--
_The Bondsman's Feast._
Arthault's only child was a son, who owed nothing to his father but the
prospect of a fair inheritance, for he was little like him in form, and
not at all in mind: he was a fine, manly, generous, and high-spirited
youth--such as would have been thought too early born, had his
appearance been made before the hereditary servility of his family was
forgotten. The knight, too, had an only child, a daughter; who, in
personal appearance and moral qualities, contrasted in as remarkable a
manner with her father. She was little almost to a fault, in the
standard of beauty, if there be such a thing; her form was moulded with
a delicacy, which gave the idea of one of those aërial shapes that dance
in the beam of poesy: and there was that gentle and refined playfulness
of expression in her fair countenance, which artists have loved to
picture in the nymphs of some silvan goddess, whose rudest employment
is to chase one another on the green bank, or sport in the transparent
wave.
Guillaume loved the beautiful bourgeoise before he knew that such love
was a condescension; and Amable, when, on being desired by her father
to refuse her heart to Guillaume, she thought of inquiring whether she
possessed such a thing at all, started with surprise to find that she
had given it away to the knight's son long ago. But where was the use of
repining? Guillaume was young, and handsome, and generous, and brave;
and what harm could befall her heart in such keeping? Amable turned away
from her father with a light laugh, and a light step, and stealing
skippingly round the garden wall--for already the paternal prohibitions
had gone forth--bounded towards a grove of wild shrubs at the farther
end.
The trees were bathed in sunlight; the air was filled with the song of
birds; the face of heaven was undimmed by a single spot of shade, and
the earth was green, and sparkling, and beautiful beneath. Such was the
scene around her; but in Amable's mind, a warmer and brighter sun shed
its light upon her maiden dreams, and the voice of the sweet, rich
singer Hope drowned the melody of the woods. "Away!" she thought; "it
cannot be that this strange, unkindly mood can endure; my father loves
his friend in spite of all, and the noble and generous knight could not
hate if he would. They shall not be a week apart when they will both
regret what has passed; and when they meet again, I will laugh them into
a confession that they have done so. Then the two friends will embrace;
and then Guillaume and I will sing, and dance, and read together
again--and then--and then--and then--" It seemed as if her thoughts had
run her out of breath; for at this point of the reverie she paused, and
hung back for a moment, while a sudden blush rose to her very eyes.
Soon, however, she recovered; she threw back her head gaily, and yet
proudly; legends of happy love crowded upon her memory, and minstrel
songs echoed in her ear; she bounded lightly into the wood, and as some
one, darting from behind a tree, caught her while she passed, Amable,
with the stifled scream of alarm, which maidens are wont to give when
they wish it unheard by all save one, found herself in the arms of
Guillaume. * * * *
This was a proud and a happy day for Arthault. His head was in the
clouds; he scarcely seemed to touch the earth with his feet; but yet,
with the strong control which worldly men are wont to exercise over
their feelings, he schooled his aspect into the bland and lowly
expression of grateful humility. When, in the early part of the morning,
the echoes of Nogent (the chateau) were awakened by a flourish of
trumpets, which proclaimed the approach of the Count, instead of waiting
to receive him in the arcade under the belfry, according to the common
usage of lords at that period,[4] he walked bare-headed to the gate of
the outer court, and, kneeling, held the prince's stirrup as he
dismounted.
The breakfast was served in cups and porringers of silver, set on a
magnificent gold tray, and consisted chiefly of milk made thick with
honey, peeled barley, cherries dried in the sun, and preserved
barberries. The bread was of the _mias_ cakes, composed of
rye-flour, cream, orange-water, and new-laid eggs;[5] and the whole was
distributed among the guests by Guillaume; the host himself having been
compelled to take his seat at table by the Count.
The morning was spent in viewing the improvements of the place,
and riding about the neighbourhood; and at ten o'clock the company
partook of a dinner served in the same style of tasteful magnificence.
The viands included, among other things, a lamb roasted whole, the head
of a wild boar covered with flowers, fried trouts, and poached eggs,
which were eaten with boiled radishes, and peas in their shells.[6]
A profusion of the precious metals graced the table, more especially in
drinking cups; those of horn, which were formerly in general use, having
about this period gone out of vogue. The luxury of forks, it is true,
had not yet been invented; but when it is remembered that the hands were
washed publicly, before and after meals, not as a fashionable form, but
in absolute earnest, it will not be feared that any indelicacy in the
feasters contrasted with the taste and splendour of the feast.[7]
The wines filled by Guillaume, who waited particularly on the Count,
besides the fashionable vin d'Aï of the district,[8] included the vin
de Beaume of Burgundy, the vin d'Orleans, so much prized by Louis le
Jeune, and the powerful vin de Rebrechien (another Orleans wine) which
used formerly to be carried to the field by Henry I. to animate his
courage.[9]
After dinner the guests partook of the amusement of the chase, which
afforded Arthault an opportunity of exhibiting, in all its extent, his
newly-acquired estates--and which, indeed, comprehended a great part of
the family property of Sansavoir; although the Count did not observe,
and therefore no one else was so ill-bred as to do so, an old blackened
building mouldering near the garden-wall, which Sir Launcelot had still
preserved, and where he continued to reside in a kind of dogged defiance
of his enemy.
The festivities of the day were closed by a splendid supper, attended by
music and minstrel songs; and when the sleeping cup had passed round,
the Count Henri retired to the chamber prepared for him, which he found
to be not at all inferior to his own in luxury and magnificence. Vessels
of gold, filled with rose-water, were placed on his dressing-table;
the curtains of the ample bed were ornamented with partridge plumes,
supposed to ensure to the sleeper a long and peaceful life; and, in
short, nothing was wanting that might have been deemed pleasing either
to the taste or superstition of the age.
We halt for the present with this foretaste of the gratification we
may calculate on receiving from nearly every page of the whole Series.
By the way, "the references to authorities for manners, &c. have been
introduced throughout the work, and occasionally, illustrative and
literary notes," at the request of the publisher; and we must not lose
this opportunity of complimenting the sense and good taste of the
suggestion.
[4] Gerard de Rousillon, MS. cited in Tristan le Voyageur.
[5] The paste formed of these materials was spread upon broad
cabbage leaves, which came out of the oven covered with a slight
golden crust, composing the mias cakes.--Tristan le Voyageur.
[6] Tristan le Voyageur. Boiled radishes, it may be important to
know, are an excellent substitute for asparagus!
[7] Forks did not come into use till the time of Charles V. in
the latter half of the fourteenth century. In France, these
instruments, both in silver and tinned iron, are made so as to
bear some resemblance to the fingers, of which they are the
substitutes, and they are used exclusively in the business of
conveying food to the mouth; while the knives, being narrow and
sharp-pointed, can answer no purpose but that of carving.--In
England the case is different. The steel forks, in common use
among the people, are incapable of raising thin viands to the
mouth: while the broad, round-pointed knife was obviously
intended for this business.
[8] The vin d'Aï, in Champagne, according to Patin, was called "Vinum
Dei," by Dominicus Bandius. It was the common drink of kings and
princes.--Paumier, Traité du Vin.
[9] Mabillon, Annales Benedictines.
* * * * *
THE GATHERER.
A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.
SHAKSPEARE.
A clergyman of the name of Mathson was minister of Patteesdale, in
Westmoreland, sixty years, and died at the age of ninety. During the
early part of his life, his benefice brought him in only twelve pounds
a-year; it was afterwards increased (perhaps by Queen Anne's bounty) to
eighteen, which it never exceeded. On this income he married, brought
up four children, and lived comfortably with his neighbours, educated
a son at the university, and left behind him upwards of one thousand
pounds. With that singular simplicity and inattention to forms which
characterize a country life, thus he himself read the burial service
over his mother, he married his father to a second wife, and afterwards
buried him also. He published his own banns of marriage in the church,
with a woman he had formerly christened, and he himself married all his
four children.
W.G.C.
* * * * *
THE POPE PUZZLED.
Pope Alexander the sixth asked the Venetian ambassador at Rome, "What
right his republic had to the dominion of the Adriatic See?" "It will be
found," replied he, "on the back of the donation of the patrimony of St.
Peter to his successors."
W.A.R.
* * * * *
CHANGING SIDES.
"I am come from Naples to support you," said one of the old opposition
one night to a member on the ministerial benches. "From Naples!" was the
ready rejoinder; "much farther--you are come from the other side of the
House!"
* * * * *
TO MOLLY.
Mollis abuti,
Has an acuti,
No lasso finis,
Molli divinis.
Omi de armistres,
Imi na distres.
Cant u discover,
Meas alo ver.--SWIFT.
* * * * *
KINGS OF FRANCE.
It is worthy of remark, that none of the Kings of France have been
succeeded by their sons for nearly two centuries. Phillippe, the present
King of the French, succeeded to the regal sway in consequence of the
dethronement of Charles the Tenth; who succeeded his brother, Louis
the Eighteenth; who succeeded his brother, Louis the Sixteenth; who
succeeded his grandfather, Louis the Fifteenth; who likewise succeeded
his grandfather, Louis the Fourteenth, when only five years of age.
H.B.A.
* * * * *
PANDORA'S BOX.
The Prince of Piedmont was not quite seven years old, when his
preceptor, Cardinal (then Father) Glendel, explained to him the fable of
Pandora's Box. He told him that all evils which afflict the human race
were shut up in that fatal box; which Pandora, tempted by Curiosity,
opened, when they immediately flew out, and spread themselves over the
surface of the earth.
"What, Father!" said the young prince, "were all the evils shut up in
that box?"
"Yes," answered the preceptor.
"That cannot be," replied the prince, "since Curiosity tempted Pandora;
and that evil, which could not have been in it, was not the least, since
it was the origin of all."
J.G.B.
* * * * *
SQUALL AT SEA.
The other evening a surgeon in the navy stated the following curious
circumstance:--