DEATH.
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BY MRS. C. H. W. ESLING.
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Death came to a beautiful boy at play,As he sat ’mong the summer flowers,But they seem’d to wither and die awayIn their very sunniest hours.“I have come,” in a hollow voice, said Death,“To play on the grass with thee;”But the boy look’d frighten’d, and held his breath,In the midst of his childish glee.“Away, away from my flowers,” he said,“For I know, and love thee not”—Death look’d at the boy, and shook his head:Then slowly he left the spot.He met a maiden in girlhood’s bloom,And the rose on her cheek was bright,And she shuddered, as tho’ a ghost from the tombHad risen before her sight.She stood by the brink of a fountain clear—In its waters her beauty view’d,When Death, with his haggard face, drew near,And before the maiden stood.“Fair damsel,” he said, with a courtly pride,“To thee I this goblet quaff,”But she turned with a buoyant step aside,And fled with a ringing laugh.He journey’d on, where an old man satOn the trunk of a worn-out tree—A poor old man—for his held-out hatWas a symbol of beggary.Death drew quite near, till the old man’s eyesWere raised to his wrinkled face;With a frighten’d look of wild surprise,He rose from his resting-place.“I come to succor,” Death mildly said,But the old man would depart—Again he look’d, and shook his head,For he knew full well his mart.“They all of them, shuddering, turn away—The boy in his childish glee,The maiden young, and the old man gray:Yet they all shall come to me.”And he gather’d them all, for the boy was weak—The old man yielded his breath—And the rose grew pale on the maiden’s cheek,As she sank in the arms of Death.
Death came to a beautiful boy at play,As he sat ’mong the summer flowers,But they seem’d to wither and die awayIn their very sunniest hours.“I have come,” in a hollow voice, said Death,“To play on the grass with thee;”But the boy look’d frighten’d, and held his breath,In the midst of his childish glee.“Away, away from my flowers,” he said,“For I know, and love thee not”—Death look’d at the boy, and shook his head:Then slowly he left the spot.He met a maiden in girlhood’s bloom,And the rose on her cheek was bright,And she shuddered, as tho’ a ghost from the tombHad risen before her sight.She stood by the brink of a fountain clear—In its waters her beauty view’d,When Death, with his haggard face, drew near,And before the maiden stood.“Fair damsel,” he said, with a courtly pride,“To thee I this goblet quaff,”But she turned with a buoyant step aside,And fled with a ringing laugh.He journey’d on, where an old man satOn the trunk of a worn-out tree—A poor old man—for his held-out hatWas a symbol of beggary.Death drew quite near, till the old man’s eyesWere raised to his wrinkled face;With a frighten’d look of wild surprise,He rose from his resting-place.“I come to succor,” Death mildly said,But the old man would depart—Again he look’d, and shook his head,For he knew full well his mart.“They all of them, shuddering, turn away—The boy in his childish glee,The maiden young, and the old man gray:Yet they all shall come to me.”And he gather’d them all, for the boy was weak—The old man yielded his breath—And the rose grew pale on the maiden’s cheek,As she sank in the arms of Death.
Death came to a beautiful boy at play,As he sat ’mong the summer flowers,But they seem’d to wither and die awayIn their very sunniest hours.
Death came to a beautiful boy at play,
As he sat ’mong the summer flowers,
But they seem’d to wither and die away
In their very sunniest hours.
“I have come,” in a hollow voice, said Death,“To play on the grass with thee;”But the boy look’d frighten’d, and held his breath,In the midst of his childish glee.
“I have come,” in a hollow voice, said Death,
“To play on the grass with thee;”
But the boy look’d frighten’d, and held his breath,
In the midst of his childish glee.
“Away, away from my flowers,” he said,“For I know, and love thee not”—Death look’d at the boy, and shook his head:Then slowly he left the spot.
“Away, away from my flowers,” he said,
“For I know, and love thee not”—
Death look’d at the boy, and shook his head:
Then slowly he left the spot.
He met a maiden in girlhood’s bloom,And the rose on her cheek was bright,And she shuddered, as tho’ a ghost from the tombHad risen before her sight.
He met a maiden in girlhood’s bloom,
And the rose on her cheek was bright,
And she shuddered, as tho’ a ghost from the tomb
Had risen before her sight.
She stood by the brink of a fountain clear—In its waters her beauty view’d,When Death, with his haggard face, drew near,And before the maiden stood.
She stood by the brink of a fountain clear—
In its waters her beauty view’d,
When Death, with his haggard face, drew near,
And before the maiden stood.
“Fair damsel,” he said, with a courtly pride,“To thee I this goblet quaff,”But she turned with a buoyant step aside,And fled with a ringing laugh.
“Fair damsel,” he said, with a courtly pride,
“To thee I this goblet quaff,”
But she turned with a buoyant step aside,
And fled with a ringing laugh.
He journey’d on, where an old man satOn the trunk of a worn-out tree—A poor old man—for his held-out hatWas a symbol of beggary.
He journey’d on, where an old man sat
On the trunk of a worn-out tree—
A poor old man—for his held-out hat
Was a symbol of beggary.
Death drew quite near, till the old man’s eyesWere raised to his wrinkled face;With a frighten’d look of wild surprise,He rose from his resting-place.
Death drew quite near, till the old man’s eyes
Were raised to his wrinkled face;
With a frighten’d look of wild surprise,
He rose from his resting-place.
“I come to succor,” Death mildly said,But the old man would depart—Again he look’d, and shook his head,For he knew full well his mart.
“I come to succor,” Death mildly said,
But the old man would depart—
Again he look’d, and shook his head,
For he knew full well his mart.
“They all of them, shuddering, turn away—The boy in his childish glee,The maiden young, and the old man gray:Yet they all shall come to me.”
“They all of them, shuddering, turn away—
The boy in his childish glee,
The maiden young, and the old man gray:
Yet they all shall come to me.”
And he gather’d them all, for the boy was weak—The old man yielded his breath—And the rose grew pale on the maiden’s cheek,As she sank in the arms of Death.
And he gather’d them all, for the boy was weak—
The old man yielded his breath—
And the rose grew pale on the maiden’s cheek,
As she sank in the arms of Death.
THE SAXON’S BRIDAL.
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BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” “RINGWOOD THE ROVER,” ETC.
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There are times in England, when the merry month of May is not, as it would now appear, merely a poet’s fiction; when the air is indeed mild and balmy, and the more conspicuously so, that it succeeds the furious gusts and driving hail-storms of the boisterous March, the fickle sunshine and capricious rains of April. One of these singular epochs in the history of weather it was, in which events occurred which remained unforgotten for many a day in the green wilds of Charnwood Forest. It was upon a soft, sweet morning, toward the latter end of the month, and surely nothing more delicious could have been conceived by the fancy of the poet. The low west wind was fanning itself among the tender leaves of the new-budded trees, and stealing over the deep meadows, all redolent with dewy wild flowers, waving them with a gentle motion, and borrowing a thousand perfumes from their bosoms; the hedgerows were as white with the dense blossoms of the hawthorn, as though they had been powdered over by an untimely snow-storm, while everywhere along the wooded banks, the saffron primrose and its sweet sister of the spring, the violet, were sunning their unnumbered blossoms in the calm warmth of the vernal sunshine. The heavens, of a pure transparent blue, were laughing with a genial lustre, not flooded by the dazzling glare of midsummer, but pouring over all beneath their influence a lovely, gentle light, in perfect keeping with the style of the young scenery, and all the air was literally vocal with the notes of innumerable birds, from the proud lark, “rejoicing at heaven’s gate,” to the thrush and blackbird, trilling their full, rich chants from every dingle, and the poor linnet, piping on the spray. Nothing—no, nothing—can be imagined that so delights the fancy with sweet visions, that so enthrals the senses, shedding its influences even upon the secret heart, as a soft old-fashioned May morning. Apart from the mere beauties of the scenery, from the mere enjoyment of the bright skies, the dewy perfumes that float on every breeze, the mild, unscorching warmth—apart from all these, there is something of a deeper and a higher nature in the thoughts called forth by the spirit of the time—a looking forward of the soul to fairer things to come, an excitement of a quiet hope within, not very definite perhaps, nor easily explained, but one which almost every man has felt, and contrasted with the languid and pallid satiety produced by the full heat of summer, and yet more with the sober and reflective sadness that steals upon the mind as we survey the russet hues and the sere leaves of autumn. It is as if the newness, the fresh youth of the season, gave birth to a corresponding youth of the soul. Such are the sentiments which many men feel now-a-days, besides the painter and the poet and the soul-rapt enthusiast of nature; but those were iron days of which we write, and men spared little time to thought from action or from strife, nor often paused to note their own sensations, much less to ponder on their origin or to investigate their causes. The morning was such as we have described—the scene a spot of singular beauty within the precincts of the then royal forest of Charnwood, in Leicestershire. A deep, but narrow stream, wound in a hundred graceful turns through the rich meadow-land that formed the bottom of a small sloping vale, which had been partially reclaimed, even at that day, from the waste, though many a willow bush fringing its margin, and many a waving ash, fluttering its delicate tresses in the air, betrayed the woodland origin of the soft meadow. A narrow road swept down the hill, with a course little less serpentine than that of the river below, and crossed it by a small one-arched stone bridge, overshadowed by a gigantic oak tree, and scaled the opposite acclivity in two or three sharp sandy zigzags. Both the hill sides were clothed with forest, but still the nature of the soil or some accidental causes had rendered the wood as different as possible, for on the further side of the stream, the ground was everywhere visible covered by a short mossy turf, softer and more elastic to the foot than the most exquisite carpet that ever issued from the looms of Persia, and overshadowed by huge and scattered oaks, growing so far apart that the eye could range far between their shadowy vistas; while on the nearer slope—the foreground, as it might be called, of the picture—all was a dense and confused mass of tangled shrubbery and verdure. Thickets of old gnarled thorn-bushes, completely overrun and matted with woodbines; coppices of young ash, with hazel interspersed, and eglantine and dog-roses thick set between; clumps of the prickly gorse and plume-like broom, all starry with their golden flowrets, and fern so wildly luxuriant that in many places it would have concealed the head of the tallest man, covered the ground for many a mile through which the narrow road meandered. There was one object more in view—one which spoke of man even in that solitude, and man in his better aspect—it was the slated roof and belfry, all overgrown with moss and stonecrop, of a small wayside chapel, in the old Saxon architecture, peering out from the shadows of the tall oaks which overhung it in the far distance. It was, as we have said, very small, in the old Saxon architecture, consisting, in fact, merely of a vaulted roof supported upon four squat massy columns, whence sprung the four groined ribs which met in the centre of the arch. Three sides alone of this primitive place of worship, which would have contained with difficulty forty persons, were walled in, the front presenting one wide open arch, richly and quaintly sculptured with the indented wolf’s teeth of the first Saxon style. Small as it was, however, the little chapel had its high altar, with the crucifix and candle, its reading desk of old black oak, its font and pix and chalices, and all the adjuncts of the Roman ritual. A little way to the left might be discovered the low thatched eaves of a rustic cottage, framed of the unbarked stems of forest trees, the abode, probably, of the officiating priest, and close beside the walls of the little church a consecrated well, protected from the sun by a stone vault, of architecture corresponding to the chapel.
Upon the nearer slope, not far from the road-side, but entirely concealed from passers by the nature of the ground and the dense thickets, there were collected, at an early hour of the morning, five men with as many horses, who seemed to be awaiting, in a sort of ambush, some persons whom they would attack at unawares. The leader of the party, as he might be considered, as much from his appearance as from the deference shown to him by the others, was a tall, active, powerful man, of thirty-eight or forty years, with a bold and expressive countenance—expressive, however, of no good quality, unless it were the fiery, reckless daring which blazed from his broad dark eye, and that was almost obscured by the cloud of insufferable pride which lowered upon his frowning brow, and by the deep scar-like lines of lust and cruelty and scorn which ploughed his weather-beaten features. His dress was a complete suit of linked chain-mail, hauberk and sleeves and hose, with shoes of plaited steel and gauntlets wrought in scale, covering his person from his neck downward in impenetrable armor. He had large gilded spurs buckled upon his heels, and a long two-edged dagger, with a rich hilt and scabbard, in his belt; but neither sword nor lance, nor any other weapon of offence except a huge steel mace, heavy enough to fell an ox at a single blow, which he grasped in his right hand, while from his left hung the bridle of a tall coal-black Norman charger, which was cropping the grass quietly beside him. His head was covered by a conical steel cap, with neither crest nor plume nor visor, and mail hood falling down from it to protect the neck and shoulders of the wearer. The other four were men-at-arms, clad all in suits of armor, but less completely than their lord; thus they had steel shirts only, with stout buff breeches and heavy boots to guard their lower limbs, and iron scull caps only, without the hood, upon their heads, and leather gauntlets upon their hands; but, as if to make up for this deficiency, they were positively loaded with offensive weapons—they had the long two-handed sword of the period belted across their persons, three or four knives and daggers of various size and strength at their girdles, great battle-axes in their hands, and maces hanging at their saddle-bows. They had been tarrying there already several hours, their leader raising his eyes occasionally to mark the progress of the sun as he climbed up the azure vault, and muttering a brief and bitter curse as hour passed after hour, and those came not whom he expected.
“Danian,” he said at length, turning to the principal of his followers, who stood nearer to his person and a little way apart from the others—“Danian, art sure this was the place and day? How the dog Saxons tarry—can they have learnt our purpose?”
“Surely not—surely not, fair sir,” returned the squire, “seeing that I have mentioned it to no one, not even to Raoul, or Americ, or Guy, who know no more than their own battle-axes the object of their ambush. And it was pitch dark when we left the castle, and not a soul has seen us here; so it is quite impossible they should suspect—and hark! there goes the bell; and see, sir, see—there they come trooping through the oak trees down the hill!”
And indeed, as he spoke, the single bell of the small chapel began to chime with the merry notes that proclaim a bridal, and a gay train of harmless, happy villagers might be seen, as they flocked along, following the footsteps of the gray-headed Saxon monk, who, in his frock and cowl, with corded waist and sandalled feet, led the procession. Six young girls followed close behind him, dressed in blue skirts and russet jerkins, but crowned with garlands of white May flowers, and May wreaths wound like scarfs across their swelling bosoms, and hawthorn branches in their hands, singing the bridal carol in the old Saxon tongue, in honor of the pride of the village, the young and lovely Marian. She was indeed the very personification of all the poet’s dreams of youthful beauty; tall and slender in her figure, yet exquisitely, voluptuously rounded in every perfect outline, with a waist of a span’s circumference, wide sloping shoulders, and a bust that, for its matchless swell, as it struggled and throbbed with a thousand soft emotions, threatening to burst from the confinement of her tight-fitting jacket, would have put to shame the bosom of the Medicean Venus. Her complexion, wherever the sun had not too warmly kissed her beauties, was pure as the driven snow, while her large, bright blue eyes, red laughing lip, and the luxuriant flood of sunny golden hair, which streamed down in wild, artless ringlets to her waist, made her a creature for a prince’s, or more, a poet’s adoration. But neither prince nor poet was the god of that fair girl’s idolatry; but one of her own class, a Saxon youth, a peasant—nay, a serf—from his very cradle upward the born thrall of Hugh de Mortemar, lord of the castle and the hamlet at its foot, named, from its situation in the depths of Charnwood, Ashby in the Forest. But there was now no graven collar about the sturdy neck of the young Saxon, telling of a suffering servitude; no dark shade of gloom in his full glancing eye; no sullen doggedness upon his lip, for he was that day, that glad day, a freeman—a slave no longer—but free, free, by the gift of his noble master—free as the wild bird that sung so loudly in the forest—free as the liberal air that bore the carol to his ears. His frock of forest green and buskins of the untanned deer-hide set off his muscular, symmetrical proportions, and his close-curled short auburn hair showed a well turned and shapely head. Behind this gay and happy pair came several maids and young men, two and two, and after these an old gray-headed man, the father of the bride, and leaning on his arm an aged matron, the widowed mother of the enfranchised bridegroom.
Merrily rung the gay, glad bells, and blithely swelled up the bridal chorus as they collected on the little green before the ancient arch, and slowly filed into the precincts of the forest shrine; but very speedily their merriment was changed into dismay and terror and despair, for scarcely had they passed into the sacred building, before the knight, with his dark followers, leaped into their saddles, and thundering down the hill at a tremendous gallop, surrounded the chapel before the inmates had even time to think of any danger. It was a strange, wild contrast, the venerable priest within pronouncing even then the nuptial blessing, and proclaiming over the bright young pair the union made by God, which thenceforth no man should dissever—the tearful happiness of the blushing bride, the serious gladness of the stalwart husband, the kneeling peasantry, the wreaths of innocent flowers; and at the gate the stern, dark men-at-arms, with their scarred savage features, and their gold-gleaming harness and raised weapons. A loud shriek burst from the lips of the sweet girl, as, lifting her eyes to the sudden clang and clatter that harbingered those dread intruders, she saw and recognized upon the instant the fiercest of the Norman tyrants—dreaded by all his neighbors far and near, but most by the most virtuous and young and lovely—the bold, bad Baron of Maltravers. He bounded to the earth as he reached the door, and three of his followers leaped from their horses likewise, one sitting motionless in his war-saddle, and holding the four chargers. “Hold, priest!” he shouted, as he entered, “forbear this mummery; and thou, dog Saxon, think not that charms like these are destined to be clasped in rapture by any arms of thy low slavish race!” and with these words he strode up to the altar, seemingly fearless of the least resistance, while his men kept the door with brandished weapons. Mute terror seized on all, paralyzed utterly by the dread interruption—on all but the bold priest and the stout bridegroom.
“Nay, rather forbear thou, Alberic de Maltravers! These two are one forever—wo be to those who part them!”
“Tush, priest—tush, fool!” sneered the fierce Baron, as he seized him by the arm, and swinging him back rudely, advanced upon the terrified and weeping girl, who was now clinging to the very rails of the high altar, trusting, poor wretch, that some respect for that sanctity of place which in old times had awed even heathens, might now prevail with one whom no respect for anything divine or human had ever yet deterred from doing his unholy will.
“Ha! dog!” cried he, in fiercer tones, that filled the chapel as it were a trumpet, seeing the Saxon bridegroom lift up a heavy quarter-staff which lay beside him, and step in quietly but very resolutely in defence of his lovely wife—“Ha! dog and slave, dare you resist a Norman and a noble?—back, serf, or die the death!” and he raised his huge mace to strike him.
“No serf, sir, nor slave either,” returned the Saxon, firmly, “but a freeman, by my good master’s gift, and a landholder.”
“Well, master freeman and landholder,” replied the other, with a bitter sneer, “if such names please you better, stand back—for Marian lies on no bed but mine this night—stand back, before worse come of it!”
“I will die rather”—was the answer—“Then die! fool! die!” shouted the furious Norman, and with the words he struck full at the bare brow of the dauntless Saxon with his tremendous mace—it fell, and with dint that would have crushed the strongest helmet into a thousand splinters—it fell, but by a dexterous sleight the yeoman swung his quarter-staff across the blow, and parried its direction, although the tough ash pole burst into fifty shivers—it fell upon the carved rails of the altar and smashed them into atoms; but while the knight who had been somewhat staggered by the impetus of his own misdirected blow, was striving to recover himself, the young man sprang upon him, and grappling him by the throat, gained a short-lived advantage. Short-lived it was indeed, and perilous to him that gained—for although there were men enough in the chapel, all armed with quarter-staves, and one or two with the genuine brown bill, to have overpowered the four Normans, despite their war array—yet so completely were they overcome by consternation, that not one moved a step to aid him; the priest, who had alone showed any spark of courage, being impeded by the shrieking women, who, clinging to the hem of his vestments, implored him for the love of God to save them.
In an instant that fierce grapple was at an end, for in the twinkling of an eye, two of the men-at-arms had rushed upon him and dragged him off their lord.
“Now by the splendor of God’s brow,” shouted the enraged knight, “thou art a sweet dog thus to brave thy masters. Nay! harm him not. Raoul,”—he went on—“harm not the poor dog,”—as his follower had raised his battle axe to brain him,—“harm him not, else we should raise the ire of that fool, Mortemar! Drag him out—tie him to the nearest tree, and this good priest beside him—before his eyes we will console this fair one.” And with these words he seized the trembling girl, forcing her from the altar, and encircling her slender waist in the foul clasp of his licentious arms. “And ye,” he went on, lashing himself into fury as he continued,—“and ye churl Saxons, hence!—hence dogs and harlots to your kennels!”
No further words were needed, for his orders were obeyed by his own men with the speed of light, and the Saxons overjoyed to escape on any terms, rushed in a confused mass out of the desecrated shrine, and fled in all directions, fearful of further outrage.—Meanwhile, despite the struggles of the youth, and the excommunicating anathemas which the priest showered upon their heads, the men-at-arms bound them securely to the oak trees, and then mounting their horses, sat laughing at their impotent resistance, while with a refinement of brutality worthy of actual fiends, Alberic de Maltravers bore the sweet wife clasped to his iron breast, up to the very face of her outraged, helpless husband, and tearing open all her jerkin, displayed to the broad light the whole of her white, panting bosom, and poured from his foul, fiery lips a flood of lustful kisses on her mouth, neck, and bosom, under the very eyes of his tortured victim. To what new outrage he might have next proceeded, must remain ever doubtful, for at this very instant the long and mellow blast of a clearly winded bugle came swelling through the forest succeeded by the bay of several bloodhounds, and the loud, ringing gallop of many fast approaching.
“Ha!” shouted he, “ten thousand curses on him; here comes de Mortemar. Quick—quick—away! Here, Raoul, take the girl, buckle her tight to your back with the sword-belt, and give me your two-handed blade; I lost my mace in the chapel!—That’s right! quick! man—that’s right—now, then, be off—ride for your life—straight to the castle; we will stop all pursuit. Fare thee well, sweet one, for a while—we will conclude hereafter what we have now commenced so fairly!”
And as he spoke, he also mounted his strong charger, and while the man, Raoul, dashed his spurs rowel-deep into his horse’s flanks, and went off at a thundering gallop, the other four followed him at a slower pace, leaving the Saxons in redoubled anguish—redoubled by the near hope of rescue.
But for once villany was not permitted to escape due retribution, for ere the men-at-arms, who led the flight, had crossed the little bridge, a gallant train came up at a light canter from the wood, twenty or thirty archers, all with their long bows bent, and their arrows notched and ready, with twice as many foresters on foot, with hounds of every kind, in slips and leashes, and at their head a man of as noble presence as ever graced a court or reined a charger. He was clad in a plain hunting frock of forest green, with a black velvet bonnet and a heron’s plume, and wore no other weapon but a light hunting sword—but close behind him rode two pages, bearing his knightly lance with its long pennon, his blazoned shield, and his two-handed broadsword. It was that brave and noble Norman, Sir Hugh de Mortemar. His quick eye in an instant took in the whole of the confused scene before him, and understood it on the instant.
“Alberic de Maltravers!” he cried, in a voice clear and loud as the call of a silver trumpet, “before God he shall rue it,” and with the words he snatched his lance from the page, and dashing spurs into his splendid Spanish charger, thundered his orders out with the rapid rush of a winter’s torrent. “Bend your bows, archers,—draw home your arrows to the head! stand, thou foul ravisher, dishonored Norman, false gentleman, and recreant knight! Stand on the instant, or we shoot! Cut loose the yeoman from the tree, ye varlets, and the good priest. Randal, cast loose the bloodhounds down to the bridge across yon knoll, and lay them on the track of that flying scoundrel. Ha! they will meet us.”
And so in truth they did, for seeing that he could not escape the deadly archery, Alberic de Maltravers wheeled short on his pursuers, and shouted his war-cry—“Saint Paul for Alberic!—false knight and liar in your throat. Saint Paul! Saint Paul! charge home,”—and with the words the steel-clad men-at-arms drove on, expecting by the weight of their harness to ride down and scatter the light archery like chaff. Unarmed although he was, De Mortemar paused not—not for a moment!—but galloped in his green doublet as gallantly upon his foe as though he had been sheathed in steel. He had but one advantage—but one hope!—to bear his iron-clad opponent down at the lance point, without closing—on! they came, on!—Maltravers swinging his two-handed sword aloft, and trusting in his mail to turn the lance’s point—de Mortemar with his long spear in rest—“Saint Paul! Saint Paul!”—they met! the dust surged up in a dense cloud! the very earth appeared to shake beneath their feet!—but not a moment was the conflict doubtful.—Deep! deep! through his linked mail, and through his leathern jerkin, and through his writhing flesh, the grinded spear head shove into his bosom, and came out at his back, the ash staff breaking in the wound. Down he went, horse and man!—and down, at one close volley of the grey goose shafts, down went his three companions!—one shot clear through the brain by an unerring shaft—the others stunned and bruised, their horses both slain under them. “Secure them,” shouted Hugh, “bind them both hand and foot, and follow,”—and he paused not to look upon his slain assailant, but galloped down the hill, followed by half his train, the bloodhounds giving tongue fiercely, and already gaining on the fugitive. It was a fearful race, but quickly over!—for though the man-at-arms spurred desperately on, his heavy Norman horse, oppressed, moreover, by his double load, had not a chance in competing with the proud Andalusian of de Mortemar. Desperately he spurred on—but now the savage hounds were up with him—they rushed full at the horse’s throat and bore him to the earth—another moment, Raoul was a bound captive, and Marian, rescued by her liege lord, and wrapt in his own mantle, was clasped in the fond arms of her husband!
“How now, good priest,” exclaimed sir Hugh, “are these two now fast wedded?”
“As fast, fair sire, as the holy rites may wed them.”
“Then ring me, thou knave, Ringan, a death peal! Thou, Gilbert, and thou, Launcelot, make me three halters, quick—nay! four—the dead knight shall swing, as his villainy well merits, beside the living knaves!—Sing me a death chant, priest, for these are judged to death, unhouselled and unshriven!”
Not a word did the ruffians answer, they knew that prayer was useless, and with dark frowning brows, and dauntless bearing, they met their fate, impenitent and fearless. For Marian begged their lives in vain. De Mortemar was pitiless in his just wrath! And the spurs were hacked from the heels of the dead knight, and the base halter twisted round his cold neck, and his dishonored corpse hung up upon the very tree to which he had bade bind the Saxon bridegroom. And the death peals were sung, and the death hymn was chanted; and ere the sounds of either had died away in the forest echoes, the three marauders writhed out their villain souls in the mild air, and swung three grim and ghastly monuments of a foul crime and fearful retribution—and this dread rite consummated the Saxon’s bridal!
WHY SHOULD I LOVE THEE?
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BY JOHN S. DU SOLLE.
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Why should I love thee? Thou so altered!So cold! so passionless! The handWhich erst so much at parting faltered—The cheek which blushed at meeting—andThe eyes whose eloquent depths of jet,So much of silence could redeem—They haunt me with their sweetness yet,But, oh! how changed they seem!Why should I love thee, thou false-hearted?Thou smil’st, but smil’st no more for me!The bloom hath not thy lip departed,Thy voice hath still its witchery.But looks and words, though they bewitch me,Can paint no love, where love is not;Thy very kindnesses but teach meHow much I am forgot!Why should I love thee? Why repine?Thy lip some other fond lip presses;Thine arm some other’s arms entwine;Thy cheek some other cheek caresses;And though to part with thee be sadness,Oh! God! how difficult to bear,To hope to win thee now were madness!To love thee were despair!
Why should I love thee? Thou so altered!So cold! so passionless! The handWhich erst so much at parting faltered—The cheek which blushed at meeting—andThe eyes whose eloquent depths of jet,So much of silence could redeem—They haunt me with their sweetness yet,But, oh! how changed they seem!Why should I love thee, thou false-hearted?Thou smil’st, but smil’st no more for me!The bloom hath not thy lip departed,Thy voice hath still its witchery.But looks and words, though they bewitch me,Can paint no love, where love is not;Thy very kindnesses but teach meHow much I am forgot!Why should I love thee? Why repine?Thy lip some other fond lip presses;Thine arm some other’s arms entwine;Thy cheek some other cheek caresses;And though to part with thee be sadness,Oh! God! how difficult to bear,To hope to win thee now were madness!To love thee were despair!
Why should I love thee? Thou so altered!So cold! so passionless! The handWhich erst so much at parting faltered—The cheek which blushed at meeting—andThe eyes whose eloquent depths of jet,So much of silence could redeem—They haunt me with their sweetness yet,But, oh! how changed they seem!
Why should I love thee? Thou so altered!
So cold! so passionless! The hand
Which erst so much at parting faltered—
The cheek which blushed at meeting—and
The eyes whose eloquent depths of jet,
So much of silence could redeem—
They haunt me with their sweetness yet,
But, oh! how changed they seem!
Why should I love thee, thou false-hearted?Thou smil’st, but smil’st no more for me!The bloom hath not thy lip departed,Thy voice hath still its witchery.But looks and words, though they bewitch me,Can paint no love, where love is not;Thy very kindnesses but teach meHow much I am forgot!
Why should I love thee, thou false-hearted?
Thou smil’st, but smil’st no more for me!
The bloom hath not thy lip departed,
Thy voice hath still its witchery.
But looks and words, though they bewitch me,
Can paint no love, where love is not;
Thy very kindnesses but teach me
How much I am forgot!
Why should I love thee? Why repine?Thy lip some other fond lip presses;Thine arm some other’s arms entwine;Thy cheek some other cheek caresses;And though to part with thee be sadness,Oh! God! how difficult to bear,To hope to win thee now were madness!To love thee were despair!
Why should I love thee? Why repine?
Thy lip some other fond lip presses;
Thine arm some other’s arms entwine;
Thy cheek some other cheek caresses;
And though to part with thee be sadness,
Oh! God! how difficult to bear,
To hope to win thee now were madness!
To love thee were despair!
A BELLE AT A BALL.
———
BY F. W. THOMAS, AUTHOR OF “HOWARD PINCKNEY,” ETC.
———
Miss Merry vale is dressed with taste—With taste she always dresses—A zone is round her virgin waist,And flowers in her tresses;That full-blown fellow, in her curl,Bobs with an everlasting twirl,As, with an air like Juno’s, sheNods to the goodly companie.Prouder it looks than when on highIt flouted at a flaming sky;For now, no more on thorny stem,It graces beauty’s diadem.Her neck is bare—her shoulders too,And with the cold they had been blue,But for the flakes of mealy hue—The powder of the pearl—Which, like the frost on frozen shore,Or web of gossamer, was o’erThe fascinating girl.Deepest the drift in hollow places.Thus maids forsaken by the graces,And thin with hope deferred—(I only speak from what I’ve heard;So little of the sex I’ve seen,I hold each one a fairyquean—)Appear in such a garb of flour,And talk with such continuous power,And try to look so dapper,That one might think the miller’s maidHad come, most naturally arrayed,And bore away the clapper.That powder is a great transgressionAgainst the rosy cheek;It buries up the whole expression;It makes the eye look weak,Unnatural the tress;And throws upon the brow a blight,As though it had grown gray with frightAt single blessedness.Pray who would such a woman toast?Unless he meant to drink to oneLong, long since with the buried gone,And now an awful ghost?Which, like all ghosts that earthward rove,Must horrify the hues of love.
Miss Merry vale is dressed with taste—With taste she always dresses—A zone is round her virgin waist,And flowers in her tresses;That full-blown fellow, in her curl,Bobs with an everlasting twirl,As, with an air like Juno’s, sheNods to the goodly companie.Prouder it looks than when on highIt flouted at a flaming sky;For now, no more on thorny stem,It graces beauty’s diadem.Her neck is bare—her shoulders too,And with the cold they had been blue,But for the flakes of mealy hue—The powder of the pearl—Which, like the frost on frozen shore,Or web of gossamer, was o’erThe fascinating girl.Deepest the drift in hollow places.Thus maids forsaken by the graces,And thin with hope deferred—(I only speak from what I’ve heard;So little of the sex I’ve seen,I hold each one a fairyquean—)Appear in such a garb of flour,And talk with such continuous power,And try to look so dapper,That one might think the miller’s maidHad come, most naturally arrayed,And bore away the clapper.That powder is a great transgressionAgainst the rosy cheek;It buries up the whole expression;It makes the eye look weak,Unnatural the tress;And throws upon the brow a blight,As though it had grown gray with frightAt single blessedness.Pray who would such a woman toast?Unless he meant to drink to oneLong, long since with the buried gone,And now an awful ghost?Which, like all ghosts that earthward rove,Must horrify the hues of love.
Miss Merry vale is dressed with taste—With taste she always dresses—A zone is round her virgin waist,And flowers in her tresses;That full-blown fellow, in her curl,Bobs with an everlasting twirl,As, with an air like Juno’s, sheNods to the goodly companie.Prouder it looks than when on highIt flouted at a flaming sky;For now, no more on thorny stem,It graces beauty’s diadem.
Miss Merry vale is dressed with taste—
With taste she always dresses—
A zone is round her virgin waist,
And flowers in her tresses;
That full-blown fellow, in her curl,
Bobs with an everlasting twirl,
As, with an air like Juno’s, she
Nods to the goodly companie.
Prouder it looks than when on high
It flouted at a flaming sky;
For now, no more on thorny stem,
It graces beauty’s diadem.
Her neck is bare—her shoulders too,And with the cold they had been blue,But for the flakes of mealy hue—The powder of the pearl—Which, like the frost on frozen shore,Or web of gossamer, was o’erThe fascinating girl.Deepest the drift in hollow places.Thus maids forsaken by the graces,And thin with hope deferred—(I only speak from what I’ve heard;
Her neck is bare—her shoulders too,
And with the cold they had been blue,
But for the flakes of mealy hue—
The powder of the pearl—
Which, like the frost on frozen shore,
Or web of gossamer, was o’er
The fascinating girl.
Deepest the drift in hollow places.
Thus maids forsaken by the graces,
And thin with hope deferred—
(I only speak from what I’ve heard;
So little of the sex I’ve seen,I hold each one a fairyquean—)Appear in such a garb of flour,And talk with such continuous power,And try to look so dapper,That one might think the miller’s maidHad come, most naturally arrayed,And bore away the clapper.
So little of the sex I’ve seen,
I hold each one a fairyquean—)
Appear in such a garb of flour,
And talk with such continuous power,
And try to look so dapper,
That one might think the miller’s maid
Had come, most naturally arrayed,
And bore away the clapper.
That powder is a great transgressionAgainst the rosy cheek;It buries up the whole expression;It makes the eye look weak,Unnatural the tress;And throws upon the brow a blight,As though it had grown gray with frightAt single blessedness.Pray who would such a woman toast?Unless he meant to drink to oneLong, long since with the buried gone,And now an awful ghost?Which, like all ghosts that earthward rove,Must horrify the hues of love.
That powder is a great transgression
Against the rosy cheek;
It buries up the whole expression;
It makes the eye look weak,
Unnatural the tress;
And throws upon the brow a blight,
As though it had grown gray with fright
At single blessedness.
Pray who would such a woman toast?
Unless he meant to drink to one
Long, long since with the buried gone,
And now an awful ghost?
Which, like all ghosts that earthward rove,
Must horrify the hues of love.
MISFORTUNES OF A TIMID GENTLEMAN.
———
BY J. ROSS BROWNE.
———
No excuse is necessary for giving my autobiography to the public. It is true I am but a timid gentleman—a quiet, inoffensive sort of person, too diffident of my own powers to be celebrated, and too much averse to the bustle of the world to figure as a politician or public character of any sort; yet I cannot help thinking there are some passages in my life which will be read with profit.
I attained my eighteenth year without more reverses of fortune than usually attend a youth of romantic aspirations and of a poetic and visionary turn of mind. I was a curious mixture of boldness and timidity. My parents formerly lived in a very mountainous part of the country; and while most of my days were spent in daring exploits amidst crags and precipices, at night I trembled to meet, in the social circle of neighbors, a bright eye or a dimpled cheek. The extreme bashfulness with which I approached the other sex of my own age subjected me to a good deal of ridicule, and finally caused me, in self-defence, to ascribe my repugnance to their society to what was anything but the true cause—an intuitive hatred of womankind. And truly my conduct supported the assertion. Never was there a greater mope or a more decided book-worm. I pretended society had no charms for me. I affected to look with indifference on the most fascinating beauty. I shunned all intercourse with the daughters of the neighboring gentry. All this arose, in fact, from my excessive timidity. I never could look upon a young female, however common-place her attractions, without the utmost agitation. When I attempted to speak, I invariably blushed, and my heart beat violently. Thus unfortunately organized, I reached, as I observed before, my eighteenth year. Until this time I had kept almost entirely aloof from female society, and, as a matter of course, my heart was still my own.
For several years past I had lived in town. City life had no charms for me, but circumstances compelled me to make a virtue of necessity; and in studiously avoiding contact with the beautiful and accomplished beings who beset me on all sides, I found my leisure hours very well occupied. My parents urged upon me the necessity of mingling more in society. They assured me my awkwardness would soon give way to ease and grace if I did so, and spared no pains to show me how much depended on polished manners and a graceful demeanor. I had two sisters, accomplished and elegant. Every opportunity afforded by their extensive acquaintance and flattering popularity was at my disposal; but I could not overcome that diffidence which nature had implanted in me, and in spite of the solicitations of my family, I remained what I had always been—a timid, visionary youth.
Before the summer of my eighteenth year had passed away, I accidentally acquired the friendship of a middle aged gentleman, who had passed most of his life in the boudoir and drawing-room. Mr. Desmond was a warm-hearted, agreeable sort of person, deeply versed in books, but too good-natured to be pedantic, and too diffident to pique himself on the extent of his knowledge, which, in reality, was what prompted me to cultivate his acquaintance. At first our conversation was purely literary. I was charmed with the wonderful taste he displayed in criticising the literature of the day; but I soon found that his discrimination was not confined to topics of this nature. He discoursed fluently on scientific subjects, while with equal ease he could touch upon the tritest gossip afloat. Insensibly I found myself, a few evenings after our first meeting, listening with great delight to an exordium on the sex. I had never found any one whose sentiments respecting matters of this kind were so judicious and so happy. I felt the full force of every word he advanced in favor of cultivating the society of the amiable—the beautiful. My feelings, naturally ardent, were wrought to the highest pitch of excitement, and I fervently hoped my unfortunate temperament would not forever exclude me from the charms he so eloquently eulogised. Mr. Desmond, unlike the generality of my acquaintances, did not ridicule me. Indeed he kindly remarked, instead of regarding my excessive bashfulness as anything to my discredit, that he looked upon it as an evidence of a good heart and an amiable disposition, and trusted I would never stifle the best traits which nature had given me—a modest mien and a feeling mind. I felt exceedingly grateful for the interest he seemed to take in my welfare, and for the charitable opinion he expressed of my failings. At the same time he earnestly advised me to avoid as much as possible being too sensitive, and assured me that by pondering less, and mingling more in society, I would be not only happier, but better adapted to meet the cares of the world. Deeply impressed with the truth of this remark, I resolved to follow his advice, whatever might be the sacrifice on my part. An opportunity soon occurred. Like an unskilled skater beginning his career, I conceived it extremely fortunate that mydébutwas to be gradual. I was invited by Mr. Desmond to spend an evening with a few of his female acquaintances. I had heard him speak of the two Miss Melvilles as very amiable girls—angelic beings—modest, witty and intelligent; but I confess these exordiums, however warm and sincere from the mouth of Mr. Desmond, did not prepossess me in favor of the young ladies so enthusiastically described. There was something, however, in one of the names that struck my fancy. Virginia—a soft, pretty name, full of love and euphony—Virginia Melville! I really thought it extremely beautiful. And Emily, too—an exquisite name, but not so charming as Virginia. Virginia Melville, I fancied, could not but be pretty—interesting, at least. With a fluttering heart, I followed my friend into the drawing-room of Mrs. Melville’s residence, where I was introduced to the young sisters. My bashfulness was entirely overcome by the admiration which their charms and conversation excited. My most extravagant anticipations relative to the beauty of Virginia Melville were fully realized. I had never seen, had never conceived, a being so perfect—so angelic. She had not reached her sixteenth year, and nothing save her intelligent mind and fine intellectual eye bespoke a more matured age. Her figure was slight—almost ethereal—yet sufficiently developed to convey the idea of a budding rose. It left an impression on the mind of the beholder, that, while nothing could then add to its captivating gracefulness—nothing make it more perfect—time, by its mellowing influence, would increase the softness of the contour, and render that which seemed unrivalled still more exquisitely, transcendently beautiful. Timidly I raised my eyes to a countenance which I shall never forget. It was characterized by all the graces of physical and intellectual beauty combined; yet ineffable as the former were, they were truly eclipsed by the superior brilliancy of the latter. I had never dreamed of features so faultless, eyes so expressive, lips so sweet, and complexion so fair and ethereal. A high, pale forehead, a beautifully formed head, long silken hair of a dark brown, falling gracefully over a damask cheek and a swan-like neck, and finely pencilled eyebrows, under which were lashes and eyes of equal brilliancy, gave the whole countenance that intellectual cast so supremely, irresistibly fascinating, when combined
“with all youth’s sweet desires,Mingling the meek and vestal firesOf other worlds with all the bliss,The fond, weak tenderness of this!”
“with all youth’s sweet desires,Mingling the meek and vestal firesOf other worlds with all the bliss,The fond, weak tenderness of this!”
“with all youth’s sweet desires,Mingling the meek and vestal firesOf other worlds with all the bliss,The fond, weak tenderness of this!”
“with all youth’s sweet desires,
Mingling the meek and vestal fires
Of other worlds with all the bliss,
The fond, weak tenderness of this!”
I felt, deeply, passionately, the full influence of those charms I have so feebly attempted to describe. I felt, too—and oh! if ever that fair enchantress to whose power I have bowed—if ever she read these lines, I trust she will pardon my vanity—I felt that the being before me was formed for my happiness; that my fate depended on her; that my future career would be presided over by her image! Of all my fantasies, this may prove the most visionary; but before I moralize on future events, I must not omit a description of Emily Melville, the sister of my charmer.
Though both were extremely beautiful, no just comparison can be made between the attractions of Emily and Virginia Melville. Emily was nearly two years older than her sister, and doubtless that short space of time contributed to effect the difference which, while the family likeness was preserved, was so obvious in their style of beauty. Her figure was taller and fuller than her sister’s, and her features were characterized by an expression of serenity and loveliness truly bewitching. A superficial observer would pronounce her cold, but what appeared coldness was really mildness; and mildness was her ruling trait. There was a languid softness in her eye that contrasted beautifully with the bright, laughing eye of her sister. Hers was the eye of a Dudu—Virginia’s that of a Haidee; the one a fawn’s—the other a gazelle’s. I was not sorry to see that my friend seemed deeply interested in Miss Emily Melville. It is certainly not strange, if there is love at first sight, that there is also jealousy. I felt quite happy when I learned that, though surrounded by admirers, Virginia’s heart was untouched; and on this frail foundation I was foolish enough to build a castle. I imagined a thousand extravagant things, fully as romantic as impracticable. I fancied how happy I would be if I lived near a lonely little glen, in a charming little cottage, covered with nice little woodbines; how I would marry this lovely little maiden, and how she would be all my own, and how I would love her and be with her forever, and never say an ill-natured word to her; how we would spend our long summer evenings in rambling about a picturesque little park, which I intended to adorn with shrubs and deer; and, in short, how very, very happy we would be! how exceedingly pleasant would be our journey down the hill of life, and how we would both die together from sheer joy and old age! Oh, youth! child of fantasy, why lead’st thou into error?—why buoy us with visions which cannot be realized?
The evening passed away, and I am not quite sure that I was sorry when the hour of departure had arrived. The strange and overwhelming passion which had taken possession of my soul filled me with embarrassment, and aware that I acted ridiculously, it afforded much relief to escape. With Desmond I was abrupt, or silent and moody. I could not define my sensations, and chose rather to keep them to myself than to subject myself to any experimental advice, even from my bosom friend. Taking the earliest opportunity to get rid of him, I hurried to my room; but I could not sleep; I could not lie down. I sprang from my bed, and paced the chamber in a kind of ecstacy, absorbing but indescribable. I rushed to the window, bathed my brow in the cold moon-beams, and gazed rapturously on the spangled canopy above me. Everything looked beautiful. My breast expanded. I inhaled with delight the lucid night air, and fancied there never was a being so foolish and so happy. What an hour—what a theme for poetry! I had never written anything in verse, but what with moonshine and love, I could not fail to succeed. I opened my desk, carefully locked the door, and examined the room to be certain that none should witness my indiscretion. I then drew forth the writing instruments, and prepared to lose not a passing thought. After much difficulty I indited a line; but not another could I wrest from my distracted brain. I threw down my pen in despair, pushed my desk away, and heartily bemoaning my poetic barrenness, retired somewhat calmed to my bed. A gradual dormancy, entrancing, delightful, stole over my senses. I thought of Virginia Melville. I recalled every feature of her beautiful countenance; not a smile, not a word that had charmed me, were lost. I saw all, heard all again. Then the whole became confused. I roamed in a garden, where the hyacinth bloomed and the honeysuckle and woodbine gracefully twined round the oak, and the rose unfolded its young buds. The place was lonely—far from the haunts of man; yet the song of the linnet and the thrush enlivened its solitude, and I felt that I was not alone. And while I roamed in this Elysian garden, I espied a beautiful rose, a fairy-like rose, young and tender and blooming. And I approached it and gazed upon it, and methought it moved. I paused in wonder. I knelt me down on the green sward, and my eyes were fixed upon the rose. And I fancied it expanded to my view, and wore a beauteous form. In rapture I feasted on this fairy vision. I was silent. I felt the inadequacy of language to express my admiration; and I gazed, and my heart was full. The fairy-rose, with down-cast looks, smiled upon me. That smile betrayed it; I recognised in the disguise the features of her I loved. I was wild—enchanted. I snatched a leaf from a weeping willow, and inscribed thereon a verse. I flung it on the breeze, and it was borne to the hand of the beauteous vision. And whilst she read I trembled. A mystic veil now obscured my sight. Full of doubt, I rushed wildly from the spot. I bitterly deprecated my boldness. I imagined my love was offended. I strove to banish thought. I was unhappy. I could think of naught but the vision. Overcome with emotion, I returned to the garden. I sought the white rose. Again I gazed upon it, and again it assumed its magic form. The celestial countenance of the beauty was placid and pensive. I passionately implored forgiveness. A smile, a bewitching smile, played upon her lips, and her sparkling eyes beamed with tenderness. I rushed forward to clasp her to my bosom. The vision was no more—I held but a rose! I looked upon it and sighed. I bore it away, and cherished it as an emblem of my love. A long time seemed to elapse. I wore the rose next my heart, and thought of her I adored. “Oh!” I exclaimed, “why must this be?” I yearn to look once more upon the object of my thoughts. I can think of naught but her as I roam through life’s weary desert. Forever I think of her—forever my memory clings to the past:—