For to calamities so dreadful as might have disturbed the reason of the strongest minded, remorse was added, so just, so terrible, so overwhelming, that men actually marveled how he lived on and was not insane.
But I must not anticipate.
It was a short time after the failure of the Duke of Monmouth's weak and ungrateful attempt at revolution, a short time after the conclusion of the merciless and bloody butcheries of that disgrace to the English ermine, the ferocious Jefferies, that the incidents occurred, which I learned first on the evening subsequent to my discovery in the fatal summer-house.
At this time Allan Fitz-Henry—it was a singular proof, by the way, of the hereditary pride of this old Norman race, that having numbered among them so many friends and counsellors of monarchs, no one of their number had been found willing to accept titular honors, holding it a higher thing to be the premier gentleman than the junior peer of England—At this time, I say, Allan Fitz-Henry was a man of some forty-five or fifty years, well built and handsome, of courtly air and dignified presence; nor must it be imagined that in his fancied grievances he forgot to support the character of his family, or that he carried his griefs abroad with him into the world.
At times, indeed, he might be a little grave and thoughtful, especially at such times as he heard mention made of the promise or success of this or that scion of some noble house; but it was only within his own family circle, and to his most familiar friends, that he was wont to open his heart, and complain of his ill-fortune, at being the first childless father of his race—for so, in his contempt for the poor girls, whom he still, strange contradiction! loved fondly and affectionately, he was accustomed in his dark hours to style himself; as if forsooth an heir male were the only offspring worthy to be called the child of such a house.
Though he was fond, and gentle, and at times even tender to his motherless daughters—for, to do him justice, he never suffered a symptom of his disappointment and disgust to break out to their annoyance, yet was there no gleam of paternal satisfaction in his sad eye, no touch of paternal pride in his vexed heart, as he looked upon their graceful forms, and noted their growing beauties.
And yet they were a pair of whom the haughtiest potentate on earth might have been proud, and with justice.
Blanche and Agnes Fitz-Henry were at this time in their eighteenth and seventeenth years—but one summer having passed between their births, and their mother having died within a few hours after the latter saw the light.
They were, indeed, as lovely girls as the sun of merry England shone upon; and in those days it was stillmerryEngland, and famous then as now for the rare beauty of its women, whether in the first dawn of girlhood, or in the full-blown flush of feminine maturity.
Both tall, above the middle height of women, both exquisitely formed, with figures delicate and slender, yet full withal, and voluptuously rounded, with the long taper hands, the small and shapely feet and ankles, the swan-like necks, and classic heads gracefully set on, which are held to denote, in all countries, the predominance of gentle blood; when seen at a distance, and judged by the person only, it would have been almost impossible to distinguish the elder from the younger sister.
But look upon them face to face, and never, in all respects, were two girls of kindred race so entirely dissimilar. The elder, Blanche, was, as her name denotes, though ladies' names are oftentimes misnomers, a genuine English blonde. Her abundant and beautiful hair, trained to float down upon her snowy shoulders in silky masses of unstudied curls, was of the lightest golden brown. There was not a shade of red in its hues, although her complexion was of that peculiarly dazzling character which is common to red-haired persons; yet when the sun shone on its glistening waves, so brilliantly did the golden light flash from it, that you might almost have imagined there was a circlet of living glory above her clear white brow.
Her eyebrows and eyelashes were many shades darker than her hair, relieving her face altogether from that charge of insipidity which is so often, andfor the most part so truly, brought against fair-haired and fair-featured beauties. The eyes themselves, which those long lashes shrouded, were of the deepest violet blue; so deep, that at first sight you would have deemed them black, but for the soft and humid languor which is never seen in eyes of that color. The rest of her features were as near as possible to the Grecian model, except that there was a slight depression where the nose joins the brow, breaking that perfectly straight line of the classical face, which, however beautiful to the statue, is less attractive in life than the irregular outline of the northern countenance.
Her mouth, with the exception of—perhaps I should rather say in conjunction with—her eyes, was the most lovely and expressive feature in her face. There were twin dimples at its corners; yet was not its expression one of habitual mirth, but of tenderness and softness rather, unmixed, although an anchorite might have been pardoned the wish to press his lips to its voluptuous curve, with the slightest expression of sensuality.
Her complexion was, as I have said, dazzlingly brilliant; but it was the brilliance of the lily rather than of the rose, though at the least emotion, whether of pain or pleasure, the eloquent blood would rush, like the morning's glow over some snow-crowned Alp, across cheek, brow, and neck, and bosom, and vanish thence so rapidly, that ere you should have time to say, nay, even to think,
"Look! look how beautiful, 't was fled."
Such was the elder beauty, the destined heiress of the ancient house, the promised mother of a line of sons, who should perpetuate the name and hand down the principles of the Fitz-Henries to far distant ages. Such were the musings of her father,
Proh! cœca mens mortalium!
and at such times alone, if ever, a sort of doubtful pride would come to swell his hope, whispering that for such a creature, no man, however high or haughty, but would be willing to renounce the pride of birth, even untempted by the demesnes of Ditton-in-the-Dale, and many another lordly manor coupled to the time-honored name of Fitz-Henry.
Her sister, Agnes, though not less beautiful than Blanche—and there were those who insisted that she was more so—was as different from her, in all but the general resemblance of figure and carriage, as night is from morning, or autumn from early summer-time.
Her ringlets, not less profuse than Blanche's, and clustering in closer and more mazy curls, were as black as the raven's wing, and, like the feathers of the wild bird, were lighted up when the sun played on them with a sort of purplish and metallic gloss, that defies alike the pen of the writer, and the painter's pencil to depict to the eye.
Her complexion, though soft and delicate, was of the very darkest hue that is ever seen in persons of unmixed European blood; so dark that the very blood which would mantle to her cheek at times in burning blushes, was shaded, as it were, with a darker hue, like damask roses seen through the medium of a gold-tinted window-pane.
Her brows and lashes were as black as night, but, strange to say, the eyes that flashed from beneath them with an almost painful splendor, were of a clear, deep azure, less dark than those of the fairer sister, giving a singular and wild character to her whole face, and affecting the style of her beauty, but whether for the better or the worse it was for those who admired or shunned—and there were who took both parts—to determine. Her face was rounder and fuller than her sister's, and, in fact, this was true of her whole person—so much so that she was often mistaken for the elder—her features were less regular, her nose having a slight tendency to that form which has no name in our language, but which charmed all beholders in Roxana, asretroussie. Her mouth was as warm, as soft, as sweetly dimpled, but it was not free from that expression which Blanche's lacked altogether, and might have been blamed as too wooing and luxurious.
Such were the various characters of the sisters' personal appearance—the characters of their mental attributes were as distinctly marked, and as widely different.
Blanche was all gentleness and moderation from her very cradle—a delicate and tender child, smiling always, but rarely laughing; never boisterous or loud even in her childish plays. And as she grew older, this character became more definite, and was more strongly observed; she was a pensive, tranquil creature, not melancholy, much less sad—for she was awake to all that was beautiful or grand, all that was sweet or gentle in the face of nature, or in the history of man; and there was, perhaps, more real happiness concealed under her calm exterior, than is often to be found under the wilder mirth of merrier beings. Ever ready to yield her wishes to those of her friends or companions, many persons imagined that she had little will, and no fixed wishes, or deliberate aspirations—passionless and pure as the lily of the vale, many supposed that she was cold and heartless. Oh! ignorant! not to remember that the hearts of the fiercest volcanos boil still beneath a head of snow; and that it is even in the calmest and most moderate characters that passion once enkindled burns fierce, perennial and unquenchable! Thus far, however, had she advanced into the flower of fair maidenhood, undisturbed by any warmer dream than devoted affection toward her parent, whose wayward grief she could understand if she could not appreciate, and whom she strove by every gentle wile to wean from his morbid fancies; and earnest love toward her sister, whom she, indeed, almost adored—perhaps adored the more from the very difference of their minds, and for her very imperfections.
For Agnes was all gay vivacity, and petulance, and fire—so that her young companions, who sportively named Blanche the icicle, had christened her the sunbeam; and, in truth, if the first name were ill chosen, the second seemed to be an inspiration; for like a sunbeam that touched nothing but to illuminate it, like a sunbeam she played with all things, smiledon all things in their turn—like a sunbeam she brought mirth with her presence, and after her departure, left a double gloom behind her.
More dazzling than Blanche, she made her impression at first sight, and so long as the skies were clear, and the atmosphere unruffled, the sunbeam would continue to gild, to charm, to be worshiped. But if the time of darkness and affliction came, the gay sunbeam held aloof, while the poor icicle, melted from its seeming coldness, was ever ready to weep for the sorrows of those who had neglected her in the days of their happiness.
Unused to yield, high-spirited when crossed, yet carrying off even her stubbornness and quick temper by the brilliancy, the wit, the lively and bold audacity which she cast around them, Agnes ruled in her circle an imperious and despotic queen; while her slaves, even as they trembled before her half sportive but emphatic frown, did not suspect the sceptre of the tyrant beneath the spell of the enchantress.
Agnes, in one word, was the idol of the rich and gay; Blanche was the saint of the poor, the lowly, the sick, and those who mourn.
It may be that the peculiarity of her position, the neglect which she had always experienced from her father, and mediately from the hirelings of the household, ever prompt to pander to the worst feelings of their superiors—the consciousness that born co-heiress with her sister, she was doomed to sink into the insignificance of an undowered and uncared-for girl, had tended in some degree to form the character which Agnes had ever borne, and which alone she had displayed, until the period when my tale commences.
It may be that the consciousness of wrong endured, had hardened a heart naturally soft and tender, and rendered it unyielding and rebellious—it may be that injustice, endured at the hands of hirelings in early years, had engendered a spirit of resistance, and armed her mind and quickened her tongue against the world, which, as she fancied, wronged her. It may be, more than all, that a secret, perhaps an unconscious jealousy of her sister's superior advantages, not in the wretched sense of worldly wealth or position, but of the love and reverence of friends and kindred, had embittered her young soul, and caused her to cast over it a veil of light and wild demeanor, of free speech, and daring mirth, which had by degrees grown into habits, and become part and parcel of her nature.
If it were so, however, there were no outward indications that such was the case; for never were there seen two sisters more united and affectionate—nor would it have been easy to say on which side the balance of kindness preponderated. For if Blanche was ever the first to cede to her sister's wishes, and the last, in any momentary disappointment or annoyance, to speak one quick or unkind word, so was Agnes, with her expressive features, and flashing eye, and ready, tameless wit, prompt as light to avenge the slightest reflection cast on Blanche's tranquillity and coldness; and if at times a quick word or sharp retort broke from her lips, and called a tear to the eye of her calmer sister, not a moment would elapse before she would cast herself upon her neck and weep her sincere contrition, and be for hours an altered being; until her natural spirit would prevail, and she would be again the wild, mirthful madcap, whose very faults could call forth no keener reproach than a grave and thoughtful smile from the lips of those who loved her the most dearly.
Sad were the daughters of Allan Fitz-Henry—daughters whom not a peer in England but would have regarded as the brightest gems of his coronets, as the pride and ornament of his house; but whom, by a strange anomaly, their own father, full as he was of warm affections, and kindly inclinations, never looked upon but with a secret feeling of discontent and disappointment, that they were not other than they were: and with a half confessed conviction, that fair as they were, tender, and loving, graceful, accomplished, delicate and noble-minded, he could have borne to lay them both in the cold grave, so that a son could be given to the house, in exchange for their lost loveliness.
In outward demeanor, however, he was to his children all that a father should be; a little querulous at times, perhaps, and irritable, but fond, though not doting, and considerate; and I have wandered greatly from my intention, if any thing that I have said has been construed to signify that there existed the slightest estrangement between the father and his children—for had Allan Fitz-Henry but suspected the possibility of such a thing, he had torn the false pride, like a venomous weed, from his heart, and had been a wiser and a happier man. In his case it was the blindness of the heart that caused its partial hardness; but events were at hand, that should flood it with the clearest light, and melt it to more than woman's tenderness.
[To be continued.
On, in thy mission! 'T is a holy powerThat which thou wieldest o'er a people's heart:And wastes of mind, that never knew a flower,Bloom now and brighten, 'neath thy magic art.Hearthstones are cheerful that were chill before;And softened beams, like light that melteth throughThe stained glass of old cathedrals, pourStream upon stream of beauty. All that's true,All that is brave and beautiful, 't is thine—High office, high and holy! thus to shed,Sun-like, and sole, in shadow or in shine,Thoughts that bedew and rouse minds cold and dead,Startling the pulse that stirred not. This is thine! Be proudly humble: 't is a power divine!
New Orleans, October1, 1847.Altus.
We mere men of the world, with no principle—a very old-fashioned and cumbersome thing—should be on our guard lest, fancying him on his last legs, we insult, or otherwise maltreat some poor devil of a genius at the very instant of his putting his foot on the top round of his ladder of triumph. It is a common trick with these fellows, when on the point of attaining some long-cherished end, to sink themselves into the deepest possible abyss of seeming despair, for no other purpose than that of increasing the space of success through which they have made up their minds immediately to soar.
All that the man of genius demands for his exaltation is moral matter in motion. It makes no differencewhithertends the motion—whether for him or against him—and it is absolutely ofnoconsequence "whatis the matter."
In Colton's "American Review" for October, 1845, a gentleman, well known for his scholarship, has a forcible paper on "The Scotch School of Philosophy and Criticism." But although the paper is "forcible," it presents the most singular admixture of error and truth—the one dovetailed into the other, after a fashion which is novel, to say the least of it. Were I to designate in a few words what the whole article demonstrated, I should say "the folly of not beginning at the beginning—of neglecting the giant Moulineau's advice to his friend Ram." Here is a passage from the essay in question:
"The Doctors [Campbell and Johnson] both charge Pope with error and inconsistency:—error in supposing thatin English, of metrical lines unequal in the number of syllables and pronounced in equal times, the longer suggests celerity (this being the principle of the Alexandrine:)—inconsistency, in that Pope himself uses the same contrivance to convey the contrary idea of slowness. But why in English? It is not and cannot be disputed that, in the Hexameter verse of the Greeks and Latins—which is the model in this matter—what is distinguished as the 'dactylic line' was uniformly applied to express velocity. How was it to do so? Simply from the fact of being pronounced in an equal time with, while containing a greater number of syllables or 'bars' than the ordinary or average measure; as, on the other hand, the spondaic line, composed of the minimum number, was, upon the same principle, used to indicate slowness. So, too, of the Alexandrine in English versification. No, says Campbell, there is a difference: the Alexandrine is not in fact, like the dactylic line, pronounced in the common time. But does this alter the principle? What is the rationale of Metre, whether the classical hexameter or the English heroic?"
"The Doctors [Campbell and Johnson] both charge Pope with error and inconsistency:—error in supposing thatin English, of metrical lines unequal in the number of syllables and pronounced in equal times, the longer suggests celerity (this being the principle of the Alexandrine:)—inconsistency, in that Pope himself uses the same contrivance to convey the contrary idea of slowness. But why in English? It is not and cannot be disputed that, in the Hexameter verse of the Greeks and Latins—which is the model in this matter—what is distinguished as the 'dactylic line' was uniformly applied to express velocity. How was it to do so? Simply from the fact of being pronounced in an equal time with, while containing a greater number of syllables or 'bars' than the ordinary or average measure; as, on the other hand, the spondaic line, composed of the minimum number, was, upon the same principle, used to indicate slowness. So, too, of the Alexandrine in English versification. No, says Campbell, there is a difference: the Alexandrine is not in fact, like the dactylic line, pronounced in the common time. But does this alter the principle? What is the rationale of Metre, whether the classical hexameter or the English heroic?"
I have written an essay on the "Rationale of Verse," in which the whole topic is surveyedab initio, and with reference to general and immutable principles. To this essay (which will soon appear) I refer Mr. Bristed. In the meantime, without troubling myself to ascertain whether Doctors Johnson and Campbell are wrong, or whether Pope is wrong, or whether the reviewer is right or wrong, at this point or at that, let me succinctly state what isthe truthon the topics at issue.
And first; the same principles, inallcases, governallverse. What is true in English is true in Greek.
Secondly; in a series of lines, if one line contains more syllables than the law of the verse demands, and if, nevertheless, this line is pronounced in the same time, upon the whole, as the rest of the lines, then this line suggests celerity—on account of the increased rapidity of enunciation required. Thus in the Greek Hexameter the dactylic lines—those most abounding in dactyls—serve best to convey the idea of rapid motion. The spondaic lines convey that of slowness.
"Thirdly; it is a gross mistake to suppose that the Greek dactylic line is "the model in this matter"—the matter of the English Alexandrine. The Greek dactylic line is of the same number of feet—bars—beats—pulsations—as the ordinary dactylic-spondaic lines among which it occurs. But the Alexandrine is longer by one foot—by one pulsation—than the pentameters among which it arises. For its pronunciation it demandsmore time, and therefore,ceteris paribus, it would well serve to convey the impression of length, or duration, and thus, indirectly, of slowness. I sayceteris paribus. But, by varying conditions, we can effect a total change in the impression conveyed. When the idea of slowness is conveyed by the Alexandrine, it is not conveyed by any slower enunciation of syllables—that is to say, it is notdirectlyconveyed—but indirectly, through the idea oflengthin the whole line. Now, if we wish to convey, by means of an Alexandrine, the impression of velocity, we readily do so by giving rapidity to our enunciation of the syllables composing the several feet. To effect this, however, we must havemoresyllables, or we shall get through the whole line too quickly for the intended time. To get more syllables, all we have to do, is to use, in place of iambuses, what our prosodies call anapœsts.[1]Thus, in the line,
Flies o'er the unbending corn and skims along the main,
the syllables "the unbend" form an anapœst and, demanding unusual rapidity of enunciation, in order that we may get them in in the ordinary time of aniambus, serve to suggest celerity. By the elision ofeinthe, as is customary, the whole of the intended effect is lost; forth'unbendis nothing more than the usual iambus. In a word, wherever an Alexandrine expresses celerity, we shall find it to contain one or more anapœsts—the more anapœsts, the more decided the impression. But the tendency of the Alexandrine consisting merely of the usual iambuses, is to convey slowness—although it conveys this idea feebly, on account of conveying it indirectly. It follows, from what I have said, that the common pentameter, interspersed with anapœsts, would better convey celerity than the Alexandrine interspersed with them in a similar degree;—and it unquestionably does.
To converse well, we need the cool tact of talent—to talk well, the glowingabandonof genius. Men ofveryhigh genius, however, talk at one timeverywell, at anotherveryill:—well, when they have full time, full scope, and a sympathetic listener:—ill, when they fear interruption and are annoyed by the impossibility of exhausting the topic during that particular talk. The partial genius is flashy—scrappy. The true genius shudders at incompleteness—imperfection—and usually prefers silence to saying the something which is not every thing that should be said. He is so filled with his theme that he is dumb, first from not knowing how to begin, where there seems eternally beginning behind beginning, and secondly from perceiving his true end at so infinite a distance. Sometimes, dashing into a subject, he blunders, hesitates, stops short, sticks fast, and, because he has been overwhelmed by the rush and multiplicity of his thoughts, his hearers sneer at his inability to think. Such a man finds his proper element in those "great occasions" which confound and prostrate the general intellect.
Nevertheless, by his conversation, the influence of the conversationist upon mankind in general, is more decided than that of the talker by his talk:—the latter invariably talks to best purpose with his pen. And good conversationists are more rare than respectable talkers. I know many of the latter; and of the former only five or six:—among whom I can call to mind, just now, Mr. Willis, Mr. J. T. S. S.—of Philadelphia, Mr. W. M. R.—of Petersburg, Va., and Mrs. S——d, formerly of New York. Most people, in conversing, force us to curse our stars that our lot was not cast among the African nation mentioned by Eudoxus—the savages who, having no mouths, never opened them, as a matter of course. And yet, if denied mouth, some persons whom I have in my eye would contrive to chatter on still—as they do now—through the nose.
All in a hot and copper skyThe bloody sun at noonJust up above the mast did stand,No bigger than the moon.—Coleridge.
Is it possible that the poet did not know the apparent diameter of the moon to be greater than that of the sun?
If any ambitious man have a fancy to revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment, the opportunity is his own—the road to immortal renown lies straight, open, and unencumbered before him. All that he has to do is to write and publish a very little book. Its title should be simple—a few plain words—"My Heart Laid Bare." But—this little book must betrue to its title.
Now, is it not very singular that, with the rabid thirst for notoriety which distinguishes so many of mankind—so many, too, who care not a fig what is thought of them after death, there should not be found one man having sufficient hardihood to write this little book? Towrite, I say. There are ten thousand men who, if the book were once written, would laugh at the notion of being disturbed by its publication during their life, and who could not even conceivewhythey should object to its being published after their death. But to write it—thereis the rub. No man dare write it. No man ever will dare write it. No mancouldwrite it, even if he dared. The paper would shrivel and blaze at every touch of the fiery pen.
For all the rhetorician's rulesTeach nothing but to name the tools.—Hudibras.
What these oft-quoted lines go to show is, that a falsity in verse will travel faster and endure longer than a falsity in prose. The man who would sneer or stare at a silly proposition nakedly put, will admit that "there is a good deal in that" when "that" is the point of an epigram shot into the ear. The rhetorician's rules—if theyarerules—teach him not only to name his tools, but to use his tools, the capacity of his tools—their extent—their limit; and from an examination of the nature of the tools—(an examination forced on him by their constant presence)—force him, also, into scrutiny and comprehension of the material on which the tools are employed, and thus, finally, suggest and give birth to new material for new tools.
Among hiseidolaof the den, the tribe, the forum, the theatre, etc., Bacon might well have placed the greateidolonof the parlor (or of the wit, as I have termed it in one of the previous Marginalia)—the idol whose worship blinds man to truth by dazzling him with theapposite. But what title could have been invented forthatidol which has propagated, perhaps, more of gross error than all combined?—the one, I mean, which demands from its votaries that they reciprocate cause and effect—reason in a circle—lift themselves from the ground by pulling up their pantaloons—and carry themselves on their own heads, in hand-baskets, from Beersheba to Dan.
All—absolutely all the argumentation which I have seen on the nature of the soul, or of the Deity, seems to me nothing but worship of this unnameable idol.Pour savoir ce qu'est Dieu, says Bielfeld, although nobody listens to the solemn truth,il faut être Dieu même—and to reason about the reason is of all things the most unreasonable. At least, he alone is fit to discuss the topic who perceives at a glance the insanity of its discussion.
When the weird and wizard bats were flitting round his dusky way,Over a moorland, like a whirlwind, rushed the knight, Sir Roland Grey;When the crimson sun was setting, as the yellow moon arose,Far and faint, behind Sir Roland, sank the slogan of his foes—Far and faint; and growing fainter as he reached the forest sward,Spreading round for many an acre over the lands which owned him lord.As he dashed along the woodland, fitfully, upon the breeze,Swept the tu-who-o of the owlet through the naked forest trees;And the loudly whirring black-cock through the creaking branches sprung,Frightened by his horse's hoofs, that like the Cyclop's anvil rung—Like a hurricane on he hurried, wood and valley gliding past,While around him, o'er him, on him, burst the sudden autumn blast.Down upon him, in a deluge, rushed the cold November rain;But the wind about him whistled, and the tempest swept in vain.What to him was wind or tempest, when his brain was seared with flame?What to him was earth or heaven, when his soul was sick with shame?In the dreary, desolate desert on his ears had burst a tale,That, like falling thunder, stunned and left him terrified and pale;How, while he was battling bravely, like a true and holy knight,For the sacred tomb of Christ, against the swarthy Moslemite;How, while round him lances shivered, armor rang, and arrows fell,And the air was mad with noises—Arab shout and Paynim yell—She, the partner of his heart, descended (so the legend said)From the ancient Saxon monarchs, sank in shame her sunny head.From his friends—his growing glory—over dark and dangerous seas—From his red-cross banner proudly flowing, floating on the breeze—Over field and flood he traveled, flinging fame and honor by,With a heart as full of hell as full of glory was the sky.All his mind became a chaos; but along its waste there stoleWhat his bloody purpose shook, and what was manna to his soul,—Memories of his youthful moments, when through grassy glen and woodHe wandered with the Lady Gwineth, dreaming none so fair and good;And he saw her sweetly smiling, as when at her feet he knelt,And with bold but modest manner on his burning passion dwelt—Felt her fall upon his bosom—felt her tears upon his cheek,As he felt them when his tongue was all too full of joy to speak!And his heart was slowly softening—when a hoarse voice bade him "yield!"And a claymore clanked and clattered on the bosses of his shield;—Rising round him, closing on him, sprang an ambush of his foe,The despoiler of his honor! All his answer was a blow!All his soul was in his arm; and, as his foemen closed around,Vassal after vassal, wounded, yelling, fell and bit the ground;But when through the wood there rushed an hundred thronging to the fight,Charging through them, still defying, Roland safety sought in flight.When the crimson sun descended, as the yellow moon arose,Far and faint behind Sir Roland sank the slogan of his foes—Far and faint, and waxing fainter, as he reached the forest sward,Spreading round for many an acre, over the lands that owned him lord.Like a whirlwind on he hurried, though the storm was raging sore:In his heart he carried torture: there was music in its roar—Like a hurricane on he hurried, spurring on with loosened rein,Till he checked his jaded courser on his old paternal plain.Clouds were scudding o'er the heavens; wild the tempest roared around;And the very earth was shaking with the thunder's heavy sound;But between the lightning flashes, frowning grimly, here and there,Loomed his old ancestral castle, with its old ancestral air.There, the barbican—the draw-bridge—there, the ancient donjon-keep,With its iron-banded portals—there, the moat in sullen sleep!—Galloping onward, lo! he halted, for they kept strict watch and ward,And his courser's clanking hoofs had roused the ever-wary guard.Loud above the increasing tempest rose the warder's threatening hail;Louder rose the ringing answer from a lip that scorned to quail:"Grey of Grey!" the warrior thundered, "he who fears nor bolt nor dart—He who is your master, vassal—Roland of the Lion Heart!"Clanking, clattering, grating, slowly up the huge portcullis went,And the draw-bridge over the moat creaking, shrieking, downward bent;On his armor flashed the torch-light, over helmet, cuirass, shield,With itslion d' or couchantupon a stainlessargentfield.Over rode he, frowning fiercely, throwing from him ruddy light,Flashing, like a burning beacon, on his startled vassal's sight.Rose the draw-bridge, fell the barrier, closed the oaken gates behind.—All was silence save the roaring of the wild November wind.
In a lofty vaulted chamber, pillared, Gothic, full of gloom,But that flashes of the fire-light fitfully fell athwart the room—Ruddy gleams of fading fire-light, lighting many a bearded face,On the fluted hangings woven—founders of her husband's race—On a carven couch in slumber lay the Lady Gwineth Grey,Traces of a smile yet lingering on a cheek of rosy May—On the softest velvet slumbering, in a mist of golden hair,Trembling on her heaving bosom, and along her neck as fair.Seemed she like the Goddess Dian sleeping in some lonely wood,Or a nun on convent pallet dreaming only what was good:By her stood an outened flambeaux, from which, blue, and thin, and rare,Stole a wave of trembling vapor, slowly melting into air.But the tapestry was lifted, and a form in steel arraySuddenly entered, and his coming drove the waning mist away.Treading softly o'er the rushes Roland stept beside his bride,In the passing of a moment standing at her couch's side.Like an angel seemed the lady, lying in her rosy rest;Like a devil seemed the knight, with passion raging in his breast:For within his bosom, gnawing all his heart with teeth of fire,Reigned Revenge, and on his forehead burned the purple hue of ire.Slowly bending o'er his wife, but making not a sound, he gazedUpon her, while his glaring eye-balls, like twin torches, brightly blazed.—Starting, feeling one was near her, Gwineth raised her golden head,Looking round her—flashed his falchion, and she sank in silence—dead!Roared the tempest; crashed the thunder; even the castle seemed to quailAnd tremble, like a living thing, before the fury of the gale;But the fierce and fearless murderer turned to where his child reclined,Asleep, amid the thunder's crash, the rushing rain and roaring wind.As he bent above his boy, dim memories of days long backCame, like stars an instant seen amid the autumn tempest's rack;But as swiftly over his spirit flashed the ruin of his name—Flashed the withering thought that even that child might be the child of shame.Wildly then he raised his glaive, but wilder, sterner, still, without,Swelled the tempest, burst the thunder, yelled the winds with maniac shout;While the lightning, red and vivid, quivered through the skies in ire,Till the chamber with its flashes seemed a blazing hall of fire.With this climax of the tempest—thunder, lightning, rain and wind—Roland felt an awful doubt creep tremblingly athwart his mind;Slowly, slowly, it arose, and grew gigantic; slowly, slowly,Cloud-like, overshadowing him, darkening his spirit wholly.Then, like Saul of Eld, he trembled, feeling his deed was one of guilt—Believing heaven itself asserted it was innocent blood he spilt—Feeling heaven was interfering, sank his heart, and fell his blade,And the superstitious murderer tottered, wailing and dismayed."Be she spotless," groaned the warrior, "I have done a grievous crime—Stained the snowiest shield that ever graced the temple-walls of Time.—Thou, my noblest and my fairest! with thy mother's Saxon eye—Shall my hand, too, strike thee lifeless? No! I cannot see thee die!"Suddenly Roland saw the peril hanging over his guilty head—Felt that he could never hide him from the vengeance of the dead—Saw the heartless headsman smiling, and the axe, and heard the crowdShouting curses on the assassin—and the chieftain groaned aloud—Groaned, for that his deed had robbed him of a home and of a name,Hurling on his orphan son the damning heritage of shame:Life and lands by law were forfeit; he had driven his offspring forth,Rudely, ruthlessly, to wander, one of the Ishmaelites of earth.But a sudden thought came o'er him, and his lofty eye againFlashed with resolution, stern and strong as was his spirit's pain."Shall I rob thee of thy birthright—rob thee of thy noble name,Of our old ancestral castle, and our fathers' deeds of fame?"Shall I fling thee forth to struggle with a never-sparing world;Knowing every eye will scorn thee, every lip at thee be curled?Know thee, budding bloom of beauty, withering in thy youth away—Feel thy infant promise fading—see thy falcon-eye decay?"Did I give thee life to cloud it—life to poison every breath?Better far the dreary dungeon, and the dark and iron death!Never! Let them heap upon me rock on rock Olympus high;None shall see a sinew quiver, none shall hear the slightest cry."'Blood for blood' is rightly written: I have slain a spotless wife,And will dree a heavy penance—yield the law my forfeit life;Come the judgment, I will meet it; and the torture shall not tearWord from me to make a beggar of my rightful, righteous heir."As the stricken knight was speaking, in the distance died the storm;And the moonlight on the casement wandered sweetly, rested warm;Through the golden glass it floated, fluttering over the lady's hair,Till she seemed a mild Madonna, watched by angels, slumbering there.Shaken by the storm of conscience, Roland sank upon his knee,Sudden as before a hurricane falls some famous forest tree;Sank beside pale, placid Gwineth, weeping, wailing, sorrow riven,Feeling God had spoken, praying that his crime might be forgiven.All that long and dreary night, Sir Roland watched beside the dead,Humbly kneeling in the rushes strown around the carven bed.Slowly, quietly approaching came the gray-eyed dreamy dawn,Making every thing about him seem more desolate and wan.One by one the stars went out, and slowly over the Orient cameStreaks of rose and tints of purple, flakes of gold and rays of flame,And around the ancient castle Roland heard the hum of thoseThat from quiet sleep were waking, as they, one by one, arose.Slowly through the painted casement, touching first the chamber crownAnd the groined roof, the sunlight stole in lovely lustre downOver the tapestry, that glistened, gleaming with its golden ray,Till it kissed the russet rushes where in yellow sleep it lay.Came the Lady Gwineth's maidens, starting at the sudden sightOf their lord, Sir Roland, standing like a warrior for the fight;But he waved them on; and, wondering, they unto the sleeper went—Shrieking loudly, shrieking wildly as above her corpse they bent.Startled by the sudden clamor, Roland's son in fright awoke,As from all sides, madly rushing in the room, the vassals broke;Gathering round him, gazing on him, looking on the bloody brandAnd the lady, who, when living, was the loveliest in the land.Not a word the warrior uttered, though his son implored him sore,And they led him like an infant toward the oaken chamber-door;There he turned and gazed on Gwineth, looking on her face his last;Then between his guards in silence to the castle-prison passed.There they left him; but at mid-day came, and, beckoning, bade him forthTo journey, not as he was wont to, from his ancient honored hearth:To an armed guard they gave him, and amid their stern array,Haughty, lofty-souled and silent Roland sternly rode away.
When the gathering gloom of night in swarthy shadows floated downOn the mountain and the forest, Roland saw the distant town:O'er its walls, and round its towers, a dim and sickly lustre lay.Like the gray and ghostly haze that heraldeth the dawning day.While, behind those walls and turrets, standing blackly in her light,Full and large the lurid moon rose ghastily upon the night;Shrouded in a cloud of crimson, slowly, slowly as he cameRising higher, higher, higher, till the east was full of flame.As his guards approached the gates—did she sink or did they rise?Behind the black gigantic towers the planet vanished from his eyes.All without was solemn blackness, but within was drearier dark,Save when from some grim old building stole a taper's trembling spark.Slowly through the lengthy streets, between old houses, rising high,Over which, dark, dusk, sepulchral, bent the purple pall-like sky,Through the town they bore him on, until frowningly, at last,Rose the castle-walls before them, huge and massy, broad and vast.With a last look on the heavens, the knight rode on beneath the gate:Stepping from his steed he bowed him, stately, to his fearful fate:On his limbs they fastened fetters, cold! how cold! their chillness ranFreezing through his blood, the spirit of the stern, unconquered man.Through a gallery they led him to a dark and dismal cell.Where they left him. Sad and solemn, heavy, awful as a knell,Seemed the fading of their footsteps, as he heard them slowly glideThrough the long and vaulted corridor till their very echo died.Days went by—days dark with anguish, for his conscience, like a spur,Drove him o'er the wastes of memory which were never black before;Weeks slid by, and months—such months! such bitter months of pungent pain,That their very hours seemed serpents gnawing at his heart and brain.Next they led him him forth to trial: like a child he bowed and went,With his once black hair like snow, and his stalwart form so bent,And his beard so long and white, and his cheek so thin and wan,Even his very keepers thought it was a ghost they gazed upon!When before his ermined judges, stately, silent, Roland came,Over his cheek there flashed and faded, suddenly, a flash of flame:Like a falling star it faded: lofty and erect he turned,With the feeling that aroused it under his iron Will inurned."Roland, Baron Grey!" the crier, in the ancient Latin tongue,Which, like some old bell in tolling, through the vaulted building rung:—Cold and stern the prisoner answered—cold and stern—devoid of fear—Looking haughtily around him:—"Roland, Baron Grey, is here!"Muttering the solemn charge, they bade him answer; but he stoodCold, and calm, and motionless, as though he were nor flesh nor blood,But, rather, all a bronzed statue of the proud, primeval time—In his silence self-devoted—in his very guilt sublime.Thrice they prayed him: while he listened, not a quiver on his brow,Not the movement of a hair upon his head or beard of snow,Not the motion of a lip, nor even the flutter of an eye,Betokening that he even heard them—he was there alone to die.In the distant, dreary years, so run the legends even now—Misty legends on whose summits slumber centuries of snow—Lofty legends round whose summits clouds have lain for solemn ages—Legends penned with iron pens in blood by Draco-minded sages—It was written, they should bear him to a dungeon under ground,Far beneath the castle moat, where came no single human sound,And unto the earth should chain him, naked, on the icy ground—Naked, like the sage Prometheus, on the mountain's summit bound.Water—there was none for him, save that which flowed in the castle moat,On whose green and slimy surface newts and mosses loved to float—Bread—a crust a day—so, starving, freezing, there the Doomed was spread,Pressed with weights of stone and iron till he answered or was dead.Did he answer guiltless, lo! the trial; guilty, lo! the axe;Death before the grinning thousand! worse than were a myriad racks!While the trial were an evil quite as grievous, quite as great,For the verdict of his peers would rend from him his proud estate:But, if he died silent, then his lands would pass in quiet downTo bless his boy, his innocent boy, and not escheat unto the crown:So he chose the darksome dungeon, rather there to die aloneThan by cowardly fear to steal the birthright of his orphan son.But, beside this, came the thought that, by this penance he might winForgiveness from offended Heaven for his now-repented sin."Noble Roland," quoth his judges, "answer, ere it be too late;Heavy, else, must be our judgment—heavier thine awful fate."Then arose the ghostly knight, with his spectral eyes aflame,While a more than mortal vigor coursed and circled through his frame;And he gazed upon them smiling, and like hollow thunder brokeHis accents on the swarthy silence:—thus and so the chieftain spoke:"Lords! I answer not. If guilty, God will judge my sinful soul:For my body—that is yours! I yield it to your stern control.Would you have me—me, a warrior, like a coward plead for life?Death and I are old acquaintance! I have met him in the strife—"I have met him when the air was swooning with a ghastly fear;When the Moslem swept before us, driven like a herd of deer;When our voices mocked the thunder, shouting 'England and Saint George!'And the lightning of our falchions fell like flashes from a forge!"There, amid the clash and clang of sword and shield, I strove with Death—That I conquered, ye may see; and now I yield to him my breath—Where there is no rescue, yield! and, as one would call a bride,So I bid the grisly monarch smilingly unto my side."Shall I yield my broad estates, my castles and my manor lands,To the harpies of the law, to hold them with unhallowed hands?Shall I send my youthful heir forth with a stain upon his crest?No! my eaglet yet shall reign an eagle in his parent nest."Lords and judges, I have done: no further words shall pass my lips,Save prayers to Heaven, that my soul may, sun-like, rise from death's eclipse."Silently, he braved them still; and, sighing, sad, and full of gloom,His judges sent him forth to struggle with the sharp and lingering doom.Did he tremble at their sentence? Not a muscle quivered, notA sign to mark he heard, save on his cheek one purple spot:Statelier yet than ever, firmer, with a long triumphant breath,Roland, smiling on his judges, sternly walked to certain death.