FOOTNOTE:

FOOTNOTE:[B]Sunt lacrimæ rerum!

[B]Sunt lacrimæ rerum!

Poor Matthias!—Found him lyingFall'n beneath his perch and dying?Found him stiff, you say, though warm—All convulsed his little form?Poor canary! many a yearWell he knew his mistress dear;Now in vain you call his name,Vainly raise his rigid frame,Vainly warm him in your breast,Vainly kiss his golden crest,Smooth his ruffled plumage fine,Touch his trembling beak with wine.One more gasp—it is the end!Dead and mute our tiny friend!—Songster thou of many a year,Now thy mistress brings thee here,Says, it fits that I rehearse,Tribute due to thee, a verse,Meed for daily song of yoreSilent now for evermore.Poor Matthias! Wouldst thou haveMore than pity? claim'st a stave?—Friends more near us than a birdWe dismiss'd without a word.Rover, with the good brown head,Great Atossa, they are dead;Dead, and neither prose nor rhymeTells the praises of their prime.Thou didst know them old and grey,Know them in their sad decay.Thou hast seen Atossa sageSit for hours beside thy cage;Thou wouldst chirp, thou foolish bird,Flutter, chirp—she never stirr'd!What were now these toys to her?Down she sank amid her fur;Eyed thee with a soul resign'd—And thou deemedst cats were kind!—Cruel, but composed and bland,Dumb, inscrutable and grand,So Tiberius might have sat,Had Tiberius been a cat.Rover died—Atossa too.Less than they to us are you!Nearer human were their powers,Closer knit their life with ours.Hands had stroked them, which are cold,Now for years, in churchyard mould;Comrades of our past were they,Of that unreturning day.Changed and aging, they and weDwelt, it seem'd, in sympathy.Alway from their presence brokeSomewhat which remembrance wokeOf the loved, the lost, the young—Yet they died, and died unsung.Geist came next, our little friend;Geist had verse to mourn his end.Yes, but that enforcement strongWhich compell'd for Geist a song—All that gay courageous cheer,All that human pathos dear;Soul-fed eyes with suffering worn,Pain heroically borne,Faithful love in depth divine—Poor Matthias, were they thine?Max and Kaiser we to-dayGreet upon the lawn at play;Max a dachshound without blot—Kaiser should be, but is not.Max, with shining yellow coat,Prinking ears and dewlap throat—Kaiser, with his collie face,Penitent for want of race.—Which may be the first to die,Vain to augur, they or I!But, as age comes on, I know,Poet's fire gets faint and low;If so be that travel theyFirst the inevitable way,Much I doubt if they shall haveDirge from me to crown their grave.Yet, poor bird, thy tiny corseMoves me, somehow, to remorse;Something haunts my conscience, bringsSad, compunctious visitings.Other favourites, dwelling here,Open lived to us, and near;Well we knew when they were glad,Plain we saw if they were sad,Joy'd with them when they were gay,Soothed them in their last decay;Sympathy could feel and showBoth in weal of theirs and woe.Birds, companions more unknown,Live beside us, but alone;Finding not, do all they can,Passage from their souls to man.Kindness we bestow, and praise,Laud their plumage, greet their lays;Still, beneath their feather'd breast,Stirs a history unexpress'd.Wishes there, and feelings strong,Incommunicably throng;What they want, we cannot guess,Fail to track their deep distress—Dull look on when death is nigh,Note no change, and let them die.Poor Matthias! couldst thou speak,What a tale of thy last week!Every morning did we payStupid salutations gay,Suited well to health, but howMocking, how incongruous now!Cake we offer'd, sugar, seed,Never doubtful of thy need;Praised, perhaps, thy courteous eye,Praised thy golden livery.Gravely thou the while, poor dear!Sat'st upon thy perch to hear,Fixing with a mute regardUs, thy human keepers hard,Troubling, with our chatter vain,Ebb of life, and mortal pain—Us, unable to divineOur companion's dying sign,Or o'erpass the severing seaSet betwixt ourselves and thee,Till the sand thy feathers smirchFallen dying off thy perch!Was it, as the Grecian sings,Birds were born the first of things,Before the sun, before the wind,Before the gods, before mankind,Airy, ante-mundane throng—Witness their unworldly song!Proof they give, too, primal powers,Of a prescience more than ours—Teach us, while they come and go,When to sail, and when to sow.Cuckoo calling from the hill,Swallow skimming by the mill,Swallows trooping in the sedge,Starlings swirling from the hedge,Mark the seasons, map our year,As they show and disappear.But, with all this travail sageBrought from that anterior age,Goes an unreversed decreeWhereby strange are they and we;Making want of theirs, and plan,Indiscernible by man.No, away with tales like theseStol'n from Aristophanes![36]Does it, if we miss your mind,Prove us so remote in kind?Birds! we but repeat on youWhat amongst ourselves we do.Somewhat more or somewhat less,'Tis the same unskilfulness.What you feel, escapes our ken—Know we more our fellow men?Human suffering at our side,Ah, like yours is undescried!Human longings, human fears,Miss our eyes and miss our ears.Little helping, wounding much,Dull of heart, and hard of touch,Brother man's despairing signWho may trust us to divine?Who assure us, sundering powersStand not 'twixt his soul and ours?Poor Matthias! See, thy endWhat a lesson doth it lend!For that lesson thou shalt have,Dead canary bird, a stave!Telling how, one stormy day,Stress of gale and showers of sprayDrove my daughter small and meInland from the rocks and sea.Driv'n inshore, we follow downAncient streets of Hastings town—Slowly thread them—when behold,French canary-merchant oldShepherding his flock of goldIn a low dim-lighted penScann'd of tramps and fishermen!There a bird, high-coloured, fat,Proud of port, though something squat—Pursy, play'd-out Philistine—Dazzled Nelly's youthful eyne.But, far in, obscure, there stirr'dOn his perch a sprightlier bird,Courteous-eyed, erect and slim;And I whisper'd: "Fix onhim!"Home we brought him, young and fair,Songs to trill in Surrey air.Here Matthias sang his fill,Saw the cedars of Pains Hill;Here he pour'd his little soul,Heard the murmur of the Mole.Eight in number now the yearsHe hath pleased our eyes and ears;Other favourites he hath knownGo, and now himself is gone.—Fare thee well, companion dear!Fare for ever well, nor fear,Tiny though thou art, to strayDown the uncompanion'd way!We without thee, little friend,Many years have not to spend;What are left, will hardly beBetter than we spent with thee.

Poor Matthias! Wouldst thou haveMore than pity? claim'st a stave?—Friends more near us than a birdWe dismiss'd without a word.Rover, with the good brown head,Great Atossa, they are dead;Dead, and neither prose nor rhymeTells the praises of their prime.Thou didst know them old and grey,Know them in their sad decay.Thou hast seen Atossa sageSit for hours beside thy cage;Thou wouldst chirp, thou foolish bird,Flutter, chirp—she never stirr'd!What were now these toys to her?Down she sank amid her fur;Eyed thee with a soul resign'd—And thou deemedst cats were kind!—Cruel, but composed and bland,Dumb, inscrutable and grand,So Tiberius might have sat,Had Tiberius been a cat.

Rover died—Atossa too.Less than they to us are you!Nearer human were their powers,Closer knit their life with ours.Hands had stroked them, which are cold,Now for years, in churchyard mould;Comrades of our past were they,Of that unreturning day.Changed and aging, they and weDwelt, it seem'd, in sympathy.Alway from their presence brokeSomewhat which remembrance wokeOf the loved, the lost, the young—Yet they died, and died unsung.

Geist came next, our little friend;Geist had verse to mourn his end.Yes, but that enforcement strongWhich compell'd for Geist a song—All that gay courageous cheer,All that human pathos dear;Soul-fed eyes with suffering worn,Pain heroically borne,Faithful love in depth divine—Poor Matthias, were they thine?

Max and Kaiser we to-dayGreet upon the lawn at play;Max a dachshound without blot—Kaiser should be, but is not.Max, with shining yellow coat,Prinking ears and dewlap throat—Kaiser, with his collie face,Penitent for want of race.—Which may be the first to die,Vain to augur, they or I!But, as age comes on, I know,Poet's fire gets faint and low;If so be that travel theyFirst the inevitable way,Much I doubt if they shall haveDirge from me to crown their grave.

Yet, poor bird, thy tiny corseMoves me, somehow, to remorse;Something haunts my conscience, bringsSad, compunctious visitings.Other favourites, dwelling here,Open lived to us, and near;Well we knew when they were glad,Plain we saw if they were sad,Joy'd with them when they were gay,Soothed them in their last decay;Sympathy could feel and showBoth in weal of theirs and woe.

Birds, companions more unknown,Live beside us, but alone;Finding not, do all they can,Passage from their souls to man.Kindness we bestow, and praise,Laud their plumage, greet their lays;Still, beneath their feather'd breast,Stirs a history unexpress'd.Wishes there, and feelings strong,Incommunicably throng;What they want, we cannot guess,Fail to track their deep distress—Dull look on when death is nigh,Note no change, and let them die.Poor Matthias! couldst thou speak,What a tale of thy last week!Every morning did we payStupid salutations gay,Suited well to health, but howMocking, how incongruous now!Cake we offer'd, sugar, seed,Never doubtful of thy need;Praised, perhaps, thy courteous eye,Praised thy golden livery.Gravely thou the while, poor dear!Sat'st upon thy perch to hear,Fixing with a mute regardUs, thy human keepers hard,Troubling, with our chatter vain,Ebb of life, and mortal pain—Us, unable to divineOur companion's dying sign,Or o'erpass the severing seaSet betwixt ourselves and thee,Till the sand thy feathers smirchFallen dying off thy perch!

Was it, as the Grecian sings,Birds were born the first of things,Before the sun, before the wind,Before the gods, before mankind,Airy, ante-mundane throng—Witness their unworldly song!Proof they give, too, primal powers,Of a prescience more than ours—Teach us, while they come and go,When to sail, and when to sow.Cuckoo calling from the hill,Swallow skimming by the mill,Swallows trooping in the sedge,Starlings swirling from the hedge,Mark the seasons, map our year,As they show and disappear.But, with all this travail sageBrought from that anterior age,Goes an unreversed decreeWhereby strange are they and we;Making want of theirs, and plan,Indiscernible by man.

No, away with tales like theseStol'n from Aristophanes![36]Does it, if we miss your mind,Prove us so remote in kind?Birds! we but repeat on youWhat amongst ourselves we do.Somewhat more or somewhat less,'Tis the same unskilfulness.What you feel, escapes our ken—Know we more our fellow men?Human suffering at our side,Ah, like yours is undescried!Human longings, human fears,Miss our eyes and miss our ears.Little helping, wounding much,Dull of heart, and hard of touch,Brother man's despairing signWho may trust us to divine?Who assure us, sundering powersStand not 'twixt his soul and ours?

Poor Matthias! See, thy endWhat a lesson doth it lend!For that lesson thou shalt have,Dead canary bird, a stave!Telling how, one stormy day,Stress of gale and showers of sprayDrove my daughter small and meInland from the rocks and sea.Driv'n inshore, we follow downAncient streets of Hastings town—Slowly thread them—when behold,French canary-merchant oldShepherding his flock of goldIn a low dim-lighted penScann'd of tramps and fishermen!There a bird, high-coloured, fat,Proud of port, though something squat—Pursy, play'd-out Philistine—Dazzled Nelly's youthful eyne.But, far in, obscure, there stirr'dOn his perch a sprightlier bird,Courteous-eyed, erect and slim;And I whisper'd: "Fix onhim!"Home we brought him, young and fair,Songs to trill in Surrey air.Here Matthias sang his fill,Saw the cedars of Pains Hill;Here he pour'd his little soul,Heard the murmur of the Mole.Eight in number now the yearsHe hath pleased our eyes and ears;Other favourites he hath knownGo, and now himself is gone.—Fare thee well, companion dear!Fare for ever well, nor fear,Tiny though thou art, to strayDown the uncompanion'd way!We without thee, little friend,Many years have not to spend;What are left, will hardly beBetter than we spent with thee.

What, Kaiser dead? The heavy newsPost-haste to Cobham calls the Muse,From where in Farringford she brewsThe ode sublime,Or with Pen-bryn's bold bard pursuesA rival rhyme.Kai's bracelet tail, Kai's busy feet,Were known to all the village-street."What, poor Kai dead?" say all I meet;"A loss indeed!"O for the croon pathetic, sweet,Of Robin's reed![37]Six years ago I brought him down,A baby dog, from London town;Round his small throat of black and brownA ribbon blue,And vouch'd by glorious renownA dachshound true.His mother, most majestic dame,Of blood-unmix'd, from Potsdam came;And Kaiser's race we deem'd the same—No lineage higher.And so he bore the imperial name.But ah, his sire!Soon, soon the days conviction bring.The collie hair, the collie swing,The tail's indomitable ring,The eye's unrest—The case was clear; a mongrel thingKai stood confest.But all those virtues, which commendThe humbler sort who serve and tend,Were thine in store, thou faithful friend.What sense, what cheer!To us, declining tow'rds our end,A mate how dear!For Max, thy brother-dog, beganTo flag, and feel his narrowing span.And cold, besides, his blue blood ran,Since, 'gainst the classes,He heard, of late, the Grand Old ManIncite the masses.Yes, Max and we grew slow and sad;But Kai, a tireless shepherd-lad,Teeming with plans, alert, and gladIn work or play,Like sunshine went and came, and badeLive out the day!Still, still I see the figure smart—Trophy in mouth, agog to start,Then, home return'd, once more depart;Or prest togetherAgainst thy mistress, loving heart,In winter weather.I see the tail, like bracelet twirl'd,In moments of disgrace uncurl'd,Then at a pardoning word re-furl'd,A conquering sign;Crying, "Come on, and range the world,And never pine."Thine eye was bright, thy coat it shone;Thou hadst thine errands, off and on;In joy thy last morn flew; anon,A fit! All's over;And thou art gone where Geist hath gone,And Toss, and Rover.Poor Max, with downcast, reverent head,Regards his brother's form outspread;Full well Max knows the friend is deadWhose cordial talk,And jokes in doggish language said,Beguiled his walk.And Glory, stretch'd at Burwood gate,Thy passing by doth vainly wait;And jealous Jock, thy only hate,The chiel from Skye,Lets from his shaggy Highland pateThy memory die.Well, fetch his graven collar fine,And rub the steel, and make it shine,And leave it round thy neck to twine,Kai, in thy grave.There of thy master keep that sign,And this plain stave.

What, Kaiser dead? The heavy newsPost-haste to Cobham calls the Muse,From where in Farringford she brewsThe ode sublime,Or with Pen-bryn's bold bard pursuesA rival rhyme.

Kai's bracelet tail, Kai's busy feet,Were known to all the village-street."What, poor Kai dead?" say all I meet;"A loss indeed!"O for the croon pathetic, sweet,Of Robin's reed![37]

Six years ago I brought him down,A baby dog, from London town;Round his small throat of black and brownA ribbon blue,And vouch'd by glorious renownA dachshound true.

His mother, most majestic dame,Of blood-unmix'd, from Potsdam came;And Kaiser's race we deem'd the same—No lineage higher.And so he bore the imperial name.But ah, his sire!

Soon, soon the days conviction bring.The collie hair, the collie swing,The tail's indomitable ring,The eye's unrest—The case was clear; a mongrel thingKai stood confest.

But all those virtues, which commendThe humbler sort who serve and tend,Were thine in store, thou faithful friend.What sense, what cheer!To us, declining tow'rds our end,A mate how dear!

For Max, thy brother-dog, beganTo flag, and feel his narrowing span.And cold, besides, his blue blood ran,Since, 'gainst the classes,He heard, of late, the Grand Old ManIncite the masses.

Yes, Max and we grew slow and sad;But Kai, a tireless shepherd-lad,Teeming with plans, alert, and gladIn work or play,Like sunshine went and came, and badeLive out the day!

Still, still I see the figure smart—Trophy in mouth, agog to start,Then, home return'd, once more depart;Or prest togetherAgainst thy mistress, loving heart,In winter weather.

I see the tail, like bracelet twirl'd,In moments of disgrace uncurl'd,Then at a pardoning word re-furl'd,A conquering sign;Crying, "Come on, and range the world,And never pine."

Thine eye was bright, thy coat it shone;Thou hadst thine errands, off and on;In joy thy last morn flew; anon,A fit! All's over;And thou art gone where Geist hath gone,And Toss, and Rover.

Poor Max, with downcast, reverent head,Regards his brother's form outspread;Full well Max knows the friend is deadWhose cordial talk,And jokes in doggish language said,Beguiled his walk.

And Glory, stretch'd at Burwood gate,Thy passing by doth vainly wait;And jealous Jock, thy only hate,The chiel from Skye,Lets from his shaggy Highland pateThy memory die.

Well, fetch his graven collar fine,And rub the steel, and make it shine,And leave it round thy neck to twine,Kai, in thy grave.There of thy master keep that sign,And this plain stave.

[1]NOTE 1, PAGE 2.Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen.The name Europe (Ευρωπη,the wide prospect) probably describes the appearance of the European coast to the Greeks on the coast of Asia Minor opposite. The name Asia, again, comes, it has been thought, from the muddy fens of the rivers of Asia Minor, such as the Cayster or Mæander, which struck the imagination of the Greeks living near them.

[1]NOTE 1, PAGE 2.

Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen.

The name Europe (Ευρωπη,the wide prospect) probably describes the appearance of the European coast to the Greeks on the coast of Asia Minor opposite. The name Asia, again, comes, it has been thought, from the muddy fens of the rivers of Asia Minor, such as the Cayster or Mæander, which struck the imagination of the Greeks living near them.

[2]NOTE 2, PAGE 8.Mycerinus."After Chephren, Mycerinus, son of Cheops, reigned over Egypt. He abhorred his father's courses, and judged his subjects more justly than any of their kings had done.—To him there came an oracle from the city of Buto, to the effect that he was to live but six years longer, and to die in the seventh year from that time."—Herodotus.

[2]NOTE 2, PAGE 8.

Mycerinus.

"After Chephren, Mycerinus, son of Cheops, reigned over Egypt. He abhorred his father's courses, and judged his subjects more justly than any of their kings had done.—To him there came an oracle from the city of Buto, to the effect that he was to live but six years longer, and to die in the seventh year from that time."—Herodotus.

[3]NOTE 3, PAGE 38.Stagirius.Stagirius was a young monk to whom St. Chrysostom addressed three books, and of whom those books give an account. They will be found in the first volume of the Benedictine edition of St. Chrysostom's works.

[3]NOTE 3, PAGE 38.

Stagirius.

Stagirius was a young monk to whom St. Chrysostom addressed three books, and of whom those books give an account. They will be found in the first volume of the Benedictine edition of St. Chrysostom's works.

[4]NOTE 4, PAGE 47.Horatian Echo.Written in 1847. Printed by permission of Mr. Arthur Galton, to whom the Poem was given in 1886 for publication inThe Hobby Horse.

[4]NOTE 4, PAGE 47.

Horatian Echo.

Written in 1847. Printed by permission of Mr. Arthur Galton, to whom the Poem was given in 1886 for publication inThe Hobby Horse.

[5]NOTE 5, PAGE 54.That wayside inn we left to-day.Those who have been long familiar with the English Lake-Country will find no difficulty in recalling, from the description in the text, the roadside inn at Wythburn on the descent from Dunmail Raise towards Keswick; its sedentary landlord of thirty years ago, and the passage over the Wythburn Fells to Watendlath.

[5]NOTE 5, PAGE 54.

That wayside inn we left to-day.

Those who have been long familiar with the English Lake-Country will find no difficulty in recalling, from the description in the text, the roadside inn at Wythburn on the descent from Dunmail Raise towards Keswick; its sedentary landlord of thirty years ago, and the passage over the Wythburn Fells to Watendlath.

[6]NOTE 6, PAGE 65.Sohrab and Rustum.The story of Sohrab and Rustum is told in Sir John Malcolm'sHistory of Persia, as follows:—"The young Sohrab was the fruit of one of Rustum's early amours. He had left his mother, and sought fame under the banners of Afrasiab, whose armies he commanded, and soon obtained a renown beyond that of all contemporary heroes but his father. He had carried death and dismay into the ranks of the Persians, and had terrified the boldest warriors of that country, before Rustum encountered him, which at last that hero resolved to do, under a feigned name. They met three times. The first time they parted by mutual consent, though Sohrab had the advantage; the second, the youth obtained a victory, but granted life to his unknown father; the third was fatal to Sohrab, who, when writhing in the pangs of death, warned his conqueror to shun the vengeance that is inspired by parental woes, and bade him dread the rage of the mighty Rustum, who must soon learn that he had slain his son Sohrab. These words, we are told, were as death to the aged hero; and when he recovered from a trance, he called in despair for proofs of what Sohrab had said. The afflicted and dying youth tore open his mail, and showed his father a seal which his mother had placed on his arm when she discovered to him the secret of his birth, and bade him seek his father. The sight of his own signet rendered Rustum quite frantic; he cursed himself, attempting to put an end to his existence, and was only prevented by the efforts of his expiring son. After Sohrab's death, he burnt his tents and all his goods, and carried the corpse to Seistan, where it was interred; the army of Turan was, agreeably to the last request of Sohrab, permitted to cross the Oxus unmolested. To reconcile us to the improbability of this tale, we are informed that Rustum could have no idea his son was in existence. The mother of Sohrab had written to him her child was a daughter, fearing to lose her darling infant if she revealed the truth; and Rustum, as before stated, fought under a feigned name, an usage not uncommon in the chivalrous combats of those days."

[6]NOTE 6, PAGE 65.

Sohrab and Rustum.

The story of Sohrab and Rustum is told in Sir John Malcolm'sHistory of Persia, as follows:—

"The young Sohrab was the fruit of one of Rustum's early amours. He had left his mother, and sought fame under the banners of Afrasiab, whose armies he commanded, and soon obtained a renown beyond that of all contemporary heroes but his father. He had carried death and dismay into the ranks of the Persians, and had terrified the boldest warriors of that country, before Rustum encountered him, which at last that hero resolved to do, under a feigned name. They met three times. The first time they parted by mutual consent, though Sohrab had the advantage; the second, the youth obtained a victory, but granted life to his unknown father; the third was fatal to Sohrab, who, when writhing in the pangs of death, warned his conqueror to shun the vengeance that is inspired by parental woes, and bade him dread the rage of the mighty Rustum, who must soon learn that he had slain his son Sohrab. These words, we are told, were as death to the aged hero; and when he recovered from a trance, he called in despair for proofs of what Sohrab had said. The afflicted and dying youth tore open his mail, and showed his father a seal which his mother had placed on his arm when she discovered to him the secret of his birth, and bade him seek his father. The sight of his own signet rendered Rustum quite frantic; he cursed himself, attempting to put an end to his existence, and was only prevented by the efforts of his expiring son. After Sohrab's death, he burnt his tents and all his goods, and carried the corpse to Seistan, where it was interred; the army of Turan was, agreeably to the last request of Sohrab, permitted to cross the Oxus unmolested. To reconcile us to the improbability of this tale, we are informed that Rustum could have no idea his son was in existence. The mother of Sohrab had written to him her child was a daughter, fearing to lose her darling infant if she revealed the truth; and Rustum, as before stated, fought under a feigned name, an usage not uncommon in the chivalrous combats of those days."

[7]NOTE 7, PAGE 101.Balder Dead."Balder the Good having been tormented with terrible dreams, indicating that his life was in great peril, communicated them to the assembled Æsir, who resolved to conjure all things to avert from him the threatened danger. Then Frigga exacted an oath from fire and water, from iron, and all other metals, as well as from stones, earths, diseases, beasts, birds, poisons, and creeping things, that none of them would do any harm to Balder. When this was done, it became a favourite pastime of the Æsir, at their meetings, to get Balder to stand up and serve them as a mark, some hurling darts at him, some stones, while others hewed at him with their swords and battle-axes, for do what they would, none of them could harm him, and this was regarded by all as a great honour shown to Balder. But when Loki beheld the scene he was sorely vexed that Balder was not hurt. Assuming, therefore, the shape of a woman, he went to Fensalir, the mansion of Frigga. That goddess, when she saw the pretended woman, inquired of her if she knew what the Æsir were doing at their meetings. She replied, that they were throwing darts and stones at Balder without being able to hurt him."'Ay,' said Frigga, 'neither metal nor wood can hurt Balder, for I have exacted an oath from all of them.'"'What!' exclaimed the woman, 'have all things sworn to spare Balder?'"'All things,' replied Frigga, 'except one little shrub that grows on the eastern side of Valhalla, and is called Mistletoe, and which I thought too young and feeble to crave an oath from.'"As soon as Loki heard this he went away, and, resuming his natural shape, cut off the mistletoe, and repaired to the place where the gods were assembled. There he found Hödur standing apart, without partaking of the sports, on account of his blindness, and going up to him said, 'Why dost thou not also throw something at Balder?'"'Because I am blind,' answered Hödur, 'and see not where Balder is, and have, moreover, nothing to throw with.'"'Come, then,' said Loki, 'do like the rest, and show honour to Balder by throwing this twig at him, and I will direct thy arm toward the place where he stands.'"Hödur then took the mistletoe, and, under the guidance of Loki, darted it at Balder, who, pierced through and through, fell down lifeless."—Edda.

[7]NOTE 7, PAGE 101.

Balder Dead.

"Balder the Good having been tormented with terrible dreams, indicating that his life was in great peril, communicated them to the assembled Æsir, who resolved to conjure all things to avert from him the threatened danger. Then Frigga exacted an oath from fire and water, from iron, and all other metals, as well as from stones, earths, diseases, beasts, birds, poisons, and creeping things, that none of them would do any harm to Balder. When this was done, it became a favourite pastime of the Æsir, at their meetings, to get Balder to stand up and serve them as a mark, some hurling darts at him, some stones, while others hewed at him with their swords and battle-axes, for do what they would, none of them could harm him, and this was regarded by all as a great honour shown to Balder. But when Loki beheld the scene he was sorely vexed that Balder was not hurt. Assuming, therefore, the shape of a woman, he went to Fensalir, the mansion of Frigga. That goddess, when she saw the pretended woman, inquired of her if she knew what the Æsir were doing at their meetings. She replied, that they were throwing darts and stones at Balder without being able to hurt him."'Ay,' said Frigga, 'neither metal nor wood can hurt Balder, for I have exacted an oath from all of them.'"'What!' exclaimed the woman, 'have all things sworn to spare Balder?'"'All things,' replied Frigga, 'except one little shrub that grows on the eastern side of Valhalla, and is called Mistletoe, and which I thought too young and feeble to crave an oath from.'"As soon as Loki heard this he went away, and, resuming his natural shape, cut off the mistletoe, and repaired to the place where the gods were assembled. There he found Hödur standing apart, without partaking of the sports, on account of his blindness, and going up to him said, 'Why dost thou not also throw something at Balder?'"'Because I am blind,' answered Hödur, 'and see not where Balder is, and have, moreover, nothing to throw with.'"'Come, then,' said Loki, 'do like the rest, and show honour to Balder by throwing this twig at him, and I will direct thy arm toward the place where he stands.'"Hödur then took the mistletoe, and, under the guidance of Loki, darted it at Balder, who, pierced through and through, fell down lifeless."—Edda.

"'Ay,' said Frigga, 'neither metal nor wood can hurt Balder, for I have exacted an oath from all of them.'

"'What!' exclaimed the woman, 'have all things sworn to spare Balder?'

"'All things,' replied Frigga, 'except one little shrub that grows on the eastern side of Valhalla, and is called Mistletoe, and which I thought too young and feeble to crave an oath from.'

"As soon as Loki heard this he went away, and, resuming his natural shape, cut off the mistletoe, and repaired to the place where the gods were assembled. There he found Hödur standing apart, without partaking of the sports, on account of his blindness, and going up to him said, 'Why dost thou not also throw something at Balder?'

"'Because I am blind,' answered Hödur, 'and see not where Balder is, and have, moreover, nothing to throw with.'

"'Come, then,' said Loki, 'do like the rest, and show honour to Balder by throwing this twig at him, and I will direct thy arm toward the place where he stands.'

"Hödur then took the mistletoe, and, under the guidance of Loki, darted it at Balder, who, pierced through and through, fell down lifeless."—Edda.

[8]NOTE 8, PAGE 138.Tristram and Iseult."In the court of his uncle King Marc, the king of Cornwall, who at this time resided at the castle of Tyntagel, Tristram became expert in all knightly exercises.—The king of Ireland, at Tristram's solicitations, promised to bestow his daughter Iseult in marriage on King Marc. The mother of Iseult gave to her daughter's confidante a philtre, or love-potion, to be administered on the night of her nuptials. Of this beverage Tristram and Iseult, on their voyage to Cornwall, unfortunately partook. Its influence, during the remainder of their lives, regulated the affections and destiny of the lovers.—"After the arrival of Tristram and Iseult in Cornwall, and the nuptials of the latter with King Marc, a great part of the romance is occupied with their contrivances to procure secret interviews.—Tristram, being forced to leave Cornwall, on account of the displeasure of his uncle, repaired to Brittany, where lived Iseult with the White Hands.—He married her—more out of gratitude than love.—Afterwards he proceeded to the dominions of Arthur, which became the theatre of unnumbered exploits."Tristram, subsequent to these events, returned to Brittany, and to his long-neglected wife. There, being wounded and sick, he was soon reduced to the lowest ebb. In this situation, he despatched a confidant to the queen of Cornwall, to try if he could induce her to follow him to Brittany, etc."—Dunlop'sHistory of Fiction.

[8]NOTE 8, PAGE 138.

Tristram and Iseult.

"In the court of his uncle King Marc, the king of Cornwall, who at this time resided at the castle of Tyntagel, Tristram became expert in all knightly exercises.—The king of Ireland, at Tristram's solicitations, promised to bestow his daughter Iseult in marriage on King Marc. The mother of Iseult gave to her daughter's confidante a philtre, or love-potion, to be administered on the night of her nuptials. Of this beverage Tristram and Iseult, on their voyage to Cornwall, unfortunately partook. Its influence, during the remainder of their lives, regulated the affections and destiny of the lovers.—"After the arrival of Tristram and Iseult in Cornwall, and the nuptials of the latter with King Marc, a great part of the romance is occupied with their contrivances to procure secret interviews.—Tristram, being forced to leave Cornwall, on account of the displeasure of his uncle, repaired to Brittany, where lived Iseult with the White Hands.—He married her—more out of gratitude than love.—Afterwards he proceeded to the dominions of Arthur, which became the theatre of unnumbered exploits."Tristram, subsequent to these events, returned to Brittany, and to his long-neglected wife. There, being wounded and sick, he was soon reduced to the lowest ebb. In this situation, he despatched a confidant to the queen of Cornwall, to try if he could induce her to follow him to Brittany, etc."—Dunlop'sHistory of Fiction.

"After the arrival of Tristram and Iseult in Cornwall, and the nuptials of the latter with King Marc, a great part of the romance is occupied with their contrivances to procure secret interviews.—Tristram, being forced to leave Cornwall, on account of the displeasure of his uncle, repaired to Brittany, where lived Iseult with the White Hands.—He married her—more out of gratitude than love.—Afterwards he proceeded to the dominions of Arthur, which became the theatre of unnumbered exploits.

"Tristram, subsequent to these events, returned to Brittany, and to his long-neglected wife. There, being wounded and sick, he was soon reduced to the lowest ebb. In this situation, he despatched a confidant to the queen of Cornwall, to try if he could induce her to follow him to Brittany, etc."—Dunlop'sHistory of Fiction.

[9]NOTE 9, PAGE 177.That son of Italy who tried to blow.Giacopone di Todi.

[9]NOTE 9, PAGE 177.

That son of Italy who tried to blow.

Giacopone di Todi.

[10]NOTE 10, PAGE 183.Recalls the obscure opposer he outweigh'd.Gilbert de la Porrée, at the Council of Rheims, in 1148.

[10]NOTE 10, PAGE 183.

Recalls the obscure opposer he outweigh'd.

Gilbert de la Porrée, at the Council of Rheims, in 1148.

[11]NOTE 11, PAGE 184.Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried.The Montanists.

[11]NOTE 11, PAGE 184.

Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried.

The Montanists.

[12]NOTE 12, PAGE 184.Monica.See St. Augustine'sConfessions, book ix. chapter 11.

[12]NOTE 12, PAGE 184.

Monica.

See St. Augustine'sConfessions, book ix. chapter 11.

[13]NOTE 13, PAGE 189.My Marguerite smiles upon the strand.See, among "Early Poems," the poem calledA Memory-Picture.

[13]NOTE 13, PAGE 189.

My Marguerite smiles upon the strand.

See, among "Early Poems," the poem calledA Memory-Picture.

[14]NOTE 14, PAGE 213.The Hunter of the Tanagræan Field.Orion, the Wild Huntsman of Greek legend, and in this capacity appearing in both earth and sky.

[14]NOTE 14, PAGE 213.

The Hunter of the Tanagræan Field.

Orion, the Wild Huntsman of Greek legend, and in this capacity appearing in both earth and sky.

[15]NOTE 15, PAGE 214.O'er the sun-redden'd western straits.Erytheia, the legendary region around the Pillars of Hercules, probably took its name from the redness of the West under which the Greeks saw it.

[15]NOTE 15, PAGE 214.

O'er the sun-redden'd western straits.

Erytheia, the legendary region around the Pillars of Hercules, probably took its name from the redness of the West under which the Greeks saw it.

[16]NOTE 16, PAGE 273.The Scholar-Gipsy."There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there; and at last to join himself to a company of vagabond gipsies. Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating subtilty of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery. After he had been a pretty while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars, who had formerly been of his acquaintance. They quickly spied out their old friend among the gipsies; and he gave them an account of the necessity which drove him to that kind of life, and told them that the people he went with were not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the power of imagination, their fancy binding that of others: that himself had learned much of their art, and when he had compassed the whole secret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned."—Glanvil'sVanity of Dogmatizing, 1661.

[16]NOTE 16, PAGE 273.

The Scholar-Gipsy.

"There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there; and at last to join himself to a company of vagabond gipsies. Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating subtilty of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery. After he had been a pretty while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars, who had formerly been of his acquaintance. They quickly spied out their old friend among the gipsies; and he gave them an account of the necessity which drove him to that kind of life, and told them that the people he went with were not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the power of imagination, their fancy binding that of others: that himself had learned much of their art, and when he had compassed the whole secret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned."—Glanvil'sVanity of Dogmatizing, 1661.

[17]NOTE 17, PAGE 281.Thyrsis.Throughout this poem there is reference to the preceding piece,The Scholar-Gipsy.

[17]NOTE 17, PAGE 281.

Thyrsis.

Throughout this poem there is reference to the preceding piece,The Scholar-Gipsy.

[18]NOTE 18, PAGE 287.Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing.Daphnis, the ideal Sicilian shepherd of Greek pastoral poetry, was said to have followed into Phrygia his mistress Piplea, who had been carried off by robbers, and to have found her in the power of the king of Phrygia, Lityerses. Lityerses used to make strangers try a contest with him in reaping corn, and to put them to death if he overcame them. Hercules arrived in time to save Daphnis, took upon himself the reaping-contest with Lityerses, overcame him, and slew him. The Lityerses-song connected with this tradition was, like the Linus-song, one of the early plaintive strains of Greek popular poetry, and used to be sung by corn-reapers. Other traditions represented Daphnis as beloved by a nymph who exacted from him an oath to love no one else. He fell in love with a princess, and was struck blind by the jealous nymph. Mercury, who was his father, raised him to Heaven, and made a fountain spring up in the place from which he ascended. At this fountain the Sicilians offered yearly sacrifices.—See Servius,Comment. in Virgil. Bucol., v. 20, and viii. 68.

[18]NOTE 18, PAGE 287.

Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing.

Daphnis, the ideal Sicilian shepherd of Greek pastoral poetry, was said to have followed into Phrygia his mistress Piplea, who had been carried off by robbers, and to have found her in the power of the king of Phrygia, Lityerses. Lityerses used to make strangers try a contest with him in reaping corn, and to put them to death if he overcame them. Hercules arrived in time to save Daphnis, took upon himself the reaping-contest with Lityerses, overcame him, and slew him. The Lityerses-song connected with this tradition was, like the Linus-song, one of the early plaintive strains of Greek popular poetry, and used to be sung by corn-reapers. Other traditions represented Daphnis as beloved by a nymph who exacted from him an oath to love no one else. He fell in love with a princess, and was struck blind by the jealous nymph. Mercury, who was his father, raised him to Heaven, and made a fountain spring up in the place from which he ascended. At this fountain the Sicilians offered yearly sacrifices.—See Servius,Comment. in Virgil. Bucol., v. 20, and viii. 68.

[19]NOTE 19, PAGE 294.Ah! where is he, who should have come.The author's brother, William Delafield Arnold, Director of Public Instruction in the Punjab, and author ofOakfield, or Fellowship in the East, died at Gibraltar on his way home from India, April the 9th, 1859.

[19]NOTE 19, PAGE 294.

Ah! where is he, who should have come.

The author's brother, William Delafield Arnold, Director of Public Instruction in the Punjab, and author ofOakfield, or Fellowship in the East, died at Gibraltar on his way home from India, April the 9th, 1859.

[20]NOTE 20, PAGE 295.So moonlit, saw me once of yore.See the poem,A Summer Night, p. 257.

[20]NOTE 20, PAGE 295.

So moonlit, saw me once of yore.

See the poem,A Summer Night, p. 257.

[21]NOTE 21, PAGE 295.My brother! and thine early lot.See Note 19.

[21]NOTE 21, PAGE 295.

My brother! and thine early lot.

See Note 19.

[22]NOTE 22, PAGE 299.I saw the meeting of twoGifted women.Charlotte Brontë and Harriet Martineau.

[22]NOTE 22, PAGE 299.

I saw the meeting of twoGifted women.

Charlotte Brontë and Harriet Martineau.

[23]NOTE 23, PAGE 302.Whose too bold dying song.See the last verses by Emily Brontë inPoems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell.

[23]NOTE 23, PAGE 302.

Whose too bold dying song.

See the last verses by Emily Brontë inPoems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell.

[24]NOTE 24, PAGE 317.Goethe, too, had been there.SeeHarzreise im Winter, in Goethe'sGedichte.

[24]NOTE 24, PAGE 317.

Goethe, too, had been there.

SeeHarzreise im Winter, in Goethe'sGedichte.

[25]NOTE 25, PAGE 325.The author ofObermann, Étienne Pivert de Senancour, has little celebrity in France, his own country; and out of France he is almost unknown. But the profound inwardness, the austere sincerity, of his principal work,Obermann, the delicate feeling for nature which it exhibits, and the melancholy eloquence of many passages of it, have attracted and charmed some of the most remarkable spirits of this century, such as George Sand and Sainte-Beuve, and will probably always find a certain number of spirits whom they touch and interest.Senancour was born in 1770. He was educated for the priesthood, and passed some time in the seminary of St. Sulpice; broke away from the Seminary and from France itself, and passed some years in Switzerland, where he married; returned to France in middle life, and followed thenceforward the career of a man of letters, but with hardly any fame or success. He died an old man in 1846, desiring that on his grave might be placed these words only:Éternité, deviens mon asile!The influence of Rousseau, and certain affinities with more famous and fortunate authors of his own day,—Chateaubriand and Madame de Staël,—are everywhere visible in Senancour. But though, like these eminent personages, he may be called a sentimental writer, and thoughObermann, a collection of letters from Switzerland treating almost entirely of nature and of the human soul, may be called a work of sentiment, Senancour has a gravity and severity which distinguish him from all other writers of the sentimental school. The world is with him in his solitude far less than it is with them; of all writers he is the most perfectly isolated and the least attitudinising. His chief work, too, has a value and power of its own, apart from these merits of its author. The stir of all the main forces, by which modern life is and has been impelled, lives in the letters ofObermann; the dissolving agencies of the eighteenth century, the fiery storm of the French Revolution, the first faint promise and dawn of that new worldwhich our own time is but now more fully bringing to light,—all these are to be felt, almost to be touched, there. To me, indeed, it will always seem that the impressiveness of this production can hardly be rated too high.BesidesObermannthere is one other of Senancour's works which, for those spirits who feel his attraction, is very interesting; its title is,Libres Méditations d'un Solitaire Inconnu.

[25]NOTE 25, PAGE 325.

The author ofObermann, Étienne Pivert de Senancour, has little celebrity in France, his own country; and out of France he is almost unknown. But the profound inwardness, the austere sincerity, of his principal work,Obermann, the delicate feeling for nature which it exhibits, and the melancholy eloquence of many passages of it, have attracted and charmed some of the most remarkable spirits of this century, such as George Sand and Sainte-Beuve, and will probably always find a certain number of spirits whom they touch and interest.

Senancour was born in 1770. He was educated for the priesthood, and passed some time in the seminary of St. Sulpice; broke away from the Seminary and from France itself, and passed some years in Switzerland, where he married; returned to France in middle life, and followed thenceforward the career of a man of letters, but with hardly any fame or success. He died an old man in 1846, desiring that on his grave might be placed these words only:Éternité, deviens mon asile!

The influence of Rousseau, and certain affinities with more famous and fortunate authors of his own day,—Chateaubriand and Madame de Staël,—are everywhere visible in Senancour. But though, like these eminent personages, he may be called a sentimental writer, and thoughObermann, a collection of letters from Switzerland treating almost entirely of nature and of the human soul, may be called a work of sentiment, Senancour has a gravity and severity which distinguish him from all other writers of the sentimental school. The world is with him in his solitude far less than it is with them; of all writers he is the most perfectly isolated and the least attitudinising. His chief work, too, has a value and power of its own, apart from these merits of its author. The stir of all the main forces, by which modern life is and has been impelled, lives in the letters ofObermann; the dissolving agencies of the eighteenth century, the fiery storm of the French Revolution, the first faint promise and dawn of that new worldwhich our own time is but now more fully bringing to light,—all these are to be felt, almost to be touched, there. To me, indeed, it will always seem that the impressiveness of this production can hardly be rated too high.

BesidesObermannthere is one other of Senancour's works which, for those spirits who feel his attraction, is very interesting; its title is,Libres Méditations d'un Solitaire Inconnu.

[26]NOTE 26, PAGE 326.Behind are the abandon'd baths.The Baths of Leuk. This poem was conceived, and partly composed, in the valley going down from the foot of the Gemmi Pass towards the Rhone.

[26]NOTE 26, PAGE 326.

Behind are the abandon'd baths.

The Baths of Leuk. This poem was conceived, and partly composed, in the valley going down from the foot of the Gemmi Pass towards the Rhone.

[27]NOTE 27, PAGE 332.Glion?——Ah, twenty years, it cuts.Probably all who know the Vevey end of the Lake of Geneva, will recollect Glion, the mountain-village above the castle of Chillon. Glion now has hotels,pensions, and villas; but twenty years ago it was hardly more than the huts of Avant opposite to it,—huts through which goes that beautiful path over the Col de Jaman, followed by so many foot-travellers on their way from Vevey to the Simmenthal and Thun.

[27]NOTE 27, PAGE 332.

Glion?——Ah, twenty years, it cuts.

Probably all who know the Vevey end of the Lake of Geneva, will recollect Glion, the mountain-village above the castle of Chillon. Glion now has hotels,pensions, and villas; but twenty years ago it was hardly more than the huts of Avant opposite to it,—huts through which goes that beautiful path over the Col de Jaman, followed by so many foot-travellers on their way from Vevey to the Simmenthal and Thun.

[28]NOTE 28, PAGE 333.The gentian-flower'd pass, its crownWith yellow spires aflame.The blossoms of theGentiana lutea.

[28]NOTE 28, PAGE 333.

The gentian-flower'd pass, its crownWith yellow spires aflame.

The blossoms of theGentiana lutea.

[29]NOTE 29, PAGE 333.And walls where Byron came.Montbovon. See Byron's Journal, in hisWorks, vol. iii. p. 258. The river Saane becomes the Sarine below Montbovon.

[29]NOTE 29, PAGE 333.

And walls where Byron came.

Montbovon. See Byron's Journal, in hisWorks, vol. iii. p. 258. The river Saane becomes the Sarine below Montbovon.

[30]NOTE 30, PAGE 429.And the kind, chance-arrived Wanderer.Poias, the father of Philoctetes. Passing near, he was attracted by the concourse round the pyre, and at the entreaty of Hercules set fire to it, receiving the bow and arrows of the hero as his reward.

[30]NOTE 30, PAGE 429.

And the kind, chance-arrived Wanderer.

Poias, the father of Philoctetes. Passing near, he was attracted by the concourse round the pyre, and at the entreaty of Hercules set fire to it, receiving the bow and arrows of the hero as his reward.

[31]NOTE 31, PAGE 462.And that curst treachery on the Mount of Gore.Mount Hæmus, so called, said the legend, from Typho's blood spilt on it in his last battle with Zeus, when the giant's strength failed, owing to the Destinies having a short time before given treacherously to him, for his refreshment, perishable fruits. SeeApollodorus,Bibliotheca, book i. chap. vi.

[31]NOTE 31, PAGE 462.

And that curst treachery on the Mount of Gore.

Mount Hæmus, so called, said the legend, from Typho's blood spilt on it in his last battle with Zeus, when the giant's strength failed, owing to the Destinies having a short time before given treacherously to him, for his refreshment, perishable fruits. SeeApollodorus,Bibliotheca, book i. chap. vi.

[32]NOTE 32, PAGE 468Ye Sun-born Virgins! on the road of truth.See the Fragments of Parmenides:... κουραι δ' ὁδον ηγεμὁνευον,ηλιαδες κουραι, προλιπουσαι δὡματα νυκτὁς,εις φἁος....

[32]NOTE 32, PAGE 468

Ye Sun-born Virgins! on the road of truth.

See the Fragments of Parmenides:

... κουραι δ' ὁδον ηγεμὁνευον,ηλιαδες κουραι, προλιπουσαι δὡματα νυκτὁς,εις φἁος....

[33]NOTE 33, PAGE 479.Couldst thou no better keep, O Abbey old,The boon thy dedication-sign foretold."Ailred of Rievaulx, and several other writers, assert that Sebert, king of the East Saxons and nephew of Ethelbert, founded the Abbey of Westminster very early in the seventh century."Sulcardus, who lived in the time of William the Conqueror, gives a minute account of the miracle supposed to have been worked at the consecration of the Abbey."The church had been prepared against the next day for dedication. On the night preceding, St. Peter appeared on the opposite side of the water to a fisherman, desiring to be conveyed to the farther shore. Having left the boat, St. Peter ordered the fisherman to wait, promising him a reward on his return. An innumerable host from heaven accompanied the apostle, singing choral hymns, while everything was illuminated with a supernatural light. The dedication having been completed, St. Peter returned to the fisherman, quieted his alarm at what had passed, and announced himself as the apostle. He directed the fisherman to go as soon as it was day to the authorities, to state what he had seen and heard, and to inform them that, in corroboration of his testimony, they would find the marks of consecration on the walls of the church. In obedience to the apostle's direction, the fisherman waited on Mellitus, Bishop of London, who, going to the church, found not only marks of the chrism, but of the tapers with which the church had been illuminated. Mellitus, therefore,desisted from proceeding to a new consecration, and contented himself with the celebration of the mass."—Dugdale,Monasticon Anglicanum(edition of 1817), vol. i. pp. 265, 266. See alsoMontalembert,Les 'Moines d'Occident, vol. iii. pp. 428-432.

[33]NOTE 33, PAGE 479.

Couldst thou no better keep, O Abbey old,The boon thy dedication-sign foretold.

"Ailred of Rievaulx, and several other writers, assert that Sebert, king of the East Saxons and nephew of Ethelbert, founded the Abbey of Westminster very early in the seventh century."Sulcardus, who lived in the time of William the Conqueror, gives a minute account of the miracle supposed to have been worked at the consecration of the Abbey."The church had been prepared against the next day for dedication. On the night preceding, St. Peter appeared on the opposite side of the water to a fisherman, desiring to be conveyed to the farther shore. Having left the boat, St. Peter ordered the fisherman to wait, promising him a reward on his return. An innumerable host from heaven accompanied the apostle, singing choral hymns, while everything was illuminated with a supernatural light. The dedication having been completed, St. Peter returned to the fisherman, quieted his alarm at what had passed, and announced himself as the apostle. He directed the fisherman to go as soon as it was day to the authorities, to state what he had seen and heard, and to inform them that, in corroboration of his testimony, they would find the marks of consecration on the walls of the church. In obedience to the apostle's direction, the fisherman waited on Mellitus, Bishop of London, who, going to the church, found not only marks of the chrism, but of the tapers with which the church had been illuminated. Mellitus, therefore,desisted from proceeding to a new consecration, and contented himself with the celebration of the mass."—Dugdale,Monasticon Anglicanum(edition of 1817), vol. i. pp. 265, 266. See alsoMontalembert,Les 'Moines d'Occident, vol. iii. pp. 428-432.

"Ailred of Rievaulx, and several other writers, assert that Sebert, king of the East Saxons and nephew of Ethelbert, founded the Abbey of Westminster very early in the seventh century.

"Sulcardus, who lived in the time of William the Conqueror, gives a minute account of the miracle supposed to have been worked at the consecration of the Abbey.

"The church had been prepared against the next day for dedication. On the night preceding, St. Peter appeared on the opposite side of the water to a fisherman, desiring to be conveyed to the farther shore. Having left the boat, St. Peter ordered the fisherman to wait, promising him a reward on his return. An innumerable host from heaven accompanied the apostle, singing choral hymns, while everything was illuminated with a supernatural light. The dedication having been completed, St. Peter returned to the fisherman, quieted his alarm at what had passed, and announced himself as the apostle. He directed the fisherman to go as soon as it was day to the authorities, to state what he had seen and heard, and to inform them that, in corroboration of his testimony, they would find the marks of consecration on the walls of the church. In obedience to the apostle's direction, the fisherman waited on Mellitus, Bishop of London, who, going to the church, found not only marks of the chrism, but of the tapers with which the church had been illuminated. Mellitus, therefore,desisted from proceeding to a new consecration, and contented himself with the celebration of the mass."—Dugdale,Monasticon Anglicanum(edition of 1817), vol. i. pp. 265, 266. See alsoMontalembert,Les 'Moines d'Occident, vol. iii. pp. 428-432.

[34]NOTE 34, PAGE 482.The charm'd babe of the Eleusinian king.Demophoön, son of Celeus, king of Eleusis. See, in theHomeric Hymns, theHymn to Demeter, 184-298.

[34]NOTE 34, PAGE 482.

The charm'd babe of the Eleusinian king.

Demophoön, son of Celeus, king of Eleusis. See, in theHomeric Hymns, theHymn to Demeter, 184-298.

[35]NOTE 35, PAGE 483.That Pair, whose head did plan, whom hands did forgeThe Temple in the pure Parnassian gorge.Agamedes and Trophonius, the builders of the temple of Apollo at Delphi. See Plutarch,Consolatio ad Apollonium, c. 14.

[35]NOTE 35, PAGE 483.

That Pair, whose head did plan, whom hands did forgeThe Temple in the pure Parnassian gorge.

Agamedes and Trophonius, the builders of the temple of Apollo at Delphi. See Plutarch,Consolatio ad Apollonium, c. 14.

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