"But this wasn't to be the end of my v'yagin'. The Lysander foundered just off Valparaiso; and though all hands was saved in the boats, when we got to port there wasn't no craft there bound any nearer homeward than an English merchant-ship, for Liverpool, by way of Madeira. So I worked a passage to Funchal, and there I got aboard of a Southampton steamer, bound for Cuba, that put in for coal. But when I come to Havana I was nigh about tuckered out; for goin' round the Horn in the Lemon, —that 'are English ship,—I'd ben on duty in all sorts o' weather; and I'd lived lazy and warm so long I expect it was too tough for me, and I was pestered with a hard cough, and spit blood, so't I was laid up a long spell in the hospital at Havana. And there I kep' a-thinkin' over Hetty's Bible, and I b'lieve I studied that 'are chart till I found out the way to port, and made up my log all square for the owner; for I knowed well enough where I was bound; but I did hanker to get home to Simsbury afore shovin' off.
"Well, finally, there come into the harbor a Mystic ship that was a-goin' down the Gulf for a New York owner. I'd known Seth Crane, the cap'en of her, away back in old Simsbury times. He was an Avon boy; and when I sighted that vessel's name, as I was crawlin' along the quay one day, and, seein' she was Connecticut-built, boarded her, and see Seth, I was old fool enough to cry right out,—I was so shaky. And Seth he was about as scart as ef he'd seen the dead, havin' heerd up to Avon, fifteen year ago nearly, that the Lowisy Miles had been run down off the Sandwich Islands by a British man-of-war, and all hands lost, exceptin' one o' the boys. However, he come to his bearin's after a while, and told me about our folks, and how't Hetty Buel wasn't married, but keepin' deestrict school, and her old grandmother alive yet.
"Well, I kinder heartened up, and agreed to take passage withSeth.—Good Lord, Doctor! what's that?"
A peculiar and oppressive stillness had settled down on everything in and out of the hospital while Jackson was going on with his story. I noticed it only as the hush of a tropic midnight; but as he spoke, I heard—apparently out on the prairie—a heavy jarring sound like repeated blows, drawing nearer and nearer the building.
Jackson sprung upright on his pillows, the hectic passed from either gaunt and sallow cheek, leaving the red and blue tattoo marks visible in most ghastly distinctness, while the sweat poured in drops down his hollow temples.
The noise drew still nearer. All the patients in the ward awoke and quitted their beds, hastily. The noise was at hand,—blows of great violence and power; and a certain malign rapidity shook the walls from one end of the hospital to the other,—blow upon blow, like the fierce attacks of a catapult, only with no like result. The nurse, a German Catholic, fell on his knees and told his beads, glancing over his shoulder in undisguised horror; the patients cowered together, groaning and praying; and I could hear the stir and confusion in the ward below. In less than a minute's space the singular sound passed through the house, and in hollow, jarring echoes died out toward the bay.
I looked at Eben;—his jaw had fallen; his hands were rigid and locked together; his eyes were rolled upward, fixed and glassy; a stream of scarlet blood trickled over his gray beard from the corner of his mouth;—he was dead! As I laid him back on the pillow and turned to restore some quiet to the ward, a Norther came sweeping down the Gulf like a rush of mad spirits; tore up the white crests of the sea and flung them on the beach in thundering surf; burst through the heavy fog that had trailed upon the moon's track and smothered the island in its soft pestilent brooding; and in one mighty pouring out of cold pure ether changed earth and sky from torrid to temperate zone.
Vainly did I endeavor to calm the terror of my patients, excited still more by the elemental uproar without; vainly did I harangue them, in the plainest terms to which science is reducible, on atmospheric vibrations, acoustics, reverberations, and volcanic agencies; they insisted on some supernatural power having produced the recent fearful sounds. Neither common nor uncommon sense could prevail with them; and when they discovered, by the appearance of the extra nurse I had sent for, to perform the last offices for Jackson, that he was dead, a renewed and irrepressible horror attacked them, and it was broad day before composure or stillness was regained in any part of the building except my own rooms, to which I betook myself as soon as possible, and slept till sunrise, too soundly for any mystical visitation whatever to have disturbed my rest.
The next day, in spite of the brief influence of the Norther, the first case of yellow fever showed itself in the hospital; before night seven had sickened, and one, already reduced by chronic disease, died. I had hoped to bury Jackson decently, in the cemetery of the city, where his vexed mortality might rest in peace under the oleanders and china-trees, shut in by the hedge of Cherokee roses that guards the enclosure from the prairie, a living wall of glassy green, strewn with ivory-white buds and blossoms, fair and pure; but on applying for a burial-spot, the city authorities, panic-stricken cowards that they were, denied me the privilege even of a prairie grave, outside the cemetery hedge, for the poor fellow. In vain did I represent that he had died of lingering disease, and that nowise contagious; nothing moved them. It was enough that there was yellow fever in the ward where he died. I was forthwith strictly ordered to have all the dead from the hospital buried on the sand-flats at the east end of the island.
What a place that is it is scarcely possible to describe. Wide and dreary levels of sand, some four or five feet lower than the town, and flooded by high tides; the only vegetation a scanty, dingy gray, brittle, crackling growth,—bitter sandworts and the like; over and through which the abominable tawny sand-crabs are constantly executing diabolic waltzes on the tips of their eight legs, vanishing into the ground like imps as you approach; curlews start from behind the loose drifts of sand and float away with heartbroken cries seaward; little sandpipers twitter plaintively, running through the weeds; and great, sulky, gray cranes droop their motionless heads over the still salt pools along the shore.
To this blank desolation I was forced to carry poor Jackson's body, with that of the fever-patient, just at sunset. As the Dutchman who officiated as hearse, sexton, bearer, and procession, stuck his spade into the ground, and withdrew it full of crumbling shells and fine sand, the hole it left filled with bitter black ooze. There, sunk in the ooze, covered with the shifting sand, bewailed by the wild cries of sea-birds, noteless and alone, I left Eben Jackson, and returned to the mass of pestilence and wretchedness within the hospital walls.
In the spring I reached home safely. None but the resident on a Southern sand-bank can fully appreciate the verdure and bloom of the North. The great elms of my native town were full of tender buds, like a clinging mist in their graceful branches; earlier trees were decked with little leaves, deep-creased, and silvery with down; the wide river in a fluent track of metallic lustre weltered through green meadows that on either hand stretched far and wide; the rolling land beyond was spread out in pastures, where the cattle luxuriated after the winter's stalling; and on many a slope and plain the patient farmer turned up his heavy sods and clay, to moulder in sun and air for seed-time and harvest; and the beautiful valley that met the horizon on the north and south rolled away eastward and westward to a low blue range of hills, that guarded it with granite walls and bristling spears of hemlock and pine.
This is not my story; and if it were, I do not know that I should detail my home-coming. It is enough to say, that I came after a five years' absence, and found all that I had left nearly as I had left it;—how few can say as much!
Various duties and some business arrangements kept me at work for six or seven weeks, and it was June before I could fulfil my promise to Eben Jackson. I took the venerable old horse and chaise that had carried my father on his rounds for years, and made the best of my way out toward Simsbury. I was alone, of course; even Cousin Lizzy, charming as five years had made the little girl of thirteen whom I had left behind on quitting home, was not invited to share my drive; there was something too serious in the errand to endure the presence of a gay young lady. But I was not lonely; the drive up Talcott Mountain, under the rude portcullis of the toll-gate, through fragrant woods, by trickling brooks, past huge boulders that scarce a wild vine dare cling to, with its feeble, delicate tendrils, is all exquisite, and full of living repose; and turning to descend the mountain, just where a brook drops headlong with clattering leap into a steep black ravine, and comes out over a tiny green meadow, sliding past great granite rocks, and bending the grass-blades to a shining track, you see suddenly at your feet the beautiful mountain valley of the Farmington river, trending away in hill after hill,—rough granite ledges crowned with cedar and pine,—deep ravines full of heaped rocks,—and here and there the formal white rows of a manufacturing village, where Kühleborn is captured and forced to turn water-wheels, and Undine picks cotton or grinds hardware, dammed into utility.
Into this valley I plunged, and inquiring my way of many a prim farmer's wife and white-headed school-boy, I edged my way northward under the mountain side, and just before noon found myself beneath the "great ellum," where, nearly twenty years ago, Eben Jackson and Hetty Buel had said good-bye.
I tied my horse to the fence and walked up the worn footpath to the door. Apparently no one was at home. Under this impression I knocked vehemently, by way of making sure; and a weak, cracked voice at length answered, "Come in!" There, by the window, perhaps the same where she sat so long before, crouched in an old chair covered with calico, her bent fingers striving with mechanical motion to knit a coarse stocking, sat old Mrs. Buel. Age had worn to the extreme of attenuation a face that must always have been hard-featured, and a few locks of snow-white hair, straying from under the bandanna handkerchief of bright red and orange that was tied over her cap and under her chin, added to the old-world expression of her whole figure. She was very deaf; scarcely could I make her comprehend that I wanted to see her grand-daughter; at last she understood, and asked me to sit down till Hetty should come from school; and before long, a tall, thin figure opened the gate and came slowly up the path.
I had a good opportunity to observe the constant, dutiful, self-denying Yankee girl,—girl no longer, now that twenty years of unrewarded patience had lined her face with unmistakable graving. But I could not agree with Eben's statement that she was not pretty; she must have been so in her youth; even now there was beauty in her deep-set and heavily fringed dark eyes, soft, tender, and serious, and in the noble and pensive Greek outline of the brow and nose; her upper lip and chin were too long to agree well with her little classic head, but they gave a certain just and pure expression to the whole face, and to the large thin-lipped mouth, flexible yet firm in its lines. It is true, her hair was neither abundant, nor wanting in gleaming threads of gray; her skin was freckled, sallow, and devoid of varying tint or freshness; her figure angular and spare; her hands red with hard work; and her air at once sad and shy;—still, Hetty Buel was a very lovely woman in my eyes, though I doubt if Lizzy would have thought so.
I hardly knew how to approach the painful errand I had come on, and with true masculine awkwardness I cut the matter short by drawing out from my pocket-book the Panama chain and ring, and placing them in her hands. Well as I thought I knew the New England character, I was not prepared for so quiet a reception of this token as she gave it. With a steady hand she untwisted the wire fastening of the chain, slipped the ring off, and, bending her head, placed it reverently on the ring-finger of her left hand;—brief, but potent ceremony; and over without preface or comment, but over for all time.
Still holding the chain, she offered me a chair, and sat down herself,—a little paler, a little more grave, than on entering.
"Will you tell me how and where he died, Sir?" said she,—evidently having long considered the fact in her heart as a fact; probably having heard Seth Crane's story of the Louisa Miles's loss.
I detailed my patient's tale as briefly and sympathetically as I knew how. The episode of Wailua caused a little flushing of lip and cheek, a little twisting of the ring, as if it were not to be worn, after all; but as I told of his sacred care of the trinket for its giver's sake, and the not unwilling forsaking of that island wife, the restless motion passed away, and she listened quietly to the end; only once lifting her left hand to her lips, and resting her head on it for a moment, as I detailed the circumstances of his death, after supplying what was wanting in his own story, from the time of his taking passage in Crane's ship, to their touching at the island, expressly to leave him in the Hospital, when a violent hemorrhage had disabled him from further voyaging.
I was about to tell her I had seen him decently buried,—of course omitting descriptions of the how and where,—when the grandmother, who had been watching us with the impatient querulousness of age, hobbled across the room to ask "what that 'are man was a-talkin' about."
Briefly and calmly, in the key long use had suited to her infirmity,Hetty detailed the chief points of my story.
"Dew tell!" exclaimed the old woman; "Eben Jackson a'n't dead on dry land, is he? Left means, eh?"
I walked away to the door, biting my lip. Hetty, for once, reddened to the brow; but replaced her charge in the chair and followed me to the gate.
"Good day, Sir," said she, offering me her hand,—and then slightly hesitating,—"Grandmother is very old. I thank you, Sir! I thank you kindly!"
As she turned and went toward the house, I saw the glitter of the Panama chain about her thin and sallow throat, and, by the motion of her hands, that she was retwisting the same wire fastening that Eben Jackson had manufactured for it.
Five years after, last June, I went to Simsbury with a gay picnic party.This time Lizzy was with me; indeed, she generally is now.
I detached myself from the rest, after we were fairly arranged for the day, and wandered away alone to "Miss Buel's."
The house was closed, the path grassy, a sweetbrier bush had blown across the door, and was gay with blossoms; all was still, dusty, desolate. I could not be satisfied with this. The meeting-house was as near as any neighbor's, and the graveyard would ask me no curious questions; I entered it doubting; but there, "on the leeward side," near to the grave of "Bethia Jackson, wife of John Eben Jackson," were two new stones, one dated but a year later than the other, recording the deaths of "Temperance Buel, aged 96," and "Hester Buel, aged 44."
* * * * *
[Continued.]
Is it illusion? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages,Here, even yet, amid loss, change, and corruption, abide?Does there a spirit we know not, though seek, though we find,comprehend not,Here to entice and confuse, tempt and evade us, abide?Lives in the exquisite grace of the column disjointed and single,Haunts the rude masses of brick garlanded gayly with vine,E'en in the turret fantastic surviving that springs from the ruin,E'en in the people itself? Is it illusion or not?Is it illusion or not that attracteth the pilgrim Transalpine,Brings him a dullard and dunce hither to pry and to stare?Is it illusion or not that allures the barbarian stranger,Brings him with gold to the shrine, brings him in arms to the gate?
What do the people say, and what does the government do?—youAsk, and I know not at all. Yet fortune will favor your hopes; andI, who avoided it all, am fated, it seems, to describe it.I, who nor meddle nor make in politics,—I, who sincerelyPut not my trust in leagues nor any suffrage by ballot,Never predicted Parisian millenniums, never beheld aNew Jerusalem coming down dressed like a bride out of heavenRight on the Place de la Concorde,—I, ne'ertheless, let me say it,Could in my soul of souls, this day, with the Gaul at the gates, shedOne true tear for thee, thou poor little Roman republic!
France, it is foully done! and you, my stupid old England,—You, who a twelvemonth ago said nations must choose for themselves, youCould not, of course, interfere,—you, now, when a nation has chosen—Pardon this folly!The Timeswill, of course, have announced theoccasion,Told you the news of to-day; and although it was slightly in errorWhen it proclaimed as a fact the Apollo was sold to a Yankee,You may believe when it tells you the French are at Civita Vecchia.
"Dulce" it is, and"decorum"no doubt, for the country to fall,—toOffer one's blood an oblation to Freedom, and die for the Cause; yetStill, individual culture is also something, and no manFinds quite distinct the assurance that he of all others is called on,Or would be justified, even, in taking away from the world thatPrecious creature, himself. Nature sent him here to abide here;Else why sent him at all? Nature wants him still, it is likely.On the whole, we are meant to look after ourselves; it is certainEach has to eat for himself, digest for himself, and in generalCare for his own dear life, and see to his own preservation;Nature's intentions, in most things uncertain, in this most plain anddecisive:These, on the whole, I conjecture the Romans will follow, and I shall.
So we cling to the rocks like limpets; Ocean may bluster,Over and under and round us; we open our shells to imbibe ourNourishment, close them again, and are safe, fulfilling the purposeNature intended,—a wise one, of course, and a noble, we doubt not.Sweet it may be and decorous, perhaps, for the country to die; but,On the whole, we conclude the Romans won't do it, and I shan't.
Will they fight? They say so. And will the French? I can hardly,Hardly think so; and yet—He is come, they say, to Palo,He is passed from Monterone, at Santa SeveraHe hath laid up his guns. But the Virgin, the Daughter of Roma,She hath despised thee and laughed thee to scorn,—the Daughter of TiberShe hath shaken her head and built barricades against thee!
Will they fight? I believe it. Alas, 'tis ephemeral folly,Vain and ephemeral folly, of course, compared with pictures,Statues, and antique gems,—indeed: and yet indeed too,Yet methought, in broad day did I dream,—tell it not in St. James's,Whisper it not in thy courts, O Christ Church!—yet did I, waking,Dream of a cadence that sings,Si tombent nos jeunes héros, laTerre en produit de nouveaux contre vous tous prêts à se battre;Dreamt of great indignations and angers transcendental,Dreamt of a sword at my side and a battle-horse underneath me.
Now supposing the French or the Neapolitan soldierShould by some evil chance come exploring the Maison Serny,(Where the family English are all to assemble for safety,)Am I prepared to lay down my life for the British female?Really, who knows? One has bowed and talked, till, little by little,All the natural heat has escaped of the chivalrous spirit.Oh, one conformed, of course; but one doesn't die for good manners,Stab or shoot, or be shot, by way of a graceful attention.No, if it should be at all, it should be on the barricades there;Should I incarnadine ever this inky pacifical finger,Sooner far should it be for this vapor of Italy's freedom,Sooner far by the side of the damned and dirty plebeians.
Ah, for a child in the street I could strike; for the full-blown lady—Somehow, Eustace, alas, I have not felt the vocation.Yet these people of course will expect, as of course, my protection,Vernon in radiant arms stand forth for the lovely Georgina,And to appear, I suppose, were but common civility. Yes, andTruly I do not desire they should either be killed or offended.
Oh, and of course you will say, "When the time comes, you will be ready."Ah, but before it comes, am I to presume it will be so?What I cannot feel now, am I to suppose that I shall feel?Am I not free to attend for the ripe and indubious instinct?Am I forbidden to wait for the clear and lawful perception?Is it the calling of man to surrender his knowledge and insight,For the mere venture of what may, perhaps, be the virtuous action?Must we, walking o'er earth, discerning a little, and hopingSome plain visible task shall yet for our hands be assigned us,—Must we abandon the future for fear of omitting the present,Quit our own fireside hopes at the alien call of a neighbor,To the mere possible shadow of Deity offer the victim?And is all this, my friend, but a weak and ignoble repining,Wholly unworthy the head or the heart of Your Own Correspondent?
Yes, we are fighting at last, it appears. This morning, as usual,Murray, as usual, in hand, I enter the Caffè Nuovo;Seating myself with a sense as it were of a change in the weather,Not understanding, however, but thinking mostly of Murray,And, for to-day is their day, of the Campidoglio Marbles,Caffè-latte!I call to the waiter,—andNon c' è latte,This is the answer he makes me, and this the sign of a battle.So I sit; and truly they seem to think any one else moreWorthy than me of attention. I wait for my milklessnero,Free to observe undistracted all sorts and sizes of persons,Blending civilian and soldier in strangest costume, coming in, andGulping in hottest haste, still standing, their coffee,—withdrawingEagerly, jangling a sword on the steps, or jogging a musketSlung to the shoulder behind. They are fewer, moreover, than usual,Much, and silenter far; and so I begin to imagineSomething is really afloat. Ere I leave, the Caffè is empty,Empty too the streets, in all its length the CorsoEmpty, and empty I see to my right and left the Condotti.
Twelve o'clock, on the Pincian Hill, with lots of English,Germans, Americans, French,—the Frenchmen, too, are protected.So we stand in the sun, but afraid of a probable shower;So we stand and stare, and see, to the left of St. Peter's,Smoke, from the cannon, white,—but that is at intervals only,—Black, from a burning house, we suppose, by the Cavalleggieri;And we believe we discern some lines of men descendingDown through the vineyard-slopes, and catch a bayonet gleaming.Every ten minutes, however,—in this there is no misconception,—Comes a great white puff from behind Michel Angelo's dome, andAfter a space the report of a real big gun,—not the Frenchman's?—That must be doing some work. And so we watch and conjecture.
Shortly, an Englishman comes, who says he has been to St. Peter's,Seen the Piazza and troops, but that is all he can tell us;So we watch and sit, and, indeed, it begins to be tiresome.—All this smoke is outside; when it has come to the inside,It will be time, perhaps, to descend and retreat to our houses.
Half-past one, or two. The report of small arms frequent,Sharp and savage indeed; that cannot all be for nothing:So we watch and wonder; but guessing is tiresome, very.Weary of wondering, watching, and guessing, and gossipping idly,Down I go, and pass through the quiet streets with the knots ofNational Guards patrolling and flags hanging out at the windows,English, American, Danish,—and, after offering to help anIrish family movingen masseto the Maison Serny,After endeavoring idly to minister balm to the tremblingQuinquagenarian fears of two lone British spinsters,Go to make sure of my dinner before the enemy enter.But by this there are signs of stragglers returning; and voicesTalk, though you don't believe it, of guns and prisoners taken;And on the walls you read the first bulletin of the morning.—This is all that I saw, and all I know of the battle.
Victory! Victory!—Yes! ah, yes, thou republican Zion,Truly the kings of the earth are gathered and gone by together;Doubtless they marvelled to witness such things, were astonished,and so forth.Victory! Victory! Victory!—Ah, but it is, believe me,Easier, easier far, to intone the chant of the martyrThan to indite any paean of any victory. Death maySometimes be noble; but life, at the best, will appear an illusion,While the great pain is upon us, it is great; when it is over,Why, it is over. The smoke of the sacrifice rises to heaven,Of a sweet savor, no doubt, to somebody; but on the altar,Lo, there is nothing remaining but ashes and dirt and ill odor.
So it stands, you perceive; the labial muscles, that swelled withVehement evolution of yesterday Marseillaises,Articulations sublime of defiance and scorning, to-day col-Lapse and languidly mumble, while men and women and papersScream and re-scream to each other the chorus of Victory. Well, butI am thankful they fought, and glad that the Frenchmen were beaten.
So I have seen a man killed! An experience that, among others!Yes, I suppose I have; although I can hardly be certain,And in a court of justice could never declare I had seen it.But a man was killed, I am told, in a place where I sawSomething; a man was killed, I am told, and I saw something.
I was returning home from St. Peter's; Murray, as usual,Under my arm, I remember; had crossed the St. Angelo bridge; andMoving towards the Condotti, had got to the first barricade, whenGradually, thinking still of St. Peter's, I became consciousOf a sensation of movement opposing me,—tendency this way(Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave of the tide isComing and not yet come,—a sort of poise and retention);So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of stragglersHeading a crowd, it is plain, that is coming behind that corner.Looking up, I see windows filled with heads; the Piazza,Into which you remember the Ponte St. Angelo enters,Since I passed, has thickened with curious groups; and now theCrowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last barricade, isHere at my side. In the middle they drag at something. What is it?Ha! bare swords in the air, held up! There seem to be voicesPleading and hands putting back; official, perhaps; but the swords areMany, and bare in the air,—in the air! They descend! They are smiting,Hewing, chopping! At what? In the air once more upstretched! AndIs it blood that's on them? Yes, certainly blood! Of whom, then?Over whom is the cry of this furor of exultation?
While they are skipping and screaming, and dancing their caps on thepoints ofSwords and bayonets, I to the outskirts back, and ask aMercantile-seeming bystander, "What is it?" and he, looking alwaysThat way, makes me answer, "A Priest, who was trying to fly toThe Neapolitan army,"—and thus explains the proceeding.
You didn't see the dead man? No;—I began to be doubtful;I was in black myself, and didn't know what mightn't happen;—But a National Guard close by me, outside of the hubbub,Broke his sword with slashing a broad hat covered with dust,—andPassing away from the place with Murray under my arm, andStooping, I saw through the legs of the people the legs of a body.
You are the first, do you know, to whom I have mentioned the matter.Whom should I tell it to, else?—these girls?—the Heavens forbid it!—Quidnuncs at Monaldini's?—idlers upon the Pincian?
If I rightly remember, it happened on that afternoon whenWord of the nearer approach of a new Neapolitan armyFirst was spread. I began to bethink me of Paris Septembers,Thought I could fancy the look of the old 'Ninety-two. On that evening,Three or four, or, it may be, five, of these people were slaughtered.Some declare they had, one of them, fired on a sentinel; othersSay they were only escaping; a Priest, it is currently stated,Stabbed a National Guard on the very Piazza Colonna:History, Rumor of Rumors, I leave it to thee to determine!
But I am thankful to say the government seems to have strength toPut it down; it has vanished, at least; the place is now peaceful.Through the Trastevere walking last night, at nine of the clock, IFound no sort of disorder; I crossed by the Island-bridges,So by the narrow streets to the Ponte Rotto, and onwardsThence, by the Temple of Vesta, away to the great Coliseum,Which at the full of the moon is an object worthy a visit.
Only think, dearest Louisa, what fearful scenes we have witnessed!—
* * * * *
George has just seen Garibaldi, dressed up in a long white cloak, onHorseback, riding by, with his mounted negro behind him:This is a man, you know, who came from America with him,Out of the woods, I suppose, and uses alassoin fighting,Which is, I don't quite know, but a sort of noose, I imagine;This he throws on the heads of the enemy's men in a battle,Pulls them into his reach, and then most cruelly kills them:Mary does not believe, but we heard it from an Italian.
Mary allows she was wrong about Mr. Claudebeing selfish;He wasmostuseful and kind on the terrible thirtieth of April.
Do not write here any more; we are starting directly for Florence:We should be off to-morrow, if only Papa could get horses;All have been seized everywhere for the use of this dreadful Mazzini.
Mary has seen thus far.—I am really so angry, Louisa,—Quite out of patience, my dearest! What can the man be intending?I am quite tired; and Mary, who might bring him to in a moment,Lets him go on as he likes, and neither will help nor dismiss him.
It is most curious to see what a power a few calm words (inMerely a brief proclamation) appear to possess on the people.Order is perfect, and peace; the city is utterly tranquil;And one cannot conceive that this easy andnonchalantcrowd, thatFlows like a quiet stream through street and market-place, enteringShady recesses and bays of church,osteríaandcaffè,Could in a moment be changed to a flood as of molten lava,Boil into deadly wrath and wild homicidal delusion.
Ah, 'tis an excellent race,—and even in old degradation,Under a rule that enforces to flattery, lying, and cheating,E'en under Pope and Priest, a nice and natural people.Oh, could they but be allowed this chance of redemption!—but clearlyThat is not likely to be. Meantime, notwithstanding all journals,Honor for once to the tongue and the pen of the eloquent writer!Honor to speech! and all honor to thee, thou noble Mazzini!
I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt, you would think so.I am in love, you say; with those letters, of course, you would say so.
I am in love, you declare. I think not so; yet I grant youIt is a pleasure, indeed, to converse with this girl. Oh, rare gift,Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, canSpeak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking,Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one moment,Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents toStep from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vainConscious understandings that vex the minds of man-kind.No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not the keys; 'tisSong, though you hear in her song the articulate vocables sounded,Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning.
Ah, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, unbiased, unprompted!Bid me not venture on aught that could alter or end what is present!Say not, Time flies, and occasion, that never returns, is departing!Drive me not out, ye ill angels with fiery swords, from my Eden,Waiting, and watching, and looking! Let love be its own inspiration!Shall not a voice, if a voice there must be, from the airs that environ,Yea, from the conscious heavens, without our knowledge or effort,Break into audible words? Let love be its own inspiration!
Wherefore and how I am certain, I hardly can tell; but it is so.She doesn't like me, Eustace; I think she never will like me.Is it my fault, as it is my misfortune, my ways are not her ways?Is it my fault, that my habits and modes are dissimilar wholly?'Tis not her fault, 'tis her nature, her virtue, to misapprehend them:'Tis not her fault, 'tis her beautiful nature, not even to know me.Hopeless it seems,—yet I cannot, hopeless, determine to leave it:She goes,—therefore I go; she moves,—I move, not to lose her.
Oh, 'tisn't manly, of course, 'tisn't manly, this method of wooing;'Tisn't the way very likely to win. For the woman, they tell you,Ever prefers the audacious, the wilful, the vehement hero;She has no heart for the timid, the sensitive soul; and for knowledge,—Knowledge, O ye gods!—when did they appreciate knowledge?Wherefore should they, either? I am sure I do not desire it.
Ah, and I feel too, Eustace, she cares not a tittle about me!(Care about me, indeed! and do I really expect it?)But my manner offends; my ways are wholly repugnant;Every word that I utter estranges, hurts, and repels her;Every moment of bliss that I gain, in her exquisite presence,Slowly, surely, withdraws her, removes her, and severs her from me.Not that I care very much!—any way, I escape from the boy's ownFolly, to which I am prone, of loving where it is easy.Yet, after all, my Eustace, I know but little about it.All I can say for myself, for present alike and for past, is,Mary Trevellyn, Eustace, is certainly worth your acquaintance.You couldn't come, I suppose, as far as Florence, to see her?
* * * To-morrow we're starting for Florence,Truly rejoiced, you may guess, to escape from republican terrors;Sir. C. and Papa to escort us; we byvetturaThrough Siena, and Georgy to follow and join us by Leghorn.Then——Ah, what shall I say, my dearest? I tremble in thinking!You will imagine my feelings,—the blending of hope and of sorrow!How can I bear to abandon Papa and Mamma and my sisters?Dearest Louisa, indeed it is very alarming; but trust meEver, whatever may change, to remain your loving Georgina.
* * * "Do I like Mr. Claude any better?"I am to tell you,—and, "Pray, is it Susan or I that attract him?"This he never has told, but Georgina could certainly ask him.All I can say for myself is, alas! that he rather repels me.There! I think him agreeable, but also a little repulsive.So be content, dear Louisa; for one satisfactory marriageSurely will do in one year for the family you would establish,Neither Susan nor I shall afford you the joy of a second.
Mr. Claude, you must know, is behaving a little bit better;He and Papa are great friends; but he really is tooshilly-shally,—So unlike George! Yet I hope that the matter is going on fairly.I shall, however, get George, before he goes, to say something.Dearest Louisa, how delightful, to bring young people together!
* * * * *
Is it to Florence we follow, or are we to tarry yet longer,E'en amid clamor of arms, here in the city of old,Seeking from clamor of arms in the Past and the Arts to be hidden,Vainly 'mid Arts and the Past seeking our life to forget?
Ah, fair shadow, scarce seen, go forth! for anon he shall follow,—He that beheld thee, anon, whither thou leadest, must go!Go, and the wise, loving Muse, she also will follow and find thee!She, should she linger in Rome, were not dissevered from thee!
[To be continued.]
I had been knocking about London, as the phrase goes, for more months than I choose to mention, when, my purse presenting unmistakable symptoms of a coming state of collapse, I began seriously to look about me for the means of replenishing it. Luckily, I had not to wait long for an opportunity. One morning, as I sat in the box of a coffee-room in Holborn, running my eye over the advertisement columns of the "Times," I met with one which promised novelty, at least; I had had too much experience in such matters to anticipate from it any very greatpecuniarycompensation. The said advertisement was to the effect, that a gentleman who combined literary tastes with business habits was required to edit a paper published in a town in South Wales; and it went on to state, that application, personally or by letter, might be made to the proprietor of the said journal at M——.
That I possessed some taste for literature I was well enough assured; but as for my "business habits," perhaps the least said about them, the better. This condition of candidateship, however, I quietly shirked, while counting over my few remaining coins, scarcely more than sufficient, after paying my landlady, to defray my expenses to M——, some one hundred and sixty miles distant. Determining, then, to assume a commercial virtue, though I had it not, I quitted the metropolis, and in due time reached the land of leeks, with a light heart, and seven and sixpence sterling in my pocket.
A queer little Welsh town was M——, with an androgynous population,—or so it seemed to me, who had never before beheld women wearing men's hats and coats, and men with head-coverings and other articles of apparel of a very ambiguous description. It chanced to be market-day when I arrived, so that I had a capital opportunity of observing the population for whose edification my "literary tastes" were, I hoped, to be called into requisition. But at the very outset a tremendous difficulty stared me in the face. Nine out of every ten of the people I met or passed spoke in a language that to me was as unintelligibly mysterious as the cuneiform characters on Mr. Layard's Nineveh sculptures. It was a hard, harsh, guttural dialect, which even those who were to the manner born seemed to jerk out painfully and spasmodically from their lingual organs. This was especially obvious during a bargain, where an excited market-man was endeavoring to pass off a tough old gander as a tender young goose, to some equally excited customer. It was dissonant enough tomyear, but I fancy it would have driven a sensitive Italian to distraction. After listening to the horrible jargon for some time, I could easily believe the story which poor William Maginn used to tell with such unction, of the origin of the Welsh language. It was to this effect.—When the Tower of Babel was being built, the workmen all spoke one tongue. Just at the very instant when the "confusion" occurred, a mason, trowel in hand, called for a brick. This his assistant was so long in handing to him, that he incontinently flew into a towering passion, and discharged from the said trowel a quantity of mortar, which entered the other's windpipe just as he was stammering out an excuse. The air, rushing through the poultice-like mixture, caused a spluttering and gurgling, which, blending with the half-formed words, became that language ever since known as Welsh.—I think it my duty to advise the reader never to tell this anecdote to any descendants of Cadwallader, who are peculiarly sensitive on the subject, and so hot-blooded, that it is not at all unlikely the injudicious story-teller might be deprived of any future opportunity of insulting the Ap-Shenkins, the Ap-Joneses, and the race of very irascible Taffys in general.
I had, however, little time to study either language or character; so, after a plain dinner at the Merlin's Head, the chief inn of the place, I set out for the purpose of seeing the newspaper proprietor. Fortified by a letter of introduction and some testimonials, I entered his shop,—he was a bookseller and stationer,—and inquired for Mr. F——.
"That's my name," said a red-faced man behind the counter. I handed him the introductory note, he glanced at it and then at me, thrust it into his waistcoat pocket, and, as soon as he had served the customer with whom he was engaged, led the way into a little room adjoining the place of business.
Mr. F—- owned the newspaper; but, as he never ventured in a literary way beyond reading proofs of advertisements, he was compelled to employ an editor to do the leaders, select from the exchanges, prepare the local news, and get up the reporting. He was, however, a practical printer, and, in the main, a good fellow. After looking at my testimonials and asking a few questions, my services were accepted, and I was duly installed as editor of the "M—— Beacon," a small, but rather influential county sheet. I ought to observe, that, as it circulated chiefly in places where English was generally spoken, my ignorance of Welsh was of but little importance, especially as the foreman of the printing-office was a Cambrian, who could correct any errors I might make in Taffy's orthography, which, prodigal as it is of consonants and penurious of vowels, and, as it regards pronunciation, embarrassing to the last degree, might drive Elihu Burritt back to his smithy in an agony of despair.
Thus assisted, I got on tolerably well, though at first I made some awful mistakes in the names of places mentioned by witnesses in courts of justice and elsewhere. For instance, at the assizes, a man swore that he resided at a place which he pronounced Monothosluin, and so I spelt it in my report. "Cot pless me, Sur!—sure inteed, and you have not spelt hur right," remarked Mr. Morgan, the foreman; and for my edification he set it up thus,—Mynyddysllwyn. I almost turned my tongue into a corkscrew, trying to speak the word as he did, and I fairly gave up in despair. After that, I made it a rule, when I did not know how to spell some unpronounceable word, to huddle a number of consonants together in most admired disorder, and I was then usually nearer correctness than if I had orthographized by ear.
I had been installed in the editorial chair some six months when Mr. F—— informed me it was necessary I should visit Abergavenny, a town some twenty-five miles distant, for the purpose of reporting the proceedings at the CYMREIGGDDYON.
"And what the deuse is that?" I inquired.
I learned that it was a Triennial Musical Festival, so called,—at which all the musical talent of Wales would be present; in short, that it was a very grand occasion indeed, would be patronized by the aristocracy of the Principality, and full reports of each of the three days' proceedings were absolutely necessary.
Here again the Welsh difficulty started up; but as the Cymreiggddyon would be quite a novelty, I determined to trust to Chance and Circumstance,—two allies of mine who have gallantly aided me in many a tough battle of literary life.
Remembering the words of Goldsmith,—"The young noble who is whirled through Europe in his chariot sees society at a peculiar elevation, and draws conclusions widely different from him who makes the grand tour on foot," I determined to make my way to Abergavenny either by means of my own legs or through the chance aid of those of a Welsh pony. So, one bright morning, with stick in hand, knapsack on shoulder, and a wandering artist for a companion, I started for the iron district, as that part of Wales is termed. Wildly romantic were the roads we traversed; and after having threaded many a glen, leaped frequent torrents, ascended and descended mountains with impossible names, and plodded wearily across dreary moors, glad enough were we to observe, in the less thinly scattered cottages, indications of a town.
The clouds had been gathering ominously during the latter half of our long day of travel,—and as the sun set blood-red behind a heavy bank of vapor, it cast lurid reflections on large bodies of dense mist, which sailed heavily athwart the crests of the mountains, with low, ragged, trailing edges, that were too surely the precursors of a storm. Just before the orb finally disappeared, its slant rays streamed through some dark purple bars on the horizon's verge, and for an instant tinged the opposite distant mountains with strange supernatural hues. The Blorenge and the Sugar Loaf glowed like huge carbuncles, while the pale green light which bathed their bases gleamed faintly like a setting of aqua-marina. My artist companion incontinently fell into professional raptures, and raved of "effect," and "Turner," and "Ruskin," heedless of my advice that he had better hasten onward, lest night should overtake us in that wild region, where sheep-tracks, scarcely visible even by daylight, were our sole guides. At length, however, I managed to start him, and on we stalked, the decreasing twilight and the distant reverberations of thunder among the mountains hastening our steps, until they became almost a trot.
But soon the trot declined once more into a walk, and a slow one too,—for we entered a gloomy pass or gorge, whose rocky walls on either side effectually excluded what little light yet lingered in the sky. Cautiously picking our way, we slowly travelled on, until at length we became sensible of a faint red flush in the narrow strip of sky overhead. It seemed as though the sun had just wheeled back to give a forgotten message to some starry-night-watcher,—or so my companion intimated. But, unfortunately for his theory, the dull red glare above us, which every moment deepened in intensity, was evidently the reflection of earthly, not heavenly fire. I had seen too many conflagrations to doubt that for an instant. Presently a dull, confused sound fell on our ears, and at a sudden turn round an angle of our mountain road we stood speechless as we gazed on a spectacle which Milton might have conceived and Martin painted.
"Far other light than that of day there shoneUpon the wanderers entering Padalon,"
murmured the artist, as he gazed on the strange scene. And strange indeed was it to our startled eyes. We stood on the end and summit of a mountain spur, some two thousand feet above the valley, or rather basin, below, from the centre of which burst forth a thousand fires, whose dull roar—dulled by distance—was like "the noise of the sea on an iron-bound shore." The extent of space covered by those strange, fierce fires must have amounted to many acres,—in fact, did so, as we afterwards ascertained,—and the effect produced by them may be partially imagined when it is remembered that these flames were of all hues, from rich ruby-red, to the pale lurid light of burning sulphur. Fancy all the gems of Aladdin's Palace or Sinbad's Valley in fierce flashing combustion, immensely magnified, and you may form some faint idea of the scene in that Welsh valley.
Stretching out, like spokes of a gigantic wheel, from their fiery centre, were huge embankments, like those of Titanic railways, whose summits and sides, especially towards their extremities, glowed in patches with all the hues of the rainbow. As I gazed wonderingly on one of these,—a real mountain of light, far surpassing the Koh-i-Noor,—I observed a dark figure gliding along its summit, pushing something before it, like a black imp conveying an unfortunate soul from one part of Tophet to another. At the extremity of the ridge the imp stopped, and suddenly there shot down the steep, not a tortured ghost, but a shower of radiant gems even more brilliant than those to which I have already referred.
"What, in the name of all that's wonderful, isthat?" said my friend, Mr. Vandyke Brown; and I was also trying to account for the phenomena, when a voice close to my ear—a voice which I was certain belonged neither to Mr. B. nor myself—uttered the mysterious word,—
"Sl-aa-g!"
I looked round, and, sure enough, there stood a being who might very easily be mistaken for a new arrival from the bottomless pit. Such, however, it was evident he was not. Though he was black enough, in all conscience, he had neither horns, hoof, nor tail, and he was redolent rather of 'bacco than brimstone; a queer old hat, in the band of which was stuck an unlighted candle, covered a mass of matted red hair; his eyes were glaring and rimmed with red; and there was a gash in his face where his mouth should have been. A loose flannel shirt, which had once been red, a pair of indescribable trowsers, and thick-soled shoes, completed his dress,—an attire which I at once recognized as that common among the coal-miners of the district.
"'Deed and truth, Sur, they is cinder-heaps and slag from the iron-works, Sur; and yon is Merthyr-Tydvil, sure."
Piloted by our dusky guide,—not exactly, though, like Campbell's "Morningbrought by Night,"—we soon reached the town,—which is named after a young lady of legendary times named Tydfil, a Christian martyr, of which Merthyr-Tydvil is a corruption,—and made the best of our way to the Bush Inn, where we treated our sable friend to somecwrw dach,—Anglicé, strong ale; and after a hearty supper of Welsh rabbit, which Tom Ingoldsby calls a "bunny without any bones," and "custard with mustard,"—which, as made in the Principality, it much resembles,—I took a stroll through the town. It was a dull-looking place enough, and as dirty as dull; every house was built with dingy gray stones, without any reference whatever to cleanliness or ventilation; and as to the civilization of the inhabitants, I saw enough to convince me, that, to see real barbarism, an Englishman need only visit that part of Great Britain called Wales. It was eight in the evening, and the day-laborers at the furnaces had just left work. The doors of all the cottages were open, and, as I passed them, in almost every one was to be seen a perfectly naked stalwart man rubbing himself down with a dirty rough towel, while his wife and grown-up daughters or sisters, almost as nude and filthy as himself, stood listlessly by, or prepared his supper.
Glad to escape from such disgusting objects, I hurried back to the Bush and to bed. But not to rest, though; for during that long, miserable night, the eternal rattle of machinery, clattering of hammers, whirling of huge wheels, and roaring of blast-furnaces completely murdered sleep. Never, for one instant, did these sounds cease,—nor do they, it is said, the long year through; for if any accident happens at one of the five great iron-works, there are four others which rest not day nor night. Little, however, is this heeded by the people of Merthyr;theyare lulled to repose by the clatter of iron bars and the thumping of trip-hammers, but are instantaneously awakened by the briefest intervals of silence.
Glad enough was I, the next morning early, to cross an ink-black stream and leave the town, and pleasant was it to breathe the free, fresh mountain air, after inhaling the foul smoke of the iron-works. Towards the close of the afternoon, after a delightful walk, a great portion of it on the banks of the picturesque river Usk, we came in sight of Abergavenny, where the Cymreiggddyon was to be held.
The first of the glorious three days was duly ushered in with the firing of cannon, ringing of bells, and all kinds of extravagant jubilation. It wasn't quite as noisy as a Fourth of July, but much more discordant. Strings of flags were suspended across the streets,—flags with harps of all sorts and sizes displayed thereon,—flags with Welsh mottoes, English mottoes, Scotch mottoes, and no mottoes at all. In front of the Town Hall was almost an acre of transparent painting,—meant, that is, to be so after dark, but mournfully opaque and pictorially mysterious in the full glare of sunshine. As far as I could make it out, it was the full-length portrait—taken from life, no doubt—of an Ancient Welsh Bard. He was depicted as a baldheaded, elderly gentleman, with upturned eyes, apparently regarding with reverence a hole in an Indian-ink cloud through which slanted a gamboge sunbeam, and having a white beard, which streamed like a (horse-hair) "meteor on the troubled air." This venerable minstrel was seated on a cairn of rude stones, his white robe clasped at his throat and round his waist by golden brooches, and with a harp, shaped like that of David in old Bible illustrations, resting on the sward before him. In the background were some Druidical remains, by way of audience; and the whole was surrounded by a botanical border, consisting of leeks, oak-leaves, laurel, and mistletoe, which had a very rare and agreeable effect. Nor were these hieroglyphical decorations without a deep meaning to a Cambrian; for while the oak-leaf typified the durability of Welsh minstrelsy, the mistletoe its mysterious origin, and the laurel its reward, the national leek was pleasantly suggestive of its usual culinary companions, Welsh mutton and toasted cheese.
As in America, so in Wales, almost every public matter is provocative of a procession, and the proceedings of the Festival commenced with one. No doubt, it was to the eyes of the many, who from scores of miles round had travelled to witness it, a very imposing and serious demonstration; but anything more ridiculously amusing it was never my good fortune to see. I had, however, to keep all my fun to myself, for Welshmen are not to be trifled with. Any one who wishes to be convinced of this need only walk into a Welsh village, singing the old child-doggerel of
"Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief,Taffy came to my house and stole a pieceof beef," etc.,
and, my life on it, he will not leave it without striking proofs of Welsh sensitiveness, and voluble illustrations of some Jenny Jones's displeasure. By no means inclined to subject myself to such inconvenient experiences, I prudently kept my eyes wide open and my mouth shut,—or if I spoke, I merely asked questions, by which means I acquired necessary information and passed off for a gratified stranger and an admiring spectator.
All the resources of the town and its neighborhood, and indeed of the county itself, had been exhausted to give due effect to the parade, of which I regret to say that I cannot hope to give any adequate description. All the usual elements of processions were to be seen. Bands of music,—there were at least a dozen of them, all playing different pieces at one and the same moment, which had a somewhat distracting effect on those sensitively-eared people who weakly prefer one air at a time and do not appreciate tuneful tornadoes. As the procession went by at a brisk pace, it was curious enough to notice how the last wailing notes of "A noble race was Shenkin," played by a band in advance, blended with the brisk music of "My name's David Price, and I'm come from Llangollen," performed by a company in the rear. In fact, it was a genuine Welsh musical medley, and the daring genius who would have occupied himself in "untwisting all the links which tied its hidden soul of harmony," would have had about as difficult and distressing a task as he who tried to make ropes out of sea-sand.
Of course, these bands were made up of divers instruments, but the national harp was head and chief of them all, as might naturally have been expected in such a place and at such a time. There were harps of all sorts and shapes; some of the Welsh urchins had even Jews-harps between their teeth. There were Irish harps, English harps, and Welsh harps. There was no Caledonian harp, though; but a remarkably dirty fellow in the procession seemed to be making up for the lack of one stringed instrument by bringing another,—the Scotch fiddle!—on which he perpetually played the tune of "God bless the gude Duke of Argyle!" There were harps with one, two, and three sets of strings,—harps with gold strings, silver strings, brass strings,—strings of cat-gut and brass,—strings red, and brown, and white. I looked sharp for the "harp of a thousand strings," but it was nowhere to be seen; and surmising that such is only played on by the spirits of just men made perfect, I ceased to search further for it inthatprocession,—for though the men composing it might be just enough, they were evidently a long way from perfection. And when it is remembered that all these harps were twang-twanging away furiously, and that their strings were being swept over with no Bochsa fingers, few will wonder that I longed for cotton-wool, and blessed the memory of Paganini, who had only one string to his bow.
Harps, however, would be of little value, were there no bards to sing and no minstrels to play. Walter Scott was decidedly wrong, when, speaking of his minstrel, he says,—
"Thelastof all the bards was he."
Nonsense! I saw at least fifty in that procession,—regular, legitimate bards,—each one having a bardic bald pate, a long white bardic beard, flowing bardic robes, bardic sandals, a bardic harp in his hand, and an ancient bardic name. There was Bard Alaw, Bard Llewellyn, Bard Ap-Tudor, Bard Llyyddmunnddggynn, (pronounce it, if you can, Reader,—I can't,) and I am afraid to say how many more, in face of the high poetical authority I have just cited and refuted. Talk of the age of poetry having passed away, when three-score and ten bards can be seen at one time in a little Welsh town! These men of genius were headed by Bard Alaw, whose unpoetical name, I almost hesitate to write it, was Williams,—Taliesin Williams,—the Welsh given name alone redeeming it from obscurity. I found, too, to my disenchantment, that all the other bards were Joneses and Morgans, Pryces and Robertses, when they were met in everyday life, before and after these festivals; and that they kept shops, and carried on mechanical trades. Only fancy Bard Ap-Tudor shaving you, or Bard Llyynnssllumpllyynn measuring you for a new pair of trowsers!
After the bards and minstrels came the gentry of the county, the clergy, and distinguished strangers, before and behind whom banners floated and flags streamed. On many of these banners were fancy portraits of Saint David, the Patron Saint of Wales, always with a harp in his hand. But the Saint must have had a singularly varied expression of countenance, or else his portrait-painters must have been mere block-heads, for no two of their productions were alike. I saw smiling Davids, frowning Davids, mild Davids, and ferocious Davids,—Davids with oblique eyes, red noses, and cavernous mouths,—and Davids as blind as bats, or with great goggle-orbs, aquiline nasal organs, blue at the tips, and lips made for a lisp. One David had a brown Welsh wig on his head, and was anachronistically attired in a snuff-colored coat, black small-clothes, gray, coarse, worsted stockings, high-low boots, with buckles, and he wore on his head a three-cornered hat, and used spectacles as big as tea-saucers. On my remarking to a bystander, that I was not aware knee-breeches were worn in the time of the ancient kings, I was condescendingly informed thatthisDavid was not the celebrated Monarch-Minstrel, but a Mr. Pryce David, the founder of the Cymreiggddyon Society. But the most amusing David was one depicted on a banner carried in front of a company of barbers belonging to the order of Odd Fellows. In that magnificent work of art David was represented bewailing the death of Absalom, that unhappy young man being seen hanging by his hair from a tree. Out of the mouth of David issued a scroll, on which was inscribed the following touching verse:—
"Oh, Absalom! Oh, Absalom!Oh, Absalom, my son!If thou hadst worn a good Welsh wig,Thou hadst not been undone!"
It was with no little trouble that I elbowed my way into the great temporary hall where the exercises were to be held: but by dint of much pressing forward, I at length reached the reporters' bench. Directly in front was a raised platform, and on two sides of the tent galleries had been erected for the bards and orators. On the platform table were arranged prizes to be given for the best playing, singing, and speaking,—and also for articles of domestic Welsh manufacture, such as plaids, flannels, and the like. A large velvet and gilded chair was placed on a daïs for the president, and on either side of this, seats for ladies and visitors. In a very short time every corner of the spacious area was crammed.
And a pretty and a cheerful spectacle was presented wherever the eye turned. As in almost all other gatherings of the kind, the fair sex were greatly in the majority; and during the interval which elapsed between the opening of the doors and the beginning of business, the clatter of female tongues was prodigious. The sex generally are voluble when in crowds; but as for Welsh women, their loquacity was far beyond anything of the kind I had ever conceived of. And there were some wonderfully handsome specimens of girlhood, womanhood, and matronhood among that great gathering; though I am compelled to admit that in Wales beauty forms the exception, rather than the rule.
But the bards are in their places,—the front rows of either gallery; the president has taken his seat; the leading ladies of the county are in their chairs; and while the large audience are settling down into their places, let us glance at two or three of the celebrities present.
On the foremost seat, to the right of the chairman, sits a lady who is evidently a somebody, since all the gentlemen, on entering, pay her especial respect. She is rather past the middle age, but has worn well; her eye is still bright, her cheek fresh-colored, and her skin smooth. Evidently she takes much interest in the proceedings,—and little wonder,—for it is mainly owing to her exertions that the Festival has not become one of the things that were. Her name? You may see it embroidered in dahlias on yonder broad strip of white cotton, stretching across the breadth of the hall, nearly over her head. These blossoms form the letters and words, GWENNEN GWENT, or "The Bee of Gwent,"—Gwent being the ancient name of that portion of Glamorgan. The title is apt enough; for Lady Hall—that is her matter-of-fact name—is proverbially one of the busiest of her sex in all that relates to the welfare of her poorer neighbors. She is wife of Sir Benjamin Hall, member of Parliament for the largest parish in London, St. Mary-le-bone, and whose county residence is at Llanover Court, near Abergavenny. That tall, aristocratic man near her is her husband; but he looks somewhat out of place there. As a member of the House of Commons, he is prominent; but evidently his present position is not at all to his taste.
On the left of the chairman is another lady, whose name is well known in literary circles. She is not Welsh by birth, though she is so by marriage,—she being united to one of the great iron-masters. She has a large face, open and cheerful-looking, if not handsome. The forehead is broad and white,—the eyes dark and lustrous. Formerly she was known to the reading world as Lady Charlotte Lindsay; now she is Lady Charlotte Guest; a woman than whom very few archaeologists are better acquainted with the Welsh language and its ancient literature. She is the author of that very learned work, "The Mabinogion," a collection of early Welsh legends. This book was printed a few years since by the pale-faced, intelligent-looking man who is standing behind her chair,—Mr. Rees,—a printer in an obscure Welsh hamlet, named Llandovery. He has, with perfect propriety, been termed the Welsh Elzevir; and certainly a finer specimen of typography than that furnished by the "Mabinogion" can scarcely be produced.
The chairman is a pompous old nobody. Him I need not describe. The presiding and directing spirit of the place is a tall, slender gentleman with snow-white hair, dark, flashing eyes, and a graceful bearing; it is the Rev. Thomas Price, or, as his Welsh title has it,Carnuhanawc. He is a thorough believer in the ultra-excellence of everything Welsh,—Welsh music, Welsh flannels, Welsh scenery, Welsh mutton; and so far as regards the latter, I am quite of his opinion. After a very animated speech, he directs the competitors on the triple harp to stand forward and begin a harmonious contest.
There are three,—an old blind man, a young man, and a girl some fourteen years of age. Every one cheers the latter lustily, and "wishes she may get it." So do I, of course; and I listen with great interest as Miss Winifred Jenkins commences her performance, which she does without blush or hesitation, and with quite an I-know-all-about-it sort of air. I forget the particular piece the young lady played; but upon it she extemporized so many variations, that long before she came to an ending I had lost all remembrance of the text from which she had deduced her melodious sermon. There was, I thought, more mechanical tact than expression in her performance, but it was enthusiastically applauded for all that; and with an awkward curtsy—much like Sydney Smith's little servant-maid Bunch's "bobbing to the centre of the earth"—the red-cheeked little harpist vanished.
Next came the young man; but several of the harp-strings at once snapped in consequence of his fierce fingering, and he broke down amidst howls of guttural disapprobation. So far as competition was concerned, he was, in sporting parlance, nowhere!
The old blind gentleman followed, and I do not think that I ever witnessed a more melancholy spectacle. Apollo playing on his stringed instrument presents a very graceful appearance; but fancy a Welsh Orpheus with a face all seamed and scarred by smallpox,—a short, fiery button in the middle of his countenance, serving for a nose,—a mouth awry and toothless,—and two long, dirty, bony hands, with claw-like fingers tipped with dark crescents,—and I do not think the picture will be a pleasant one. If the horrible-looking old fellow had concealed his ghastly eyes by colored glasses, the effect would not have been so disagreeable; but it was absolutely frightful to see him rolling his head, as he played, and every now and then staring with the whites of his eyes full in the faces of his unseen audience. At length, greatly to my relief, he gave the last decisive twang, and was led away by his wife. It is almost needless to say that the musical "Bunch" took the prize.
"Penillionn Singing" was the next attraction. This was something like an old English madrigal done into Welsh, and, as a specimen of vocalization, pleasing enough,—as pleasing, that is, as Welsh singing can be to an English ear; but how different from the soft, liquid Italian trillings, the flexible English warblings, the melodious ballads of Scotland, or the rollicking songs of Ireland! There was only one of the many singers I heard at the Festival who at all charmed me, and that was a little vocalist of much repute in Southern Wales for her bird-like voice and brilliancy of execution. Her professional name was pretty enough,—Eos Vach Morganwg,—"The Little Nightingale of Glamorgan." Her renderings of some simple Welsh melodies were delicious; they as far excelled the outpourings of the other singers as the compositions of Mendelssohn or Bellini surpass a midnight feline concert. I have heard Chinese singing, and have come to the conclusion, that, next to it, Welsh prize-vocalism is the most ear-distracting thing imaginable.
So it went on; Welsh, Welsh, Welsh, nothing but Welsh, until I was heartily sick of it. Then, the singing part of the performance being concluded, the bardic portion of the business commenced. It was conducted in this manner:—
The names of several subjects were written on separate slips of paper, and these being placed in a box, each bard took one folded up and with but brief preparation was expected to extemporize a poem on the theme he had drawn. The contest speedily commenced, and to me this part of the proceedings was far and away the most entertaining. Of course, being, as I said, ignorant of the language, I could not understand thematterof the improvisations; but as for themanner, just imagine a mad North American Indian, a howling and dancing Dervise, an excited Shaker, a violent case of fever-and-ague, a New York auctioneer, and a pugilist of the Tom Hyer school, all fused together, and you may form some faint idea of a Welsh bard in the agony of inspiration. Such roaring, such eye-rolling, such thumping of fists and stamping of feet, such joint-dislocating action of the arms, such gyrations of the head, such spasmodic jerkings—out of the language of the ancient Britons, I never heard before, and fervently pray that I never may again. And, let it be remembered, the grotesque costume of the bard wonderfully heightened the effect. His long beard, made of tow, became matted with the saliva which ran down upon it from the corners of his mouth; his make-believe bald scalp was accidentally wiped to one side, as he mopped away the perspiration from his forehead with a red cotton handkerchief; and a nail in the gallery front catching his ancient robe, in a moment of frenzy, a fearful rending sound indicated a solution of continuity, and exposed a modern blue _un_bardic pair of breeches with bright brass buttons beneath,—an incident in keeping with the sham nature of all the proceedings. For a mortal half hour this exhibition lasted, and when the impassioned speaker sat down, panting and perspiring, the multitude stamped, clapped, and hallooed, and went into such paroxysms of frenzy, that Bedlam broke loose could alone be compared with it.