ae cy Tm Sh ec . = a ee vote s ae Sry oe 3. a es 2 Le aa Sh ee eee ie % ‘ ee : PRESENTED BY Newton M. Harris 1941 BOS C56 an te + a f | (CLASSIC LITERATURE: OF ENGLAND: IN THE CHOICEST PRODUCTIONS OF THE BEST BRITISH AUTHORS: CONSTITUTING A RELI AN ow Oo his ad THE LIBRARY OR DRAWING ROOM. Tis heayen to loungé upon a couch, thought Gray, And con good authors on a weary day.” a es LONDON: COB. EDWARDS AND COMPANY. 1854. 1 iV gid eo. - 7. Ca Ee DO os o> e t ; £ se ROBIN HOOD AND THE BISHOP OF HEREFORD. ROBIN HOOD: A COLLECTION OF POEMS, SONGS, AND BALLADS Relative to that celebrated English Ountlaty, " | i i ah = | I "4 aD Mea ZZ, ROBIN HOOD’S DEATH. EDITED BY JOSEPH RITSON. Cope’ 1Siny4 b Harris o. IN, MM. 12ZAg 4. SO. C5 lb V % ic ROBIN HOOD: A COLLECTION OF AW the Anctent Poems, Songs, and Ballads NOW EXTANT, RELATIVE TO THAT CELEBRATED ENGLISH OUTLAW: TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED, HISTORICAL ANECDOTES OF HiS LIFE. In this our spacious isle I think there is not one, But he of ‘Ropin Hoop hath heard’ and Little John; And to the end of time the tales shall ne’er be done Of Scarlock, George a Green, and Much the miller’s son, Of Tuck, the merry friar, which many a sermon made Ya praise of Rogin Hoop, his out-laws, and their trade. DRAYTON. errr = = ae MEMOIR OF JOSEPH RITSON. Josepa Ritson, the author and compiler of ‘‘ Rosin Hoop,” was born on the 2nd of October, 1752, at Stockton-upon-Tees, in the county of Durham. He was bred to the law, and practised as a Conveyancer in Gray’s-Inn. In 1785 he purchased the office of High Bailiff of the Liberties of the Savoy, which he retained to his death. His tastes led him to the study of antiquarian lore, which he prosecuted with uncommor industry and acuteness. In recovering dates, assigning anonymous fragments to their authors, and in all points where a minute accuracy can alone lead to success, he has perhaps few superiors; but the unfortunate acerbity of his temper, which wasstrongly marked on features that, as it has been expressed, never appeared human except when he was poring over Gothic books, led him to criticise the labours of his most celebrated contemporaries, especially Warton, Percy, and Malone, with a virulence that had in it something of malignity. His style of writing was, like his temper, harsh and rugged, and is remarkable for an affected orthography, which, though perhaps in some points defensible, seems rather the result of caprice than judgment. In the present edition these peculiarities have, after due deliberation, been scrupulously retained, so that we believe that could even Joseph Ritson himself arise from the dead, he would admit that we have done him justice. His peculiarities were not all adopted without at least a show of reason, and as his opinion may in some cases be regarded as of value, we determined to reprint the volume exactly as we found it. The only variations are the omission of two passages, which were marked by such extreme virulence and extravagance, one of them running into obscenity, that, as they had no relation to the subject in hand, but were mere ebullitions of personal and political feeling, we felt it right to expunge them: the other altera- tion is the substitution of glossarial foot-notes, with some additions, for the glossary appended to the original publication. Ritson’s conversation partook much of the harshness of his writings, and he did not scruple even to give the lie when engaged in dispute, although the subject had nothing in it to excite passion. His wretched temper seems also to have been exasperated by the state of public affairs, his hatred of the reigning family, and his attachment to republicanism. All his peculiarities may perhaps be traced to incipient insanity, which at length became so evident, as to render it necessary to place him in confinement. He was accordingly removed to a lunatic asylum in Hoxton, where he died a few days after, on the 3rd of September, 1803. Besides “ Robin Hood,” which is one of his most valuable pieces, he published several other works, critical and antiquarian, whieh it is unnecessary here to enumerate. His last work was a “ Treatise on Abstinence from Animal Food,” in which so many impious and extravagant sentiments were expressed that he could not for some time find a publisher. It appeared but a short time before his death, and can be regarded enly as the offspring of a diseased mind. ot CONTENTS. ide eA PAGE THE LIFE OF ROBIN HOOD By ae Bo Gee Rian an Wits eye Ui eas”, & NOTES AND: ILLUSTRATIONS’ 2°. ee ee a oe atm a4 PART L— I. A LYTELL GESTE OF ROBYN HODE Me Waynes) Sipe)” te : 35 THE SECONDE FYTTE - . . aise fit) Yd ae: fae Wal ait Seis ak SB THE THYRDE FYTTE Ap) Oe ha oe ee : 41 THEROU RTH MYTH baseman yaa’. i sit bry fel Pager c os, 43 Til PALE Eres eee er able mie ieee ole ec eM ac em ae THE SYXTE FYTTE oe Re hy ates Dict oa ih) eh ten ert eek RE We, op eran THE SEVENTH FYTTE ee 6g en See OETA lete Merit ails Veutn ee Road THE EIGHTH FYTTE Bere oi pe Em © SNe TERE | AE: V. A MERRY WEDDING; OR, 0-BRAVE ARTHUR OF BRADLEY i YI ROBIN HOOD RESCUING THE THREE SQUIRES FROM NOTTINGHAM GALLOWS Iie) is : VITROBIN HOODS WDBLIGHT ). Warner, also, in his Albions England, 1602. p. 132. refers his existence to “ better daies, first Richards daies.” This, to be sure, may not be such ! See part II. ballad 1. 2 All three mention a Loxley in Warwickshire, and another in Staffordshire (‘‘near Needwood-forest, the manor and seat of the Kinardsleys”). $ It is 1100 in the original, but that is clearly an error of the press, evidence as would be sufficient to decide the point in a court of justice; but neither judge nor counsel will dispute the authority of that oracle of the law, sir Edward Coke, who pronounces that ‘This Robert Hood lived in the reign of kingR. I.” (3 Institute, 197.) We must not, therefore, regard what is said by such writers as the author of “ George a Greene, the pinner of Wakefield,” 1599, (see note (¢) who represents our hero as contemporary with king Edward IV. and the compiler of a foolish book called “The noble birth, . &c. of Robin Hood,” (see note (a) who commences it by informing us of his banishment by king Henry VIII. As well indeed might we suppose him to have lived before the time of Charlemagne, because sir John Harrington, in his translation of the Orlando Surioso, 1590. p. 391. has made ** Duke "Ammon in great wrath thus wise ‘to’ speake, This is a tale indeed of Ronin Hoop, Which to beleeve, might show my wits but weake:” or to imagine his story must have been familiar to Plutarch, because in his Morals, translated by Dr. Philemon Holland, 1603, p. 644. we read the follow- ing passage: “‘ Even so [¢@. €. as the crane and fox serve each other in A4sop], when learned men at a table plunge and drowne themselves (as it were) in subtile problemes and questions interlaced with logicke, which the vulgar sort are not able for their lives to comprehend and conceive ; whiles they also againe for their part come in with their foolish songs, and vain ballads of Rozin-Hoop and Lirrir Joun, telling éales of a tubbe, or of a roasted horse, and such like.” In a word, if we are to credit translators, he must have existed before the siege of Troy : for thus, ac- cording to one of Homers : **‘ Then came a choice companion Of Rosin Hoop and Litr.Le Joxn, Who many a buck and many a doe, In Sherwood forest, with his bow, Had nabb’d; believe me it is true, sir, The fellows Christian name was TEUCER.” lliad, by Bridges, 4to, p. 231. Thus likewise, ina much earlier translation of the same immortal bard (Homer a la mode, 1664), we read of —‘* greate Apollo who’s as good At pricks and butts as Robin Hood.” This last supposition indeed, has even the respectable countenance of dan Geoffrey Chaucer : ‘* Pandarus answerde, it may be well inough, And held with him of all that ever he saied, But in his hart he thought, and soft lough, And to himselfe full soberly he saied, From hasellwood there Jotty Rosin plaied, Shall come all that thou abidest here, Ye, farewell all the snow of ferne yere.” TroiLus (B. 5.) Speghts edition, 1602. (c) “ His extraction was noble, and his true name Ropert Firzootu.”] In “an olde and auncient pamphlet,” which Grafton the chronicler had seen, it was written that “This man discended of a noble parentage.” The Sloane MS. says, “He was of . parentage ;’? and though the material word is illegible, the sense evidently requires noble. So, likewise, the Harleian note: ‘It is said that he was of noble blood.” Leland also has expressly termed him “ nobilis.’’ (Collectanea, I. 54.) The follow- ing account of his family will be found sufficiently particular. Ralph Fitzothes or Fitzooth, a Norman, ——_——————$_—_ ea i en ie na nn a G THE LIFE OF ROBIN HOOD. who had come over to England with William Rufus, marryed, Maud or Matilda, daughter of Gilbert de Gaunt, earl of Kyme and Lindsey, by whom he had two sons: Philip, afterward earl of Kyme, that earl- dom being part of his mothers dowry, and William. Philip the elder dyed without issue; William was a ward to Robert de Vere earl of Oxford, in whose household he received his education, and who, by the kings express command, gave him in marriage to his own niece, the youngest of the three daughters of the celebrated lady Roisia de Vere, daughter of Aubrey de Vere, earl of Guisnes in Normandy, and lord high chamberlain of England under Henry J. and of Adeliza, daughter to Richard de Clare, earl of Clarence and Hertford, by Payn de Beauchamp baron of Bed- ford, her second husband. ‘The offspring of this mar- riage was, our hero, Roserr Firzoors, commonly called Rozin Hoop. (See Stukeleys Paleoyraphia Britannica, No. 1. passim.) A writer in the Gentlemans magazine, for March, 1793, under the signature D. H. pretends that Hood is only a corruption of “0? th’? wood, q. d. of Sher- wood.” This, to be sure, is an absurd conceit; but, if the name were a matter of conjecture, it might be probably enough referred to some particular sort of hood our hero wore by way of distinction or disguise See Scots Discoverie of witchcraft, 1584, p. 522. It is unnecessary to add that Hood is a common sur- name at this day. (p) “ He is frequently stiled . . Kart or Hunr- INGDON, a title to which, for the latter part of his life at least, he actually appears to have had some sort of pretension.” ] In Graftons “olde and auncient pam- phiet,’’ though the author had, as already noticed, said ‘this man discended of a noble parentage,’’ he adds, “‘or rather beyng of a base stocke and linage, was for his manhood and chivalry advaunced to the noble dignitie of an erle.” In the MS. note (Bib. Har. 1233) is the follow- ing passage: “Jt is said that he was of noble blood no lesse then an earle.’ Warner, in his Albions England, already cited, calls him “a county.” The titles of Mundys two plays are: ‘“ The downfail,’”’ and ‘“ The death of Ropert rarLte or Huntineton.” He is likewise introduced in that character in the same authors Metropolis coronata, hereafter cited. In his epitaph we shall find him expressly stiled “* RogerT EARL oF HuntineTun.’’ In “A pleasant commodie called Looke about you,” printed in 1600, our hero is introduced, and | Jonn; surnamed performs a principal character. He is represented as the young earl of Huntington, and in ward to prince Richard, though his brother Henry, the young king, complains of his having “had wrong about his ward- ship.’’ He is described as ‘A gallant youth, a proper gentleman ;” and is sometimes called “pretty earle,” and “little wag.” Fau. But welcome, welcome, and young HUNTINGTON, Sweet Ropyn Hupe, honors best flowing bloome.” ‘¢ _______an honourable youth, Vertuous and modest, Huntingtons right heyre.” And it is said that 6 TTis fathey GILBERT Was the smoothst fae’t lord That ere bare armes in England or in raunce.” In one seenc, “ Enter Richard and Robert with coronets.” * Rick, Richard the prince of England, with his ward, anni ita a a peter i air el AE The noble Rospert Woop, EARLE FLUNTINGTON, Present their service to your majestie.” Dr. Percys objection, that the most ancient poenis make no mention of this earldom, but only call him a yeoman, will be considered in another place. How he founded his pretensions to this title will be seen in his pedigree. Here it is. ** The pedigree of Robin Hood earl of Huntington. Richard Fitz-—=Roisia gilbert de Clare, earl of F Brien, Waltheof, earl of——Judith, countess Northumberland of Huntingdon, and Huntington, the Conqueror’s niece. Alice== Robert Fitz- II 1 | 2. HHO gilbert, Simon de S. —Maud.—— David L., lis 1., earl of king of Northamp- Scots, ton and earl of Huntingdon. Hunting- } don. | Henry, earl of == Ada, | Northumber- daughter | land and of Huntingdon. William, earlof Gilbert de===Roisia Ai | Warren. Gaunt, [i ae earl of H : Kyme Simon S. lis==Isabel, daugh- and IL., earl of ter of Robert Lindsey, Northamp- Bossu, earl of came in ton and Leicester. | with the Huntington. Conqueror. oo Mile Walter de Gaunt, Malcolm IV.,, earl of Lindsey. king of Scots, earl of Gilbert == Avis, Northumberland | de Gaunt, daughter and earl of and heir Huntingdon. Lincoln, of William de VII. Romara, William, earl of earl of Lincoln. Huntingdon. 2A 4 VIII. ! Raiph Fitzooth,==Mawd& Simon S. lis IIT.,——= Alice, heiress. a Norman, earl of lord of Huntingdon Kyme, and Northampton, ob. s. p. 1184, = I Philip Fivzooth, IX. lord of Kyme, David, earl of ob. s. p, ay artiek ak untingdon, son ef Beas IV cp (above) earl, William Fitzooth,== a danghter and of Ada, brought up by of Payn ob. 1219. Robert, ear] of Beauchamp | Oxford. and . lady Roisia L de Vere. Scot, his son, earl of Angus and Huntingdon, ob, 8. p. 1237. — | Roverr Firzoorn, commonly called Rosin Hoon, pretended earl of Huntington, ob. 1274 [1247], * * Stukeleys Palwographia Britannica, No. V1. p.115. In an inter- leaved copy of Robin Hoods garland tormerly belonging to Dr. Stuke- ley, and now in the possession of Francis Douce esquire, opposite the 2d page of the Ist song, is the following note in his own hand: * Guy earl of Warwick. George Gamwell of Gamwell Mall magna esq. Joanna—— Fitz Odoth Pl ha Robin Fitz Odoth Gamwell the king's forester in Yorkshire. mentioned in Camden, See my answer No. II. of Lady Roisia, where is Robin Hoods rrus PEDIGREE.” The doctor seems, by this pedigree, to have founded our heros pretensions on his descent trom Roisia, sister of Robert Fitzgilberi, husband of Alice, youngest daughter of Judith countess of Hunting er Sane 10 en an RA aS 1b nerd eet } i | re Hee eee (x) “In his youth he is reported to have been of a wild and extravagant disposition, &c.’’?] Graftons pamphlet, after supposing him to have been “ advaunced to the noble dignitie of an erle,’ continued thus: “ But afterwardes he so prodigally exceeded in charges and expenses, that he fell into great debt, by reason whereof, so many actions and sutes were commenced against him whereunto he answered not, that by order of lawe he was outlawed.’’' Leland must undoubt- edly have had good authority for calling him “ noddis ille exlex.’?* Fordun supposes him in the number of those deprived of their estates by K. Hen. III. “ Hoc intempore,” says he, “ de exheredatis surrexit et caput erexit ille famosissimus siccarius Robertus Hode et littill Johanne cum eorum complicibus.”’ (p. 774.) The Sloane MS. says he was “so ryotous that he lost or sould his patrimony & for debt became an outlawe:’’ and the Harleian note mentions his “having wasted his estate in riotous courses.” The former authority, however, gives a different, though, it may be, less credible, account of his being obliged to abscond, It is as follows: “One of his first exployts was the going abrode into a forest, & bearing with him a bowe of exceeding great strength, he fell into company with certayne rangers or woodmen, who fell to quarrel with him, as making showe to use such a bowe as noman wasable to shoote withall. Whereto Robin replyed that he had two better then that at Lockesley, only -he bare that with him nowe as a byrding bowe. At length the ‘contention’ grewe so hote that there was a wager layd about the kylling of a deerea greate distance of, for performance whereof Robin offered to lay his head to a certayne some of money, the advantage of which rash speach the others presently tooke. So the marke being found out, one of them, both to make his hart faynt and hand unsteady, as he was about to shoote urged him with the losse of head if he myst the marke. Notwithstanding Robin kyld the deare, and gave every man his money agayne, save to him which at the poynt of shooting so upbraided him with danger to loose his hed for that wager; & he sayd they would drinke togeyther: whereupon the others stomached the matter and from quarelling they gewe to fighting with him. But Robin, getting him somewhat of, with shooting dispatch them, and so fled away; and then betaking himselfe to lyve in the woods, &e.” 3 That he lurked or infested the woods is agreed by al. “ Circa hec tempora,” says Major, “ Robertus don; which, whatever it might do in those times, would scarcely be thought sufficient to support suchaclaim, at present. Beside, though John the Scot died without issue, he left three sisters, all marryed to powertul barons, either in Scotland or in England, none of whom, however, assumed the title. It is, therefore, probable, after all, that Robin Hood derived his earldom in some other way, Dr, Stukeley, whose learned labours are sufficiently known and esteemed, was a professed antiquary, and a beneficed clergyman of the church of England. He has not, it is true, thought it necessary to cite any ancient or other authority in support of the above repre- sentations; nor is itin the editors power to supply the deficiency. Perhaps, indeed, the doctor might think himself intitled to expect that his own authority would be deemed sufficient: upon that, how- ever, they must be content to rest. Mr. Parkin, who published “A reply to the peevish, weak, and malevolent objections brought by Dr. Stukeley, in his Orvigines Roystoniane, No. 2.” (Norwich, 1748. 4to.) terms ‘his pedigree of Robin Hood quite jocose, an original indeed!” (see pp. 27, 32.) Otho, and Fitz-Otho, it must be confessed, were common names among the Anglo-Normans, but no such name as Othes, Ooth, Fitz- Othes, or Fitz-Ooth, has been elsewhere met with. Philip de Kime, also, was certainly a considerable landholder in the county of Lincoln, in the time of king Henry II. but it no where appears, except from Dr. Stukeley, that his surname was Fitz-Ooth. The doctor likewise informs us that the arms of Ralph Fitzooth, and consequently of our hero, were ‘“‘ g. two bends engrailed, o.” 1 Graftons chronicle. p. 85. 2 Collec. I. 54. 3 See Robin Hoods progress to Nottingham, part IL. ballad 2. Co a Rn RN tS I A ON ES oR A a NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. of Hudus Anglus & parvus Joannes, latrones fama- lissimi, in nemoribus latuerunt.’’ Dr, Stukeley says that ‘“ Robin Hood took to this wild way of life, in imitation of his grandfather Geoffrey de Mandeville, who being a favorer of Maud empress, K. Stephen took him prisoner at 8. Albans, and made him give up the tower of London, Walden, Plessis, &c. upon which he lived on plunder.”” (MS. note in his copy of Robin Hoods garland.) (r) “Of these he chiefly affected Barnsdale, &e.’’] “ Along on the lift hond,’’ says Leland, “a iii. miles of betwixt Milburne and Feribridge I saw the wooddi and famose forrest of Barnesdale, wher thay say that Robyn Hudde lyvid like an owtlaw.’’ Itinerary, VeL0T% “They haunted about Barnsdale forrest, Comp- ton [r. Plompton] parke,4 and such other places.” MS. Sloane. ‘“‘ His principal residence,” says Fuller, “was in Shirewood forrest in this county [Notts], though he had another haunt (he is no fox that hath but one hole) near the sea in the North-riding in Yorkshire, where Robin Hoods bay still retaineth his name: not that he was any pirat, but a land-thief, who retreated to those unsuspected parts for his security.” Worthies of England, p. 320. In Thorotons Nottinghamshire, p. 505, is some account of the ancient and present state of Sherwood forest; but one looks in vain, through that dry detail of land-owners, for any particulars relating to our hero. “In anno domini 1194. king Richard the first, being a hunting in the forrest of Sherwood, did chase a hart out of the forrest of Sherwood into Barnesdale in Yorkshire, and because he could not there recover him, he made proclamation at Tickill in Yorkshire, and at divers otbers places there, that no person should kill, hurt, or chase the said hart, but that he might safely retorne into forrest againe, which hart was after- wards called a hart-royali proclaimed. (Manwoods Forest laws, 1598, p. 25, from “an auncient recorde” found by him in the tower of Nottingham castle.) 5 (*r) “ Here he either found, fe.”] After heing outlawed, Grafton tells us, ‘‘ for a lewde shift, as his last refuge, [he] gathered together a cormpanye of roysters and cutters, 6 and practised robberyes and spoyling of the kinges subjects, and occupied and frequented the forestes or wild countries.” See alse the following note. 4 Plompton park, upon the banks of the Peterill, in Cumberland, was formerly very large, and set apart by the kings of England for the keeping of deer. It was disafforested or disparked, by Henry the 8th. See Camdens Britannia, by bishop Gibson, who seems to confound this park with Inglewocd forest, a district of sixteen miles in length, reaching from Carlile to Penrith, where the kings of England used to hunt, and Edward I. is reported to have killed 200 bucks in one day. 07. 5 Drayton (Polyolbion, song 26.) introduces Sherwood in the character of a nymph, who, out of disdain at the preference shewn by the poet to a sister-forest, « All self praise set apart, determineth to sing That lusty Robin Hood, who long time like a king Within her compass liv’d, and when he list to range, For some rich booty set, or else his air to change, To Sherwood still retir’d, his only standing court.” 6 Cutters.] See Note 4, ballad V., partI. The wordis sometimes used as synonimous with bravos or assassins. So in the old play of Arden of Feversham, b. 1. n. d. 6* And they are cutters and may cut your throat.” aa Sev FTES ge OUR Lr SOS STC RPO Re Jenn rr ERAGE TERRD TREES LAI a ae a 8 THE LIFE OF ROBIN HOOD. (c) “Lirrie Joun, Wittiam Scapiock, Grorcr a Green, pinder of Wakefield, Mucn, a millers son, and a certain monk or frier named Tuck.’’] Of these the pre-eminence is incontestably due to Little John, whose name is almost constantly coupled with that of his gallant leader, “ Robertus Hode & littill Johanne,’ are mentioned together by Fordun, as early as 1341; and later instances of the connection would be almost endless. After the words, “for debt became an outlaw,” the Sloane MS. adds, “ then joyninge to him many stout fellowes of lyke disposi- tion, amongst whom one called Little John was principal or next to him, they haunted about Barnsdale forrest, &c.” See notes (11) (KK). With respect to frier Tuck, “ thogh some say he was an other kynd of religious man, for that the order of freyrs was not yet sprung up,’’ (MS. Sloan.) yet as the Dominican friers (or friers preachers) came into England in the year 1221, upward of 20 years before the death of Robin Hood, and several orders of these religious had flourished abroad for some time, there does not seem much weight in that objec- tion: nor, in fact, can one pay much regard to the term frier, as it seems to have been the common title given by the vulgar (more especially after the reforma- tion) to all the regular clergy, of which the friers were at once the lowest and most numerous. If frier Tuck be the same person who, in one of the oldest songs, is called The curtal frier of Fountainsdale, he must necessaryly have been one of the monks of that abbey, which was of the Cistertian order. However this may be, frier Tuck is frequently noticed, by old writers, as one of the companions of Robin Hood, and as such was an essential character in the morris-dance (see note (H).) He is thus mentioned by Skelton, laureat, in his “goodly interlude” of Magnificence, written about the year 1500, and with an evident allusion to some game or practice now totally forgotten and inex- plicable, ** Another bade shave halfe my berde, And boyes to the pylery gan me plucke, And wolde have made me jreer Tucke, To preche oute of the pylery hole.” In the year 1417, as Stow relates, “one by his counterfeite name, called frier Tucke, with manie other malefactors, committed many robberies in the counties of Surrey & Sussex, whereupon the king sent out his writs for their apprehension.’’ (Annales, 1592.) ’ George a Green is Georg o’the Green, meaning perhaps the town-green, in which the pound or pin- fold stood of which he had the care. He has been parti- cularly celebrated, and “ As good as George a Green ”’ is still a common saying. Drayton, describing the progress of the river Calder, in the west-riding of Yorkshire, has the following lines : ** Tt chane’d she in her course on ‘ Kirkley’ cast her eye, Where merry Robin Hood, that honest thief, doth lie; Beholding fitly too before how Wakefield stood, She doth not only think of lusty Robin Hood, But of his merry men, the pindar of the town [blown | Of Wakefield, George a Green, whose fames so far are For their so valiant fight, that every freemans song Can tell you of the same, quoth she, be talk’d on long For ye were merry lads, and those were merry days.” Thus too, Richard Brathwayte, in his poetical epistle “‘to all true-bred northerne sparks of the generous society of the Cottoneers’’ (Strappado for the divell, 1615) : “ But haste, my muse, in colours to display Some auncient customes in their high-roade way, At least such places labour to make knowne As former times have honour’d with renowne. The first whereof that I intend to show Is merry Wakefield, and her pindar too, Which fame hath blaz’d with all that did belong, — Unto that towne in many gladsome song, .The pindars valour, and how firme he stood In th’ townes defence ’gainst th’ rebel Robin Hood, How stoutly he behav’d himselfe, and would, In spite of Robin, bring his horse to th’ fold, His many May-games which were to be seene Yearly presented upon Wakefield greene, Where lovely Jugge and lustie Tib would go, To see Tom-lively turne upon the toe ; Hob, Lob, and Crowde the fidler would be there, And many more I will not speake of here. Good God! how glad hath been this hart of mine, To see that towne, which hath, in former time, So fiourish’d and so gloried in her name, Famous by th’ pindar who first rais’d the fame ! Yea, I have paced ore that greene and ore And th’ more I saw’t I tooke delight the more, ‘ For where we take contentment in a place, A whole daies walke seemes as a cinquepace.’ Yet as there is no solace upon earth, Which is attended evermore with mirth, ‘But when we are transported most with gladnesse, Then. suddenly our joy’s reduc’d to sadnesse, So far’d with me to see the pindar gone, And of those jolly laddes that were not one Left to survive: I griev’d more then Tle say :— (But now for Bradford I must hast away.) ° ° ° e e ° Unto thy task, my muse, and now make knowne, The jolly shoo-maker of Bradford towne, His gentle craft so rais’d in former time By princely journey-men his discipline, ©‘ Where he was wont with passengers to quaffe, * But suffer none to carry up their staffe’ Upon their shoulders, whilst they past through town, For if they did he soon would beat them downe; (So valiant was the souter) and from hence Twixt Robin Hood and him grew th’ difference ; Which, cause it is by most stage poets writ, For brevity I thought good to omit.” In the latter part of this extract, honest Richard evidently alludes to “A pleasant conceyted comedie of George a Greene, the pinner of Wakefield; as it was sundry times acted by the servants of the right honourable the earle of Sussex,’’ 1599, 4to, which has been erroneously ascribed to Heywood the epigram- matist, and is reprinted, with other trash, in the late edition of Dodsleys Old plays ; only it unluckily happens that Robin Hood is almost the only person who has no difference with the souter (or shoe-maker) of Bradford. The play in short (or at least that part of it which we have any concern with) is founded on the ballad of Robin Hood and the pinder of Wakefield, (see part II. song 3,) which it directly quotes, and is in fact a most despicable performance. King Edward (the fourth) having taken king James of Scotland prisoner, after a most bloody battle near Middleham-castle, from which of 30,000 Scots not 5000 had escaped, comes with his royal captive in disguise to Bradford, where they meet Robin Hood and George a@ Green, who have just had a stout affray: and, after having read this, and a great deal more such nonsensical stuff, captain Grose sagaciously ‘* supposes, that this play has little or no foundation in RES Ro EN ey MS ENGUR INTE icles, WULMNdRS SUMMON 12 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 9 history ;’’ and very gravely sits down, and debates his verses :) are the following lines (not in the former opinion in form. “The history of George a Green, pindar of the town of Wakefield,’’ 4to, no date, is a modern pro- duction, chiefly founded on the old play just mentioned, of neither authority nor merit.! Our gallant pinder is thus facetiously commemorated by Drunken Barnaby: ‘¢ Hine diverso curso, sero Quod audissem de pindero Wakefeeldensi; gloria mundt, Ubi socii sunt jucundi, Mecum statui peragrare Georgii fustem visitare.” . s* Turning thence, none could me hinder To salute the Wakefield pindar ; Who indeed is the world’s glory, With his comrades never sorry. This was the cause, lest you should miss it, George’s club I meant to visit. 46 Veni Wakefield peramenum, Ubi querens Georgium Greenum, Non inveni, sed in lignum, Fixum reperi Georgii signum, Ubi allam bibi feram Donec Georgio fortior eram.” a Strait at Wakefield I was seen a, Where I sought for George a Green a; But could find not such a creature, Yet on a sign I saw his feature, Where strength of ale had so much stir’d me, That I grew stouter far than Jordie.” Besides the companions of our hero enumerated in the text, and whose names are most celebrated and familiar, we find those of William of Goldsbrough, (mentioned by Grafton,) Right-hitting Brand, (by Mundy,) and Gilbert with the white hand, who is thrice named in the Lyttell geste of Robyn Hode, (pp. 47. 51.) and is likewise noticed by bishop Gawin Douglas, in his Palice of Honour, printed at Edin- burgh in 1579, but written before 1518: « Thair saw I Maitlaind upon auld Beird Gray, Robene Hude, and Gilbert with the quhite * hand,’ How Hay of Nauchton flew, in Madin land.”2 As no mention is made of Adam Bell, Clim of the Clough and William of Cloudeslie, either in the ancient legend, or in more than one of the nume- rous songs of Robin Hood, nor does the name of the latter once occur in the old metrical history of those famous archers, reprinted in Percys Reliques, and among Pieces of ancient popular poetry, it is to be concluded that they flourished at different periods, or at least had no connection with each other. In a poem, however, entitled “ Adam Bell, Clim of the Clough, and youne William of Cloudesley, the second part,’’ 1616, 4to, b. 1, (Bib. Bod. Art. L. 71, being a more modern copy than that in Selden C. 39, which wants the title, but was probably printed with the first part, which it there accompanies, in 1605; differing considerably there- -rom in several places ; and containing many additional 1 An edition of ‘‘ The history of George a Green,” 1706, is in the British Museum. 2 Scotish poems, i. 122; The last verse is undoubtedly sense as it now stands; but a collation of MSS. would yrobably authorise us to read, * Quhom Hay of Nauchton slew in Madin land.” copy) : s* Now beare thy fathers heart, my boy, Said William of Cloudesley then, When i was young i car’d not for The brags of sturdiest men. The pinder of Wakefield, George a Green, I try’d a sommers day, Yet he nor i were victors made Nor victor’d went away. Old Robin Hood, nor Little John, Amongst their merry men all, For fryer Tuck, so stout and young, My courage could appall.” (x) “ Marian ”.] Who or whatever this lady was, it is observable that no mention of her occurs either in the Lytell geste of Robyn Hode, or in any other poem or song concerning him, except the not: very old ballad of “ Robin Hoods golden prise,’ where she is barely named, and a comparatively modern one of no merit (see part II. song 24). She is an important character, however, in the two old plays of The death and downfall of Robert earl of Huntington, written before 1600, and is frequently mentioned by dramatic or other writers about that period. The morris dance, so famous of old time, was (as is elsewhere noticed) com- posed of the following constituent characters: Robin Hood, Little John, frier Tuck, and maid Marian. In the First part of K. Henry IV. Falstaff says to the hostess, —‘“ There’s no more faith in thee than in a stew’d prune; nor no more truth in thee than in a drawn fox; and for womanhood, mard Marian may be the deputy’s wife of the ward to thee:’’ upon which Dr. Johnson observes, that “ Maid Marian is a man dressed like a woman, who attends the dancers of the morris.’”? ‘In the ancient songs of Robin Hood,’’ says Percy, “frequent mention ‘s made of maid Marian, who appears to have been his concubine. I could quote,’’ adds he, “many passages in My oLD MS. to this purpose, but shall produce only one: % ** Good Robin Hood was living then, Which now is quite forgot, And so was fayre maid Marian, &c.” Mr. Steevens, too, after citing the old play of The downfall of Robert earl of Huntington, 1601, to prove “that matd Marian was originally a name assumed by Matilda, the daughter of Robert lord Fitzwater, while Robin. Hood remained in a state of outlawry,’’ observes, that ‘* Shakspeare speaks of maid Marian in her degraded state, when she was represented by a strumpet or a clown: ” and refers to figure 2 in the plate at the end of the play, with Mr. Tollets observations on it. The widow, in sir W. Davenants Love and Honour, says, “I have been mistress Marian in a maurice ere now;’’ and Mr. Warton quotes an old piece, entitled “Old Meg of Herefordshire for a maid Marian, and Hereford town for a morris-dance: or 12 morris-dancers in Here- fordshire of 1200 years old,’’? London, 1609, quarto: which is dedicated, he says, to one Hall, a celebrated tabourer in that country.4 See note (FF). 3 Without ‘‘ the ancient songs,” to which the doctor refers, are confined to his ‘‘ old MS.” he evidently asserts what he would probably find it difficult to prove. As for the passage he produces, it seems nothing to the purpose; as, in the first place, it is apparently not ‘*‘ ancient;” and, in the second, it is apparently not from a “‘ song of Robin Hood.” 4 Mr. Warton, having observed that “ The play of Rosin 13 (1) “His company, ¥c.’’] See the entire passage quoted from Major in a subsequent note. ‘ By such bootyes as he could get,’’ says the writer of the Sloane MS. “his company encreast to an hundred ‘and a halfe.’’ (s)—“ the words of an old writer.’’] The author of the Sloane manuscript; which adds: “after such maner he procured the pynner of Wakefeyld to become one of his company, and a freyr called Muchel [r. Tuck)...Scarlock he induced upon this occasion: one day meeting him as he walket solitary & like to aman forlorne, because a mayd to whom he was affyanced was taken from [him] by the violence of her frends, & given to another that was old & welthy, where- upon Robin, understanding when the maryage-day should be, came to the church as a begger, & having his own company not far of, which came in so soone as they hard the sound of his horne, he tooke the bryde perforce from him that [bare] in hand to have marryed her, & caused the priest to wed her & Scar- locke togeyther.” (See part II. song 8.) This MS., of which great part is merely the old legend or Lyted/ geste of Robyn Hode turned into prose, appears to have been written before the year 1600. (x) “In shooting, &c.”] I0S. Sloan. Grafton also speaks of our heros “‘excellyng principally in archery or shooting, his manly courage agreeyng there- unto.” Their archery, indeed, was unparalleled, as both Robin Hood and Little John have frequently shot an arrow a measured mile, or 1760 yards, which, it is supposed, no one, either before or since, was ever able todo. ‘ Tradition,’’ says master Charlton, ‘informs us that in one of ‘ Robin Hoods’ peregrinations, he, attended by his trusty mate Little John, went to dine [at Whitby-Abbey] with the abbot Richard, who, having heard them often famed for their great dexterity in shooting with the long bow, begged them after dinner to shew him a specimen thereof; when, to oblige the abbot, they went up to the top of the abbey, whence each of them shot an arrow, which fell not far from Whitby-laths, but on the contrary side of the lane; and in memorial thereof, a pillar was set up by the abbot in the place where each of the arrows was found, which are yet standing in these our days; that field where the pillar for Robin Hood’s arrow stands being still called Robin Hood's field, and the other where the pillar for Little John’s arrow is placed, still preserving the name of John’s field. Their distance from Whitby abbey is MoRE THAN & MEASURED MILE, which seems very far for the flight of an arrow, and is a circumstance that will stagger the faith of many ; but as to the credibility of the story, every reader may judge thereof as he thinks proper; only I must here beg leave to observe that these very pillars are men- tioned, and the fields called by the aforesaid names, in the old deeds for that ground, now in the possession and MAriAn is said to have been performed by the school- boys of Angiers, according to annual custom, in the year 1292: The boys were deguisiez, says the old French record ; and they had among them UN FILLETTE desguisee; (Carpent. Du Cange, v. ROBINET-PENTECOSTE):” adds ‘* Our old cha- racter of Mayd Marian may be hence illustrated.” (His, En. po. i. 245.) This, indeed, seems sufficiently plausible ; but unfortunately the Robin and Marian of Angiers are not the Robin and Afarian of Sherwood, The play is still extant. See Fabliaux ow contes, Paris, 1781, ii. 144, of Mr. Thomas Watson.’’ York, 1779, p. 146.) } Dr. Meredith Hanmer, in his Chronicle of Ireland, (p. 179,) speaking of Little John, says, “ There are memorable acts reported of him, which I hold not for truth, that he would shoot an arrow a MILE oFF, and a great deale more; but them,’’ adds he, “I leave among the lyes of the land.”’ * (History of Whitby, (z) “ An outlaw, in those times, being deprived of protection, owed no allegiance, &c.”] Such a charac- ter was, doubtless, at the period treated of, in a very critical situation ; it being equally as legal and merito~ rious to hunt down and despatch him as it was to kill a wolf, the head of which animal he was said to bear. “Item forisfacit, says Bracton, (who wrote about the time,) omnia que dacis sunt, quia a tempore quo utlagatus est CAPUT GERIT LUPINUM, ita ui impune ab omnibus interfici possit.” (J. 2. c. 35.) In the great roll of the Exchequer, in the 7th year of king Richard I. is an allowance by writ, of two marks, to Thomas de Prestwude, for bringing to Westminster the head of William de Elleford, an outlaw. (See Madoxes History of the Exchequer, 136.) Those who received 1 <¢ The quarry from whence king Wolfere fetched stones for his royal structure [7. e. Peterborough] was undoubtedly that of Bernach near unto Stamford.... And I find in the charter of K. Edward the Confessor, which he granted to the abbot of Ramsey, that the abbot of Ramsey should give to the abbot and convent of Peterburgh 4000 eeles in the time of Lent, and in consideration thereof the abbot of Peterburgh should give to the abbot of Ramsey as much freestone from his pitts in Bernack, and as much ragstone from his pitts in Peterburgh as he should need. Nor did the abbot of Peterburgh from these pits furnish only that but other abbies also, as that of St. Edmunds-Bury: in memory whereof there are two long stones yet standing upon a balk in Castor-field, near unto Gunwade-ferry; which erroneous tradition hath given out to be draughts of arrows from Alwalton church-yard thither; the one of Robin Hood, and the other of Little John; but the truth is, they were set up for witnesses, that the carriages of stone from Bernack to Gunwade-ferry, to be conveyed to S. Edmunds-Bury, might pass that way without paying toll; and in some old terrars they are called 8S. Edmunds stones. These stones are nicked in their tops after the manner of arrows, probably enough in memory of S. Edmund, who was shot to death with arrows by the Danes.” Guntons History of the church of Peterburgh, 1686, p. 4. 2 < Jn this relation,” Mr. Walker observes, “ the doctor not only evinces his credulity, but displays his ignorance of archery; for the Ingenious and learned Mr, Barrington, than whom no man can be better informed on the subject, thinks that eleven score and seven yards is the utmost extent that an arrow can be shot from a long bow.” (Archeologia, vol. VII.) According to tradition, he adds, Little John shot an arrow from the Old-bridge, Dublin, to the present site of St. Michaels church, a distance not exceeding, he believes, that mentioned by Mr. Barrington. (Historical essay on the dress of the ancient and modern Irish, p. 129.) What Mr. Barrington ‘‘ thinks” may be true enough, perhaps, of the Toxophilite-society and other modern archers; but people should not talk of Rozrn Hoop who never shot in his bow. The above ingenious writers censure of Dr. Hanmers credulity and ignorance, seems to be mis- applyed; since he cannot be supposed to believe what he holds not for truth, and actually leaves among the lyes of the land. See also the old song, printed in the appendix, No. 2. Drayton, a well-informed and intelligent man, who wrote before archery had fallen into complete disuse, says— “‘ At marks full forty score they us’d to prick and rove.” AO ee NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. | or consorted with a person outlawed were subject to the same punishment. Such was the humane policy of our enlightened ancestors ! {a} oe how, ome they could discourse The freezing hours away !”} (Cymbeline, act iii, scene 3.) The chief subjects of our heros conversation are supposed, by a poctical genius of the 16th century, to have been the com- mendation of a forest-life, and the ingratitude of mankind. «*T have no tales of Robin Hood, though mal-content was he Tn better daies, fret Richards daies, and liv’d in woodsas we A Tymon of the world; but not devoutly was he soe, And therefore praise I not the man: but for from him did groe. Words worth the note, a word or twaine of him ere hence we goe, by Those daies begot some mal-contents, the principall of whome : A county was, that with w troope of yomandry did rome, Brave archers and deliver men, since nor before so good, Those took from rich to give the poore, and manned Robin Hood, He fed them well, and lodg’d them safe in pleasant caves and howers, Oft saying to his merry men, What juster life than ours? Here use we tallents that abroad the churles abuse or hide, Their coffers excrements, and yeat for common wants denide. We might have sterved for their store, & they have) dyc’st our bones, | Whose tongues, driftes, harts, intice, syrens, foxes, stones, Yea even the best that betterd them heard but aloofe our mones, ‘ And redily the churles could prie and prate of our amis, Forgetful) of theirowne. ... I did amis, not missing friends that wisht me to amend: | Idid amend, but missed friends when mineamishadend: ! My friendst herefore shall finde me true, but I will trust r no frend. J Not one 1 knewe that wisht meill, nor any workt me well, \ { neane, Melt, as To lose, lacke, live, time, frends, in yncke, an hell, an hell, an hell! Then happie we (quoth Robin Hood) in merry Sherwood that dwell.) . ‘ J It has been conjectured, however, that in the winter- season, our hero and his companions severally quartered themselves in villages or country-houses more or less remote, with persons of whose fidelity they were assured. It is not improbable, at the same time, that they might have tolerably comfortable habitations erected in the woods. Archery, which our hero and his companions appear to have carryed to a state of perfection, continued to be cultivated for some ages after their time, down, indeed, to that of Henry VIII. or about the year 1540, when, owing to the introduction of artillery and matchlock-guns, it became neglected, and the bowmen of Cressy and Agincourt utterly extinct : though it may be still a question whether a body of expertarchers would not, even at this day, be superior to an equal uumber armed with muskets. The fol- lowing extract from Hales Historia placitorum corone (i. 118) will serve to show how familiar the bow and arrow was inthe ]4thcentury. “ M. 22. E. 3. Rot. 1 Warners Albions England, 1602, p. 132. It is part of the hermits speech to the earl of Lancaster, eemreeee mee 117. coram rege Ebor. This was the case of Henry Vescy, who had been indicted before the sheriit in turno suo... of divers felonies, whereupon the sheriff mandavit commissionem suam Henrico de Clyderawe & aliis ad capiendum predictum H. Vescy, & salvo ducendum usque castrum de Ebor’, Vescy would not submit to an arrest, but fled, & inter fugiendum shot with his bow and arrows at his pursuers, but in the end was kild by Clyderawe:’’ to which may be added a remarkable passage in Harrisons “ Description of England,” (prefixed to Holinsheds chronicle, 1587,) to prove how much it had declined in the 16th. “In times past,’’ says he, “‘the cheefe force of England consisted in their long bowes. But now we have in maner generallie given over that kind of artillerie, and for long bowes in deed doo practise to shoot compasse for our pastime; which kind of shooting can never yeeld anie smart stroke, nor beat down our enemies, as our countriemen were woont to doo at everie time of need. Certes the Frenchmen and Rutters? deriding our new archerie in respect of their corslets, will not let, in open skirmish, if anie leisure serve, to turn up their tailes, and crie, Shoote, English ; and all because our strong shooting is decaied and laid in bed. But if some of our Englishmen now lived that served king Edward the third in his warres with France, the breech® of such a varlet should have been nailed to his bum with one arrow, and an other fethered in his boweis, before he should have turned about to see who shot the first.” (p. 198.) Bishop Latimer, in his sixth sermon before K. Edward VI. gives an interesting account how the sons of yeomen were, in his infancy, trained up to the bow. ** All clad in Lincoln green—-”] (x) This species of cloth is menticned by Spenser (Faeirie queene, VI, ii. 5.) «* All in a woodmans jacket he was clad Of Lincolne greene, belay’d with silver lace; And on his head an hood with aglets sprad, And by his side his hunters horne he hanging had.” It is likewise noticed by our poet himself, in another place : «¢ Swains in shepherds gray, and gyrlesin Lincolne greene.”* See Polyolbion, song XXV. where the marginal note says, “ Lincolne anciently dyed the best green in England.” Thus Coventry had formerly the reputa- tion of dying the best blue. Sec Rays Proverbs, p. 178. Kendal green is equally famous, and appears to have been cloth of a similar quality. This colour wa, adopted by foresters to prevent their being too readily discovered by the deer. See Sir John Wynnes His. tory of the Guedir family, (Barringtons Miscellanies,) p- 419. Thus the Scotish highlanders used to wear brown plaids to prevent their being distinguished among the heath. It is needless to observe that green has ever been the favourite dress of an archer, hunter. &c. See note (cc) 5. We now call it a Saxon or grass green : ‘* His coat is of a Savon green, his waistcoat’s of a plaid.” 0. Song. 2 Flemings. 3 Breeches, 4 Thus also in part II. ballad I. ‘* She got on her holyday kirtle and gown, They were of a light Lincolne green.” 5 In the sign of The green man and still, we perceive a huntsman, ina green coat, standing by the side ofa stil, a 12 THE LIFE OF ROBIN HOOD. Lincoln green was well known in France in or before the thirteenth century. Thus in an old fabliau, transposed by M. Le Grand (Fabliaux ou contes, iv. 12:) “Ll mit donc son surcot fourré d’écureuil, & sa belle robe d’Estanrort teinte en verd.’’ Estanfort is Stamford, in Lincolnshire. This cloth is, likewise, often mentioned by the old Scotish poets, under the names of Lincum licht, Lincum twyne, &c. and appears to have been in universal request: and yet, notwith- standing this cloud of evidence, mister John Pinkerton has had the confidence to assert that “no particular cloth was ever made at Lincoln.’’ (See Ancient Scotish poems, ii. 430.) But, indeed, this worthy gentleman, as Johnson said of Goldsmith, only stum- bles upon truth by accident. (0) “But it is to be remembered,’ {c.] The passage, from Majors work, which has been already quoted, is here given entire (except as to a single sentence introduced in another place.) Circa hec™ tempora [s. Ricardi I.] ut auguror, Robertus Hudus & Parvus Joannes latrones famatissimi, in nemoribus latuerunt, solum opulentum virorum bona diripientes. Nullum nisi eos invadentem vel resis- tentemprosuarum rerumtuitione occiderunt. Centum sagittarios ad pugnam aptissimos Robertus latrociniis aluit quos 400 viri fortissimi invadere non audebant. Feminam nullam opprimi permisit, nec pauperum bona surripuit, verum eos ex abbatum bonis ablatis opipare pavit. Viri rapinam improbo, sed latronum omnium humanissimus & princeps erat.” (Majoris Britannie Historia. Edin. 1740. p. 128.) Stowe, in his Annales, 1592, p, 227. gives an almost literal version of the above passage; Richard Robinson versifies it!; and Camden slightly refers to it. (p)}—“ has had the honour to be compared to the illustrious Wallace, §c.”] In the first volume of Pecks intended supplement to the Monasticon, con- sisting of collections for the history of Preemonstraten- sian monasteries, now in the British Museum, is a very curious rhyming Latin poem, with the following title : “ Prioris Alnwicensis de bello Scotico apud Dum- barr, tempore regis Edwardi I. dictamen sive rithmus Latinus, quo de Wi..1ELMo Wattace, Scotico illo Rosin Wuoon, plura sed invidiose canit:” and in the margin are the following date and reference : “22, Jultt 1304. 32. E. 1. Regist. Prem. fol. 59. a.” in allusion, as it has been facetiously conjectured, to the partiality shown by that description of gentry to a morn- ing dram. The genuine representation, however, should be the green man, (or man who deals in green herbs,) with a bundle of pepper-mint, or penny-royal, under his arm, which he brings to have distilled. 1“ Richard Coeur de Lyon calda king and conqueror was, With Phillip king of France who did unto Jerusalem passe: In this kings time was Robyn Hood, that archer and outlawe, And little John his partener eke, unto them which did drawe One hondred tall and good archers, on whom foure hon- dred men, Were their power never so strong, could not give onset then; The abbots, monkes, and carles rich these onely did molest, And reskewd woemen when they saw of theeves them so opprest ; Restoring poore mens goods, and eke abundantly releeved Poore travellers which wanted food, or were with sicknes greeved.” Third Assertion, &c. (quoted elsewhere). a , 16 This, it may be observed, is the first known instance of our heros name being mentioned by any writer what- ever; and affords a strong and respectable proof of his early popularity. (2) — “the abbot of St. Marys in York ”] “In the year 1088 Alan earl of Richmond founded here a stately abbey for black monks to the honour of St. Olave; but it was afterwards dedicated to the blessed Virgin by the command of king William Rufus. Its yearly revenues at the suppression amounted to 15502. 7s. 9d. Dugd. 28501. 1s. 5d. Speed.’’ Willis’s Mitred abbeys, i. 214. The abbots in our heros time were— Robert de Harpsham (el. 1184) ob. 1198. Robert de Longo Campo, ob. 1239. William Rondele, 06. 1244. Tho. de Wharterhille, ob. 1258. (x)—“ the sherif of Nottinghamshire’?] Ralph — Murdach was sherif of Derby and Nottinghamshires in the Ist year of king Richard I. and for the 7 years preceding, and William Brewerre in his 6th year, between which and the Ist no name appears on the roll. See Fullers Worthies, &c. (s)—“an anecdote preserved by Fordun, &c.’’] “ De quo eciam quedam commendabilia recitantur, sicut patuit in hoc, quod cum ipse quondam in Barnisdale tram [f. 0b iram] regis & fremitum principis, missam, ut solitus erat, devotissime audiret, nec aliqua necessitate volebat interrum- pere officium, quadam die cum audiret missam, a quodam vicecomite & minisiris regis, sepius per prius ipsum infestantibus, in illo secretissimo loco nemorali, ubi misse interfuit, exploratus, venientes ad eum qui de suis hoc perceperunt, ut omni annisu Sugeret suggesserunt, qui, ob reverentiam sacra- mentt, quod tune devotissime venerabatur, omnino facere recusavit. Sed ceteris suis, ob metum mortis trepidantibus, Robertus tantum confisus in eum, quem coluit reveritus, cum paucissimis, qui tunc forte ei affuerwnt, inimicos congressus & eos. de facili devicit, & de eorum spoliis ac redemptione ditatus, ministros ecclesie & missas semper in majort veneratione semper & de post habere preelegit, attendens quod vulgariter dictum est : Hoc deus exaudit, qui missam sepius audit.” (J. De Fordun Scotichronicon, 4 Hearne. Ox. 1722. p. 774.) This passage is found in no other copy of Forduns chronicle than one in the Harleian library. Its sup- pression in all the rest may be fairly accounted for on the principle which is presumed to have influenced the conduct of the ancient English historians. See note (a). (7)—“a proclamation was published, &c.”] “The king att last,” says the Harleian MS. “sett furth a proclamation to have him apprehended, &c.’’ Grafton, after having told us that he “ practised robberyes, &c.” adds, “‘'The which beyng certefyed to the king, and he beyng greatly offended therewith, caused his pro- clamation to be made that whosoever would bryng him quicke or dead, the king would geve him a great summe of money, as by the recordes in the Exchequer is to be seene: But of this promise no man enjoyed any bencfite. For the sayd Robert Hood, being after- a a I ae NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 13 wardes troubled with sicknesse, &c.’’ (p. 85.) See note (1). (uv) “ At length, the infirmities of old age increasing upon him, &c.’’] Thus Grafton: “ The sayd Robert Hood, beyng troubled with sicknesse, came to a certain nonry in Yorkshire called Bircklies [r. Kircklies], where desiryng to be let blood, he was betrayed and bled to death.” The Sloane MS. says that “ [Being] dystempered with could and age, he had great payne in his lymmes, his bloud being corrupted, therfore, to be eased of his payne by letting bloud, he repayred to the priores of Kyrkesly, which some say was his aunt, a woman very skylful in physique & surgery ; who, perceyving him to be Robyn Hood, & waying howe fel an enimy he was to religious persons, toke reveng of him for her owne howse and all others by letting him bleed to death. It is also sayd that one sir Roger of Doncaster, bearing grudge to Robyn for some injury, incyted the priores, with whome he was very familiar, in such a maner to dispatch him.” See the Lytell geste of Robyn Hode,ad finem. The Harleian MS., after mentioning the proclamation “ sett furth to have him apprehended, ’’ adds, “ at which time it hap- pened he fell sick at a nunnery in Yorkshire called Birkleys [r. Kirkleys]; & desiring there to be let blood, hee was beytrayed & made bleed to death.’ Kirkleys, Kirklees or Kirkleghes, formerly Kuthale, in the deanry of Pontefract, and archdeaconry of the west riding of Yorkshire, was a Cistercian, or, as some say, a Benedictine nunnery, founded, in honour of the virgin Mary and St. James, by Reynerus Flandrensis in the reign of king Henry II. Its revenues at the dissolution were somewhat about £20. and the site was granted (36 Hen. 8.) to John Tasburgh and Henry Savill, from whom it came to one of the ancestors of Sir George Armytage bart. the present possessor. The remains of the building (if any) are very inconsiderable, and its register has been searched after in vain. See Tanners Notitia, p. 674. Thoresbys Ducatus Leodiensis, p. 91. Hearnes “ Account of several antiquities in and about the university of Oxford,” at the end of Lelands Itinerary, vol. ii. p. 128. In 1706 was discovered, among the ruins of the nunnery, the monument of Elizabeth de Staynton, prioréss; but it is not certain that this was the lady from whom our hero experienced such kind assistance. See Thoresby and Hearne ubi supra. _ One may wonder,” says Dr. Fuller, “how he escaped the hand of justice, dying in his bed, for aught is found to the contrary : but it was because he was rather a merry than a mischievous thief (complementing passengers out of their purses), never murdering any but deer,and . . . ‘ feasting’ the vicinage with his venison.”’ ( Worthies, p. 320.) See the following note. (v) “He was interred under some trees at a short distance from the house; a stone being placed over his grave with an inscription to his memory.” ‘“ Kirkley monastertum monialium, ubi Ro: Hood nobilis ille exlex sepultus.” Lelands Collectanea, i. 54.— “Kirkleys Nunnery, in the woods whereof Robin Hoods grave is, is between Halifax and Wakefield upon Calder.’ Letter from Jo. Savile to W. Camden, Illus. viro epis. 1691. ‘¢ .________as Caldor comes along, It chane’d she in her course on ‘ Kirkley’ cast her eye, Where merry Robin Hood, that honest thief, doth lie.” (Poly-Olbion, Song 28.) See also Camdens Britannia, 1695, p. 709. a ee eee ee In the second volume of Dr. Stukeleys [tinerarium curiosum is an engraving of “‘ The prospect of Kirkleys- abby, where Robin Hood dyed, from the footway lead- ing to Heartishead church, at a quarter of a mile distance. A. The New Hall. B. The Gatehouse of the Nunnery. C. The trees among which Robin Hood was buryed. D. The way up the Hill where this was drawn. E. Bradley wood. F. Almondbury hill. G. Castle field. Drawn by Dr. Johnston among his Yorkshire antiquitys, p. 54 of the drawings. E. Kirkall, sculp.” It makes plate 99 of the above work, but is unnoticed in the letter press. According to the Sloane MS. the prioress, after ‘letting him bleed to death, buryed him under a great stone by the hywayes syde:” which is agreeable to the account in Graftons chronicle, where it is said that, after his death, “‘ the prioresse of the same place caused him to be buried by the highway side, where he had used to rob and spoyle,those that passed that way. And ypon his grave the sayde prioresse did lay a very fayre stone, wherein the names of Robert Hood, William of Goldesborough, and others were graven, And the cause why she buryed him there was, for that the common passengers and travailers, knowyng and seeyng him there buryed, might more safely and with- out feare take their jorneys that way, which they durst not do in the life of the sayd outlawes. Andat eyther ende of the sayde tombe was erected a crosse of stone, which is to be seene there at this present.” “ Near unto ‘ Kirklees’ the noted Robin Hood lies buried under a grave-stone that yet remains near the park, but the inscription scarce legible.’’ Thoresbys Ducatus Leodiensis, p. 91. In the Appendiz, p. 576, is the following note, with a reference to “ page SEE: ‘“* Amongst the papers of the learned Dr. Gale, late dean of Yorke, was found this epitaph of Robin Hood : Hear unvernead Vis lattl stean Tats robert earl of Huntingtun near arcir her as Hie sa geud an pipl kault tm robin heud stck utlaies as Hi an ts men Hil england ntbr st agen. obtit 24 [r. 14] kal Dekembrig 1247.” The genuineness of this epitaph has been questioned. Dr. Percy, in the first edition of his ‘“ Reliques of ancient English poetry,” (1765,) “It must be con- fessed this epitaph is suspicious, because in the most ancient poems of Robin Hood, there is no mention of this imaginary earldom.” This reason, however, is by no means conclusive, the most ancient poem now extant having no pretension to the antiquity claimed by the epitaph: and indeed the doctor himself should seem to have afterward had less confidence in it, as, in both the subsequent editions, those words are omitted, and the learned critic merely observes that the epitaph appears to him suspicious. It will be admitted that the bare suspicion of this ingenious writer, whose knowledge and judgment of ancient poetry are so conspicuous and eminent, ought to have considerable weight. As for the present editors part, though he does not pretend to say that the language of this epitaph is that of Henry the thirds time, nor indeed to determine of what age it is, he can perceive nothing in it from whence one should be led to pro- nounce it spurious, 7. e. that it was never inscribed on the grave-stone of Robin Hood. That there is’ ie erence ca al ene A A Re mE Ne eR NN ee rr re em arse y arena acronis Bann mse oP Er» om Se a CpRemrer te RA THE LIFE OF ROBIN HOOD eerste ern ncn mene neat a id — attends was some inscription upon it in Mr. Thoresbys time, though then scarce legible, is evident from his own words : and it should be remembered, as well that the last century was not the era of imposition, as that Dr. Gale was both too good and too learned a man either to be capable of it himself or to be liable to it from others.! That industrious chronologist and topographer, as well as respectable artist and. citizen, master Thomas Gent, of York, in his “List of religious houses,’’ annexed to ‘ The ancient and modern state of” that famous city, 1730, 12mo, p. 234, informs us that he had been told, ‘* That his [Robin Hoods] tombstone, having his effigy thereon, was order’d, not many years ago, by a certain knight to be placed as a harth- stone in his great hall. When it was laid over- night, the next morning it was ‘ surprizingly’ removed [on or to] one side; and so three times it was laid, and as successively turned aside. The knight, think- ing he had done wrong to have brought it thither, order’d it should be drawn back again; which was performed by a pair of oxen and four horses, when twice the number could scarce do it before. But as this,’’ adds the sagacious writer, “is a story only, it is left to the reader, to judge at pleasure.’ WV. 2B. This is the second instance of a miracle wrought in favour of our hero! In Goughs Sepulchral Dieramnents, p. cviii. is “ the figure of the stone over the grave of Robin Hood [in Kirklees park, being a plain stone with a sort of cross fleuree thereon] now broken and much defaced, the inscription illegible. That printed in Thoresby Ducat. Leod. 576, from Dr. Gale’s papers, was never on it. The late Sir Samuel Armitage, owner of the premises, caused the ground under it to be dug a yard deep, and found it had never been disturbed ; so that it was probably brought from some other place, and by vulgar tradition ascribed to Robin Hood’? (refers to “‘ Mr. Watsons letter in Antiquary society minutes”’). This is probably the tomb-stone of Elizabeth de Staynton, mentioned in the preceding note. The old epitaph is, by some anonymous hand, in a work entitled “ Sepulchrorum inscriptiones; or a curious collection of 900 of the most remarkable epitaphs,” Westminster, 1727, (vol. ii. p. 73.) thus not inelegantly paraphrased : ** Here, underneath this little stone, Thro’ Death’s assaults now lieth one, Isnown by the name of Robin Hood, Who was a thief, and archer good; Full thirteen (1, thirty) years, and something more, He robb’d the rich to feed the poor: Therefore, his grave bedew with tears, And offer for his soul your prayers,” 3 1 That dates, about this period, were frequently by ides and kalends, see Madoxes Formulare Anglicanuin, (Disser- tation} p. xxx. 2 That this epitaph had been printed, or was well known at least, long before the publication of Mr. Thoresbys book, if not before either he or Dr. Gale was born, appears from the “true tale of Robin Hood” by Martin Parker, written, if not printed, as early as 1631. (See volume TI. p. 127.) The Arabic figures must have been inserted by the copyist for the Roman numerals ; otherwise there will be an end of its pretension to authenticity. (N. B. The note in the preceding page was detached from the present by mistake.) 3 In “The travels of Tom Thumb over England and Wales” [by Mr. Robert Dodsley], p. 106. is another though inferior version. «Here, under this memorial stone, Lies Robert earl of Huntingdon ; (w) “ Various dramatic exhibitions.”] The eariyest of these performances now extant is, “ The playe of Robyn Hode, very proper to be played in Maye games,’’ which is inserted in the appendix to this work, and may probably be as old as the J] 5th cen- tury. That a different play, however, on the same subject has formerly existed, seems pretty certain from a somewhat curious passage in “The famous chronicle of king Edward the first, sirnamed Edward Longshankes, &c.’’ by George Peele, printed in 1593. ** Tluellen ..... weele get the next daie from Breck- nocke the BooKE oF Rosin Hoop, the frier he shall instruct. us in his cause, and weele even here .. . wander like irregulers up and down the wildernesse, ile be muister of misrule, ile be Robin Hood that once, cousin ‘ Rice,’ thou shalt be little John, and hers frier David, as fit as a die for Srier Tucke. Now,my sweet Nel, if you will make up the messe with a good heart for maide Marian, and doe well with Lluellen under the green-woode trees, with as good a wil as in the good townes, why plena est curia, HExeunt. Enter Mortimor, solus. Mortimor..... Maisters, have after gentle Robin Hood, You are not so well accompanied I hope, But if a potier come to plaie his part, Youle give him stripes or welcome good or worse. Hvit. Enter Lluellen, Meredith, frier, Elinor, and their traine. They are all clad in greene, &c. sing, &c. Blyth and bonny, the song ended, Lluellen speaketh. Luelien. Why so, I see, my mates of olde, All were not lies that Bedlams [beldams] told ; Of Robin Hood and little John, Frier Tucke and maide Marian.” Mortimer, as a potter, afterwards fights the frier with “ flailes.’’ 2. “ The downfall of Robert earle of Huntington afterward called Robin Hood of merrie Sherwodde : with his love to chaste Matilda, the lord Fitzwaters daughter, afterwardes his faire maide Marian. Acted by the right honourable, the earle of Notingham, lord high admirall of England, his servants. { Imprinted at London, for William Leake, 1601.” 4to. b. 1. 3. “ The death of Robert, earle of Huntington, otherwise called Robin Hood of merrie Sherwodde : with the lamentable tragedie of chaste Matilda, his faire maid Marian, poysoned at Dunmowe, by ‘king John. Acted, fc. J Imprinted, Se. [as above] 1601.” 4to. b. 1. These two plays, usually called the first and second part of Robin Hood, were always, on the authority of Kirkman, falsely ascribed to Thomas Heywood, till Mr. Malone fortunately retrieved the names of the true authors, Anthony Mundy and Henry Chettle.4 As he, no archer e’er was good, And people call’d him Robin Hood : Such outlaws as his men and he Again may England never see.” 4 In “a large folio volume of accounts kept by Mr. Philip Henshowe, who appears to have been proprictor of the Rose theatre near the Bankside in Southwark,” he has entered— Feb. ‘The first part of Robin Hood, by Anthony 1597-8. Mundy. The second part of the downfall of earl Hunt- ington, sirnamed Robinhood, by Anthony Mundy and Henry Chettle.” In a subsequent page is the following entfy: ‘‘ Lent unto Robarte Shawe, the 18 of Novemb. 1598, to lend unto Mr. Cheattle, upon the mending of the first part of Robart NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. As they scem partly founded on traditions long since forgotten, and refer occasionally to documents not now to be found, at any rate, as they are much older than most of the common ballads upon the subject, and contain some curious and possibly authentic particulars not elsewhere to be met with, the reader will excuse the particularity of the account and length of the extracts here given. The first part, or downfall of Robert earl of Huntington, is supposed to be performed at the court and command of Henry the 8th; the poet Skelton being the dramatist, and acting the part of chorus. The introductory scene commences thus : | “ Enter sir John Eltam, and: knocke at Skeltons doore. Sir John. Howe, maister Skelton! what, at studie hard ? opens the doore. Skelé. Welcome and wisht for, honest sir John Eltam,— Twill trouble you after your great affairs, (i. e. the surveying of certain maps which his majesty had employed him in ;) To take the paine that I intended to intreate you to, About rehearsall of your promis’d play. Elt. Nay, master Skelton ; for the king himselfe, As wee were parting, bid mee take great heede Wee faile not of our day: therefore I pray Sende for the rest, that now we may rehearse. Skel. O they are readie all, and drest to play. What part play you? Elt. Why, I play little John, And came of purpose with this greene sute. Skel. Holla, my masters, little John is come. At every doore all the players runne out ; some erying where? where? others Welcome, sir John: among other the boyes and clowne. Skel. Faith, little Tracy, you are somewhat forward, What, our maid Marian leaping like a lad! If you remember, Robin is your love, Sir Thomas Mantle yonder, not sir John. Clow. But, master, sir John is my fellowe, for I am Much the millers sonne. Am I not? Skel. LI know yee are sir :— And, gentlemen, since you are thus prepar’d, Goe in, and bring your dumbe scene on the stage, And I, as prologue, purpose to expresse The ground whereon our historie is laied. FEixeunt, manet Skelton. Trumpet sounde, (1] enter first king Richard with drum and auncient, giving Ely a purse and sceptre, his mother and brother John, Chester, Lester, Lacie, others at the kings appointment, doing reverence. The king goes in: presently Ely ascends the chaire, Chester, John, and the queene part displeasantly. [2] (Enter RoBERtT, EARLE OF HuNT- INGTON, leading Marian: jfollowes him Warman, and after Warman, the prior; Warman ever flattering, and making curtsie, taking gifts of the prior behinde and his master before. Prince John enters, offereth to take Marian; Queen Elinor enters, offering to pull Rabin from her; but they inofide each other, and sit downe within the curteines. [3] Warman with the prior, sir Hugh Lacy, lord Sentloe, and sir Gilbert Broghton folde hands, and drawing the . eurteins, all (but the prior) enter, and are kindely received by Robin Hoode.” During the exhibition of the second part of the Hoode, the sum of xs,” and afterwards—‘‘ For mending of Robin Hood for the corte.” See Malones edition of «« The plays and poems of William Shakspeare,” 1799. vol, I. part IJ. (Emendations and additions.) 15 dumb-shew, Skelton instructs the audience as fol- lows :— ‘« This youth that leads yon virgin by the hand Is our earle Robert, or your Robin Hoode, That in those daies, was earle of Huntington ; The ill-fac’t miser, brib’d in either hand, Is Warman, once the steward of his house, Who, Judas like, betraies his liberal! lord, Into the hands of that relentlesse prior, Calde Gilbert Hoode, uncle to Huntington. Those two that seeke to part these lovely friends, Are Elenor the queene, and John the prince, She loves earle Robert, he maide Marian, But vainely ; for their deare affect is such, As only death can sunder their true loves. Long had they lov’d, and now it is agreed, This day they must be troth-plight, after wed: At Huntingtons faire house a feast is nelde, But envie turnes it to a house of teares. For those false guestes, conspiring with the prior; To whom earle Robert greatly is in debt, Meane at the banquet to betray the earle, Unto a heavie writ of outlawry : The manner and escape you ail shall see. Looke to your entrance, get you in, sir John. My shift is long, for I play frier Tucke ; Whercin, if Skelton hath but any lucke, Hfeele thanke his hearers oft with many a ducke. For many talk of Robin Hood that never shot in his bowe, But Skelton writes of Robin Hood what he doth truly knowe.” After some Skeltonical rimes, and a scene betwixt the prior, the sherif, and justice Warman, concerning the outlawry, which appears to be proclaimed, and the taking of earl Huntington at dinner, “ Enter Robin Hoode, little John following him; Robin having his napkin on his shoulder, as if hee were sodainly raised from dinner.” He is in a violent rage at being outlawed, and Little John endeavours to pacify him. Marian being distressed at his apparent disorder, he dissembles with her. After she is gone, John thus addresses him : «© Now must your honour leave these mourning tunes, And thus by my areede you shall provide 3 Your plate and jewels ile straight packe up, And toward Notingham convey them hence. At Rowford, Sowtham, Wortley, Hothersfield, Of all your cattell mony shall be made, And I at Mansfield will attend your comming; Where weele determine which waie’s best to take. Rob. Well, be it so, a gods name, let it be; And if I can, Marian shall come with mee. John. Else care will kill her ; therefore if you please, At th’ utmost corner of the garden wall, Soone in the eyening waite for Marian, And as I goe ile tell her of the place. Your horses at the Bell shall readie bee, Imeane Belsavage,! whence as citizens That ‘meane’ to ride for pleasure some small way, You shall set foorth.” The company now enters, and Robin charges them with the conspiracy, and rates their treacherous pro- 1 That is, the inn so called, upon Ludgate-hill. The modern sign, which however seems to have been the same 200 years ago, is a bell and a wild man ; but the original is supposed to have been a beautiful Indian ; and the inscription La belle sauvage. Some, indeed, assert that the inn once belonged to a lady Arabellu Savage ; and others, that its name, originally The bell and savage, arose (like The George and blue boar) from the junction of two inns, with those respective signs. Non nostrum est tantas componere lites. ceeding. Little John in attempting to remove the goods is set upon by Warman and the sherif; and during the fray “ Enter prince John, Ely, and the prior, and others.” Little John tells the prince, he but defends the box containing his own gettings; upon which his royal highness observes, « You do the fellow wrong; his goods are his: You only must extend upon the earles. Prior. That was, my lord, but nowe is Robert Hood, A simple yeoman as his servants were.” Ely gives the prior his commission, with directions to make speed, lest “in his country-houses all his heards be solde;” and gives Warman a patent “for the high sheriffewick of Nottingham.” After this, “ Enter Robin like a citizen;” and then the queen and Marian disguised for each other. Robin takes Marian, and leaves the queen to prince John, who is so much enraged at the deception that he breaks the head of Elys messenger. Sir Hugh, brother to lord Lacy, and steward to Ely, who had been deeply con- cerned in Huntingtons ruin is killed in a brawl, by - prince John, whom Ely orders to be arrested; but the prince, producing letters from the king, revoking Elys appointment, “lifts up his drawne sworde” and “ Exit, cum Lester and Lacy,” in triumph. Then, “‘ Enter Robin Hoode, Matilda, at one door, little John, and Much the millers sonne at another doore.” After mutual congratulations, Robin asks if it be « _____ possible that Warmans spite Should stretch so farre, that he doth hunt the lives Of bonnie Scarlet, and his brother Scathlock. Much. O,1, sir. Warman came but yesterday to take charge of the jaile at Notingham, and this daie, he saies, he will hang the two outlawes. .. . Rob. Now, by my honours hope, -. - He is too blame: say, John, where must they die ? John. Yonder’s their mothers house, and here the tree, Whereon, poore men, they must forgoe their lives; And yonder comes a lazy lozell frier, That is appointed for their confessor, Who, when we brought your monie to their mothers, Was wishing her to patience for their deaths.” Here “ Enter frier Tucke ;” some conversation passes, and the frier skeltonizes; after which he departs, saying, “¢____ let us goe our way, Unto this hanging businesse ; would for mee Some rescue or repreeve might set them free. Rob. Heardst thou not, little John, the friers speach ? John. He seemes like a good fellowe, my good lord. Rob. He's a good fellowe, John, upon my word. Lend me thy horne, and get thee in to Much, And when I blowe this horne, come both and helpe mee. John. Take heed, my lord: the villane Warman knows And ten to one, he hath a writ against you. [you, Rob. Fear not: below the bridge a poor blind man doth With him I will change my habit, and disguise, (dwell, Only be readie when I call for yee, For I will save their lives, if it may bee... . Enter Warman, Scarlet and Scathlock bounde, frier Tuck as their confessor, officers with hal- berts. War. Master frier, be briefe, delay no time. Scarlet and Scatlock, never hope for life ; Here is the place of execution, And you must answer lawe, for what is done. Scar. Well, if there be no remedie, we must: Though it ill seemeth, Warman, thou shouldst bee, So bloodie to pursue our lives thus cruellie, Bes ental an ao Oe ane i Dlg a i lg 16 THE LIFE OF RCBIN HOOD. Scat. Our mother sav’d thee from the gallows, Warman, His father did preferre thee to thy lord: One mother had wee both, and both our fathers To thee and to thy father were kinde friends. . . . War. Ye were first outlaws, then ye prooved theeves Both of your fathers were good honest men ; Your mother lives their widowe in good fame: ! But you are scapethrifts, unthrifts, villanes, knaves, And as ye liv’d by shifts, shall die with shame.” To them enters Ralph, the sherifs man, to acquaint him that the carnifex, or executor of the law, had fallen off his “curtall” and was “‘ cripplefied” and rendered incapable of performing his office; so that the sherif was to become his deputy. ‘The sherif in- sists that Ralph shall serve the turn, which he refuses. In the midst of the altercation, “ Enter Robin Hood, like an old man,” who tells the sherif that the two outlaws had murdered his young son, and undone himself; so that for revenge sake he desires they may be delivered to him. They denying the charge, ‘“‘ Robin whispers with them,” and with the sherifs leave, and his mans help, unbinds them: then, sounds his horn ; and “ Enter little John, Much... Fight; the Srier, making as if he helpt the sheriffe, knockes downe his men, crying, Keepe the kings peace. Sheriffe [perceiving that it is “the outlawed earle of Hun- tington”] runnes away, and his men.” (See the ballad of ‘Robin Hood rescuing the widows sons,” part II. num. xxiii.) *“‘ Fri. Farewell, earle Robert, as I am true frier, I had rather be thy clarke, than serve the prior. Rob. . A jolly fellowe! Scarlet, knowest thou him ? Scar. Hee is of Yorke, and of Saint Maries cloister ; There where your greedie uncle is lord prior... . Rob. Hereis no biding, masters; get yee in. ... John, on a sodaine thus I am resolv’d, To keepe in Sherewoodde tille the kings returne, And being outlawed, leade an outlawes life... . John. Ilike your honours purpose exceeding well. Rob. Nay, no more honour, I pray thee, little John ; Henceforth I will be called Robin Hoode, Matilda shall be my maid Marian.” Then follows a scene betwixt old Fitzwater and prince John, in the course of which the prince, as a reason to induce Fitzwater te recall his daughter Matilda, tells him that she is living in an adulterous state, for that «Huntington is excommunicate, And till his debts be paid. by Romes decree, It is agreed, absolv’d he cannot be: And that can never be.—So never wife, é&c.” Fitzwater, on this, flies into a passion, and accuses the prince of being already marryed to “ earle Chepstowes daughter.” They “ fight ; John fall-s.” Then enter the queen, &c. and John sentences Fitzwater to banish- ment: after which, “ Enter Scathlocke and Scarlet, winding their hornes, at severall doores. To them enter Robin Hoode, Matilda, all in greene, . . « Much, little John; all the men with bowes and arrowes.? Rob. Wind once more, jolly huntsmen, all your horns, Whose shrill sound, with the ecchoing wods assist, 1 She is called the widow Scarlet: so that Scathloeks was the elder brother. In fact, however, it was mere ignorance in the author to suppose the Scathlocke and Scarlet of the story distinct persons, the latter name being an evident corruption of the former: Scathlock, Scadlock, Scarlock, Scarlet. 2 In ‘‘ The booke of the inventary of the goods of my lord admera.les men tacken the 10 of Marche in the yeare = NE ee ee ee ee SO ON en ee nN ENCE NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. Shall ring a sad knell for the fearefull deere, Before our feathered shafts, deaths winged darts, Bring sodaine summons for their fatall ends. Scar. Its ful seaven years since we were outlawed first, And wealthy Sherewood was our heritage ; For all those yeares we raigned uncontrolde, ¥rom Barnsdale shrogs to Notinghams red cliffes. At Blithe and Tickhill were we welcome guests ; Good George a Greene at Bradford was our friend, «ind wanton Wakefields pinner lov’d us well.! At Barnsley dwels a potter, tough and strong, That never brookt we brethren should have wrong. The nunnes of Farnsfield (pretty nunnes they bee) ‘Gave napkins, shirts, and bands to him and mee. Bateman of Kendall gave us Kendall greene ; And Sharpe of Leedes sharpe arrows for us made. At Rotherham dwelt our bowyer, god him blisse, Jackson he hight, his bowes did never misse. ‘This for our goode, our scathe let Scathlocke tell, In merry Mansfield how it once befell. Scath. In merry Mansfield, on a wrestling day, Prizes there were, and yeomen came to play, My brother Scarlet and myselfe were twaine ; Many resisted, but it was in vaine, For of them all we wonne the mastery, And the gilt wreathes were given to him and me. There by sir Doncaster of ‘ Hothersfield,’ We were bewraid, beset, and forst to yield ; And so borne bound, from thence to Notingham, Where we lay doom’d to death till Warman came.” Some cordial expressions pass between Robin and Matilda. He commands all the yeomen to be cheer- ful; and orders little John to read the articles. ‘* Joh. First, no man must presume to call our master, ‘By name of earle, lorde, baron, knight, or squire: ‘But simply by the name of Robin Hoode.— That faire Matilda henceforth change her name, ¢ And’ by maid Marians name, be only cald. Thirdly, no yeoman following Robin Hoode In Sherewod, shall use widowe, wife, or maid, But by true labour, lustfull thoughts expell. Fourthly, no passenger with whom ye meete, Shall yee let passe till hee with Robin feaste : xcept a poast, a carrier, or such folke, «is use with foode to serve the market townes. Fiftly, you never shall the poore man wrong. Mor spare a priest, a usurer, or a clarke. Lastly, you shall defend with all your power Maids, widowes, orphants, and distressed men. All. Allthese we vowe to keepe, as we are men. Rob. Then wend ye to the greenewod merrily, And let the light roes bootlesse from yee runne, Marian and I, as soveraigns of your toyles, Will wait, within our bower, your bent bowes spoiles. Exeunt winding their hornes.” ’ In the next scene, we find frier Tucke feignedly entering into a conspiracy with the prior and sir Doncaster, to serve an execution on Robin, in disguise. Jinny, the widow Scarlets daughter, coming in, on her way to Sherwood, is persuaded by the frier to accompany him, “‘ disguised in habit like a pedlers mort.” Fitz- water enters like an old man :—sees Robin sleeping on a green bank, Marian strewing flowers on him ; pre- 1598,” are the following properties for Robin Hood and his retinue, in this identical play : ‘< Item, vi grene cottes for Roben Hoode, and iiii knaves sewtes. Item, i hatte for Robin Hoode, i hobihorse. Item, Roben Hoodes sewte. Iiem, the fryers trusse in Roben Hvode.” Malones Shak. If. ii. (Hmen. & ad.) . George a Greene and Wakefields pinner, were one and the same person. The shoemaker of Bradford is anonymous. WiGte dL ene ee Tt tends to be blind and hungry, and is regaled by them. In answer to a question why the fair Matilda (Fitz- waters daughter) had changed her name, Robin tells him it is «* Because she lives a spotlesse maiden life : And shall, till Robins outlawe life have ende. That he may lawfully take her to wife; Which, if king Richard come, will not be long.” “ Enter frier Tucke and Jinny like pedlers singing,” and afterward “Sir Doncaster and others weaponed.” —The frier discovers the plot, and a fray ensues. The scene then changes to the court, where the prior is informed of six of his barns being destroyed by fire, and of the different execrations of all ranks upon hit, as the undoer of ‘‘the good lord Robert, earle of Huntington ;” that the convent of St. Marys had elected ‘“* Olde father Jerome” prior in his place; and lastly a herald brings his sentence of banishment, which is confirmed by the entrance of the prior. Lester brings an account of the imprisonment of his gallant sovereign, king Richard, by the duke of Austria, and requires his ransome to be sent. He then intro- duces a description of his matchless valour in the holy land. John not only refuses the ransom money, but usurps the stile of king: upon which Lester grows furious, and rates the whole company. The following is part of the dialogue : “* Joh. (to Lester) Darest'thou attempt thus proudly in our sight ? What is't a subject dares, that I dare not ? Dare subjects dare, their soveraigne being by? O god, that my true soveraigne were ny ! Lester, he is. Madam, by god, you ly. Unmanner’d man. A plague of reverence!” Lest. Salf. Lest. Qu. Lest. Chest. Lest. After this, and more on the same subject, the scene returns to the forest; where Ely, being taken by Much, “ like a countryman with a basket,” is examined and detected by Robin, who promises him protection and service. On their departure : «* Joh. Skelton, a worde or two beside the play. Fri, Now, sir John Eltam, what ist you would say. Jhon. Methinks I see no jeasts of Robin Hoode, No merry morrices of frier Tuck, No pleasant skippings up and downe the wodde, No hunting songs, no coursing of the bucke: Pray god this play of ours may have good lucke, And the king’s majestie mislike it not! Fri. Andif he doe, what can we doe to that ? I promis’d him a play of. Robin Hoode, His honorable life, in merry Sherewod ; His majestie himselfe survaid the plot, And bad me boldly write it, it was good. For merry jeasts, they have bene showne before : As how the frier fell into the well, For love of Jinny, that fairebonny bell : How Greeneleafe rob’d the shrieve of Notingham, And other mirthful matter, full of game.” “ Enter Warman banished.” He laments his fali, and applies to a cousin, on whom he had bestowed large possessions, for relief; but receives nothing, ex- cept reproaches for his treachery to his noble master. The jailor cf Nottingham, who was indebted to him for his place, refuses him even a scrap-of his dogs meat, and reviles him in the severest. terms. Good- wife Tomson, whose husband he had delivered from death, to his great joy, promises him a caudle, but fetches him a halter; in which he is about to hang ait c ARS A A tN A PN I A A OL ry re er NES ERI AT TOM LL ON RI A ON NP IRON LORE OL | A AC ~ favour. 18 THE LIFE OF himself, upon some tree in the forest, but is prevented by Fitzwater and some of Robin Hoods men, who crack a number of jokes upon him: Robin puts an end to their mockery, and proffers him comfort and Then enters frier Tucke, with an account of sir Doncaster and the prior being striped and wounded in their way to Bawtrey: Robin out of love to his uncle hastens to the place. After this, ‘‘ Enter prince John, solus, in green, bowe and arrowes. John. Why this is somewhat like, now may I sing, As did the Wakefield pinder in his note ; At Michaelmas commeth my covenant out, My master gives me my fee: Then Robin Ile weare thy Kendall greene, And wend to the greenewodde with thee.” ! He assumes the name of Woodnet, and is detected by Scathlocke and frier Tucke. The prince and Scath- locke fight, Scathelocke grows weary, and the frier takes his place. Marian enters, and perceiving the frier, parts the combatants. Robin’enters, and John submits to him. Much enters, running, with information of the approach of “‘ the king and twelve and twenty score of horses.” Robin places his people in order. The trumpets sound, the king and his train enter, a general pardon ensues, and the king confirms the love of Robin and Matilda. Thus the play concludes, Skelton pro- mising the second part, and acquainting the audience of what it should consist. The second part, or death of Robert earle of Fiuntington, is a pursuit of the same story. The scene, so far as our hero is concerned, lyes in Sher- wood. « Description of the town of Tottenham-high-crosse, &e.” London, (1631, 4to.) 1718, 8vo, 6 Mr. Warton reads Toby ; and so, perhaps, it may be in former editions. Tt R NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. Robert Braham, in his epistle to the reader, prefixed to Lydgates Tvroy-book, 1555, is of opinion that “ Caxtons recueil” [of Troy] is ‘worthye to be numbred amongest the ¢rifelinge tales and barrayne luerdries of Rosyn Hop and Bevys.of Hampton.”’ (See Ames’s Typographical antiquities, by Herbert, p. 849.) “For oné that is sand blynd,’”’ says sir Thomas Chaloner, “‘ woulde take an asse for a moyle, or | another prayse a rime of Ropyn Honk for as excellent a making as T’roylus of Chaucer, yet shoulde they not straight-waies be counted madde therefore?’’ (Eras- mus’s Praise of folye, sig. h.) “Tf good lyfe,’’ observes bishop Latimer, “‘ do. not insue and folowe upon our readinge to the example of other, we myghte as well spende that tyme in reading of prophane hystories, of Canterburye tales, or a fit of Ropen Hope.’’ (Sermons, sig. A. iiii.) The following lines, from a poem in the Hyndford MS. compiled in 1568, afford an additional proof of our heros popularity in Scotland : “ Thairis no story that I of heir, Of Johne nor ROBENE Hubs, Nor zit of Wallace wicht but weir, That me thinkes half so gude, As of thre palmaris, &e,” That the subject was not forgotten in the succeeding age, can be testifyed by Drayton, whe is elsewhere quoted, and in his sixth eclogue makes Gorbo thus address “ old Winken de Word :’’ ** Come, sit we down under this hawthorn-tree, The morrows light shall lend us day enough, And let us tell of Gawen, or sir Guy, Of Rozin Hoon, or of old Clem a Clough.” Richard Johnson, who wrote “‘ The history of Tom Thumbe,”’ in prose, (London, 1621, 12mo. b. 1.) thus prefaces his work: ‘* My merry muse begets no tales of Guy of Warwicke, &c. nor will I trouble my penne with the pleasant glee of Rosin Hoop, tirrie Joun, the Fryer, and his Marian; nor will I call to-mind the lusty Prnper of Wakerietp, &c.”’ In “ The Calidonian, forrest,’’ a sort of allegorical or mystic tale, by John Hepwith, gentleman, printed in 1641, 4to. the author says, «« Let us talke of Robin Hoode, And little John in merry Shirewoode, &c,’’! Of one very ancient, and undoubtedly once very popular, song this single line is all that is now known to exist: “Robin Hoar in Barnsvale stony.” However, though but a line, it is of the highest autho- rity in Westminster-hall, where, in order to the decision 1 Honest Barnaby, who wrote or traveled about 1640, was well acquainted with our heros story. ** Veni Nottingham, tyrones Sherwoodenses sunt latrones, Instar Robin Hood, & servi Scarlet § Joannis Parvi; Passim, sparsim, peculantur Ceilis, sylvis depredantur. ** Thence to Nottingham, where rovers, Highway riders, Sherwood drovers, Like old Robin Hood, and Scarlet, Or like Little John his varlet ; Tiere and there they shew them doughty, In cells and woods to get their booty.” NS 23 of a knotty point, it has been repeatedly cited, in the most solemn manner, by grave and learned judges. M. 6 Jac. B. R. Witham v. Barker. Yelv. 147. Trespass, for breaking plaintifs close, &c. Plea, Liberum tenementum, of sir John Tyndall, and justification as his servant and by his command. Replication, That it is true it is his freehold, but that long before the time when &c. he leased to. plaintif at will, who entered and was possessed until, Sc. tra- versing, that defendant entered, {c. by command of sir John. Demurrer: and adjudged against plaintif, on the ground of the replication being bad, as not setting forth any seisin or possession in sir John, out of which a lease at will could be derived. Tor a title made by the plea or replication should be certain to all intents, because it is traversable. Here, therefor, he should have stated sir Johns seisin, as well as the lease at will; which is not done here: “tres tout un cone tl ust replig¢ Robin Whood in Barnwood stood, absque hoc g Uef. p conumandement gir John. Quod nota. Per Fenner, Williams gf Crook justices sole en court. Cf judgment done accordant. Yelv. § Uef,”’ In the case of Bush v. Leake, B. R. Trin. 23 G. 3. Buller, justice, cited the case of Coulthurst v. Coulthurst, C. B. Pasch, 12 G. 3. (an action on bond) and observed “ There, a case in Yelverton was alluded to, where the court said, You might as well say, by way of inducement to a traverse, Robin Hood in Barnwood stood.” It is almost unnecessary to observe, because it will be shortly proved, that Barnwood, in the preceding quotations, ought to be Barnsdale.? With respect to Whood, the reader will see, under note (r), a remarkable proof of the antiquity of that pronun- ciation, which actually prevails in the metropolis at this day. See also the word “ whodes”’ in note (ea). This celebrated and important line occurs as the first of a foolish mock-song, inserted in an old morality, intitled “A new interlude and a mery of the nature of the iiii elementes,’’ supposed to have been printed by John Rastall about 1520; where it is thus introduced: ‘© Hulmanyte]. ——let us some lusty balet syng. Yno[norance]. Nay,syr, by the hevyn kyng: For me thynkyth it servyth for no thyng, All suche pevysh prykeryd song. 2 There is, in fact, such a place as Barnwood forest, ia Buckinghamshire; but no one, except Mr. Hearne, has hitherto supposed that part of the country to have been frequented by our hero, Barnwood, in the case reported by Yelverton, has clearly arisen from a confusion of Barnsdale and green wood. ‘‘ Robin Hood in the green- wood stood” was likewise the beginning of an old song now lost. (see VII.—“ Robin Hood and Allin a Dale,” &c., infra): and it is not a little remarkable that Jefferies, serjeant, on the trial of Pilkington and others, for a riot, in 1683, by a similar confusion, quotes the line in question thus: ** Robin Hood upon Greendale stood.” (State-trials, iii. 634.) The following most vulgar and indecent rime, current among: the peasantry in the north of England, may have been intended to ridicule the perpetual repetition of “ Robin Hood in greenwood stood :” Robin Hood Tn green-wood stood, With his back against a tree 5, He fell flat Into a cow-plat, And all beshitten was he, De Re Re A ernment me et ae nt rn me te Si re inn tan ene ee er ea a ee | OO ee ee Pes, man, pryk-song may not be dyspysyd, For therwith god is well plesyd. oo 6. 0 "0 040) 0 10) 19,0" "e' ' 8 Yng. Is god well pleasyd, trowest thou, therby ? x Nay, nay, for there isno reason why. For is it not as good to say playnly Gyf mea spade, As gyf me a spa ve va ve va ve vade? But yf thou wylt have a song that is good, I have one of Rospyn Hope, The best that ever was made. Then a feleshyp, let us here it. But there is a bordon, thou must bere it, Or ellys it wyll not be. Than begyn, and carenot for... Downe downe downe, &c. ilu Yng. Fu. Robyn Hode in Barnysdale stode, And lent hym tyl a mapyll thystyll ; Than cam our lady & swete saynt Andrewe ; Slepyst thou, wakyst thou, Geffrey Coke ?! Vag. Ac. wynter the water was depe, T can not tell you how brode ; He toke a gose nek in his hande, And over the water he went. He start up to a thystell top, And cut hym downe a holyn clobbe ; He stroke the wren betwene the hornys, That fyre sprange out of the pygges tayle. Jak boy is thy bow i-broke, Or hath any man done the wryguldy wrange ? We plukkyd muskyllys out of a wyllowe, And put them in to his sachell. Wylkyn was an archer good, And well coude handell a spade ; He toke his bend bowe in his hand, And set him downe by the fyre. He toke with him 1x. bowes and ten, A pese of befe, another of baken. Of all the byrdes in mery Englond, So merely pypysthe mery botell.” i] the entire poems and songs known to be extant will be found in the following collection; but many more may be traditionally preserved in different parts of the country which would have added considerably to its value.2_ That some of these identical pieces, or 1 It ispossible that, amid these absurdities, there may be other lines of the old song of Robin Hood, which is the only reason for reviving them. ‘““ O sleepst thou, or wakst thou, Jeffery Cooke ?” occurs, likewise, in a medley of a similar description, in Panunelia, 2609. 2 In The gentleman’s magazine, for December, 1790, is the first verse of a song used by the inhabitants of Helston in Cornwall, on the celebration of an annual festivity on the eighth of May, called the Furry-day, supposed Floras day, not, it is imagined, ‘‘as many have thought, in remembrance of some festival instituted in honour of that goddess, but rather from the garlands commonly worn on that day.” (See the same publication for June and Oc- tober, 1790.) This verse was the whole that Mr. Urbans correspondent could then recollect, but he thought he might be afterward able “to send all that is known of - it, for,” he says, ‘* it formerly was very long, but is now much forgotten.” The stanza is as follows: ‘* Robin Hoced and Little John They are both gone to fair O; And we will go to the merry green-wood, To see what they do there O. With hel an tow, Ané rum-be-low, THE LIFE OF ROBIN HOOD. others of the like nature, were great favourites with the common people in the time of queen Elizabeth, though not much esteemed, it would seem, by the refined critic, may, in addition to the testimonies already cited, be infered from a passage in Webbes Discourse of English poetrie, printed in 1586. “If T lette passe,’’ says he, “‘ the unaccountable rabble of ryming ballet-makers, and compylers of sencelesse sonets, who be most busy to stuffe every stall full of grosse devises and unlearned pamphlets, I trust I shall with the best sort be held excused. For though many such can frame an alehouse-song of five or sixe score verses, hobbling uppon some tune of a northern jygge, or Ropyn Hoopr, or La lubber, &c. and perhappes observe just number of sillables, eyght in one line, sixe in an other, and therewithall an A to make a jercke in the ende, yet if these might be accounted poets (as it is sayde some of them make meanes to be promoted to the lawrell) surely we shall shortly have whole swarmes of poets; and every one that can frame a booke in ryme, though, for want of matter, it be but in com- — mendations of copper noses or bottle ale, wyll catch at the garlande due to poets: whose potticall (poeticall, I should say) heades, I woulde wyshe, at their worship- full comencements, might, in steede of lawrell, be gorgiously garnished with fayre greene barley, in token of their good affection to our Englishe malt.” The And chearily we'll get up, -As soon as any day O, All for to bring the summer home, The summer and the May O.” «sc After which,” he adds, ‘‘ there is something about the grey goose wing; from all which,” he concludes, ‘* the goddess Flora has nothing to say to it.” She may have nothing to say to the song, indeed, and yet a good deal to do with the thing. But the fact is that the first eight days of May, or the first day and the eighth, seem to have been devoted by the Celtic nations to some great reli- giousceremony. Certain superstitious observances of this period still exist in the highlands of Scotland, where it is called the Bel-tein; Beltan, in that country, being a com- mon term for the beginning of May, as ‘** between the Beltans ” is a saying significant of the first and eighth days of that month. The games of Robin Hood, as we shall else- where see, were, for whatever reason, always celebrated in May.—JN. B. ‘* Hel-an-tow,” in the above stanza, should be heave and how. Heave and how, and Rumbelow, was an ordinary chorus to old ballads; and is at least as ancient as the reign of Edward IL., since it occurs in the stanza of a Scotish song, preserved by some of our old historians, on the battle of Bannock-burn. To lengthen this long note: Among the Harleian MSS. (num. 367.) is the fragment of ‘‘a tale of Robin Hood dialouge-wise beetweene Watt and Jeffry. The morall is the overthrowe of the abbyes; the like being attempted by the Puritane, which is the wolfe, and the politician, which is the fox, agaynst the bushops. Rcbin Hood, bushop ; Adam Bell, abbot; Little John, colleauges or the univer- sity.” This seems to have been a common mode of satyriz- ing both the old church and the reformers. In another MS. of the same collection, (N. 207) written about 1532, is a tract intitled ‘‘ The banckett of John the reve, unto Peirs Ploughman, Laurens Laborer, Thomlyn Tailyor, and Hobb of the Hille, with others :” being, as Mr. Wan- ley says, a dispute concerning transubstantiation by a Roman catholic. The other, indeed, is much more modern: it alludes to the indolence of the abbots, and their falling off from the original purity in which they were placed by the bishops, whom it inclines to praise. The object of its satire seems to be the Puritans ; but here it is imperfect, though the lines preserved are not wholly destitute of poetical merit.—‘* Robin Hood and the duke of Lancaster, a ballad, to the tune of The abbot of Canterbury, 1727,” is a satire on sir Robert Walpole. See ee ee ee ee chief object of this satire seems to be William Elderton, the drunken ballad-maker, of whose compositions all but one or two have unfortunately perished.! Most of the songs inserted in the second part of this work were common broad-sheet ballads, printed in the black letter, with wood-cuts, between the restoration and the revolution; though copies of some few have been found of an earlyer date. ‘* Who was the author of the collection, intitled Robin Hood’s garland, no one,’’ says sir John Hawkins, “has yet pretended to guess. As some of the songs have in them more of the spirit of poetry than others, it is probable,’’ he thinks, ‘it is the work of various hands: that it has from time to time been varied and adapted to the phrase of the times,’’ he says, “‘is certain.’? None of these songs, it is believed, were ever collected into a garland till some time after the restoration; as the earlyest that has been met with, a copy of which is pre- served in the study of Anthony 4 Wood, was printed by W. Thackeray, a noted ballad-monger, in 1689. This, however, contains no more than sixteen songs, some’ of which, very falsely as it seems, are said to have been ‘‘ never before printed.’’ ‘“ The latest edition of any worth,’’ according to sir John Hawkins, “is that of 1719.’’ None of the old editions of this garland have any sort of preface: that prefixed to the modern ones, of Bow or Aldermary church-yard, being taken from the collection of old ballads, 1723, where it is placed at the head of Rolin Hoods birth and breed- ing. ‘The full title of the last London edition of any note is—“ Robin Hood’s garland: being a complete history of all the notable and merry exploits performed by him and his men on many occasions: To which is added a preface, [t. e. the one already mentioned] giving a more full and particular account of his birth, &e. than any hitherto published. [Cut of archers shooting at a target.] Tl send this arrow from my bow, And in a wager will be bound To hit the mark aright, although It were for fifteen hundred pound. e Doubt not I'll make the wager good, Or ne’er belicve bold Robin Hood. Adorned with twenty-seven neat and curious cuts adapted to the subject of each song. London, Printed and sold by R. Marshall, in Aldermary church-yard, > 1 Chatterton, in his ‘‘ Memoirs of a sad dog,” repre- sents ‘‘ baron Otranto” (meaning, the honorable Horace Walpole, now earl of Orford) when on a visit to ‘sir Stentor,” as highly pleased with Robin Hoods ramble, “¢ melodiously chaunted by the knight’s groom and dairy- maid, to the excellent music of a two-stringed violin and bag-pipe,” which transported him back ‘‘ to the age of his favourite hero, Richard the third ;’ whereas, says he, ‘the songs of Robin Hood were not in being till the reign of queen Elizabeth.” This, indeed, may be in a great measure true of those which we now have, but there is sufficient evidence of the existence and popula- rity of such-like songs for ages preceding; and some of these, no doubt, were occasionally modernised or new- written, though most of them must be allowed to have perished. The late Dr. Johnson, in controverting the authenticity . of Fingal, a composition in which the author, Mr. Mae- pherson, has made great use of some unquestionably an- cient Irish ballads, said, ‘‘ He would undertake to write an epick poem on the story of Robin Hood, and half Eng- land, to whom the names and places he should mention in it are familiar, would believe and declare they had heard it from their earliest years.” (Boswell’s Journal, p. 486.) NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 25 ——e Bow-lane.”” 12mo. On the back of the title-page is. the following Grub-street address : ** To all gentlemen archers.” ‘¢ This garland has been long out of repair, Some songs being wanting, of which we give account ; For now at last, by true industrious care, The sixteen songs to twenty-seven we mount ; Which large addition needs must please, I know, All the ingenious ‘ yeomen’ of the bow. To read how Robin Hood and Little John, Brave Scarlet, Stutely, valiant, bold and free, Each of them bravely, fairly play’d the man, While they did reign beneath the green-wood tree $ Bishops, friars, likewise many more, Parted with their gold, for to increase their store, } But never would they rob or wrong the poor,” The last seven lines are not by the author of the first six, but were added afterward; perhaps when the twenty-four songs were increased to fwenty-seven.? (x)—‘ has given rise to divers proverbs:”] Pro- verbs, in all countries, are, generally speaking, of very great antiquity ; and therefor it will not be contended that those concerning our hero are the oldest we have. It is highly probable, however, that they originated in or near his own time, and of course have existed for upward of 500 years, which is no modern date. They are here arranged, not, perhaps, according to their exact chronological order, but by the age of the authorities they are taken from. 1. Good even, good Robin Hood. The allusion is to civility extorted by fear. It is preserved by Skelton, in that most biting satire, against cardinal Wolsey, Why come ye not to court? (Works, 1736, p. 147.) ** He is set so hye, In his hierarchy, That in the chambre of stars All matters there he mars ; Clapping his rod on the borde, No man dare speake a word ; 2 The following note is inserted in the fourth edition of the Reliques of ancient English poetry, published in July 1795 (vol. I. p. xevii.) : “Of the 24 songs in what is now called ‘ Robin Hood’s garland,’ many are so modern as not to be found in Pepys’s collection, completed only in 1700. In the [editors] folio MS. are ancient fragments of the following, viz.—Robin Hood and the beggar.—Robin Hood and the butcher.— Robin Hood and fryer Tucke.—Robin Hood and the pindar.. —Robin Hood and queen Catharine, in two parts.—Little John and the four beggars, and ‘ Robine Hood his death.’ This last, which is very curious, has no resemblance to any that have yet been published [it is probably number XXVIII. of part I.]; and the others are extremely dif- ferent from the printed copies; but they unfortunately are in the beginning of the MS., where half of every leaf hath been torn away.” As this MS. “‘ contains several songs relating to the civil war in the last century,” the mere circumstance of its comprising fragments of the above ballads, is no proof of a higher antiquity, any more than its not containing ‘ one that alludes to the restoration’ provesits having been com- piled before that period; or than, because some of these 24 songs are not to be found in Pepys’s collection, they are more modern than 1700. If the MS. could be collated, it would probably turn out that many of its contents have been inaccurately and unfaithfully transcribed, by some illiterate person, from printed copies still extant, and, consequently, that it is, so far, of no authority, See the advertisement prefixed, For he hath all the saying, Without any renaying: He rolleth in his recordes, He saith, How say ye, my lordes? Is not my reason good? Good even, good Robin Hood 1.” 2. Many men talk of Robin Hood that never shot in his. bow. “That is, many discourse (or prate rather) ef mat- ters wherein they have no skill or experience. This proverb is now extended all over England, though ori- - ginally of Nottinghamshire extraction, where Robin Hood did principally reside in Sherwood forrest. He was an arch robber, and withal an excellent archer; though surely the poet? gives a wang to the loose of his arrow, making him shoot one a cloth-yard long, at full forty score mark, for compass never higher than the breasé, and within less than a foot of the mark. But herein our author hath verified the proverb, talking at large of Rob'a Hood, in whose bow ‘he never shot.” Fuller’s Worihies, p. 315. “One may justly wonder,” adds the facetious writer, “this archer did not at last hit the mark, I mean, come to the gallows for his many robberies.” The proverb is mentioned, and given as above, by sir Edward Coke in his 3rd Institute, p. 197. Seealso note (x). It is thus noticed by Jonson, in “The king’s entertainment at Walbeck in Nottinghamshire, 1633 :” “‘Thisis... father Fitz-Ale, herald of Derby, &c. He can fly o’er hills and dales, And report you more odd tales Of our out-law Robin Hood, That revell’d here in Sherewood, And more stories of him show, (Though he ne'er shot in his bow) Than an’ men or believe, or know.” We likewise meet with it in Epigrams, &c. 1654 : “In Virtutem. ‘‘ Vertue wo praise, but practice not her good, (Athenian-like) we act not what we know ; So many men doe talk of Robin Hood, Who never yet shot arrow in his bow.” On the back of a ballad, in Anthony a. Woods col- lection, he has written, ** There be some that prate Of Robin Hood, and of his bow, Which never shot therein, I trow.” Ray gives it thus: <¢ Many talk of Robin Hood, that never shot in his bow, And many talk of little John, that never did him know ;” which Kelly has varyed, but without authority. Camdens printer has. separated the lines, as distinct proverbs (Remains, 1674): «© Many speak of Robin Hood that never shot in his bow. Many a man talks of little John that never did him know.” This proverb likewise occurs in The downfall of Robert earle of Huntington, 1600, and seems al- 1 Mr. Warton has mistaken and misprinted this line so as to male it absolute nonsense. ‘* Ts not my reason good ? Good—even good—Robin Hood.” (His. En. po. vol. ii.) ® Drayltons Poly-Olbion, song 26, p. 122. (Supra, p. 2, 3.) 26 THE LIFE OF ROBIN HOOD. luded to in. a scarce and curious old tract intitled ‘* The contention betwyxte Churchyeard and Camell, upon David Dycers. Dreame &c.” 1560. 4to.b. 1. ‘¢ Your sodain stormes and thundre claps, your boasts and braggs so loude: Hath doone no harme thogh Robin Hood spake with, you in a.cloud: Go learne againe cf litell Jhon, to shute in Robyn Hods bowe, Or Dicars dreame shall be unhit, and all his whens, I trowe.” 9 The Italians appear to. have a, similar saying. Molti parlan di Orlando Chi non viddero mat suo branda. 3. To overshoot Robin Food. ‘“« And lastly and chiefly, they cry out with open mouth as if they had overshot Robin. Hood, that Plato banished them [%. e. poets] out of his common- wealth.” Sir P. Sidneys Defence of poeste, 4. Tales of Robin Hood are good [enough] for fools. This proverb is inserted in Camdens Remains, printed originally in 1605; but the word in brackets is supplyed from. Ray. 5. To sell Robin Hoods pennyworths. “Tt is spoken. of things sold under half their value; or if you will, half sold half given. Robin Hood came lightly by his. ware, and lightly parted therewith ; so that he could afford the length of hit bow for a yard of velvet, Whithersoever he came, he carried a fair along with him; chapmen crowding to buy his stollen commodities, But seeing The receiver is as bad as the thief, and such buyers are as bad as re- cewers, the cheap pennyworths of plundered goods may in fine prove dear enough to their consciences.” Fuller's Worthies, p.315. This saying is alluded to in the old north-country song of Randal a Barnaby: ‘© All men said it became me weil, And Robin Hoods pennyworths I did sell.” 6. Come, turn about, Robin Hood. Implying that to challenge or defy our hero must have been the ne plus ultra of courage. It occurs.in Wit and drollery, 1661. ‘‘ Ob Love, whose power and might, No creature ere withstood, Thou forcest me. to, write, Come turn about Robin-hood.” 7. As crook’d as Robin. Hoods bow. That is, we are to conceive, when bent by himself. The following stanza of a modern Irish song is the only authority for this proverb that has been met with. «* The next with whom I did engage, it was an old woman worn with age, Her teeth were like tobacco pegs, Besides she had two bandy legs, Her back more crook’d than Robin Hoods bow, Purblind and decrepid, unable to go; Altho’ her years were sixty three, ~—- She smil’d at the humours of Soosihe Bue.” > mm Churchyards “ Replication onto Camels objection,” he tells the latter : «Your knowledge is great, your judgement is good, The most of your study hath ben of Robyn Hood ; And Bevys of Hampton, and syr Launcelot de Lake, Hath taught you full oft your verses to make.” NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS, (z)—* to swear by him, or some of his companions, appears to have been a usual practice.’ "} = The.carlyest instance of this practice occursin a pleasant story among * Certaine merry tales of the mad-men of Gottam,’’ compiled in the reign of Henry VIII. by Dr. Andrew Borde, an eminent physician of that period, which here follows verbatim, as taken from an old edition in black letter, without date, (in the Bodleian library,) being the first tale in the book. “There was twomen of Gottam,; and the one of them was going to the market to Nottingham to buy sheepe, and the other came from the market ; and both met together upon Nottingham bridge. Well met, said the one to the other. Whither be yce going ? said he that came from Nottingham. Marry, said he that was going thither, I goe to the market to buy sheepe. Buy sheepe! said the other, and which way wilt thou bring them home? Marry, said the other, Twill bring them over this bridge. By Rosin Hoop, said he that came from Nottingham, but thou shalt not. By maip Marrion, said he that was going thitherward, but I will. Thou shalt not, said the one. I will, said the other. Terliere! said the one. Shue there! said the other. Then they beate their staves against the ground, one against the other, as there had beene an Irndred sheepe betwixt them. Hold in, said the one. Beware the leaping over the bridge of my sheepe, said the other. I care. not, said the other, They shall not come this way, said the one. But they shall, said the other. Then said the other, & if that thou make muel: to doe, I will put my finger in thy mouth. A turd thou wilt, said the other. “And as th cy were at their conten- tion, another man of Gottam came from the markct, with asacke of meale upon a horse, and sceing and hearing his neighbours at strife for sheepe, and none betwixt them, said, Ah fooles, will you nevét learn wit? Helpe me, said he that had the meale, and Jay my sack upon my shoulder. They did so; and he went to the one side of the bridge, and unloosed the mouth of the sacke, and did shake out: all his meale into the river. Now, neighbours, said the man, how much meale is there in my sacke now? Marry, there is none at all, said. they. Now, by my faith, said he, even as: much wit is. in your two heads, to strive for that thing you have not. Which was the wisest of all these ‘three persons, judge you?! “By tho bare scalp of Robin Hoods fat frier,’’ is an oath put by Shakspeare into the mouth of one of his outlaws in the Two gentlemen of Verona, act 4. scene 1. ‘ Robin Hoods fat frier” is. frier Tuck; acir- cumstance of which doctor Johnson, who set about explaining that author with a very inadequate stock of information, was perfeetly ignorant. (aa) —* his songs. have been preferred not only, on the most solemn occasion, to the psalms of David, but in fact to the new testament.”’} “ [On Friday, March 9th. 1733] was. executed at Northampton William Alcock for the murder of his wife. He never own'd the fact, nor was at all concern’d at his approaching death, refusing the prayers and assistance of any persons. in the morning he drank more than was sufficient, _ yet sent and paid for a pint of wine, which being deny’d 1 See the original story, in which two brothers, of whom one had wished for as many oxen as he saw stars, the other for a pasture as wide as the firmament, kill each other about the pasturage of the oxen, (from Came. oper. subscis. cent. 1. ¢. 92. p. 429,) in Wanleys Little world of man, edition of 1774, p. 426. von he would not enter the cart: before iy had his money return’d. On his way to the gallows he sung part of an op sona or Rosin Hoop, with the chorus, Derry, cerry, down*®, Se. and swore, kick’d and spurn’d atevery person that laid hold of the cart; and before he was turn’d off, took off his shocs, to avoid a well-known proverb; and being told by a person in the cart with him, it was more proper for him to read, or hear somebody read to him, than so vilely to swear and sing, he struck the book out of the person’s hands, and went on damning the spectators, and calling for wine. Whilst psalms and prayers were performing at the tree, he did little but talk to one or other, desiring some to remember him, others to drink to his good journey; and to the last moment declared the injustice of his case.” (Gentleman's magazine, volume. III. page 154.) To this may be added, that at Edinburgh, in 1565, “Sandy Stevin inenstrall ” [#. e. musician] was con- vineed of blasphemy, alledging, That he would give no moir credit to The new: testament then to a tale of Robin Hood, except it wer confirmed be the doctours of the church.” Knox’s fTistorte of the reformation mm Scotland, (Edin. 1732, p. 368.) William Roy, in a bitter satire against cardinal Wolscy, intitled, “* Rede me aud be nott wrothe For T saye nothynge but.sothe,” printed abroad, about 1525, speaking of the bishops, says,— “ Their frantyke foly is so pevishe, That they contempne in Englishe, To have the new testament ; But as for tales af Robyn Mode, With wother jestes nether honest nor goode, They have none impediment.” ' To the same effect is the following passage in another old libel upon the prests, intitled “I playne Piers which cannot flatter, a plowe-man men me call, Se.” b. ln. d. printed in the original as prose: ** No Christen booke Maye thou on looke, Yf thou be an English strunt, Thus dothe alyens us loutte, By that ye spreade aboute. After that old sorte and wonte. You allowe. they saye, Legenda aurea, Roven oode, Bovys, & Gower, And all bagage by syd, But gods wora ye may not abyde, These lyese are your churche ‘dower,’ 3 Sce, also, before, p. 22. (ss) “Tlis service to the word of god.”] “I came once mysclfe,’’ says bishop, Latimer, (in his sixth ser- mon before king Edward VI.) “to a place, riding ona journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the town that I would preach there in the morning, because it was a holy day, and methought it 2 Derry down is the burden of the old songs of the Druids sung by their Bards and Vaids, to call the people to their religious assemblys in the groves, Deire in Irish (the old Punic) is a grove: corrupted into derry: A famous Druid grove and academy at the place since called Lon- donderry from thenee.” JS. nole by Dr. Stukely, in his copy of Robin Hoods garland. 3 These two singular articles, with others here quoted, are in the equally curious and extensive library of George Steevens, Esq., whose liberality in the communication of his literary treasures increases, if possible, with their rarity and value. jew) 28 was an holidayes worke ; the church stode in my way ; and I toke my horsse and my companye and went thither ; I thought I should have found a great com- panye in the churche, and when I came there the churche dore was faste locked. J tarvied there half an houre and more, and at last the keye was founde ; and one of the parishe commes to me, and sayes, Syr, thys ys a busye day with us, we cannot heare you; it is Rosyn Hoopes payr. The parishe are gone abroad to gather for Rosyn Hoops, I pray you let them not. I was fayne there to geve place to Rozyn Hoopr. 1 thought my rochet should have been regarded, thoughe I were not; but it woulde not serve, it was fayne to geve place to Ropyn Hoopes MEN. It is no laughying matter, my friendes, it is a we- pynge matter, a heavy matter, under the pretence for gatherynge for Ropyn Hoops, a traytoure' and a thefe, to put out a preacher, to have his office lesse estemed, to prefer Rosyn Hop before the mynystration of gods word; and all thys hath come of unpreachynge pre- lates. Thys realme hath been il provided, for that it hath had suche corrupte judgementes in it, to prefer Rosyn Hope tocoppes worpr. Yf the bysshoppes had bene preachers, there sholde never have bene any such thynge, &c.” (cc)—* may be called the patron of archery.” ] The bow and arrow makers, in particular, have always held his memory in the utmost reverence. Thus, in the old ballad of Londons ordinary : ‘* The hosiers will dine at the Leg, The drapers at the sign of the Brush, The jfletchers to Robin Hood will go, And the spendthrift to Beggars-bush.” 2 The picture of our hero is yet a common sign in the country, and before hanging-signs were abolished in London, must have been stili more so in the city; there being at present. no less than a dozen alleys, courts, lanes, &c. to which he or it has given a name. (See Baldwin’s New complete guide, 1770.) The Robin Hood Society,a club or assembly for public debate, or schocl for oratory, is well known. It was held at a public house, which had once born the sign, and still retained the name ef this great man, in Butcher-row, near Temple-bar. It is very usual in the north of England, for a pub- lican, whose name fortunately happens to be John Little, to have.the sign of Robin Hood and his con- stant attendant, with this quibbling subscription : . You gentlemen, and yeomen good, Come in and drink with Robin Hood ; If Robin Hood be not at home, Come in and drink with Little John.3 1 The bishop grows scurrilous. ‘I never beard,” says Coke, attorney-general, “ that Robin Hood was a traitor ; they say he was an outlaw.” (State-trials, i. 218.—Raleigh had said, ‘‘Is it not strange for me to make myself a Robin Hood, a Kett, or a Cade ?”) 2 This ballad seems to have been written in imitation of asong in Heywood’s Rape of Lucrece, 1630, beginning— «“ The gentry to the Kings-head, The nobles to the crown, &c.” 3 In Arnold’s Essex harmony, (ii. 98.) he gives the in- scription, as a catch for three voices, of his own compo- sition, thus : ‘© My beer is stout, my ale is good, Pray stay and drink with Robin Hood ; THE LIFE OF (rr)—“ having a festival allotted to him, and ROBIN HOOD. An honest countryman, admiring the conceit, adopted the lines, with a slight, but, as he thought, necessary alteration, viz. ff Robin Hood be not at home, Come in and drink with—Simon Webster. Drayton, describing the various ensigns or devices of the English counties, at the battle of Agincourt, gives to “ Old NorrincHAM, an archer clad in green, Under a tree with his drawn bow that stood, Which in a chequer’d flag far off was seen ; Tt was the picture of oLD Rorin Hoop.” (pp )—“ the supernatural powers he is, in some parts, supposcd to have. possessed.”] ‘In the parish of Halifax, is animmense stone or rock, supposed to be a druidical monument, there called Robin Hood's penny stone, which he is said to have used to pitch with ata mark for his amusement. There is likewise an- other of these stones, of several tons weight, which the country people will tell you he threw off an ad- joining hill with a spade as he was digging. Every thing of the marvellous kind being here attributed to Robin Hood, as it is in Cornwall to K. Arthur.” (Watsons History of Halifax, p. 27.) At Bitchover, six miles south of Bakewell, and four from Haddon, in Derbyshire, among several singular groupes of rocks, are some stones called Rebin Hoods stride, being two of the highest.and most remarkable. The people say Robin Hood lived here. solemn games instituted in honour of his memory, &c.”"] These games, which were of great antiquity, and different’ kinds, appear to have been solemnized on the first and succeeding days of May; and to owe their original establishment to the cultivation and improve- ment of the manly exercise of archery, which was not, in former times, practised merely for the sake of amusement. “Y find,” says Stow, “that in the moneth of May, the citizens of London, of all estates, lightlie in every parish, or sometimes two or three parishes joyning together, had their severall mayinges, and did fetch in Maypoles, with divers warlike shewes, with good archers, morice-dancers, and other devices for pas- time all the day long: and towards the evening they had stage-playes and bonefires in the streetes. . These greate Mayinges and Maygames, made by the governors and masters of this citie, with the triumphant setting up of the greate shafte, (a principall Maypole in Cornhill, before the parish church of S. Andrew, therefore called Undershafte) by meane of an insurrec- tion of youthes against alianes on Mayday, 1517, the ‘ninth of Henry the eight, have not beene so freely used as afore.’’ (Survay of London, 1598, p. 72.) The disuse of these ancient pastimes, and the conse- quent “neglect of archerie,” are thus pathetically lamented by Richard Niccalls, in his Londons artit- lery, 1616 “ How isit that cur London hath laid downe This worthy practise, which was once the crowne Of all her pastime, when her Robin Hood Had wont each yeare, when May did clad the wood. ee @ If Robin Hood abroad is gone, Pray stay and drink with little John.” This inscription is to this day (April 1839) to be seen on a public-house at Hoxton. With lustie greene, to lead his yong men out, Whose brave demeanour oft when they did shoot, Invited royall princes from their courts, into the wilde woods to behold their sports ! Who thought it then a manly sight and trim, To see a youth of cleane compacted lim, A description Who, with acomely grace, in his left hand of one drawing Holding his bow did take his stedfast stand, * bow. Setting his left leg somewhat foorth before, His arrow with his right hand nocking sure, Not stooping, nor yet standing streight upright, Then, with his left hand little ’bove his sight, Stretching his arm out, with an easie strength, To draw an arrow of a yard in length.”! The lines, «‘ Invited royall princes from their courts Into the wild woods to behold their sports,” may be reasonab.y supposed to allude to Henry VIII. who appears to have been particularly attached, as well to the exercise of archery, as to the observance of May. Some short time after his coronation, says Hall, he “came to Westminster, with the quene, and all their traine: and ona tyme being there, his grace, therles of Essex, Wilshire, and other noble menne, to the numbre of twelve, came sodainly in a mornyng into the quenes chambre, all appareled in short cotes of Kentish Kendal, with hodes on their heddes, and hosen of the same, every one of them his bowe and arrowes, and a sworde and a bucklar, like outlawes, or ‘Robyn’ Hodes men; wherof the quene, the ladies, and al other there, were abashed, as well for the straunge sight, as also for their sodain commyng : and after certayn daunces and pastime made thei departed.” (Hen. VITI. fo. 6, b.) The same author gives the following curious account of “ A maiynge’’ in the 7th year of this monarch (1516): “The kyng & the quene, accompanied with many lordes & ladies, roade to the high grounde on Shoters-hil to take the open ayre, and as they passed by the way they espied a company of tall yomen, clothed. all in grene, with grene whodes & bowes & arrowes, to the number of ii, C. Then one of them whiche called hymselfe Robyn Hood, came to the kyng, desyring hym to se his men shote, and the kyng was content. Then he whisteled, & all the ii. C. archers shot & losed at once; & then he whisteled again, and they likewyse shot agayne; their arrowes whisteled by craft of the head, so that the noyes was straunge and great, and muche pleased the kyng, the quene, and all the company. All these archers were of the kynges garde, and had thus appa- reled themselves to make solace to the kynge. Then Robyn Hood desyred the kyng and quene to come _into the grene wood, and to se how the outlawes lyve. The kynge demaunded of the quene and her ladyes, if they durst adventure to go into the wood with so many outlawes. Then the quene said, if it pleased hym, she was content. Then the hornes blewe tyll they came to the wood under Shoters-hill, and there was an arber made of bowes, with a hal, and a great chamber, and an inner chamber, very well made and covered with floures and swete herbes, whiche the kyng muche praised. Then sayd Robyn Hood, Sir, outlawes brekefastes is venyson, and therefore you must be content with such fare as we use. Then the kyng and quene sat doune, and were served with 1 This description is finely iliustrated by an excellent syood cut at the head of one of Anthony a Woods old bal- jads in the Ashmoleian museum. The frontispiece to Gervas Markhams Archerie, 16. . is, likewise, a man drawing a bow. NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 29 venyson and vyne by Robin Hood and his men, to their great contentacion, Then the kyng departed and his company, and Robyn Hood and his men them con- duicted ; and as they were returnyng, there met with them two ladyes in a ryehe chariot drawen with v. horses, and every horse had his name on his head, and on every horse sat alady with hername written . . . and in the chayre sate the lady May, accompanied with lady Flora, richely appareled; and they saluted the kyng with diverse goodly songes, and so brought hym to Grenewyche. At this maiyng was a greate number of people to beholde, to their great solace and confort.” (fo. lvi, b.) That this sort of May-games was not peculiar to London, appears from a passage in Richard Robinsons ‘‘ Third assertion Englishe historicall, frendly in favour and furtherance of English archery :’” «« And, heare because of archery I do by penae explane The use, the proffet, and the praise, to England by the same, Myselfe remembreth of a childe in contreye native mine, A May-game was of Rosyn Hoop, and of his traine that time, To traine up young men, stripplings, and eche other younger childe, In shooting, yearely this with solempne feast was by the (1553) (7 E. 6.) guylde Or brotherhood of townsmen done, with sport, with joy, and love, To proffet which in present tyme, and efterward did prove.” The games of Robin Hood seem to have been occa- sionally of a dramatic cast. Sir John Paston, in the time of K. Edward IV. complaining of the ingratitude of his servants, mentions one who had promised never to desert him, “‘ and ther uppon,” says he, “I have kepyd hym this iii yer to pleye seynt Jorge, and Robyn Hod and the shryf off Notyngham and now when I wolde have good horse he is goon into Bernysdale, and I withowt a keeper.” In some old accounts of the church-wardens of Saint Helens at Abingdon, Berks, for the year 1556, there is an entry For setting up Rosin Hoopes Bowrr; I suppose, says Wharton, for a parish interlude. (See History of English poetry, ii. 175.)4 In some places these games were nothing more than a morris-dance, in which Robin Hood, Little John, 2 See “ The auncient order societie and unitie laudable of prince Arthure and his knightly armory of the round table ... Translated and collected by R. R, London, Imprinted by John Wolfe dwelling in Distaffe-lane neere the signe of the Castle. 1583.” 4to. b.1. It appears from this publication that on the revival of London archery in queen Elizabeths time, ‘‘ the worshipfull socyety of archers,” instead of calling themselves after Robin Hood and his companions, took the names of ‘‘ the magnificent prince Arthure and his knightly traine of the round table.” It is, probably, to one of the annual meetings of this identical society, that master Shallow alludes, in ‘“* The second part of K. Henry IV.” ‘* Lremember,” says he, ‘‘ at Mile-end green, (their usual place of exercise, }—I was then Sir Dagonet in Arthur’s shew,” &c. (See also Steevens’s Shakspeare, 1793. ix. 142.) The successors of the above ‘‘ friendly and frank fellowship” assumed the ridi- oulous appellations of duke of Shoreditch, marquis of Clarkenwell, earl of Pancridge, §c. See Woods Bowmans glory, 1682. 3 Meaning that his soleor chief employment had been in Christmas or May-games, Whitsun-ales, and such like idle diversions. See Original letters, &c. ii. 134. 4 The precise purpose or meaning of setting up Robin Hoods bower has not been satisfactorily ascertained. Mr 30 Pik Likk OF ROBIN ILOOD. Maid Marian, and frier Tuck were the principal per- sonages.; the others being a clown or fool, the hobby- horse, (which appears, for some ‘reason or other, to have been frequently forgot!,) the taborer, and the dancers, who were more or less numerous. Thus Warner : “At Paske began our morriss, andere penticost our May, Tho Roben Hood, titell John, frier Tucke, and Marian deftly play. gaiy.”? And lard and ladie gang till kirke with lads ‘and lasses Perhaps the clearest idea of these last-mentioned games, about the ‘beginning of the 16th century, will be derived from some curious extracts given by Mr, Lysons, in his valuable work intitled “The environs of Lendon,” (Vol. I. 1792. p. 226) from ‘the contem- porary accounts of the “church-wardens of the parish of Kingston upon Thames.” “Robin Hood and May-game. “23 Hen. 7. To the menstorell upon May- AT inet on': dee, Gael ao sje caane eg EL ee --—- For paynting of the mores garments and for sartengret leveressS7 . . 0 2 4 Hearne, in an attempt to derive the name of ‘* The Chiltern country ” (cilcepn, Saxon) from silev,’a flint, has the following words: ‘“Certe Silcestriam, &c. i. e. Certainly Silchester, in Hampshire, signifies nothing but the city of fiints (that is, a city composed or built of jlint stones). And what is more, in that very Chiltern country you may ‘frequently sce houses built of fiints, in erecting which, in ancient tirnes, I suppose that many persons involved them- selves deeply in debt, and that, in order to extricate them- selves, they took up money at interest of I know not what great men, which so far disturbed their minds that they would become thieves, and do many things in no wise agreeable tothe English government. Hence, the nobility ‘ordered that large woods in the Chiltern country should, in’a great measure, be cut down, lest they should conceal any considerable body of robbers, who were wont to con- vert the same into lurking places. It concerns this matter to call to mind, that of this sort of robbers was that Robin or Robert Hood, of whom the vulgar dayly sing so many wonderful things. He (being now made an outlaw) before he retired into the north parts, frequently robing in the Chiitern country, lurked in the thickets thereof on purpose that he should not be taken, ‘Thence it was, that to us boys, (exhilarating, according to custom, the mind with sports) certain countrymen, with whom we had accident- ally some conversation, shewed us thatsort of den orretreat (vuigarly called Robin Hoods bower) in Maydenhead- thicket: which thicket is the same that Leland in his Itinerary, called Frith, by which name the Anglo-Saxons themselves spoke of thickets. For although at 1S in reality signifys peace, yet since numerous groves with them {as well as before with the Britons) were deemed sacred, it is by no means to be wondered at that a great wood (because manifestly an asylum) should in the judg- ment of the Anglo-Saxons be called by no othername than pprsey : and that Maydenhead-thicket was esteemed ‘among the greater woods Leland himself is a witness. Rightly therefor did Robin Hood (as pprs-bena reckon himself to abide therein security.” (Chronicon deDunstaple, p. 387.) What he means by all this is, doubtless, sufficiently obscure: the mere name, however, of Rebin Hoods bower seems a very feeble authority for concluding that gallant outlaw to have robed or skulked in the Chiltern hundreds. 1 See Steevens’s Shakspeare, 1793. x..186. 2 Albions England, 1602, p. 121. It is part of the «‘ Northerne mans’specch ‘against the friers.” He adds: At Baptis-day with ale and cakes bout bonfires neigh- bours stood, At Martie masse wa turnd a crabbe, thilke tolde of Robin Till after long time myrke.” {Hoed, Ee eat Re ESD Spa ee ETE Serr RS ROE Rem er TENT OO en aN TT TN NE aE TT a Ee For paynting of a bannar for Robin Hello 3° lh ee See ODD S —— For2M.&ipymys. . . . .0 010 —— For4plytsand 4 of laun for the mores VAPNIONTS —~ ve" ae Mente ie a” eee) ae ee —— For orseden5’ for thesame . . .0 0 10 —— Foria.goun for‘the lady . . . ~.0 0 8 —— For bellysfor the dawnsargs . . . 0 0 i2 24 Hen. 7. For little John’seote.. . .0 8 0 1 Hen. 8. For silver paper for the mores dawamans UL) Sis SR ce, D7 —— For Kendall for Robyn Hode’s cote 0 1 3 —— For3 yerdsof white for thefrere’s59cote 0 3 06 —— For 4 yerds of kendall for mayde Maryan’s™ huke® vs 04. -kap ad ot —— For saten of sypers for thesame huke 0 0 6 -~-— For 2 payre of glovys for Robin Hode andtmayde’Maryan.. . ~ ~ ~0 0 3 «¢3 The word livery was formerly used to signify any thing delivered ; see the Northumberland household book, p. 60. If it ever bore such an acceptation at that time, one might be induced to suppose, from ‘the following en- tries, that it here meant a badge, ‘or something of that kind: 15 C. of leveres for Rebin Hode ...... .'05 @ For leveres, paper and sateyn . . . »« . «= » 0 0:20 For pymnesiand ileveres . 0 + 0 -. 6+ ue tere 6 OG 55. Hor 160s of Bewerys: 2. ee ke we ae) oe Di ae FPor-24.preat lywereyS .. + . <0 v0 rem re see OD We are'told ‘that formerly, in the ‘eelebration of May- games, the youth divided themselves'into two troops, the one in winter Jivery, the other-in the habit of the spring. See Brands Popular antiquities, p. 261.” This quotation is misapplied. Liveries, in the present instance, are pieces of paper or sateyn with some device.thereon, which were distributed among the spectators. So in a passage which will be shortly quoted from Jacke Drums entertain- ment: ‘* Well said, my boyes, I must have my lords. livory: what ist ? a May-pole 2” See also Don Quixote, ‘part 2.chap. 22. ‘s¢ 58 Though ‘it varies considerably from that word, this ‘may bea corruption of orpiment, whichwas'much in “use for colouring the morris garments.” How orseden can be a.corruption of orpiment is not very easy to conceive: it may as’ well be supposed to mean worsted or buckram. «< 59 The frier’s coat was generally of russet, as it appears. by the following extracts . . ..” The coat of thismock frier would, doubtless, be made of the same stuff as that of a real one. ‘* 60 Marian was the assumed name of the beloved mis- tress of Robert Earl of Huntingdon, whilst he-was ina state of outlawry, as Robin Hood ‘was his. See Mr. Steevens’s note to a passagein Shakspere’s Henry [V. This character in the morris dances was generally represented by a boy. See Strutt’s view of customs.and manners, vol. iii. p. 150. Itappears by one of the extracts, given above, that at Kingston it was performed by a woman, who was paid.a shilling each year for her trouble.” ‘61 Mr. Steevens suggests, with great probability, that this word may have the same meaning as howue or houve, used by Chaucer fora head-dress ; maid Marian’s head- dress was always very fine: indeed some persons have derived her name from the Italian word-marione, a Head- dress.” Mr. Steevens was never less happy than he is in this very probable conjecture. The word howve or houve, in Chaucer, is amere variation of hood : and maid Marians head-dress must, to be sure, have been “very fine” when made of 4 yards of broad cloth! 2«¢On a loose paper, in Mr. Ashmole’s hand-writing, in the museum at Oxford, is the following little anec- dote :— *«¢ The famous Little John (Robin Hood’s companion) lyes buried in Fethersedge church-yard, in the peak of Derbyshire, one stone at his head, another at his feet, and part of his bow hangs up in the chancell. Anno 1652.” H, B[llis].” European magazine, October 1794. p. 295. 3 Historie of Scotland, translatit be maister Johne Bellenden, Edin. 1541. fo. The luxury of his countrymen will appear astrange complaint, in the mouth of a Scotish- man of the 16th century, to such as believe, with the late Dr. Johnson, that they learned to plant kail from Crom- wells soldiers, and that ‘‘ when they had not kail they probably had nothing.” (Jowrney to the Western islands, p. 55.) See also Boises original work. 4 Description of Ireland, in Holinsheds chronicle, 1587. 5 Historical essay, &c. p. 129. This allegation demands what the lawyers calla profert in curiam. It is however, certain that there have been persons who usurped the name of Little John. In the year 1502, ‘“‘about myd- somer, was taken a felow wyche had renued many of Robyn Hodes pagentes, which named hymselfe Grenelef.” -(Fabyans chronicle, 1559,) Therefor, beware of counter feits! xx)—‘‘ some of his descendants, of the name of Nailor, &c.’’] See the preface to the History of George a Green. As surnames were by no means in general use at the close of the twelfth century, Little John may have obtained that of Nailor from his original profession. (** Ye boasted worthies of the knuckle, To Maggs and to the Nailor truckle.”) But however this, or the fact itself may be, a bow Les © bed Nea! = 2 | i ky | = S e353 & said to have belonged to Little John, with the name of Naylor upon it, is now, as the editor is informed, in the possession of a gentleman in the west riding of Yorkshire. ‘ The quotation about whetsiones is from the Sloan MS. Those, indeed, who recollect the equivocal meaning of the word may think that this production has not been altogether confined to the grave of Little John. END OCF THE LIFE, ETC. ROBIN HOOD. PART I. ty A LYTELL GESTE OF ROBYN HODE. Tus ancient legend is printed from the copy of an edi- tion, in 4to. and black letter, by Wynken de Worde, pre- served in the public library at Cambridge; compared with, and, in some places, corrected by, another impression tapparently from the former), likewise in 4to. and black letter, by William Copland ; a copy of which is among the late Mr. Garricks old plays, now in the British Museum. The full title of the first edition is as follows: “Here begin- neth a mery geste of Robyn Hode and his meyne, and of the proude sheryfe of Notyngham ;” and the printers colophon runs thus: “Explycit. Kynge Edwarde and Robyn hode & Lytell Johan. Enprented at London in Flete strete at the sygne of the sone. By Wynken de Worde.” To Coplands edition is added ‘‘anewe playe for to be played in Maye games very pleasaunte and full of pastyme ;” which will be found at large in another place. No other copy of either edition is known to be extant ; but, by the favour of the reverend Dr. Farmer, the editor hath in his hands a few leaves of an old 4to. black letter im- pression, judged by its late worthy possessor, than whom no one can decide in these matters with more certainty, to be of Rastalls printing, and older, by some years, than the above edition of Wynken de Worde, which yet, though without date, we may safely place as high as the year 1520. Among the same gentleman’s numerous literary curiosities is likewise another edition, ‘‘ printed,” after Coplands, ‘‘ for Edward White,” (4to. black letter, no date, but entered in the Stationers books 13 May, 1594) which, as well as the above fragment, hath been collated, and every variation worthy of notice either adopted or re- marked in the margin. The only desertion from all the copies (except in necessary corrections) is the division of stanzas, the indenting of the lines, the addition of points, the disuse of abbreviations, and the occasional introduc- tion or rejection of a capital letter ; liberties, if they may be so called, which have been taken with most of the other poems in this collection. LirHe* and lysten, gentylmen, That be of frebore» blode ; IT shall you tell of a good yeman, His name was Robyn Hode. Robyn was a proude outlawe, 5 Whyles he walked on grounde, So curteyse® an outlawe as he was one Was never none y founde. ®& Attend, hear, hearken. b Free-born, gentle. «Courteous. Robyn stode in Bernysdale, And lened hym to a tree, And by hym stode Lytell Johan, A good yeman was he ; 10 And also dyde good Scathelock, And Much the millers sone ; There was no ynche of his body, But it was worthe a grome*, 18 Than be spake hym Lytell Johan All unto Robyn Hode, Mayster, yf ye wolde dyne hetyme, It wolde do you moch good. 20 Then bespake good Robyn, To dyne I have no lust?, Tyll I have some bolde barén, Or some unkethf gest, That may paye for the bests ; Or some knyght or some squyere That dwelleth here by west. A good maner than had Robyn, In londe where that he were, Every daye or he woulde dyne 30 Thre messes wolde he here : The one in the worshyp of the fader, The other of the holy goost, The thyrde was of our dere lady, That he loved of ail other moste. Robyn loved our dere lady, For doute of dedely synne ; Wolde he never do company harme That ony woman was ynne. 4d Q. common man? [There is some doubt as to the de- rivation of this word. In its modern acceptation it signi- fies ‘‘ one who attends, observes, takes, or has the care of | anything, whether of horses, chambers, garments, bride, &e.” (Richardsons Dic.) Some derive it from the Dutch Grom, a boy, in which sense it seems to be used in this instance, Horne Tooke referred it to the Anglo-Saxon Gyman, curare, accurare, servire, custodire; and referring to the Anglo-Saxon Bridgum, (bride-groom), and, to the Dutch, Danish, and Swedish modes of writing the same word, contended that the 7 was superfluous.—Eb. ] © Desire, inclination. f Strange, unknown. § Theirregularity or defect of the versification, in this and similar passages, is probably owing to the loss of a line. 30 Mayster, than sayd Lytell Johan, 40 And we our borde" shall sprede, ‘Yell us whether we shall gone, And what lyfe we shall lede ; Where we shall take, where we shall leve, Where we shall abide behynde, Where we shall robbe, where we shall reve’, Where we shall bete and bynde. Ther of no forsk, sayd Robyn, We shall do well ynough ; But loke ye do no housbonde! harme That tylleth with his plough ; No more ye shall no good yeman, That walketh by grene wode shawe™, Ne no knyght ne no squyer, ’ That wolde be a good felawe. 55 These bysshoppes, and thyse archebysshoppes, Ye shall them bete and bynde ; The hye sheryfe of Notynghame, Hym holde in your mynde. This worde shallbeholde,sayd Lytyll Johan, 69 And this lesson shall we lere® ; It is ferre dayes°, god sende us a gest, That we were at our dynere. Take thy good bowe in thy hande, said Robyn, Let Moche wende? with the, 65 And so shall Wyllyam Scathelocke, And no man abyde with me, And walke up to the Sayles, And so to Watlynge strete4, And wayte after some unketh gest, 70 Up chaunce’ ye mowes them mete, Be he erle or ony bardn, Abbot or ony knyght, Brynge hym to lodge to me, Hys dyner shall be dyght*. 79 They wente unto the Sayles, These yemen all thre, They loked est, they loked west, They myght no man see. But as they loked in Barnysdale, 80 By a derne® strete *, Then came there a knyght rydynge, Full sone they gan hym mete. h Table, i Take by force. k Care 1 Husbandman, peasant. m Shaw is usually explained by little wood, but green wood little wood, would be mere tautology; it may, there- fore, mean shade, which appears its primitive significa- ¢ion: Scuwa, Saxon. a Learn, © Far in the day ; grand jour, Fr. P Go. 4 This seems to have been, and, in many parts, is still the name generally used by the vulgar for ERMING-STREET. The course of the real Watling-street was from Dover to Chester. The SayzEs appears to be some piace in the neighbour- hood of Barnsdale, but no mention of it has elsewhere occurred; though, it is believed, there is a field so called not far from Doncaster. © Up chaunce, by chance. § Dressed, u Privy, secret. 8 May. x Lane, path, way. 40 ROBIN HOOD. NN $$ All dreri then was his sernblaunte ’, And lytell was his pride, g Hys one fote in the sterope stode, That other waved besyde. qr Hys hode hangynge over hys eyen two, He rode in symple a ray 3; A soryer man than he was one Rode never in somers day. 90 Lytell Johan was curteyse, And set hym on his kne : Welcome be ye, gentyll knyght, Welcome are you to me. Welcome be thou to grene wood, Hende? knyght and fre ; My mayster hath a byden you fastynge, Syr, all these oures thre. Who is your mayster ? sayd the knyght. Johan sayde, Robyn Hode. He is a good yeman, sayd the knyght, Of hym I have herde moch good. 1 graunte, he sayd, with you to wende, My brethren all in fere ; My purpose was to have deyned to day At Blythe or Dankastere. Forthe than went this gentyll knyght, With a carefull chere, The teres out of his eyen ran, 110 ‘And fell downe by his lere.* They brought hym unto the lodge dors, When Robyn gan hym se, Full curteysly dyde of his hode, And set hym on his kne. 115 Welcome, syr knyght, then said Robyn, Welcome thou arte to me, I haue abyde you fastynge, syr, All these houres thre. Then answered the gentyll knyght, With wordes fayre and fre, God the save, good Robyn, And all thy fayre meyné », 120 They wasshed togyder and wyped botlie, And set tyll theyr dynere ; Brede and wyne they had ynough, And nombles ¢ of the dere ; 125 Swannes and fesauntes they had full good, And foules of the revere ; There fayled never so lytell a byrde, That ever was bred on brere. 130 Do gladly, syr knyght, sayd Robyn, Gramercy 4, syr, sayd he, Suche a dyner had I not Of all these wekes thre : 135 Various REapines.— J. 84. all his. Printed Copies. V.105. So &. [Rastall.] all thre. 1V, C. [de Worde and Copland.] V. 108. this. 2. that. W.C. V. 111. ere. R. y Semblance, appearance. z Gentle, courteous. a Cheek. b Attendants, retinue ; mesnée, Fr. ¢ Entrails; those parts which are usually baked in a pie; now, corruptly, called humbles, or umbles : nombles, Fr. ad Thanks, or many thanks; grand merct, Ir. .f I come agayne, Robyn, Here by this countré, As good a dyner I shall the make, A.; thou hast made to me. Gramercy, knyght, sayd Robyn, 140 My dyner whan I have, I was never so gredy, by dere worthy god, My dyner fer to crave. But pay or ye wende, sayd Robyn, Me thynketh it is good ryght ; 146 Tt was never the maner, by dere worthy god, A yeman to pay for a knyght. J have nought in my cofers, sayd the knyght, Th t 1 may profer for shame. Lytell Johan, go loke, sayd Robyn, Ne let * not for no blame. 156 Tell me trouth, sayd Robyn, So god have parte of the. Ihave no more but ten shillings, sayd the knyght, So god have parte of me. 155 Yf thou have no more, sayd Robyn, I wyll not one peny ; And yf thou have nede of ony more, More shall I len the. Go now forth, Lytell Johan, 160 The trouthe tell thou me, Yf there be no more but ten shillings, Not one peny that I-se. Lytell Johan spred downe his mantell Full fayre upon the grounde, 165 And there he founde in the knyghtes cofer But even halfe a pounde. Lytyll Johan let it lye full styll, And went to his mayster full lowe. What tydynge Johan ? sayd Robyn. 170 “‘ Syr, the knyght is trewe inough.” | Fyll of the best wyne, sayd Robyn, The knyght shall begynne ; Moch wonder thynketh me Thy clothynge is so thynne. 175 | Tell me one worde, sayd Robyn, And eounsell shall it be ; T trowe thou were made a knyght of forse, Or elles of yemanry ; Or elles thou hast ben a sory housband‘, 189 | And leved in stroke and stryfe ; An okerer’, or elles a lechoure, sayd Robyn, With wronge hast thou lede thy lyfe. I am none of them, sayd the knyght, By god that made me ; An hondreth wynter here before, Myne aunsetters* knyghtes have be. But ofte it hath befal, Robyn, A man hath be dysgrate! ; But god that syteth in heven above May amend his state. 185 VARIOUS READINGS.— V. 147. to pay. R. pay. W.C. V.150. Robyn. #&. Robyn Hoode. IV. C. © Omit. f Manager. g Usurer. h Ancestors, ‘ Diegraced. Hath be dysgrate, hath fallen into poverty. A LYTELL GESTE OF ROBYN LODE. a7 lknowe. Printed Copies. - Copies. V. 232. by. W. C. Sragment of Rastalls edition ends with v. 238, also. Printed Copies. Within two or thre yere, Robyn, he sayd, My neyghbores well it ‘ kende,’ Foure hondreth pound of good money Full wel than myght I spende. 195 Now have I no good, sayd the knyght, But my chyldren and my wyfe ; God hath shapen such an ende, Tyil god ‘may amende my lyfe.’ In what maner, sayd Robyn, Tast thou lore thy riches ? or my grete foly, he sayd, And for my kindenesse. Thad a sone, for soth, Robyn, That sholde have ben my eyre, When he was twenty wynter olde, In felde wolde juste full feyre ; THe slewe a knyght of Lancastshyre, And a squyre bolde ; For to save hym in his ryght My guodes beth sette ! and soide ; My fondes beth™ set to wedde®, Robyn, Untyll a certayne daye, ‘Po a ryche abbot here besyde, Of Saynt Mary abbay. 215 What is the somme ? sayd Robyn, Trouthe than tell thou me. Syr, he sayd, foure hondred pounde, The abbot tolde it to me. Now, and thou lese° thy londe, sayd Robyn, 220 What shall fall of the ? Hastely I wyll me buske?, sayd the knyghé, Over-the salte see, And se where Cryst was quycke and deed, On the mounte of Calnaré. Fare well, frende, and have good daye, It may noo better be-——- lo Wd Oh. m= Teeres fell out of his eyen two, He wolde haue gone his waye— Farewell, frendes, and have good day, I ne have more to pay. 230% Where be thy friendes ? sayd Robyn. “ Syr, never one wyll me know ; Whyle I was ryche inow at home Grete bost then wolde they blowe, 23a: And now they renne awaye fro me, As bestes on a rowe ‘Chey take no more heed of me Then they me never sawe.” > For ruthe4 then wepte Lytell Johan, Scathelocke and Much ‘in fere’’ Fyll of the best wyne, sayd Robyn, For here is asymple chere. bo Vorg3. V.199. it may amende. Printed V. 208. lancaseshyre, R. V. 227. not. W.C. V. 233. So R. knowe me. W.C. The V. 241. V. 242. Wyme. Printed Copies. Various READINGS.—V. 192. two yere. R. k Lost. 1 Mortgaged. Oeo n Pledge, mortgage. © Lose. q Pity, compassion, m Are, be. P Go, betake mysek x Together. 4J 38 8 Pledges, sureties. *x Shaped, formed. e Wrap. Hast thou ony frendes, sayd Robyn, | Thy borowes® that wyll be? 24 I have none, then sayd the knyght, But god that dyed on a tree. QQ Do waye thy japest, sayd Robyn, Therof wyll I right none ; Wenest® thou I wyll have god to borowe? 2 Peter, Poule, or Johan ? 0 Cor Nay, by hym that me made, And shope* both sonne and mone, Fynde a better borowe, sayd Robyn, Or mony getest thou none. bo Ci qr I have none other, sayd the knyght, The sothey for to say, But yf it be our dere lady, She fayled me never or this day. By dere worthy god, sayd Robyn, 269 To seche? all Englond thorowe, Yet founde I never to my pay’, A moch better borowe. Come now forthe, Lytell Johan, And goo to my tresouré, And brynge nie foure hondred pounde, And loke that it well tolde be. Lie) a QV Forthe then wente Lytell Johan, And Scathelocke went before, He tolde out foure houndred pounde, By eyghtene score. ts “T co) Is this well tolde ? sayd lytell Much. Johan sayd, What greveth the ? It is almes to helpe a gentyll knyght That is fall in poverte. 270 Mayster, than sayd Lytell Johan, His clothynge is full thynne, Ye must gyve the knyght a lyveray>, To ‘lappe’¢ his body ther in. For ye have scarlet and grene, mayster, 280 And many a ryche aray, There is no marchaunt in mery Englonde So ryche I dare well saye. Take hym thre yerdes of every coloure, And loke that well mete it be. Lytell Johan toke none other mesure But his bowe tre, 285 And of every handfull that he met4 He lept ouer fotes thre. What devilkyns draper, sayd litell Much, Thynkyst thou to be ? to S Seathelocke stoode full styll and loughe, And sayd, By god alimyght, Johan may gyve hym the better mesure, By god, it cost him but lyghtf. a 295 Various Rrapines.—V. 279. helpe. W. wrappe. C. u Thinkess. “2% Seek, Mg Livery, habit. e Laughed, f Light; or perhaps for Zyte, little, t Tricks. Y Sooth, truth. @ Consent, satisfaction. d Measured, t ES) ‘i hd ROBIN HOOD. Mayster, sayd Lytell Johan, Allunto Robyn Hode, Ye must gyve that knight an hers, To lede home al this good. Take hym a gray courser, sayd Robyn, And a sadell newe ; He is our ladyes messengere, God lene § that he be true. And a good palfraye, sayd lytell Mech, To mayntayne hym in his ryght. 30 And a payre of botes, sayd Scathelocke, For he is a gentyll knyght. Gr What shalt thou gyve hym, Lytel Johan? sayd Syr, a payre of gylte spores clene, [Robyn. To pray for all this company : 310 God brynge hym out of tene ! Whan shall my daye be, sayd the knyght, Syr, and your wyll be? This daye twelve moneth, sayd Robyn, Under this grene wode tre. old It were grete shame, sayd Robyn, A knyght alone to ryde, Without squyer, yemau or page, To walke by hys syde. IT shall the lene Lytyll Johan my man, 320 For he shall be thy knave' ; In a yemans steed he may the stonde, Yf thou grete nede have. ———>—-—— THE SECONDE FYTTE. Nowe is the knyght went) on this way, This game he thought full good, When he loked on Bernysdale, He blyssed Robyn Hode ; And whan he thought on Bernysdale, On Seathelock, Much,’and Johan, He blyssed them for the best company That ever he in come *. Then spake that gentyll knyght, To Lytel Johan gan he saye, 10 To morowe I must to Yorke toune, To Saynt Mary abbay ; And to the abbot of that place Foure hondred pounde I must pay : And but I be there upon this nyght : My londe is lost for ay. wt The abbot sayd to his covent}, There he stode 20 Various READINGS.—V. 234. fere W. in fereC. VJ. 6G. shote. W. V.10.he sleste (sliced 2) W. V. 19. thou wast. C. wast thou. White. a friend. The passage, however, seems corrupt. Perhaps it should be—/ren, ( frend or frema), bestad, i.e., beset or surrounded by strangers. (Fremd, Saxon.) Thus, in Spenser’s 4th Eclogue :— ** So now his friend is changed for a fren.” t Pity, compassion. u Hurt, annoy. x Know. y Earth, Z Shoot. a Strong, stout. b Wonnynge wan, Awelling-place. 45 43 “ In Holdernesse I was bore, I wys all of my dame, Men call me Reynolde Grenelefe, Whan I am at hame.” “‘ Say me, Reynaud Grenelefe, 25 Wolte thou dwell with me ? And every yere I wyll the gyve Twenty marke to thy fee.” I have a mayster, sayd Lytell Johan, A curteys knyght is he, 30 May ye gete leve of hym, The better may it bee. The sheryfe gate Lytell Johan Twelve monethes of the knyght, Therefore he gave him ryght anone A good hors and a wyght. Now is Lytel Johan the sheryffes man, He gyve us well to spede, But alway thought Lytell Johan To quyte hym well his mede.¢ 40 Now so god me helpe, sayd Lytel Johan, And be my trewe lewté,? I shall be the worste servaunte to hym .That ever yet had he. It befell upon a wednesday, The sheryfe on hontynge was gone, And Lytel Johan lay in his bed, And was foryete® at home. Therfore he was fastynge Tyl it was past the none. Good syr stuard, I pray the, Geve me to dyne, sayd Lytel Johan. an GQ It is to long for Grenelefe, Fastynge so long to be; Therfore 1 pray the, stuarde, My dyner gyve thou me. 55 Shalt thou never ete ne drynke, sayd the stuarde, Tyll my lord be come to towne. I make myn avowef to god, sayd Lytell Johan, I had lever to cracke thy crowne. 60 The butler was ful uncurteys, There he stode on flore, He sterte to the buttery, And shet fast the dore. 5 Sa Lytell Johan gave the buteler such a rap, His backe yede® nygh on two, Tho he lyved an hundreth wynter, The wors he sholde go. He sporned the dore with his fote, It went up wel and fyne, 70 And there he made a large lyveray! Both of ale and wyne. Various ReapDine.— VJ. 41, Ge. Ti. f. God. ¢ To reward him to some purpose. d Loyalty, good faith. e€ Forgotten. g Shut. h Went. i Livery, delivery : the mess portion or quantity of pro- f Vow. visions delivered out at a time by the butler, was called a Livery. I 42 Syth ye wyl not dyne, sayd Lytel Johan, I shall gyve you to drynke, And though ye lyve an hondred wynter, On. Lytell Johan ye shall thynk. The whyle that he wolde. The sheryfe had in his kechyn a coke, A stoute man and a bolde. I make myn avowe/ to god, sayd the coke, Thou arte a shrewde hynde,* in an housholde to dwel, | For to ask thus to dyne. And there he lent Lytel Johan Good strokes thre. I make myn avowe, sayd Lytell Johan, These strokes lyketh well me. Thou arte a belde man and an hardy, And so thynketh me ; And or I passe fro this place, Asayed! better shalt thou be. Lytell Johan drewe a good swerde, The coke toke another in honde ; They thought nothynge for to fle, But styfly for to stonde. There they fought sore to gyder, Two myle way and more, Myght neyther other harme done, The mountenaunce™ of an houre. And be my trewe lewte, Thou art one of the best swerdemen, That ever yet sawe I me. Coowdest thou shote as well in a bowe, To grene wood thou sholdest with me, And two tymes in the yere thy clothynge »Tchaunged sholde be ; Twenty marke to thy fee. Put up thy swerde, sayd the coke, | And every yere of Robyn Hode’ And felowes wyll we be. Then he fetteo to Lytell Johan The numbles? of a doo, Good brede and full good wyne, They ete and dranke therto. And whan they had dronken well, Ther trouthes togyder they plyght, That they wolde be with Robyn That ylke same’ day at nyght. The dyde them to the tresure hous, As fast as they myght gone, The lockes that were of good stele They brake them everychone ; Various Reapine.— V. 121. byed. C. 3 Vow. k Shrewde hynde, unlucky knave. ! Rssayed, tried, proved. m Amount, duration, space. a Changed. ° Fetched. P Seep. 36 of this ed. 9 Vike same, very-same. 75 Lytell Johan ete, and Lytell [Johan] dronke, 85 90 $95 106 I make myn avowe to god, sayd Lytell Johan, FNP) 110 115 ROBIN HOOD. They toke away the sylver vessell, And all that they myght get, Peces’, masars *, and spones, Wolde they non forgete ; Also they toke the good pence, Thre hondred pounde and three ; And dyde them strayt to Robyn Hode, Under the grene wode tre. 130 “ God the save, my dere mayster, And Cryst the save and se.’’* ‘And than sayd Robyn to Lytell Johan, Welcome myght thou be ; 135 And also be that fayre yeman Thou bryngest there with the. What tydynges fro Notyngham ? Lytell Johan tell thou me. 140 “ Well the greteth the proude sheryfe,. And sende the here by me His coke and his sylver vessell, And thre hondred pounde and thre.” I make myn avow" to god, sayd Robyn, And to the trenyté, It was never by his good wyll, This good is come to me. Lytell Johan hym there bethought, On a shrewed wyle, Fyve myle in the forest he ran, Hym happed at his wyll; 150 Than he met the proud sheryf, Huntynge with hounde and horne, Lytell Johan coud” his curteysye, And kneled hym beforne : 155 “ God the save, my dere mayster, And Cryst the save and see.” Raynolde Grenelefe, sayd the sheryfe, Where hast thou nowe be? 169 «“ T have be in this forest, A fayre syght can I se, It was one of the fayrest syghtes That ever yet sawe I me*; Yonder I se a ryght fayre hart, His coloure is of grene, Seven score of dere upon an herde Be with hym all bedene’ ; His tynde’” are so sharp, maysteér, Of sexty and well mo, 170 That I durst not shote for drede Lest they wolde me sloo.” Various Reapines.— VY. 150. whyle. W. V. 163. syght. W. sightes, CG. ¥ Pixes ; vessels destined to contain the sacramental wafer, 8 Cups, vessels. ‘Regard. "Vow. VY Knew, understood. x A gallicism ; que jamais j’at vu mot. y Behind, one after another? [More probably spread out, scattered around him. The etymology appears to be the same as that of the word Bed, which is derived from the Anglo-Saxon Beddian, sternere, to spread out smooth, or level. In Anglo-Saxon Bedde is sometimes used for a table.—Eb. ] z Tyndes, tines, antlers, the pointed branches that issue from the main beam of a stag. ‘‘In Yngland ther ys a A LYTELL GESTE I make myn avowe to god, sayd the sheryf, That syght wolde I fayn se. «¢ Buske you thyderwarde, ray dere maystér, 175 Anone and wende with me.” The sheryfe rode, and Lytell Johan Of fote he was full smarte, And whan they came afore Robyn : “ Lo, here is the mayster harte !’’ 180 Styll stode the proude sheryf, A sory man was he: “ Wo worthe the», Raynolde Grenelefe .Thou hast now betrayed me.” I make myn avowe to god, sayd Lytell Johan, 185 Mayster, ye be to blame, I was mysserved of my dynere, When I was with you at hame. Soone he was to super sette, And served with sylver whyte ; And whan the sheryf se his vessell, For sorowe he myght noi ete. 190 Make good chere, sayd Robyn Hode, Sheryfe, for charyte, And for the love of Lytell Johan, Thy lyfe is graunted to the. 195 When they had supped well, The day was all agone, Robyn commaunded Lytell Johan To drawe of his hosen and his shone, 200 His kyrtell¢ and his cote a pye’, That was furred well fyne, And take him a grene mantell, To lappe® his body therin. Robyn commaunded his wyght yong men‘, 205 Under the grene wood tre, They shall lay in that same sorte ; That the sheryf myght them se. All nyght lay that proud sheryf, In his breche and in his sherte, No wonder it was in grene wode, Tho his sydes do smerte. 210 Make glad chere, sayd Robyn Hode, Sheryfe, for charyté, For this is our order I wyss, 215 Under the grene wood tre. VARIOUS READING,—V, 183. wo the worth. WW. shepcote, the wyche schepekote haytix dorys, & at yeuery der stondet ix ramys, & every ram hat ix ewys, & yevery ewe hathe ix lambys, & yevery lambe hayt ix hornes, & every horne hayt ix tyndes : what ys the somm of all thes belle?” MSS. More, He. 4. 35.) b Wo worthe the, woe be to thee. € Query, waistcoat ? [Probably derived from gird, and thence applied to any article of dress confined by a girdle, —Ep,] 4 Upper garment, short cloak ; courtepy, Chaucer. See See Tyrwhitt’s note, iv. 201. e Wrap. f Yeomen (which is everywhere substituted in Copland’s edition). See Spelman’s glossary, in the words Juniores, Yeomen ; Tyrwhitt’s edition of the Canterbury Tales, iv. 195; Shakspeare’s plays, 1793, xiv. 347. &§ Trow; there is no modern word precisely synony- mous, OF ROBYN HODE. 43 This is harder order, sayd the sheryfe, Than ony anker? or frere ; For al the golde in mery Englonde I wolde not longe dwell here. 220 All these twelve monethes, sayd Robyn, Thou shalte dwell with me ; : I shall the teche, proud sheryfe, An outlawe for to be. Or I here another nyght lye, saydthesheryfe, 225 Robyn, nowe I praye the, Smyte of my hede rather to merne, And I forgyve it the. Lete me go, then sayd the sheryf, For saynt Charyté, And I wyll be thy best frende That ever yet had the. 230 Thou shalte swere me an othe, sayd Robyn, On my bryght bronde’, Thou shalt never awayte me scathe*, By water ne by londe ; 235 And if thou fynde ony of my men, By nyght or by day, Upon thyne othe thou shalt swere, To helpe them that thou may. Now have the sheryf iswore! his othe, And home he began to gone, He was as full of grene wode As ever was hepe™ of stone. —_—~)—- THE FOURTH FYTTHE, Tue sheryf dwelled in Notynghame, He was fayne” that he was gone, And Robyn and his mery men Went to wode anone. Go we to dyner, sayd Lytell Johan. 9 Robyn Hode sayd, Nay ; For I drede our lady be wroth with me, For she sent me not my pay. Have no dout, mayster, sayd Lytell Johan, Yet is not the sonne at rest, For I dare saye, and saufly swere, The knyght is trewe and trust. Take thy bowe in thy hande, sayd Robyn, Let Moch wende with the, And so shall Wyllyam Scathelock, And no man abyde with me, 15 h Hermit, Anchorite. i Brand, sword. k Awayte me scathe, lie in wait to do me harm. 1 Sworn. m Hip, haw, the fruit of the white-thorn. Morice, a Scottish ballad :— ** T was once as jow of Gill Morice As the hip is 0’ the stean.” So in Gil [The hip is the fruit of the wild rose, but in the present instance and in that quoted by Mr. Ritson, the haw, the fruit of the white-thorn or hawthorn, appears to be indi- cated, since the hip has no stone, although it is very ull of seeds.—Eb. ] b Glad. rong ~] = seeing at ie eS A TREE pa 44 And walke up into the Sayles, And to Watlynge strete, And wayte after ‘ some’ unketh gest, Up chaunce ye may them mete. 20 Whether he be messengere, Or a man that myrthes® can Or yf he be a pore man, Of my good he shall have some. tw On Forth then stert Lytel Johan, Half in tray? and tene4, And gyrde hym with a full good swerde, Under a mantel of grene. They went up to the Sayles, These yemen all thre ; They loked est, they loked west, They myght no man se. But as ¢ they’ loked in Bernysdale, By the hye waye, Than were they ware of two blacke monkes, 3 Eche on a good palferay. qn Then bespake Lytell Johan, To Much he gan say, | I dare lay my iyfe to wedde’, That these monkes have brought our pay. 46 Make glad chere, sayd Lytell Johan, And frese* our bowes of ewe, And loke your hertes be seker*t and sad, Your strynges trusty and trewe. Gt The monke hath fifty two men, 4! And seven somers” full stronge, There rydeth no bysshop in this londe So ryally*, I understond. Brethern, sayd Lytell Johan, Here are no more but we thre ; But we brynge them to dyner, Our mayster dare we not se. lan? fi eae Bende your bowes, sayd Lytell Johan, Make ali yon preseY to stonde, The formost monke, his lyfe and his deth Is closed in my honde. Abyde, chorlez monke, sayd Lytell Johan, No ferther that thou gone ; Yf thou doost, by dere worthy god, Thy deth is in my honde. 60 And evyll thryfte on thy hede, sayd Lytell Johan, Ryght under thy hattes bonde, For thou hast made our mayster wroth, He is fastynge so longe. Various READINGS.~—/V’. 19. such. TV. copies. V. 33. he. Old V. 56. ycu. IV. Make you yonder preste. C. © Mirth, merriment. A man that mirths can, a minstrel, fiddler, juggler, or the like. n Anger. q Grief, vexation. r Pawn, pledge. 8 Frese. Mr. Ritson queries the meaning of this word, nor can we offer any explanation, unless for And frese, we should read Un-/reize, i. e., take out of the cases made of cloth of frieze. This we offer merely as a conjecture.—Eb. t Sure. u Sumpter-horses. x Royally. y Company, * Churl, peasant, clown. ROBIN WOOD. Who is your mayster? sayd the monke. Lytell Johan sayd, Robyn Hode. He is a stronge thefe, sayd the monke, Of hym herd I-never good. Thou lyest, than sayd Lytell Johan, And that shall rewe the ; He is a yeman of the forést, To dyne he hath bode? the. 10 Much was redy with a bolte”, Redly and a none, He set the monke to fore the brest, To the grounde that he can gone. 1 vu Of fyfty two wyght yonge men, There abode not one, Saf a lytell page, and a grome To lede the somers with Johan. 56 They brought the monke to the lodge dore, Whether he were loth or lefe‘, For to speke with Robyn Hode, Maugyve in theyr tethe. Robyn dyde adowne his hode, The monke whan that he se ; The monke was not so curteyse, His hode then let he be. 8&3 He is a chorle, mayster, by dere worthy god, Than said Lytell Johan. 96 Thereof no fors‘, sayd Robyn, For curteysy can he none. How many men, sayd Robyn, Had this monke, Johan ? “ Fyfty and two whan that we met, But many of them be gone.” 95 Let blowe a horne, sayd Robin, That felaushyp may us knowe ; Seven score of wyght yemen, Came pryckynge on a rowe, 196 And everych of them a good mantéll, Of scarlet and of raye®, All they came to good Robyn, To wytef what he wolde say. They made the monke to wasshe and wype, 195 And syt at his denere, Robyn Hode and Lytel Johan They served ‘ him’ bothe in fere. Do gladly, monke, sayd Robyn, Gramercy, syr, said he. Lid “ Where is your abbay, whan ye are at home, And who is. your avowés?” Saynt Mary abbay, sayd the monke, Though I be symple here. In what offyce ? sayd Robyn. * Syr, the hye selerer.” 115 Various READINGS.—V’. 77. yemen. C. V. 80. Lytel® Johan. Old Copies. V.108. them. Old Copies. a Bidden, invited. b A bolt was an arrow of a particular kind, used for shooting at a mark, or at birds. © Lefe, willing, loth or lefe, whether he were willing or not. ad Care, e « Ray cloth, cloth that was never coloured or dyed.”—Bailey. f Know. g Founder, patron, protector. See Spelman’s Glossary, vy. Advocatus, Ye be the more welcome, sayd Robyn, So ever mote I the. Fyll of the best wyne, sayd Robyn, This monke shall drynke to me. But I have grete mervayle, sayd Robyn, Of all this longe day, I drede our lady be wroth with me, She sent me not my pay. Have no doute, mayster, sayd Lytell Johan, 125 Ye have no nede I saye, This monke it hath brought, I dare well swere, For he is of her abbay. And she was a borowe, » sayd Robyn, Betwene a knyght and me, Of a lytell money that I hym lent, Under the grene wode tree ; And yf thou hast that sylver ibroughte, I praye the let me se, And I shall helpe the eft sonesi, Yf thou hast nede of me. 135 The monke swore a full grete othe, With a sory chere, Of the borowehode k thou spekest to me,, Herde I never ere!. 140 I make myn avowe to god, sayd Robyn, Monke, thou arte to blame, For god is holde a ryghtwys ™ man, And so is his dame.: Thou toldest with thyn owne tonge, Thou may not say nay, How thou arte her servaunt, And servest her every day. And thou art made her messengere, My money for to pay, Therfore I cun" the more thanke, Thou arte come at thy day. What is in your cofers? sayd Robyn, Trewe than tell thou me. Syr, he sayd, twenty marke, Al so mote? I the?. 155 Yf there be no more, sayd Robyn, I wyll not one peny ; Yf thou hast myster4 of ony more, Syr, more I shall lende to the ; 160 And yf I fynde more, sayd Robyn, I wys thou shalte it forgone * ; For of thy spendynge sylver, monk, Therof wyll I ryght none. Go nowe forthe, Lytell Johan, And the trouth tell thou me ; 1f there be no more but twenty marke, No peny that I se. Various Reapines.— V. 136. to W. VY. 149. nade W. not an C. YV.172. Eyght pounde. IV. h Pledge, surety. 4 Hereafter, afterward. k Suretyship. 1 Before. m Righteous. 2 Con, owe, give. © May, might. ® Thrive, 4 Need. r Forego, lose. A LYTELL GESTE OF ROBYN RODE. Lytell Johan spred his mantell downe, As he had done before, And he tolde out of the monkes male, Eyght hundreth pounde and more. 170 Lytell Johan let it lye full styll, And went to his mayster in hast ; Syr, he sayd, the monke is trewe ynowe’, 175 Our lady hath doubled your cost. I make myn avowe to god, sayd Robyn, Monke, what tolde I the ? Our lady is the trewest woman, That ever yet founde I me. 180 By dere worthy god, sayd Robyn, To seche all Englond thorowe, Yet founde I never to my pay A moche better borowe. Fyll of ye best wyne, do hym drynke, sayd 185 And grete well thy lady hende, [ Robyn, And yf she have nede of Robyn Hode, A frende she shall hym fynde ; And yf she nedeth ony more sylver, Come thou agayne to me, And by this token she hath me sent, She shall have such thre. 190 The monke was going to London ward, There to holde grete mote’, The knyght that rode so hye on hors, To brynge hym under fote. 195 Whether be ye away ? sayd Robyn. “ Syr, to maners in this londe, Too reken with our reves ¥, That have done moch wronge.” 200 * Come now forth, Lytell Johan, And harken to my tale, A. better yeman I knowe none, To seke a monkes male.” How moch is in yonder other ‘ cofer ? sayd 205 The soth must we see. [ Robyn, By our lady, than sayd the monke, That were no curteysye, To bydde a man to dyner, And syth * hym bete and bynde. It is our olde maner, sayd Robyn, To leve but lytell behynde. 210 The monke toke the hors with spore, No lenger wolde he abyde. Aske to drynke, then sayd Robyn, Or that ye forther ryde. to qn Nay, for god, then sayd the monke, Me reweth I cam so nere, For better chepey I myght have dyned, 220 s Enough. t Meeting, assembly, court, audit. [So at the present day, ward-mote.—Eb. ] u Bailiffs, receivers. x Afterward. y Cheaper: @ meilleur marché. Fr. 4% ROBIN HOOD. Grete well your abbot, sayd Robyn, And your pryour, I you pray, And byd him sende me such a monke, To dyner every day. Now lete we that monke be styll, And speke we of that knyght, Yet he came to holde his day Whyle that it was lyght. He dyde him streyt to Bernysdale, Under the grene wode tre, And he founde there Robyn Hode, And all his merry meyne. The knight lyght downe of his good palfray, Robyn whan he gan see, So curteysly he dyde adoune his hode, 235 And set hym on his knee. “ God the save, good Robyn Hode, And al this company.” “ Welcome be thou, gentyll knyght, And ryght welcome to me.” 240 Than bespake hym Robyn Hode, To that knyght so fre, What nede dryveth the to grene wode ? I pray the, syr knyght, tell me. And welcome be thou, gentyl knyght, Why hast thou be so longe ? * For the abbot and the hye justyce Wolde have had my londe.” Hast thou thy lond agayne ? sayd Robyn, Treuth than tell thou me. Ye, for god, sayd the knyght, And that thanke I god and the. 250 But take not a grefe, I have be so longe ; I came by a wrastelynge, And there I dyd holpe.a poor yeman, With wronge was put behynde. bd or or Nay, for god, sayd Robyn, Syr knyght, that thanke I the ; What man that helpeth a good yeman. His frende than wyll I be. 260 Have here foure hondred pounde, than sayd the The whiche ye lent to me 5 [knyght, And here is also twenty marke For your curteysy. qt Nay, for god, than sayd Robyn, 26 Thou broke # it well for ay, For our lady, by her selerer, Hath sent to me my pay ; And yf I toke it twyse, A shame it were to me: But trewely, gentyll knyght, Welcom arte thou to me. 270 Various REApinG.— V. 254. gayne. W. V. 253, But take not a grefe, sayd the knyght, That I have be so longe. Old Copies. V. 269. Ltwyse. W. ® Brook, enjoy, use, keep. 50 Whan Robyn had tolde his tale, He leugh? and had good chere. By my trouthe, then sayd the knyght, Your money is redy here. 275 Broke it well, sayd Robyn, Thou gentyll knyght so fre ; And welcome be thou, gentill knyght, Under my trystell > tree. 280 But what shall these bowes do? sayd Robyn, And these arowes ifedered ¢ fre ? By god, than sayd the knyght, A pore present to the. “Come now forth, Lytell Johan, 285 And go to my treasure, And brynge me there foure hondred pounde, The monke over tolde it me. Have here foure hondred pounde, Thou gentyll knyght aud trewe, And bye hors and harnes good, And gylte thy spores all newe: 290 And yf thou fayle ony spendynge, Com to Robyn Hode, And by my trouth thou shalt none fayle The whyles I have any good. 295 And broke well thy four hundred pound, Whiche I lent to the, And make thy selfe no more so bare, By the counsell of me. 300 Thus than holpe hym good Robyn, The knyght all of his care. God, that sytteth in heven hye, Graunte us well to fare. —— THE FYFTH FYTTE, Now hath the knyght his leve itake4, And wente hym.on his way ; Robyn Hode and his mery men Dwelled styll full many a day. Lyth and lysten, gentil men, 5 And herken what I shall say, How the proud sheryfe of Notyngham Dyde crye a full fayre play ; That all the best archers of the north Sholde come upon a day, 16 And they that shoteth ‘alder’ best ¢ The game shall bere away. Various READINGS.— V. 290. thitrusty. @. WV. 302. this care. JV. V. 303. syt. W. V. 11. And that shoteth al ther best. W. And they that shoteal of the best. C. a Laughed. Gathering-tree. Tree appointed for meeting together. ¢ Feathered. d Taken. e Best of all. This phrase, which occurs in Chaucer is corrupted in de Worde’s edition to ‘‘al ther,” and ‘* al theyre,” which Coplande has changed to ‘ al of the;” whence it may be infered that the expression was become already obsolete, and consequently that the poem is of b Trysting-tree. Rage A er CSS tt ne ee eee pp eis ne A LYTELL GESTE OF ROBYN HODE. 47 ' & He that shoteth ‘alder’ best Furthest fayre and lowe, At a payre of fynly‘ buttes, 15 Under the grene wode shawe, 8 A ryght good arowe he shall have, The shaft of sylver whyte, The heade and the feders » of ryche rede golde, Tn Englond is none lyke.” 20 This then herde good Robyn, Under his trystell tre! : “ Make you redy, ye wyght yonge men, That shotynge wyll I se. Buske! you, my mery yonge men, 25 Ye shall go with me ; And I wyll wete the shryves fayth, Trewe and yf he be.” Whan they had theyr bowes ibent ™, Theyr takles® fedred fre, 30 Seven score of wyght yonge men Stode by Robyns kne. Whan they cam to Notyngham, The buttes were fayre and longe, Many was the bold archere That shoted with bowes stronge. Ww wn “There shall but syx shote with me, The other shal kepe my hede, And stande with good bowes bent That I be not desceyved.” 40 | The fourth outlawe his bow gan bende, And that was Robyn Hode, And that behelde the proude sheryfe, All by the but he stode. Thryes Robyn shot about, 45 And alway he slist the wand, And so dyde good Gylberte, With the whyte hande. Lytell Johan and good Seatheloke Were archers good and fre ; 50 Lytell Much and good Reynolde, The worste wolde they not be. Whan they had shot aboute, These archours fayre and good, Evermore was the best, Forsoth, Robyn Hode. (oda | qr Hym was delyvered the geode arow, For best worthy was he ; He toke the yeft° so curteysly, To grene wode wolde he. 60 They cryed out on Robyn Hode, And great hornes gan they blowe, Wo worth the, treason! sayd Robyn, Full evyl thou art to knowe. Various Reapines.—V. 13. al theyre. W. al of the. C. V. 46. they slist. 17. he clefte. C. much greater antiquity than 1520: and yet Shakspeare, above half a century after, puts the word alderliefest into the mouth of Queen Margaret. f Goodly. & Shade. h Feathers. i See p. 46. k Yeomen. See p. 43. ? Address or prepare yourselves, make ready. m Bent. n Arrows. ° Gift. And wo be thou, thou proud sheryf, 65 Thus gladdynge thy gest, Other wyse thou behote » me In yonder wylde forest ; But had I the in grene wode, Under my trystell tre 4, 70 Thou sholdest leve me a better weddet Than thy trewe lewie. Full many a bowe there was bent, And arowes let they glyde, Many a kyrtell there was rent, 75 And hurt many a syde The outlawes shot was so stronge, That no man myght them dryve, And the proud sheryfes men They fled away full blyve * 8) Robyn sawe the busshement t to broke, In grene wode he wolde have be, Many an arowe there was shot Amonge that company. Lytell Johan was hurte full sore, &5 With an arowe in his kne, That he myght neyther go nor ryde ; It was full grete pyte. Mayster, then sayd Lytell Johan, If ever thou lovest me, 90) And for that ylke" lordes love, That dyed upon a tre, And for the medes of my servyce, That I have served the, Lete never the proude sheryf 95 Alyve now fynde me ; But take out thy browne swerde, And smyte all of my hede, And gyve me woundes dede and wyde, No lyfe on me be lefte. 100 I wolde not that, sayd Robyn, Johan, that thou were slawe¥, For all the golde in mery Englond, Though it lay now ona rawe. God forbede, sayd lytell Much, 105 That dyed on a tre, That thou sholdest, Lytell Johan, Parte our company, Up he toke him on his backe, And bare hym well a myle, 110 Many a tyme he layd hym downe, And shot another whyle. Then was there a fayre casteéll, A lytell within the wede, Double dyched it was about, 115 And walled, by the rode ; Various Reapines.—V. 80. belyve C. YV. 100. That I after eate no bread. C. 51 P Promised. 9 See p. 46. r Pawn, pledge, or deposit. 8 Fast, quickly, briskly. t Ambush, u Same, very. ¥ Slain. 48 And there dwelled that gentyll knyght, | Syr Rychard at the Lee, That Robyn had lent his good, | Under the grene wode tree. 120 ; In he toke good Robyn, And all his company : % Welcome be thou, Robyn Hode, Welcome arte thou [to] me ; And moche [1] thanke the of thy confort, 125 And of thy curteysye, And of thy grete kyndenesse, Under the grene wode tre ; I love no man in all this worlde So moche as I do the ; 130 For all the proud sheryf of Notyngham, Ryght here shalt thou be. And arme you well and make you redy, 135 And to the walle ye wynne’. For one thyng, Robyn, I the behote, I swere by saynt Quyntyn, These twelve dayes thou wonest ? with me, To suppe, ete, and dyne. 140 Bordes were layed, and clothes spred, Reddely and anone ; Robyn Hode and his mery men To mete gan they gone * ey THE SYXTE FYTTE. Lyrue and lysten, gentylmen, And herken unto your songe, How the proude sheryfe of Notyngham, And men of armes stronge, Full faste came to the hye sheryfe, 3) The countre up to rout, And they beset the knyghts castéll, The walles all about. The proude sheryf loude gan crye, And sayd, Thou traytour knyght, 10 Thou kepeste here the kynges enemye, Agayne the lawes and ryght. «“ Syr, I wyli avowe > that I have done, The dedes that here be dyght‘, Upon all the londes that I have, 15 As Il am a trewe knyght. Wende forthe, syrs, on your waye, | And doth no more to me, Tyll ye wytte ¢ our kynges wyll What he woll say to the.” 20 | Various ReEADING.—V. 14. thou. IV. | Shyt * the gates, and drawe the bridge, And let no man com in ; ROBIN HOOD. a nnn en ne EIEEEEEEEIEIEEESI ESSE The sheref thus had his answere, With out ony leasynge °, Forthe he yode f to London toune, All for to tel our kynge. There he tolde him of that knyght, 25 And eke of Robyn Hode, And also of the bolde archeres, That noble were and good. “ He wolde avowe that he had done, To mayntayne the outlawes stronge, 30 He wolde be lorde, and set you at nought, In all the north londe.” I woll be at Notyngham, sayd the kynge, Within this fourtynyght, And take I wyll Robyn Hode, 35 And so I wyll that knyght. Go home, thou proud sheryf, And do as I bydde the, And ordayne good archeres inowe, Of all the wyde countree. 40 The sheryf had his leve itake, And went hym on his way ; And Robyn Hode to grene wode, Upon a certayn day ; And Lytell Johan was hole of the arowe, 45 That shote was in his kne, And dyde hym strayte to Robyn Hode, Under the grene wode tre. Robyn Hode walked in the foreste, Under the leves grene, 50 The proud sheryfe of Notyngham Therefore he had grete tene. The sheryf there fayled of Robyn Hode, He myght not have his pray, Then he awayted § that gentyll knyght, 55 Bothe by nyght and by daye. Ever he awayted that gentyll knyght, Syr Rychard at the Lee ; As he went on haukynge by the ryver syde, And let his haukes flee, 60 Toke he there his gentyll knyght, With men of armes stronge, And lad hym home to Notyngham warde, Ibonde * both fote and honde. The sheryf swore a full grete othe, 65 By hym that dyed on a tre, He had lever than an hondrede pounde, That Robyn Hode had he ! Then the lady, the knyghtes wyfe, A fayre lady and fre, 70 She set her on a gode palfray, To grene wode anon rode she. VARIOUS READINGS.— V. 38. the bydde. Old Copies. V.64. honde and fote. 77. foote and hande.C. V.68. That he had Robyn Hode. WW. x Shut. yY Get. Zz Dwellest. = Gan they gone. Are they gone, did they go. [Qy., they began to go ?—Ep.] b Maintain, verdbum juris. d Know. e Lying, falsehood. f Rode. g Lay in wait for. Q Bound. ¢ Done. 52 ae eee a ea en | Vou. il A LYTELL GESTE OF ROBYN HODE. rose When she came to the forést, Under the grene wode tre, Founde she there Robyn Hode, And all his fayre meyné. “ God the save, good Robyn Hode, And all thy company ; For our dere ladyes love, A bone graunte thou me. 80 Let thou never my wedded lorde Shamfully slayne to be ; He is fast ibounde to Notyngham warde, For the love of the.” Anone then sayd good Robyn, 85 To that lady fre, What man hath your lorde itake ? The proude shirife, than sayd she. [The proude sheryfe hath hym itake] Forsoth as I the say ; He is not yet thre myles, Passed on ‘his’ waye. Up then sterte good Robyn, As a man that had be wode : *‘ Buske you, my mery younge men, For hym that dyed on a rode‘; And he that this sorowe forsaketh, By hym that dyed on a tre, And by him that al thinges maketi, No lenger shall dwell with me.” 100 Sone there were good bowes ibent, Mo than seven score, Hedge ne dyche spared they none, That was them before. T make myn avowe to god, sayd Robyn, The knyght wolde I fay n se, And yf I may hym take, J Iquyt than shall he bee. 105 And whan they came to Notyngham, They walked in the strete, And with the proud sheryf, I wys, Sone gan they mete. 110 Abyde, thou proud sheryf, he sayd, Abyde and speake with me, Gf some tydynges of our kynge, I wolde fayne here of the. This seven yere, by dere worthy god, Ne yede * I so fast on fote, I make myn avowe to god, thou proud sheryfe, ‘It’ is not for thy good. 120 Robyn bent a good bowe, An arrowe he drewe at his wyll, He hyt so the proud sheryf, Upon the grounde he lay full styll ; Various Reapines.—V. 77. God the good Robyn. W. +. 79. lady. W. V. 81. Late. V. 82. Shamly I slayne be. VW. YV.88. For sothasI thesay. WW. V.92. your. WV. You may them over take. C. V. 99, 100. Shall he never in grene wode be, Nor longer dwell with me. W. V. 108. it, W. V. 120. At. W. That. C.—[good] boote. Wh. t Rood, crucifix. J Acquitted, set at liberty. & Wont. And or he myght up aryse, On his fete to stonde, He smote of the sheryves hede, With his bryght bronde. “ Lye thou there, thou proud sheryf, Evyll mote thou thryve ; 130 There myght no man to the trust, The whyles thou were alyve His men drewe out theyr bryght swerdes, That were so sharpe and kene, And layde on the sheryves men, And dryved them downe by dene. « 135 Robyn stert to that knyght, And cut a two his bonde, And toke him in his hand a bowe, And bade hym by hym stonde. 140 ‘“‘ Leve thy hors the behynde, And lerne for to renne ; Thou shalt with me to grene wode, Through myre, mosse and fenne, Thou shalt with me to grene wode, Without ony leasynge, Tyll that I have gete us grace, Of Edwarde our comly kynge.’ —_——_o- —— THE SEVENTH FYTTE. Tue kynge came to Notynghame, With knyghtes in grete araye, For to take that gentyll knyght, And Robyn Hode, yf he may. He asked men of that countre, 5 After Robyn Hode, And after that gentyll knyght, That was so bolde and stout. Whan they had tolde hym the case, Our kynge understonde ther tale, And seased in his honde The knyghtes londes all, oe All the passe! of Laneasshyre, He went both ferre and nere, Tyll he came to Plomton parke, He faylyd™ many of his dere. 19 There our kynge was wont to se Herdes many one, He coud unneth® fynde one dere, That bare ony good horne. 20 The kynge was wonder wroth with all, And swore by the trynyté, “TI wolde I had Robyn Hode, With eyen I myght hym se ; Various READINGS,— V’, 138. hoode. IV. 7, bande. Cc. 6V.4. and yf. IV. k By dene. (Mr. Ritson explains this to mean “one after the other,” but query whether it does not rather signify, flat ; to drive them down by dene, to lay them low, spread out upon the ground. See note yY, p.42.—ED.] 1 Extent, bounds, limits, district, as the pas de Calais. Cop land’s edit. reads compas. ™Wantcd,missed. "Scarcely et ne ete tn en Amann an ended nt Sit healer ina A ce einen st ad a te me And he that woldesmyte of the Anyghites hede, 25 And brynge it to me, He shall have the knyghtes londes, Syr Rycharde at the Le ; I gyve it hym with my charter, And sele it with my honde, 30 To have and holde for ever more, Tn all mery Englende.” Than bespake a fayre olde knyght, That was treue in his fay,° A, my lege lorde the kynge, 385 One worde I shall you say ; There is no man in this countrée May have the knyghtes londes, Whyle Robyn Hode may ryde or gone, And bere a bowe in his hondes 3; 40 That he ne shall lese his hede, That is the best ball in his hede : Give it no man, my lorde the kynge, That ye wyll any good. Half a yere dwelied our comly llc 45 In Notyngham, and well more, Coude he not here of Robyn Hode, In what countre that he were ; But alway went good Robyn By halke? and eke by hyll, 50 And alway slewe the kynges dere, And welt them at his wyll. ¢ Than bespake a proude fostere,* That stode by our kynges kne, If ye wyll se good Robyn, 55 Ye must do after me 3 Take fyve of the best knyghtes That be in your lede, * And walke downe by ¢ yon’ abbay, And gete you monkes wede.t 60 And I wyll be your ledes man * And lede you the way, And or ye come to Notyngham, Myn hede then dare I lay, That ye shall mete with good Robyn, 65 On lyve yf that he be, Or ye come to Notyngham, With eyen ye shall hym se. Full hastly our kynge was dyght, So were his knyghtes fyve, 70 Everych of them in monkes wede, And hasted them thyder blyth. _ Our kynge was grete above his cole,” A brode hat on his crowne, Ryght as he were abbot lyke, 75 They rode up in to the towne. Various Reapwe.—V. 59. your. Old Copies. ° Faith, honour. Pp Perhaps, haugh, low ground by the side of a river? See the glossary to Bishop Douglas’s Virgil, v. Hawechis. Halke, with Chaucer, signifies a corner; but here it seems used in opposition to a hill. q.Welt them at his wyli ; did as he pleased with them, -used them at his pleasure. r Worester. * Train, suite. *' Dress, habits. ¥° Guide. ’ Mr. Ritson queries the meaning of this werd. We 50 ROBIN HOOD. Styf botes our kynge had on, Forsoth as I you say, He rode syngynge to grene wode, The covent was clothed in graye. 80 His male hors “, and his grete somers, ¥ ¥ Folowed our kynge be hynde, Tyll they came to grene wode, A myle under the lynde. * There they met with good Robyn, 85 Stondynge on the waye, And so dyde many a bolde archere, For soth as I you say. Robyn toke the kynges hors, Hastely in that stede, 90 And sayd, Syr abbot, by your leve, A whyle ye must abyde ; We be yemen of this foreste, Under the grene wode tre, We lyve by our kynges dere, 95 Other shyft have not we ; And ye have chyrches and rentes both, And gold full grete plenté ; Gyve us some of your spendynge, For saynt Charyte.** 100 Than bespake our cumly kynge, Anone than sayd he, I brought no more to grene wode, But forty pounde with me ; I have layne at Notyngham, 105 This fourtynyght with our kynge, And spent I have full moche good, On many a grete lerdynge ; And I have but forty pounde, No more than have I me, But yf I had an hondred pounde, I would geve it to the. 119 Robyn toke the forty pounde, And departed it in two partye, Halfendell ¥ he gave his mery men, And bad them mery to be. 115 Various REApINGS,— PV. 96, Under the grene wode tre, WV. V. 112. I vouche it halfe on the. WV. should probably read cowl: the allusion seems to be to the unusual distinction of the hat worn in addition to that portion of the monastic dress.—ED. w Horse carrying the mail, bag or baggage. ww Sumpter horses. x The lime or linden tree; or, collectively, lime-trees, or trees in general. xx This saint is alsomentioned by Spenser, in his Fifth Eclogue : «¢ Ah dear lord, and sweet Saint Charity :” again, in the downfall of RobertEar1 of Huntingdon, 1601: ‘«* Therefore, sweet master, for Saint Charity :” and likewise in one of Ophelia’s songs, in Hamlet: ‘‘ By Gis and by Saint Charity.” (See Shakspeare’s Plays, 1793, xv. 163). Mr. Stevens's assertion, that ‘‘ Saint Charity is a known saint among the Roman Catholics,” though disputed by a Catholic friend, can be supported by infallible authority. ‘* We read,” says Dr. Douglas, ‘‘in the Martyrology, on the first of August, Rome passio sanctarum virginum, Fidei. Spei, et Charitatis, que sub Hadriano principe martyrie coro nam adepta sunt.”—Criterion, p. 68. y Walf. A LYTELL GESTE OF ROBYN HODE. . 51 Full curteysly Robyn gam say, Syr, have this for your spendyng, We shall mete a nother day. Gramercy, than sayd our kynge 3. 120 But well the greteth Edwarde our kynge, And sent to the his seale, And byddeth the com to Notyngham, Both to mete and mele. ’Y He toke out the brode tarpe, * 125 And sone he let hym se ; Robyn coud his courteysy, * And set hym on his kne : “ T love no man in all the worlde So well as I do my kynge, 130 Welcome is my lordes.seale ; And, monke, for thy tydynge, Syr abbot, for thy tydynges, To day thou shalt dyne with me For the love of my kynge 13: Under my trystell tre.” Qo Gr Forth he lad our comly kynge, Full fayre by the honde, Many a dere there was slayne, And full fast dyghiande. > 140 Robyn toke a full grete horne, And loude he gan blowe, Seven score of wyght yonge men, ° Came redy on a rowe. All they kneeled on theyr kne, Full fayre before Robyn. 14 The kynge sayd hymselfe untyll, And swore by saynt Austyn, qr Here is a wonder semely syght, Me thynketh, by goddes pyne ;¢ 150 His men are more at his byddynge, Then my men be at myn. Full hastly was theyr dyner idyght, ° And therto gan they gone, They served our kynge with al theyr myght, 155 Both Robyn and Lytell Johan. Anone before our kynge was set The fatte venyson, The good whyte brede, the good red wyne, And therto the fyne ale browne. 166 Make good chere, sayd Robyn, Abbot, for charyte ; And for this ylke tydynge, Blyssed mote thou. be. Up they sterte all in hast, Theyr bowes were smartly bent, 170 Our kynge was never so sore agast, He wende 8 to have be shente," Two yerdes: there were up set, There to gan they gange ;3 By fifty pase, our kynge sayd, 175 The merkes were to longe, On every syde a rose garlonde, They shot under the lyne. Who so fayleth of therose garlonde, sayd Robyn, His takyll * he shall tyne, } 180 And yelde it to his mayster, Be it never so fyne, For no man wyll I spare, So drynke I ale or wyne. And bere a buffet on his hede, 185 I wys ryght all bare. And al] that fell in Robyns loie, He smote them wonder sare. Twyse Robyn shot aboute, 190 And ever he cleved the wande, And so dyde good Gylberte, With the whyte hand ; Lytell Johan and good Seathelocke, For nothyng wolde they spare, 195 When they fayled of the garlonde, Robyn smote them full sare : At the last shot that Robyn shot, For all his frendes fare, Yet he fayled. of the garlonde, 200 Thre fyngers and mare. Than bespake good Gylherte, And thus he gan say, Mayster, he sayd, your takyll is lost, Stand forth and take your pay. 265 If it be so, sayd Robyn, That may no better be ; Syr abbot, I delyver the myn arowe, I pray the, syr, serve thou me. It falleth not for myn order, sayd our kynge, 210 Robyn, by thy leve, For to smyte no good yeman, For doute I sholde hym greve. Smyte on boldely, sayd Robyn, I give the large leve. 215 Anone our kynge, with that worde, He folde up his sleve, Now shalte thou se what lyfe we lede, 165 And sych a buffet he gave Robyn, - Or thou hens wende, To grounde he yede full nere. Than thou may enfourme our kynge, I make myn avowe to god, sayd Robyn, 220) Whan ye togyder lende. Thou arte a stalworthe™ frere ; _ Various Rzapines.—V. 125, seale. C. V. 160. and Various Reapines.—V,. 186. A wys. W. Vor that shall browne. W. be his fyne. C. V.193. good whyte. I”. lilly white. C. yy Meat and meal, unstinted hospitality. va ; : %Qy. 8 Coud his courteysy, understood good manners. & Thought. : Hurt, wounded. b Made ready, disembowelled, or brittled, according to ; 1 Rods. ‘ } the old hunting phrase—Ep. ¢ Yeomen. Seenote f, p. 43. J Gan they gange, are they gone, did they go. [Qy. They @ Goddes pyne, Christ’s passion, or crucifixion. began to go 2—Ep.] k Arrows. € Dight, dressed, made ready. f Meet, encounter. 1 Lose, forfeit. m Stout, well-made, I) EK 2 1 52 There is pith in thyn arme, sayd Robyn, I trowe thou canst well shote. Thus our kynge and Robyn Hode Togeder than they met. Robyn behelde our comly kynge Wystly in the face, So dyde syr Richarde at the Le, And kneled downe in that place ; And so dyde all the wylde outlawes, Whan they se them knele. “My lorde the kynge of Englonde, Now [ knowe you well.” Mercy, then Robyn sayd to our kynge, Under your trystyll tre ®, Of thy goodnesse and thy grace For my men and me ! Yes, for god, sayd Robyn, And also god me save ; I aske mercy, my lorde the kynge, And for my men I crave. Yes, for god, than sayd our kynge Thy peticion I graunt the, With that thou leve the grene wode, And all thy company ; And come home, syr, to my courte, And there dwell with me. I make myn avowe to god, sayd Robyn, And ryght so shall it be ; I wyll come to your courte, Your servyse for to se, And brynge with me of my men Seven score and thre. But me lyke well your servyse, I come agayne full soone, And shote at the donne ° dere, As I am wonte to done. THE EIGHTH FYTTE. i) bo or bo qs or 240 Haste thou ony grene cloth? sayd our kynge, That thou wylte sell nowe to me. Ye, for god, sayd Robyn, Thyrty yerdes and thre. Robyn, sayd our kynge, Now pray I the, To sell me some of that cloth, To me and my meyné. Yes, for god, then sayd Robyn, Or elles I were a fole ; A nother day ye wyll me clothe, I trowe, ayenst ? the Yole 4. or Various READINGS.— V. 248. And therto sent Ime. FY. V.9. good. OCC. n See note », p. 46. © Dun. 4 Christmas. P Against. 8 Plucke buffet. Mr. Ritson. ROBIN HOOD. The kynge kest* of his cote then, A grene garment he dyde on, And every knyght had so, I wys, They clothed them full soone. Whan they were clothed in Lyncolne grene, They kest away theyr graye. Now we shall to Notyngham, All thus, our kynge gan say. Theyr bowes bente and forth they went, Shotynge all in fere, Towarde the towne of Notyngham, Outlawes as they were. Our kynge and Robyn rode togyder, For soth as I you say, And they shote plucke buffet §, As they went by the way ; And many a buffet our kynge wan, Of Robyn Hode that day ; And nothynge spared good Robyn Our kynge in his pay. So god me helpe, sayd our kynge, Thy game is nought to lere, I sholde not get a shote of the, Though I shote all this yere. All the people of Notyngham They stode and behelde, They sawe nothynge but mantels of grene, That covered all the felde ; Than every man to other gan say, I drede our kynge be slone‘ ; Come Robyn Hode to the towne, I wys, On lyve he leveth not one. Full hastly they began to fle, Both yemen and knaves, And olde wyves that myght evyll goo, They hypped on theyr staves. The kynge loughe full fast, And commanded theym agayne 5 When they se our comly kynge, I wys they were full fayne *. They ete and dranke, and made them glad, And sange with notes hye. Than bespake our comly kynge To syr Rycharde at the Lee : He gave hym there his londe agayne, A good man he bad hym be. Robyn thanked our comly kynge, And set hym on his kne. Various Reapines.—V.16. Another had full sone. V. 44. Lefte never one. W. V. 49. lughe. IV. r Cast. 15 39 ve en 40 59 55 60 W. The meaning of this term is queried by May it not signify a shooting-match in which the loser was bound to stand a buffet from his opponent? A somewhat similar forfeit isexacted in cer- tain boys’ games, as marbles and ball.—En. a a tt tne ae 9h Repo ~ e SA ANNi A R AC PNL AIRA E9 i 56 Slain. u Laughed. x Glad. Fe ee ert en een nm tere teeta A LYTELL GESTE OF ROBYN HODE. 53 Had Robyn dwelled in the kynges courte, But twelve monethes and thre, That he had spent an hondred pounde, And all his mennes fe Y. In every place where Robyn came, 65 Ever more he layde downe, Both for knyghtes and for squyres, To gete hym grete renowne, By than the yere was all agone, He had no man but twayne 70 Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke, Wyth him all for to gone. Robyn sawe yonge men shote, Full fayre upon a day, Alas ! than sayd good Robyn, My welthe is went away. 1 Cr Somtyme I was an archere good, A styffe and eke a stronge, I was commytted? the best archere, 89 That was in mery Englonde. Alas ! then sayd good Robyn, Alas and well a woo ! Yf I dwele lenger with the kynge, Sorowe wyll me sloo. 85 Forth than went Robyn Hode, Tyll he came to our kynge : “ My lorde the kynge of Englonde, Graunte me myn askynge. i made a chapell in Bernysdale, SO | That semely is to se, It is of Mary Magdalene, And thereto wolde I be ; I myght never in this seven nyght, No tyme to slepe ne wynke, 95 Nother all these seven dayes, Nother ete ne drynke. Me longeth sore to Bernysdale, I may not be therfro, Barefote and wolwarde* I have hyght » Thyder for to go.” 100 Yf it be so, than sayd our kynge, It may no better be ; Seven nyght I gyve the leve, No lengre, to dwell fro me. Gramercy, lorde, then sayd Robyn, And set hym on his kne ; He toxe his leve full courteysly, To grene wode then went he. Various Reapines.—V. 74. ferre. W. V. 75. com- mended for. C. y Fee, wages. 2 Accounted. ® Wearing a flannel shirt by way of penance. See Stevens’s Shakspeare, 1793, v. 360. b Vowed, promised. Whan he came to grene wode, In a mery mornynge, There he herde the notes small, Of byrdes mery syngynge. lt is ferre gone, sayd Robyn, That I was last here, Me lyste a lytell for to shote, At the donne dere. 115 Robyn slewe a full grete harte, His horne than gan he blow, That all the outlawes of that forést, That horne coud they knowe, 120 And gadred them togyder, In a lytell throwe ‘, Seven score of wight yonge men %, Came redy on a rowe 5 125 And fayre dyde of theyr hodes, And set them on theyr kne : Welcome, they sayd, our maystér, Under this grene wode tre. Robyn dwelled in grene wode, 130 Twenty yere and two, For all drede of Edwarde our kynge, Agayne wolde he not goo. Yet he was begyled, I wys, Through a wycked woman, The pryoresse of Kyrkesly, That nye was of his kynne, 135 For the love of a knyght, Syr Roger of Donkestér, That was her owne speciall, Ful! evyll mote they ‘ fare,’ 140 They toke togyder theyr counsell Robyn Hode for to sle ¢, And how they myght best do that dede, His banis for to be. Than bespake good Robyn, In place where as he stode, To morow I muste to Kyrkesley, Craftely£ to be leten blode, Syr Roger of Donkestere, 150 By the pryoresse he lay, And there they betrayed good Robyn Hode, Through theyr false playe. Cryst have mercy on his soule, That dyed on the rode ! 155 For he was a good out lawe, And dyde pore men moch god. Various REAvINGs.— J. 134. donkesley. W. V. 136. the. Old Copies. ¢ Space. d Yeomen. See note f, p. 43. e Slay. f Bane, destruction. § Skilfully, secundum artem, or ba | | 54 IT. ROBYN HODE [AND THE POTTER]. Tuiscurious, and hitherto unpublished, and even unheard of old piece, is given from a manuscript, among bishop Mores collections, in the public library of the university of Cambridge (He. 4. 35), The writing, which is evidently that of a vulgar and illiterate person, appears to be of the age of Henry the seventh, that is about theyyear 1500; but | the composition (which he has irremediably corrupted) is probably of an earlyer period, and much older, no doubt, than “The play of Robyn Hode,” which seems allusive to the same story. At the end of the original is “ Expleycyt Robyn Hode.” ~ewe In schomer }, when the leves spryng, The bloschems ‘ on every bowe *, So merey doyt! the berdys syng, Yn wodys ™ merey now. Herkens, god yemen, 5 Comley, cortessey ", and god, On of the best that yever bar bou 9, Hes name was Roben Hode. Roben Hood was the yemans name, That was boyt? corteys and fre ; For the loffe 4 of owr ladey, All wemen werschep * he.’ 10 Bot as the god yeman stod on a day, Among hes mery maney §, Me was war of a prowd potter, Cam dryfyng owyr the ‘ley.’ 15 Yonder comet a prod potter, seyde Roben, That long hayt t hantyd this wey, He was never so corteys a man On peney of pawage ® to pay. 20 Y met hem bot at Wentbreg, seyde Lytyll John, And therfor yeffell * mot’he ‘the, Seche thre strokes he me gafe, Yet they cleffe by my seydys. Y ley forty shillings, seyde Lytyll John, To pay het ¥ thes same day, Ther ys nat a man among hus? all A wed ® schall make hem ley. Her ys forty shillings, seyde Roben, Mor, and thow dar say, That y schall make that prowde potter, A wed to me schall he ley. ‘her thes money they leyde, They toke het a yeman to kepe ; Roben befor the potter‘he ‘breyde », ‘ And up to hem can lepe.’ 35 Various REeapines.—V. 12. ye. V. 21. syde. V. 27. hys. VY. 16. lefe. V. 28. leffe. V. 17. syde. h Summer, i Blossoms. k Bough. 1 Doth. do. m Woods. n Courteous. ° Bow. P Both. 4 Love. r Reverenced, respected. 8 Attendants, retinue; mesnie, Fr. t Hath. u Pawage, or pavage. A toll or duty payable for the liberty of passing over the soil or territory of another: paagium, a. x Kvil. y it. z Us. a Pawn, pledge, or deposit. b Started, stept hastily. ROBIN HOOD. Handys apon hes horse he leyde, And bad “hem?” stonde foll stell. The potter schorteley to hem seyde, Felow, what ys they well 2 40 All thes thre yer, and mor, potter, he seyde, Thow hast hantyd thes wey, Yet wer tow never so cortys a man One peney of pauage ° to pay. we Oi | What ys they name? seyde the potter ; For pauage thow aske of me. “ Roben Hod ys mey name, A wed schall thow leffe ¢:me.” Wed well y non leffe, seyde the potter Nor pavag ¢ well y non pay ; 5 Awey they honde fro:mey horse, Y well the tene f eyls, be mey fay. The potter to hes cart he went, He was not to:'seke, A god to-hande staffe therowt he hent 8, Befor Roben he“ lepe.’ 55 Roben howt with a swerd bent }, A bokeler en hes honde [therto] ; The potter to Roben he went, And seyde, Felow, let mey horse go. 60 Togeder then went thes two yemen, Het was a god seyt to se ; Therof low: Robyn hes men, Ther they stod onder a tre. Leytell John to hes felow he seyde, Yend * potter welle steffeley stonde. The potter, with a caward! stroke, Smot the bokeler owt of hes honde ; And ar™ Roben meyt get het agen, Hes bokeler at hes fette, The potter yn the neke hem toke, To the gronde sone he yede. ~q Oo That saw Roben hes men, As thay stode ender” a bow: Let us helpe owr master, seyed Lytell John, Yonder potter els well hem sclo °. ~—- 19 Thes yemen went with a breyde ?, To ‘ther’ master they cam. Leytell John to hes master seyde, Ho haet the wager won ? 80 Schall y haff yowr forty shillings, seyde Lytel Or ye, master, schall haffe myne ? [John, 4 Yeff they wer a hundred, seyde Roben, Y feythe, they ben all theyne. Various Reapines.— V. 36. A bad hem stond still. V. 38. the potter. V.56.leppyd. V.69.A. V.76. seyde hels. V. 77. went yemen, V. 78. thes. V. 82. lyti. ¢ See v. 20. d Leave. e See verse 20. f Grieve. & Took, caught. h Bent. Mr. Ritson makes a query here; the meaning appears to us to be, “Robin out with a sword, turned towards, or pointed at his adversary,” the word bent being used in the same sense as when we speak of a person hay- ing bent his eyes upon another.—ib. i Laughed. k Yon. ! Awkward, or backward. See Awkward, p. 63. m Ere, n Under. © Slay. P Start, quick or hasty step. 4 If, Het ys fol leytell cortesey, seyde the potter, 85 As y hbaffe harde weyse men saye, Yeff a por yeman com drywyng ower the wey, To let * hem of hes gorney *. Be mey trowet *, thow seys soyt ", seyde Roben, Thow seys god yemenrey * ; 90 | And thow dreyffe ¥ forthe yevery day, Thow schalt never be let* for me. Y well prey the, god potter, A felischepe well thow haffe? Geffe me they clothyng, and thow schalt hafe Y well go to Notynggam. [myne ; 95 Robyn went to Notynggam, Thes pottes for to sell ; The potter abode with Robens men, | | Ther he fered? not eylle >. 100 | Y grant therto, seyde the potter, Thow schalt feynde me a felow gode ; | Bot thow can sell mey pottes well, | Com ayen as thow yode. Nay, be mey trowt, seyde Roben, 105 And then y bescro ¢ mey hede, Yeffe y bryng eney pottes ayen, And eney weyffe well hem chepe ¢. Than spake Leytell John, And all hes felowhes heynd ¢, 110 Master, be well war of the screffe of Notynggam, For he ys leytell howr frende. Thorow the helpe of howr ladey, Felowhes, let me alone ; Heyt war howte ', seyde Roben, 115 To Notynggam well y gon. Tho Roben droffe on hes wey, So merey ower the londe. Heres mor and affter ys to saye, The best ys beheynde. 120 Se eee [THE SECOND FIT.] Wuen Roben cam to Notynggam, The soyt yef y seholde saye, He set op hes horse anon, And gaffe hem hotys and haye. Yn the medysh of the towne, 125 Ther he schowed hes war, Pottys ! pottys ! he gan crey foll sone, Haffe hansell for the mari, Various Reapines.— V. 90. yemercy. V. 101. grat. V. 104. yede. r Hinder, 8 Journey. t Troth. u Sooth, truth. x Thou seys god yemenrey, Thou speakest honestly, fairly, sensibly, like a good yeoman. Y Drive. z Hindered. a Fared, lived. b This stanza is evidently misplaced ; it should be either the last but one of the present, or the first of the next jit. © Beshrew. [A curse invoking sorrow, Beshrew thee, sorrow be to thee.—Ep, ] d Cheapen, buy. © Gentle, courteous. t Qy. &§ Oats. phy h Midst, middle. ' The vender of any wares is said to receive hansel of his ROBYN HODE [AND THE POTTER]. 55 Foll effen agenest the screffeys gate, Schowed he hes chaffar* ; 130 Weyffes and wedowes abowt hem drow, And chepyd! fast of hes war. Yet, Pottys, great chepe™! cryed Robyn, Y loffe yeffell® thes ° to stonde. And all that saw hem sell, 135 Seyde he had be no potter long. The pottys that wer werthe pens feyffe, He solde tham for pens thre : Preveley seyde man and weyffe, Ywnder potter schall never the ?. 140 Thos Roben solde foll fast, Tell he had pottys bot feyffe 4 ; Op he hem toke of his car, And sende hem to the screffeys ' weyffe. Tod Therof sche was foll fayne, 145 Gereamarsey §, sir, than seyde sche, When ye com to thes contre ayen, Y schall bey of ‘they’ pottys, so mot y the. Ye schall haffe of the best, seyde Roben, And swar be the treneyté. 150 Foll corteysley ‘she’ gan hem call, Com deyne with the screfe and me. Godamarsey *, seyde Roben, Yowr bedyng schall be doyn *. A mayden yn the pottys gan ber, 155 Roben and the sereffe weyffe folowed anon. Whan Roben ynto the hall cam, The screffe sone he met, The potter cowed of corteysey *, And sone the sereffe he gret ¥. 160 “ Loketh what thes potter hayt geffeY yow and Feyffe pottys smalle and grete !” [me, He ys fol welleom, seyd the screffe, Let os* was”, and § go’ to mete. As they sat at her methe*, 165 With a nobell cher, Two of the screffes men gan speke Off a gret wager, Various ReApines.—V. 135, say. V. 146. seyde sche s’ than. V. 148. the. V. 151. he. V.161, Loseth. V. 164, to. first customer ; but the meaning of the text, Hajfe hansel Jor the mar, is not understood, unless it can be thought to imply, Give me hansel, i. e., buy of my pots, k Chaffer, merchandize. 1 Cheapened, bought. m Very cheap: a trés-bon marché, Fr. n Evil. ° Thus. P Thrive. q Five. t Sheriff's. s Gramercy, thanks, or many thanks; grand merci, Fr. t See Gereamarsey, above. u Bedyng, asking. Your bedyng schall be doyn ; your invitation shall be complied with. x Could, knew. Cowed of corteysey, understood good manners. y Greeted, saluted, z Given, a Us. b Wash. “ And afterward the justices arise and wasse, and geffe thanks onto the new serjaunts for ther gode dyner.” (Origines juridiciales, p.116.) This ceremony, which, in former times, was constantly practised as well before as after meat, seems to have fallen into disuse on the introduction of forks, about the year 1620; as before that period our ancestors supplied the place of this neces- sary utensil with their fingers, © Meat. ei a ee a a 56 ROBIN HOOD. Was made the thother daye, Off a schotyng was god and feyne, 170 Off forty shillings, the soyt* to saye, Who scholde thes wager wen. Styll than sat thes prowde potter, Thos¢ than thowt he, As y am a trowf Cerstyn’ man, ] Thes schotyng well y se. “wT Or Whan they had fared of the best, With bred and ale and weyne, : To the ¢ bottys® they’ made them prest’, With bowes and boltysi foll feyne. 180 The screffes men schot foll fast, As archares that weren godde, Ther cam non ner ney the marke Bey halfe a god archares bowe. Stell then stod the prowde potter, Thos than seyde he, And y had a bow, be the rodek, On schot scholde yow se. Thow schall haffe a bow, seyde the sereffe, The best that thow well cheys! of thre ; Thow semyst a stalward™ and a stronge, Asay" schall thow be. 190 The sereffe comandyd a yeman that stod hem bey Affter bowhes to wende ; The best bow that the yeman browthe Roben set on a stryng. 195 “‘ Now schall y wet and thow be god,° And polle het op to they ner?.” So god me helpe, seyde the prowde potter, Thys ys bot rygzt weke gera. 200 To a quequer® Roben went, A god bolt owthe* he toke, So ney on to the marke he went, He fayled not a fothet, All they schot abowthe agen, 205 The screffes men and he, Off the marke he welde not fayle, He cleffed the preke" on thre. The screffes men thowt gret schame, The potter the mastry wan ; The screffe lowe and made god game, And seyde, Potter, thow art a man ; Thow art worthey to ber a bowe, Yn what plas that thow ¢ gang,’ 210 Various REeapincs.—V V. 169. 170. These two lines are transposed in the MS, V.179. pottys the. V. 180. bolt yt. V.191. senyst. V. 214. goe. Yn mey cart y haffe a bowe, 21 Forsoyt’, he seyde, and that a godde ; Yn mey cart ys the bow That ‘ I had of Robyn Hode.’ ue Knowest thow Robyn Hode? seyde the screffe, Potter, y prey the tell thou me. 220 “ A hundred torne y haffe schot with hem, Under hes tortyll* tre.” Y had lever nara hundred ponde, seyde the screffe, And swar be the trenité, [ Y had levernarYahundred ponde, he seyde, | 225 That the fals owtelawe stod be me. And ye well do afftyr mey red, seyde the potter, And boldeley go with me, And to morow, or we het? bred, Roben Hode wel we se. 236 Y well queyt* the, kod» the screffe, And swer be god of meythe*. Schetyng thay left, and hom they went, * Her scoperf was redey deythe# Upon the morow, when het" was day, 235 He boskydi hem forthe to reyde ; The potter hes carte forthe gan ray, And wolde not [be] leffe! beheynde. He toke leffe™ of the sereffys wyffe, And thankyd her of ali thyng : 210 “ Darn, for mey loffe, and ye well thys wer, Y geffe yow her a golde ryng.”. Gramarsey", seyde the weyffe, Sir, god eyldeo het the. The screffes hart was never so leythe?, The feyr forest to se. Lo) ta Oa And when he cam ynto the foreyst, Yonder? the leffes grene, Berdys ther sange on bowhes prest, Het was gret goy™ to sene’, 250 Her hett ys merey to be, seyde Roben, For a man that had hawt" to spende : Be mey horne ¢ we’ schall awet* Yeff Roben Hode be § ner hande.’ Roben set hes horne to hes mowthe, And blow a blast that was foll god, That herde hes men that ther stode, Fer downe yn the wodde. I her mey master, seyde Leytyll John : They ran as thay wer wode’. Za 260 Various READINGS, — V. 218. that Robyng gaffe me. V. 232. mey they. V. 251. se. V. 254. he. V. 258. her. V. 259. For. d Sooth, truth. g Christian. e Thus. f True. h Butts, marks for shooting at. i Ready, ready to go. 3 A bolt was an arrow of a particular kind, used for shooting at a mark or at birds. k Crucifix, 1 Choose. ™ Stout, well-made. ™ Essayed, tried, proved. © Wit (know) and (an, if) thou art good. P Ear. a Gear, stuff, goods, property, effects. r Quiver. 8 Out. t Foot. « A piece of wood in the centre of the target. v Forsooth, truly. x Wreathed, twined, twirled. twisted ; tortilié, Fr. y Nor than. z Eat. a Quit, recompense. t Quoth. ¢ Might. 4 Shooting. e Their. f Supper. & Dight, dressed. h It. i Busked, prepared, got ready. k Array, put in order. 1 Left. m Leave n Thanks, or many thanks; grand merci, Fr. P Light. 4 Under. r Joy. S See. u Aught, anything, something. * Wit, know. ° Yield. LN ¥Y Mad, 60 SS ROBIN HOOD AND THE BEGGAR. 57 Whan thay to thar master cam, Leytell John wold not spar : “« Master, how haffe yow far yn Notynggam ? “ Haffe yow solde yowr war ?” “ Ye, be mey trowthe, Leytyll John, 265 Loke thow take no car ; Y haffe browt the screffe of Notynggam, For all howr chaffar.” He ys foll welleom, seyde Lytyll John, Thes tydyng ys foll godde. ‘The seretfe had lever narz a hundred ponde He had never sene Roben Hode. 270 “ Had I west that beforen?, At Notynggam when we wer, ‘how scholde not com yn feyr forest Of all thes thowsande eyr?. “ That wot y well, seyde Roben, Y thanke god that y be her ; Therfor schall ye leffe yowr horse with hos‘, And all your hother ger. ‘Nhat fend 1 godys forbode‘, kod the screffe, So to lese mey godde®, “ Hether ye cam on horse soll hey, And hom schall ye go on fote ; And gret well they weyffe at home, 285 The woman ys foll godde?. Y schall her sende a wheyt palffrey, Het’ hambellet® as the weynde ; Nerv? for the loffe of yowr weyffe, Off mor sorow scholde yow seyng.” 290 Thes parted Robyn Hode and the screfie, To Notynggam he toke the waye ; Hes weyfte feyr welcomed hem hom, And to hem gan sche saye : Seyr, how haffe yow fared yn grene foreyst? 295 Haffe ye browt Roben hom ? “ Dam, the deyell* spede hem, bothe bodey and Y hafie hade a foll grete skorne. [bon, Of all the god! that y haffe lade to grene wod, He hayt take het fro me, 300 All bot this feyr palffrey, That he hayt sende to the.” With that sche toke op a lowde lawhyng, And swhar be hem that deyed on tre, Now haffe yow payed for all the pottys That Roben gaffe to me. 305 Various REApDINGS.—V. 263. How haffe. V. 266, I leyty. V. 274. He had west. V. 279. that ye be. V. 284. y. V. 288. The MS. repeats this line after the following : Het ambellet be mey sey. Z Nor, than. 4 Before. » Year, ¢ Us, 4 That fend I godys forbode. Mr. Ritson explains yend, as defend; and /orbode, as commandment; but queries the sense of the passage. Fend, is rightly interpreted as defend, used here in its legitimate sense as forbid, prohibit. iorbtode, is more properly a commandment not to do, a prohibition, than a simple commandment. The sentence in modern English would consequently run thus: That Jorvids God’s prohibition, t. e. it is contrary to God’s com- mandment. The Thongor string, a ep 58 ROBIN HOOD. He had three hats upon his head, Or that I fear thee any whit, Together sticked fast, For thy curn$ nips of sticks, He ear’d neither for wind nor wet, T know no use for them so meet 75 In lands where’er he past. As to be puding-pricks*. Good Robin cast him in the way, 25 Here I defy thee to do me ill, To see what he might be, For all thy boisterous fair’, : If any beggar had money, Thou’s get nothing from me but ill, He thought some part had he. Would’st thou seek evermair. 80 Tarry, tarry, good Robin says, | Good Robin bent his noble bow, Tarry, and speak with me. 30 | He was an angery man, He heard him as he heard him not, | And in it set a broad arrow ; And fast on his way ean hy. | Lo! e’er ’twas drawn a span, Tis be not so, says [good] Robin, The beggar, with his noble tree, 85 Nay, thou must tarry still. Reach’d him so round a rout, By my troth, said the bold beggar, 35 That his bow and his broad arrow “Of that I have no will. In flinders! flew about. It is far to my lodging house, Good Robin bound™ him to his brand, And it is growing late, But that prov’d likewise vain, 90 If they have supt e’er I come in The beggar lighted on his hand T will look wondrous blate°. 40 | With his pike-staff again : Now, by my truth, says good Robin, [1] wot he might not draw a sword I see well by thy fare, For forty days and mair*. If thou shares well to thy suppér, | Good Robin could net speak a word, Of mine thou dost not care, His heart was ne’er sO sair°. 95 Who wants my dinner all this day, 45 He could not fight, he could not flee, And wots not where to ly, He wist not what to do ; And would I to the tavern go, The beggar with his noble tree I want money to buy. Laid lusty slaps him to. 100 Sir, you must lend me some money He paid? good Robin back and side, Till we meet again. 50 And baist? him up and down, The beggar answer’d cankardly®, And with his pyke-staff laid on loud, I have no money to lend, Till he fell in a swoon. Thou art a young man as I, Stand up, man, the beggar said, 195 And seems to be as sweer® ; *Tis shame to go to rest ; If thou fast till thou get from me, 55 Stay till thou get thy money told, Thou shalt eat none this year. J think it were the best: Now, by my truth, says [good] Robin, And syne’ go to the tavern house, Since we are asembled so, And buy both wine and ale ; 110 If thou has but a small farthing, Hereat thy friends will crack® full crouset, I’ll have it e’er thou go. 60 Thou hast been at the dale. Come, lay down thy clouted cloak, Good Robin answer’d ne’er a word, And do no longer stand, But lay still as a stane™; And loose the strings of all thy pokes, His cheeks were pale as any clay, 115 Tl ripe them with my hand. And elosed were his een*. And now to thee I make a vow, 65 The beggar thought him dead but failY If ¢ thou’ make any din, And boldly bound’ his way.— I shall see a broad arrdw, 1 would ye had been at the dale, Can pierce a beggar’s skin. And gotten part of the play. 120 on beggar a ieee answer made, Various Reapine.—V. 116. closd. We might read: ar better let me be; 7 ' : e Think not that I will be afraid, mandation: spe pes aRmee \<-'lc Naa For thy nip‘ crooked tree ; & Qy. h Skewers that fasten the pudding-bag. Varrous READING.— V. 24, wher’e. i Fare, ado. k Staff. 1 Splinters. m Betook. Te Piaget ar tholiah, as Wwe abinuld nome Dn More. © Sore. P Beat. 4 Basted, belaboured. | d Peevishly, with dll toungs sie mee: r After, afterward, then. * Boast. ¢ Brisk. Stone. f Nip (in Scotch), paring, shred, little bit. q.d. Your x Eyes. yY But fail. Without fail, without doubt. paltry bit of a stick or bird-bolt.—Ep. | z Went, betook himself to. ROBIN HOOD AND THE BEGGAR. THE SECOND PART. Now three of Robin’s men, by chance, Came walking by the way, And found their master in a trance, On ground where that he lay. Up have they taken good Robin, Making a pitious bear®, Yet saw they no man there at whom They might the matter spear?. They looked him all round about, But wound on him saw * nane’®, Yet at his mouth came bocking® out The blood of a good vain. Cold water they have gotten syne, And east unto his face 3 Then he began to hitch his ear, And speak within short space. Tell us, dear master, said his men, How with you stands the case. Good Robin sigh’d e’er he began To tell of his disgrace. “ T have been watchman in this wood Near hand this twenty year, Yet I was never so hard bestead® As ye have found me here ; 25 A beggar with a clouted clock, Ot whom I fear’d no ill Hath with his pyke-staff cla’d’ my bavi, T fear ’twill never be well. See, where he goes o’er yon hill, With hat upon his head ; {f e’er ye lov’d your master well, Go now revenge this deed ; ap And bring him back again to me, If it lie in your mights, That I may see, before I die, Him punish’d in my sight : Q- OV And if you may not bring him back, Let him not go loose:on ; lor to us all it were great shame If he escape again.” A() “ One of us shall with you remain, Because you’re ill at ease, The other two shall bring him back, To use him as you please.” Now, by my truth, says good Robin, T true’ there’s enough said ; And he get seouth! to wield his tree, I fear you’ll both be paidi. 3 Moan, lamentation, outery. [This is a very singular use of this word, nor are we aware of any other instance in which it occurs in this sense as a substantive.—Ep. ] b Ask, inquire, ¢ None. 4 Pouring, flowing. € Beset, put to it. f Scratched. § Power. . Trow, believe. i Scope, space.—Eb., 3 Beaten, 10 “ Be not fear’d, our mastér, That we two can be dung* With any bluter! base beggar, That has nought but a rung™. His staff shall stand him in no stead, That you shall shortly see, But back again he shall be led, And fast bound shall he be, To see if ye will have him slain, Or hanged on a tree.” 99 “ But cast you sliely in his way, Before he be aware, And on his pyke-staff first hands lay, Ye’ll speed the better far.” Now leave we Robin with his man, Again to play the child, And learn himself to stand and gang By halds®, for all his eildo. Sp nr Now pass we to the bold beggar, That raked? o’er the hill, Who never mended his pace more, Then he had done no ill. 70 . ° . ° . . . 4And they have taken another way, Was nearer by miles three. They stoutly ran with all their might, Spared neither dubt ‘nor’ mire, They started at neither how’ nor height, No travel made them tire, tr 2 Till they before the beggar wan‘, And cast them in his way ; A little wood lay in a glen, And there they both did stay ; They stood up closely by a tree, In each side of the gate’, Untill the beggar came them nigh, That thought of no such late*: And as he was betwixt them past, BS They leapt upon him baithy ; The one his pyke-staff gripped? fast, They feared for its skaiuh?. The other he held in his sight A drawen durk> to his breasi, And said, False ‘ carel‘,’ quit thy staff, Or I shall be thy priest. k Beaten, overcome. 1 Bluter. Mr. Ritson queries the meaning of this word. It is possible that it is the same as béoated, and used in the sense of puffed up, arrogant, or saucy. how they had sped. They answered him, Full ill. That can not be, good Robin says, Ye have been at the miil. The mil! it is a meat rife* part, They may lick what they please, Most like ye have been at the art, Who would look at your * claiths.’ They hang’d their heads, they drooped down, A word they could not speak. 230 Robin said, Because I fell a sound4, I think ye’ll do the like. Tell on the matter, less or more, And tell me what and how Ye have done with the bold beggar I sent you for right now. And when they told him to an end, As i have said before, How that the beggar did them blind, What misters® presses more ? to uN 240 And how in the thick woods he fled, E’er they a stime could see ; And how they scarcely could win home, Their bones were baste‘ so sore ; Good Robin ery’d, Fy! out! for shame! We're sham’d for evermore. Altho good Robin would full fain Of his wrath revenged be, He smil'd to see his merry young men Had gotten a taste of the tree. Var. READ mINes.— VY. 206. thou. V.221. speed, V.228. cloaths. a Clear. x Each. Y Briskiy seampered off. 7 Cleanse. ®Sheepish or foolish. > Asked, inquired. © Meat-rife part, place abounding in victuals. «A sound,inaswoon. ¢ Need. bo Hh [oi 250 —— ee GUY OF GISBORNE. 61 AV, ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE, is reprinted from the “Reliques of ancient English poetry,” published by Dr. Percy, (Vol. I. p. 81.) who there gives it from his ‘« folio MS.” as “ never before printed, and ' *carrying’ marks of much greater antiquity than any of the common popular songs on this subject :” sentiments, : to which, if the authority be genuine, and the publication 905 | 210 | faithful, (both which, by the way, they who are acquainted with Dr. Percys book, will have sufficient reason to doubt,) the present editor has nothing to object. As for Guy of Gisborne, the only further memorial which has occured concerning him isin an old satyrical piece by William Dunbar, a celebrated Scotish poet, of the 15th century, on one “Schir Thomas Nory,” (MS. Maitland, p. 3. MSS. More, LI. 5. 10.) where he is named along with our | hero, Adam Bell, and other worthies, it is conjectured of a similar stamp, but whose merits have not, less fortunately, ' come to the knowledge of posterity. ee er RR « Was neuir WEILD RoBEINE ynder bewch, “ Nor zitt Roger of Clekkinslewch, «So bauld a bairne as he; *< Gy oF GYSBURNE, na Allane Bell, *« Na Simones sones of Quhynsell, «* Off thocht war neuir so slie.” Gisborne is a market town in the west riding of the county of York, on the borders of Lancashire. & In the fourth edition of the “‘ Reliques of ancient English poetry,” published in July 1795, it is, for the first time, acknowledged that ‘‘ Some liberties were, by the editor, taken with this ballad, which, in this edition, hath been brought nearer to the folio MS.” Of the new read- ings, which are numerous, the most material are here noticed. v. 1. “for shaws, the MS. has shales.” (p. cvii.) ee sayd Lyttle John. Master quoth John. y. 18. wind blows over the. wind that blewesorea. ¥:) o2- That leaned agaynst. His body leaned to a. ¥. 3. Stand still. Stand you still. y- 43. often. offt. v. 63. wends, fiyes. yew And. Good. v. 124. do. shocte. v- 156. upon the. ore the left. ¥. 158. but. beth. v- 166. stuck it. sticked itt. vy. 171. know. till. v. 178 did throw. did it throw. y. 181 Thy. thy. The. the. v. 204. None other rewarde Vil. Nor no other will L. v. 214, blive. belire. ¥. 216. can, did. How an editor, who is not ashamed to say that the inad- vertent transposition of two words (“Ye live upo’,” for “Live ye upo’”) in part of the line of a common Scottish song, which he himself had corrupted to “ Come ze frae,” has destroyed all confidence, can justify such wanton, arbitrary, and even injudicious alterations in the publica- tion of an ancient poem, is beyond the conception of a person not habituated to ‘‘ liberties” of this nature, nor destitute of all manner of regard to truth or probity. (This tirade against Bishop Percy would have been sup- pressed, and the alterations made silently, had it not been so curious a specimen of Ritson’s controversial spirit. It cannot at the present day detract from the merit of Dr. Percy, whose publication of the “Reliques” confessedly contributed much to the revival of a pure taste in poetry. In yenturing on so bold an experiment, he very judiciously adapted his work so as not too violently to shock popular prejudices ; without these precautions, which raised the ire of Ritson, a rigid antiquary, the Reliques would never have become popular, and the effect which they were calculated to produce upon literature would have been f Basted, belaboured. , lost—Ep.] | | | | | | | | | eee L0BIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE, ROBIN HOOD. Wuan shaws » beene sheene,! and shraddes/ full |, And leaves both large and longe, [fayre, Itt’s merrye walkyng in the fayre forrest To heare the smail birdes songe. The woodweele * sang, and wold not cease, 5 _ Sitting upon the spraye, Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood, In the greenwood where he lay. Now, by my faye, sayd jollye Robin, A sweaven! I had this night ; I dreamt me of tow wighty ™ yemen, That fast with me can fight. Methought they did me beate and binde, And tooke my bowe me froe ; Iff I be Robin alive in this lande, Ile be wroken® on them towe. Sweavens are swift, sayd Lyttle John, As the wind blowes over. the hill ; For iff itt be never so loude this night, To-morrow it may be still. “ Buske yee, bowne yee,° my merry men all, And John shall goe with mee, For le goe seeke yond wighty yeomén, In greenwood where they bee.” * OT Then they cast on theyr gownes of grene, 2: And tooke theyr bowes each one ; And they away to the greene forrést A shooting forth are gone ; Until they came to the merry greenwood, Where they had gladdest to bee, There they were ware of a wight yeoman, That leaned agaynst a tree. 30 A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, Of manye a man the bane ; And he was clad in his capull hyde? Topp and tayll and mayne. Stand still, master, quoth Little John, Under this tree so grene, And I will go to yond wight yeoman, To know what he doth meane. 40 « Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store, And that I farley4 finde: How often send I my men before, And tarry my selfe behinde ? h Little woods. i Bright, in full splendour. j “It should perhaps be swards: i. e. the surface of the ground: viz. “when the fields are in their beauty.”— Percy. Rather, shkrobbes (shrubs). The plural of sward was never used by any. writer whatever. k « The golden ouzle, a bird of the thrush kind.”—Percy. ! Dream. m Strong. n Wreaked, revenged. © Prepare ye, get.ready, P Horse-hide 9 Fairly, plainly. in the North for way.—P. | | 66 an A IR ences 2 remem eS, It is no cunning a. knave to ken, And a man but heare him:speake ; And it were not for bursting of my bowe, John, I thy head wold breake.” As often wordes they breeden bale’, So they parted Robin and John : And John is gone to Barnesdale ; The gates’ he knoweth eche one. 50 But when he came to Barnesdale, Great heavinesse there he hadd, For he found tow of his own fellowes, 55 Were slain both in a sladet. And Searlette he was flying a-foote Fast over stocke and stone, Vor the proud sheriffe with seven score men Fast after him is gone. 60 One shoote now I will shoote, quoth John, With Christ his might and mayne ; fle make yond sheriffe that wends soe fast, Te stopp he shall be fayne. Then John bent up his long bende-howe, 69 And fetteled" him to shoote: The bow was made of tender boughe, And fell downe at his foote. “ Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, That ever thou grew on a tree! For now this day thou art my bale’, My boote ¥ when thou shold bee.” 70 His shoote it was but loosely shott, Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, For itt mett one of the sheriffes men, 7 And William a Trent was slaine. qr It had bene better of William a Trent To have bene abed with sorrowe, Than to be that day in the greenwood slade * To meet with Little Johns arrowe. 80 But as it is said, when men be mett Fyve can doe more than three, The sheriffe hath taken Little John, And bound him fast to a tree. * Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, 85 And hanged hye on a hill.” But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John, If it be Christ his will. Lett us leave talking of Little John, And thinke of Robin Hood, How he is gone to the wight yeoman, Where under the leaves he stood. 90 Good morrowe, good fellowe,sayd Robin so fayre, Good morrowe, good fellow, quo’ he ¥: Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy 95 A good archere thou sholdst bee. [hande, r Mischief. 8 Ways, passes, paths, ridings. Gate isa common word t See note x, u Made him ready, prepared himself, set about. Y Woe, sorrow, misery. Ww Help. x A slip of green. swerde between plow-lands or woods.” IP’. Y Dr. Percy, by the marks he has bestowed on this line, seems to consider it as the yeomans reply: but it seems rather a repetition of Robins complimentary address. ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE. 3S T am wilfullez of my waye, quo’ the yeman, And of my morning tyde. Ne lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin ; Good fellow, Ile be thy guide. 100 1 seeke an outlawe, the straunger sayd, Men call him Robin Hood ; Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe Than fortye pound soe good. “ Now come with me, thou mighty yeman, And Robin thou soone shalt. see: But first let us some pastime find Under the greenwood tree. 105 First let us some masterye* make Among the woods so even, We may chance to meet with Robin Hood Here at some unsett steven >,” 110 They cutt them down two summer shroggs*, That grew both under a breere, And sett them threescore rood in twaine, To shoote the prickes y-fere4. Leade on, good fellowe, quoth Robin Hood, Leade on, I do bidd thee. Nay, by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd, My leader thou shalt bee. The first time Robin shot at the pricke, He mist but an inch it fro: The yeoman he was an archer good, But he cold never do soe. The second shoote had the wightye yeman, He shot within the garland : But. Robin he shott far better than hee, For he clave the good pricke-wande. A blessing upon thy heart, he sayd; Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode ; For an thy hart be as good as thy hand, Thou wert better than Robin Hoode. 139 Now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he, Under the leaves of lyne®, Nay, by my faith, quoth bold Robin, Till thou have told me thine. 135 I dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee, And Robin to take Ime sworne 3 And when I am called by my right name I am Guy of good Gisborne. 149 My dwelling is in this wood, sayes Robin, By thee I set right nought : Tam Robin Hood of Barnésdale, Whom thou so long hast sought. Z Doubtful. a «A trial of skill, high proof of skill.”—P. » At some unsett steven, at some unlooked-for time, by some odd accident, by mere chance. ¢ «Shrubs, thorns, briars.—@. Doug. Scroggis,”—P. a Together. ¢ The lyme or linden tree, EYS | 120 | has altered it to “ backward.” He that had neyther beene kythe nor kin‘, 145 Might have seen a full fayre fight, To see how together these yeomen went With blades both browne and bright. ‘To see how these yeomen together they fought Two howres of a summers day: 150 Yett neither Robin Hood nor sir Guy Them fettleds to flye away. Robin was reachles on a roote, And stumbled at that tyde ; And Guy was quick and nimble withall, And hitt him upon the syde. i qn Gr Ah, deere ladye, sayd Robin Hood tho, That art buti mother and may’, T think it was never mans destinye To dye before his day. Robin thought on our ladye deere, And soone leapt up againe, And strait he came with a[n] awkwarde * stroke And he sir Guy™ hath slayne. He took sir Guys head by the hayre,; 165 And stuck it upon his bowes end : ‘Thou hast beene a traytor all thy life, Which thing must have an end.” Robin pulled forth an Irish knife, And nicked sir Guy in the face, That he was never on woman born Cold know whose head it was. Sayes, Lye there, lye there, now sir Guyy, And with me be not wrothe ; If thou have had the worst strokes at my hand, Thou shalt have the better clothe. 176 Robin did off his gown. of greene, And on sir Guy did throwe, And he put on that capull hyde, That cladd him topp to toe. 180 “Thy bowe, thy arrowes, and little horne, Now with me I will beare ; For I will away to Barnésdale, To see how my men doe fare.” Robin Hood sett Guyes horne to his mouth, 185 And a loude blast in it. did blow: That beheard the sherifie of Nottingham, As he leaned under a lowe”. f Acquaintance nor kindred: s Attempted, set about. : h Careless, regardless, unobservant. iBoth. * Maid. 1 Awkwarde. So, according to Percy, reads his MS. He An awkwarde stroke seems to mean an unusual or out-of-the-way stroke, one which the receiver could not foresee, be aware of, or guard against; a sort of left or back-hand stroke. m The title of Sm, Dr. Percy says, was not formerly peculiar to knights ; it was given to pricsts, and sometimes to very inferior personages. If the text did not seem to be in favour of the latter part of this assertion, one might reasonably question its truth. Another instance, at least, it is believed, admitting this to be one, which is by no means certain, could not be produced. n «A Jittle hill.—=P. a 64 ROBIN HOOD. Hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe, I heare nowe tydings good, For yonder I heare sir Guyes horne blow, And he hath slaine Robin Hoode. Yonder I heare sir Guyes horne blowe, Itt blowes soe well in tyde, And yonder comes that wightye yeoman, Cladd in his capull hyde. 195 Come hyther, come hyther, thou good sir Guy, Aske what thou wilt of mee. O I will none of thy gold, sayd Robin, Nor I will none of thy fee: 200 But now I have slaine the master, he sayes, Let me goe strike the knave ; For this is all the meede?® I aske ; None other rewarde I’le have. Thou art a madman, sayd the sheriffe, 205 Thou sholdst have had a knightes fee : But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad, Well granted it shal bee. When Little John heard his master speake, Well knewe he it was his steven? : Now shall I be looset, quoth Little John, With Christ his might in heaven. 210 Fast Robin hee hyed him to Little John, He thought to loose him blive 4 ; The sheriffe and all his companye 215 Fast after him can drive. tand abacke, stand abacke, sayd Robin ; Why draw you mee so neere ! Tt was never the use in our countryé, Ones shrift™ another shold heere. But Robin pulled forth an Irish knife, And losed John hand and foote, And gave him sir Guyes bow into his hand, And bade it be his boote.® Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand, 225 His boltes t and arrowes eche one: When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow, He fettled " him to be gone. Towards his house in Nottingham towne, He fled full fast away ; And soe did all the companye: Not one behind wold stay. 230 But he cold neither runne soe fast, Nor away soe fast cold ryde, But Little John with an arrowe so broad, 235 He shott him into the ¢ backe’-syde. Various READING.—-V, 236. Sic. PC. quere the MS. © Reward. P Voice. 4 Belive, immediately. r Confession. 8 That is to say, Bade him put it to use, profit by it.-— Ep. t A bolt was an arrow of a particular kind used for shooting at a mark or at birds. Made ready. 190 | A LN eC PAS EA ire Se een a we a = 68 V. A TRUE TALE OF ROBIN HOOD: oR, A briefe touch of the life and death of that renowned outlaw Robert Earl of Huntingdon, vulgarly called Robin Hood, who lived and dyed in A.D. 1198,! being the 9th year of king Richard the first, commonly called Richard Coeur de Lyon. Carefully collected out of the truest writers of our English Chronicles: and published for the satisfaction of those who desire truth from falsehood. BY MARTIN PARKER. —_@e——_ This poem, given from an edition in black letter, printed for I. Clarke, W. Thackeray, and T. Passinger, 1686, remaining in the curious library left by Anthony a Wood, appears to have been first entered on the hall-book of the stationers company, the 29th of February, 1631. Martin Parker was a great writer of ballads, several of which, with his initials subjoined, are still extant in the Pepysian and other collections. (See “Ancient songs,” 1790, p. 239.) Dr. Perey mentions a little miscellany intitled, ‘*The garland of withered roses, by Martin Parker, 1656.” The editor has, likewise, seen “ The nightingale warbling forth her own disaster, or the rape of Philomela: newly written in English verse by Martin Parker, 1632 ;” and, on the 24th of November, 1640, Mr. Oulton enters, at Stationers hall, “a book called The true story of Guy earle of Warwicke, in prose, by Martyn Parker.” At the end of this poem the author adds “ The epitaph which the prioress of the monastry of Kirkslay in York- shire set over Robin Hood, which,” he says, “ (as is before mentioned) was to be read within these hundred years, though in old broken English, much to the same sence and meaning.” He gives it thus: “ Decembris quarto die, 1198. anno regni Richarai primi. « Robert earl of Huntington *« Lies under this little stone, “ No archer was like him so good ; « His wildness named him Robin Hood ; « Full thirteen years, and something more, « These northern parts he vexed sore ; « Such outlaws as he and his men «< May England never know again.” «Some other superstitious words,” he adds, ‘‘ were in, which I,” says he, “ thought fit to leave out.” Now, under this precise gentlemans favour, one would be glad to know what these same “superstitious words” were; there not being anything of the kind in Dr. Gales copy, which seems to be the original, and which is shorter by two lines than the above. Boru gentlemen, and yeomen bold, Or whatsoever you are, To have a stately story told Attention now prepare : It is a tale of Robin Hood, Which i to you will te” Which being rightly understood, I know will please you weil. ois This Robin (so much talked on) Was once a man of fame, Instiled earl of Huntington, Lord Robin Hood by name. 1 An absurd mistake, scarcely worth notice in this plaee, and which the reader will have it in his own power to correct. 19 ee Vor, 1. In courtship and magnificence His carriage won him praise, And greater favour with his prince Than any in our days. In bounteous liberality He too much did excell, And loved men of quality More than exceeding well. His great revenues all he sold For wine and costly chear ; He kept three hundred bow-men bold, He shooting lov’d so dear. No archer living in his time With him might well compare 5 He practis’d all his youthful prime That exercise most rare. At last, by his profuse expence, He had consum’d his wealth ; And, being outlaw’d by his prince, In woods he liv’d by stealth. The abbot of Saint Maries rich, To whom he mony ought, His haired to the earl was such That he his downfal wrought. So being outlaw’d (as ’tis told) He with a crew went forth Of ixsty cutters" stout and bold, And robbed in the North. Among the rest one Little John, A yeoman bold and free, Who could (if it stood him upon) With ease encounter three. One hundred men in all he got, With whom (the story says) Three hundred common men durst not Hiold combat any waies. They Yorkshire woods frequented much, And Lancashire also, Wherein their practises were such That they wrought muckle* woe. None rich durst travel to and fro, Though ne’r so strongly arm’d, But by these thieves (so strong in show) They still were rob’d and harm’d. His chiefest spight to th’ clergy was, That liv’d in monstrous pride : No one of them he would let pass Along the highway side, But first they must to dinner go, And afterwards to shrift : Full many a one he served so, Thus while he liv’d by theft. 40 45 Qn Cz u Shorking fellows [called cutters or cut-purses, from x Much, great. their practice of stealing purses by cutting them away from the girdle, in which it was the custom tocarry them. —Ep.] A TRUE TALE OF ROBIN HOOD. No monks nor fryers he would let go, Without paying their fees : If they thought much to be used so, Their stones he made them lese. For such as they the country fill’d With bastards in those days: Which to prevent, these sparks did geld All that came in their ways. But Robin Hood so gentle was, And bore so brave a mind, If any in distress did pass, To them he was so kind, That he would give and lend to them, + To help them in their need ; This made all poor men pray for him, And wish he well might speed, The widow and the fatherless He would send means unto 5 And those whom famine did oppress Found him a friendly foe. Nor would he do a woman wrong, But see her safe convey’d: He would protect with power strong All those who erav’d his aid. The abbot of Saint Maries then, Who him undid before, Was riding with two hundred men, And gold and silver store : But Robin Hood upon him set, With his couragious sparks, And all the coyn perforce did get, Which was twelve thousand marks. He bound the abbot to a tree, And would not let him pass, Before that to his men and he His lordship had said mass: Which being done, upon his horse He set him fast astride, And with his face towards his arse He foreed him to ride. His men were forced to be his guide, For he rode backward home : The abbot, being thus villify’d, Did sorely chafe and fume. Thus Robin Hood did vindicate dis former wrongs receiv’d : For ’twas this covetous prelate That him of land bereav’d. The abbot he rode to the king, With all the haste he could ; And to his grace he every thing Exactly did unfold : And said that if no course were ta’n, By torce or stratagem, To take this rebel and his train, No man should pass for them. ad (ey) i) 2) wrt 90 wad eee aa I RT a ER I IR SR A TS A Se oe 66 ROBIN HOOD. The king protested by and by Unto the abbot then, That Robin Hood with speed should dye, With all his merry men. But e’re the king did any send, He did another feat, Which did his grace much more offend, The fact indeed was great: For in a short time after that The kings receivers went Towards London with the coyn they got, For’s highness northern rent : Bold Robin Hood and Little John, With the rest of their train, Not dreading law, set them upon, And did their gold obtain. The king much moved at the same, And the abbots talk also, In this his anger did proclaim, And sent word to and fro, That whosoever alive or dead Could bring bold Robin Hood, : Should have one thousand marks well paid In gold and silver good. This promise of the king did make Full many yeomen bold Attempt stout Robin Hood to take With all the force they could. But still when any came to him Within the gay green wood, He entertainment gave to them With venison fat and good ; And shew’d to them such martial sport With his long bow and arrow, That they of him did give report, How that it was great sorow That such a worthy man as he Should thus be put to shift, Being a late lord of high degree, Of living quite bereft. The king to take him more and more Sent men of mickley might ; But he and his still beat them sore, And conquered them in fight : Or else with love and courtesie, To him he won their hearts. Thus still he liv’d by robbery Throughout the northern parts ; And all the country stood in dread Of Robin Hood and’s men : For stouter lads ne’r liv’d by bread In those days, nor since then, he abbot, which before i nam’d, Sought all the means he could To have by force this rebel ta’n, And his adherents bold, | 7 Muck: 130 140 145 — cn or 160 170 Therefore he arm’d five hundred men, With furniture compleat ; But the outlaws slew half of them, And made the rest retreat. 180 The long bow and the arrow keen They were so us’d unto That still he kept the forrest green In spight 0’ th’ proudest foe. Twelve of the abbots men he took, 185 Who came to have him ta’n, When all the rest the field forsook, These he did entertain With banqueting and merriment, And, having us’d them well, He to their lord them safely sent, And will’d them him to tell, 180 That if he would be pleas’d at last To beg of our good king, That he might pardon what was past, And him to favour bring, He would surrender back again The mony which before Was taken by him ‘ and his’ men From him and many more. 200 Poor men might safely pass by him, And some that way would chuse, For well they knew that to help them He evermore did use. But where he knew a miser rich 205 That did the poor oppress, To feel his coyn his hands did itch, He’d have it more or less: And sometimes, when the high-way fail’d, Then he his courage rouzes, He and his men have oft assaild Such rich men in their houses : 210 So that, through dread of Robin then, And his adventurous crew, The misers kept great store of men, Which else maintain’d but few. 215 King Richard, of that name the first, Sirnamed Coeur de Lyon, Went to defeat the Pagans curst, Who kept the coasts of Sion. 229 The bishop of Ely chancellor, Was left a vice-roy here, Who, like a potent emperor, Did proud domineer. Our chronicles of him report, 226 That commonly he rode With a thousand horse from eourt to court, Where he would make abode. He, riding down towards the north, With his aforesaid train, i) vo = Robin and his men did issue forth, Them all to entertain ; And with the gallant gray-goose wing They shew’d to them such play That made their horses kick and fling, And down their riders lay. Full glad and fain the bishop was, For all his thousand men, To seek what means he could to pass From out of Robins ken. Two hundred of his men were kill'd, And fourseore horses good, Thirty, who did as captives yield, Were carried to the green wood ; Which afterwards were ransomed, For twenty marks a man: The rest set spurs.to horse and fled To th’ town of Warrington. The bishop, sore inraged, then Did, in king Richards name, Muster up a power of northern men, These outlaws bold to tame. But Robin with his courtesie So won the meaner sort, That they were loath on him to try What rigour did import. So that bold Robin and his train Did live unhurt of them, Until king Richard came again From fair Jerusalem : And then the talk of Robin Hood His royal ears did fill ; bo pi ee] 249 bo est > Le) Sr) bi | 260 His grace admir’d that i’ th’ green wood 5 He was continued still. So that the country far and near Did give him great applause ; For none of them need stand in fear, But such as broke the laws. He wished well unto the king, And prayed still for his health, And never practis’d any thing Against the common-wealth. Only, because he was undone By th’ cruel clergy then, All means that he could think upon To vex such kind of men, He enterpriz’d with hateful spleen ; For which he was to blame, For fault of some to wreak his teen On all that by him came. With wealth that he by roguery ga% Eight alms-houses he built, Thinking thereby to purge the blot Of blood which he had spilt. Such was their blind devotion then, Depending on their works ; 270 Lae) ST Or bo ie2) =) Which if ’twere true, we Christian men: Inferiour were to Turks. A TRUE TALE OF ROBIN HOOD. a ac a But, to speak true of Robin Hood, And wrong him not a jot, He never would shed any mans blood That him invaded not. Nor would he injure husbandmen, That toil at cart and plough ; For well he knew wer’t not for them To live no man knew how. The king in person, with some lords, To Nottingham did ride, To try what strength and skill affords To crush this outlaws pride. And, as he once before had done, He did again proclaim, That whosoever would take upon To bring to Nottingham, Or any place within the land, Rebellious Robin Hood, Should be preferr’d in place to stand With those of noble blood. When Robin Hood heard of the same, Within a little space, Into the town of Nottingham A letter to his grace He shot upon an arrow head, One evening cunningly ; Which was brought to the king, and read Before his majesty. The tenour of this letter was That Robin would submit, And be true liegeman to his grace In any thing that’s fit, So that his highness would forgive Him and his merry men all ; If not, he must 7 th’ green wood live, And take what chance did fall. The king would feign have pardoned him, But that some lords did say, This president will much condemn Your grace another day. While that the king and lords did stay Debating on this thing, Some of these outlaws fled away Unto the Scottish king. For they suppos’d, if he were ta’n Or to the king did yield, Sy th’ commons all the rest of ’s train Full quickly would be quell’d. Of more than full an hundred men, But forty tarried still, Who were resolv’d to stick to him Let Fortune work her will. if none had fled, all for his sake Had got their pardon free ; The king to favour meant to take His merry men and he. 299 AE rs) 526 034 ear WI G3 ree = 6B But e’re the pardon to him came This famous archer dy’d : His death and manner of the same I’le presently describe. | For, being vext to think upon | His followers revolt, In melancholy passion He did recount his fault. Perfidious traytors ! said he then, In all your dangers past Have i you guarded as my men, To leave me thus at last ! This sad perplexity did cause A feaver, as some say, Which him unto confusion draws, | Though by a stranger way. This deadly danger to prevent, | He hie’d him with all speed Unto a nunnery, with intent For his healths- sake to bleed. A faithless fryer did pretend In love to let him blood, But he by falshood wrought the end Of famous Robin Hood. The fryer, as some say, did this To vindicate the wrong Which to the clergy he and his Had done by power strong. Thus dyed he by treachery, That could not die by force : Had he liv’d longer, certainly | King Richard, in remorse, Had unto favour him receiv’d, * His’ brave men elevated : *Tis pitty he was of life bereav’d By one which he so hated. A treacherous leach this fryer was, To let him bleed to death ; And Robin was, methinks, an ass To trust him with his breath. His corps the prioress of the place, The next day that he dy’d, Caused to be buried, in mean case, Close by the high-way side. To be fixt on the ground, An epitaph was set thereon, Wherein his name was found ; The date o’ th’ year and day also, She made to be set there : That all, who by the way did go, Might see it plain appear, That such a man as Robin Hood Was buried in that place ; And how he lived in | | | And over him she eaused a stone | And robbed for a space. | the green wood = 345 350 &3 oe qr 360 695 40D | | | | BS | ete a afl tip nie er eres S ee toe ROBIN HOOD. It seems that though the clergy he Had put to mickle woe, He should not quite forgotten be, Although he was their foe. his woman, though she did him hate, Yet loved his memory ; And thought it wondrous pitty that His fame should with him dye. This epitaph, as records tell, Within this hundred years, By many was discerned well, But time all things out-wears. His followers, when he was dead, Were some repriev’d to grace ; The rest to foreign countries fled, And left their native place. Although his funeral was but mean, This: woman had in mind, Least his fame should be buried clean From those that came behind. For certainly, before nor since, No man e’re understood, Under the reign of any prince, Of one like Robin Hood. Full thirteen years, and something more, These outlaws lived thus ; Feared of the rich, loved of ‘the poor. A thing most marvellous. A thing impossible to us This story seems to be ; None dares be now so venturous, But times are chang’d we see. We that live in these later days Of civil government, If need be, have an hundred ways Such outlaws to prevent. In those days men more barbarous were, And lived less in awe 3 Now (god be thanked) people fear More to offend the law. No waring guns were then in use, They dreamt of no such thing; Our Englishmen in fight did use The gallant gray-goose wing : In which activity these men, Through practise, were so good, That in those days none equal’d them, Especially Robin. Hood. So that, it seems, keeping in caves, In woods and forests thick, They’d beat a multitude with staves, Their arrows did so prick : And none durst neer unto them come, Unless in courtesie ; All such he bravely would send home With mirth and jollity : A NLS. Gut 41€ 415 $26 430 450 453 Which courtesie won him such love, As i before have told, “Y'was the chief cause that he did prove More prosperous than he could. 460 Let us be thankful for these times Of plenty, truth and peace ; And leave out great and horrid crimes, Least they cause this to cease. I know there’s many feigned tales Of Robin Hood and ’s crew ; But chronicles, which seldome fails, Reports this to be true. Vakious READING.—YV. ROBIN HOODS BIRTH, BREEDING, VALOUR, &e. Let pone then think this is a lye, For, if ’twere put to th’ worst, They may the truth of all desery I’ th’ reign of Richard the first. 470 If any reader please to try, As i direction show, The truth of this brave history, He’l find it true I know. And i shall think my labour well Bestow’d to purpose good, When’t shall be said that i did tell True tales of Robin Hood. 460. 7. e, than he could otherwise have been. PART II. 1s ROBIN HOODS BIRTH, BREEDING, VALOUR, AND MARRIAGE}, Fnom a dlack letter copy in the large and valuable col- tection of 91d ballads late belonging to Thomas Pearson, esq. and now in the possession of the duke of Roxburgh. This is the sollection mentioned in the Harleian catalogue, and would gem to be the greater part of that originally made by olc Bagford (see Hearnes appendix to Hemingi Chartulariun, p. 662), another volume or two having come with the restof his typographical collections to the British Museum. The3 vols. which went to Osborne were probably bought of hin by mr. West, at whose sale they were pur- 1 In reading this song, we are admonished by the editor of the collectio of old ballads, printed in 1723, (who thinks it “the most bautiful, and one of the oldest extant, written on that subjed,”) to observe one thing, and that is, between some oithe stanzas we must suppose aconsiderable time to pass. ‘Clorinda,” he says, “might be[thought] a very forward grl, if between Robin Hood’s question and her answer we lid not suppose two or three hours to have been spent in courtship : and between Robin Hood’s being entertained at Gimwell Hall, and his having nincty-three bowmen in Shervood, we must allow some years.” With respect to its antiquity, Dr. Percy in the new edi- tion of his “ Ridiques of ancient English poetry,” (vol. 1. p. X¢vii) expreses a very different opinion ; since, accord- ing to him, it “eems of much later date than most of the others... . anican scarce be older than the reign of K, Charles I., ror,” ays he, “K. JamesI. had no ésswe after his accession to the throne of England;” an observation, which, if anythiig to the purpose, is certainly NoT TRUE. «- LT SE eNews en Cates Nay tee en PE SE nr treme eee Ra Ne iat Ie ki estas he Se a NS a ee, Il. ROBIN HOODS PROGRESS TO NOTTINGHAM. .e_ From an old black letter copy in the collection of Anthony & Wood. It is there said to go “ To the tune of Bold Robin Hood ;* and the chorus is repeated in every stanza. To the above title are added the following doggerel dines : Where hee met with fifteen forresters all on a row, And hee desired of them some news for to know, But with crosse grain’d words they did him thwart, Yor which at last hee made them smart. ws Rosin Hoop he was and a tall young man, Derry derry down, And fifteen winters old ; And Robin Hood he was a proper young men, Of courage stout and bold. 5 ITey down, derry derry down. Robin Hood hee would and to fair Nottingham, With the general for to dine ; ‘there was hee aware of fifteen forresters, And a drinking bear, ale, and wine. 10 What news? What news? said bold Robin Hood, What news fain wouldest thou know ? fur king hath provided a shooting match, And I’m ready with my bow. We hold it in scorn, said the forresters, 15 That ever a boy so young Should bear a bow before our king, That’s not able to draw one string. Ile hold you twenty marks, said bold Robin Hood, By the leave of our lady, 20 That Ve hit a mark a hundred rod, And I’le cause a hart to dye. We’lhold youtwenty mark, then said the forrestérs, By the leave of our lady, Thou hit’st not the marke a hundred rod, 25 Nor causest a hart to dye. Robin Hood he bent up a noble bow, And a broad arrow he let flye, He hit the mark a hundred rod, And he caused a hart to dye. 30) Some say hee brake ribs one or two, And some say hee brake three ; The arrow within the hart would not abide, But it glanced in two or three. The hart did skip, and the hart did leap, 35 And the hart lay on the ground ; The wager is mine, said bold Robin Hood, If’t were for a thousand pound. The wager’s none of thine, then said the forrestérs, Although thou beest in haste ; AQ) Take up thy bow, and get thee hence, Lest wee thy sides do baste. * h Poles, perches. A rod, pole, or perch, is usually six- tecn feet and a half, but in Sherwood forest (according to @'ount) it is twenty-one feet, the foot there being eighteen inches. em Robin Hood hee took up his noble bow, And his broad arrows all amain ; 4g And Robin Hood he laught, and begun [for] to As hee went over the plain. [smile, Then Robin hee bent his noble bow, And his broad arrows he let flye, Till fourteen of these fifteen forrestérs Upon the ground did lye. 50 He that did this quarrel first begin Went tripping over the plain ; But Robin Hood he bent his noble bow, And hee fetcht him back again. | You said I was no archer, said Robin Hood, 55 But say so now again : With that he sent another arréw, That split his head in twain. / You have found mee an archer, saith Rébin Hood, Which will make your wives for tdwring, 60 And wish that you had never spoke the word, That I could not draw one string. ( The people that lived in fair Nottinghim Came running out amain, Supposing to have taken bold Robin Hoo 65. With the forresters that were slain. Some lost legs, and some lost arms, And some did lose their blood ; But Robin hee took up his noble bow, And is gone to the merry green w As many there did know ; They dig’d them graves in their chure And they buried them all a row. Iii. THE JOLLY PINDER OF W4KEFIELD, WITH ROBIN HOOD, SCARLET, ANI JOHN, From an old black letter copy, in A. 4 Yoods collection, compared with two other copies in the pritish Museum, one in black letter. It should be sung {To an excellent tune,” which has not been recovered. Several lines of this ballad are quoteljin the two old plays of the “ Downfall” and “Death of Robert earle of Huntington,” 1601, 4to. b. 1. but acted mmy years before, It is also alluded to in Shakspeares MerryWives of Winé- sor, act I. scene 1, and again, in his S¢ond part of K. Hen. IV., act. V. scene 3. ener In Wakefield there lives a jolly pitdér 4, In Wakefield all on a green, In Wakefield all on a green ; There is neither knight nor squire Nor baron that is so bald, Nor baron that is so bold, Dare make a trespass to the towil of Wakefield, But his pledge goes to the pijfold, &e. said the pindér, i The pinder is the pounder or pountkeeper ; the petty officer of a manor, whose duty it is to inpound all strange cattle straying upon the common, &e. tome All this be heard three witty young men, "Twas Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John ; With that they espy’d the jolly pindér, As he sat under a thorn. 10 Now turn again, turn again, said the pindcr, For a wrong way you have gone; For you have forsaken the kings highway, And made a path over the corn. 18 © that were a shame, said jolly Robin, We being three, and thou but one, The pinder leapt back then thirty good foot, *T was thirty good foot and one. | He leaned his back fast unto a thorn, And his foot against a stone, | And there he fought a long summers day, A summers day so long, Till that their swords on their broad buckléers, 25 / Were broke fast into their hands. Hold thy hand, hold thy hand, said bold Robin And my merry ren every one ; [ Hood, For this is one of the best pindérs, That ever I tryed with sword. 30 ' And wilt thou forsake thy pinders craft, And live in the green-wood with me ? « At Michaelmas next my cov’nant comes out, When every man gathers his fee ; Then I’le take my blew blade all in my hand, 35 And plod to the green-wood with thee.” Hast thou either meat or drink, said Robin Hood, For my merry men and me? have both bread and beef, said the pindér, And good ale of the best. _ And that is meat good enough, said Robin Hood, For such unbidden ‘ guests.’ “ © wilt thou forsake the pinder his craft, And go to the green-wood with me ? Thou shalt have a livery twice in the year, The one green, the other brown.” “ Tf Michaelmas day was come and gone, And my master had paid me my fee, ‘hen would I set as little by him, As my master doth by me.” 50 IV. ROBIN HOOD AND THE BISHOP. ‘sShewing how Robin Hood went to an old womans house and changed cloaths with her to scape from the bishop ; and how he robbed the bishop of all his gold, and made him sing a mass. To the tune of, Robin Hood and the Stranger.” Fyrom an old black letter copy in the col- lection of Anthony a Wood. Come, gentlemen all, and listen awhile, fey down, down, an a down, And a story ile to you unfold ; He tell you how Robin Hood served the bishop, When he robbed him of his gold. 20 | LOBIN li0OD AND THE BISHOP. ) oF As it fell out on a sun-shining day, When Pheebus was in ‘his’ prime, Then Robin Hood, that archer good, In mirth would spend some time. And as he walk’d the forrest along, 10 Some pastime for to spy, There was he aware of a proud bishop, And all his company. O what shall I do, said Robin Hood then, If the bishop he doth take me? No mercy he’! show unto me, I know, But hanged I shall be. Then Robin was stout, and turned him about, And a little house there he did spy ; And to an old wife, for to save his life, He loud began for to cry. 20 Why, who art thou ? said the old woman, Come tell to me for good. “JT am an out-law, as many do know, My name it is Robin Hood ; ) Cyr And yonder’s the bishop and all his men, And if that I taken be, Then day and night he’] work my spight, And hanged I shall be.” If thou be Robin Hood, said the old wiie, As thou dost’ seem to be, Vle for thee provide, and thee I will hide, From the bishop and his company. For I remember, ‘ one’ Saturday night, Thou brought me both shoos and hose 3 Therefore I’le provide thy person to hide, And keep thee from thy foes. “Then give me soon thy coat of gray, And take thou my mantle of green ; Thy spindle and twine unto me resizn, And take thou my arrows so keen.” 40 And when Robin Hood was so araid, He went straight to his company, With his spindle and twine, he oft lookt beliind For the bishop and his company. 45 O who is yonder, quoth little John, That now comes over the lee *? An arrow I will at her let flie, So like an old witch looks she. O hold thy hand, hold thy hand, said Robin Hood And shoot not thy arrows so keen; [then, 50 I am Robin Hood, thy master good, And quickly it shall be seen. The bishop he came to the old womans house, And called, with furious mood, Come let me soon see, and bring unto me That traitor Robin Hood. 55 The old woman he set on a milk-white steed, Himselfe on a dapple gray ; And for joy he had got Robin Hood, He went laughing all the way. 60 of Taygen » Plain, But as they were riding the forrest along, The bishop he ‘ chane’d’ for to see A hundred brave bowmen bold, Stand under the green-wood tree. 65 O who is yonder, the bishop then said, That’s ranging within yonder wood ? Marry, says the old woman, I think it to be A man call’d Robin Hood. Why, who art thou, the bishop he said, 70 Which I have here with me ? « Why, [am an old woman, thou cuckoldly bishop, Lift up my‘leg and see.” Then woe is me, the bishop he said, That ever I saw this day ! 73 He turn’d him about, but Robin stout Call’d him, and bid him stay. Then Robin took hold of the bishop’s horse, And ty’d him fast to a tree ; Then Little John smil’d his master upon, 80 For joy of that company. Robin Hood took his mantle from’s back, And spread it upon the ground, And out of the bishops portmantle he Soon told five hundred pound. o~ cs Ge Now let him go, said Robin Hood, Said little John, That may not be ; lor I vow and protest he shall-sing us a mass, Before that he goe from me. Then Robin Hood took the bishop by the hand, 90 And bound him fast to a tree, And made him sing a mass, God wot, To him and his yeomandree!. And then they brought him through the wood, And set him on his dapple gray, 95 And gave him the tail within his hand, Avd kade him for Robin Hood pray. v. ROBIN HOOD AND THE BUTCHER. From an old black letter copy in the collection of Anthony a Wood. The tune is, ** Robin Hood and the Begger.” AA {JomeE, all you brave gallants, listen awhile, With hey down, down, an a down, That are ‘this bower’ within ; For of Robin Hood, that archer good, A song I intend for to sing. qr Upon a time it chanced so, Bold Robin in [the] forrest did ’spy A jolly butchér, with a benny fine mare, With his fiesh to the market did hye. Various Rrapine.—V. 3. in the bowers. + Yeomanry, followers. 74 ROBIN HOOD. Good morrow, good fellow, said jolly Robin, = 10 What food hast [thou], tell unto me ? Thy trade to me tell, and where thou dost dweil, For I like well thy company. The butcher he answer’d jolly Robin, No matter where I dwell ; 15 For a butcher I am, and to Nottmgham I am going, my flesh to sell. What is [the] price of thy flesh ? said jolly Robin, Come tell it soon unto me ; And the price of thy mare, be she never so dear, For a butcher fain would I be. 2] The price of my flesh, the butcher repli’d, I soon will tell unto thee ; With my bonny mare, and they are not too dear, Four mark thou must give unto me. 25 Four mark I will give thee, saith jolly Robin, Four mark it shall be thy fee ; The mony come count, and let me mount, For a butcher I fain would be. Now Robin he is to Notingham gone, 39 His butchers trade to begin ; With good intent to the sheriff he went, And there he took up his inn. When other butchers they opened their meat, Bold Robin he then begun ; oe) But. how for to sell he knew not well, For a butcher he was but young. When other butchers no meat could sell Robin got both gold and fee ; For he sold more meat for one peny 49 Then others could do for three. But when he sold his meat so fast, No butcher by him could thrive ; For he sold more meat for one peny Than others could do for five. 45 Which made the butchers of Notingham To study as they did stand, Saying, Surely he ‘is’ some prodigal, That hath sold his fathers land. ey “bid The butchers stepped to jolly Robin, Acquainted with him for to be ; Come, brother, one said, we be all of one trade, Come, will you go dine with me? Accurst of his heart, said jolly Robin, That a butcher doth deny ; I will go with you, my brethren true, As fast as I can hie. Wi But when to the sheriffs house they came, To dinner they hied apace, And Robin Hood he the man must be 69 Before them all to say grace. Pray God bless us all, said jolly Robin, And our meat within this place ; A cup of sack ™ so good will nourish our blood : And so I do end my grace. 65 m A kind of Spanish wine, perhaps sherry, formerly much drunk in this country: very different, at least, from the sweet or Canary wine now s0 called. 75 SS i ee eee Come, ‘ brothers,’ be merry, said jolly Robin, 70 Let us drink, and never give ore ; For the shot I will pay, ere I go my way, If it cost me five pounds and more. This is a mad blade, the butchers then said. Saies the sheriff, He is some prodigal, That some land has sold for silver and gold, And now he doth mean to spend all. “1 Or Hast thou any horn beasts, the sheriff repli’d Good fellow, to sell unto me ? “ Yes, that I have, good master sheriff, I have hundreds two or three, 80 And a hundred aker of good free land, If you please it to see: And Ile make you as good assurance of it, As ever my father made me.” 85 ‘the sheriff he saddled his good palfréey, And, with three hundred pound in gold, Away he went with bold Robin Hood, His horned beasts to behold. f way then the sheriff and Robin Gid ride, 90 ‘fo the forrest of merry Sherwood, Then the sheriff did say, God bless us this day, From a man they call Robin Hood ! But when a little farther they came, Bold Robin he chanced to spy A hundred head of good red deer, Come tripping the sheriff full nigh. {> Or * tTow like youmy horn’d beasts, good master sheriff ? They be fat and fair for to see.” * I tell thee, good fellow, I would I were gone, 100 For I like not thy company.” Then Robin set his horn to his mouth, And blew but blasts three ; Yhen quickly anon there came Little John, And all his company. 105 What is your will, master? then said Little John, Good master come tell unto me. “ ¥ have brought hither the sheriff of Nottingham This day to dine with thee.” He is welcome to me, then said Little John, 110 I hope he will honestly pay ; I know he has gold, if it be but well told, Will serve us to drink a whole day. Then Robin took his mantle from his back, And laid it upon the ground ; And. out of the sheriffs portmantle He told three hundred pound. 115 Then Robin he brought him thorow the wood, And set him on his dapple gray ; “OQ have me commended to your wife at home :” So Robin went laughing away. 12] ROBIN HOOD AND THE TANNER. 75 Come fill us more wine, said jolly Robin, Let us be merry while we do stay ; VI For wine and good cheer, be it never so dear, ‘ b I vow I the reckning will pay. ROBIN HOOD AND THE TANNER ; OR, ROBIN HOOD MET WITH HIS MATCH. ** A merry and pleasant song relating the gallant and fierce combate fought between Arthur Bland, a tanner of Nottingham and Robin Hood, the greatest and most noblest archer of England. Tuneis, Robin Hood and the Stranger.” From an old black letter copy in the collec- tion of Anthony 4 Wood. In Nottingham there lives a jolly tannér, With a hey down, down, a down, down, His name is Arthur-a-Bland ; There is nere a squire in Nottinghamshire Dare bid boid Arthur stand. Qt With a long pike-staff upon his shoulder, So well he can clear his way ; By two and by three he makes them to flee, For he hath no list to stay. And as he went forth, in a summers morning, 10 Into the § forrest of merry’ Sherwood, To view the red deer, that range here and there, There met he with bold Robin Hood. As soon as bold Robin ‘he did’ espy, He thought some sport he would make, Therefore out of hand he bid him to stand, And thus to him ‘he’ spake : Cie Why, what art thou, thou bold fellow, That ranges so boldly here ? In sooth, to be brief, thou lookst like a thief, 20 That comes to steal our kings deer. For I am a keeper in this forrest, The king puts me in trust To look to his deer, that range here and thee; Therefore stay thee I must. 25 “ Tf thou beest a keeper in this forrést, And hast such a great command, ‘Yet’ thou must have more partakers " in store, Before thou make me to stand.” 30 “ Nay, I have no more partakers in store, Or any that I do not need ; But I have a staff of another oke graff ¢, I know it will do the deed. For thy sword and thy bow I care not a straw, 35 Nor all thine arrows to boot ; If I get a knop? upon the bare scop4, Thou canst as well shite as shoote.” Speak cleanly, good fellow, said jolly Robin, And give better terms io me ; Else Ile thee correct for thy neglect, And make thee more mannerly. 40 Various Reapine.—F. 14. did him. n Assistants, persons to take thy part. © Oak-branch or sapling ? P The knob, the top or end of a stick ; thence applied a blow with a stick. 4 Scalp, pate. Reena onteetinc Sere on ae eee a6 ROBIN HOOD. Marry gep with a wenion™! quod Arthur-a-Bland, Art thou such a goodly man? I care not a fig for thy looking so big, Mend thou thyself where thou can. 45 Then Robin Hood he unbuckled his belt, And laid down his bow so long ; He took up a staff of another oke graff, That was both stiff and strong. 50 Ile yield to thy weapon, said jolly Robin, Since thou wilt not yield to mine ; For I have a staff of another oke graff, Not half a foot longer then thine. But let me measure, said jolly Robin, Before we begin our fray ; For Ile not have mine to be longer than thine, For that will be counted foul play. I pass not for length, bold Arthur reply’d, My staff is of oke so free ; Hight foot and a half, it will knock down a calf, And I hope it will knock down thee. 60 Then Robin could no longer forbear, He gave him sucha knock, Quickly and soon the blood came down, Before it was ten a clock. Then Arthur he soon recovered himself, And gave him such a knock on the crown, That from every side of bold Robin Hoods head, The blood came trickling down. 70 Then Robin raged like a wild boar, As soon as he saw his own blood : Then Bland was in hast he laid on so fast, As though he had been cleaving of wood. “IT on Ee ee ree ee ee ee ED And about, and about, and about they went, Like two wild bores in a chase ; Striving to aim each other to maim, Leg, arm, or any other place. And knock for knock they lustily dealt, Which held for two hours and more ; That all the wood rang at every bang, They ply’d their work so sore. Hold thy hand, hold thy hand, said Robin Hood, And let thy quarrel fall ; For here we may thrash our bones all to mesh §, 85 And get no coyn at all: r Marry gep with a wenion. [Mr. Ritson has left this exclamation as a query, nor can we satisfactorily explain itt Marry, isthe corruption of the oath ** By St. Mary ;” of gep, we know not the meaning ; it may be a contrac- tion of go up, or get up, Which appears not unlikely, as Marry come up has been a common exclamation, and may perhaps be yet in use; and both phrases are equivalent to Away! Out with you! still familiar terms: wenion, or wanion as it is more commonly written, is not to be found in any of the old dictionaries, and its exact meaning is uncertain: it seems to be derived either from the Anglo- Saxon wanung, detriment, or wanian, to deplore, to de- crease to fall away, and to be equivalent to harm, evil or sorrow ; &nd the whole phrase to resolve itself into a hearty curse.—ED. ] Mash, or jelly. And in the forrest of merry Sherwood Heareafter thou shalt be free. “ God a mercy for ‘ nought,’ my freedom I bought, I may thank my staff, and not thee.” G0 What tradesman art thou? said jolly Robin, Good fellow, I prethee me show : And also me tell, in what place thou dost dwel % For both of these fain would I know, I am a tanner, bold Arthur reply’d, In Nottingham long have I wrought ; And if thou’lt come there, I vow and swear, I will tan thy hide for ‘ nought.’ God-a-mercy, good fellow, said jolly Robin, Since thou art so kind and free ; And if thou wilt tan my hide for § nought,’ I will do as much for thee. 100 - And if thou’lt forsake thy tanners trade, And live in the green wood with me, My name’s Robin Hood, I swear by the‘ rood,’ 105 I will give thee both gold and fee. If thou be Robin Hood, bold Arthur reply’d, As I think well thou art, Then here’s my hand, my name’s Arthur-a-Bland, We two will never depart *. 110 But tell me, O tell me, where is Little John ? Of him fain would I hear ; For we are alide by the mothers side, And he is my kinsman dear. Then Robin Hood blew on the beaugle horn, 115 He blew full lowd and shrill ; But quickly anon appear’d Little John, Come tripping down a green hill ; O what is the matter? then said Little John, Master, I pray you tell: 120 Why do you stand with your staff in your hand, I fear all is not well. “Oman I do stand, and he makes me to stand, The tanner that stands thee beside ; He is a bonny blade, and master of his trade, 125 For soundly he hath tan’d my hide.” He is to be commended, then said Little John, If such a feat he can do 3 If he be so stout, we will have a bout, And he shall tan my hide too. 130 Hold thy hand, hold thy hand, said Robin Hood, For as I do understand, He’s a yeoman good of thine own blood, For his name is Arthur-a-Bland. Then Little John threw his staff away, As far as he could it fling, And ran out of hand to Arthur-a-Bland, And about his neck did cling. With loving respect, there was no neglect, They were neither ‘ nice’ nor coy, Each other did face with a lovely grace, And both did weep for joy. 146 t Part from each other, separate. ROBIN HOOD AND THE TINKER, Then Robin Hood took ‘ them both’ by the hands, And dane’d round about the oke tree : * For three merry men, and three merry men, 145 And three merry men we be: And ever hereafter as long as we live, We three will be ‘as’ one ; The wood it shall ring, and the old wife sing, Of Robin Hood, Arthur, and John.” 150 VIl. ROBIN HOOD AND THE TINKER. From an old black letter copy in the library of Anthony Wood. The full title is, ‘* A new song to drive away cold winter, Between Robin Hood and the jovial tinker: How Robin by a wile The Tinker he did cheat; But at the length as you shall hear The Tinker did him beat, Whereby the same they did then so agree They after liv’d in love and unity. To the tune of, In Summer time. x. In summer time, when leaves grow green, Down, a down, a down. And birds sig on every tree, Hey down, a down, a down. Robin Hood went to Nottingham, 4) Down, a down, a down. As fast as hee could dree". Hey down, a down, a down. And as hee came to Nottingham, A tinker he did meet, 10 And seeing him a lusty blade, Iie did him kindly greet. a Dree properly signifies to endure or suffer, and Jamieson in his dictionary explains the Anglo-Saxon dreog-an, from which dree is derived, as radically the same with drag-an, to draw, to drag along. Here it is metaphorically used, in reference to the labour of trayel- ling, and is explained by Mr. Ritson as hye, which means te hasten ormove quickly. —Zd. Where dost thou live? quoth Robin Hood, I pray thee now mee tell: Sad news I hear there is abroad, I fear all is not well. What is that news? the tinker said, Tell mee without delay : I am a tinker by my trade, And do live at Banbura. As for the news, quoth Robin Hood, It is but as I hear, T'wo tinkers were set ith’ stocks, For drinking ale and ¢ beer.’ If that be all, the tinker he said, As I may say to you, Your news is not worth a fart, Since that they all bee true. For drinking good ale and ¢ beer,’ You will not lose your part. No, by my faith, quoth Robin Hood, I love it with all my heart. What news abroad? quoth Robin Hood, Tell me what thou dost hear: Seeing thou goest from town to town, Some news thou need not fear. All the news I have, the tinker said, I hear it is for good, It is to seek a bold outlaw, Which they call Robin Hood. IT have a warrand from the king, To take him where I can ; If you can tell me where hee is, T will make you a man. The king would give a hundred pound, That he could but him see ; And if wee can but now him get, It will serve thee and mee. Let me see that warrant, said Robin Hood, Ile see if it bee vight ; And I will do the best I ean For to take him this night. That will I not, the tinker said, None with it I will trust ; And where hee is if you’ll not tell, Take him by force I must. But Robin Hood perceiving well How then the game would go, “ If you would go to Nottingham, We shall find him I know.” The tinker had a erab-tree staff, Which was both good and strong, Robin hee had a good strong blade ; So they went both along. And when they came to Nottingham. There they both tooke their inn ; And they called for ale and wine, To drink it was no sin. ’ 20 ho o 30 35 4J 45 wre Ge G5 But ale and wine they drank so fast, That the tinker hee forgot What thing he was about to do ; It fell so to his lot, That, while the tinker fell asleep, ‘ Robin’ made then haste away, And ieft the tinker in the lurch, For the great shot to pay. But when the tinker wakened, And saw that he was gone, He call’d then even for his host, And thus hee made his moan : I had a warrant from the king, Which might have done me good, That is to take a bold outlaw, Some call him Robin Hood : But now my warrant and mony’s gone, Nothing I have to pay ; And he that promis’d to be my friend, He is gone and fled away. That friend you tell on, said the host, They call him Robin Hood ; And when that first hee met with you, He ment you little good. “ Had I but known it had been hee, When that I had him here, Yh’ one of us should have tri’d our might Which should have paid full dear. In the mean time I will away, No longer here Ile bide, But I will go and seek him out, Whatever do me betide. But one thing I would gladly know, What here I have to pay.” Ten shillings just, then said the host. “ Tle pay without delay ; Or elce take here my working-hag, And my good hammer too ; And if that I light but on the knave, { will then soon pay you.”’ The onely way, then said the host, And not to stand in fear, Is to seek him among the parks, Killing of the kings deer, The tinker hee then went with speed, And made then no delay, Till he had found ¢ bold’ Robin Hood, That they might have a fray. At last hee spy’d him in a park, Hunting then of the deer. What knave is that, quoth Robin Hood, That doth come mee so near? 70 ~ eS) 80 | a QT 90 | 100 105 110 115 120 ROBIN ITLOOD. No knave, no knave, the tinker said, And that you soon shall know ; Whether of us hath done any wrong, My erab-tree staff shall show. Then Robin drew his gallant blade, Made then of trusty steel : But the tinker he laid on so fast, That he made Robin reel. Then Robins anger did arise, He fought right manfully, Until he had made the tinkér Almost then fit to fly. With that they had about again, They ply’d their weapons fast ; The tinker threshed his bones so sore, He made him yeeld at last. A boon, a boon, Robin hee eryes, If thou will grant it mee. Before I do it, the tinker said, Ile hang thee on this tree. But the tinker looking him about, Robin his horn did blow ; Then came unto him Little John, And William Seadlock too. What is the matter, quoth Little John, You sit on th’ highway side ? “ Here is a tinker that stands by, That hath paid well my hide.” That tinker then, said Little John, Fain that blade I would see, And I would try what I could do, If hee’] do as much for me. But Robin hee then wish’d them beth They should the quarrel cease, “ That henceforth wee may bee as. one, And ever live in peace. And for the jovial tinkers part, A hundred pounds Ie give In th’ year to maintain him on, As long as he doth live. In manhood he is a mettled man, And a mettle man by trade ; Never thought I that any man Should have made mee so afraid. And if hee will bee one of us, Wee will take all one fare ; And whatsoever wee do get, He shall have his full share.” So the tinker was content With them to go along, And with them a part to take: And so I end my song. 125 150 340 yea a Lor) 240 coy QI ROBIN TLOOD AND ALLIN ‘A’ DALE. ut VUL ROBIN HOOD AND ALLIN ‘A’ DALE. “Or a pleasant relation how a young gentleman, being in love with a young damsel, ‘she’ was taken from him to be an old knights bride: and how Robin Hood, pittying the young mans ease, took her from the old knight, when they were going to be marryed, and restored her to her own love again. To a pleasent northern tune, Robin Hood in the green-wood stood. Bold Robin Hood he did the young man right, And took the damsel from the doting knight.” From an old black letter copy in major Pearsons col- lection. vow awd Come listen to me, you gallants so free, All you that love mirth for to hear, And I will tell you of a bold outlaw, That lived in Nottinghamshire. As Robin Hood in the forest stood, 5 All under the green wood tree, There he was aware of a brave young man, As fine as fine might be. The youngster was cloathed in scarlet red, In searlet fine and gay ; And he did frisk it over the plain, And chanted a round-de-lay. 10 As Robin Hood next morning stood Amongst the leaves so gay, There did [he] espy the same young man Come drooping along the way. i qn The scarlet he wore the day before It was clean cast away ; And at every step he fetcht a sigh, “ Alack and a well a day !” Then stepped forth brave Little John, And ¢ Midge’ the millers son, Which made the young man bend his bow, When as he see them come. Stand off, stand off, the young man said, 25 What is your will with me ? *“ You must come before our master straight, Under yon green wood tree.” And when he came bold Robin before, Robin askt him courteously, 30 O, hast thou any money to spare For my merry men and me ? I have no money, the young man said, But five shillings and a ring ; And that I have kept this seven long years, 3 To have it at my wedding. on Yesterday I should have married a maid, But she from me was tane*, And chosen to be an old knights delight, Whereby my poor heart is slain. 0 VARIOUS READINGS.—/. 22. Nicke. V. 38. soon from. x Talen. What is thy name? then said Robin Hood, Come tell me, without any fail. By the faith of my body, then said the young man, My name it is Allin a Dale. ae ye What will thou give me, said Robin Hood, In ready gold or fee, To help thee to thy true love again, And deliver her unto thee? I have no money, then quoth the young man, No ready gold nor fee, 50 But I will swear upon a book Thy true servant for to be. “ How many miles is it to thy true love? Come tell me without guile.” By the faith of my body, then said the young man, It is but five little mile. ot Then Robin he hasted over the plain, He did neither stint nor linz, Until he came unto the church, Where Allin should keep his wedding. 63 What hast thou here? the bishep then said, I prithee now tell unto me. I am a bold harper, quoth Robin Hood, And the best in the north country. O welcome, O welcome, the bishop he said, 65 That musick best pleaseth me. You shall have no musick, quoth Robin Hood, Till the bride and the bridegroom I see. With that came in a wealthy knight, Which was both grave and old, And after him a finikin ? lass, Did shine like the glistering gold. bat i (2 This is not a fit match, quod bold Robin Hood, That you do seem to make here, For since we are come into the church, The bride shall chuse her own dear. Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth, And blew blasts two or three ; When four and twenty bowmen bold Came leaping over the lee*. 30 And when they came into the church-yard, Marching all on a row, The first man was Allin a Dale, To give bold Robin his bow. This is thy true love, Robin he said, 85 Young Allin, as I hear say, And you shall be married at ‘this’ same time, Before we depart away. That shall not be, the bishop he said, For thy word shall not stand ; 90 They shall be three times askt in the church, As the law is of our land. Robin Hood pull’d off the bishops coat, And put it upon Little John ; By the faith of my body, then Robin said, 95 This ‘ cloth’ doth make thee a man. z.¥Vinical, fine, spruce. @ Plain, y Stop, stay. 80 ROBIN HOOD. When Little John went into the quire, The people began to laugh ; He askt them seven times in the church, | 109 Lest three times should not be enough. Who gives me this maid? said Little John. Quoth Robin Hood, that do JT ; And he that takes her from Allin a Dale, Full dearly he shall her buy. 105 And thus having ended this merry wedding, The bride lookt like a queen ; And so they return’d to the merry green-wocd, Amongst the leaves so green, ROBIN HOOD AND THE SHEPHERD. «: Shewing how Robin Hood, Little John, and the Shep- herd fought a sore combate. The shepherd fought for twenty pound, and Robin for bottle and bag, But the shepherd stout, gave them the rout, so sore they could not wag. Tune is, Robin Hood and queen Katherine.” From two old black letter copies, one of them in the eollection of Anthony a Wood, the other in that of Thomas Pearson, esq. At the head of the former is a fine cut of Robin Hood. Aut gentlemen, and yeomen good, Down, a down, a down, a down, 1 wish you to draw near ; For a story of gallant bold Robin Hood Unto you I will declare. Down a, &c. (ex9 As Robin Hood walkt the forrest along, Some pastime for to spie, There he was aware of a jolly shephérd, That on the ground did lie. Arise, arise, cried jolly Robin, 10 And now come let me see What’s in thy bag and botile®; I say, Come tell it unto me. “ What’s that to thee? thou proud fellow, Tell me as I do stand ; 15 What hast thou to do with my bag and bottle ? Let me see thy command.” “My sword, which hangeth by my side, Is my command IJ know ; Come, and let me taste of thy bottle, 20 | Or it may breed thy woe.” “Phe devil a drop, thou proud fellow, Of my bottle thou shalt see, Until thy valour here be tried, Whether thou wilt fight or flee.” 25 5 A small vessel of wood or leather in the shape cf a cask, in which shepherds and others, employed abroad in the fields, carry or keep their drink. ¢ Warrant, authority. What shall we fight for ? cries Robin Hood, Come tell it soon to me ; Here is twenty pound in good red gold, Win it and take it thee. The shepherd stood all in a maze, 30 And knew not what to say: “ J have no money, thou proud fellow, But bag and bottle ile lay.” “T am content, thou shepherd swain, Fling them down on the ground ; 35 But it will breed thee mickled pain, To win my twenty pound.” “Come draw thy sword, thou proud fellow, Thou standst too long to prate ; This hook of mine shall let thee know, 49 A coward I do hate.”’ So they fell to it, full hardy and sore, It was on a summers day, From ten till four in the afternoon The shepherd held him play. Robins buckler proved his ‘ chief’ defence, And saved him many a bang, For every blow the shepherd gave Made Robin’s sword ery twang. Many a sturdie blow the shepherd gave, av And that bold Robin found, Till the blood ran trickling from his head, Then he fell to the ground. “ Arise, arise, thou proud fellow, And thou shalt have fair play, If thou wilt yield before thou go, That I have won the day.” A boon, a boon, ery’d bold Robin, If that'a man thou be, Then let me have my beugle horn, 60 And blow but blasts three. Then said the shepherd to bold Robin, To that I will agree ; ‘ For’ if thou shouldst blow till to-morrow morn, I scorn one foot to flee. 65 ar reer Then Robin he set his horn to his mouth, And he blew with mickle main‘, Until he espied Little John Come tripping over the plain. “O who is yondex, thou proud fellow, 70 That comes down yonder hill?” * Yonder is John, bold Robin Hoods man, Shall fight with thee thy fill.” What is the matter? saies Little John, Master, come tell to me. 73 My case is bad, cries Robin Hood, For the shepherd hath conquered me. I am glad of that, cries Little John: Shepherd, turn thou to me ; lor a bout with thee I mean to have, SN] Either come fight or flee. Various Reapine.— V. 46. chiefest. a Much. © Foree. ¢ With all my heart, thou proud felldw, For it never shall be said That a shepherds hook of thy sturdy look Will one jot be dismaied.” So they fell to it, full hardy and sore, Striving for victorie. ile know, says John, ere we give o’er, Whether thou wilt fight or flee. The shepherd gave John a sturdie blow, 90 With his hook under the chin. Beshrew thy heart, said Little John, 100 105 119 Thou basely dost begin. Nay, that is nothing, said the shepherd, Hither yield to me the daie, Or I wili bang thy back and sides, Before thou goest thy way. What, dost thou think, thou proud fellow, That thou canst conquer me? Nay, thou shalt know, before thou go, Ile fight before ile flee. Again the shepherd laid on him, ‘Just as he first begun.’ Hold thy hand, cry’d bold Robin, I will yield the wager won. With all my heart, said Little John, To that I will agree ; For he is the flower of shepherd swains, The like I did never-see. Thus have you heard of Robin Hood, Also of Little John ; How a shepherd swain did conquer them, The like was never known. Xx. | ROBIN HOOD AND THE CURTALL | FRYER. From an old black letter copy in the collection of Anthony 4Wood; corrected bya much earlyer one in the Pepysian library, printed by H. Gosson, about the year 16 0©; compared with a later one in the same collection. The full title is: “The famous battell betweene Robin Hood and the curtall fryer. Toa New Northerne tune.” «“ The curtall fryer,” dr. Stukely says, “is cordelier from the cord or rope which they wore round their waist, to whip themselves with. They were,” adds he, “of the Franciscan order.” Our fryer, however, is undoubtedly so called from his ‘‘curtall dogs,” or curs, a8 We now say. Courtauit, F.) In fact, he is no fryer at all, but a monk of Fountains abbey, which was of the Cistercian order. on in summer time, when leaves grow green, And flowers are fresh and gay, Robin Hood and his merry men Were disposed to play. Then some would leape, and some would runne, 5 And some would use artillery ; * Which of you can a good bow draw, A good archer for to be ? © Sic orig. ROBIN HOOD AND THE CURTALL FRYER. 8! Which of you can kill a bucke, Or who can kill a doe ; Or who can kill a hart of Greece 10 Five hundreth foot him fro 2” Will Seadlocke he kild a bucke, And Midge he kild a doe ; And Little Iohn kild a hart of Greece, 15 Five hundreth foot him fro. Gods blessing on thy heart, said Robin Hood, That hath such a shot for me; I would ride my horse a hundred miles, To find one could match thee. 20 That caused Will Seadlocke to laugh, He laught full heartily : “ There lives a curtall fryer in Fountaines Akby Will beate both him and thee. The curtall fryer in Fountaines Abbey 25 Well can a strong bow draw, He will beat you and your yeomén, Set them all on a row.” Robin Hood he tooke a solemne oath, It was by Mary free, That he would neither eate nor drinke, Till the fryer he did see. Robin Hood put on his harnesse good, On his head a cap of steel, Broad sword and buckler by his side, And they became him weele ¢. 35 He tooke his bow into his hand, It was made of a trusty tree, | With a sheafe of arrowes at his belt, And to Fountaine Dale went he. 40 And comming unto Fountaine Dale, No farther he would ride ; | There he was aware of the curtall fryer, Walking by the water side. The fryer had on a harnesse good, 45 On his head a cap of steel, Broad sword and buckler by his side, And they became him weele. Robin Hood lighted off his horse, And tyed him to a thorne : 59 “‘ Carry me over the water, thou curtail fryer, Or else thy life’s forlorne.” The fryer tooke Robin Hood on his backe, Deepe water he did bestride, And spake neither good word nor bad, Till he came at the other side. Lightly leapt Robin offe the fryers backe ; The fryer said to him againe, Carry me over this water, [thou] fine fellow, Or it shall breed thy paine. 60 Robin Hood took the fryer on his backe, Deepe water he did bestride, And spake neither good word nor bad, Till he came at the other side. f This means, perhaps, no more than a fat hart, for the sake of a quibble between Greece and grease. g Well. on a ES, a ta 62 ROBIN Lightly leapt the fryer off Robin Hoods backe, 65 Robin Hood said to him againe, Carry me over this water, thou curtall fryer, Or it shall breede thy pain. The fryer tooke Robin on’s backe againe, And stept in to the knee. *Till he came at the middle streame, Neither good nor bad spake he, And comming to the middle streame, There he threw Robin in: “ And chuse thee, chuse thee, fine fellow, Whether thou wilt sink or swim.” Robin Hood swam to a bush of broome, The fryer to a wiggerh wand ; Bold Robin Hood is gone to shore, And took his bow in his hand. One of his best arrowes under his belt To the fryer he let fly ; The curtall fryer with his steel buekléer Did put that arrow by. ‘¢ Shoot on, shoot on, thou fine fellow, Shoot as thou hast begun, If thou shoot here a summers day, Thy marke I will not shun.” Robin Hood shot passing well, "Till his arrows all were gane; They tooke their swords and steele bucklers, They fought with might and maine, From ten o’th’ elock that [very] day, Till four 7 th’ afternoon 3 Then Robin Hood came to his knees, Of the fryer to beg a boone. « A boone, a boone, thou curtall fryer, I beg it on my knee ; Give me leave to set my horne to my mouth, And to blow blasts three.” That I will do, said the curtall fryer, Of thy blasts I have no doubt ; I hope thoult blow so passing well, *Till both thy eyes fall out. Robin Hood set his horne to his mouth, He blew out blasts three ; Halfe a hundreth yeomen, with bowes bent, Came raking over the lee. Whose men are. these, said the fryer, That come so hastily ? Those are mine, said Robin Heod ; Fryer, what is that to thee ? A boone, a boone, said the curtall fryer, The like I gave to thee ; Give me leave to set my fist to my mouth, And to whute'! whues three. h Wicker. i Whistle. 80 100 105 af 115 aati 1 | | | HOopD. That will I doe, said Robin Hood, Or else I were to blame ; Three whues in a fryers fist Would make me glad and faine. The fryer set his fist to his mouth, And whuted whues three : Half a hundred good band-dogs * Came running over the lee. _ “ Here’s for every man a dog, And I myselfe for thee.” Nay, by my faith, said Robin Hood, Fryer, that may not be. Two dogs at once to Robin Hood did goe, The one behind, the other before, Robin Hoods mantle of Lincolne greene Off from his backe they tore. And whether his men shot east or west, Or they shot north our south, The curtall dogs, so taught they were, They kept ‘the’ arrows in their mouth. Take up thy dogs, said Little John, Fryer, at my “bidding be. Whose man art thou, said the curtall fryer, Comes here to prate with me ? “JT am Little John, Robin Hoods man, Fryer, I will not lie ; If thou take not up thy dogs soone, Vle take up them and thee.” Little John had a bow in his hand, He shot with might and main ; Soon halfe a score of the fryers dogs Lay dead upon the plain. Hold thy hand, Thy master and I will agree ; And we will have new orders.taken, With all the hast may he. “ If thou wilt forsake fair Fountaines dale, | And Fountaines Abbey free, | Every sunday throwout the yeere, A noble shall be thy fee : | And every holiday through the yeere, Changed shell thy garment be, If thou wilt goe to faire Nottingham, And there remaine with me.” — This curtal fryer had kept Fountaines dale Seven long yeeres and more, | There was neither knight, lord, nor earle, Could make him yeeld before. tyed or chained up at night, bark.—Richardsons Gieo 4 86 126 130 149 145 good fellow, said the curtal fryer, 150 155 k Band-dogs, mastives; so called from their being usually {Supposed to be so called, because, bound or chained, (canis catenarius,) should, perhaps, be written Ban-dogs, so called from their loud | | | | | | ROBIN HOOD XI, ROBIN HOOD AND THE STRANGER. From an old black letter copyin thecollection of Anthony a Wood. ‘The title now given to this ballad is that which it seems to have originally born; having been foolishly altered to “ Robin Hoodnewly revived.” The circumstances attending the second part will be explained in a note. Come listen awhile, you gentlemen all, With a hey down, down, a down, down, That are this bower within, For a story of gallant bold Rebin Hood, I purpose now to begin. What time of day? quod Robin Hood then. Quoth Little John, ’tis in the prime. “ Why then we will to the green wood gang, For we have no vittles to dine.” As Robin Hood walkt the forrest along, 10 It was in the mid of the day, There he was met of a deft! young man, As ever walkt on the way. His doublet was of silk, ‘’tis’ said, His stockings like searlet shone ; 15 And he walked on along the way, To Robin Hood then unknown. bm | A herd of deer was in the bend, All feeding before his face : “ Now the best of you ile have to my dinner, 20 And that in a little space.” Now the stranger he made no mickle adoe, But he bends and a right geod bow, And the best of all the herd he slew, Forty good yards him froe. Well shot, well shot, quod Robin Hood then, That shot it was shot in time ; And if thou wilt accept of the place, Thou shalt be a bold yeoman of mine, wo an S Go play the chiven, ™ the stranger said, Make haste and quickly go, Or with my fist, besure of this, Ile give thee buffets sto’,” Thou had’st not best buffet me, quod Robin Hood, For though I seem forlorn, 20 Yet I have those will take my part, If I but blow my horn. Thou wast not best wind thy horn, the stranger Beest thou never so much in haste, [said, For I can draw out a good broad sword, 40 And quickly cut the blast. Then Robin Hood bent a very good bow, To shoot, and that he would fain ; The stranger he bent a very good bow, To shoot at bold Robin again. 45 Various Raapine.—V. 25. full froe. 1 Well-looking, neatly drest. m Mr Ritson queries this word without remark. We can only offer a bare conjecture asto its meaning. Shiver was anciently written chiver, of which there are examples in Chaucer and Gower, and it is possible that chiven is a derivative, signifying coward or trembicr, but we can produce no authority in support of this interpretation.—Eb. ® Store. AND THE STRANGER. 83 I ne Hold thy hand, hold thy hand, quod Robin Hood, To shoot it would be in vain ; For if we should shoot the one at the other, The one of us may be slain, But let’s take our swords and our broad bucklers, And gang under yonder tree. [59 As I hope to be sav’d, the stranger he said, One foot I will not flee. Then Robin Hood lent the stranger a blow, ’Most scar’d him out of his wit : 55 Thou never felt blow, the stranger he said, That shall be better quit. The stranger he drew out a good broad sword, And hit Robin on the crown, That from every haire of bold Robins head 60 The blood ran trickling down. God a mercy, good fellow! quod Robin Hood then, And for this that thou hast done, Tell me, good fellow, what thou art, Tell me where thou doest won. ? 65 The stranger then answered bold Robin Hood, Ile tell thee where I do dwell ; In Maxwell town I was bred and born, My name is young Gamwell. For killing of my own fathers steward, 10 I am fore’d to this English wood, And for to seek an uncle of mine, Some call him Robin Hood. “ But ‘art thou’ a cousin of Robin Hood then? The sooner we should have done.” 75 As I hope to be sav’d, the stranger then said, J am his own sisters son. But, lord ! what kissing and courting was there, When these two cousins did greet ! And they went all that summers day, 80 And Little John did [not] meet. But when they met with Little John, He ‘unto them’ did say, O master, pray where have you been, You have tarried so long away ¢ 85 I met with a stranger, quod Robin Hood, Full sore he hath beaten me. Then Tle have a bout with him, quod Little John, And try if he can beat.me. Oh [no], oh no, quoth Robin Hood then, $0 Little John, it may [not] be so ; For he is my own dear sisters son, And cousins I have no.mo. But he shall be a bold yeoman of mine, My chief man next to thee ; 95 And I Robin Hood, and thou Littie John, And ¢ Scadlock’ he shall be. And weel be three of the bravest outliws That live in the north country. If «you will’ hear more of bold Robin Hood, 100 In ‘the’ second part it will be. 9 Gramercy, thanks, Grand merci, Fr. P Dwell. 9 More. Gao 84 [PART THE SECOND.'] Now Robin Hood, Will Scadlock, and Little John, Are walking over the plain, With a good fat buck, which Will Scadlock, With his strong bow had slain. qn Jog on, jog on, cries Robin Hood, The day it runs full fast ; For tho’ my nephew me a breakfast gave, I have not yet broke my fast. Then to yonder lodge let us take our way, I think it wondrous good, Where my nephew by my bold yeomén Shall be welcom’d unto the green-wood. 10 With that he took ‘his’ bugle-horn, Full well he could it blow ; Streight from the woods came marching down 15 One hundred tall fellows and mo. Stand, stand to your arms, says Will Scadlock, Lo! the enemies are within ken. With that Robin Hood he laugh’d aloud, Crying, They are my bold yeomén. 20 Who, when they arriv’d, and Robin espy’d, Cry’d, Master, what is your will ? We thought you had in danger been, Your horn did sound so shrill. r This (from an old black letter copy in major Pearsons collection) is evidently the genuine second part of the pre- sent ballad; although constantly printed as an independent article, under the title of “Robin Hood, Will Scadlock, and Little John: Or, anarrative of their victories obtained against the prince of Aragon and the two giants ; and how Will Scadlock married the princess. Tune of Robin Hood: or Hey down, down, a down:” Instead of which, in all former editions, are given the following incoherent stanzas, which have all the appearance of being the fragment of a different ballad : THEN bold Robin Hood to the north he would go, With valour and mickle might, With sword by his side, which oft had been tri’d, To fight and recover his right. The first that he met was a bonny bold Scot, His servant he said he would be. No, quoth Robin Hood, it cannot be good, For thou wilt prove false unto me; cr en Thou hast not been true to sire nor cuz. Nay, marry, the Scot he said, As true as your heart, Ile never part, Gude master, be not afraid. 10 Then Robin turned his face to the east, Fight on, my merry men stout ; Our cause is good, quod brave Robin Hood, 15 And we shall not be beaten out. The battel grows hot on every side, The Scotchman made great moan; Quoth Jockey, Gude faith, they fight on each side, Would I were with my wife Joan! 20) The enemy compast brave Robin about, *Tis long ere the battel ends ; Ther’s neither will yield, nor give up the fictd, For both are supplied with friends, ess This song it was made in Robin Hoods dayes: oi Let’s pray unto Jove above, To give us true peace, that mischief may cease, And war may give place unto love. 88 ROBIN HOOD. Now nay, now nay, quoth Robin Hood, 25 The danger is past and gone ; I would have you welcome my nephew here, That has paid me two for one. In feasting and sporting they passed the day, Till Phoebus sunk into the deep ; 39 Then each one to his quarters hy’d, His guard there for to keep. Long had they not walked within the green-wood But Robin he soon espy’d, A beautiful damsel all alone, 35 That on a black palfrey did ride. Her riding-suit was of a sable hew black, Cypress over her face, Through which her rose-like cheeks did blush, All with a comely grace. 40 Come tell me the cause, thou pretty one, Quoth Robin, and tell me aright, From whence thou comest, and whither thou goest, All in this mournful plight ? From London I came, the damsel reply’d, 45 From London upon the Thames, Which circled is, O grief to tell ! Besieg’d with foreign arms, By the proud prince of Arragon, Who swears by his martial hand To have the princess to his spouse, Or else to waste this land ; Except such champions can be found, That dare fight three to three, Against the prince, and giants twain, Do Most horrid for to see ; Whose grisly looks, and eyes like brands, Strike terrour where they come, With serpents hissing on their helms, Instead of feathered plume. 69 The princess shall be the victor’s prize, The king hath vow’d and said, And he that shall the conquest win, Shall have her to his bride. for ae Now we are four damsels sent abroad, To the east, west, north, and south, To try whose fortune is so good To find these champions ‘ out.’ But all in vain we have sought about, For none so bold there are That dare adventure life and blood, To free a lady fair. When is the day? quoth Robin Hood, Tell me this and no more. On Midsummer next, the dam’sel said, Which is June the twenty-four. ei or With that the tears trickled down her cheeks, And silent was her tongue ; With sighs and sobs she took her leave, Away her palfrey sprung. Various READINGS.— V. 35. Of a. V. 68. forth. 7e ee The day prefixt upon : Unless thou well guard thy head. ROBIN HOOD AND THE STRANGER. 85 The news struck Robin to the heart, Then cries the king, and queen likewise, He fell down on the grass, Both weeping as they ‘spake,’ 130 His actions and his troubled mind Lo! we have brought our daughter dear, Shew’d he perplexed was. Whom we are fore’d to forsake. Where lies your grief? quoth Will ‘ Scadldck, 85 | With that stept out bold Robin Hood, O master, tell to me: Crys, My liege, it must not be so: If the damsels eyes have piere’d your heart, Such beauty as the fair princess 135 I'll fetch her back to thee. Is not for a tyrants mow *. OM dor ieee ano ae ond: 90 The prince he then began to storm, Ce he AE” i Cries, Fool, fanatick, baboon ™! pat pee rer a ees How dare thou stop my valour’s prize ? That wounds me to the heart : TIE kil thes with a frown. 140 3 ay 1 « Ce Marea tradi a ata eee Thou tyrant Turk, thou infidel, To set the lady free. Thus Robin b eae , The devil take my soul, quoth Little John, 95 7 pi “ y ie : i i pone Bhai, If I part with thy company. ae I abet fe Hite a PAY, BP RN Must I stay behind? quoth Will Seadlock, ' No, no, that must not be ; And for those two Goliahs there, 145 Vle make the third man in the fight, | That stand on either side, So we shall be three to three. 100 ae a two gt nase by, 4 iat soon can tame their pride. These words cheer’d Robin to the heart, P Joy shone within his face, | Then the king did for armour send, Af S Within his arms he hugg’d them both, For lances, swords, and shields ; 136 And kindly did imbrace. | And thus all three in armour bright, Quoth he, We'll put on mothley grey, 105 | Came marching to the field. And long staves in our hands, ep hatermmnad : ey pets began to sound a charge A scrip and bottle by our sides, Each singled ann tiitatetion . i, As come from the holy land. | Their arms in pieces soon were hew’d, 155 So may we pass along the nigh-way, | Blood sprang from every vain. None will ask us from whence we came, 110 | : ; But take us pilgrims for to be, fee ee, us reaileteitin ge a blow, Or else some holy men. le struck with might and main, | Which fore’d him to reel about the field, Now they are on their journey gone, As though he had been slain. 169 As fast as they may speed, | ‘ Yet for all their haste, ere they arriv’d, 115 | God-a-mercy, quoth Robin, for that blow ! The princess forth was led, | The quarrel shall soon be try’d ; My elddlivar’d te the prince This stroke shall shew a full divorce Bah ated iene Betwixt thee and thy bride. ‘Who in the list did stand, | wack revabiay or pe re: Prepar’d to fight, or else receive So from his shoulders he’s cut his head, 165 His lady by the hand. 120 Which on the ground did fall, With that he walk’d about the lists, | ma er had Robin Hood, With giants by his side: 0, be 80. dealt, withal, Bring forth, said he, your champions, The : 3 E be giants then began to rage Or bring me forth my bride. | To see their prince lie dead : 170 This is the four and twentieth day, 125 | Thou’s be the next, quoth Little John, Bring forth my bride, or London burns, I swear by ‘ Alcaron .’ s Acaron. This termagant prince seems intended for a sort of Mahometan Pagan; but Arragon, at least the county of Arragon, was never in the hands of the Moors, and there has been a succession of Christian Kings from the year 1034. Alcaron is a deity formed by metathesis from Alcoran, a book. This conversion is much more ancient than the present ballad, Thus, in the old metrical romance of The sowdon of Babyloyne, a MS. in the posses- sion of Dr. Farmer: “Whan Laban herde of this myschief, A sory man was he, He trumped his men to relefe, For to cease that tyme mente he, Mersadage kinge of Barbarye He did carye to his tente, And beryed him by right of Sarsenye, With brennynge fire and rich oynement; And songe the dirige of ALKARON, That bibill is of here laye ; And wayled his deth everychon, Seven nyghtis and seven dayes.” Here Alkaron is expressly the name of a BOOK (i.e, the Koran or Alcoran) ; in the following passage it is that of a@ GOD: « Now shall ye here of Laban : Whan tidynges to him were comen, Tho was he a fulle sory man, Whan he herde howe his vitaile were nomen, And howe his men were slayne, And Gye was go safe hem froo; He defyed Mahounde, and Apolyne, Jubiter, Astarot, and Alcaron also,” One might, however, read Acheron. t Mouth uFor fanatick, baboon! weshould probably read ‘/ran- tick’ baboon ! | nt hp RR A 89 86 With that his faulchion he wherl’d about, . It was both keen and sharp ; He clave the giant to the belt, 17 And cut in twain his heart. Will Scadlock well had play’d his part, The giant he had brought to his knee ; Quoth Will, The devil cannot break his fast, Unless he have you all three. or 180 So with his faulchion he run him through, A deep and ‘ ghastly ’ wound ; Who dam’d and foam’d, curst and blasphem’d, And then feil to the ground. Now all the lists with shouts were fill’d, 185 The skies they did resound Which brought the princess to herself, Who had fal’n in a swound. Che king and queen, and princess fair, Came walking to the place, _And gave the champions many thanks, And did them further grace. Tell me, quoth the king, whence you are, That thus disguised came, Whose valour speaks that noble blood Doth run through every vain. A boon, a boon, quoth Robin Hood, On my knees I beg and erave. By my crown, quoth the king, I grant, Ask what, and thou shalt have. 200 Then pardon I beg for my merry men, Which are in the green-wood, For Little John, and Will Seadlock, And for me, bold Robin Hood. Art thou Robin Hood? quoth the king ; For the valour thou hast shewn, Your pardons I do freely grant, And welcome every one, bo cs) Gyr The princess I promise the victor’s prize, She cannot have you all three. 210 She shall chuse, quoth Robin. Said Little John, Then little share falls to me. Then did the princess view all three, With a comely lovely grace, And took Will Scadlock by the hand, Saying, Here I make my choice. 215 With that a noble lord stept forth, Of Maxfield earl was be, Who look’d Will Scadlock in the face, And wept most bitterly. 220 Quoth he, I had a son like thee, Whom I lov’d wondrous well, But he is gone, or rather dead, His name it is young Gamwell. Then did Will Scadlock fall on his knees, Cries, Father! father! here, Here kneels your son, your young Gamwell, You said you lov’d so dear. But, lord ! what imbracing and kissing was there, When all these friends were met ! 230 They are gone to the wedding, and so to [the] And so I bid you good night. [bedding * | poetry,” 1791, p. 3. ale ea RR RE TN i Se a se ican rs iret anemone senor et Leeper ernst entero even ROBIN HOOD. XCTY. ROBIN HOOD AND QUEEN KATHERINE. From an old black letter copy in a private collection, compared with another in that of Anthony a Wood. The full title is: “Renowned Robin Hoed; Or, His famous archery truly related in the worthy exploits he acted be- fore queen Katherine, he being an outlaw man; and how he obtained his own and his fellows pardon. To anew tune.” It is scarcely worth observing that there was no queen consort named KATHERINE before Henry the fifths time; but as Henry the eighth had no less than three wives so called, the name would be sufficiently familiar to our ballad maker. Gop tane from the kings harbengers, Downe, a downe, a downe, As seldome hath beene seene, Downe, a downe, a downe, : And carried by bold Robin Hood 5 For a present to the queene, Downe, a downe, a downe. If that I live a yeare to an end, Thus can’ queene Katherine say, Bold Robin Hood, I will be thy friend, And all thy yeomen gay. 10 The queene is to her chamber gone, As fast as she can wen * ; She calls unto her lovely page, His name was Richard Patrington. 15 “Come thou hither to mee, thou lovely page, Come thou hither to mee ; For thou must post to Nottingham, As fast as thou can dreeY; And as thou goest to Nottingham, 20 Search all the English wood 4, Enquire of one good yeoman or another, That can tell thee of Robin Hood. Sometimes hee went, sometimes hee ran, As fast as hee could win ; And when hee came to Nottingham, There hee tooke up his inne. And when he came to Nottingham, And had tooke up his inne, He cals for a pottle of Rhenish wine, And dranke a health to his queene. 30 There sate a yeoman by his side, Tell mee, sweet page, said hee, What is thy businesse and the cause, So far in the north countrey ? 35 This is my businesse and the cause, Sir, Ple tell it you for good, To enquire of one good yeoman or another, To tell mee of Robin Hood. “ Tle get my horse betimes in the morne, 40 By it be break of day, And I will shew thee bold Robin Hood, And all his yeomen gay.’’ v Did. x Wend, go, hye. yY Hasten. (See p. 77.) z If Inglewood forest be here meant, the queen is a little out in her geography :. she probably means Sherwood, but neither was that in the page’s way to Nottingham, and Barnsdale was stil further north. See “ Ancient popular 90 ee ROBIN HOOD AND QUEEN KATHERINE. 87 When that he came at Robin Hoods place, Hee fell down on his knee : 45 “ Queen Katherine she doth greet. you well, She greets you well by mee ; She bids you post to fair London court, Not fearing any thing ; For there shall be a little sport, 50 And she hath sent you her ring.” Robin Hood tooke his mantle from his back, Tt was of the Lincolne greene, And sent it by this lovely page, . For a present unto the queene. 55 In summer time, when leaves grow green, It’s a seemely sight to see, How Robin Hood himselfe had drest, And all his yeomandry ». He clothed his men in Lincolne greene, 60 And himselfe in searlet red ; Blacke hats, white feathers, all alike, Now bold Robin Hood is rid : And when hee came at Londons court, Hee fell downe on his knee. 65 Thou art welcome, Locksly, said the queen, And all thy good ‘ yeomandree.’ The king is into Finsbury field ¢ Marching in battle ray 4, And after follows bold Robin Hood, 70 And all his yeomen gay. Come hither, Tepus, said the king, Bow-bearer after mee ; Come measure me out with this line, How long our mark must be. 75 b Yeomanry, followers. ¢ Ground near Moorfields, London, famous in old times for the archery practised there. ‘In the year 1498,” says Stow, “all the gardens which had continued time out of minde, without Mooregate, to wit, about and beyond the lordship of Fensberry, were destroyed. And of them was made a plaine field for archers to shoote in.” Survay of London, 1598, p. 351. See also p. 77, where it is observed that “ about the feast of S. Bartlemew .. . the officers of the city . . . were challengers of all men in the sul urbes, . » » before the lord maior, aldermen, and sheriffes, in FENSBERY FIELDE, to shoote the standarde, broade arrow, and flight, for games.” There is a tract intitled, «“ Ayme for Finsburie archers, or an alphabetical table of the names of every marke within the same fields, with the true distances, both by the map, and dimensuration with the line. Published for the ease:of the skilfull, and behoofe of the yoonge beginners in the famous exercise of archerie, by J. J. and E, B. Tobe sold at the signe of the Swan in Grub street, by F. Sergeant. 1594. 1G6mo. Republished by R..F, 1604; and again by James Partridge, 1628. 12mo. The practice of shooting here is alluded to by Cotton,.in his Virgile travestie ; (b. iv.) 1667: * And arrows loos’d from Grub-street bow, “In Finssury, to him are slow ;” and is said to have continued till within the memory of ' persons now living. These famous archers are also men- tioned by Ben Jonson, in Every man in. his humour (act 1. scene 1): “Because I dwell at Hogsden, I shall keep company with none but the archers of Finsbury.” d Battle ray, Battle array. The same expression occurs in “ The tragicall history of Didaco and. Violenta,” 1567 : «To traverse forth his grounde, to place His troupes in batayic ray.” What is the wager? said the queene, That must [ now know here. “ Three hundred tun of Rhenish wine, Three hundred tun of beere ; Three hundred of the fattest harts 80 That run on Dallom lee ®.” That’s a princely wager, said the king, That needs must I tell thee. With that bespake one Clifton then, Full quickly and full soone, 85 Measure no markes for us, most soveraigne liege, Wee’l shoot at sun and moone. “ Full fifteene score your marke shall be, Full fifteene score shall stand.” Ile lay my bow, said Clifton then, 90 Tle cleave the willow wand. With that the kings archers led about, While it was three, and none 3; With that the ladies began to shout, “ Madam, your gaine is gone.” 95 A boone, a boone, queene Katherine cries, I crave it on my bare knee 5 Is there any knight of your privy counsel Of queen Katherines part will be? Come hither to mee, sir Richard Lee, 100 Thou art a knight full good ; For I do knowe by thy pedigree Thou sprung’st from Gowers blood. Come hither to me, thou bishop of Herefordshire; For a noble priest was hee. 105 By my silver miter, said the bishop then, Tle not bet one peny. The king hath archers of his own, Full ready and full light, And these be strangers every one, No man knowes what. they hight £. iLO What wilt thou bet ? said Robin Hood, Thou seest our game the worse. By my silver miter, then said the bishop, All the money within my purse. What is in thy purse ? said Robin Hood, Throw it downe on the ground. Fifteen score nobles, said the bishop ; It’s neere an hundred pound £. Robin Hood took his bagge from his side, 120 And threw it downe on the greene ; William Scadlocke then went smiling away, “T know who this money must win.” With that the king’s archers led about, While it was three and three ; With that the ladies gave a shout, “ Woodcock, beware thy knee !” 125 e The situation of this chase cannot be ascertained. Datham-tower is in Westmoreland. £ What they hight, what they are called. § Hither the bishop was a very bad reckoner, or here is some mistake in the copy: three hundred nobles are exactly a hundred pounds. The common editions rea ninety-nine angels, which would be nomore than £49: 16. 8, en i on ens a I ca ne net ANS A I A EY RE PONE ECE RON ne IE eee NNN Re ot EE CNN Goer mete et as It is three and three, now, said the king, The next three pays for all. Robin Hood went and whisper’d the queen, 1590 The kings part shail be but small. Robin Hood hee led about, Hee shot it under hand ; And Clifton with a bearing arrow*, Hee clave the willow wand. 135 And little Midge, the millers son, Hee shot not much the worse ; He shot within a finger of the prick: “ Now, bishop, beware thy purse !” A boone, a boone, queen Katherine cries, 140 I crave ‘it’ on my bare knee, That you will angry be with none That are of my partie. “‘ They shall have forty daies to come, And forty daies to goe, And three times forty to sport and play ; Then welcome friend or foe.” Ynou art welcome, Robin Hood, said the queene, And so is Little John, And so is Midge, the millers son ; Thrice welcome every one. Is this Robin Hood? now said the king, For it was told to me That he was slain in the palace gates, So far in the north country. is this Robin Hood? quoth the bishop then, As ‘it seems’ well to be: Had I knowne ‘it’ had been that bold outlaw, I would not [have] bet one peny. 155 Hee tooke me late one Saturday at night, 160 And bound mee fast to a tree, And made mee sing a masse, God wot, To him and his ‘ yeomandree.’ What, an if I did, saies Robin Hood, Of that masse I was faine ; For recompence of that, he saies, Here’s halfe thy gold againe. Now nay, now nay, saies Little John, Master, that shall not be ; We must give gifts to the kings officers ; That gold will serve thee and mee. 170 XIII. ROBIN HOODS CHASE: “ Or, a merry progress between Robin Hood and King | Henry. Shewing how Robin Hood led the king his chase | from London to London ; and when he had taken his leave of the queen, he returned to merry Sherwood. To the tune of Robin Hood and the beggar.” From an old black letter copy in the collection of Anthony 2 Wood. Come, you gallants all, to you I do call, With hey down, down, an a down, That now ‘ are’ in this ve : For a song I will sing of Henry the king, How he did Rebin Hood chase. Various READmNG.— V. 157. i see. b Qy. i i ROBIN HOOD. Queen Katherin she a match did make, As plainly doth appear, For three hundred tun of good red wine, And three [hundred] tun of beere. But yet her archers she had to seek, With their bows and arrows so good ; But her mind it was bent with a good intent, To send for bold Robi Hood. ' But when bold Robin he came there, Queen Katherin she did say, _ Thou art welcome, Locksley, said the queen, _ “ Tf I miss the mark, be it light or dark, And all thy yeomen gay. For a match of shooting I have made, And thou on my part must be. 20 Then hanged I will be.” But when the game came to be played, Bold Robin he then drew nigh, With his mantle of green, most brave to be seen, He let his arrows fly. 23 _ And when the game it ended was, 150 | ' What though his pardon granted was, Bold Robin wan it with a grace ; But after the king was angry with him, And vowed he would him chace. While he with him did stay ; _ But yet the king was vexed at him, When as he was gone his way. _ Soon after the king from the court did hye, | | | | | : | | In a furious angry mood, 35 And often enguired both far and near After bold Robin Hood. But when the king to Nottingham came, Bold Robin was in the wood : O, come now, said he, and let me see 40 Who can find me bold Robin Hood. But when that bold Robin he did hear The king had him im chase, Then said Little John, ’Tis time to be gene, And go to some ether place. And away they went from merry Sherwood, And into Yorkshire he did hye ; And the king did follow, with a hoop and a hailow, But could not come him nigh. Yet jolly Robin he passed along, 50 ‘ And went strait’ to Newcastle town ; And there ‘ he’ stayed hours two or three, And ‘ then’ to Barwick ¢ is’ gone. When the king did see how Robin did fiee, He was vexed wondrous sore ; With a hoop and a hallow he vowed to follow, And take him, or never give ore. Qy Qt Come now let’s away, then erys Little John, Let any man follow that dare ; To Carlisle we’l hye, with our company, And so then to Lancaster. From Lancaster then to Chester they went, And so did king Henry ; 5 | But Robin [went] away, for he durst not stay, For fear of some treachery. 65 Various REapines.—V. 6. then did, V.53. he... Was, 92 dein panne meee een sameeren ammtniie een renner a en TEN remem ee ene NNN ASEH Eke Says Robin, Come let us for London goe, Like to a fryer bold Robin Hood 10 To see our noble queens face, Was accoutered in his array ; Tt may be she wants our company, With hood, gown, beeds, and crucifix, Which makes the king so us chase. He past upon the way. When Robin he came queene Katherin before, 70 He fell low upon his knee: “ If it please your grace, I am come to this place For to speak with king Henry.” He had not gone miles two or three, But it was his chance to spy 15 Two lusty priests, clad all in black, ROBIN HOODS GOLDEN PRIZE, 8&9 | : | | Come riding gallantly. Queen Katherine answered bold Robin Hood again, The king is gone to merry Sherwood ; 73 And when he went away to me he did say, He would go and seek Robin Hood. Benedicite, then said Robin Hood, Some pitty on me take ; Cross you my hand with a silver groat, 26 For our dear ladies sake. “ Then fare you well, my gracious queen, For to Sherwood I will hye apace ; | For fain would I see what he would with me, 80 If I could but meet with his grace.” | For I have been wandring all this day, And nothing could I get ; Not so much as one poor cup of drink, Nor bit of bread to eat. 25 But when king Henry he came home, Full weary, and vexed in mind, And that he did hear Robin had been there, He blamed dame Fortune unkind. 85 Now, by our holy dame’, the priests repli’d, We never a peny have; For we this morning have been rob’d, And could no money save. You’re welcome home, ‘ queen’ Katherin cryed, Henry, my soveraign liege ; | Bold Robin Hood, that archer good, . Your person hath been to seek. tT am much afraid, said bold Robin Hood, 50 That you both do tell a lie ; And now before you do go hence, I am resolv’d to try. | But when king Henry he did ¢ hear,’ 90 / That Robin had been there him to seeke, This answer he gave, He’s a cunning knave, For I have sought him this whole three weeks. When as the priests heard him say so, Then they rode away amain 5 35 But Robin Hood betook to his heels, And soon overtook them again. Then Robin Hood laid hold of them both, And pull’d them down from their horse : O spare us, fryer! the priests cry’d out, 4 On us have some remorse ! A boon! a boon! * queen’ Katherin ery’d, I beg it here ¢ of’ your grace, 95 To pardon his life, and seek not strife : And so endeth Robin Hoods chase. 2. ee ee ee = aS See eT nn You said you had no mony, quoth he, esty aah eS Wherefore, without delay, We three will fall down on our knees, | XIV. _ And for mony we will pray. 45 | ROBIN HOODS GOLDEN PRIZE. The priests they could not him gainsay, But down they kneeled with speed : Send us, O send us, then quoth they, Some mony to serve our need. ‘* He met two priests upon the way, And forced them with him to pray; For gold they prayed, and gold they had, Enough to make bold Robin glad ; The priests did pray with a mournful chear, 50 His share came to four hundred pound, Sometimes their hands did wring : ehab then was tong anew. the Seed, Sometimes they wept, and cried aloud, Now mark, and you shall hear the jest, . . ; dat You never heard the like exprest. Whilst Robin did merrily sing. Tune is, Robin Hood was a tall young man, §c.” When they had been praying an hours space, Various REaDING.—V/. 9. to sanctimonia, Lye’s Saxon dictionary. This ballad (given from an old black letter copy in the The priests did still lament ; 30 collection of Anthony & Wood) was entered (amongst | Then quoth bold Robin, Now let’s see | others) in the stationers book, by Francis Coule, 13th June, What mony heaven hath-us sent. ; 1631; and by Francis Grove, 2d June, 1656. | y ; : aie | We will be sharers all alike | I mave heard talk of Robin Hood, ek a tage lhe abot | Teens davey down And there is never a one of us 60 | Y> y ’ P ‘ : And of brave Little John, That his fellow shall deceive. ag 3 wae aay Scarlet, _ | The priests their hands in their pockets put, ORC en TAME MATION, a But mony would find none: | . , We’l search ourselves, said Robin Hood 1 ? 3 i _ Bat such a tale as this before | Tb other: oneeRe ane 65 | | I think was never knone ; SiMe eal tele ENE toe iA ad RD, A | _ For Robin Hood disguised himself, i Our holy dame. ‘The virgin Mary (so called); unless, And ¢ from’ the wood is gone. for “our holy dame,” we should read our halidome, which | | may mean our holyness, honesty, chastity: haligdome, | | | 93 90 Then Robin took pains to search them both, And he found good store of gold, Five hundred peeces presently Upon the grass was told. Here is a brave show, said Robin Hood, 70 Such store of gold to see, And you shall each one have a part, Cause you prayed so heartily. He gave them fifty pounds a-peece, And the rest for himself did keep : i The priests [they] durst not speak one word, But they sighed wondrous deep. rr With that the priests rose up from their knees, Thinking to have parted so : Nay, nay, says Robin Hood, one thing more I have to say ere you go. You shall be sworn, said bold Robin Hood, Upon this holy grass, That you will never tell lies again, Which way soever you pass. 80 The second oath that you here must take, That all the days of your lives, You shall never tempt maids to sin, Nor lye with other mens wives. The last oath you shall take, it is this, 90 Be charitable to the poor ; Say, you have met with a holy fryar, And I desire no more. He set them on their horses again, And away then they did ride ; And he return’d to the merry green-wood, With great joy, mirth, and pride. 95 XV. ROBIN HOODS RESCUING STUTLY. WILL From an old black letter copy in the colleetion of Anthony & Wood. The full title iss “Robin Hood his rescuing Will Stutly from the sheriff and his men, who had taken him prisoner, and was going to hang him. To the tune of Robin Hood and queen Katherinei.” Wuewn Robin Hood in the green wood liv’d, Derry, derry down, Under the green wood tree, Tidings there came to him with speed, Tidings for certainty. 5 Hey down, derry, derry, down, That Will Stutly surprized was, And eke in prison lay ; Three varlets that the sheriff had hired, Did likely him betray, 10 « Tk, and to-morrow hanged must be, To-morrow as soon as it is day ; Before they could this victory get, Two of them did Stutly slay.” Various Reapine.~-V. 66. Robin Hood, k Aye. eran J See before, p. as. 91 ee ee ree Ve etd, When Robin Hood he heard this. news, Lord ! he was grieved sore ; And to his merry men he did say, (Who altogether swore) That Will Stutly should rescued be, And be brought ‘ back’ again ; Or else should many a gallant wight For his sake there be slain. 20 He cloathed himself in scarlet ‘ red,’ His men were all in green ; A finer shew, throughout the world, In no place could be seen. to ewe Good lord ! it was a gallant sight To see them all on a row 3 With every man a.good broad sword, And eke a good yew bow. 30 Forth of the green wood are they gone, Yea all couragiously, Resolving to bring Stutly home, Or every man to die. And when they came the castle neer, 35 Whereas Will Stutly lay, [ hold it good, saith Robin Hood, Wee here in ambush stay, And send one forth some news te hear, To yonder palmer! fair, That stands. under the castle wall, Some news he may declare. 40 With that.steps.forth a brave young man, Which was of courage bold, Thus did hee speak to the old man : I pray thee, palmer old, Tell me, if that thou rightly ken, When must Will Stutly die, Who is one of bold Robin’s men, And here doth prisoner lie 4 30 Alack ! alass ! the palmer said, And for ever wo is me ! Will Stutly hanged must. be this day, Cn yonder gallows tree. O had his noble master known, 55 He would some succour send ; A few of his bold yeomandree™ Full soon would fetch him hence. I+, that is true, the young man said ; I, that. is true, said he ; Or, if they: were neer to this place, They soon would set him free. 60 But fare ‘ thee’ well, thow good old man, Farewell, and thanks to thee ; If Stutly hanged be this day, Reveng’d his death will be. 65 L A palmer was, properly, a pilgrim who had visited the Holy Land, from the palm-branch or cross which he bore as a sign of such visitation: but it is probable that. the distinction between palmer's and other pilgrims was never much attended to in this country. (See p. 85,1. 105, &c.) The palmer in the text seems to be no more than a com- mon begger. m Yeomanry, followers. n Aye. THE NOBLE FISHER-MAN. o) Hee was no sooner from the palmer gone, But the gates ‘ were’ open’d wide, And out of the castle Will Stuily came, Guarded on every side. When hee was forth of the castle come, And saw no help was nigh, Thus he did say to the sheriff, Thus he said gallantly : Now seeing that I needs must die, Grant me one boon, said he, For my noble master nere had a man, That yet was hang’d on the tree. Give me a sword all in my hand, And let mee be unbound, And with thee and thy men Ile fight, °Till I lie dead on the ground. But his desire he would not grant, His wishes were in vain ; For the sheriff had sworn he hanged should be, And not by the sword be slain. Do but unbind my hands, he saies, I will no weapons crave, And if I hanged be this day, Damnation let me have. O no, o no, the sheriff said, Thou shalt on the gallows die, T°, and so shall thy master too, If ever in me it lie. 0, dastard coward ! Stutly cries, Thou faint heart pesant slave ! If ever my master do thee meet, Thou shalt thy paiment have. My noble master ‘ doth thee’ scorn, And all thy ‘ coward’ crew ; Such silly imps unable are Boid Robin to subdue. But when he was to the gallows come, And ready to bid adiew, Out of a bush leaps Little John, And comes Will Stutly to :’ “[ pray thee, Will, before thou die, Of thy dear friends take leave ; I needs must borrow? him for a while, How say you, master “shrieve’?” Now, as I live, the sheriff he said, That varlet will I know ; Some sturdy rebell is that same, Therefore let him not go. Then Little John most hastily, Away cut Stutly’s bands, And from one of the ¢ sheriffs’ men, A sword twicht4 from his hands. “Here, Will, here, take thou this same, Thou canst it better sway ; And here defend thyself awhile, For aid will come straightway.”’ © Aye. P Pledge, bail. 4 Snatched, wrested sharply. 70 ae | ot 80 90 100 | 105 110 115 120 And there they turnd them back to back, In the middle of them that day, i Till Robin Hood approached near, 129 With many an archer gay. With that an arrow by them flew, I wist' from Robin Hood ; Make haste, make haste, the sheriff he said, Make haste, for it is good. 130 The sheriff is gon, his ‘ doughty’ men Thought it no boot to stay, But as their master had them taught, ‘They’ run full fast away. O stay, O stay, Will Stutly said, 135 Take leave ere you depart ; You neere will catch bold Robin Hood, Unless you dare him meet O ill betide you, quoth Robin Hood, That you so soon are gone ; 140 My sword may in the scabbord rest, For here our work is done. T little thought, ‘ Will Stutly said,’ When I came to this place, For to have met with Little John, 145 Or seen my masters face. Thus Stutly was at liberty set, And safe brought from his foe : “ O thanks, O thanks to my mastér, Since here it was not so. 150 And once again, my fellows [all],. We shall in the green wocds meet, Where we [will] make our bow-strings twang, Musick for us most sweet,” XVI. THER NOBLE FISHER-MAN ; on, ROBIN HOODS PREFERMENT: ‘*Shewing how he won a prize on the sea, and how he gave the one halfe to his dame, and the other to the build- ing of almes-houses. The tune is, In summer time, &c:” From three old black letter copies; one in the collection of Anthony 4 Wood, another in the British Museum, and the third in a private collection. In summer time, when leaves grow green, When they doe grow both green and long,— Of a bold outlaw, call’d Robin Hood, It is of him I sing this song,— When the lilly leafe, and the elephant’, 5 Doth bud and spring with a merry cheere, This outlaw was weary of the wood side, And chasing of the fallow deere. VARious ReApDINGS.— V. 131. doubtless. V. 143. when T came here, r Wis, trow, believe. 8 Elephant. This word is evidently a corruption. Mr. Ritson does not attempt to restore it, contenting himself with a query. It seems pretty evident that we should read plant for the second syllable, but we can offer no conjecture as to the prefix.—Ep. SS ee 92 ROBIN HOOD. “'The fisher-men brave more mony have Than any merchants two or three ; 10 Therefore [ will to Scarborough go, That I a fisherman brave may be.” This outlaw called his merry men all, As they sate under the green-wood tree : “ Tf any of you have gold to spend, 15 I pray you heartily spend it with me.” Now, quoth Robin. Hood, Ie to Scarborough go, lt seems to be a very faire day. ‘He?’ took up his inne at a widdow womans house, Hard by upon the water gray : ' 20 Who asked of him, Where wert thou borne ? Or tell to me where dost thou fare‘? I am a poor fisherman, said he then, This day intrapped all in care. “¢ What is thy name, thou fine fellow, 29 I pray thee heartily tell it to mee ?” “ In my own country, where I was borne, Men call me Simon over the Lee.” Simon, Simon, said the good wife, I wish thou mayest well brook" thy name. 30 The out-law was ware* of her courtesie, And rejoyced he had got such a dame. «“ Simon, wilt thou be my man ? And good round wages Ile give thee ; I have as good a ship of my own, 35 | As any sails upon the sea. 2 t Anchors and planks thou shalt not want, Masts and ropes that are so long.” And if you thus do furnish me, Said Simon, nothing shall goe wrong. 49 They pluckt up anchor, and away did sayle, More of a day then two or three ; When others cast in their baited hooks, The bare lines into the sea cast he. It will be long, said the master then, 45 Ere this great lubber do thrive on the sea 5 I’le assure you he shall have no part of our fish, For in truth he is no part worthy. O woe is me! said Simon then, This day that ever I came here ! 50 I wish I were in Plompton parke, In chasing of the fallow deere. For every clowne laughs me to scorne, And they by me set nought at all ; If I had them in Plompton park, I would set as little by them all. or [op i They pluckt up anchor, and away did sayle, More of a day then two or three : But Simon espyed a ship of warre, That sayled towards them most valorously. 60 t Live. x Aware, sensible. u Enjoy. ee ee 96 O woe is me! said the master then, This day that ever I was borne ! Por all our fish we have got to-day, Is every bit lost and forlorne’. Yor your French robbers on the sea, 65 They will not spare of us one man, But carry us to the coast of France, And ligge* us in the prison strong. But Simon said, Doe not feare them, Neither, master, take you no care ; 70 Give me my bent bow in my hand, And never a Frenchman will I spare. “ Hold thy peace, thou long lubber, For thou art nought but brags and boast ; If I should cast thee over-board, 75 There’s but a simple lubber lost.” Simon grew angry at these words, And so angry then was he, That he took his bent bow in his hand, And in the ship-hatch goe doth he. Master, tye me to the mast, saith he, That at my mark I may stand fair, And give me my bent bow in my hand, And never a Frenchman will I spare. He drew his arrow to the very head, 85 And drew it with all might and maine, And straightway, in the twinkling of an eye, ‘To’ the Frenchmans heart the ‘ arrow’s gane.” The Frenchman fell down on the ship hatch, And under the hatches ‘ there’ below ; 90 Another Frenchman, that him espy’d, The dead corpse into the sea doth throw. O master, loose me from the mast, he said, And for them all take you no care ; For give me my bent bow in my hand, 95 And never a Frenchman will I spare. Then streight [they] boarded the French ship, They lyeing all dead in their sight ; They found within ‘ that’ ship of warre, Twelve thousand pound of mony bright. 100 The one halfe of the ship, said Simon then, Ile give to my dame and [her] children small ; The other halfe of the ship Ile bestow _ On you that are my fellowes all. But now bespake the master then, 105 For so, Simon, it shall not be, For you have won it with your own hand, And the owner of it you shall bee. “ It shall be so, as I have said ; And, with this gold, for the opprest An habitation I will build, Where they shall live in peace and rest.’’ 119 Various REApING.—V. 88. Doth ... arrow gain. yY Utterly ruined. z Lay. ne = XVIT. ROBIN HOODS DELIGHT : «© Or, a merry combat fought between Robin Hood, Vittle John, and Will. Scarelock, and three stout Keepers in Sheerwood Forrest, “ Robin was valiant and stout, So was Scarelock and John in the field, But these Keepers stout did give them rout, And make them all for to yield. But after the battel ended was, Bold Robin did make them amends, For claret and sack they did not lack, So drank themselves good friends, To the tune of, Robin Hood and Queen Katherine; or, Robin Hood and the Shepheard.” From an old black letter copy in the collection of Anthony a Wood. TrrzRe’s some will talk of lords and knights, Doun, a doun, a doun, And some of yeomen good; But I will tell you of Will Scarlock, Little John, and Robin Hood. 5 Doun, a doun, a doun, a doun. They were outlaws, ’tis well known, And men of a noble blood ; And many a time was their valour shown In the forest of merry Sheerwood. Upon a time it chanced so, 10 As Robin would have it be, They all three would a walking go, The pastime for to see. And as they walked the forest along, Upon a Midsummer day, 15 There was they aware of three keepérs, Clad all in green aray. With brave long faucheons by their sides, And forrest bills in hand, They call’d aloud to those bold outlaws, 20 And charged them to stand. Why, who are you, cry’d bold Robin, That ¢ speak’ so boldly here ? “ We three belong to King Henry, And are keepers of his deer.” i) jot | The devil ‘ you are !’ sayes Robin Hood, IT am sure that it is not so; We be the keepers of this forrést, And that you soon shall know. Come, your coats of green lay on the ground, 30 And so will we all three, And take your swords and bucklers round, And try the victory. We be content, the keepers said, We be three, and you no less, 39 ‘hen why should we be of you afraid, ‘ As’ we never did transgress ? “ Why, if you be three keepers in this forrest, Then we be three rangers good, And will make you know before you do go, 40 You meet with bold Robin Hood.” Various Reapine.—V. 11, Robin Hood. einer rope tc cron 0 more chan wrt ne bate roe reac eon AL ie eam eh NaI AS oe ee TONE Mar eed Tarn SS se RT 7 ROBIN HOODS DELIGHT. 93 “ We be content, thou bold outlaw, Our valour here to try, And will make you know, before we do go, We will fight before we will fly. 45 Then, come draw your swords, you bold outliws, No longer stand to prate, But let us try it out with blows, For cowards we do hate. Here is one of us for Will Searlock, 59 And another for Little John, And I myself for Robin Hood, ‘Because he is stout and strong.” So they fell to it hard and sore, It was on a Midsummers day ; From eight of the clock ’till two and past, They all shewed gallant play. qr Or There Robin, and Will, and Little John, They fought most manfully, Till all their winde was spent and gone, 6B Then Robin aloud did cry : O hold, O hold, cries bold Robin, I see you be stout men ; Let me blow one blast on my bugle horn, Then Ie fight with you again. 69 « That bargain’s to make, bold Robin Hood, Therefore we it deny ; Thy blast upon the bugle horn Cannot make us fight or fly. Therefore fall on, or else be gone, 70 And yield to us the day : It never shall be said that we are afraid Of thee, nor thy yeomen gay.” If that be so, eries bold Robin, Let me but know your names, And in the forrest of merry Sheetwood, I shall extol your fames. “ST a And with our names, one of them said, What hast thou here to do 2 Except that thou wilt fight it out, Our names thou shalt not know. a2) rs We will fight no more, sayes bold Robin, You be men of valour stout ; Come and go with me to Nottingham, And there we will fight it out. 35 With a but of sack we will bang it ¢ about,’ To see who wins the day ; And for the cost make you no doubt, I have gold ‘ enough’ to pay. And ever hereafter so long as we live, $0 We all will brethren be ; For I love these men with heart and hand, That will fight and never flee. So, away they went to Nottingham, With sack to make amends ; 95 For three days they the wine did chase, And drank themselves good friends. XVIII. ROBIN HOOD AND THE BEGGAR: « Shewing how Robin Hood and the Beggar fought, and how he changed cloaths with the Beggar, and how he went a begging to Nottingham; and how he saved three brethren from being hang’d for stealing of deer. To the tune of Robin Hood and the Stranger.” From an old black letter copy in the collection of Anthony & Wood. Come and listen, you gentlemen all, Hey down, down, an a down, That mirth do love-for to hear, And a story true Ile tell unto you, If that you will but draw near. qr In elder times, when merriment was, And archery was holden good, - There was an outlaw as many ‘do’ know, Which men called Robin Hood. Upon a time it chanced so, Bold Robin was merry disposed, His time for to spend he did intend, Either with friends or foes. Then he got upon a gallant brave steed, The which was worth angels* ten, With a mantle of green, most t brave to be seen, He left all his merry men. 15 And riding towards } Nottingham, Some pastime for to ’spy, There was he aware of a jolly beggar, As ere he beheld with:his eye. 20 An old pacht coat the beggar had on, Which he daily did use to wear ; And many a bag about him did wag, Which made Robin to him repair. God speed, God speed, said Robin Hood, What countryman? tell to me. “Tam Yorkshire, sir, but ere You go far, Some charity give unto me.’ Why, what wouldst thou have ? said Robin Hood, 30 I pray thee tell unto me. No lands nor livings, the beggar he said, But a penny for charitie, I have no money, said Robin Hood then, But a ranger within the wood ; J am an outlaw, as many do know, My name it is Robin Hood. But yet I must tell the, bonny beggar, That a bout with [thee] I must try ; Thy coat of gray, lay down I say, And my mantle of green shall lye by. Content, content, the beggar he ery’d, Thy part it will be the worse ; For I hope this bout to give thee the rout, And then have at thy purse. - Various READING,—V. 25. Robin Hood. # Pieces of gold coin, value ten shillings, J SROBEN OO HOOD. Masiatnies 0 c0r * Lido ah, the beggar he had a mickle® long stafie, And Robin a nut-brown sword ; So the beggar drew nigh, and at Robin let-fly, But gave him never a word. Fight on, fight on, said Robin Hood then, 50 This game well pleaseth me. For every blow that Robin gave, The beggar gave buffets three. And fighting there full hard and sore, Not far from Nottingham town, 55 They never fled, ’till from Robin Hoods head The blood came trickling down. O, hold thy hand, said Robin Heod then, "And thou and I will agree. If that be true, the beggar he said, Thy mantle come give unto me. Now a change, a change, cri’d Robin Hood, Thy bags and coat give me ; j And this mantle of mine Ile to thee resign, My horse and my braverie. 65 When Robin had got the beggars clothes, He looked round about ; Methinks, said he, I seem ‘to be A beggar brave and stout. For now I have a bag for my bread, So I have another Tor corn ; I have one for salt, and another for malt, And one for my ‘little horn. And now I willa begging goe, Some charitie for to find. And if any more of Robin you’ll know, In ‘ the’ second part ’tis behind. 15 Now Robin he is to Nottingham bound, With his bag hanging down to his knee, His staff, and his coat, scarce worth a groat, Yet merrilie passed he. 80 As Robin he passed the streets along, He heard a pittiful ery ; Three brethren dear, as he did hear, Condemned were to dye. 85 Then Robin he highed¢ to the sheriffs [house], Some reliefe for to seek ; He skipt, and leapt, and capered full high, As he went along the street. But when to the sheriffs doore he came, There a gentleman fine and brave, Thou begg ar, said he, come tell unto me What it is thou wouldest have. No meat, nor drink, said Robin Heod then, That T come here to crave ; But to get the lives of yeomen three, And that I fain would have. 95 Various Reavines. V.47.hehad. V.66. Robin Hood. te coor b Great, very, oe —_ & Hyed, hastened. 98 LITTLE JOHN AND THE FOUR BEGGERS. That cannot be, thou bold beggar, Their fact it is so cleer ; I tell to thee, they hanged must be, For stealing of our king’s deer. 100 But when to the gallows they did come, There was many a weeping eye: O, hold your peace, said Robin Hood then, For certain ‘ they shall’ not dye. 105 Then Robin he set his horn to his mouth, And he blew out blastes three, Till a hundred bold archers brave Came kneeling down to his knee. What is your will, master ? they said, 110 We are at your command. Shoot east, shoot west, said Robin Hood then, And see you spare no man. Then they shot east, and they shot west, Their arrows were so keen ; The sheriffe he, and his companie, No longer ‘ could’ be seen. - Then he steptto those brethren three, And away he has them iane ; The sheriffe was crost, and many a man lost, 120 That dead lay on the plain. And away they went into the merry green wood, And sung with a merry glee ; And Robin Hood took these brethren good To be of his yeomandrie®. 12 or ce Sr a lL XIX. LITTLE JOHN AND THE FOUR BEGGERS. From an old black let‘er copy in the eollection of Anthony & Wood: the full title being, ‘‘A new merry song of Robin Hood and Little John, shewing how Little John went a begging, and how he fought with the four beggers, and what a prize he got of the four beggers. The tune is, Robin Hood and the Begger.” ALL you that delight to spend some time, With a hey down, down, a down, down, A merry song for to sing, Unto me draw neer, and you shall hear How Little John went a begging. 5 As Robin Hood walked the forest along, And all his yeomandree ¢, Sayes' Robin, Some of you must a begging go, And, Little John, it must be thee. 10 Sayes John, If I must a begging go, I will have a palmer’s f weed, With a staff and a coat, and bags of all sort, The better then I may speed. Come, give me now a bag for my bread, And another for my cheese, And one for a peny, when as I get any, That nothing I may leese. « ¢ Yeomanry, followers. f See page 90, 95 | Now Little John he is a begging gone, Seeking for some relief ; But of all the beggers he met on the way, 26 Little John he was the chief. But as he was walking himself alone, Four beggers he chanced to spy, Some deaf, and some blind, and some came behind; Sayes John, Heres a brave company. 25 Good-morrow, said John, my brethren dear, Good fortune I had you to see ; Which way do you go? pray let me know, For I want some company. O! what is here to do? then said Little John : 30 Why ring all these bells ? said he; What dog is a hanging ? Come, let us be ganging ¢, That we the truth may see. Here is no dog a hanging, then one of them said, Good fellow, we tell unto thee ; 35 But here is one dead, that will give us cheese and And it may be one single penny. [ bread, We have brethren in London, another he said, So have we in Coventry, In Barwick and Dover, and all the world over, 40 But ne’er a crookt carril » like thee. Therefore stand thee back, thou crooked carél 5, And take that knock on the crown. Nay, said Little John, Ile not yet be gone, For a bout will I have of you round, 45 Now have at you all, then said Little John, If you be so full of your blows ; Fight on all four, and nere give ore, Whether you be friends or foes. John nipped the dumb, and made him to rere, 50 And the blind ‘he made to’ see ; And he that a cripple had been seven years, He made run then faster than he. And flinging them all against the wall, With many a sturdie bang, It made John sing, to hear the gold ring, Which again the walls cryed twang. qr a I Then he got out of the beggers cloak Three hundred pound in gold ; Good fortune had I, then said Little John, Such a good sight to behold. 60 But what found he in the beggar’s bag But three hundred pound and three ? “Tf I drink water while this doth last, Then an ill death may I dye. 65 And my begging trade I will now give ore, My fortune hath bin so good 5, Therefore De not stay, but I will away, To the forrest of merry Sherwood.” And when to the forrest of Sherwood he eame, 70 He quickly there did see , His master good, bold Robin Hood, And all his company. Various Reapines.—V. 51. that could not. h Carl, old fellow, See page 59. € Going. . $9 3b What news? What news ? then said Robin Hood, Come, Little John, tell unto me ; 79 How hast thou sped with thy beggers trade ? For that I fain would see. No news but good, said Little John, With begging ful wel I have sped ; Six hundred and three I have here for thee, In silver and gold so red. ‘Then’ Robin Hood took Little John by the hand, And danced about the oak tree : « Tf we drink water while this doth last, Then an il death may we die.” 80 85 So to conclude my merry new song, All you that delight it to sing ; *Tis of Robin Hood, that archer good, And how Little John went a begging. ROBIN HOOD AND THE RANGER; OR, TRUE FRIENDSHIP AFTER A FIERCE FIGHT. No ancient copy of this ballad having been met with, it is given from an edition of “Robin Hoods Garland,” printed some years since at York. The tune is ** Arthur a Bland.’ WueEn Phoebus had melted the ‘ sickles’ of ice, With a hey down, &c. And likewise the mountains of snow, Bold Robin Hood he would ramble away, To frolick abroad with his bow. 5 He left all his merry men waiting behind, Whilst through the green vallies he pass’d, Where he did behold a forester bold, Who cry’d out, Friend, whither so fast ? I am going, quoth Robin, to killa fat buck, 10 For me and my merry men all; Besides, ere I go, I’ have a fat doe, Or else it shall cost me a fall. You’d best have a care, said the forester then, For these are his majesty’s deer ; 15 Before you shall shoot, the thing I’ll dispute, For I am head forester here. These thirteen long summers, quoth Robin, U’m My arrows I here have let fly, [sure, Where freely I range ; methinks it is strange 20 You should have more power than I. This forest, quoth Robin, I think is my own, And so are the nimble deer too ; Therefore I declare, and solemnly swear, I’ll not be affronted by you. Lo a) The forester he had a long quarter staf?, Likewise a broad sword by his side ; Without more ado, he presently drew, Declaring the truth should be try’d. Bold Robin Hood had a sword of the best, 30 Thus, ere he would take any wrong, His courage was flush, he’d venture a brush, And thus they fell to it ding dong. 190 ROBIN HOOD. The very first blow that the forester gave, | _ He made his broad weapon cry twang ; *T was over the head, he fell down for dead, O that was a damnable bang ! | But Robin he soon recovered himself, And bravely fell to it again ; The very next stroke their weapons they broke, 40 Yet never a man there was slain. At quarter staff then they resolved to play, Because they would have the other bout ; And brave Robin Hood right valiantly stood, Unwilling he was to give out. 45 Bold Robin he gave him very hard blows, The other return’d them as fast ; At every stroke their jackets did smoke ; Three hours the combat did last. At length in a rage the forester grew, - 50 And cudgel’d bold Robin so sore, That he could not stand, so shaking his hand, He ery’d, Let us freely give o’er. | Thou art a brave fellow, I needs must confess T never knew any so good ; £3 Thou art fitting to be a yeoman for me, And range in the merry green wood. I’ll give thee this ring as a token of love, For bravely thou hast acted thy part ; That man that can fight, in him I delight, | And love him with all my whole heart. 69 Robin Hood set his bugle horn to his mouth, A blast then he merrily blows ; His yeomen did hear, and strait did appear, A hundred with trusty long bows. 65 Now Little John came at the head of them all, Cloath’d in a rich mantle of green ; And likewise the rest were gloriously drest, A delicate sight to be seen ! Lo! these are my yeomen, said bold Robin Hood, 70 And thou shalt be one of the train ; A mantle and bow, and quiver also, I give them whom I entertain. The forester willingly enter’d the list, They were such a beautiful sight 5 7 Then with a long bow they shot a fat doe, And made a rich supper that night. Ga What singing and dancing was in the green wood, For joy of another new mate ! With might and delight they spent all the night, 30 And liv’d at a plentiful rate. The forester ne’er was so merry before, As then he was with these brave souls, Who never would fail, in wine, beer, or ale, To take off their cherishing bowls. 85 Then Robin Hood gave him a mantle of green, Broad arrows, and curious long bow : This done, the next day, so gallant and gay, He marched them all on a row. Quoth he, My brave yeomen,be trueto yourtrust, 9C And then we may range the woods wide. They all did declare, and solemnly swear, They would conquer, or die by his side. XXI. ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN: ** Being an account of their first meeting, their fierce encounter, and conquest. To which is added, their friendly agreement; and how he came to be called Little John. Tune of, Arthur a Bland.” This ballad is named in a schedule of such things under an agreement between W. Thackeray and otuers in 1689, (Col. Pepys, vol. 5.) but is here given as corrected from a copy in the ‘‘ Collection of Old Ballads,” 1723. WueEn Robin Hood was about twenty years old, With a hey down, down, and a down ; He happen’d to meet Little John, A jolly brisk blade, right fit for the trade, For he was a lusty young man. 5 Tho’ he was call’d Little, his limbs they were large, And his stature was seven foot high ; Whereever he came, they quak’d at his name, For soon he would make them to fly. How they came acquainted, I’ll tell you in brief, 10 If you would but listen awhile ; For this very jest, among all the rest, { think it may cause you to smile. For Robin Hood said to his jolly bowmen, Pray tarry you here in this grove ; And see that you all observe well my call, While thorough the forest I rove. 15 We have had no sport for these fourteen long days, Therefore now abroad will I go ; Now should I be beat, and cannot retreat, My horn I will presently blow. 20 Then did he shake hands with his merry men all, And bid them at present good b’ w’ye : Then, as near the brook his journey he took, A stranger he chane’d to espy. 25 They happen’d to meet on a long narrow bridge, And neither of them would give way ; Quoth bold Robin Hood, and sturdily stood, I'll shew you right Nottingham play. With that from his quiver an arrow he drew, 30 A broad arrow with a goose-wing. The stranger reply’d, I’ll liquor thy hide, If thou offer to touch the string. Quoth bold Robin Hood, Thou dost prate like an For were I to bend but my bow, _[ass, 35 I could send a dart, quite thro’ thy proud heart, Before thou could’st strike me one blow. Thou talk’st like a coward, the stranger reply’d ; Well arm’d with a long bow you stand, ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN. 97 Then Robin Hood stept to a thicket of trees, And chose him a staff of ground oak ; Now this being done, away he did run To the stranger, and merrily spoke: Cir ei Lo! see my staff is lusty and tough, Now here on the bridge we will play ; Whoever falls in, the other shall win The battle, and so we'll away. With all my whole heart, the stranger reply’d, I scorn in the least to give out ; 5d This said, they fell to’t without more dispute, And their staffs they did flourish about. At first Robin he gave the stranger a bang, So hard that he made his bones ring : The stranger he said, This must be repaid, [ll give you as good as you bring. 64} So long as I am able to handle a staff, To die in your debt, friend, I scorn. Then to it each goes, and follow’d their blows, As if they’d been threshing of corn. 65 The stranger gave Robin a crack on the crown, Which caused the blood to appear ; Then Robin enrag’d, more fiercely engag’d, And follow’d his blows more severe. bas S So thick and so fast did he lay it on him, With a passionate fury and ire ; At every stroke he made him to smoke, As if he had been all on fire. O then into fury the stranger he grew, And gave him a damnable look, And with it a blow that laid him full low, And tumbl’d him into the brook. “J a I prithee, guod fellow, o where art thou now ? Phe stranger, in laughter, he cry’d. Quoth bold Robin Hood, Good faith, in the flood, $6 And floating along with the tide. I needs must acknowledge thou art a brave soul, With thee I’ll no longer contend ; For needs must I say, thou hast got the day, Our battel shall be at an end. 85 Then unto the bank he did presently wade, And pull’d himself out by a thorn ; Which done, at the last he blow’d a loud blast Straitway on his fine bugle-horn : The eccho of which through the vallies did fly, 90 At which his stout bowmen appear’d, All cloathed in green, most gay to be seen, So up to their master they steer’d. O, what’s the matter ? quoth William Stutely, ‘Good master you are wet to the skin. 95 To shoot at my breast, while I, I protest, 40 | No matter, quoth he, the lad which you see Have nought but a staff in my hand. In fighting hath tumbl’d me in. The name of a coward, quoth Robin, I scorn, He shall not go scot-free, the others reply’d ; Therefore my long bow [’ll lay hy ; So strait they were seizing him there, And now, for thy sake, a staff will I take, To duck him likewise: but Robin Hood cries, 100 The truth of thy manhocd to try. 45 He is a stout fellow ; forbear. Vor, IL. 101 i ne — actin emaerieieia dee cement eames mente tesdee. its caer aieiaeeeelecmmennen ae auediemetines eae 98 - There’s no one shall wrong thee, friend, be not These bowmen upon me do wait ; {afraid ; There’s threescore and nine; if thou wilt be mine, Thou shalt have my livery strait, 105 And other accoutrements fit for a man : Speak up jolly blade, never fear. I'll teach you also the use of the bow, To shoot at the fat fallow deer. O, here is my hand, the stranger reply’d 110 I’ll serve you with all my whole heart 5 My name is John Little, a man of good mettle: Ne’re doubt me, for Ill play my part. His name shall be alter’d quoth William Stutely, And I will his godfather be ; 115 Prepare then a feast, and none of the least For we will be merry, quoth he. They presently fetch’d him a brace of fat does, With humming strong liquor likewise ; They lov’d what was good; so,inthe green wood, 120 This pretty sweet babe they baptize. He was, I must tell you, but seven foot high, And, may be, an ell in the waste ; A sweet pretty lad: much feasting they had ; Bold Robin the christ’ning grac’d, 125 With all his bowmen, which stood in a ring, And were of the Nottingham breed ; Brave Stutely came then, with seven yeomen, And did in this manner proceed : This infant was called John Little, quoth he; 130 Which name shall be changed anon : The words we'll transpose ; so wherever he goes, His name shall be call’d Little John. They all with a shout made the elements ring ; So soon as the office was ore, 135 To feasting they went, with true merriment, And tippl’d strong liquor gillore’. Then Robin he took the pretty sweet babe, And eloath’d him from top to the toe, In garments of green, most gay to be seen, And gave him a curious long bow. i40 s Thou shalt be an archer as well as the best, And range in the green wood with us ; Where we'll not want gold nor silver, behold, While bishops have ought in their purse. 145 We live here like ’squires, or lords of renown, Without ere a foot of free land ; We feast on good cheer, with wine, ale and beer, And ev’ry thing at our command.” Then musick and dancing did finish the day ; 150 At length, when the sun waxed low, Then all the whole train the grove did refrain, And unto their caves they did go. And so ever after, as long as he liv’d, Altho’ he was proper and tall, 155 Yet, nevertheless, the truth to express, Still Little John they did him call. Plenty. 102 ROBIN HOOD. | Barnsdale.” mr LT XXII. ROBIN HOOD AND THE BISHOP OF HEREFORD. This excellent ballad, given from the common edition of Aldermary-church-yard, (compared with the York copy,) is supposed to be modern: thestory, however, seems alluded to in the ballad of ‘Renowned Robin Hood.” The full title is «‘ The bishop of Herefords enter- tainment by Robin Hood and Little John, &c. in merry The tune is added from an engraved sheet, PLIN Some they will talk of bold Robin Hood, And. some of barons bold ; But I'll tell you how heserv’d the bishop of Here- When he robb’d him of his gold. [ford, As it befel in merry Barnsdale, 3D ‘ All’ under the green-wood-tree, The bishop of Hereford was to come by, With all his company. Come, kill [me] a ven’son, said bold Robin Hood, Come, kill me a good fat deer, 1G The bishop of Hereford is to dine with me to-day, And he shall pay well for his cheer. We'll kill a fat ven’son, said bold Robin Hood, And dress it by the highway side ; And we will watch the bishop narrowly, Lest some other way he should ride. Robin Hood dress’d himself in shepherd’s attire, With six of his men alsé ; And, when the bishop of Hereford came by, They about the fire did go. 26; O what is the matter? then said the bishop, Or for whom do you make this a-do ? Or why do you kill the king’s ven’son, When your company is so few ? We are shepherds, said bold Robin Hood, 25 And we keep sheep all the year, And we are disposed to be merry this day, And to kill of the king’s fat deer. You are brave fellows ! said the bishop, And the king of your doings shall know : 36 Therefore make haste, and come along with me, For before the king you shall go. O pardon, O pardon, said bold Robin Hood, O pardon, I thee pray! For it becomes not your lordships coat To take so many tives away. 350 No pardon, no pardon, said the bishop, No pardon J thee owe ; Therefore make haste, and come along with me, For before the king you shall go. 40 Then Robin set his back against a tree, And his foot against a thorn, And from underneath his shepherds coat He pull’d out a bugle horn. Ne ROBIN HOOD RESCUING THE WIDOWS SONS. 39 He put the little end to his mouth, 45 And a loud blast did he blow, Till threescore azd ten of bold Robin’s men Came running all on a row : All making obeysance to bold Robin Hood ; *Twas a comely sight for to see. 5¢ What is the matter, master, said Little John, That you blow so hastily ? “ O here is the bishop of Hereford, And no pardon we shall have.” Cut off his head, master, said Little John, 55 And throw him into his graye. O pardon, O pardon, said the bishdp, O pardon I thee pray ; For if I had known it had been you, I’d have gone some other way. 60 No pardon, no pardon, said bold Robin Hood, No pardon I thee owe ; Therefore make haste, and come along with me, For to merry Barnsdale you shall go. Then Robin he took the bishop by the hand, 65 And led him to merry Barnsdale ; He made him to stay and sup with him that night, And to drink wine, beer, and ale. Call in a reckoning, said the bishop, For methinks it grows wond’rous high. 70 Lend me your purse, master, said Little John, And I’ll tell you bye and bye. Then Little John took the bishop's cloak, And spread it upon the ground, And out of the bishop’s portmantua He told three hundred pound. “I Gr Here’s money enough, master, said Little John, And a comely sight ’tis to see ; It makes me in charity with the bishop, Tho’ he heartily loveth not me. 80 Robin Hood took the bishop by the hand, And he caused the music to play ; And he made the [old] bishop to dance in his boots, And glad he could so get away. 1@3 XXITI. ROBIN HOOD RESCUING THE WIDOWS THREE SONS FROM THE SHERIFF, WHEN GOING TO BE EXECUTED. This ballad, from the York edition of “Robin Hoods garland,” is probably one of the oldest extant of which he is the subject. In the more common editions isa modern- ised copy, in which the “ silly old woman” is converted in ‘“‘a gay lady;” but even this is more ancient than many of the pieces here inserted, and is intitled by its merit to a place in the appendix. THERE are twelve months in all the year, As I hear many say, But the merriest month in all the year Is the merry month of May. Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, 3 With a link a down, and a day, And there he met a silly* old woman, Was weeping on the way. “ What news ? what news ? thou silly old woman, What news hast thou for me 2”’ 10 Saidshe, There’s three squires in Nottingham town, To-day ‘ are’ condemned to die. | Oh, have they parishes burnt ? he said, Or have they ministers slain, Or have they robbed any virgin, 15 Or with other men’s wives have lain ? “ They have no parishes burnt, good sir, Nor yet have ministers slain, Nor have they robbed any virgin, Nor with other men’s wives have lain.” 20 Oh, what have they done ? said Robin Hood, I pray thee tell to me. “ It’s for slaying of the king’s fallow deer, Bearing their long bows with thee.” Dost thou not mind, old woman, he said, 25 Since thou made me sup and dine? By the truth of my body, quoth bold Robin Hood, You could not tell it in better time. Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, With a link, a down, and a ‘ day,’ 30 And there he met with a silly old palmer’, Was walking along the highway. “ What news? what news ? thou silly old man, What news, I do thee pray ?”’ Said he, Three squires in Nottingham town, 35 Are condemn’d to die this day. ** Come change thy apparel with me, old man, Come change thy apparel for mine ; Here is forty shillings in good silvér, Go drink it in beer or wine.” 40 Various Reapines.—V.12.is. V. 30. down a. k This werd is here used in a good sense, and does not mean that the woman was foolish. Its true meaning may be best. gathered from its application to holy men, who were by their nature unsuspicious; it indicates a combi- nation of virtue and simplicity. See Skinner, Jamieson, and Richardson’s Die.—Ep. i See page 90. H2 15a Sc a Tn 100 ROBIN Oh, thine apparel is good, he said, I’ve a bag fox meal, and a bag for malt, And mine is ragged and torn ; Whereever you go, wherever you ride, Laugh ne’er an old man to scorn. ‘‘ Come change thy apparel with me, old churl, 45 Come change thy apparel with mine ; Here are twenty pieces of good broad gold, Go feast thy brethren with wine.”’ Then he put on the old man’s hat, It stood full high on the crown : “ The first bold bargain that I come at, It shall make thee come. down.”’ 50 Then he put on the old man’s cloak, Was patch’d black, blew, and red ; He thought it no shame, all the day long, 5 To wear the bags of bread. or Then he put on the old man’s breeks, Was patch’d from ballup ™ to side : By the truth of my body, bold Robin can say, This man lov’d little pride. 60 Then he put on the old man’s hose, Were patch’d from knee to wrist": By the truth of my body, said bold Robin Hood, I’d laugh if I had any list. Then he put on the old man’s shoes, Were patch’d both beneath and aboon ; Then Robin Hood swore a solemn oath, It’s good habit that makes a man. (=>) OQ Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, With a link a down and a down, And there he met with the proud sheriff, Was walking along the town. 70 Oh ‘ Christ you’ save, oh, sheriff, he said, Oh ¢ Christ you save and see°®;’ And what will you give to a silly old man To-day will your hangman be ? 75 Some suits, some suits, the sheriff he said, Some suits I’ll give to thee ; Some suits, some suits, and pence thirteen, To-day’s a hangman’s fee. 80 Then Robin he turns him round about, And jumps from stock to stone : By the truth of my body, the sheriffe he said, That’s well jumpt, thou nimble old man. I was ne’er a hangman in all my life, 85 Nor yet intends to trade ; But curst be he, said bold Robin, That first a hangman was made. Various REAviINGs.— VV. 73, 74. Oh save, oh save, oh sheriff he said, Oh save and you may see. — m Flap. n This substitution of the wrist for the ancle is quite illegitimate, and is used solely for the rhyme. The wrist, is that joint which wrests or twists, i.e. the junction of the hand and arm, and the term is inapplicable to any other.—Eb. © Regard, protect. | HOOD. And a bag for barley and corn ; A bag for bread, and a bag for beef, And a bag for my little small horn. 90 I have a horn in my pocket, I got it from Robin Hood, And still when I set it to my mouth, For ‘thee’ it blows little good. 95 “Oh, wind thy horn, thou proud felldw, Of thee I have no doubt : I wish that thou give such a blast, Till both thy eyes fall out.” 100 The first loud blast that he did blow, He blew both loud and shrill ; A hundred and fifty of Robin Hood’s men Came riding over the hili. The next loud blast that he did give, He blew both loud and amain, And quickly sixty of Robin Hood’s men Came shining over the plain. Oh, who are ‘those,’ the sheriff he said, Come tripping over the lee ? 110 'They’re my attendants, brave Robin did say, They'll pay a visit to thee. They took the gallows from the slack?, They set it in the glen 4, They hang’d the proud sheriff on that, Releas’d their own three men. 115 AALY: ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN. This ballad, which has never been inserted in any of the publications intitled ‘*‘ Robin Hood’s garland,” (and, per- haps, was not worth inserting here,) is given from an old black letter copy in the collection of Anthony 4 Wood. Its full titleis, ** A famous battle between Robin Hood and maid Marian; declaring their love, life, and liberty. Tune, Robin Hood reviv’d.” A sonny fine maid of a noble degree, With a hey down, down, a down, down, Maid Marian call’d by name, Did live in the North, of excellent worth, For shee was a gallant dame. Yor favour and face, and beauty most rare, 5) Queen Hellen shee did excell : For Marian then was prais’d of all men, That did in the country dwell. ’T was neither Rosamond nor Jane Shore, Whose beauty was clear and bright, That could surpass this country lass, Beloved of lord and knight. 10 Various READING.— PV. 96. me. a sas P Low grounde q Valley. 104 ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN, &ce. The earl of Huntington, nobly born, That came of noble blood, Te Marian went, with a good intent, 15 By the name of Robin Hood. With kisses sweet their red lips did meet, For she and the earl did agree ; In every place, they kindly embrace, With love and sweet unity. 20 But fortune bearing these lovers a spight, That soon they were forced to part : To the merry green wood then went Robin Hood, With a sad and sorrowfull heart. And Marian, poor soul, was troubled in mind, 25 For the absence of her friend ; With finger in eye, shee often did ery, And his person did much comend. Perplexed and vexed, and troubled in mind, Shee drest herself like a page, 30 And ranged the wood, to find Robin Hood, The bravest of men in that age. With quiver and bow, sword, buckler, and all, Thus armed was Marian most bold, Still wandering about, to find Robin out, 35 Whose person was better then gold. But Robin Hood, hee himself had disguis’d, And Marian was strangly attir’d, That they prov’d foes, and so fell to blowes, Whose vallour bold Robin admir’d. 40 They drew out their swords, and to cutting they At least an hour or more, [ went, That the blood ran apace from bold Robins face, And Marian was wounded sore. O hold thy hand, hold thy hand, said Robin Hood, And thou shalt be one of my string, 46 To range in the wood, with bold Robin Hood, To hear the sweet nightingall sing. When Marian did hear the voice of her love, Her self shee did quickly discover, 50 And with kisses sweet she did him greet, Like to a most loyall lover. When bold Robin Hood his Marian did see, Good lord, what clipping was there ! With kind embraces, and jobbing® of faces, 55 Providing of gallant cheer. For Little John took his bow in his hand, And ¢ wandred’ in the wood, To kill the deer, and make good chear, For Marian and Robin Hood. G0 A stately banquet ‘ they’ had full soon, All in a shaded bower, Where venison sweet they had to eat, And were merry that present hour. Various READING.—V. 58. wandring. t To job, is literally to strike (‘to pecke and Job with their beaks.”—Holland. “Pecking and jobbing at the fruit.”—Worth,) a usage still common in vulgar speech,— Richardson’s Dic. Were we may interpret it as « billing and cooing.”—Ep, 101 Great flaggons of wine were set on the board, 65 And merrily they drunk round Their boules of sack, to strengthen the back, Whilst their knees did touch the ground. First Robin Hood began a health To Marian his onely dear ; 70 And his yeomen all, both comly and tall, Did quickly bring up the rear : For in a brave venie * they tost off the bouls, Whilst thus they did remain ; And every cup, as they drunk up, They filled with speed again. <3 Or At last they ended their merryment, And went to walk in the wood, Where little John, and maid Marian, Attended on bold Robin Hood. 80 In sollid content together they liv’d, With all their yeomen gay ; They liv’d by ‘ their’ hands, without any lands, And so they did many a day. But now to conclude an end I will make, 85 Tn time as I think it good ; For the people that dwell in the North can tell Of Marian and bold Robin Hood. XXV. THE KING’S DISGUISE, AND FRIEND- SHIP WITH ROBIN HOOD, from the common collection of Aldermary-church-yard, seems to be taken from the old legend in part I. page 59 ; and to have been written by some miserable retainer to the press, merely to eke out the book; being, in fact, a most contemptible performance, The two concluding lines (the same with those of the next ballad) refer to song X XVII. which they have once immediately preceded. Kine Richard hearing of the pranks Of Robin Hood and his men, He much admir’d, and more desired To see both him and them. Then with a dozen of his lords, & To Nottingham he rode; When he came there, he made good cheer, And took up his abode. He having staid there some time, But had no hopes to speed, 10 He and his lords, with one accord, All put on monk’s weeds. From Fountain-abbey they did ride, Down to Barnsdale ; Where Robin Hood prepared stood 15 All company to assail. The king was higher than the rest, And Robin thought he had An abbot been whom he had seen, To rob him he was glad. 20 He took the king’s horse by the head, Abbot, says he, abide ; I am bound to rue such knaves as you, That live in pomp and pride. But we are messengers from the king, The king himself did say ; Near to this place his royal grace To speak with thee does stay. God save the king, said Robin Hood, And all that wish him well ; He that does deny his sovereignty, I wish he was in hell. Thyself thou cursedst, says the king, For thou a traitor art. “ Nay, but that you are his messenger, I swear you lie in heart. For I never yet hurt any man That honest is and true ; But those who give their minds to live | Upon other mens due. I never hurt the ‘ husbandmen,’ That use to till the ground : Nor spill their blood who range the wood, To follow hawk or hound. My chiefest spite to clergy is, Who in these days bear great sway ; 102 ROBIN HOOD. Bit) Qo or 4) 45 With fryars and monks, with their fine sprunks *, I make my chiefest prey.” But I am very glad, says Robin Hood, That I have met you here ; Come, before we end, you shall, my friend, Taste of our green-wood cheer. The king he then did marvel much, And so did all his men ; They thought with fear, what kind of cheer, Robin would provide for them. Robin took the king’s horse by the head And led him to his tent: Thou wouldst not be so us’d, quoth he, But that my king thee sent. Nay, more than that, quoth Robin Hood, For good king Richard’s sake, If you had as much gold as ever I told, I would not one penny take. Then Robin set his horn to his mouth And a loud blast he did blow, ’Till a hundred and ten of Robin Hood’s men, Came marching all of a row. And when they came bold Robin before, Each man did bend his knee : O, thought the king, ’tis a gallant thing, And a seemly sight to see. Within himself the king did say, These men of Robin Hood’s More humble be than mine to me ; So the court may learn of the woods. t Qy. 50 on ou 60 ~T ur So then they all to dinner went, Upon a carpet green ; Black, yellow, red, finely mingléed, Most curious to be seen. 89 Venison and fowls were plenty there, With fish out of the river: King Richard swore, on sea or shore, He never was feasted better. Then Robin takes a cann of ale : 83 ** Come, let us now begin ; And every man shall have his cann : Here’s a health unto the king.” The king himself drank to the king, So round about it went ; 90 Two barrels of ale, both stout and stale, To pledge that health was spent. And, after that, a bowl of wine In his hand took Robin Hood ; Until I die, Vil drink wine, said he, While I live in the green wood. CF or Bend all your bows, said Robin Hood, And with the grey goose-wing, Such sport now show, as you would do In the presence of the king. 100 They shewed such brave archery, By cleaving sticks and wands, That the king did say, such men as they Live not in many lands. Well, Robin Hood, then says the king, 165 If I could thy pardon get, To serve the king in every thing Would’st thou thy mind firm set ? Yes, ¢ with all’ my heart, bold Robin said, So they flung off their hoods, 110 To serve the king in every thing, They swore they would spend their ‘ bloods.’ For a clergyman was first my bane, Which makes me hate them all, But if you will be so kind to me, 115 Love them again I shall. The king no longer could forbear, For he was mov’d with ¢ ruth u.” x * % * * * * ¥ % oe “I am the king, ‘ your’ sovereign king, That appears before you all.’’ 120 When Robin saw that it was he, Strait then he down did fall. Stand up again, then said the king, Ill thee thy pardon give ; Stand up my friend, who can contend, 125 When I give leave to live ? So they are all gone to Nottingham, All shouting as they came : But when the people them did see, They thought the king was slain ; 130 u Pity, compassion. SS eee ROBIN HOOD AND THE GOLDEN ARROW. And for that cause the outlaws were come, To rule all as they list ; And for to shun, which ‘ way’ to run, The people did not wist. The plowman left the plow in the fields, 139 The smith ran from his shop ; Old folks also, that scarce could go, Over their sticks did hop. The king soon did let them understand He had been in the green-wood, And from that day, for evermore, He’d forgiven Robin Hood. 140 Then [when] the people they did hear, And [that] the truth was known, They all did sing, God save the king! Hang care, the town’s our own ! 145 What’s that Robin Hood? then said the sheriff, That varlet I do hate ; Both me and mine he caused to dine, And serv’d us all with one plate. 150 Ho, ho, said Robin Hood, I know what you mean, Come, take your gold again ; Be friends with me, and I with thee, - And so with every man. Now, master sheriff, you are paid, 135 | And since you are beginner, As well as you give me my due, | So unto London road he past, His losses to unfold To king Richard, who did regard The tale that he had told. Why, quoth the king, what shall I do ? Art thou not sheriff for me ? The law is in force, to take thy course Of them that injure thee. Go get thee gone, and by thyself Devise some tricking game, For to enthral yon rebels all, Go take thy course with them. So away the sheriff he return’d, And by the way he thought Of th’ words of the king, and how the thing To pass might well be brought. For within his mind he imagined, That when such matches were, Those outlaws stout, without all doubt, Would be the bowmen there. So an arrow with a golden head, And shaft of silyer- white, Who on the day should bear away For his own proper right. Tidings came to bold Robin Hood, For you ne’er paid for that dinner. aE ca i nder the greeny Rata pa ome prepare you then, my merry men, But if ¢ that it’ should please the king, We'll go yon sport to see.”’ So much your house to grace, 160 ; To sup with you, for, to speak true, With that stept forth a brave young man, [1] know you ne’er was base. | _ David of Doncaster, | Master, said he, be rul’d by me, The sheriff [this] could not gainsay, From the green wood we'll not stir. For a trick was put upon him ; A supper was drest, the king was a guest, 165 | To tell the truth, I’m well inform’d, But he thought ’twould have outdone * him. They are all gone to London court, Robin Hood, with all his train ; He once was there a noble peer, And now he’s there again. 170 Many such pranks brave Robin play’d, While he liv’d in the green wood: Now, my friend, attend, and hear an end Of honest Robin Hood. XXVI. ROBIN HOOD AND THE GOLDEN ARROW. A composition of a similar nature with the preceding ; and from the same authority. Wuen as the sheriff of Nottingham Was come with mickle grief, He talk’d no good of Robin Hood, That strong and sturdy thief. Fal la dal de. x Undone. Yon match it is a wile ; The sheriff, I wiss, devises this Us archers to beguile. Thou smells of a coward, said Robin Hood, Thy words do not please me ; Come on’t what will, Pll try my skill, At yon brave archery. O then bespoke brave Little John, Come let us thither gang ; Come listen to me, how it shall be, That we need not be ken’d. Our mantles all of Lincoln-green Behind us we will leave ; We'll dress us all so several, They shall not us perceive. One shall wear white, another red, One yellow, another blue ; Thus in disguise, ‘ to’ the exercise We'll gang, whate’er insue. Forth from the green wood they are gone, With hearts all firm and stout, Resolving [then] with the sheriff’s mer To have a hearty bout. 107 10 13 20 ie) qu 43 qn cat 69 | $o themselves they mixed with the rest, To prevent all suspicion ; | For if they should together hold They thought it no ) discretion. So the sheriff looking round about, 65 Amongst eight hundred men, But could not see the sight that he, Had long suspected then. Some said, if Robin Hood was here, And all his men to boot, Sare none of them could pass these men, So bravely they do shoot. 70 Ay, quoth the sheriff, and seratch’d his head, I thought he would have been here ; ae thought he would, but tho’ he’s bold, 75 He durst not now appear. © that word griev’d Robin Hood to the heart, He vexed in his blood ; _ Ere long, thought he, thou shalt well see | That here was Robin Hood. 80 | Sorne cried, Blue jacket ! another cried, Brown ! And a third er ied, Brave yellow ! But the fourth man ‘said, Yon man in red In this place has no fellow. le.9) i) | For that was Robin Hood himself, For he was cloath’d in red ; _ At every shot the prize he got, For he was both sure and dead. So the arrow with the golden head, And shaft of silver-white, Brave Robin Hood won, and bore with him, For his own proper right. 90 These outlaws there, that very day, ‘fo shun all kinds of doubt, By three or four, no less nor more, “As they went in came out. | Wntil they all assembled were Under the eS -wood shade, Where they ‘ report,’ in pleasant sport, What brave pastime they made. 100 Says Robin Hood, all my eare is, How that yon sheriff may | Xnow certainly that it was I That bore his arrow away. Says Little John, My counsel good Did take effect before, So therefore now, if you’ll allow, I will advise once more. Speak on, speak on, said Robin Hood, Thy wit’s both quick and sound, * * * * * oe * 110 * *k * That a letter shall be penn’d, And when it is done, to Nottingham | | This I advise, said Little John, | You to the sheriff shall send. sbi ihe Masami osest amaha HOOD. That is well Wabieas said Robin Hood, But how must it be sent 2 “ Pugh ! when you please, ’tis done with ease ; Master, be you content. I'll stick it on my arrow’s head, And shoot it into the town ; The mark must show where i it must go, Whenever it lights down.” The project it was well perform’d, The sheriff that letter had, Which when he read, he : d his head, And rav’d like one ‘that’s $s mad. So we’ll leave him chafing in ‘his’ grease, Which will do him no good : Now, my friends, attend, and hear the end Of honest Robin Hood. XXVII. ROBIN HOOD AND THE VALIANT KNIGHT. ** Together with an account of his death and burizy,. &ec. Tune of Robin Hood and the fifteen foresters.” From the common garland of Aldermary-church-yard ; cor- rected by the York copy. ARPA WueEn Robin Hood, and his merry men all, “Derry down, down, Had reigned many years, The king was then told that they had been held To his bishops and noble peers. Hey down, derry, derry down. yt Therefore they called a council of state, To know what was best to be done, For to quell their pride, or else they reply’d The land would be over-run. Having consulted a whole summer’s day, At length it was agreed, That one should be sent to try the event, And fetch him away with speed. 10 | Therefore a trus sty and most worthy knight The king was pleased to call, Sir William by name ; when to him he came, i He told him his pleasure all. Ge “ Go you from hence to bold Robin Hood, And bid him, without more ado, Surrender himself, or else the proud elf Shall suffer with ail his crew. Take here a hundred bowmen brave, All chosen men of great might, Of excellent art to take thy part, In glittering armour most bright.” Then said the knight, My sovereign liege, 25 By me they shall be led ; ll venture my blood against bold Robin Hood And bring him alive or dead. ROBIN HOODS DEATH AND BURIAL. One hundred men were chosen straight, As proper as e’er men saw : On Midsummer-day they marched away, To conguer that brave outlaw. 30 With long yew bows, and shining spears, They march’d with mickle pride, And never delay’d, nor halted, nor stay’d Till they came to the green-wood side. 35 Said he to his archers, Tarry here, Your bows make ready all, That if need should be, you may follow me, And see you observe my call. 40 Tl go first in person, he cry’d, With the letters of my good king, Well sign’d and seal’d, and if he will yield, We need not to draw one string. He wander’d about till at length he came 45 To the tent of Robin Hood ; The letter he shows ; bold Robin arose, And there on his guard he stood. They’d have me surrender, quoth bold Robin Hood, And lie at their mercy then ; 50 But tell them from me, that never shall be, While I have full seven score men. Sir William the knight, both hardy and bold, He offer’d to seize him there, Which William Locksley by fortune did see, And bid him that trick to forbear. Then Robin Hood set his horn to his mouth, And blew a blast or twain, And so did the knight, at which there in sight The archers came all amain. 60 Sir William with care he drew up his men, And plac’d them in battle array ; - Bold Robin, we find, he was not behind: Now this was a bloody fray. The archers on both sides bent their bows, And the clouds of arrows flew ; The very first flight that honour’d knight Did there bid the world adieu. Yet nevertheless their fight did last From morning till almost noon ; Both parties were stout and loth to give out, ‘This was on the last day of June. #) At length they left off: one party they went To London with right good will ; And Robin Hood he to the green-wood tree, And there he was taken ill. He sent for a monk, to let him blood, Who took. his life away : Now this being done, his archers they run, It was not a time to stay. Some got on board, and cross’d the seas, To Flanders, France, and Spain, And others to Rome, for fear of their doom, But soon return’d again, 80° XXVIII. ROBIN HOOD’S DEATH AND BURIAL: *¢ Shewing how he was taken ill, and how he went to his cousin at Kirkley-hall, who let him blood, which was the cause of his death. Tune of Robin Hoods last farewel, é&e,”” This very old and curious piece is preserved solely in the editions of ** Robin Hood’s garland,” printed at York, where it is made to conclude with some foolish lines, (adopted from the London copy of the preceding ballad, ) in order to introduce the epitaph. It is here given from a collation of two different copies, containing numerous variations, a few of which are retained in the margin. WueEn Robin Hood and Little John, Down a down, a down, a down, Went o’er yon bank of broom, Said Robin Hood to Little John, We have shot for many a pound : Hey down, a down, a down. But I am not able to shoot one shot more, 5 My arrows will not flee ; But I have a cousin lives down below, Please god, she will bleed me. Now Robin is to fair Kirkley gone, As fast as he can win 5 But before he came there, as we do hear, He was taken very ill. 19 And when that he came to fair Kirkley-hall, He knock’d all at the ring, But none was so ready as his cousin herself For to let bold Robin in. Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin, she said, And drink some beer with me ? “ No, I will neither eat nor drink, Till I am blooded by thee.” 26 Well, I have a room, cousin Robin, she said, Which you did never see, And if you please to walk therein, You blooded by me shall be. She took him by the lilly-white hand, 25 And let him to a private room, And there she blooded bold Robin Hood, Whilst one drop of blood would run. She blooded him in the vein of the arm, And locked him up in the room ; There did he bleed all the live-long day, Untill the next day at noon. 30 He then bethought him of a casement door, Thinking for to be gone, He was so weak he could not leap, Nor he could not get down. 35 He then bethought him of his bugle-horn, Which hung low down to his knee, He set his horn unto his mouth, And blew out weak blasts three. 40 Various REApines.—V. 20. Till I blood letted be. V. 24. You blood shall ietted be. V. 34, get down. 106 ROBIN HOOD. Then Little Jonn, when hearing him, As he sat under the tree, « J fear my master is near dead, He blows so wearily.” Then Little John to fair Kirkley is gone, 45 As fast as he ean dree ; But when he came to Kirkley-hall, He broke locks two or three: _ Untill he came bold Robin to, Then he fell on his knee ; 50 A boon, a boon, cries Little John, Master, I beg of thee. What is that boon, quoth Robin Hood, Little John, thou begs of me ? < It is to burn fair Kirkley-hall, And all their nunnery.” Ot qr Now nay, now nay, quoth Robin Hood, That boon I'll not grant thee ; i never ‘hurt’ woman in all my life, Nor man in woman’s company. Various Reapine.—V. 59. burnt. This stanza is omitted in one edition. : I never hurt fair maid in all my time, ' Nor at my end shall it be ; But give me my bent bow in my hand, | And a broad arrow I’ll let flee ; And where this arrow is taken up, : There shall my grave digg’d be. | Lay me a green sod under my head, And another at my feet ; | And lay my bent bow by my side, Which was my music sweet ; | And make my grave of gravel and green, Which is most right and meet. ! | Let me have length and breadth enough, With a green sod under my head ; | That they may say, when I am dead, | Here lies bold Robin Hood. | These words they readily promis’d him, Which did bold Robin please : And there they buried bold Robin Hood, Near to the fair Kirkléys. Various READINGS.—V V. 67, 63.— With verdant sods most neatly put, Sweet as the green wood tree. is THE PLAYE OF ROBYN HODE. S printed by Copland at the end of his edition of the “mery geste,” &c. p. 35. It seems to be composed, cer- teinly with little improvement, partly from the ballad of “Robin Hood and the curtall frier,” (see before, p. 81.) or rather, perhaps, some still older piece on the same subject, and partly from the ancient poem of “* Robin Hood and the potter” (see p. 54). The whole title runs— ** Here beginnethe the playe of Robyn Hoode, very proper to be played in Maye games.” It has here received a few corrections from Whites edition, 1634. ROBYN HODE. Now stand ye forth, my mery men all, And harke what I shall say ; Of an adventure I shal you tell, The which befell this other day. As I went by the hygh way, With a stout frere I met, And a quarter-staffe in his hande, Lyghtely to me he lept, And styll he bade me stande ; There were strypes two or three, 10 But I cannot tell who had the worse, But well I wote the horeson lept within me, And fro me he toke my purse. Is there any of my mery men all, That to that frere wyll go, And bryng him to me forth withall, Whether he wyll or no ? Ore 15 LYTELL JOHN. Yes, mayster, I make god avowe, To that frere wyll I go, And bring him to you, Whether he wyl or no. Deus hic, deus hic, god be here ! Is not this a holy worde for a frere ! God save all this company ! But am not I a jolly fryer ? For I can shote both farre and nere, | And handle the sworde and buckler, | FRYER TUCKE. And this quarter-staffe also. If I mete with a gentylman or yeman, I am not afrayde to loke hym upon, Nor boldly with him to carpe ; If he speake any wordes to me, He shall have strypes two or thre, That shal make his body smarte. But, maisters, to shew you the matter, Wherfore and why I am come hither, In fayth I wyl not spare : I am come to seke a good yeman, In Bernisdale men sai is his habitacion, His name is Robyn Hode. And if that he be better man than I, His servaunt wyll I be, and serve him truely ; But if that I be better man than he, By my truth my knavye shall he be, And leade these dogges all three. Various READING.—V. 34, maister. C, 110 30 46 Da GaN ee APPENDIX. ROBYN HODE. Yelde the, fryer, in thy long cote. FRYER TUCKE. I beshrew thy hart, knave, thou hurtest my throt. ROBYN HODE. { trowe, fryer, thou beginnest to dote ; Who made the so malapert and so bolde, To come into this forest here, 50 Amonge my falowe dere ? FRYER. Go louse the, ragged knave, If thou make mani wordes, I will geve the on the Though I be but a poore fryer. [eare, To seke Robyn Hode I am com here, 55 And to him my hart to breke. ROBYN HODE. Thou lousy frer, what wouldest thou with hym ? He never loved fryer, nor none of freiers kyn. FRYER. Avaunt, ye ragged knave ! Or ye shall have on the skynne. 60 ROBYN HODE. Of all the men in the morning thou art the worst, To mete with the I have no lust ; For he that meteth a frere or a fox in the morning, To spede ill that day he standeth in jeoperdy : Therfore I had lever mete with the devil of hell, 65 Fryer, I tell the as I thinke, Then mete with a fryer or a fox In a mornyng, or I drynk. FRYER. Avaunt, thou ragged knave, this is but a mock, If thou make maniwords thou shal have aknock. 70 ROBYN HODE. Harke, frere, what I say here, Over this water thou shalt me bere, The brydge is borne away. FRYER. To say naye I wyll not, Yo let the of thine oth it were great pitie and sin, 75 But up on a fryers backe, and have even in. ROBYN HODE. Nay, have over. FRYER. Nowam I, frere, within, and thou, Robin, without, To lay the here I have no great doubt. Nowartthou, Robyn, without, and I, frere,within, 80 Lye ther, knave ; chose whether thou wilte sinke or swym. ROBYN HODE. Why, thou lowsy frere, what hast thou done ? FRYER. Mary, set a knave over the shone. ROBYN HODE. Therfore thou shalt abye. Various REeapines.—Y. 64. ell. C. V. 70. you. you. C, V. 82. donee. C. 107 FRYER. Why, wylt thou fyght a plucke ? 85 ROBYN HODE. And god send me good lucke. FRYER. Than have a stroke for fryer Tucke. ROBYN HODE. Holde thy hande, frere, and here me speke. FRYER. Say on, ragged knave, Me semeth ye begyn to swete. Si) ROBYN HODE. In this forest I have a hounde, I wyl not give him for an hundreth pound, Geve me leve my horne to blowe, That my hounde may knowe. FRYER. Blowe on, ragged knave, without any doubte, Untyll bothe thyne eyes starte out. Here be a sorte of ragged knaves come in, Clothed all in Kendale grene, And to the they take their way nowe. [Sex] qu ROBYN HODE. Peradventure they do so. 160 FRYER. I gave the leve to blowe at thy wyll, Now give me leve to whistell my fyll. ROBYN HODE. Whysteli, frere, evyl mote thou fare, Untyll bothe thyne eyes stare. FRYER. Now Cut and Bause ! Breng forth the clubbes and staves, And downe with those ragged knaves ! 195 ROBYN HODE. How sayest thou, frere, wylt thou be my man, To do me the best servyse thou can ? Thou shalt have both golde and fee, And also here is a lady free, I wyll geve her unto the, And her chapplayn I the make, To serve her for my sake. 116 FRYER. Here is a huckle duckle, an inch above the buckle ; 115 She is a trul of trust, to serve a frier at his lust, A prycker, a prauncer, a terer of shetes, A wagger of buttockes when other men slepes. Go home, ye knaves, and lay crabbes in the fyre, For my lady: and I wil daunce in the myre, for veri pure joye. 126 Various REeapines.—V. 104. starte. C. V. 116. A trul of trust was a common phrase. So tn the ancient morality of the iiii elements: (Sig. E. iz. 6.) “« For to satisfye your wanton lust F shall apoynt you a trull of trust, Not afeyrer in this towne.” V. 11%. shefes. C. V.118. balleckes. C. TR Ee ree oe ee 1th 108 a a a a ROBYN HODE, Lysten to [me], my mery men all, . And harke what I shall say ; Of an adventure I shall you tell, That befell this other daye. With a proude potter I met, 12: And a rose garlande on his head®, The floures of it shone marvaylous freshe ; This seven yere and more he hath used this waye, Yet was he never so curteyse a potter, As one peny passage to paye. Is there any of my mery men all That dare be so bolde To make the potter paie passage, Either silver or golde ? we 130 LYTELL JOHN. Not I, master, for twenty pound redy tolde, For there is not among us al one That dare medle with that potter man for man. I felt his handes not long agone, But I had lever have ben here by the, Therfore I knowe what he is. 140 Mete him when ye wil, or mete him whan ye shal, He is as propre a man as ever you medle withal. 135 ROBYN HODE. J will lai with the, Litel John, twenti pound so read», If I wyth that potter mete, I wil make him pay passage, maugre his head. 145 LETTEL JOHN. I consente therto, so eate I bread, If he pay passage maugre his head, Twenti pound shall ye have of me for your mede. THE POTTERS BOYE JACKE. Out alas, that ever I sawe this daye ! For I am clene out of my waye From Notyngham towne ; if I hye me not the faster, Or I come there the market wel be done. 150 ROBYN HODE. Let me se, are thy pottes hole and sounde ? JACKE. Yea, meister, but they will not breake the ground. 155 ROBYN HODE. T wil them breke, for the cuckold thi maisters sake ; And if they will not breake the grounde, Thou shait have thre pence for a pound. Various REApincs.—V. 153, maryet. V. 154. the. €. V. 158. not omited in W. a How a potter comes to be decked with so elegant and honorable a garland as one of roses, is not easyly to be accounted for. The poet Gower, as represented on his monument in the church of St. Mary Overy, hath, as Stow tells us, “on his head a chaplet, like a coronet of four roses;” and it may be remembered that Copland, the printer of this identical May-game, dwelled “at the signe ef the rose garlande.” In The pleasant history of Rey- nard the fox,’ we find that the king, being cured by « master Reynard,” the father, of a grievous sickness, «gave him (for an honour) a garland of roses, which he must ever wear upon his head.” » Red, alluding to the colour of the gold, FT = ROBIN HOOD. JACKE. Out alas! what have ye done ? If my maister come, he will breke your crown. 160 THE POTTER. Why, thou horeson, art thou here yet ? Thou shouldest have berre at market. JACKE. I met with Robin Hode, a good yeman, He hath broken my pottes, And called you kuckolde by your name. 165 THE POTTER. Thou mayst be a gentylman, so god me save, ‘ But thou semest a noughty knave. % Thou callest me cuckolde by my name, And I swere by god and saynt John Wyfe had I never none, This cannot I denye, But if thou be a good felowe, I wil sel mi horse, mi harneis, pottes and paniers to, Thou shalt have the one halfe and I will have the other ; If thou be not so content, 175 Thou shalt have stripes if thou were my brother. 170 ROBYN HODE. Harke, potter, what I shall say : This seven yere and more thou hast used this way, Yet were thou never so curteous to me, As one penny passage to paye. 1&6 THE POTTER. Why should I paye passage to thee ? ROBYN HOODE. For I am Robyn Hode, chiefe governoure Under the grene woode tree. THE POTTER, This seven yere have I used this way up and downe, Yet payed I passage to no man, 185 Nor now I wyl not beginne, so,do the worst thou can. ROBYN HODE. Passage shalt thou pai here under the grene-wode Or els thou shalt leve a wedde* with me. [tre, THE POTTER. If thou be a good felowe, as men do the call, Lay awaye thy bowe, 190 And take thy sword and buckeler in thy hande, And se what shall befall. ROBIN HODE. Lyttle John, where art thou ? LYTTEL [JOHN]. Here, mayster, l make god avowe. I tolde you, mayster, so god me save, That you shoulde fynde the potter a knave. Holde your buckeler fast in your hande, And I wyll styfly by you stande, Ready for to fyghte ; Be the knave never so stoute, 200 I shall rappe him on the snoute, And put hym to flyghte. 195 Various READINGS.— V. 186. to do. C. to or so onvilted in W. VP. 188. wedded. C. wed. W7. V. 196. your. C. © A pledge. t ee ae red Sa eee _ ee APPENDIX. 109 men a a te I, A FREEMANS SONG, ~ FOR THREE VOICES. Tus strange and whimsical performance is taken from a very rare and curious publication, intitled “ Deutero- melia: or the second part of musicks melodie, or melo- dius musicke. Of pleasant roundelaies; K. H. mirth, or freemens songs. And such delightfull catches. London: printed for Thomas Adams dwelling in Paules church- yard at the signe of the white lion. 1609.” 4to. Freemens songs is supposed to be a corruption of Three mens songs, f their being generally for three voices. K.H.is King Henrys. See “ Ancient songs,” 1790. p. lvii. 159, &c. In the collection of old printed ballads made by Anthony a Wood is an inaccurate copy of this ancient and singular production, in his own hand writing: “This song,” says he, “was esteemed an old song before the rebellion broke out in 1641.” It thereby appears that the first line of every stanza was “to be sung thrice.” Beside the music here given, there are three parts of “ Another way,” which it was not thought necessary to insert. he had, hehad ~ OS A He had, he had and a sonne a, Men called him Renold, And mickle of his might Was he, was he, hey ho. TREBLE, And from his father a wode a, His fortune for to seeke, From mery Landsdale | Wode he, wode he, hey ho. | Y Lands-dale hey ho, by mery Lands-dale His father would him seeke a, And found him fast asleepe. Among the leaves greene Was he, was he, hey ho. He tooke, he tooke him up a, All by the lilly-white hand, And set him on his feet, And bad him stand, hey ho. was hee, washe,heyho JHe had, he had and a He gave to him a benbow, Made all of a trusty tree, And arrowes in his hand, And bad him let them flee. D 4 —_ j=] O° 2° jan) o i= rS) & i=y oO iz ro) 2 rs) i=] a r) D ° i=] ie] o And shoote was that that a did a, Some say he shot a mile, But halfe a mile and more Was it, was it, hey ho. And at the halfe miles end [a], | There stood an armed man 3 The childe he shot him through, And through, and through, hey he. His beard was all on a white a, | As white as whaleis bone, was heheyho. He had, he had and asonne a His eyes they were as cleare As christall stone, hey ho. And there of him they made [a}, } Good yeoman Robin Hood, | Scarlet, and Little John, | And Little John, hey ho. 113 110 TTT. A ROUND, from “* Pammelia. Musicks miscellanie. Or, mixed varietie of pleasant roundelayes, and delightful catches, of 3. 4. 5.6. 7. 8.9. 10. parts in one. None so.ordinarie as musicall, none so musical as not to all very pleasing and acceptable. London Printed by William Barley, for R.B. and H. W. and are to be sold. at the Spread Eagle at the great north dore of Paules. 1609.” 4to. a work equally scarce and curious with that before cited. This, however, is only the tenor part; but the words of the other parts are very trifling, and relate to different subjects. It is called ‘« A round of three country dances in one.” and agreenejacket, a whitehoseandagreeneautsup. iv. HEY JOLLY ROBIN. These stanzas are supplyed by “‘ A musicall dreame, or the fourth booke of ayres, &c. Composed by Robert Iones. London, Imprinted by the assignees of William Barley, and are to be solde in Powles church yeard, at the signe of the Crowne. 1609.” fo. The music, a composition of little merit or curiosity for the present age, was not transcribed. In Sherwood livde stout Robin Hood, An archer great, none greater ; His bow and shafts were sure and good, Yet Cupids were much beter. Robin could shoot at many a hart and misse, Cupid at first could hit a hart of his. Hey jolly Robin, hoe jolly Robin, hey jolly Robin Hood, Love finds out me, as well as thee, to follow mee, to follow me to the green wood. A noble thiefe was Robin Hoode, Wise was he could deceive him, Yet Marrian, in his bravest mood, Could of his heart bereave him. No greater thief lies hidden under skies Then beauty closely lodgde in womens eyes. Hey jolly Robin. An out-law was this Robin Hood, His life free and unruly, Yet to faire Marrian bound he stood, And loves debt payed her duely. Whom curbe of stricktest law could not hold in Love with obeyednes and a winke could winne. Hey jolly Robin. sanantonio ROBIN HOOD. Now wend we home, stout Robin Hood, Leave we the woods behind us ; Love-passions must not be withstood, Love every where will find us. I livde in fielde and towne, and so did he, T got me to the woods, Love followed me. Hey Jolly Robin. ¥., A MERRY WEDDING ; OR, O BRAVE ARTHUR OF BRADLEY. This old ballad, referred to in p.71, is given from a black letter copy in a private collection, compared with and very much corrected by ‘‘ An antidote against melancholy: made up in pills, compounded of witty ballads, jovial songs, and merry catches. 1661.” The running titie of the volume is ‘* Pills to purge melancholy ;” which was after- ward borrowed by Durfey. There is a different, but probably much more modern, ballad upon this popular subject, in the same measure, intitled, «* Arthur o’ Bradley,” and beginning, ‘* All in the merry month of May.” SEE you not Pierce the piper, His cheeks as big as a miter, A piping among the swains, That dance on yonder plains # Where Tib and Tom do trip it, And youths to the hornpipe nip it, With every one his carriage, To go to yonder marriage ; Not one would stay behind, But go with Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine Arthur of Bradley oh, &e. CA 10 Arthur had got him a lass, A bonnier never was ; 15 The chief youths of the parish Came dancing of the morris ; With country lasses trounsing, And lusty lads bounsing, Jumping with mickle pride, 20 And each his weneh by his side ; They all were fine and gay, For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine Arthur of Bradley, oh, &c. ho wr And when that Arthur was married, And his bride home had carried, The youngsters they did wait To help to carry up meat 5 Francis carried the furmety, Michael carried the mince-pye, Bartholomew the beef and the mustard, And Christopher carried the custard ; Thus every one in his array, For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine Arthur of Bradley, oh, &c. (at) i) And when that dinner was ended, The maidens they were befriended, For out steps Dick the draper, And he bid, Strike up, scraper a TST ee oe - ian eee ~ It’s best to be dancing a little, And then to the tavern to tipple : He call’d for a hornpipe, That went fine on the bagpipe ; Then forward, piper, and play, For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine, &e. Richard he did lead it, And Margery did tread it, Francis followed them, And after courteous Jane ; Thus every one after another, As if they had been sister and brother ; That ’twas great joy to see How well they did agree ; And then they all did say, Hay for Arthur of Bradley ! Oh fine Arthur of Bradley, oh, &e. Then Miles in his motley breeches, - And he the piper beseeches To play him Haw-thorn buds, © That he and his wench might trudge : But Lawrence liked not that, No more did lusty Kate ; For she ery’d, Can’st thou not hit it, To see how fine Thomas can trip it, APPENDIX, 40 qr qr 60 65 For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, &c. When all the swains did see This mirth and merry glee, There was never a man did flinch, But each one kist his wench ; But Giles was greedy of gain, For he would needs kiss twain : Her lover seeing that, Did rap him over the pate, That he had nought to say, For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine Arthur of Bradley, oh, &c. The piper lookt aside, And there he spied the bride, He thought it was a hard chance, That none would lead her a dance ; But there was none durst touch her, Save only Bat the Butcher ; He took her by the hand, And danced while he could stand : The bride was fine and gay, For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine Arthur of Bradley, oh, &c. Then out stept Will the weaver, And he swore he’d not leave her, He hopp’d it all on one leg, For the honour of his Peg : But Kister in cambrick ruffe, He took that all in snuffe ; For he against that day Had made himself fine and gay, His ruffe was whipt with blew, And he eried, A new dance, a new ! Then strike up a round-delay, For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine, &e. Then gan the sun decline, And every one thought it time 70 89 90. 100 To go unto his home, And leave the bridegroom alone. 105 Tut, tut, says lusty Ned, Tle see them both in bed For ile gib at a joynt, But Vle have his codpiss-point : Then forward piper and play, For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine, &e. 116 And thus the day was spent, And no man homeward went, There was such a crowding and thrusting, That some were in danger of bursting, To see them go to bed ; For all the skill they had, He was got to his bride, And lay close to her side: Then got they his points and his garters, And cut them in pieces like martyrs ; And then they all did play For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine, &e. Then Will and his sweetheart Did call for Loth to depart ; And then they did foot it, and toss it, "Till the cook brought in the sack-posset. The bride-pye was brought forth, A thing of mickle worth : And so all at the beds side Took leave of Arthur and his bride, And so went all away From the wedding of Arthur of Bradley, 135 Oh fine, &e. 130 VI. ROBIN HOOD RESCUING THE THREE SQUIRES FROM NOTTINGHAM GALLOWS. This song, and its tune, as the editor is informed by his ingenious friend Edward Williams, the Welsh bard, are well known in South Wales, by the name of Marchog gias, i. e. Green knight. Though apparently ancient, it is not known to exist in black letter, nor has any better authority been met with than the common collection of Aldermary-church-yard. See before, p. 99. Botp Robin Hood ranging the forrest all round, The forrest all round ranged he ; O there did he meet with a gay lady, She came weeping along the highway. Why weep you, why weep you? bold Robin he said What weep you for gold or fee? Or do you weep for your maidenhead, That is taken from your body ? sy weep not for gold, the lady reply’d, Neither do I weep for fee ; Nor do I weep for my maidenhead, That is taken from my body. What weep you for then ? said jolly Robin I prithee come tell unto me. “ Oh ! I do weep for my three sons, 15 For they are all condemned to die.” | | | | | | | 112 _ Or parish-priest have they slain ? What maids have they forced against their will ? Or with other mens wives have lain ? 20 No church have they robbed, this lady reply’d, Nor parish-priest have they slain ; No maids have they forced against their will, Nor with other mens wives have lain. What have they done then ? said jolly Robin, Come tell me most speedily. “ Oh ! it is for killing the king’s fallow deer, ‘ That* they are all condemned to die.” Get you home, get you home, said jolly Robin, Get you home most speedily, 3 And I will unto fair Nottingham go, For the sake of the *squires all three. Then bold Robin Hood for Nottingham goes, For Nottingham town goes he, O there did he meet with a poor beggar-man, 395 He came creeping along the highway. “ What news, what news, thou old beggar-man ? What news, come tell unto me.” [town], “O there’s weeping and wailing in Nottingham For the death of the ’squires all three.’’ 40 This beggar man had a coat on his back, *Twas neither green, yellow, nor red ; Bold Robin Hood thought twas no disgrace To be in the beggar-man’s stead. “ Come, pull off thy coat, thou old beggar-man, 45 And thou shalt put on mine 5 And forty good shillings I’ll give thee to boot, Besides brandy, good beer, ale and wine.” Bold Robin Hood then unto Nottingham came, Unto Nottingham town came he ; O there did he meet with great master sheriff, And likewise the ’squires all three. a0 One boon, one boon, says jolly Robin, One boon I beg on my knee ; That, as for the death of these three ’squires, Their hangman I may be. Soon granted, soon granted, says master sheriff, Soon granted unto thee ; And ‘ thou shalt’ have all their gay cloathing, Aye, and all their white monéy. 60 Various Reapines —V, 28. And. V.59. you shall. HOOD. “ Oh I will have none of their gay cloathing, Nor none of their white money, But I’ll have three blasts on my bugle-horn, That their souls to heaven may flee.” ‘Then’ Robin Hood mounted the gallows sohigh, 65 Where he blew loud and shrill, ’Till an hundred and ten of Robin Hood’s men Came marching down the green hill. Whose men are these ? says master sheriff, Whose men are they ? tell unto me. 70 * O they are mine, but none of thine, And are come for the ’squires all three.’’ O take them, o take them, says great master sheriff, O take them along with thee ; For there’s never a man in fair Nottingham Can do the like of thee. Vil. ROBIN HOODS DELIGHT. Dr. Pepusch, among other very curious articles of ancient English music, was possessed of a MS. folio, (supposed to be still extant,) which, at p. 15, contained a tune intitled ‘© Robin Hood.” See Wards ‘ Lives of the professors of Gresham college,” 1740, (an interleaved copy, corrected and augmented by the author, in the British-museum). Robene Hude is likewise the name of a dance in Wedder- burns ‘«‘ Complainte of Scotland,” printed in 1549. The following tune is preserved by Oswald, in his ** Caledonian pocket companion.” Various Reapines.—Y, 65. When. V.70. come tell. THE END, 75 | pet AN agin ~ a? -y a ama - ro ne ae ae te or ln a fa 1 On ge re ren ——-t &, ‘ ~ s _ vn 7 — — - PES Ss Ss : ) he. ok ee ee a Se ed ae as a a a cal a a aaa ee ee ee eS rn eee ee i ne cele al a ee ee eet eon —— ie mle ae aig ee “ ( : ~ in haart, Re ¢ - mrs “igh s on 2 ee an as tee mandarin som (Reale tin wie terme ey etter ee yeti ke | ‘7

st a —_* : » Vas ¢ * ey pe ou Ae Sa 2 : i . Sanh oh eae Pe abe > z ' a RUA EC Oa M4 cabs a ae a > ia re Te 2 af Bray, bis a os —§ aes es ooo ; Mn ees = = +, I .$ Wes @ te ge ers 5 ‘ i ‘ * a oy rf LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN LETTER I. To Mr. ****, Merchant in London. Sir, Amsterdam. Yours of the 13th instant, covering two bills, one on Messrs. R. and D. value 4787. 10s., and the other on Mr. ****, value 285/., duly came to hand, the former of which met with honour, but the other has been trifled with, and, I am afraid, will be returned protested. The bearer of this is my friend, therefore let him be yours. He is a native of Honan in China, and one who did me signal services when he was a mandarin, and I a factor at Canton. By fre- quently conversing with the English there, he has learned the language, though he is entirely a stranger to their manners and customs. I am told he is a philosopher: I am sure he is an honest man ; that to you will be his best recom- mendation, next to the consideration of his being the friend of, Sir, Yours, &e. LETTER If. From Lren Cut ALtaner to ****, Merchant in Amsterdam. FRIEND OF MY HEART, London. May the wings of peace rest upon thy dwelling; and the shield of conscience preserve thee from vice and misery! For all thy favours accept my gratitude and esteem, the only tributes a poor philosophic wanderer can return. Sure, Fortune is resolved to make me unhappy, when she gives others a power of testifying their friendship by actions, and leaves me only words to express the sincerity of mine. I am perfectly sensible of the delicacy with which you endeavour to lessen your own merit and my obligations. By calling your late instances of friendship only a return for former favours, you would induce me to impute to your justice what I owe to your generosity. The services I did you at Canton, justice, humanity, and my office bade me perform ; those you have done me since my arrival at Amsterdam, no laws obliged you to, no justice required ; even Vou. L OF THE ee Eee WORLD. half your favours would have been greater than my most sanguine expectations. - The sum of money, therefore, which you pri- vately conveyed into my baggage, when I was leaving Holland, and which I was ignorant of till my arrival in London, I must beg leave to return. You have been bred a merchant, and I a scholar ; you consequently love money better than I. You can find pleasure in superfiuity ; and I am per- fectly content with what is sufficient ; take there- fore what is yours—it may give you some pleasure, even though you have no occasion to use it: my happiness it cannot improve, for I have already all that I want. My passage by sea from Rotterdam to England was more painful to me than all the journeys i ever made on land. I have traversed the im- measurable wilds of Mogul Tartary ; felt all the rigours of Siberian skies: I have had my repose a hundred times disturbed by invading savages, and have seen, without shrinking, the desert sands rise like a troubled ocean all around me ; against these calamities I was armed with reso- lution ; but in my passage to England, though nothing occurred that gave the mariners any uneasiness, to one who was never at sea before all was a subject of astonishment and terror. To find the land disappear, to see our ship mount the waves swift as an arrow from the Tartar bow, to hear the wind howling through the cordage, to feel a sickness which depresses even the spirits cf the brave ; these were unexpected distresses, and consequently assaulted me unprepared to receive them. You men of Europe think nothing of a voyage by sea. With us of China, a man who has been from sight of land is regarded upon his return with admiration. I have known some provinces where there is not even a name for the ocean. What a strange people therefore am I got amongst, who have founded an empire on this unstable element, who build cities upon billows that rise higher than the mountains of Tipartala, and make the deep more formidable than the wildest tempest ! Such accounts as these, I must confess, were my first motives for seeing England. These in- duced me to undertake a journey of seven hundred painful days, in order to examine its opulence, 2 LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. buildings, sciences, arts, and manufactures, on the spot. Judge then my disappointment on entering London, to see no signs of that opulence so much talked of abroad: wherever I turn, I am presented with a gloomy solemnity in the houses, the streets, and the inhabitants ; none of that beautiful gilding which makes a principal ornament in Chinese architecture. ‘The streets of Nankin are some- times strewed with gold leaf; very different are those of London : in the midst of their pavements a great lazy puddle moves muddily along ; heavy- laden machines, with wheels of unwieldy thick- ness, crowd up every passage ; so that a stranger, instead of finding time for observation, is often happy if he has time to escape from being crushed to pieces. The houses borrow very few ornaments from architecture ; their chief decoration seems to be a paltry piece of painting, hung out at their doors or windows, at once a proof of their indigence or vanity : their vanity, in each having one of those pictures exposed to public view ; and their indi- gence, in being unable to get them better painted. In this respect, the fancy of their painters is also deplorable. Could you believe it? I have seen five black lions and three blue boars in less than the circuit of half a mile ; and yet you know that animals of these colours are nowhere to be found, except in the wild imaginations of Europe. From these circumstances in their buildings, and from the dismal looks of the inhabitants, I am induced to conclude that the nation is actually poor ; and that, like the Persians, they make a splendid figure everywhere but at home. The proverb of Xixofou is, that a man’s riches may be seen in his eyes: if we judge of the English by this rule, there is not a poorer nation under the sun. I have been here but two days, so will not be hasty in my decisions ; such letters as I shall write to Fipsihi in Moscow I beg you’ll endeavour to forward with all diligence ; [I shall send them open, in order that you may take copies or trans- lations, as you are equally versed in the Dutch and Chinese languages. Dear friend, think of my absence with regret, as I sincerely regret yours ; even while I write, I lament our separation. Farewell. LETTER ITI. From Lizn Cur ALTAnet, to the care of Firesint, resident in Moscow; to be forwarded by the Russian caravan to Fum Hoa, first president of the ceremonial Academy at Pekin in China, Tuink not, O thou guide of my youth, that absence can impair my respect, or interposing trackless deserts blot your reverend figure from my memory. The farther I travel I feel the pain of separation with stronger force ; those ties that bind me to my native country, and you, are still unbroken. By every remove, I only drag a greater length of chain’. Could I find aught worth transmitting from so remote a region as this to which I have wandered, 1 We find a repetition of this beautiful and affecting image in the Traveller : «© And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.” — I should gladly send it ; but instead of this, you must be contented with a renewal of my former professions, and an imperfect account of a people with whom I am as yet but superficially acquainted. The remarks of a man who has been but three days in the country can only be those obvious circumstances which force themselves upon the imagination : I consider myself here as a newly- created being introduced into a new world ; every object strikes with wonder and surprise. The imagination, still unsated, seems the only active principle of the mind. The most trifling occur- rences give pleasure, till the gloss of novelty is worn away. When I have ceased to wonder, I may possibly grow wise; I may then call the reasoning principle to my aid, and conipare those objects with each other which were before ex- amined without reflection. Behold me then in London, gazing at the strangers, and they at me: it seems they find somewhat absurd in my figure ; and had I never been from home, it is possible I might find an infinite fund of ridicule in theirs; but by long travelling I am taught to laugh at folly alone, and to find nothing truly ridiculous but villany and vice. When I had just quitted my ‘native country, and crossed the Chinese wall, I fancied every deviation from the customs and manners of China was a departing from nature: I smiled at the blue lips and red foreheads of the Tonguese ; and could hardly contain when I saw the Daures dress their heads with horns. The Ostiacs, powdered with red earth, and the Calmuck beauties, tricked out in all the finery of sheep-skin, appeared highly ridiculous ; but I soon perceived that the ridicule lay not in them, but in me; that I falsely con- demned others for absurdity, because they hap- pened to differ from a standard originally founded in prejudice or partiality. I find no pleasure therefore in taxing the English with departing from nature in their external ap- pearance, which is all I yet know of their charac- ter ; itis possible they only endeavour to improve her simple plan, since every extravagance in dress proceeds from a desire of becoming more beau- tiful than nature made us; and this is so harmless a vanity, that I not only pardon, but approve it: a desire to be more excellent than others is what actually makes us so; and as thousands find a livelihood in society by such appetites, none but the ignorant inveigh against them. You are not insensible, most reverend Fum Hoam, what numberless trades, even among the Chinese, subsist by the harmless pride of each other. Your nose-borers, feet-swathers, tooth- stainers, eyebrow-pluckers, would all want bread, should their neighbours want vanity. These vanities, however, employ much fewer hands in China than in England ; and a fine gentleman or a fine lady here, dressed up to the fashion, seems scarcely to have a single limb that does not suffer some distortions from art. To make a fine gentleman, several trades are required, but chiefly a barber: you have undoubt- edly heard of the Jewish champion, whose strength lay in his hair: one would think that the English were for placing all wisdom there: to appear wise, nothing more is requisite here than for a man to borrow hair from the heads of all his LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 3 neighbours, and clap it like a bush on his own: the distributors of law and pliysic stick on such quantities, that it is almost impossible, even in idea, to distinguish between the head and the hair. ~ Those whom I have been now describing affect the gravity of the lion: those I am going to de- scribe more resemble the pert vivacity of smaller animals. The barber, who is still master of the ceremonies, cuts their hair close to the crown ; and then, with a composition of meal and hog’s- lard, plasters the whole in such a manner as to make it impossible to distinguish whether the patient wears a cap or a plaister ; but, to make the picture more perfectly striking, conceive the tail of some beast, a grey-hound’s tail, or a pig’s tail, for instance, appended to the back of the head, and reaching down to that place where tails in other animals are generally seen to begin: thus betailed and bepowdered, the man of taste fancies he improves in beauty, dresses up his - hard-featured face in smiles, and attempts to look hideously tender. Thus equipped, he is qualified to make love, and hopes for success more from the powder on the outside of his head than the sentiments within. Yet when I consider what sort of a creature the fine lady is to whom he is supposed to pay his addresses, it is not strange to find him thus equipped in order to please. She is herself every whit as fond of powder, and tails, and hog’s-lard, as he: to speak my secret sentiments, most re- verend Fum, the ladies here are horribly ugly ; I ean hardly endure the sight of them: they no way resemble the beauties of China ; the Kuropeans have a quite different idea of beauty from us ; when I reflect on the small-footed perfections of an Eastern beauty, how is it possible I should have eyes for a woman whose feet are ten inches long? I shali never forget the beauties of my native city of Nanfew. How very broad their faces! how very short their noses! how very little their eyes! how very thin ‘their lips! how very black their teeth! the snow on the tops of 20 is not fairer than their cheeks; and their eyebrows are small as the line by the pencil of Quamsi. Here a lady with such perfections would be frightful: Dutch and Chinese beauties indeed have some resemblance, but English women are entirely different ; red cheeks, big eyes, and teeth of a most odious whiteness, are not only seen here, but wished for; and then they have such masculine feet, as actually serve some for walking. Yet uncivil as nature has been, they seem resolved to outdo her in unkindness: they use white powder, blue powder, and black powder, for their hair, and a red powder for the face on some particular occasions, They like to have the face of various colours, as among the Tartars of Koreki, frequently sticking on with spittle little black patches on every part of it, except on the tip of the nose, which I have never seen with a patch. You'll have a better idea of their manner of placing these spots, when I have finished a map of an English face patched up to the fashion, which shall shortly be sent to increase your curious collection of paintings, medals, and monsters. But what surprises more than all the rest is what I have just now been credibly informed by one of this country. “ Most ladies here,” says he, “ have two faces; one face to sleep in, and another to show in company: the first is generally reserved for the husband and family at home ; the other, put on to please strangers abroad : the family face is often indifferent enough, but the out-door one looks something better; this is always made at the toilet, where the looking-glass and toad-eater sit in council, and settle the com- plexion of the day.” I can’t ascertain the truth of this remark ; however, it is actually certain, that they wear more clothes within doors than without; and I have seen a lady who seemed to shudder at a breeze in her own apartment, appear half naked in the streets. Farewell. LETTER IV. TO THE SAME. THe English seem as silent as the Japanese, yet vainer than the inhabitants of Siam. Upon my arrival I attributed that reserve to modesty, which I now find has its origin in pride. Condescend to address them first, and you are sure of their ac- quaintance ; stoop to flattery, and you conciliate their friendship and esteem. They bear hunger, cold, fatigue, and all the miseries of life without shrinking ; danger only calls forth their fortitude ; they even exult in calamity ; but contempt is what they cannot bear.» An Englishman fears contempt more than death ; he often flies to death as a refuge from its pressure ; and dies when he fancies the world has ceased to esteem him. Pride seems the source not only of their national vices, but of their national virtues also. An Englishman is taught to love his king as his friend, but to acknowledge no other master than the laws which himself has contributed to enact. He de- spises those nations who, that one may he free, are all content to be slaves ; who first lift a tyrant into terror, and then shrink under his power as if delegated from Heaven. Liberty is echoed in all their assemblies ; and thousands might be found ready to offer up their lives for the sound, though perhaps not one of all the number understands its meaning. The lowest mechanic, however, looks upon it as his duty to be a watchful guardian of his country’s freedom, and oftem uses a language that might seem haughty even in the mouth of the great emperor who traces his ancestry to the moon. A few days ago, passing by one of their prisons, I could not avoid stopping, in order to listen to a dialogue which I thought might afford me some entertainment, The conversation was carried on between a debtor through the grate of his prison, a porter who had stopped to rest his burthen, and a soldier at the window. The subject was upon a threatened invasion from France, and each seemed extremely anxious to rescue his country from the impending danger. “For my part,” cries the prisoner, “ the greatest of my apprehensions is for our freedom : if the French should conquer, what would become of English liberty? My dear friends, liberty is the Englishman’s prerogative ; we must preserve that at the expense of our lives: of that the French shall never deprive us ; 1t 1s not to be expected that men who are slaves themselves B 2 4 LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. would preserve our freedom should they happen to conquer.” “Ay, slaves,” cries the porter, “they are all slaves, fit only to carry burthens, every one of them. Before I would stoop to sla- very, may this be my poison, (and he held the goblet in his hand,) may this be my poison—but I would sooner list for a soldier.” The soldier, taking the goblet from his friend, with much awe fervently cried out, “ It is not so much our liberties as our religion that would suffer by such a change : ay, our religion, my lads. May the devil sink me into flames, (such was the solem- nity of his adjuration,) if the French should come over, but our religion would be utterly undone,” So saying, instead of a libation, he applied the goblet to his lips, and confirmed his sentiments with a ceremony of the most persevering devotion. In short, every man here pretends to be a poli- tician ; even the fair sex are sometimes found to mix the severity of national altercation with the blandishments of love,and often become conquerors | by more weapons of destruction than their eyes. This universal passion for polities is gratified by daily gazettes,as with us at China. But as in ours the emperor endeavours to instruct his people, in theirs the people endeavour to instruct the administration. You must not, however, imagine that they who compile these papers have any actual knowledge of the politics or the government of a state ; they only collect their materials from the oracle of some coffee-house ; which oracle has him- self gathered them the night before from a beau at a gaming-table, who has pillaged his knowledge from a great man’s porter, who has had his infor- mation from the great man’s gentleman, who has invented the whole story for his own amusement the night preceding. The English in general seem fonder of gaining the esteem than the love of those they converse with : this gives a formality to their amusements ; their gayest conversations have something too wise for innocent relaxation ; though in company you ‘ are seldom disgusted with the absurdity of a fool, you are seldom lifted into rapture by those strokes of vivacity which give instant, though not perma- nent pleasure. What they want, however, in gaiety, they make up in politeness. You smile at hearing me praise the English for their politeness; you who have heard very different accounts from the missionariesat Pe- kin, who haveseensuch a different behaviour in their merchants and seamen at home. But I must still repeat it, the English seem more polite than any of their neighbours ; their great art in this respect lies in endeavouring, while they oblige, to lessen the force of the favour. Other countries are fond of obliging a stranger ; but seem desirous that he should be sensible of the obligation. The English confer their kindness with an appearance of in- difference, and give away benefits with an air as if they despised them. é Walking a few days ago between an English and a French man into the suburbs of the city, we were overtaken by a heavy shower of rain. I was unprepared ; but they had each large coats, which defended them from what seemed to be a perfect inundation. The Englishman seeing me shrink from the weather, accosted me thus : “ Psha, man, what dost shrink at ? here, take this coat ; I don’t want it ; I find it no way useful to me ; I had as - 254 lief be without it.’ The Frenchman began to show his politeness in turn. ‘“ My dear friend,” eries he, “why won’t you oblige me by making use of my coat ? you see how well it defends me from the rain ; I should not choose to part with it to others, but to such a friend as you I could even part with my skin to do him service.” From such minute instances as these, most reverend Fum Hoam, I am sensible your sagacity will collect instruction. The volume of Nature is the book of knowledge ; and he becomes most wise who makes the most judicious selection. Farewell. LETTER V. TO THE SAME. I wave already informed you of the singular passion of this nation for polities. An English- man not satisfied with finding, by his own prosperity, the contending powers of Europe properly balanced, desires also to know the precise value of every weight in either scale. To gratify this curiosity, a leaf of political instruction is served up every morning with tea : when our politician has feasted upon this, he repairs to a coffee-house, in order to ruminate upon what he has read, and increase his collection ; from thence he proceeds to the ordi- nary, inquires what news, and, treasuring up every acquisition there, hunts about all the evening in quest of more, and carefully adds it to the rest. Thus at night he retires home, full of the import- ant advices of the day. When, lo! awaking next morning, he finds the instructions of yesterday a collection of absurdity or palpable falsehood. This one would think a mortifying repulse in the pursuit of wisdom ; yet our politician, no way dis- couraged, hunts on, in order to collect fresh mate- rials, and in order to be again disappointed. I have often admired the commercial spirit which prevails over Europe ; have been surprised to see them carry on a traffic with productions that an Asiatic stranger would deem entirely useless. It is a proverb in China, that a European suffers not even his spittle to be lost: the maxim, how- ever, is not sufficiently strong ; since they sell even their lies to great advantage. Every nation drives a considerable trade in this commodity with their neighbours. An English dealer in this way, for instance, has only to ascend to his workhouse, and manu- facture a turbulent speech, averred to be spoken in the senate ; or a report supposed to be dropped at court; a piece of scandal that strikes at a popular mandarin ; or a secret treaty between two neighbouring powers. When finished, these goods are baled up, and consigned to a factor abroad, who sends in return two battles, three sieges, and a shrewd letter filled with dashes blanks and stars ***** of great importance. Thus you perceive that a single gazette is the joint manufacture of Europe ; and he who would peruse it with a philosophical eye might perceive in every paragraph something characteristic of the nation to which it belongs. A map does not exhibit amore distinct view of the boundaries and situation of every country, than its news does a picture of the genius and the morals of its inhabitants. The superstition and erroneous delicacy of Italy, 3 | LETTERS PROM A CITIZEN GF THE WORLD. ; 6 formality of Spam, the erucity of Portugal, | Our merciful severeign has been for some time of Prussia, eee nea, do ; the levity of Franee, the avarice of Holland, the : of England, the absurdity of Ireland, and the matiomal partiality of Scotland, are all con- spicuous im every page. Bat, perhaps, you may find more satisfaction im a real newspaper, than in my deseription of one: I therefore send a specimen, which may serve to composition. Naples. We have liely dug up here 2 curious Eirusean monument, broken im two in the raising. The characters are scarce visible ; but Lugosi, the learned antiquary, supposes it to have been | erected in honour of Picus, 2 Laim king, as one of the limes will be plainly distinguished to begm with a2 P. k is hoped this diseovery will produce semething valuable, as the literati of our twelve academies are deeply engaged m the disqui- sition. Pisa. Since Pather Fudei, prior of St. Gilbert's, | has gome to reside at Rome, no miracles have been performed at the shrime of St. Gilbert ; the devout bezim io grow umeasy,and some begin actually to fear that St. Gilbert has forsaken them with the reverend father. Euceaz. The administraiors cf our serene re- public have frequent conferences upon the part they shall take m the present commotions of Enrope. Seme are for sending a body cf their troops, consisting of one company of foot and six a a make a diversion m favour of the empress-queen ; others are as strenuous assertors of the Prussian interest: what turn these debates may take, time enly can discover. However, certain ii is, we shall be able to bring imto the field, at the opening of the nexi campaign, seventy- five armed men, a commander-in-chiei, and two drummers of great experience. Spain. Yesterday the new king showed him- self to his subjects, and after having stayed half an hour in his baleony, retired to the royal apartment. The night concluded on this extraordinary occa- ee ee Jey- The queen is more beautiful than the rising sun, and reckoned one of the first wits in Europe: she had a glorious opportunity of displaying the readimess of her invention, and her skill in repartee, lately ai court. The duke of Lerma, coming up to her with a low bow and a smile, and presenting @ nosegay set with diamonds, “ Madam,” without any prompter, or the least Iiank Sanitation “i cantoery proud of the very great honour you do me.” oonceners tapreagae a low curisey, and ) 45 96 LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. a ter past a doubt is, that the ancient kings of China and those of Egypt were called by the same names. The Emperor Ki is certainly the same with King Atoes : for, if we only change A into A, and i into toes, we shall have the name Atoes ; and with equal ease Afenes may be proved to be the same with the Emperor Vu ; therefore the Chinese are a colony from Egypt. But another of the learned is entirely different from the last ; and he will have the Chinese to be a colony planted by Noah just after the deluge. First, from the vast similitude there is between the name of Fohi, the founder of the Chinese monarchy, and that of Noah, the preserver of the human race. Noah, Fohi, very like each other _truly ; they have each but four letters, and only two of the four happen to differ. But to strengthen the argument, Fohi, as the Chinese chronicle as- serts, had no father. Noah, it is true, had a father, as the European Bible tells us ; but then, as this father was probably drowned in the flood, it is just the same as if he had no father at all ; there- fore, Noah and Fohi are the same. Just after the flood, the earth was covered with mud ; if it was incrustated with mud, it must have been incrus- tated mud; if it was incrustated, it was clothed with verdure ; this was a fine, unembarrassed road for Noah to fiy from his wicked children ; he therefore did fly from them, and took a journey of two thousand miles for his own amusement ; therefore Noah and Fohi are the same. Another sect of literati, for they all pass among the vulgar for very great scholars, assert, that the Chinese came neither from the colony of Sesostris, nor from Noah, but are descended from Magog, Meshee, and Tubal ; and therefore neither Sesos- tris, nor Noah, nor Fohi, are the same. It is thus, my friend, that indolence assumes the airs of wisdom ; and while it tosses the cup and ball with infantine folly, desires the world to look on, and calls the stupid pastime philosophy and learning. Adieu. LETTER XC, FROM THE SAME. WueEn the men of this country are onee turned of thirty, they regularly retire every year at pro- per intervals to lie in of the spleen. ‘The vulgar, unfurnished with the luxurious comforts of the soft cushion, down bed, and easy-chair, are obliged, whien the fit is on them, to nurse it up by drinking, idleness, and ill-humour. In such dispositions, unhappy is the foreigner who happens to cross them ; his long chin, tarnished coat, or pinched hat, are sure to receive no quarter. If they meet no foreigner however to fight with, they are in such cases generally content with beating each other. The rich, as,they have more sensibility, are operated upon with greater violence by this dis- erder. Different from the poor, instead of be- coming more insolent, they grow totally unfit for opposition. A general here, who would have faced a culverin when well, if the fit be on him shall hardly find courage to snuff a candle. An admiral, whe could have opposed a broadside without shrink- ing, shall sit whole days in his chamber, mobbed up in double night-eaps, shuddering at the intru- r more. -sive breeze, and distinguishable from his wife onl | by his black beard and heavy eye-brows. | In the country this disorder mostly attacks thle fair sex, in town it is most unfavourable to the men. A lady, who has pined whole years amidst cooing doves and complaining nightingales, in rur, retirement, shall resume all her vivacity in one night at a city gambling-table ; her husband, who | roared, hunted, and got drunk at home, shall grow splenetic in town in proportion to his wife’s good- humour. Upon their arrival in London, they exchange their disorders. In consequence of her parties and excursions, he puts on the furred cap and searlet stomacher, and perfectly resembles an Indian husband, who, when his wife is safely de- livered, permits her to transact business abroad, while he undergoes all the formality of keeping . his bed, and receiving all the condolence in her place. But those who reside constantly in town, owe this disorder mostly to the influence of the wea- ther. It is impossible to describe what a variety of transmutations an east wind will produee ; it has been known to change a lady ef fashion into a parlour couch, an alderman into a plate of cus- tards, and a dispenser of justice mto a rat-trap. Even philosophers themselves are not exempt from its influence ; it has often converted a poet into a coral and bells, and a patriot senator into a dumb waiter. Some days ago I went to visit the man in black, and entered his house with that cheerfulness, which the certainty of a favourable reeeption always inspires. Upon opening the door of his apartment, I found him with the most rueful face imaginable, in a morning-gown and flannel night- eap, earnestly employed in learning to blow the German flute. Struck with the absurdity of a man in the decline of life, thus blowing away all his constitution and spirits, even without the consolation of being musical, I ventured to ask what could induce him to attempt learning so dif- ficult an instrument so late in life. To this he made no reply, but groaning, and still holding the flute to his lips, continued to gaze at me for some moments very angrily, and then proceeded to practise his gamut as before. After having pro- duced a variety of the most hideous tones in nature, at last, turning to me, he demanded, whether I did not think he had made a surprising progress in two days? You see, continues he, I have got the Ambusheer, already, and as for fingering, my master tells me, I shall have that in a few lessons I was so much astonished with this in- stance of inverted ambition, that I knew not what to reply ; but soon discerned the cause of all his absurdities ; my friend was under a metamorphosis by the power of spleen, and flute-blowing was un- luckily become his adventitious passion. In order, therefore, to banish his anxiety im- perceptibly, by seeming to indulge it, I began to descant on those gloomy topics by which philo- sophers often get rid of their own spleen, by com- municating it ; the wretchedness of a man in this | life, the happiness of some wrought out of the miseries of others, the necessity that wretches should expire under punishment, that rogues might enjoy afiluence in tranquillity ; I led him on from the inhumanity of the rich to the ingratitude of the beggar ; from the insincerity of refinement to 346 the fierceness of rusticity ; and at last had the good fortune to restore him to his usual serenity of temper, by permitting him to expatiate upon all the modes of human slavery. “Some nights ago,” says my friend, “ sitting alone by my fire, I happened to look into an ac- count of the detection of a set of men called the thief-takers. I read over the many hideous cruel- ties of those haters of mankind, of their pretended friendship to the wretches they meant to betray, of their sending men out to rob and then hanging them. I could not avoid sometimes interrupting the narrative by crying out, ‘ Yet these are men!’ As I went on, I was informed that*they had lived by this practice several years, and had been en- riched by the price of blood ; ‘and yet,’ cried I, ‘T have been sent into the world, and am desired to callthese men my brothers!’ I read that the very man who led the condemned wretch to the gallows, was he who falsely swore his life away ; ‘and yet,’ continued I, ‘that perjurer had just such a nose, such lips, such hands, and such eyes as Newton.’ I at last came to the account of the wretch that was searched after robbing one of the thief-takers of half-a-crown. Those of the confe- deracy knew that he had got but that single half- crown in the world ; after a long search, there- fore, which they knew would be fruitless, and taking from him the half-crown, which they knew was all he had, one of the gang compassionately cried out, ‘Alas! poor creature, let him keep all the rest he has got, it will do him service in New- gate, where we are sending him.’ This was an in- stance of such complicated guilt and hypocrisy, that I threw down the book in an agony of rage, and began to think with malice of all the human kind. I sat silent for some minutes, and soon perceiving the ticking of my watch beginning to grow noisy and troublesome, I quickly placed it out of hear- ing, and strove to resume my serenity. But the watchman soon gave mea second alarm. I had scarcely recovered from this, when my peace was assaulted by the wind at my window ; and when that ceased to blow, I listened for death-watches in the wainscot. I now found my whole system discomposed. I strove to find a resource in phi- losophy and reason ; but what could I oppose, or where direct my blow, when I could see no enemy to combat? I saw no misery approaching, nor knew any I had to fear ; yet still I was miserable. Morning came ;I sought for tranquillity in dissi- pation, sauntered from one place of public resort to another, but found myself disagreeable to my acquaintance, and ridiculous to others. I tried at different times dancing, fencing, and riding; I solved geometrical problems, shaped tobacco- stoppers, wrote verses, and cut paper. At last I placed my affections on music, and find that earnest employment, if it cannot cure, at least will palliate every anxiety.” Adieu. LETTER XCI. FROM THE SAME, Ir is no unpleasing contemplation to consider the influence which soil and climate have upon the disposition of the inhabitants, the animals and vegetables of different countries. brute creation is much more visible than in man, That among the. LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 97 and that in vegetables more than either. In some places those plants which are entirely poisonous at home, lose their deleterious quality by being car- ried abroad ; there are serpents in Macedonia so harmless as to be used as playthings for chil- dren ; and we are told that in some parts of Fez there are lions so very timorous as to be scared away, though coming in herds, by the cries of women. I know of no country where the influence of climate and soil is more visible than in England ; the same hidden cause which gives courage to their dogs and cocks, gives also fierceness to their men. But chiefly this ferocity appears among the vulgar. The polite of every country pretty nearly resem- ble each other. But as in simpleing, it is among the uncultivated productions of nature we are to examine the characteristic ‘differences of climate and soil, so in an estimate of the genius of the people we must look among the sons of unpolished rusticity. The vulgar English therefore may be easily distinguished from all the rest of the world, by superior pride, impatience, and a peculiar har- diness of soul. Perhaps no qualities in the world are more sus- ceptible of a fine polish than these ; artificial com- plaisance and easy deference being superinduced over these, generally form a great character ; something at once elegant and majestic, affable yet sincere. Such in general are the better sort ; but they who are left in primitive rudeness are the least disposed for society with others, or comfort internally, of any people under the sun. The poor, indeed, of every country are but little prone to treat each other with tenderness ; their own miseries are too apt to engross all their pity ; and, perhaps, too, they give but little commisera- tion, as they find but little from others. But in England the poor treat each other upon every occasion with more than savage animosity, and as if they were in a state of open war by nature. In China, if two porters should meet in a narrow street, they would lay down their burdens, make a thousand excuses to each other for the accidental interruption, and beg pardon ou their knees ; if two men of the same occupation should meet here, they would at first begin to scold, and at last to beat each other. One would think they had mise- ries enough resulting from penury and labour not to increase them by ill-nature among themselves, and subjection to new penalties : but such consi- derations never weigh with them. But to recompense this strange absurdity, they are in the main generous, brave, and enterprising. They feel the slightest injuries with a degree of ungoverned impatience, but resist the greatest calamities with surprising fortitude. Those mise- ries under which any other people in the world would sink, they have often showed they were capable of enduring ; if accidentally cast upon some desolate coast, their perseverance is beyond what any other nation is capable of sustaining : if impri- soned for crimes, their efforts to escape are greater than among others. The peculiar strength of their prisons, when compared to those elsewhere, argues their hardiness ; even the strongest prisons I have ever seen in other countries, would be very insuf- ficient to confine the untameable spirit of an Eng- lishman. In short, what man dares do in circum ~ stances of danger, an Englishman will. His vir- Vout, I. co ~ 98 tues seem to sleep in the calm, and are called out only to combat the kindred storm. But the greatest eulogy of this people is the generosity of their miscreants ; the tenderness in general of their robbers and highwaymen. Per- haps no people can produce instances of the same kind where the desperate mix pity with injustice, still show that they understand a distinction in crimes, and even in acts of violence have still some tincture of remaining virtue. In every other country, robbery and murder go almost always together ; here it seldom happens, except upon ill- judged resistance or pursuit. The banditti of other countries are unmerciful to a supreme degree ; the highwayman and robber here are generous, at least in their intercourse among each other. Taking, therefore, my opinion of the English from the virtues and vices practised among the vulgar, they at once present to a stranger all their faults, and keep their virtues up only for the inquiring eyes of a philosopher. Foreigners are generally shocked at their inso- lence upon first coming among them ; they find themselves ridiculed and insulted in every street, they meet with none of those trifling civilities, so frequent elsewhere, which are instances of mutual good-will without previous acquaintance ; they travel through the country either too ignorant or too obstinate to cultivate a closer acquaintance, meet every moment something to excite their dis- gust, and return home to characterise this as the region of spleen, insolence, and ill-nature. In short, England would be the last place in the world I would travel to by way of amusement, but the first for instruction. I would choose to have others for my acquaintance, but Englishmen for my friends, LETTER XCII. TO THE SAME, THE mind is ever ingenious in making its own distress. ‘The wandering beggar, who has none to protect, to feed, or to shelter him, fancies com- plete happiness in labour and a full meal; take him from rags and want, feed, clothe, and employ him, his wishes now rise one step above his station ; he couid be happy were he possessed of raiment, food, and ease. Suppose his wishes gratified even in these, his prospects widen as he ascends ; he finds himself in affluence and tranquillity indeed, but indolence soon breeds anxiety, and he desires not only to be freed from pain, but to be possessed of pleasure ; pleasure is granted him, and this but opens his soul to ambition, and ambition will be sure to taint his future happiness, either with jealousy, disappointment, or fatigue. But of all the arts of distress found out by man for his own torment, perhaps, that of philosophic misery is most truly ridiculous, a passion no where carried to so extrvagant an excess as in the coun- try where I now reside. It is not enough to engage all the compassion of a philosopher here, that his own globe is harassed with wars, pestilence, or barbarity, he shall grieve for the inhabitants of the moon, if the situation of her imagitiary moun- tains happen to alter ; and dread the extinction of -the sun, if the spots on his surface happen to nerease : one should imagine, that philosophy was LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. introduced to make men happy ; but here it serves to make hundreds miserable. My landlady some days ago brought me the diary of a philosopher of this desponding sort, who had lodged in the apartment before me. It contains the history of a life, which seems to be one ci tinued tissue of sorrow, apprehension, and distress. A single week will serve as a specimen of the whole. Monday. Inwhat a transient, decaying situa- tion are we placed, and what various reasons does philosophy furnish to make mankind unhappy ! A single grain of mustard shall continue to produce its similitude through numberless successions 5 yet what has been granted to this little seed has been denied to our planetary system ; the mustard-seed is still unaltered, but the system is growing old, and must quickly fall to decay. How terrible will- it be, when the motions of all the planets have at last become so irregular as to need repairing ; when the moon shall fall into frightful paroxysms of alteration ; when the earth, deviating from its ancient track, and with every other planet forget- ting its circular revolutions, shall become so eccen- tric, that, unconfined by the laws of system, it shall fly off into boundless space, to knock against some distant world, or fall in upon the sun, either ex- tinguishing his light, or burned up by his flames in a moment. Perhaps while I write, this dreadful change is begun. Shield me from universal ruin ! Yet idiot man laughs, sings, and rejoices in the very face of the sun, and seems no way touched with his situation. Tuesday. Went to bed in great distress, awaked, and was comforted, by considering that this change was to happen at some indefinite time, and there- fore, like death, the thoughts of it might easily be borne. But there is a revolution, a fixed deter- mined revolution, which must certainly come to pass ; yet which, by good fortune, I shall never feel, except in my posterity. The obliquity of the equator with the ecliptic is now twenty minutes less than when it was observed two thousand years ago by Piteas. If this be the case, in six thousand the obliquity will be still less by a whole degree. This being supposed, it is evident, that our earth, as Louville has clearly proved, has a motion, by which the climates must necessarily change place, and in the space of about one million of years, England shall actually travel to the Antarctic pole. I shudder at the change ! How shall our unhappy grandchildren endure the hideous climate! A million of years will soon be accomplished ; they ‘are but a moment when compared to eternity, then shall our charming country, as T may say, in a moment of time, resemble the hideous wilderness of Nova Zembla. Wednesday. To-night, by my calculation, the long predicted comet is to make its first appear- ance. Heavens, what terrors are impending over our little dim speck of earth ! Dreadful visitation ! Are we to be scorched in its fires, or only smoth- ered in the vapour of its tail? That is the question ! Thoughtless mortals, go build houses, plant orch- ards, purchase estates, for to-morrow you die. But what if the comet should not come? That would be equally fatal. Comets are servants which periodically return to supply the sun with fuel. If our sun, therefore, should be disappointed of the expected supply, and all his fuel be in the mean time burnt out, he must expire like an exhausted 348 taper. What a miserable situation must our earth be in, without his enlivening ray? Have we not seen several neighbouring suns entirely disappear ? Has not a fixed star near the tail of the Ram lately been quite extinguished ? Thursday. The comet has not yet appeared ; I am sorry for it : first, sorry because my calculation is false ; secondly, sorry lest the sun should want fuel ; thirdly, sorry lest the wits should laugh at our erroneous predictions ; and, fourthly, sorry because if it appears to-night, it must necessarily come within the sphere of the earth’s attraction ; and heaven help the unhappy country on which it happens te fall ! "a Friday. Our whole society have been out all eager in search of the comet. We have seen not less than sixteen comets in different parts of the heavens. However, we are unanimously resolved to fix upon one only to be the comet expected. That near Virgo wants nothing but a tail to fit it out completely for terrestrial admiration. : Saturday. 'The moon is, I find, at her old pranks. Her appulses, librations, and other irregularities indeed amaze me. My daughter, too, is this morn- ing gone off with a grenadier. No way surprising. I was never able to give her a relish for wisdom. She ever promised to be a mere expletive in the creation. But the moon, the moon gives me real uneasiness ; I fondly fancied I had fixed her. I had thought her constant, and constant only to me ; but every night discovers her infidelity, and proves me a desolate and abandoned lover. Adieu. LETTER XCIITI. TO THE SAME. Ir is surprising what an influence titles shall have upon the mind, even though these titles be of our own making.—Like children we dress up the puppets in finery, and then stand in astonish- ment at the plastic wonder. I have been told of a rat-catcher here, who strolled for a long time about the villages near town, without finding any employment ; a. last, however, he thought proper to take the titie of his Majesty’s rat-catcher in ordinary, and this succeeded beyond his expecta- tions ; when it wis known that he caught rats at court, all were ready to give him countenance and employment. But of all the people, they who make books seem most perfectly sensible of the advantage of titular dignity. All seem convinced, that a book written by vulgar hands, can neither instruct nor improve ; ‘none but kings, chams, and mandarins can write with any probability of success. If the titles inform me right, not only kings and courtiers, but emper- ors themselves, in this country periodically supply the press. , __ A man here who should write, and honestly con- fess that he wrote for bread, might as well send his manuscript to fire the baker’s oven ; not one crea- or pretend at least to be court-bred, who can expect to please. Should the caitiff fairly avow a design of emptying our pockets and filling his own, every reader would instantly forsake him ; even those wiio write for bread themselves would combine to worry him, perfectiy sensible that his attempts only served to take the bread out of their mouths. er 349 | sion. ture will read him ; all must be court-bred poets, | LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 39 And yet this silly prepossession the more amazes me, when I consider, that almost all the excelient productions in wit that have appeared here, were purely the offspring of necessity : their Drydens, Butlers, Otways, and Farquhars, were all writers for bread. Believe me, my friend, hunger has a most amazing faculty for sharpening the genius ; and he who with a full belly can think like a hero, after a course of fasting shall rise to the sublimity of a demigod. But what will most amaze is, that this very set of men, who are now so much depreciated by fools, are however, the very best writers they have among them at present.—_For my own part, were I to buy a hat, I would not have it from a stocking- maker, but a hatter ; were I to buy shoes, I should not go to the tailor’s for that purpose. It is just so with regard to wit; did J, for my life, desire to be well-served, I would apply only to those who made it their trade and lived by it. You smile at the oddity of my opinion ; but, be assured, my friend, that wit is in some measure mechanical ; and that a man long habituated to catch at even its resemblance, will at last be happy enough to possess the substance! by a long habit of writing he acquires a justness of thinking, and a mastery of manner, which holiday writers, even with ten times his genius, may vainly attempt to equal. How then are they deceived, who expect from title, dignity, and exterior circumstance an excel- lence which is in some measure acquired by habit, and sharpened by necessity ! You have seen, like me, many literary reputations promoted by the influence of fashion, which have scarcely survived the possessor ; you have seen the poor hardly earn the little reputation they acquired, and their merit only acknowledged when they were incapable of enjoying the pleasures of popularity : such, how- ever, is the reputation worth possessing, that which is hardly earned is hardly lost. Adieu. LETTER XCIV. From Hinepo in Moscow, to Lien Car ALTANG! in London. WueEz: will my disappointment end? Must I still be doomed to accuse the severity of my for- tune, and show my constancy in distress rather than moderation in prosperity? I had at least hopes of conveying my charming companion safe from the reach. of every enemy, and of again restoring her to her native soil. But those hopes are now no more, Upon leaving Terki we took the nearest road to the dominions of Russia. We passed the Ural mountains covered with eternal snow, and tra- versed the forests of Usa, where the prowling bear and shrieking hyzna keep an undisputed posses- ; We next embarked upon the rapid river Bulija, and made the best of our way to the banks of the Wolga, where it waters the fruitful valleys of Casan. There were two vessels in company properly equipped and armed in order to oppose the Wolga pirates, who we were informed infested this river. Of all mankind these pirates are the most terrible. They are composed of the criminals and outlawed peasants of Russia, who fly to the forests that lie along the banks of the Wolga for protection. Here | they join in parties, lead a savage life, and have no H2 160 other subsistence but plunder. Being deprived of houses, friends, or a fixed habitation, they become more terrible even than the tiger, and as insensible to all the feelings of humanity. They neither give quarter to those they conquer, nor receive it when overpowered themselves. The severity of the laws against them serves to increase their barbarity, and seems to make them a neutral species of beings between the wildness of the lion and the subtlety of the man. When taken alive their punishment is hideous. A floating gibbet is erected, which is let run down with the stream ; here, upon an iron hook stuck under their ribs, and upon which the whole weight of their body depends, they are left to expire in the most terrible agonies ; some being thus found to linger several days succes- sively. We were but three days’ voyage from the con- fluence of this river into the Wolga, when we perceived at a distance behind us an armed bark coming up with the assistance of sails and oars in order to attack us. The dreadful signal of death was hung upon the mast, and our captain with his glass could easily discern them to be pirates. It is impossible to express our consternation on the occasion ; the whole crew instantly came together to consult the properest means of safety. It was, therefore, soon determined to send off our women and valuable commodities in one of our vessels, and the men should stay in the other, and boldly oppose the enemy. This resolution was soon put into execution, and I now reluctantly parted from the beautiful Zelis for the first time since our retreat from Persia. The vessel in which she was, disappeared to my longing eyes in proportion as that of the pirates approached us. They soon came up ; but, upon examining our strength, and perhaps sensible of the manner in which we had sent off our most valuable effects, they seemed more eager to pursue the vessel we had sent away, than attack us. In this manner they continued to harass us for three days, still endeavouring to pass us without fighting. But, on the fourth day, find- ing it entirely impossible, and despairing to seize the expected booty, they desisted from their endea- vours and left us to pursue our voyage without interruption. Our joy on this occasion was great ; but soon a disappointment more terrible, because unexpected, succeeded. The bark, in which our women and treasure were sent off, was wrecked upon the banks of the Wolga, for want of a proper number of hands to manage her, and the whole crew carried by the peasants up the country. Of this, however, we were not sensible till our arrival at Moscow ; where, expecting to meet our separated bark, we were informed of its misfortune, and our loss. Need I paint the situation of my mind on this occasion! Need I describe all I feel, when I despair of beholding the beautiful Zelis more ! Fancy had dressed the future prospect of my life in the gayest colouring ; but one unexpected stroke of fortune has robbed it of every charm. Her dear idea mixes with every scene of pleasure, and without her presence to enliven it the whole becomes tedious, insipid, insupportable. I will confess, now that she is lost, I will confess I loved her ; nor is it in the power of time or of reason to erase her image from my heart. Adieu. LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. LETTER XCV. From Lien Cur ALTANGI to Hinero, at MoscoWw.* Your misfortunes are mine ; but as every period of life is marked with its own, you must learn to endure them. Disappointed love makes the misery of youth ; disappointed ambition that of manhood ; and successful avarice that of age. These three attack us through life ; and it is our duty to stand upon our guard. To love we ought to oppose dissipation, and endeavour to change the object of the affections ; to ambition, the happiness of indo- lence and obscurity ; and to avarice, the fear of soon dying. These are the shields with which we should arm ourselves ; and thus make every scene of life, if not pleasing, at least supportable. Men complain of not finding a place of repose. They are in the wrong: they have it for seeking. What they should indeed complain of is, that the heart is an enemy to that very repose they seek. To themselves alone should they impute their dis- content. They seek within the short span of life to satisfy a thousand desires, each of which alone is insatiable. One month passes and another comes on; the year ends and then begins ; but man is still unchanged in folly, still blindly con- tinuing in prejudice. To the wise man every cli- mate and every soil is pleasing ; to him a parterre of flowers is the famous valley of gold; to hima little brook the fountainof the young peach-trees ; + to such a man the melody of birds is more ravish: ing than the harmony of a full concert ; and the tincture of the cloud preferable to the touch of the finest pencil. The life of a man is a journey ; a journey that must be travelled, however bad the roads or the accommodation. If in the beginning it is found dangerous, narrow, and difficult, it must either grow better in the end, or we shall by custom learn to bear its inequality. But though I see you incapable of penetrating into grand principles, attend at least to a simile adapted to every apprehension. I am mounted upon a wretched ass. I see another man before me upon a sprightly horse, at which I find some uneasiness. I look behind me, and see numbers on foot, stooping under heavy burdens ; let me learn to pity their estate, and thank heaven for my own. Shingfu, when under misfortunes would in the beginning weep like a child ; but he soon recovered his former tranquillity. After indulging grief for a few days, he would become, as usual, the most merry old man im all the province of Shansi, About the time that his wife died, his possessions were all consumed by fire, and his only son sold into captivity ; Shingfu grieved for one day, and the next went to dance at a mandarin’s door for his dinner. The company were surprised to see the old man so merry when suffering such great losses, and the mandarin himself coming out, asked him how he, who had grieved so much, and given way to the calamity the day before, could now be so cheerful. ‘ You ask me one question,” cries the old man, “let me answer by asking an- * This letter is a rhapsody from the Maxims of the phi: losopher Mé. Vide Lettres Curieuses et Edifiantes. Vide etiam Du Halde, vol. ii. p. 98. t This passage the editor does not understand. LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. other : which is the most durable, a hard thing or a sott thing ; that which resists, or that which makes no resistance ?”—“ A hard thing to be sure,” replied the mandarin. “There you are wrong,” returned Shingfu ; “ I am now fourscore years old ; and if you look in my mouth you will find that I have lost all my teeth, but not a bit of my tongue.” LETTER XCVI. From Lien Cur ALTancr to Fum Hoan, first President of the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. THE manner of grieving for our departed friends in China is very different from that of Europe. The mourning colour of Europe is black ; that of China white. When a parent or a relation dies here, for they seldom mourn for friends, it is only clapping on a suit of sables, grimacing it for a few days, and all, soon forgotten, goes on as before ; not a single creature missing the deceased, except perhaps a favourite housekeeper or a favourite cat. On the contrary, with us in China it is a very serious affair. The piety with which I have seen you behave on one of these occasions should never be forgotten. I remember it was upon the death of thy grandmother’s maiden sister. The coffin was exposed in the principal hall in public view. Before it were placed the figures of eunuchs, horses, tortoises, and other animals, in attitudes of grief and respect. The more distant relations of the old lady, and I among the number, came to pay our compliments of condolence, and to salute the deceased after the manner of our coun- try. We had scarcely presented our wax candles and perfumes, and given the howl of departure, when, crawling on his belly from under a curtain, out came the reverend Fum Hoam himself, in all the dismal solemnity of distress. Your looks were set for sorrow ; your clothing consisted of a hempen bag tied round the neck with a string. For two long months did this mourning continue. By night you lay stretched on a single mat, and sat on the stool of discontent by day. Pious man! who could thus set an example of sorrow and decorum to our country. Pious country! where if we do not grieve at the departure of our friends for their sakes, at least we are taught to regret them for our own. All is very different here ; amazement all! What sort of a people am I got amongst! Fum, thou son of Fo, what sort of people am I got amongst! No crawling round the coffin; no dressing up in hempen bags; no lying on mats, or sitting on stools. Gentlemen here shall put on first mourning with as sprightly an air as if pre- paring for a birth-night ; and widows shall actu- ally dress for another husband in their weeds for _ the former. The best jest of all is, that our merry mourners clap bits of muslin on their sleeves, and these are called weepers. Weeping muslin ; alas, alas, very sorrowful truly! These weepers then it seems are to bear the whole burthen of the distress. But I have had the strongest instance of this contrast ; this tragi-comical beliaviour in distress, upon a recent occasion. Their king, whose de- parture, though sudden, was not unexpected, died after a reign of many years. His age and uncer- 101 tain state of health served in some measure to diminish the sorrow of his subjects; and their expectations from his successor seemed to balance their minds between uneasiness and satisfaction. But how ought they to have behaved on such an oceasion? Surely, they ought rather to have endeavoured to testify their gratitude to their deceased friend, than to proclaim their hopes of the future. Surely even the successor must sup- pose their love to wear the face of adulation, which so quickly changed the object. However, the very same day on which the old king died, they made rejoicing for the new. For my part, I have no conception of this new manner of mourning and rejoicing in a breath ; of being merry and sad ; of mixing a funeral pro- cession with a jig and a bonfire. At least, it would have been just, that they who flattered the king while living for virtues which he had not, should lament him dead for those he really had. In this universal cause for national distress, as I had no interest myself, so it is but natural to suppose I felt no real affliction. In all the losses of our friends, says a European philosopher, we first consider how much our own welfare is affected by their departure, and moderate our real grief just in the same proportion. Now as I had nei- ther received nor expected to receive favours from kings or their flatterers ; as I had no acquaintance in particular with their late monarch ; as I knew that the place of a king is soon supplied ; and as the Chinese proverb has it, that though the world may sometimes want cobblers to mend their shoes, there is no danger of its wanting emperors to rule their kingdoms : from such considerations I could bear the loss of a king with the most philosophic resignation. However, I thought it my duty at least to appear sorrowful ; to put on a melancholy aspect, or to set my face by that of the people. The first company I came amongst after the news became general, was a set of jolly com- panions who were drinking prosperity to the en- suing reign. I entered the room with looks of despair, and even expected applause for the super- lative misery of my countenance. Instead of that, I was universally condemned. by the company for a grimacing son of a w****, and desired to take away my penitential phiz to some other quarter. I now corrected my former mistake, and with the most sprightly air imaginable entered a company where they were talking over the ceremonies of the approaching funeral. Here I sat for some time with an air of pert vivacity ; when one of the chief mourners immediately observing my good-humour, desired me, if I pleased, to go and grin somewhere else ; they wanted no disaffected scoundrels there. Leaving this company, there- fore, I was resolved to assume a look perfectly neutral ; and have ever since been studying the fashionable air ; something between jest and ear- nest ; a complete virginity of face, uncontaminated with the smallest symptom of meaning. But though grief be a very slight affair here, the mourning, my friend, is a very important con- cern. When an emperor dies in China, the whole expense of the solemnities is defrayed from the royal coffers. When the great die here, manda- rins are ready enough to order mourning ; but I do not see they are so ready to pay for it. If they send me down from court the grey undress frock, 102 LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. or the black coat without potket-holes, I am will- ing enough to comply with their commands, and wear both ; but, by the head of Confucius ! to be obliged to wear black and buy it into the bargain, is more than my tranquillity of temper can bear. What, order me to wear mourning before they knew whether I can buy it or no! Fum, thou son of Fo, what sort of a people am I amongst ; where being out of black is a certain symptom of poverty : where those who have miserable faces cannot have mourning, and those who have mourn- ing will not wear a miserable face # LETTER XCVII. FROM THE SAME, It is usual for the booksellers here, when a book has given universal pleasure upon one sub- ject, to bring out several more upon the same plan ; which are sure to have purchasers and readers, from that desire which all men have to view a pleasing object on every side. The first performance serves rather to awaken than satisfy attention: and when that is once moved, the slightest effort serves to continue its progression 5 the merit of the first diffuses a light sufficient to illuminate the succeeding efforts ; and no other subject can be relished till that is exhausted: A stupid work coming thus immediately in the train of an applauded performance, weans the mind from the object of its pleasure ; and resembles the sponge thrust into the mouth of a discharged culverin, in order to adapt it for a new explo- sion. This manner, however, of drawing off a subject, or a peculiar mode of writing to the dregs, effec- tually precludes a revival of that subject or man- ner for some time for the future ; the sated reader turns from it with a kind of literary nausea ; and though the titles of books are the part of them most read, yet he has scarcely perseverance enough to wade through the title-page. Of this number I own myself one ; I am now grown callous to several subjects, and different kinds of composition ; whether such originally pleased I will not take upon me to determine ; but at present I spurn a new book merely upon see- ing its name in an advertisement ; nor have the smallest curiosity to look beyond the first leaf, even though in the second the author promises his own face neatly engraved on copper. I am become a perfect epicure in reading ; plain beef or solid mutton will never do. I am fora Chinese dish of bear’s claws and bird’s nests. I am for sauce strong with assafcetida, or fuming with garlic. or this reason there are a hundred very wise, learned, virtuous, well-intended produc- tions that have no charms for me. Thus, for the soul of me, I could never find courage nor grace enough to wade above two pages deep into “ Thoughts upon God and Nature,” or “ Thoughts upon Providence,’ or “Thoughts upon Free Grace,” or indeed into thoughts upon any thing at all. I can no longer meditate with Meditations for every day in the year; Essays upon divers sub- jects cannot allure me, though never so interesting ; and as for funeral sermons, or even thanksgiving sermons, I can neither weep with the one, nor rejoice with the other. But it is chiefly in gentle poetry, where I sel- dom look farther than the title. The truth is, I take up books to be told something new ; but here, as it is now managed, the reader is told nothing. He opens the book, and there finds very good words truly, and much exactness of rhyme, but no information. A parcel of gaudy images pass on before his imagination like the figures in a dream ; but curiosity, induction, reason, and the whole train of affections, are fast asleep. The jucunda et idonea vite; those sallies which mend the heart while they amuse the fancy, are quite forgotten ; so that a reader who would take up some modern applauded performances of this kind must, in order to be pleased, first leave his good sense behind him, take for his recompense and guide bloated and compound epithet, and dwell on paintings, just indeed, because laboured with minute exactness. ' If we examine, however, our internal sensa- tions, we shall find ourselves but little pleased with such laboured vanities : we shall find that our applause rather proceeds from a kind of contagion caught up from others, and which we contribute to diffuse, than from what we privately feel. There are some subjects of which almost all the world perceive the futility ; yet all combine in imposing upon each other as worthy of praise. But chiefly this imposition obtains in literature, where men publicly contemn what they relish with rapture in private, and approve abroad what has given them disgust at home. The truth is, we deliver those criticisms in public which are supposed to be best calculated, not to do justice to the author, but to impress others with an opinion of our superior discernment. But let works of this kind, which have already come off with such applause, enjoy it all. It is neither my wish to diminish, as I was never con- siderable enough to add to, theirfame. But for the future, I fear there are many poems, for which I shall find spirits to read but the title. In the first place, all odes upon winter, or summer, or autumn ; in short, all odes, epodes, and monodies whatsoever, shall hereafter be deemed too polite, classical, obscure, and refined to be read, and entirely above human comprehension. Pastorals are pretty enough—for those that like them—but to me Thyrsis is one of the most insipid fellows I ever conversed with : and as for Corydon, I do not choose his company. Elegies and epistles are very fine to those to whom they are addressed ; and as for epic poems, I am generally able to discover the whole plan in reading the first two pages. Tragedies, however, as they are now made, are good instructive moral sermons enough ; and it would be a fault not to be pleased with good things. There I learn several great truths: as, that it is impossible to see into the ways of futurity ; that punishment always attends the villain ; that love is the fond soother of the human breast ; that we should not resist heaven’s will, for in resisting heaven’s will heaven’s will is resisted : with seve- ral other sentiments equally new, delicate, and striking. Every new tragedy, therefore, 1 shall go to see ; for reflections of this nature make a tolerable harmony, when mixed up with a proper quantity of drum, trumpet, thunder, lightning, or the scene-shifter’s whistle. Adieu. - 302 LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. re wee i te LETTER XCVIII. FROM THE SAME. I Hap some intentions lately of going to visit Bedlam, the place where those that go mad are confined. I went to wait upon the man in black to be my conductor ; but I found him preparing to go to Westminster-hall, where the English hold their courts of justice. It gave me some surprise to find my friend engaged in a law-suit, but more so, when he informed me that it had been depend- ing several years. ‘ How is it possible,” eried I, “for a man who knows the world to go to law? I am well acquainted with the courts of justice in China; th.y resemble rat-traps every one of them; nothing more easy than to get in, but to get out again is attended with some difficulty, and more cunning than rats are generally found to possess !”” “ Faith,” replied my friend, “ I should not have gone to law, but that I was assured of success before I began ; things were presented to me in so al- luring a light, that I thought by barely declaring myself a candidate for the prize, I had nothing more to do than to enjoy the fruits of the victory. Thus have I been upon the eve of an imaginary triumph every term these ten years ; have travelled forward with victory ever in my view, but ever out of reach ; however, at present I fancy we have hampered our antagonist in such a manner, that without some unforeseen demur, we shall this day lay him fairly on his back.’’ “Tf things be so situated,” said I, “Ido not care if I attend you to the courts, and partake in the pleasure of your success. But prithee,” con- tinued I, as we set forward, “ what reasons have you to think an affair at last concluded, which has given so many former disappointments ?’’—“ My lawyer tells me,” returned he, “ that I have Salkeld and Ventris strong in my favour, and that there are no less than fifteen cases in point.” —* I understand,” said I, “ those are two of your judges who have already declared their opinions,”— ‘‘ Pardon me,’’ replied my friend, “ Salkeld and Ventris are lawyers who some hundred years ago gave their opinions on cases similar to mine ; these opinions which make for me my lawyer is to cite, and those opinions which look another way are cited by the lawyer employed by my antagonist ; as I observed, I have Salkeld and Ventris for me, he has Coke and Hale for him ; and he that has most opinions is most likely to carry his cause.” —‘* But where is the necessity,” cried I, “of pro- longing a suit by citing the opinions and reports of others, since the same good sense which deter- mined lawyers in former ages may serve to guide your judges at this day? They at that time gave their opinions only from the light of reason 3 your judges have the same light at present to direct them ; let me even add a greater, as in former ages there were many prejudices from which the present is happily free. If arguing from authori- ties be exploded from every other branch of lee>n- ing, why should it be particularly adhered to in this? I plainly foresee how such a method of investisjation unust embarrass every suit, and even 35 perplex the student ; ceremonies will be multi- plied, formalities must increase, and more time will thus be spent in learning the arts of litigation than in the discovery of right.’’ “JT see,” cries my friend, “that you are for a speedy administration of justice ; but all the world will grant that the more time there is taken up in considering any subject, the better it will be un- derstood. Besides, it is the boast of an English- man, that his property is secure, and all the world will grant that a deliberate administration of jus- tice is the best way to secure his property. Why have we so many lawyers, but (o secure our pro- perty2 Why so many formalities, but ¢o secwre our property 2 Not less than one hundred thou- sand families live in opulence, elegance, and ease, merely by securing our property.” “To embarrass justice,’ returned I, “by a multiplicity of laws, or to hazard it by a confi- dence in our judges, are, I grant, the opposite rocks on which legislative wisdom has ever split : in one case the client resembles that emperor, who is said to have been suffocated with the bed- clothes, which were only designed to keep him warm ; in the other, to that town which let the enemy take possession of its walls in order to show the world how little they depended upon aught but courage for safety. But, bless me, what numbers do I see’ here—all in blt.«—how is it possible that half this multitude find employment?” —‘“Nothing so easily conceived,’ returned my companion, “they live by watching each other. For instance, the catchpole watches the man in debt ; the attorney watches the catchpole ; the counsellor watches the attorney ; the solicitor the counsellor ; and all find sufficient employment.”’— “JT conceive you,’ interrupted I, “they watch each other : but it is the client that pays them all for watching; it puts me in mind of a Chinese fable, which is intituled, ‘ Five Animals at a meal :’— “ A grasshopper, filled with Gew, was merrily singing under a shade: a whangam, that eats grasshoppers, had marked it for its prey, and was just stretching forth to devour it 5; a serpent, that had for a long time fed only on whangams, was called up to fasten on the whangam ; a yellow bird was just upon the wing to dart upen the serpent : a hawk had just stooped from above to seize the yellow bird ; all were intent on their prey, and unmindful of their danger: so the whangam ate the grasshopper, the serpent ate the whangam, the yellow bird the serpent, and the hawk the yellow bird ; when, sousing from on high, a vulture gob- bled up the hawk, grasshopper, whangam, and all in a moment.” I had scarcely finished my fable, when the lawyer came to inform my friend that his cause was put off till another term, that money was wanted “to retain,” and that all the world was of opinion that the very next. hearing would. bring him off victorious. “If so, then,” cries my friend, “I believe it will be my wisest way to continue the cause for another term, and, in the mean time, my friend here and I will go and see Bedlam.” Adieu. oe ee LE A 104 LETTER XCIX. FROM THE SAME, I LATELY received a visit from the little beau, who I found had assumed a new flow of spirits with a new suit of clothes. Our discourse hap- pened to turn upon the different treatment of the fair sex here and in Asia, with the influence of beauty in refining our manners and improving our conversation. I soon perceived he was strongly prejudiced in favour of the Asiatic method of treating the sex, and that it was impossible to persuade him but that a man was happier who had four wives at his command, than he who had only one. “It is true,” cries he, “ your men of fashion in the East are slaves, and under some terrors of having their throats squeezed by a bow-string ; but what then? they can find ample consolation in a seraglio ; they make indeed an indifferent figure in conver- sation abroad, but then they have a seraglio to console them at home. I am told they have no balls, drums, nor operas, but then they have got a seraglio ; they may be deprived of wine and French cookery, but they have a seraglio ; a seraglio, a seraglio, my dear creature, wipes off every incon- venience in the world. “ Besides, J am told, your Asiatic beauties are the most convenient women alive, for they have no souls: positively there is nothing in nature I should like so much as ladies without souls ; soul here is the utter ruin of half the sex. A girl of eighteen shall have soul enough to spend a hun- dred pounds in the turning of atrump. Her mo- ther shall have soul enough to ride a sweepstake match at a horse-race ; her maiden aunt shall have soul enough to purchase the furniture of a whole toy-shop, and others shall have soul enough to behave as if they had no souls at all.’’ * With respect to the soul,” interrupted I, “ the Asiaties are much kinder to the fair sex than you imagine ; instead of one soul, Fohi, the idol of China, gives every woman three, the Bramins give them fifteen : and even Mahomet himself no- where excludes the sex from Paradise. Abulfeda reports, that an old woman one day importuning him to know what she ought to do in order to gain paradise ; ‘ My good lady,’ answered the pro- phet, ¢ old women never get there.—* What, never get to paradise ?’ returned the matron, in a fury ; ‘ Never,’ says he, ‘for they always grow young by the way.’ “ No, sir,” continued I, “the men of Asia be- have with more deference to the sex than you seem to imagine. As you of Europe say grace, upon sitting down to dinner, so it is the eustom in China to say grace, when a man goes to bed to his wife.” ** And may I die,’’ returned my companion, “ but a very pretty ceremony ! for seriously, sir, I see no reason why a man should not be as grateful in one situation as in the other. Upon honour, I always find myself more disposed to gratitude, on the couch of a fine woman, than upon sitting down to a sirloin of beef.”’ “ Another ceremony,” said I, resuming the con- ersation, “in favour of the sex amongst us, is the ride’s being allowed, after marriage, her three ays offreedom. During this interval a thousand extravagancies is practised by either sex. The LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. lady is now placed upon the nuptial-bed, and num- berless monkey-tricks are played round to divert her. One gentleman smells her perfumed hand- kerchief, another attempts to untie her garter, a third pulls off her shoe to play hunt-the-slipper, another pretends to be an idiot, and endeavours to raise a laugh by grimacing ; in the mean time, the glass goes briskly about, till ladies, gentlemen, wife, husband and all, are mixed together in one inundation of arrack punch.’’ “Strike me dumb, deaf, and blind,” cried my companion, “ but that’s very pretty ! there is some sense in your Chinese ladies’ condescensions ; but among us, you shall scarcely find one of the whole sex that shall hold her good-humour for three days together. No later than yesterday I happened to say some civil things to a citizen’s wife of my — acquaintance, not because I loved her, but because Thad charity ; and what do you think was the ten- der creature’s reply 2? Only that she detested my pig-tail wig, high-heeled shoes, and sallow com- plexion. That is all. Nothing more! Yes, by the heavens, though she was more ugly than an unpainted actress, I found her more insolent than a thorough-bred woman of quality.” He was proceeding in this wild manner, when his invective was interrupted by the man in black, who entered the apartment, introducing his niece, a young lady of exquisite beauty. Her very appearance was sufficient to silence the severest satirist of the sex ; easy without pride, and free without impudence, she seemed capable of supply- ing every sense with pleasure; her looks, her conversation, were natural and unconstrained ; she had neither been taught to languish nor ogle, to laugh without a jest, or sigh without sorrow. 1 found that she had just returned from abroad, and had been conversant in the manners of the world. Curiosity prompted me to ask several questions, but she declined them all. I own I never found myself so strongly prejudiced in favour of appa- rent merit before ; and could willingly have pro- longed our conversation, but the company after some time withdrew. Just, however, before the little beau took his leave, he called me aside, and requested I would change him a twenty-pound bill, which as I was incapable of doing, he was contented with borrowing half-a-crown. Adieu. LETTER C. From Lien Cut ALTANaI to Hinepo, by the way of Moscow, Frew virtues have been more praised by mo- ralists than generosity ; every practical treatise on ethics tends to increase our sensibility of the distresses of others, and to relax the grasp of frugality. Philosophers that are poor praise it, because they are gainers by its effects ; and the opulent Seneca himself has written a treatise on benefits, though he was known to give nothingaway. But among the many who have enforced the duty of giving, I am surprised there are none to inculcate the ignominy of receiving : to show that by every favour we accept, we in some measure forfeit our native freedom, and that a state of con- tinual dependence on the generosity of others is a life of gradual debasement. Were men taught to despise the receiving obli. | LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 105 gations with the same force of reasoning and declamation that they are instructed to confer them, we might then see every person in society filling up the requisite duties of his station with cheerful industry, neither relaxed by hope, nor sullen from disappointment. Every favour a man receives in some measure sinks him below his dignity ; and in proportion to the value of the benefit, or the frequency of its ac- ceptance, he gives up so much of his natural independence. He, therefore, who thrives upon the unmerited bounty of another, if he has any sensibility, suffers the worst of servitude ; the shackled slave may murmur without reproach, but the humble dependant is taxed with ingratitude upon every symptom of discontent ; the one may rave round the walls of his cell, but the other lingers in all the silence of mental confinement. To increase his distress, every new obligation but adds to the former load which kept the vigorous mind from rising, till at last, elastic no longer, it shapes itself to constraint, and puts on habitual servility. It is thus with the feeling mind ; but there are some who, born without any share of sensibility, receive favour after favour, and still cringe for more ; who accept the offer of generosity with as little reluctance as the wages of merit, and even inake thanks for past benefits an indirect petition for new : such I grant can suffer no debasement from dependence, since they were originally as vile as was possible to be ; dependence degrades only the ingenuous, but leaves the sordid mind in pristine meanness. In this manner, therefore, long-continued generosity is misplaced, or it is injurious ; it either finds a man worthless, or it makes him so : and true it is, that the person who is contented to be often obliged, ought not to have been obliged at all. : Yet while I describe the meanness of a life of continued dependence, I would not be thought to include those natural or political subordinations which subsist in every society ; for in such, though dependence is exacted from the inferior, yet the obligation on either side ismutual. Theson must rely upon his parent for support, but the parent lies under the same obligations to give, that the other has to expect ; the subordinate officer must receive the commands of his superior, but for this obedience the former has a right to demand an intercourse of favour: such is not the dependence I would deprecate, but that where every expected favour must, be the result of mere benevolence in the giver, where the benefit can be kept without remorse, or transferred without injustice. The character of a legacy-hunter, for instance, is de- testable in some countries, and despicable in all ; this universal contempt of a man who infringes upon none of the laws of society some moralists have arraigned as a popular and unjust prejudice ; never considering the necessary degradations a wretch must undergo, who previously expects to grow rich by benefits without having either natural or social claims to enforce his petitions. But this intercourse of benefaction and acknow- ledgment is often injurious even to the giver as well as the receiver ; a man can gain but little knowledge even of himself, or of the world, amidst a circle of those whom hope or gratitude has gathered around him ; their unceasing humiliations must necessarily increase his comparative magni- tude, for all men measure their own abilities by those of their company ; thus being taught to overrate his merit, he in reality lessens it ; in- creasing in confidence, but not in power, his pro- fessions end in empty boast, his undertakings in shameful disappointment. It is perhaps one of the severest misfortunes of the great, that they are, in general, obliged to live among men whose real virtue is lessened by dependence, and whose minds are enslaved by obligation. The humble companion may have at first accepted patronage with generous views, but soon he feels the mortifying influence of conscious inferiority, by degrees sinks into a flatterer, and flattery at last degenerates into stupid veneration. To remedy this, the great often dismiss their old dependants, and take new. Such changes are falsely imputed to levity, falsehood, or caprice in the patron, since they may be more justly ascribed to the client’s gradual deterioration. No, my son, a life of independence is generally a life of virtue. It is that which fits the soul for every generous flight of humanity, freedom, and friendship. To give should be our pleasure, but to receive our shame; serenity, health, and affluence attend the desire of rising by labour ; misery, repentance, and disrespect that of suc- ceeding by extorted benevolence. The man who can thank himself alone for the happiness he enjoys, is truly biessed ; and lovely, far more lovely, the sturdy gloom of laborious indigence than the fawning simper of thriving adulation. Adieu. LETTER Cl. From Lien Cut ALTANGI to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. In every society some men are born to teach, and others to receive instruction ; some to work, and others to enjoy in idleness the fruits of their industry ; some to govern, and others to obey. Every people, how free soever, must be contented to give up part of their liberty and judgment to those who govern, in exchange for their hopes of security ; and the motives which first influenced their choice in the election of their governors should ever be weighed against the succeedirg apparent inconsistencies of their conduct. All cannot be rulers, and men are generally best governed by afew. In making way through the intricacies of business, the smallest obstacles are apt to retard the execution of what is to be plan- ned by a multiplicity of counsels ; the judgment of one alone being always fittest for winding through the labyrinths of intrigue, and the obstructions of disappointment. A serpent, which, as the fable observes, is furnished with one head and many tails, is much more capable of subsistence and expedition, than another which is furnished with but one tail and many heads. Obvious as these truths are, the people of this country seem insensible of their force. Not satis- fied with the advantages of internal peace and opulence, they still murmur at their governors, and interfere in the execution of their designs ; as if they wanted to be something more than happy. But as the Europeans instruct by argument, and ne 106 the Asiatics mostly by narration, were I to address them, I should convey my sentiments in the fol- lowing story :— Takupi had long been prime minister of Tipar- tala, a fertile country that stretches along the western confines of China. During his admini- stration, whatever advantages could be derived from arts, learning, and commerce, were seen to bless the people ; nor were the necessary precau- tions of providing for the security of the state for- gotten. It often happens, however, that when men are possessed of all they want, they then begin to find torment from imaginary afflictions, and lessen their present enjoyments by foreboding that those enjoyments are to have an end. The people now, therefore, endeavoured to find out grievances ; and after some search, actually began to think themselves aggrieved. A petition against the enormities of Takupi was carried to the throne in due form ; and the queen who governed the coun- try, willing to satisfy her subjects, appointed a day, in which his accusers should be heard, and the minister should stand upon his defence. The day being arrived, and the minister brought before the tribunal, a carrier who supplied the city with fish, appeared among the number of his accusers. He exclaimed, that it was the custom, time immemorial, for carriers to bring their fish upon a horse ina hamper ; which being placed on one side, and balanced by a stone on the other, - was thus conveyed with ease and safety ; but that the prisoner, moyed either by a spirit of innova- tion, or perhaps bribed by the hamper-makers, nad obliged all carriers to use the stone no longer, but balance one hamper with another ; an order entirely repugnant to the customs of all antiquity, and those of the kingdom of Tipartala in particular. The carrier finished ; and the whole court shook their heads at the innovating minister, when a second witness appeared. He was inspector of the city buildings, and accused the disgraced fa- vourite of having given orders for the demolition of an ancient ruin, which obstructed the passage though one of the principal streets. He observed, that such buildings were noble monuments of barbarous antiquity ; contributed finely to show how little their ancestors understood of archi- tecture ; and for that reason such monuments should be held sacred, and suffered gradually to decay. The last witness now appeared. This was a widow, who had laudably attempted to burn her- self upon her husband’s funeral pile. But the innovating minister had prevented the execution of her design, and was insensible to her tears, protestations, and intreaties. The queen could have pardoned the two former offences ; but this last was considered as so gross. an injury to the sex, and so directly contrary to all the customs of antiquity, that it called for im- mediate justice. “ What,” cried the queen, “ not suffer a woman to burn herself when she thinks proper? The sex are to be prettily tutored, no doubt, if they must be restrained from entertaining their female friends now and then with a fried wife, or roasted acquaintance. I sentence the pri- soner to be banished my presence for ever, for his injurious treatment of the sex.” Takupi had been hitherto silent, and spoke only 356 LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. to show the sincerity of his resignation. “ Great queen,”’ cried he, “ I acknowledge my crime ; and since I am to be banished, I beg it may be to some ruined town, or desolate village in the country I have governed. I shall find some pleasure in improving the soil and bringing back a spirit of industry among the inhabitants.” His request appearing reasonable, it was immediately complied with ; and a courtier had orders to fix upon a place of banishment, answering the minister’s description. After some months’ search, however, ‘the inquiry proved fruitless: neither a desolate village nor a ruined town was found in the king- dom. “Alas!” said Takupi then to the queen, “how can that country be ill governed which has neither a desolate village nor a ruined town in it?’? The queen perceived the justice of his . expostulation, and the minister was received into more than former favour. LETTER Cll. FROM THE SAME, TE ladies here are by no means such ardent gamesters as the women of Asia. In this respect I must do the English justice ; for I love to praise where applause is justly merited. Nothing is more common in China than to see two women of fashion continue gaming till one has won all the other’s clothes and stripped her quite naked ; the winner thus marching off in a double suit of finery, and the loser shrinking behind in the primitive sim- plicity of nature. No doubt you remember when Shang, our maiden aunt, played with a sharper. First her money went ; then her trinkets were produced ; her clothes followed piece by piece soon after : when she had thus played herself quite naked, being a woman of spirit, and willing to pursue her own, she staked her teeth ; fortune was against her even here, and her teeth followed her clothes ; at last she played for her left eye, and, oh ! hard fate, this too she lost: however, she had the con- solation of biting the sharper ; for he never per- ceived that it was made of glass till it became his own. How happy, my friend, are the English ladies, who never rise to such an inordinance of passion ! Though the sex here are generally fond of games of chance, and are taught to manage games of skill from their infancy, yet they never pursue ill- fortune with such amazing intrepidity. Indeed I may entirely acquit them of ever playing—I mean of playing for their eyes or their teeth. It is true, they often stake their fortune, their beauty, health, and reputations at a gaming-table. It even sometimes happens, that they play their husbands into a jail; yet still they preserve a decorum unknown to our wives and daughters of China. I have been present at a rout in this country, where a woman of fashion, after losing her money, has sat writhing in all the agonies of bad luck ; and yet, after all, never once attempted to strip a single petticoat, or cover the board, as her last stake, with her head-clothes. However, though I praise their moderation at play, I must not conceal their assiduity. In China our women, except upon some great days, are never permitted to finger a dice-box ; but he oe every day seems to be a festival ; and night itself, which gives others rest, only serves to increase the female gamester’s industry. I have been told of an old lady in the country, who, being given over by the physicians, played with the curate of her parish to pass the time away : having won all his money, she next proposed playing for her funeral charges ; the proposal was accepted ; but unfortunately the lady expired just as she had taken in her game. ; There are some passions which, though differ- ently pursued, are attended with equal conse- quences in every country: here they game with more perseverance, there with greater fury ; here they strip their families, there they strip themselves naked. A lady in China, who indulges a passion for gaming, often becomes a drunkard ; and by flourishing a dice-box in one hand, she generally comes to brandish a dram-cup in the other. Far be it from me to say there are any who drink drams in England ; but it is natural to suppose, that when a lady has lost everything else but her honour, she will be apt to toss that into the bar- gain ; and, grown insensible to nicer feelings, be- have like the Spaniard, who, when all his money was gone, endeavoured to borrow more, by offer- ing to pawn his whiskers. Adieu. LETTER CIII. From Lien Cut Attanct to ***, Merchant in Amsterdam. I nave just received a letter from my son, in which he informs me of the fruitlessness of his endeavours to recover the lady with whom he fled from Persia. He strives to cover, under the appearance of fortitude, a heart torn with anxiety and disappointment. I have offered little con- solation ; since that but too frequently feeds the sorrow which it pretends to deplore, and strengthens the impression which nothing but the external rubs ‘of time and accident can thoroughly efface. — He informs me of his intentions of quitting Moscow the first opportunity, and travelling by land to Amsterdam. I must, therefore, upon his arrival, entreat the continuance of your friend- ship ; and beg of you to provide him with proper directions for finding me in London. You can scarcely be sensible of the joy 1 expect upon see- ing him once more: the ties between the father and the son among us of China are much more closely drawn than with you of Europe. The remittances sent me from Argun to Mos- cow came in safety. I cannot sufficiently admire that spirit of honesty which prevails through the whole country of Siberia ; perhaps the savages of that desolate region are the only untutored people of the globe that cultivate the moral virtues, even without knowing that their actions merit praise. I have been told surprising things of their good- ness, benevolence, and generosity: and the un- interrupted commerce between China and Russia serves as a collateral confirmation. “ Let us,” says the Chinese lawgiver, “ admire the rude virtues of the ignorant, but rather imi- tate the delicate morals of the polite.” In the country where I reside, though honesty and bene-, yolence be not so congenial, yet art supplies the place of nature. Though here every vice is carried LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 107 to excess, yet every virtue is practised also with unexampled superiority. A city like this is the soil for great virtues and great vices ; the villain can soon improve here in the deepest mysteries of deceiving ; and the practical philosopher can every day meet new incitements to mend his honest intentions. There are no pleasures, sensual or sentimental, which this city does not produce ; yet, I know not how, I could not be content to reside here for life. There is something so seducing in that spot in which we first had exist- ence, that nothing but it can please ; whatever vicissitudes we experience in life, however we toil, or wheresoever we wander, our fatigued wishes still recur to home for tranquillity : we long to die in that spot which gave us birth, and in that pleasing expectation opiate every calamity. You now, therefore, perceive that I have some intention of leaving this country ; and yet my designed departure fills me with reluctance and regret. Though the friendships of travellers are generally more transient than vernal snows, still I feel an uneasiness at breaking the connexions I have formed since my arrival; particularly I shall have no small pain in leaving my usual com- panion, guide, and instructor. I shall wait for the arrival of my son before I set out. He shall be my companion in every intended journey for the future ; in his company I can support the fatigues of the way with re- doubled ardour, pleased at once with conveying instruction and exacting obedience. Adieu. LETTER CIV. From Lien Cur ALTANer to Fum Hoan, first President of the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China, Our scholars in China have a most profound veneration for forms. A first-rate beauty never studied the decorums of dress with more assiduity : they may properly enough be said to be clothed with wisdom from head to foot ; they have their philosophical caps and philosophical whiskers, their philosophical slippers and philosophical fans ; there is even a philosophical standard for mea- suring the nails ; and yet, with all this seeming wisdom, they are often found to be mere empty pretenders. A philosophical beau is not so frequent in Europe ; yet I am told that such characters are found here. J mean such as punctually support all the decorums of learning, without being really very profound, or naturally possessed of a fine understanding ; who labour hard to obtain the titular honours attending literary merit, who flatter others, in order to be flattered in turn ; and only study to be thought students. i A character of this kind generally receives com- pany in his study, in ‘all the pensive formality of slippers, night-gown, and easy-chair.. The table is covered with a large book, which is always kept open, and never read; his solitary hours being dedicated to dozing, mending pens, feeling his pulse, peeping through the microscope, an. sometimes reading amusing books, which he con- demns in company. His library is preserved with the most religious neatness, and is generally a repository for scarce hooks, which bear a high 357 { 108 price, because too dull or useless to become com- mon by the ordinary methods of publication. Such men are generally candidates for admit- tance into literary clubs, academies, and insti- tutions, where they regularly meet to give and receive a little instruction and a great deal of praise. In conversation they never betray igno- rance, because they never seem to receive inform- ation. Offer a new observation, they have heard it before ; pinch them in an argument, and they reply with a sneer. Yet how trifling soever these little arts may appear, they answer one valuable purpose, of gaining the practisers the esteem they wish for. The bounds of a man’s knowledge are easily con- cealed, if he has but prudence ; but all can readily see and admire a gilt library ; a set of long nails, a silver standish, or a well-combed whisker, who are incapable of distinguishing a dunce. When Father Matthew, the first European missionary, entered China, the court was informed that he possessed great skill in astronomy ; he was therefore sent for, and examined. The esta- blished astronomers of state undertook this task, and made their report to the emperor that his skill was but very superficial, and no way com- parable to their own. The missionary, however, appealed from their judgment to experience, and challenged them to calculate an eclipse of the moon that was to happen a few nights following. “ What,” said some, “ shall a barbarian without nails pretend to vie with men in astronomy, who have made it the study of their lives, with men who know half the knowable characters of words, who wear scientifical caps and slippers, and who have gone through every literary degree with applause?” They accepted the challenge, con- fident of success. The eclipse began ; the Chinese produced a most splendid apparatus, and were fifteen minutes wrong ; the missionary with a single instrument was exact to a second. This was con- vineing ; but the court astronomers were not to- be convinced ; instead of acknowledging their error, they assured the emperor that their cal- culations were certainly exact,but that the stranger without nails had actually bewitched the moon. “ Well, then,” cries the good emperor, smiling at their ignorance, “you shall still continue to be servants of the moon ; but I constitute this man her controller.” China is thus replete with men, whose only pre- tensions to knowledge arise from external circum- stances ; and in Europe every country abounds with them in proportion to its ignorance. Spain and Flanders, who are behind the rest of Europe in learning at least three centuries, have twenty , literary titles and marks of distinction unknown in France or England : they have their Clarissimi and Preclarissimi, their Accuratissimi and Minu- tissimi : a round cap entitles one student to argue, and a square cap permits another to teach ; while a cap with a tassel almost sanctifies the head it happens to cover. But where true knowledge is cultivated, these formalities begin to disappear ; the ermined cowl, the solemn beard, and sweeping train, are laid aside ; philosophers: dress and talk and think like other men ; and lamb-skin dressers and cap-makers, and tail-carriers, now deplore a_ literary age. For my own part, my friend, I have seen enough LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. of presuming ignorance, never to venerate wisdom but where it actually appears. I have. received literary titles and distinctions myself ; and, by the quantity of my own wisdom, know how very little wisdom they can confer. Adieu. LETTER CV. From Lien Cur ALtTanGi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. Tue time for the young king’s coronation ap- proaches ; the great and the little world look for- ward with impatience. A knight from the country, who has brought up his family to see and be seen on this occasion, has taken all the lower part of the house where I lodge. large quantity of silks, which the mercer tells her are to be fashionable next season ; and Miss, her daughter, has actually had her ears bored previ- ously to the ceremony. In all this bustle of pre- paration I am considered as mere lumber, and have been shoved up two stories higher, to make room for others my landlady seems perfectly con- vinced are my betters ; but whom before me she is contented with only calling very good company. The little beau, who has now forced himself into my intimacy, was yesterday giving me a minute detail of the intended procession. All men are eloquent upon their favourite topic ; and this seemed peculiarly adapted to the size and turn of his understanding. His whole mind was blazoned over with a variety of glittering images; coronets, escutcheons, lace, fringe, tassels, stones, bugles, and spun glass, “ Here,” cried he, “ Garter is to walk ; and there Rouge Dragon marches with the escutcheons on his back. Here Clarencieux moves forward ; and there Blue Mantle disdains to be left behind. Here the aldermen march two and two ; and there the undaunted champion of Eng- land, no way terrified at the very numerous ap- pearance of gentlemen and ladies, rides forward in complete armour, and with an intrepid air throws down his glove. Ah,” continued he, “should any be so hardy as to take up that fatal glove, and to accept the challenge, we should see fine sport; the champion would show him no mercy ; he would soon teach him all his passes with a witness. However, I am afraid we shall have none willing to try it with him upon the ap- proaching occasion for two reasons : first, because his antagonist would stand a chance of being killed in the single combat ; and secondly, because, if he escapes the champion’s arm, he would certainly be hanged for treason. No, no, I fancy none will be so hardy as to dispute it with a champion, like him, inured to arms ; and we shall probably see him prancing unmolested away, holding his bridle thus in one hand, and brandishing his dram-cup in the other.” Some men have a manner of describing which only wraps the subject in more than former ob- security: thus was I unable, with all my com- panion’s volubility, to form a distinct idea of the intended procession. I was certain that the in- auguration of a king should be conducted with solemnity and religious awe ; and I could not be persuaded that there was much solemnity in this description. If this be true, cried I to myself, the people of Europe surely have a strange man- His wife is laying ina ~ ner of mixing solemn and fantastic images together, pictures at once replete with burlesque and the sublime. At a time when the king enters into the most solemn compact with his people, nothing surely should be admitted to diminish from the real majesty of the ceremony. A ludicrous image brought in at such a time throws an air of ridicule upon the whole. It some way resembles a picture I have seen, designed by Albert Durer, where, amidst all the solemnity of that awful scene—a Deity judging, and a trembling world awaiting the decree,—he has introduced a merry mortal trundling his scolding wife to hell in a wheel- barrow. My companion, who mistook my silence, during this interval of reflection, for the rapture of asto- nishment, proceeded to describe those frivolous parts of the show that mostly struck his imagina- tion; and to assure me that, if I staid in this country some months longer, I should see fine things. “For my own part,” continued he, “ [ know already of fifteen suits of clothes that would stand on one end with gold lace, all designed to be first shown there ; and as for diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and pearls, we shall see them as thick as brass nails in a sedan-chair. And then we are all to walk so majestically thus--this foot always behind the foot before. The ladies are to fling nosegays, the court poets to scatter verses: the spectators are to be all in full dress: Mrs. Tibbs in a new sacque, ruffles, and frenched hair ; look where you will, one thing finer than another ; Mrs. Tibbs courtesies to the duchess ; her grace returns the-compliment with a bow. ‘ Largess,’ cries the herald. ‘ Make room,’ cries the gentle- man usher. ‘ Knock him down,’ cries the guard. Ah!’ continued he, amazed at his own descrip- tion, “‘ what an astonishing scene of grandeur can art produce from the smallest circumstance, when it thus actually turns to wonder one man putting on another man’s hat.” I now found his mind was entirely set upon the fopperies of the pageant, and quite regardless of the real meaning of such costly preparations. “ Pageants,” says Bacon, “are pretty things ; but we should rather study to make them elegant than expensive.” Processions, cavalcades, and all that fund of gay frippery furnished out by tailors, barbers, and tire-women, mechanically influence the mind into veneration; an emperor in his nightcap would not meet with half the respect of an emperor with a glittering crown. Politics re- semble religion ; attempting to divest either of cere- mony is the most certain method of bringing either into contempt. The weak must have their induce- ments to admiration as well as the wise ; and it is the business of a sensible government to impress all ranks with a sense of subordination, whether this be effected by a diamond buckle or a virtuous edict, a sumptuary law or a glass necklace. This interval of reflection only gave my com- panion spirits to begin his description afresh ; and as a greater inducement to raise my curiosity, he informed me of the vast sums that were given by the spectators for places. “That the ceremony must be fine,” cries he, “is very evident from the fine price that is paid for seeing it. Several ladies have assured me, they would willingly part with one eye, rather than be prevented from looking on with the other, Come, come,’’ continues he, “ I LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 109 have a friend who for my sake will supply us with places at the most. reasonable rates ; I will take care you shall not be imposed upon ; and he will inform you of the use, finery, rapture, splendour, and enchantment: of the whole ceremony better than I.” Follies often repeated lose their absurdity, and assume the appearance of reason: his arguments were so often and so strongly enforced, that I had actually some thoughts of becoming a spectator. We accordingly went together to bespeak a place ; but guess my surprise, when the man demanded a purse of gold for a single seat; I could hardly believe him serious upon making the demand. “ Pr’ythee, friend,” cried I, “after I have paid twenty pounds for sitting here an hour or two, can J bring a part of the coronation back ?’’— “ No, sir.’’-— How long can I live upon it after I have come away ?”——“ Not long, sir.”—‘ Can a coronation clothe, feed, or fatten me ?’’—* Sir,’”’ replied the man, “ you seem to be under a mistake ; all that you can bring away is the pleasure of having it to say that you saw the coronation.” — “ Blast me,” cries Tibbs, “if that be all, there is no need of paying for that, since I am resolved to have that pleasure, whether I am there or no !” I am conscious, my friend, that this is but a very confused description of the intended cere- mony. You may object, that I neither settle rank, precedency, nor place; that I seem ignorant whether Gules walks before or behind Garter ; that I have neither mentioned the dimensions of a lord’s cap, nor measured the length of a lady’s tail. I know your delight is in minute description, and this I am unhappily disqualified from furnish- ing ; yet, upon the whole, I fancy it will be no way comparable to the magnificence of our late emperor Whangti’s procession, when he was mar- ried to the moon, at which Fum Hoam himself presided in person. Adieu. LETTER CVI. TO THE SAME. Ir was formerly the custom here, when men of distinction died, for their surviving acquaintance to throw each a slight present into the grave. Several things of little value were made use of for that purpose: perfumes, relics, spices, bitter herbs, camomile, wormwood, and verses. This custom, however, is almost discontinued ; and nothing but verses alone are now lavished on such occasions ; an oblation which they suppose may be interred with the dead, without any injury to the living. Upon the death of the great, therefore, the poets and undertakers are sure of employment. While one provides the long cloak, black staff, and mourning-coach, the other produces the pastoral or elegy, the monody or apotheosis. need be under no apprehensions, but die as fast as they think proper, the poet and undertaker are ready to supply them: these can find metaphorical tears and family escutcheons, at half an hour’s warning ; and when the one has soberly laid the body in the grave, the other is ready to fix it figu- ratively among the stars. There are several ways of being poetically sorrowful on such occasions. The bard is now some pensive youth of science, who sits deploring The nobility - 359 110 LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. among the tombs ; again he is Thyrsis, complaining in a circle of harmless sheep. Now Britannia sits upon her own shore, and gives a loose to maternal tenderness 3 at another time, Parnassus, even the mountain Parnassus, gives way to sorrow, and is bathed in tears of distress. But the most usual manner is this :-—Damon meets Menaleas, who has got a most gloomy coun- tenance. The shepherd asks his friend, “ whence that look of distress ?” to which the other replies, that “ Pollio is no more.’’ “If that be the case, then,” cries Damon, “let us retire to yonder bower at some distance off, where the cypress and the jessamine add fragrance to the breeze ; and let us weep alternately for Pollio, the friend of shep- herds, and the patron of every muse.’”’ “ Ah,” returns his fellow shepherd, “what think you rather of that grotto by the fountain side? the murmuring stream will help to assist our com- plaints, and a nightingale on a neighbouring tree will join her voice to the concert.” When the place is thus settled, they begin: the brook stands still to hear their lamentations ; the cows forget to graze ; and the very tigers start from the forest with sympathetic concern.—By the tombs of our ancestors! my dear Fum, I am quite unaffected in all this distress : the whole is liquid laudanum to my spirits ; and a tiger of common sensibility has twenty times more tenderness than I. But though I could never weep with the com- plaining shepherd, yet I am sometimes induced to pity the poet, whose trade is thus to make demi- gods and heroes for a dinner. There is not in nature a more dismal figure than a man who sits down to premeditated flattery ; every stanza he writes tacitly reproaches the meanness of his occupation, till at last his stupidity becomes more stupid, and his dulness more diminutive. I am amazed, therefore, that none have yet found out the secret of flattering the worthless, and yet of preserving a safe conscience. I have often wished for some method by which a man might do himself and his deceased patron justice, without being under the hateful reproach of self- conviction. After long lucubration, I have hit upon such an expedient ; and send you the speci- men of a poem upon the decease of a great man, | in which the flattery is perfectly fine, and yet the | poet perfectly innocent. ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE Ye muses, pour the pitying tear! For Pollio’s snatch’d away : O, had he lived another year! —He had not died to-day. O, were he born to bless mankind In virtuous times of yore, Heroes themselves had fallen behind! —Whene'er he went before. How sad the groves and plains appear, And sympathetic sheep ; Ey’n pitying hills would drop a tear! —IlIf hills could learn to weep. His bounty in exalted strain Each bard might well display: Since none implor’d relief in vain ! —That went reliev'd away. And hark! I hear the tuneful throng His obsequies forbid ; He still shall live, shall live as long —As ever dead main did. LETTER CVII. TO THE SAME. Ir is the most usual method in every report, first to examine its probability, and then act as the conjuncture may require. The English, how- ever, exert a different spirit in such circumstances ; they first act, and when too late begin to examine. From a knowledge of this disposition, there are several here who make it their business to frame new reports at every convenient interval, all tend- ing to denounce ruin both on their contemporaries and their posterity. This denunciation is eagerly caught up by the public ; away they fling to pro- pagate the distress ; sell out at one place, buy in at another, grumble at their governors, shout in mobs, and when they have thus for some time be- haved like fools, sit down coolly to argue and talk wisdom, to puzzle each other with syllogism, and prepare for the next report that prevails, which is always attended with the same success. Thus are they ever rising above one report only to sink into another. They resemble a dog’ in a well, pawing to get free. When he has raised his upper parts above water, and every spectator imagines him disengaged, his lower parts drag him down again and sink him to the nose ; he makes new efforts to emerge, and every effort in- creasing his weakness, only tends to sink him the deeper. There are some here who, I am told, make a tolerable subsistence by the credulity of their countrymen : as they find the public fond of blood, wounds, and death, they contrive political ruins suited to every month in the year. This month the people are to be eaten up by the French in flat- bottomed boats ; the next by the soldiers, designed to beat the French back : now the people are going to jump down the gulf of luxury ; and now nothing but a herring subscription can fish them up again. Time passes on, the report proves false ; new circumstances produce new changes: but the people never change, they are persevering in folly. In other countries those boding politicians would be left to fret over their own schemes alone, and grow Splenetic without hopes of infecting others ; but England seems to be the very region where spleen delights to dwell : a man not only can give an unbounded scope to the disorder in himself, but may, if he pleases, propagate it over the whole kingdom, with a certainty of success. He has only to cry out, that the government, the govern. ment is all wrong, that their schemes are leading to ruin, that Britons are no more: every good member of the commonwealth thinks it his duty, in such a ease, to deplore the universal decadence with sympathetic sorrow, and by fancying the constitution in a decay, absolutely to impair its vigour. This people would laugh at my simplicity, should I advise them to be less sanguine in harbouring gloomy predictions, and examine coolly before they attempted to complain. I have just heard a story, which, though transacted in a private family, serves very well to describe the behaviour of the whole nation, in cases of threatened calamity. As there are public, so there are private incendiaries 360 LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. here. One of the last, “either for the amusement of his friends, or to divert a fit of spleen, lately sent a threatening letter to a worthy family in my neighbourhood, to this effect : “Sir, knowing you to be very rich, and finding myself to be very poor, I think proper to inform you, that I have learned the secret of poisoning man, woman, and child, without danger of detec- tion. Do not be uneasy, sir,—you may take your choice of being poisoned in a fortnight, or poisoned in a month, or poisoned in six weeks ; you shall have full time to settle all your affairs. Though I am poor, I love to do things like a gentleman. But, sir, you must die; I have determined it within my own breast that you must die. Blood, sir, blood is my trade ; so I could wish you would this day six weeks take leave of your friends, wife, and family, for I cannot possibly allow you longer time. To convince you more certainly of the power of my art, by which you may know I speak truth, take this letter ; when you have read it, tear off the seal, fold it up, and give it to your favourite Dutch mastiff that sits by the fire ; he will swallow it, sir, like a buttered toast ; in three hours four minutes after he has taken it, he will attempt to bite off his own tongue, and half an hour after burst asunder in twenty pieces. Blood, blood, blood! so no more at present from sir, your most obedient, most devoted humble servant to command till death.” You may easily imagine the consternation into which this letter threw the whole good-natured family. The poor man, to whom it was addressed, was the more surprised, as not knowing how he could merit such inveterate malice. All the friends of the family were convened 5 it was universally agreed, that it was a most terrible affair, and that the government should be solicited to offer a reward and a pardon : a fellow of this kind would go on poisoning family after family ; and it was impossible to say where the destruction would end. In pursuance of these determinations, the govern- ment was applied to ; strict search was made after the incendiary, but all in vain. At last, therefore, they recollected that the experiment was not yet tried upon the dog ; the Dutch mastiff was brought up, and placed in the midst of the friends and relations, the seal was torn off, the packet folded up with care, and soon they found, to the great surprise of all—that the dog would not eat the letter. Adieu. LETTER CVIILI. FROM THE SAME, I nave frequently been amazed at the ignorance of almost all the European travellers, who have penetrated any considerable way eastward into Asia. They have been influenced either by motives of commerce or piety, and their accounts are such as might reasonably be expected from men of very narrow or very prejudiced education, the dictates of superstition or the result of ignorance. Is it not surprising, that in such a variety of adven- turers not one single philosopher should be found? for as to the Travels of Gemelli, the learned are long agreed that the whole is but an imposture. rT 111 There is scarcely any country, how rude or un- cultivated soever, where the inhabitants are not possessed of some peculiar secrets, either in nature or art, which might be transplanted with success ; in Siberian Tartary, for instance, the natives ex- tract a strong spirit from milk, which is a secret probably unknown to the chemists of Europe. In the most savage parts of India they are possessed of the secret of dyeing vegetable substances scarlet ; and of refining lead into a metal, which for hard- ness and colour is little inferior to silver ; not one of which secrets but would in Europe make a man’s fortune. The power of the Asiatics in pro- ducing winds, or bringing down rain, the Euro- peans are apt to treat as fabulous, because they have no instances of the like nature among them- selves : but they would have treated the secrets of gunpowder, and the mariner’s compass, in the same manner, had they been told the Chinese used such arts before the invention was common with themselves at home. Of all the English philosophers I most rever- ence Bacon, that great and hardy genius: he it is who allows of secrets yet unknown ; who, un- daunted by the seeming difficulties that oppose, prompts human curiosity to examine every part of nature, and even exhorts man to try whether he cannot subject the tempest, the thunder, and even earthquakes to human control. O, did a man of his daring spirit, of his genius, penetration, and learning, travel to those countries which have been visited only by the superstitious and mercenary, what might not mankind expect ; how would he enlighten the regions to which he travelied! And what a variety of knowledge and useful improve- ment would he not bring back in exchange ! There is probably no country so barbarous, that would not disclose all it knew, if it received from the traveller equivalent information ; and I am apt to thinls, that a person who was ready to give more knowledge than he received, would be wel- come wherever he came. All his care in travelling should only be to suit his intellectual banquet to the people with whom he conversed ; he should not attempt to teach the unlettered Tartar astro- nomy, nor yet instruct the polite Chinese in the ruder arts of subsistence : he should endeavour to improve the barbarian in the secrets of living comfortably ; and the inhabitant of a more refined country in the speculative pleasures of science. How much more nobly would a philosopher, thus employed, spend his time, than by sitting at home earnestly intent upon adding oue star more to his catalogue ; or one monster more to his collection ; or still, if possible, more triflingly sedulous in the incatenation of fleas, or the sculpture of a cherry- stone ! I never consider this subject without being sur- prised that none of those societies so laudably established in England for the promotion of arts and learning, have ever thought of sending one of their members into the most eastern parts of Asia, to make what discovéries he was able. To be convinced of the utility of such an undertaking, let them but read the relations of their own tra- vellers, It will be there found that they are as often deceived themselves, as they attempt to de- ceive others. The merchant tells us perhaps the price of different commodities, the methods of baling them up, and the properest manner for e 361 il2 European to preserve his health in the country. The missionary, on the other hand, informs us, with what pleasure the country to which he was sent embraced Christianity, and the numbers he converted ; what methods he took to keep Lent in a region where there was no fish, or the shifts he made to celebrate the rites of his religion, in places where there was neither bread nor wine ! such accounts, with the usual appendage of mar- riages and funerals, inscriptions, rivers, and mountains, make up the whole of a European traveller’s diary ; but as to all the secrets of which _ the inhabitants are possessed, those are universally attributed to magic ; and when the traveller can give no other account of the wonders he sees performed, he very contentedly ascribes them to the power of the devil. It was a usual observation of Boyle, the English chemist, that if every artist would but discover what new observations occurred to him in the exercise of his trade, philosophy would thence gain innumerable improvements. It may be ob- served, with still greater justice, that if the useful knowledge of every country, howsoever barbarous, was gleaned by a judicious observer, the advan- tages would be inestimable. Are there not, even in Europe, many useful inventions known or prac- tised but in one place? The instrument, as an example, for cutting down corn in Germany is much more handy and expeditious, in my opinion, than the sickle used in England. The cheap and expeditious manner of making vinegar without previous fermentation, is known only in a part of France. If such discoveries, therefore, remain still to be known at home ; what funds of know- ledge might not be collected in countries yet un- explored, or only passed through by ignorant travellers in hasty caravans ! The caution with which foreigners are received in Asia may be alleged as an objection to such a design. But how readily have several European merchants found admission into regions the most suspecting, under the character of Sanjapins, or Northern pilgrims ; to such not even China itself denies access. To send out a traveller, properly qualified for these purposes, might be an object of national concern ; it would in some measure repair the breaches made by ambition ; and might show that there were still some who boasted a greater name than that of patriots who professed themselves lovers of men. The only difficulty would remain in choosing a proper person for so arduous an enterprise. Heshould be a man of a philosophical turn, one apt to deduce consequences of general utility from particular occurrences : neither swollen with pride, nor hardened by prejudice ; neither wedded to one particular system, nor instructed only in one particular science ; neither wholly a botanist, nor quite an antiquarian; his mind should be tinctured with miscellaneous knowledge, and his manners humanised by an intercourse with men. He should be in some measure an enthusiast in the design ; fond of travelling, from a rapid imagination and an innate love of change: furnished with a body capable of sustaining every fatigue, and a heart not easily terrified at danger. Adieu. 362 LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. LETTER CIX. FIOM THE SAME. One of the principal tasks I had proposed to myself on my arrival here, was to become ac- quainted with the names and characters of those now living, who, as scholars or wits, had acquired the greatest share of reputation. In order to succeed in this design, I fancied the surest method would be to begin my inquiry among the ignorant, judging that his fame would be the greatest, which was loud enough to be heard by the vulgar. Thus predisposed I began the search, but only went in quest of disappointment and perplexity. I found every district had a peculiar famous man of its own. Here the story-telling shoemaker had en | grossed the admiration on one side of the street, while the bellman, who excelleth at a catch, was in quiet possession of the other. At one end of a lane the sexton was regarded as the greatest man alive, but I had not traveiled half its length, till I found an enthusiast teacher had divided his repu- tation. My landlady perceiving my design, was kind enough to offer me her advice in this affair. It was true, she observed, that she was no judge, but she knew what pleased herself, and if I would rest upon her judgment, I should set down Tom Collins as the most ingenious man in the world, for Tom was able to take off all mankind, and imitate besides a sow and pigs to perfection. I now perceived, that taking my standard of reputation among the vulgar, would swell my catalogue of great names above the size of a Court Calendar ; I therefore discontinued this method of pursuit, and resolved to prosecute my inquiry in that usual residence of fame, a bookseller’s shop. In consequence of this, I intreated the bookseller to let me know who they were who now made the greatest figure either in morals, wit, or learning. Without giving me a direct answer, he pulled a pamphlet from the shelf, The Young Attorney’s Guide : “There, sir,” cries he, “there is a touch for you, fifteen hundred of these moved off ina day ; I take the author of this pamphlet, either for title, preface, plan, body, or index, to be the completest hand in England.’”’ I found it was vain to prosecute my inquiry, where my informer appeared so incompetent a judge of merit, so paying for the Young Attorney’s Guide, which good manners obliged me to buy, I walked off. My pursuit after famous men now brought me into a prini-shop. Here, thought I, the painter only reflects the public voice. As every man who deserved it had formerly his statue placed up in the Roman forum, so here probably the pictures of none but such as merit a place in our affections are held up for public sale. But guess my sur- prise, when I came to examine this depository of noted faces ! all distinctions were levelled here, as in the grave, and I could not but regard it as the catacomb of real merit. The brickdust man took up as much room as the truncheoned hero, and the judge was elbowed by the thief-taker ; quacks, pimps, and buffoons increased the group, and noted stallions only made room for more noted w——s. I had read the works of some of the moderns previously to my coming to England with delight and approbation, but I found their faces had no place here, the walls were covered LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. with the names of authors I had never known, or had endeavoured to forget ; with the little self- advertising things of a day, who had forced them- selves into fashion, but not into fame ; I could read at the bottom of some pictures the names of **, and ***, and ****, all equally candidates for the vulgar shout, and foremost to propagate their unblushing faces upon brass. My uneasiness, therefore, at not finding my few favourite names among the number, was now changed into con- gratulation ; I could not avoid reflecting on the fine observation of Tacitus, on a similar occasion. “ Tn this cavalcade of flattery,” cries the historian, “neither the pictures of Brutus, Cassius, nor Cato, were to be seen, e€0 clariores guia imagines eorum non deferebantur, their absence being the strongest proof of their merit.” “ Tt is in vain,” cried I, “ to seek for true great- ness among these monuments of the unburied dead ; let me go among the tombs of those who are confessedly. famous, and see if any have been lately deposited there who deserve the attention of posterity, and whose names may be transmitted to my distant friend, as an honour to the present age.” Determined in my pursuit, I paid a second visit to Westminster Abbey. There I found several new monuments, erected to the memory of several great men: the names of the great men I absolutely forget, but I well remember that Roubillae was the statuary who carved them. I could not help smiling at two modern epitaphs in particular ; one of which praised the deceased for being ortus ex antigua stirpe; the other com- mended the dead, because hanc edem suis sump- tibus reedificavit : the greatest merit of one.con- sisted in his being descended from an illustrious house ; the chief distinction of the other, that he had propped up an old house that was falling. “ Alas ! alas !” cried I, “such monuments as these confer honour, not upon the great men, but upon little Roubillae.” Hitherto disappointed in my inquiry after the great of the present age, I was resolved to mix in company, and try what I could learn among cri- ties in coffeehouses ; and here it was that I heard my favourite names talked of even with inverted fame. A gentleman, of exalted merit as a writer, was branded in general terms as a bad man ; an- other, of exquisite delicacy as a poet, was re- proached for wanting good-nature ; a third was accused of freethinking ; and a fourth of having once been a player. “Strange!” cried I, “how unjust are mankind in the distribution of fame! the ignorant, among whom I sought at first, were willing to grant, but incapable of dis- tinguishing, the virtues of those who deserved it'; among those I now converse with, they know the proper objects of admiration, but mix envy with applause.” Disappointed so often, I was now resolved to examine those characters in person of whom the world talked so freely ; by conversing with men of real merit, I began to find out those characters which really deserved, though they strove to avoid, applause. I found the vulgar admiration entirely misplaced, and malevolence without its sting. The truly great, possessed of numerous small faults and shining virtues, preserve a sublime in morals as in writing. They who have attained an excel- lence in either commit numberless transgressions, Wotlk 113 observable to the meanest understanding. The ignorant critic and dull remarker can readily spy blemishes in eloquence or morals, whose ‘senti- ments are not sufficiently elevated to observe a beauty ; but such are judges neither of books nor of life, they can diminish no solid reputation by their censure, nor bestow a lasting character by their applause: in short, ] found by my search, that such only confer real fame upon others who have merit themselves to deserve it. Adieu. LETTER CX. TO THE SAME, THERE are numberless employments in the courts of the Eastern monarchs utterly unprac- tised and unknown in Europe. They have no such officers, for instance, as the emperor’s ear- tickler, or tooth-picker ; they have never intro- duced at the courts the mandarin appointed to bear the royal tobacco-box, or the grave director of the imperial exercitations in the seraglio. Yet I am surprised that the English have imitated us in none of these particulars, as they are generally pleased with everything that comes from China, and excessively fond of creating new and useless employments. They have filled their houses with our furniture, their public gardens with our fire- works, and their very ponds with our fish ; our courtiers, my friend, are the fish and the furniture they should have imported ; our courtiers would fill up the necessary ceremonies of a court better than those of Europe, would be contented with receiving large salaries for doing little, whereas some of this country are at present discontented, though they receiye large salaries for doing nothing. I lately, therefore, had thoughts of publishing a proposal here for the admission of some new Eastern offices and titles into their court register. As I consider myself in the light of a cosmopolite, I find as much satisfaction in scheming for the countries in which I happen to reside, as for that in which I was born. . The finest apartments in the palace of Pegu are frequently infested with rats ; these the religion of the country strictly forbids the people to kill. In such circumstances, therefore, they are obliged to have recourse to some great man of the court, who is willing to free the royal apartments, even at the hazard of his salvation. After a weak monarch’s reign the quantity of court vermin in every corner of the palace is surprising ; but a prudent king, and a vigilant officer, soon drive them from their sanctuaries behind the mats and the tapestry, and effectually free the court. Such an officer in England would, in my opinion, be serviceable at this juncture ; for if, as I am told, the palace be old, much vermin must un- doubtedly have taken refuge behind the wainscot and hangings. A minister should, therefore, be invested with the title and dignities of court vermin-killer ; he should have full power either to banish, take, poison, or destroy them, with enchantments, traps, ferrets, or ratsbane. He might be permitted to brandish his besom without remorse, and brush down every part of the furni- ture, without sparing a single cobweb, however sacred by long prescription. I.communicated this 63 7 114 proposal some days ago in a company of the first distinction, and enjeying the most honourable offices of the state. Among the number were, the inspector of Great Britain, Mr. Henriques ; the director of the ministry, Ben Victor ; the trea- surer, John Lockman; the secretary, and the conductor of the Imperial Magazine. They all acquiesced in the utility of my proposal, but were apprehensive it might meet with some obstruetions from court upholsterers and chambermaids, who would object to it from the demolitions of the furni- ture, and the dangerous use of ferrets and ratsbane. My next proposal is rather more general than the former, and might probably meet with less opposition. Though no people in the world flatter each other more than the English, I know none who understand the art less, and flatter with such little refinement. Their panegyric, like a Tartar feast, is indeed served up with profusion, but their cookery is insupportable. A client here shall dress up a fricassee for his patron, that shall offend an ordinary nose before it enters the room. A town shall send up their address to a great mi- nister, which shall prove at once a satire on the minister and themselves. Ifthe favourite of the day sits, or stands, or sleeps, there are poets to put it into verse, and priests to preach it in the pulpit. In order, therefore, to free both those who praise, and those who are praised, from a duty probably disagreeable to both, I would constitute professed flatterers here as in several courts of India. These are appointed in the courts of their princes, to instruct the people where to exclaim with admiration, and where to lay an emphasis of praise. But an officer of this kind is always in waiting when the emperor converses in a familiar manner among his rajahs and other nobility. At every sentence, when the monarch pauses, and smiles at what he has been saying, the karamat- man, as this officer is called, is to take it for granted that his majesty has said a good thing. Upon which he cries out, “ Karamat! karamat !” “A miracle! a miracle!” and throws up his hands and eyesin ecstacy. This is echoed by the courtiers around, while the emperor sits all this time in sullen acetate, enjoying the triumph of his joke, or studying a new repartee. I would have such an officer placed at every great man’s table in England. By frequent prac- tice he might soon become a perfect master of the art, and in time would turn out pleasing to-his patron, no way troublesome to himself, and might prevent the nauseous attempts of many more ignorant pretenders. The clergy here, I am convinced, would relish this proposal ; it would provide places for several of them ; and, indeed, by some of their late productions many appear to have qualified themselves as candidates for this office already. But my last proposal I take to be of the utmost importance. Our neighbour, the empress of Rus- sia, has, you may remember, instituted an order of female knighthood ; the empress of Germany has also instituted another ; the Chinese have had ' such an order time immemorial. I am amazed the English have never come into such an insti- tution. When I consider what kind of men are made knights here, it appears strange that they have never conferred this honour upon women. They make cheese-mongers and pastry-cooks LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. knights—then why not their wives? They have called up tallow-chandlers to maintain the hardy profession of chivalry and arms ; then why nottheir wives? Haberdashers are sworn, as | suppose all knights must be sworn, “never to fly in time of mellay or battle, to maintain and uphold the noble estate of chivalry, with horse-harnishe and other knightlye habiliments.”” Haberdashers, I say, are sworn to all this ; then why not their wives? Cer- tain I am their wives understand fighting and feats of mellay and battle better than they, and as for knightlye horse and harnishe, it is probable both know nothing more than the harness of a one- horse chaise. No, no, my friend, instead of con- ferring any order upon the husbands, I would knight their wives. However, the state should not be troubled with a new institution upon this . occasion. Some ancient exploded order might be revived, which would furnish both a motto anda name : the ladies might be permitted to choose for themselves. There are, for instance, the obsolete orders of the Dragon, in Germany ; of the Rue, in Scotland ; and the Porcupine, in France, all well-sounding names, and very applicable to my intended female institution, Adieu. LETTER CXI. TO THE SAME, Retiatous sects in England are far more nu- merous than in China. Every man who has interest enough to hire a conventicle here, may set up for himself and sell off a new religion. The sellers of the newest pattern at present give extreme good bargains, and let their disciples have a great deal of confidence for very little money. Their shops are much frequented, and their customers every day increasing, for people are naturally fond of gomg to Paradise at as small expense as possible. Yet you must not conceive this modern sect as differing in opinion from those of the established religion : difference of opinion indeed formerly divided their sectaries, and sometimes drew their armies to the field. White gowns and black man- tles, flapped hats and cross pocket-holes, were once the obvious causes of quarrel ; men then had some reason for fighting, they knew what they fought about ; but at present they are arrived at such refinement in religion-making, that they have actually formed a new sect without a new opinion; they quarrel for opinions they both equally de- fend ; they hate each other, and that is all the dif- ference between them. But though their principles are the same, their practice is somewhat different. Those of the established religion laugh when they are pleased, and their groans are.seldom extorted but by pain or danger. ‘The new sect, on the contrary, weep for their amusement, and use little music except a chorus of sighs and groans, or tunes that are made to imitate groaning. Laughter is their aversion ; lovers court each other from the Lamentations ; the bridegroom approaches the nuptial couch in sorrowful solemnity, and the bride looks more dis- mal than an undertaker’s shop. Dancing round the room is with them running in a direct line to the devil ; and as for gaming, though but in jest, 64 LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. they would sooner play with a aleenakers tail than finger a dice-box. By this time you perceye that I am describing a sect of enthusiasts ! and you have already com- pared them with the Faquirs, Bramins, and Tala- poins of the East. Among these, you know, are generations that have never been known to smile, and voluntary affliction makes up all the merit they can boast of. Enthusiasms in every country produce the same effects ; stick the Faquir with pins, or confine the Bramin to a vermin hospital, spread the Talapoin on the ground,* or load the sectary’s brow with contrition ; those worship- pers who discard the light of reason are ever gloomy ; their fears increase in proportion to their ignorance, as men are continually under appre- hensions who walk in darkness. Yet there is still a stronger reason for the en- thusiast’s being an enemy to laughter, namely, his being himself so proper an object of ridicule. It is remarkable that the propagators of false doc- trines have ever been averse to mirth, and always begin by recommending gravity when they in- tended to disserninate imposture. Fohi, the idol of China, is represented as having never laughed : Zoroaster, the leader of the Bramins, is said to have laughed but twice, upon his coming into the world, and upon his leaving it; and Mahomet himself, though a lever of pleasure, was a pro- fessed opposer of gaiety. Upon a certain occasion telling his followers, that they would all appear naked at the resurrection, his favourite wife re- presented such an assembly as immodest and un- becoming. “ Foolish woman !’’ cried the grave prophet, “ though the whole assembly be naked, at that day they shall have forgotten to laugh.” Men like him opposed ridicule because they knew it to be a most formidable antagonist, and preached up gravity to conceal their own want of importance. Ridicule has ever been the most powerful enemy of enthusiasm, and properly the only antagonist that can be opposed to it with success. Persecu- tion only serves to propagate new religions ; they acquire fresh vigour beneath the executioner and the axe, and, like some vivacious insects, multiply by dissection. It is also impossible to combat en- thusiasm with reason, for though it makes a show of resistance, it soon eludes the pressure, refers ‘you to distinctions not to be understood, and feel- ings which it cannot explain. A man who would endeavour to fix an enthusiast by argument, might as well attempt to spread quicksilver with his fingers. The only way to conquer a visionary is to despise him ; the stake, the faggot, and the dis- puting doctor, in some measure ennoble the opi- nions they are brought to oppose : they are harm- less against Innovating pride ; contenipt alone is truly dreadful. Hunters generally know the most vulnerable part of the beasts they pursue by the care which every animal takes to defend the side which is weakest ; on what side the enthusiast is most vulnerable, may be known by the care which he takes in the beginning to work his disciples into gravity, and guard them against the power of ridicule. When Philip the Second was king of Spain, there was a contest in Salamanca between two orders of friars for superiority. The legend of one side contained more extraordinary miracles, | but the dood of the thee was reckoned most authentic. They reviled each other, as it is usual in disputes of divinity ; the people were divided into factions, and a civil war appeared unavoid- able. In order to prevent such an imminent calamity, the combatants were prevailed upon to submit their legends to the fiery trial, and that which came forth untouched by the fire was to have the victory, and to be honoured with a double share of reverence. Whenever the people flock to see a miracle, it is a hundred to one but that they see a miracle ; incredible, therefore, were the numbers that were gathered round upon this occasion ; the friars on each side approached, and confidently threw their respective legends into the flames, when, lo ! to the utter disappointment of all the assembly, instead of a miracle, both le- gends were consumed. Nothing but thus turning both parties into contempt, could have prevented the effusion of blood. The people now laughed at their former folly, and wondered why they fell out. Adieu. LETTER CXII. TO THE SAME, THE English are at present employed in cele- brating a feast, which becomes general every seventh year ; the parliament of the nation being then dissolved, and another appointed to be chosen. This solemnity falls infinitely short of our feast of the lanterns in magnificence and splendour : it is also surpassed by others of the East in unanimity and pure devotion ; but no festival in the world can compare with it for eating. Their eating in- deed amazes me ; had I five hundred heads, and were each head furnished with brains, yet would they all be insufficient to compute the number of cows, pigs, geese, and turkeys, which BROW this oceasion die for the good of their country ! To say the truth, eating seems to make a grand ingredient in all English ‘parties of zeal, business, or amusement. When a ghureh is to be built, or an hospital endowed, the directors assemble, and instead of consulting upon it, they eat upon it, by which means the business goes forward with suc- cess. When the poor are to be relieved, the officers appointed to deal out public charity as- semble and eat upon it: nor has it ever been known that they filled the bellies of the poor till they had previously satisfied their own. But in the election of magistrates the people seem to exceed all bounds ; the merits of a candidate are often measured by the number of his treats ; his constituents assemble, eat upon him, and lend their applause not to his integrity or sense, but the quantit:.es of his beef and brandy. And yet I could forgive this people their plen- tiful meals on this occasion, as it is extremely natural for every man to eat a great deal when he gets it for nothing ; but what amazes me is, that all this good living no way contributes to improve their good- -humour, On the contrary, they seem .to lose their temper as they lose their appetites ; every morsel they swallow, and every glass they pour down, serves to increase their animosity. Many an honest man, before as harmless as a tame rabbit, when loaded with a single election dinner, has become more dangerous than a charged 115 Pe Sea a aR RO RC SIE IRAE SRR EERE MG eulverin. forth at the head of a mob, determined to face a desperate pastry-cook, who was general of the opposite party. But you must not suppose they are without a | pretext for thus beating each other. On the con- trary, no man here is so uncivilised as to beat his neighbour without produeing very sufficient rea- sons. One candidate, for instance, treats with gin, a spirit of their own manufacture ; another always drinks brandy imported from abroad. Brandy is a wholesome liquor ; gin a liquor wholly their own, This then furnishes an obvious cause of quarrel, whether it be most reasonable to get drunk with gin or get drunk with brandy? The mob meet upon the debate ; fight themselves sober ; and then draw off to get drunk again, and charge for an- other encounter. So that the English may now properly be said to be engaged in war ; since, while they are subduing their enemies abroad, they are breaking each other’s heads at home. I lately made an excursion to a neighbouring village, in order to be a spectator of the ceremonies practised upon this occasion. I left town in com- pany with three fiddlers, nine dozen of hams, and a corporation poet, which were designed as rein- forecements to the gin-drinking party. We entered the town with a very good face ; the fiddlers, no way intimidated by the enemy, kept handling their arms up the principal street. By this prudent manoeuvre they took peaceable possession of their head-quarters, amidst the shouts of multitudes, who seemed perfectly rejoiced at hearing their music, but above all at seeing their bacon. I must own I could not avoid being pleased to see all ranks of people on this occasion levelled into an equality ; and the poor, in some measure, enjoy the primitive privileges of nature. If there was any distinction shown, the lowest of the people seemed to receive it from the rich. I could per- ceive a cobbler with a levee at his door, and a haberdasher giving audience from behind his counter. But my reflections were soon inter- rupted by a mob, who demanded whether I was for the distillery or the brewery! As these were terms with which I was totally unacquainted, I chose at first to be silent ; however, I know not what might have been the consequence of my re- serve, had not the attention of the mob been called off to a skirmish between a brandy-drinker’s cow and a gin-drinker’s mastiff, which turned out, greatly to the satisfaction of the mob, in favour of the mastiff, The spectacle, which afforded high entertain- ment, was at last ended by the appearance of one of the candidates, who came to harangue the mob ; he made a very pathetic speech upon the late excessive importation of foreign drams, and the downfall of the distillery : I could see some of the audience shed tears, He was accompanied in his procession by Mrs, Deputy and Mrs. Mayoress. Mrs. Deputy was not in the least in liquor ; and as for Mrs. Mayoress, one of the spectators assured me in the ear, “that she was a very fine woman before she had the small-pox.’’ Mixing with the crowd, I was now conducted to the hali where the magistrates are chosen ; but what tongue can describe the scene of confusion ! the whole crowd seemed equally inspired with LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. Upon one of these occasions, I have > actually seen a bloody-minded man-milliner sally | anger, jealousy, politics, patriotism, and punch ; I remarked one figure that was carried up by two men upon this occasion. I at first began to pity his infirmities as natural ; but soon found the fel- low so drunk that he could not stand: another made his appearance to give his vote ; but though he could stand, he actually lost the use of his tongue, and remained silent ; a third, who, though excessively drunk, could both stand and speak, being asked the candidate’s name for whom he voted, could be prevailed upon to make no other answer but “¢'Tobacco and brandy!” In short, an election-hall seems to be a theatre where every passion is seen without disguise ; a school where , fools may readily become worse, and where phi- losophers may gather wisdom, Adieu. LETTER CXIITI. FROM THE SAME. THE disputes among the learned here are now carried on in a much more compendious manner than formerly. There was a time when folio was brought to oppose folio, and a champion was often listed for life under the banners of a single sorites. At present the controversy is decided in a sum- mary way ; an epigram or an acrostic finishes the debate, and the combatant, like the incursive Tartar, advances and retires with a single blow. An important literary debate at present en- grosses the attention of the town. It is carried on with sharpness, and a proper share of this epigrammatical fury. An author, it seems, has taken an aversion to the faces of several players, and has written verses to prove his dislike ; the players fall upon the author, and assure the town he must be dull, and their faces must be good, because he wants a dinner ; a critic comes to the poet’s assistance, asserting that the verses were perfectly original, and so smart, that he could never have written them without the assistance of friends ; the friends upon this arraign the critic, and plainly prove the verses to be all the author’s own, So at it they are all four together by the ears, the friends at the critic, the critic at the players, the players at the author, and the author at the players again. It is impossible to deter- mine how this many-sided contest will end, or which party to adhere to. The town, without siding with any, views the combat in suspense, like the fabled hero of antiquity, who beheld the earth-born brothers give and receive mutual wounds, and fall by indiscriminate destruction. This is in some measure a state of the present dispute ; but the combatants here differ in one respect from the champions of the fable. Every new wound only gives vigour for another blow ; though they appear to strike, they are in fact mutually swelling themselves into consideration, and thus advertising each other away into fame. “ To-day,” says one, “my name shall be in the Gazette, the next day my rival’s ; people will naturally inquire about us ; thus we shall at least make a noise in the streets, though we have got nothing to sell.” I have read of a dispute of a similar nature, which was managed here about twenty years ago. Hildebrand Jacob, as I think he was called, and Charles Johnson, were poets both at that time possessed of great reputdtion, 366 LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 117 for Johnson had written eleven plays acted with great success, and Jacob, though he had written but five, had five times thanked the town for their unmerited applause. They soon became mutually enamoured of each other’s talents ; they wrote, they felt, they challenged the town for each other. Johnson assured the public that no poet alive had the easy simplicity of Jacob, and Jacob exhibited Johnsen as a masterpiece in the pathetic. Their mutual praise was not without effect ; the town saw their plays, were in raptures, read, and with- out censuring them forgot them. So formidable a union, however, was soon opposed by Tibbald. Tibbald asserted that the tragedies of one had faults, and the comedies of the other substituted wit for vivacity ; the combined champions dew at him like tigers, arraigned the censurer’s judgment, and impeached his sincerity. It was a long time a dispute among the learned, which was in fact the greatest man, Jacob, Johnson, or Tibbald; they had all written for the stage with great suc- cess, their names were seen in almost every paper, and their works in every coffeehouse. However, in the hottest of the dispute, a fourth combatant made his appearance, and swept away the three combatants, tragedy, comedy and all, into undis- tinguished ruin. From this time they seemed consigned into the hands of criticism ; scarcely a day passed in which they were not arraigned as detested writers. The critics, those enemies of Dryden and Pope, were their enemies. So Jacob and Johnson, instead of mending by criticism, called it envy ; and because Dryden and Pope were censured, they compared themselves to Dryden and Pope. But to return : the weapon chiefly used in the present controversy is epigram, and certainly never was a keener made useof. They have discovered surprising sharpness on bothsides. The first that came out upon this oceasion, was a kind of new composition in this way, and might more properly be called an epigrammatic thesis than an epigram. It consists, first, of an argument in prose 5 next follows a motto from Roscommon ; then comes the epigram ; and, lastly, notes serving to explain the epigram. But you shall have it with all its decorations AN EPIGRAM ADDRESSED TO THE GENTLEMEN REFLECTED ON IN THE “*ROSCIAD,” A POEM BY THE AUTHOR. Worried with debts, and past all hopes ofvail, His pen he prostitutes V avoid a jail._—Roscom. «Let not the hungry Bavius’ angry stroke Awake resentment, or your rage provoke ; But, pitying his distress, let virtue * shine, And giving each your bounty ¢, let him dine ; For thus retain’d, as learned counsel can, Each case, however bad, he’ll new-japan ; And by a quick transition plainly show ’T was no defect of yours, but pocket low, That caused his putrid kennel to o'erflow.” The last lines are certainly executed in a very masterly manner. It is of that species of argu- mentation called the perplexing. It effectually flings the antagonist into a mist; there is no answering it: the laugh is rais sed against him, * ‘Charity, { Settled at one shilling, the prize of the poem. while he is endeavouring to find out the jest. At once he shows, that the author has a kennel, and that this kennel is putrid, and that this putria kennel overflows. But why does it overflow? It overflows because the author happens to have low pockets ! There was also another new attempt in this way 3 a prosaic epigram, which came out upon this occa- sion. ‘This is so full of matter, thata critic might split it into fifteen epigrams, each properly fitted | with its sting. You shall see it. TO G. C. AND Re L, *<’T was you, or IJ, or he, or all together ; ’T was one, both, three of them, they know not whether, This I believe, between us, great or small, You, I, he, wrote it not—’twas Churchill’s all.” There, there is a perplex ! I could have wished, to make it quite perfect, the author, as in the case before, had added notes. Almost every word admits a scholium, and a long one too. I, YOU, HE! Suppose a stranger should ask, And who are you? Here are three obscure persons spoken of, that may in a short time be utterly forgotten. Their names should have consequently been men- tioned in notes at the bottom. But when the reader comes to the words greaé and small, the maze is inextricable. Here the stranger may dive for a mystery, without ever reaching the bottom. Let him know, that small is a word purely introduced to make good rhyme, and grevé was a very proper word to keep sma// company. Yet by being thus a spectator of others’ dangers, I must own I begin to tremble in this literary contest for my own. I begin to fear that my challenge to Doctor Rock was unadvised, and has procured me more antagonists than | had at first expected. I have received private letters from several of the literati here that fill my soul with apprehension. I may safely aver, that J never gave any creature in this good city offence, except only my rival Doctor Rock ; yet by the letters I every day receive, and by some I have seen printed, I am arraigned at one time as being a dull fellow, at another as being pert ; I am here petulant, there I am heavy : by the head of my ancestors ! they treat me with more inhumanity than a flying- fish. If I dive, and run my nose to the bottom, there a devouring shark is ready to swallow me up ; if I skim the surface, a pack of dolphins are at my tail to snap me; but when I take wing, and attempt to escape them hy flight, I become a prey to every ravenous bird that winnows the bosom of the deep. Adieu. LETTER CXIV. TO THE SAME. Tur formalities, delays, and disappointments, that precede a treaty of marriage here, are usually as numerous as those previous to a treaty of peace. The laws of this country are fincly calculated to promote all commeree but the commerce between the sexes. Their encouragements for propagating hemp. madder, and tobacco, are indeed admirable! ! Marriages are the only commodity that meet with none. Yet from the vernal softness of the air, the ver- dure of the fields, the transparency of the streams, 2 118 LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. and the beauty of the women, I know few countries more proper to invite to courtship. Here love might sport among painted lawns and warbling groves, and revel upon gales, wafting at once both fragrance and harmony. Yet it seems he has for- saken the island ; and when a couple are now to be married, mutual love, or a union of minds, is the last and most trifling consideration. If their goods and chattels can be brought to unite, their sympathetic souls are ever ready to guarantee the treaty. The gentleman’s mortgaged lawn becomes enamoured of the lady’s marriageable grove ; the match is struck up, and both parties are piously in love according to act of parliament. Thus they who have fortune are possessed at least of something that is lovely ; but I actually pity those that have none. I am told there was a time when ladies, with no other merit but youth, virtue, and beauty, had a chance for husbands, at least among the ministers of the church, or the officers of the army. The blush and innocence of sixteen was said to have a powerful influence over these two professions. But, of late, all the little traffic of blushing, ogling, dimpling, and smiling, has been forbidden by an act, in that case wisely made and provided. A lady’s whole cargo of smiles, sighs, and whispers, is declared contraband, till she arrives in the warm latitude of twenty- two, where commodities of this nature are too often found to decay. She is then permitted to dimple and smile, when the dimples and smiles begin to forsake her ; and when perhaps grown ugly, is charitably entrusted with an unlimited use of her charms. Her lovers, however, by this time have forsaken her ; the captain has changed for another mistress ; the priest himself leaves her in solitude, to bewail her virginity, and she dies even without benefit of clergy. Thus you find the Europeans discouraging love with as much earnestness as the rudest savage of Sofala. The Genius is surely now no more. In every region I find enemies in arms to oppress him. Avarice in Europe, jealousy in Persia, ceremony in China, poverty among the Tartars, and lust in Cireassia, are all prepared to oppose his power. The Genius is certainly banished from earth, though once adored under such.a variety of forms. [le is nowhere to be found ; and all that the ladies of each country can produce, are but a few trifling relics, as instances of his former residence and favour. The Genius of Love, says the Eastern Apologue, had long resided in the happy plains of Abra, where every breeze was health, and every sound produced tranquillity. His temple at first was crowded ; but every age lessened the number of his votaries, or cooled their devotion. Perceiving, therefore, his altars at length quite deserted, he was resolved to remove to some more propitious region, and he apprised the fair sex of every country, where he could hope for a proper recep- tion, to assert their right to his presence among them. In return to this proclamation, embassies were sent from the ladies of every part of the world to invite him, and to display the superiority of their claims. And first the beauties of China appeared. No country could compare with them for modesty, either of look, dress, or behaviour ; their eyes were never lifted from the ground ; their robes of a ne nc nn SS ee the most beautiful silk hid their hands, bosom and neck, while their faces only were left uncovered. They indulged no airs that might express lcose desire, and they seemed to study only the graces of inanimate beauty. Their black teeth and plu:ked eyebrows, were, however, alleged by the Geaius against them; but he set them entirely aside when he came to examine their little fect. The beauties of Circassia next made theix ap- pearance. They advanced hand-in-hand, singing the most immodest airs, and leading up a dance in the most luxurious attitudes. Their dress was but half a covering ; the neck, the left breast, and all the limbs, were exposed to view, which after some time seemed rather to satiate than inflame desire. The lily and the rose contended in form- ing their complexions ; and a soft sleepiness of eye added irresistible poignance to their charms : but their beauties were obtruded, not offered to their admirers ; they seemed to give rather than receive courtship ; and the Genius of Love dis- missed them as unworthy his regard, since they exchanged the duties of love, and made themselves not the pursued but the pursuing sex. The kingdom of Kashmire next produced its charming deputies. This happy region seemed peculiarly sequestered by nature for his abode. Shady mountains fenced it on one side from the scorching sun ; and sea-born breezes on the other gave peculiar luxuriance to the air. Their com- plexions were of a bright yellow, that appeared almost transparent, while the crimson tulip seemed to blossom on their cheeks. Ther features and limbs were delicate beyond the statuary’s power to express ; and their teeth whiter than their own ivory. He was almost persuaded to reside among them, when unfortunately one of the ladies talked of appointing his seraglio. In this procession the naked inhabitants of South America would not be left behind ; their charms were found to surpass whatever the warmest imagination could conceive, and served to show, that beauty could be perfect even with the seeming disadvantage of a brown complexion. But their savage education rendered them utterly unqualified to make the proper use of their power, and they were rejected as being incapable of uniting mental with sensual satisfaction. In this. manner the deputies of other kingdoms had their suits rejected : the black beauties of Benin and the tawny daughters of Borneo 3 the women of Wida, with well-scarred faces, and the hideous virgins of Caffraria ; the squab ladies of Lap- | land, three feet high, and the giant fair ones of Patagonia. The beauties of Europe at last appeared : grace was in their steps, and sensibility sat smiling in every eye. It was the universal opinion, while they were approaching, that they would prevail ; and the Genius seemed to lend them his most favourable attention. They opened their preten- sions with the utmost modesty ; but unfortunately, as their orator proceeded, she happened to let fall the words house in town, settlement, and pin- money. These seemingly harmless terms had instantly a surprising effect: the Genius, with ungovernable rage, burst from amidst the circle ; and waving his youthful pinions, left this earth, and flew back to those ethereal mansions from whieh he descended. 368 LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 119 The whole assembly was struck with amazed ment ; they now justly apprehended, that female power would be no more, since Love had forsaken them. They continued some time thus in a state of torpid despair, when it was proposed by one of the number, that, since the real Genius had left them, in order to continue their power, they should set up an idol in his stead ; and that the ladies of every country should furnish him with what each liked best. This proposal was instantly relished and agreed to. An idol was formed by uniting the capricious gifts of all the assembly, though no way resembling the departed Genius. The ladies of China furnished the monster with wings ; those of Kashmire supplied him with horns ; the dames of Europe clapped a purse in his hand; and the virgins ef Congo furnished him with a tail. Since that time, all the vows addressed to Love are in reality paid to the idol; but, as in other false religions, the adoration seems most fervent where the heart is least sincere. Adieu. LETTER CXV. TO THE SAME. Manxinp have ever been prone to expatiate on the praise of human nature. The dignity of man is a subject that has always been the favourite theme of humanity: they have declaimed with that ostentation which usually accompanies such as are sure of having a partial audience ; they have obtained victories because there were none to oppose. Yetfrom all I have ever read or seen, men appear more apt to err by having too high, than by having too despicable an opinion of their nature ; and hy attempting to exalt their original place in the creation, depress their real value in society. The most ignorant nations have always been found to think most highly of themselves. The Deity has ever been thought peculiarly concerned in their glory and preservation ; to have fought their battles, and inspired their teachers: their wizards are said to be familiar with heaven ; and every hero has a guard of angels as well as men to attend him. When the Portuguese first came among the wretched inhabitants of the coast of Africa, these savage nations readily allowed the strangers more skill in navigation and war 3 yet still considered them at best but as useful servants, brought to their coasts by their guardian serpent, to supply them with luxuries they could have lived without. Though they could grant the Portuguese more riches, they could never allow them to have such a king as their Tottimondelem, who wore a bracelet of shells round his neck, and whose legs were covered with ivory. In this manner examine a savage in the history of his eountry and predecessors ; you ever find his warriors able to conquer armies, and his sages acquainted with more than possible knowledge : human nature is to him an unknown country ; he thinks it eapable of great things, because he is ignorant of its boundaries ; whatever can be con- ceived to be done he allows to be possible; aad whatever is possible he conjectures must have been done. He never measures the actions and powers of others by what himself is able to per- form, nor makes a proper estimate of the greatness of his fellows by bringing it to the standard of lis own incapacity. He is satisfied to be one of a country where mighty things have been; and /imagines the fancied power of others reflects a lustre on himself. Thus, by degrees, he loses the idea of his own insignificance in a confused notion of the extraordinary powers of humanity, and is willing to grant extraordinary gifts to every pre- tender, because unacquainted with their elaims. This is the reason why demigods and heroes have ever been erected in times or countries of ignorance and barbarity : they addressed a people who had high opinions of human nature, because they were ignorant how far it could extend ; they addressed a people who were willing to allow that men should be gods, because they were yet im- perfeetly acquainted with God and with man. | These impostors knew that all men were naturally fond of seeing something very great made from the little materials of humanity ; that ignorant nations ; are not mcre proud of building a tower to reach | heaven, or a pyramid to last for ages, than of raising up a demigod of their own country and creation. The same pride that erects a colossus | or a pyramid installs a god or ahero ; but though the adoring savage can raise his colossus to the clouds, he can exalt the hero not one inch above the standard of humanity ; incapable therefore of exalting the idol, he debases himself, and falls prostrate before him. When man has thus acquired an erroneous idea of the dignity of his species, he and the gods become perfectly intimate ; men are but angels, angels are but men, nay but servants that stand in waiting to execute human commands. The Persians, for instance, thus address their prophet Haly.* “T salute thee, glorious Creator ! of whom the sun is but the shadow. Masterpiece of the Lord of human creatures! Great Star of Justice and Religion! The sea is not rich and liberal but by the gifts of thy munificent hands. The angel treasurer of heaven reaps his harvest in the fertile gardens of the purity of thy nature. The primum mobile would never dart the ball of the sun through the trunk of heaven, were it not to serve the morn- ing out of the extreme love she has for thee. The angel Gabriel, messenger of truth, every day kisses 5 the groundsel of thy gate. Were there a place | more exalted than the most high throne of God, I | would affirm it to be thy place, O master of the faithful ! Gabriel, with all his art and knowledge, is but a mere scholar to thee.’’ Thus, my friend, men think proper to treat angels ; but if indeed there be such an order of beings, with what a degree of satirical contempt must they listen to the songs of little mortals thus flattering each other! ‘Thus to see creatures, wiser indeed than the monkey, and more active than the oyster, claiming to themselves the mastery of heaven 3 minims, the tenants of an atom, thus arrogating a partnership in the creation of universal heaven ! Surely heaven is kind that launches no thunder at those guilty heads ; but it is kind, and regards their follies with pity, nor will destroy creatures that it loved into being. But whatever suecess this practice of making demigods might have been attended with in bar- barous nations, I do not know that any man became a god in a country where the inhabitants * Chardin’s Trayels, p- 402. ee were vefined. Such countries generally have too close an inspection into human weakness, to think it invested with celestial power. They sometimes indeed admit the gods of strangers, or of their ancestors, which had their existence in times of obscurity ; their weakness being forgotten, while nothing but their power and their miracles were remembered. The Chinese, for instance, never had a god of their own country ; the idols which the vulgar worship at this day were brought from the barbarous nations around them. The Roman emperors, who pretended to divinity, were gene- rally taught by a poniard that they were mortal ; and Alexander, though he passed among barba- rous countries fora real god, could never persuade his polite countrymen into a similitude of thinking. The Lacedemonians shrewdly complied with his commands by the following sarcastie edict : Ei ’AdrééavSpos Bovderar elvat Oeds, eds ZoTw. —Adieu. LETTER CXVI. TO THE SAME, THERE is something irresistibly pleasing in the conversation of a fine woman ; even though her tongue be silent, the eloquence of her eyes teaches wisdom. The mind sympathises with the regula- rity of the object in view, and, struck with external grace, vibrates into respondent harmony. In this agreeable disposition I lately found myself in com- pany with my friend and his niece. Our conver- sation turned upon love, which she seemed equally capable of defending and inspiring. We were each of different opinions upon this subject ; the lady insisted that it was a natural and universal passicn, and produced the happiness of those who cultivated it with proper precaution. My friend denied it to be the work of nature, but allowed it to have a real existence, and affirmed that it was of infinite service in refining society; while I, to keep up the dispute, affirmed it to be merely a name, first used by the cunning part of the fair sex, and admitted by the silly part of ours: therefore, no way more natural than taking snuff, or chewing opium, “ How is it possible,” cried I, “that such a passion can be natural, when our opinions even of beauty, which inspires it, are entirely the result of fashion and caprice? The ancients, who pretend to be connoisseurs in the art, have praised narrow foreheads, red hair, and eyebrows that joined each other above the nose. Such were the charms that once captivated Catullus, Ovid, and Anacreon. Ladies would at present be out of humour, if their lovers praised them for such graces ; and should an antique beauty now revive, her face would certainly be put under the discipline of the tweezer, forehead-cloth, and lead-comb, before it could be seen in public company. “ But the difference between the ancients and moderns is not so great as between the different countries of the present world. & ‘ r A a ; Ras i ) y \ a + 2a ih } : . . ; “ih a A iif A ee ei \ ’ i ve bs ae tata \ j y a T A rt ; A Vis 4 ewe cu ee i ; v “9 hal, en a ‘ a ae ‘ — er ky i rn ek : ; , 2 2 eee Bee ony “ae ae Li ; ee ay AE AR OT es ‘ ya i ~ : 4 4 ' wah ;. f 5 : ‘ 4 jj , ‘ v % i vie “ F 4 k 4 ris ove i ; " SRD aa ars 2) ur | ; . iG rs ; b/ my \ i i im ‘ Ca, MURR | ht J + . a . ie ‘a ‘ ve a\ a, B' ets q ‘ : . ( ; ' . j it 5 ‘f wee i C3 Pee oa ar he FERS, | HY aR Pe 4 ap” is ts hie aot Ahi " is a, bt ‘ i 7. 4 4 m, i by : X4 | : yt ; ; \ ' 5 i ; eo , m4) i a Mi abt 4 5 a “a ~ iw ‘ted 7, a Ripe mone Ey CONTENTS. —~ -— CHAPTER I. PAGH A Compendious History of Sweden to the Reignof Charles XIJ.—His Education and Early Habits.—His Enemies.— Character of Czar Peter Alexiowitz._Various Anecdotes connected with that Prince and the Russians.— A Triple League is formed by Muscovy, Poland, and Denmark, against Charles XII. . : A Fi | CHAPTER II. A singular and sudden Change in the Character of Charles.—At eighteen years of age he engages in a War against Denmark, Poland, and Muscovy.—Finishes that with Denmark in Six Weeks.—Defeats Eighty Thousand Russians with only Eight Thousand Swedes.—Marches into Poland.—A Description of Poland and its Government.—Charles gains many battles, and becomes master of Poland, where he prepares to appoint a king a A 4 - ; . 4 ‘ 5 2 A ¢ : ° ; on ND CHAPTER III. Stanislaus Leczinsky elected King of Poland,—Death of the Cardinal Primate.—Masterly Retreat of General Schulemburg.—-Exploits of the Czar.—Foundation of Petersburg.—Battle of Frauenstad.—Charles enters Saxony.—Peace of Altranstad.—_Augustus abdicates the Crown in favour of Stanislaus,—General Patkul, the Czar’s Plenipotentiary, is broken upon the wheel, and quartered.--Charles receives Ambassadors from bo bo several Princes.—Visits Augustus at Dresden, unattended e ‘ c . : : CS = : CHAPTER IV. Charles leaves Saxony.—Goes in pursuit of the Czar.—Penetrates into the Ukraine-—His Defeats.—Is wounded. —The Battle of Pultowa.—Consequences of that Battle.—Charles is forced to take sel in Turkey.—How received in Bessarabia ‘ : = . ; C z ‘ ; : A 4 . nly CHAPTER V. State of the Ottoman Porte.—Charles takes up his Residence near Bender.—His Employments.—His Intrigues at | the Porte.—His Designs.—Augustus reascends his Throne.—The King of Denmark makes a Descent upon Sweden.—All the other Dominions of Charles are attacked.—The Czar enters Moscow in Triumph.—The affair of Pruth.—History of the Czarina, who from a Peasant becomes an Empress, . : ° - 43 CHAPTER VI. Intrignes of the Ottoman Porte.—The Cham of Tartary and the Pacha of Bender endeavour to force Charles to leave that place.—He defends himself with Forty Domestics against a whole Army.—Is taken and treated as a Prisoner a 5 F : c : > é : SS ci “ - . . “ eS CHAPTER VII. The Turks convey Charles to Demirtash,—King Stanislaus is brought there at the same time.—The bold action of M. de Villelongue.—Revolutions in the Seraglio.—Affair in Pomerania.-—Altona burned by the Swedes.— Charles sets out on his Return to his own Dominions.—His strange manner of Travelling.—His arrival at Stralsund,—His Misfortunes.—Successes of Peter the Great.—His Triumphant Entry into Petersburg 7 2 CHAPTER VIII. Charles bestows his Sister in Marriage upon the Prince of Hesse.—Is besieged at Stralsund, and escapes to Sweden. —Enterprise of Baron de Gortz, his prime Minister.—Plan of a Reconciliation with the Czar, and of a Descent upon England.— Charles besieges Fredericshal in Norway.—Is killed there.— His Character.—Gortz is beheaded 2 5 : ° : : ; A ; : Se Mannan ee! lat. a ie 4 % : Ms. i sy feeb Rhea art al | + Wer sway meen espn ‘aki te aslidega S Side plist ie ; om gure Ks geo Ra ve ap bepaegtity or iat ean 4 a a ea aie ee at oa % a4 ph hs Gata at Wes ako d Vern, sad M.. 9s 8 ths ‘ A ‘ chee dest we gtr sail pont ie Sis pints é a : i 7 teh & wh ite Ae ts Site a and ee tA apinr ds, hating a “es ahd CE bor, ve Sean Wes uinbeend Pee ik wine. edhe be fer dies re y ay i, ia 44 AA i Uae 3 4 " P a we bay. ‘ ws - 1 ‘4 : A > ! : f ‘ } t y Ms By 2 oT! 2 . ay 4 : 4 ae Vay nin * ima ' ‘ P ee By Cc > Brien Puls 0 ara . <, i PE Na Lo ie ae te ‘i t iter Aaa gal Nth oll a eR - Tae ta! are 4: ote Mast ate Ole i Ant lee vy ick f sagen | fn Way eis ‘a4 wes dtetuah ie re is lds Mc aie’ PI) Bh, at bal ah $ eigen eh, Mey ne fille ev atc TQ 4 tA BT fight wage hy oie Cts Les i Bis ui Nery Cig cc mc vay i A oe rey thin: mantle, base” ye ah vat ive hy Baie Oty Mina, Ph Werte Vg a ae a rt “mis nail of hae ree) tix pega ' 1 Nay he | ; ‘ ; , 8, f ny u I (i + } t Pal T t 7 yt be ; mer YI i hii qe 4 Mathie ae He ee ass ; ila nee? ts y cf f weit Wea nga vs 9) a * A Le Mei Me tus , ’ A BA 7 Aya) baie ah ORT aoa bh a Ne Tt) oo ae sce. RGM 3 Se ro ate her hae Hi dike Sy pe ui vei ark’ Se tage tia wei anol Avie Yar PAE 9 re } ay fhe is aah ~y aie ee nt RN weal é 48 GTR Rae AM hk tel ity Width Keyert ony oF I a wh tla gn tee ait gts iin. AOE OBIE! | SD et ila pete ev vain aie, a baa pa sii sie 1 | Cae oh ya “leh sashes Raa ibe Rar a te Rie witha 1 * Si ieuet ha elt aed pee at: he ' ayant ie ' Atha iaiety as # ies GPE I Sorat ty vine: prem; iat ry, THE HISTORY OF CHARLES XII. KING OF CHAPTER I. A Compendigus History of Sweden to the Reign of Charles XJI.—His Education and Early Habits.—His Enemies.— Character of Czar Peter Alexiowitz.—Various Anecdotes connected with that Prince and the Russians.—A Triple League is formed by Muscovy, Poland, and Denmark, against Charles XII. ‘ Tue kingdom of Sweden and Finland is a third part greater in extent than France, but much inferior to it in fertility, and at this time, also, in the number of its inhabitants. The extent of Sweden is nearly from the fifty-fifth to the seven- tieth degree of north latitude ; it isin length three hundred French leagues, and in breadth two hundred ; and the climate is so severe, that spring or autumn can hardly be said to exist. Winter prevails there nine months of the year ; the heat of summer immediately succeeds the winter’s excessive cold; and it begins to freeze in the month of October, without any of those insensible gradations, which, in other countries, usher in the seasons, and render the variation the more pleas- ing. Nature, however, in return, has given to this severe climate a serene sky and a pure air. The almost incessant heat of the summer’s sun produces flowers and fruits in a short time. In the winter, the tediousness of the long nights is alleviated by the morning and evening twilights, which continue in proportion as the sun is more or Jess removed from Sweden ; at the same time the lustre of the moon, which is not obscured by clouds, but increased by the reflection of the snow lying upon the earth, and very often by the northern lights, renders itas convenient to travel in Sweden by night as by day. The cattle in this country, through the want of pasturage, are smaller than those of the more southern parts of Europe. The men are larger ; the serenity of the sky conduces to their health, as the rigour of the climate improves their strength ; they live even to a greater age than other men, when not debili- tated by the immoderate use of wine and strong liquors, which the northern nations seem to be more immoderately fond of in proportion as they are naturally debarred of these enjoyments. The Swedes are well-made, robust, active, and capable of sustaining the greatest fatigue, hunger, La) O38 2D | SWEDEN. and penury. Born to a military life, high-spirited, more brave than industrious, they have long neg- lected, and, even to this day, but badly cultivate, the arts of commerce, which alone can supply them with what is wanting to their country. It is said to have been principally from Sweden, of which one part is still named Gothland, that those mul- titudes of Goths issued forth, who, like an inunda- tion, overwhelmed Europe, and divided it from the Roman empire, which had for 500 years been its usurper, its legislator, and its tyrant. The population of the northern countries was, at that time, much more numerous than at. present; not only because their religion afforded the inhabitants an opportunity of furnishing the state with a greater number of subjects, by the possession of a plurality of wives*, but because the women themselves knew no reproach like that of sterility and idleness; and, being as laborious and robust as the men, they attained earlier, and remained longer, in the state of fecundity. Sweden retained its liberty to the middle of the fourteenth century : for though during so long a period more than one revolution occurred in the government, such revolutions turned out con- stantly in favour of freedom. To its chief magis- trate was given the name of King : a title that, in different countries, has very different degrees of power annexed to it. In France and Spain it signifies an absolute monarch ; in Poland, Sweden, and England, the head of the commonwealth. The king of Sweden could do nothing without the senate ; and the senate were dependent upon the states-general, which were often convened. The representatives of the nation, in these numer- ous assemblies, were the gentlemen, bishops, and deputies of the towns ; and, in process of time, the peasantry also, a class of people unjustly slighted in other nations, and enslaved in almost all the countries of the North. About the year 1492, the Swedish nation, though jealous of its liberty, and boasting, even to this day, of having conquered Rome thirteen cen- * The fallacy of this opinion needs no refutation in the present day, when it has been ascertained by very sufli- cient statistical details that polygamy tends to diminish, and not to enlarge, the ratio of the increase of population. —Eb. 2 HISTORY OF CHARLES XII. turies ago, was reduced to slavery by a woman, and a people less powerful than themselves. Margaret Waldemar, the Semiramis of the north, queen of Denmark and Norway, uniting address with force, conquered Sweden, and formed these three great states into one kingdom. After her death, the country was distracted by civil wars ; throwing off and submitting again to the Danish yoke, under the alternate administration of kings and popular protectors. Two of these tyrants oppressed them terribly about the year 1520; the one, Christiern II. king of Denmark, a monster in vice, without one atoning virtue ! the other an archbishop of Upsal, primate of the king- dom, equally barbarous with king Christiern. These two, in concert, caused the consuls and magistrates of Stockholm, together with ninety- four senators, to be seized in one day, and massa- cred by the common executioners, under the pretext that they were excommunicated by the pope for having defended the rights of the state against the archbishop ; after this they gave up the city of Stockholm to pillage, and the whole town was put to the sword without distinctien of age or sex! While these men, in union to the means of oppression, and differing only in dividing the spoil, were committing acts of the greatest cruelty, and exercising the most tyrannical despot- ism, a singular and novel event gave a turn to the affairs of the North. Gustavus Vasa, a youth descended from the ancient kings of Sweden, issued forth from amidst the forests of Dalecarlia, where he had lain con- cealed, in order to deliver his country from slavery. He had one of those great souls which nature so seldom forms, possessed of all the. quali- ties necessary to govern mankind. The advan- tages of a handsome person and dignified manners prepossessed every one in his favour, so, that he gained partisans wherever he appeared. His elo- quence, to which his engaging deportment gave peculiar force, was the more persuasive, as it was artless and simple. His enterprising genius formed those projects which to the vulgar appear rash, but are by great minds imputed to a noble daring ; and these his courage and perseverance enabled him to accomplish, Intrepid, yet prudent, of a gentle disposition in a ferocious age, he was, in fine, as virtuous as it is supposed the head of a party can possibly be. Gustavus was the hostage of Christiern, and had been detained a prisoner contrary to the law of nations. Having escaped from prison, he had dis- guised himself in the habit of a peasant, and wan- dered about in the mountains and woods of Dalecarlia, where le was reduced to the necessity of working in the copper-mines for subsistence and concealment. Buried as he was in these sub- terraneous caverns, he had the courage to. form the design of dethroning the tyrant. To this. end he discovered himself to the peasants, who, looked upon him as one of that superior order of beings to which they, the lower classes, owe a natural submission, These savages he soon converted into well-disciplined soldiers, He attacked Chris- tiern and the archbishop, repeatedly defeated and drove them from Sweden; and, at last, was deservedly chosen by the states king of that country of which he had been a deliverer. he undertook an enterprise still more difficult than conquest. The real tyrants of the state were the bishops, who, having engrossed almost all the wealth of the kingdom, made use of it to oppress the subjects, and forcibly opposed the monarch. Their power was the more formidable, as the ignorance of the people held it to be sacred. On the Catholic religion, therefore, Gustavus revenged the criminality of its ministers ; so that in less than two years, Lutheranism was introduced into Sweden ; and that rather by the arts of policy, than by the influence of authority. Having thus conquered the kingdom, as he used to express it, from the Danes and the clergy, he reigned a suc- cessful and absolute monarch to the age of seventy, when he died, full of glory, leaving his family and_ religion in peaceable possession of the throne. Gustavus the Great, commonly called Gustavus Adolphus, was one of his descendants. 'This prince made a conquest of Ingria, Livonia, Bremen, Verdon, Wismar, and Pomerania, besides above a hundred places in Germany, which, after his death, were yielded up by the Swedes. He shook the throne of Ferdinand the Second, and protected the Lutherans in Germany, in which he was secretly assisted by the see of Rome, who dreaded the power of the emperor much more than that of heresy. It was this Gustavus who, by his victories, contributed in fact to humbie the house of Austria ; although the glory of that enterprise is usually ascribed entirely to cardinal de Richelieu, who well knew how to procure himself the reputation | of those great actions which Gustavus was content with performing. He was on the point of extend- ing the war beyond the Danube, and perhaps of | dethroning the emperor, when he was killed, in the thirty-seventh year of his age, at the battle of | He | carried with him to his grave the name of the | Lutzen, which he gained over Wallenstein. Great ; was lamented by the people of the North ; and respected even by his enemies. His daughter Christina, a woman of uncommon genius, was much fonder of conversing with men of letters, than of reigning over a people whose knowledge was confined to the art of war. She rendered her- self as famous for resigning a throne, as her ancestors had been for obtaining or establishing | it. The protestants have aspersed her character, as if it were impossible for a person to be possessed of great virtues without adhering to the religion of Luther! while the papists have triumphed too much on the pretended conversion of a woman, | who was no more than a philosopher. She retired to Rome, where she passed the remainder of her | days in the midst of the arts she was fond of, and for which she had renounced a kingdom at twenty- seven years of age. throne she prevailed on the states of Sweden to elect her cousin, Charles Gustavus X. (son to the count Palatine, and duke of Deux-Ponts), to sue- ceed to the crown. This prince added new con- quests to those of Gustavus Adolphus ; carrying immediately his arms into Poland, where he gained the famous battle of Warsaw, which lasted three | He waged a long and successful war with | days. the Danes; besieged Copenhagen; re-united Schonen to Sweden ; and confirmed, at least fora time, the duke of Holstein in the possession, of Sles- wick, Experiencing afterwardsa reverseof fortune, Scarcely was he seated upon the throne, when | te concluded a peace with his enemies, and turned 34 Before she abdicated the | | | KING OF SWEDEN, 3 he formed the design of estabiishing a despotic government in Sweden ; but. died, like Gustavus the Great, in the thirty-seventh year of his age, before he had been able to complete that system of despotism which was brought to perfection by his son Charles XI. Charles XI., a warrior like his ancestors, was more absolute than any of his predecessors. He abolished the authority of the senate, which was ‘declared the senate of the king, and not of the kingdom. He was frugal, vigilant, indefatigable ; which would have made him beloved by his sub- jects, had not his despotic turn of mind converted their love into fear. In. 1680 he married Ulrica Eleonora, daughter to Frederick ILI. king of Denmark, a princess of great virtues, and worthy of greater confidence than her husband reposed in her. The fruit of - this marriage, on the 27th of June, 1682, was king Charles XII., the most extraordinary man, perhaps, that ever appeared in the world. In him were united all the great qualities of his ancestors ; and all his faults and misfortunes seemed to result from his carrying these virtues to excess. It is this prince of whom we propose to write whatever we have learnt: with certainty relating: either to his person or his actions, The first book he was set to read:was the work of Samuel Puffendorff, in order to. give him an early knowledge of his own and the neighbouring states. The first foreign language which’he was taught was the German ; this: he continued ever after to speak with the same fluency as his ‘mother tongue. At seven years of age he wasa proficient in horsemanship ; when the athletic exercises in which he delighted, and which also discovered his ‘martial turn, soon endowed him with a: vigorous -eonstitution, capable of supporting the fatigues to ‘which he was prompted by his natural inclination. Though gentle in-his infancy, he betrayed an inflexible obstinacy. The only way to make any impression upon him was to awaken his sense of honour; with the name of glory, everything. could be obtained from him. He had an. aversion: to Latin ; but as soon.as he heard that the kings of Poland and Denmark. understood it, he learned. it presently, and retained so much of it.as to be able to speak it all the rest of his life. The same motives were employed to engage him:to learn the French ; but he persisted, as long as he lived, in the disuse of that tongue, which he would not ‘speak even to the French ambassadors themselves, though they understood no other. As soon as he had acquired a little knowledge of the Latin, his teacher gave him Quintus Cur- tius to translate ; a book to which he was attached still more on account of the matter than the style. The preceptor who. explained. this author to him asking him one day what he thought of Alex- ander: ‘I think,” said the prince, “I. could: wish to resemble him.’’ “But,’’ resumed the preceptor, “he lived only two-and-thirty years.” ‘ Andis not that long enough (replied he) for one who has conquered kingdoms?’’ The courtiers did. not fail to report these answers to the king, his father, who exclaimed, “ This bey will surpass. his father, and even Gustavus the Great.” Amusing himself one day in the royal apartments in viewing two plans, the one of a town in Hungary; which the his ambition against his subjects. With this view, | Turks had taken from the emperor ; the other of Riga, the capital of Livonia, a province conquered by the Swedes, about a century before ; under the plan of the town in Hungary were written these words, from the book of Job: “The Lord hath given it me, and the Lord hath taken it from me ; blessed: be the name of the Lord!” The young prince having read this inscription, immediately took a pencil and wrote under the plan of Riga, “The Lord hath given it to me, and the devil shall not take it from me*.’? Thus in the most indifferent actions of his earliest youth, his uncon- querable spirit would frequently discover the characteristic traits of an uncommon genius, which plainly indicated to what’ he would, one day, arrive. He was eleven. years of age when he lost his mother ; who died on the 5th of August 1693, of a disease, as was supposed, owing to the bad tsage she had received’ from her husband, and to her endeavours to conceal her chagrin. Charles XI. had, by means of a certain court of justice, called The Chamber of Liquidations, erected by his sole authority, deprived a great number of his sub- jects of their wealth. Numbers of citizens ruined by this chamber, nobility, merchants, farmers, widows, and orphans, filled the streets of Stock- holm,-and daily repaired to the gate of the palace, to utter their unavailing complaints. The queen relieved these unfortunate people as. much as lay in her power; she gave them her money, her jewels, her furniture, and even her clothes : and, when she had no more to give them, she threw herself in tears at her husband’s feet, beseeching him to have pity on his subjects. The king gravely answered her, “ Madam, we took you to bring us children, not to give us advice ;’’ and, from that time, he is said to have treated her with a severity which shortened her days.’ He survived her only four years, dying’ on the 15th of April, 1697, in the forty-second year of his age, and the thirty-seventh of his reign ; at a time when the Empire, Spain, and Holland on one side, and France on. the other, had referred the decision of their quarrels to his arbitration, and when he had already begun the work of pacifica- tion between these powers. To his son, then only fifteen years of age, he left a throne, well esta- blished at home, and respected abroad ; subjects poor indeed, but warlike and loyal ; with finances in'a good state, and under the management of able ministers. Charles XII., at his accession to the throne, found himself not only the absolute and undis- turbed master of Sweden and Finland, but also of Livonia, Carelia, Ingria, Wismar, Wibourg, the islands of Rugen and Oesal, and the finest part of Pomerania, together with the Duchy of Bremen and: Verdun, all of them the conquests of his ancestors, secured to the crown by long possession, and by the solemn treaties of Munster and Oliva, and supported by the terror of the Swedish arms. The: peace of Ryswick, which commenced under the auspices of his father, being concluded under those of the son, he found himself the mediator of Europe atthe beginning of his reign. The laws of Sweden declare their kings of age * This anecdote was related to me by two ambassadors; —France and Sweden. Q25 { Ne eR | 4 a AA al an enna em a La A lp Rn nnn nh nn ain em at fifteen; but Charles X1., who was entirely absolute, by his last will postponed that of his son to the age of eighteen. In this he favoured the ambitious views of his mother Edwiga-Eleonora, of Holstein, dowager of Charles X., who was appointed by the king, her son, tutoress to the young king, her grandson, and regent of the king- dom, in conjunction with a council of five persons. The regent had taken a part in the management of public affairs during the reign of her son. She was now advanced in years; but her ambition, which exceeded her genius, prompted her to enter- tain the hopes of possessing authority for a long time under the king her grandson: she kept him at as great a distance as possible from affairs of state ; the young prince passed his time either in hunting or in reviewing his troops, and would even sometimes exercise with them, which amusement seemed only to be the natural effect of his youth- ful vivacity. He never suffered any dissatisfaction to escape him sufficient to alarm the regent, who flattered herself that the dissipation of mind ocea- sioned by these diversions would render him incapable of application, and leave her the longer in possession of the regal power. One day, in the month of November, in the same year his father died, after having reviewed several regiments, as Piper, the counsellor of | state, was standing by him, he seemed to be ab- sorbed in a profound reverie. ‘“ May I take the liberty,” said Piper, “of asking your majesty what you are thinking of so seriously?” “I am thinking,’”’ replied the prince, “ that I am worthy to command these brave fellows ; and I don’t. like that either they or I should any longer receive orders from a woman.” Piper immediately seized this opportunity of making his fortune ; but, con- scious that his own interest was not sufficient for the execution of such a dangerous enterprise, as the removal of the queen from the regency and hastening the period of the king’s coming of age, he proposed the affair to count Axel Sparre, a man of an ardent mind, and who sought to procure himself credit. On being flattered with the con- fidence of the king, Sparre entered into his measures, and undertook the management of the whole business, while he was working only to pro- mote the interest of Piper. The counsellors of the regency were soon brought over to the party, and precipitated the execution of the scheme, in order to recommend themselves the more effectu- ally to the king. They went, in a body, to propose it to the queen, who by no means expected such a measure. The states-general were then assembled ; the counsellors of the regency proposed the affair ; there was among them not a dissenting voice ; the point was carried with a rapidity that nothing could withstand ; so that Charles XII. had only to signify his desire of reigning, and in three days the states bestowed the government upon him. The power and credit of the queen sunk in an instant ; she led, afterwards, a life of retirement, more suitable to her age, though less agreeable to her disposition. The: king was crowned on the twenty-fourth of December following, en which day he made his entry into Stockholm, ona sorrel horse, shod with silver, having a sceptre in his hand, and a crown upon nis head, amidst the accla- mations of a whole people, fond of novelty, and conceiving always great hopes from a young princes HISTORY OF CHARLES XII. The ceremony of the consecration and coro- nation is performed by the archbishop of Upsal, almost the only privilege that remains to him cf the great number that were enjoyed by his pre- decessors. After having anointed the prince, according to custom, he held the crown in his hand, in order to put it upon his head, when Charles snatched it from him and crowned himself, regard- ing the poor prelate all the while with a stern look. The multitude, who are always dazzled by everything that has an air of grandeur, applaude:! this action of the king ; even those who had groaned most severely under the tyranny of the father suffered themselves to applaud this arrogance in the son, which was a presage of their slavery. Charles was no sconer master of the kingdom than he made Piper his chief confidant, and en- trusted him at the same time with the management of public affairs, by making him prime minister, though without the name. A few days after he created him a count, which is a dignity of great eminence in Sweden, and not an empty title, that may be assumed, without any importance, as for- merly in France. The commencement of the king’s reign afforded no very favourable idea of his character, so that it was imagined he had been more impatient to reign than worthy of it : he cherished, indeed, no dangerous passion, but his conduct discovered nothing but the violences of youth and obstinacy. He seemed to be equally haughty and indolent ; even the * ambassadors who resided at his court looked upon him as a person of mean capacity,and represented him as such to their respective mas- ters ; the Swedes entertained the same opinion of him; nobody knew his real character ; he did not even know it himself, until the storm that sud- denly arose in the North furnished him with an opportunity of displaying his concealed talents. Three powerful princes, taking the advantage of his youth, conspired, almost at the same time, to effect his ruin: the first was his cousin, Fre- derick IV. king of Denmark; the second was Augustus, elector of Saxony and king of Poland; Peter the Great, ezar of Muscovy, was the third, and the most dangerous. It is necessary to de- velop the origin of these wars, which produced such great events. To begin with Denmark : The eldest of the two sisters of Charles XII. was married to the duke of Holstem, a young prince of an undaunted spirit and of a gentle dis- position. The duke, oppressed by the king of Denmark, repaired to Stockholm with his spouse, and, throwing himself into the arms of the king, earnestly implored his assistance, not only on account of being his brother-in-law, but as he was likewise the sovereign of a people who bore an implacable hatred to the Danes. The ancient house of Holstein, which became extinct in that of Oldenburg, had been advanced by election to the throne of Denmark in 1449. All the kingdoms of the North were then elective, though the kingdom of Denmark soon after be- came hereditary. One of its kings, Christiern IT1., had such an affection for his brother Adolphus, or at least such a regard for his interest, as is rarely met with among princes. He was unwilling to see him destitute of sovereign power, and yet * The original letters confirm this. | eee aes eM ! KING OF SWEDEN, he could not dismember his own dominions. He therefore divided with him the Duchies of Hol- steim-Gottorp and Sleswick, by a whimsical kind of agreement, which was, that the descendants of Adolphus should in future govern Holstein in con- junction with the kings of Denmark ; that those two duchies should belong to both in common ; and that the king of Denmark should be able to do nothing in Holstein without the duke, nor the duke without the king. So strange a union, of which, however, there has been within these few years a similar instance in the same family, was for near the space of eighty years the source of perpetual disputes between the crown of Denmark and the house of Holstein-Gottorp; the kings always endeavouring to oppress the dukes, and the dukes to render themselves independent of the kings. One of these contests had cost the last duke his liberty and sovereignty ; both which, however, he recovered at the conferences of Altona in 1689, by the interposition of Sweden, England, and Holland, who became guarantees for the exe- cution of the treaty. But as a treaty between prinees is often no more than a degree of sub-: mission to necessity, till the stronger shall be able to erush the weaker, the contest was revived with greater virulence than ever between the new king of Denmark and the. young duke; during whose absence at Stockholm the Danes had committed some acts of hostility in the country of Holstein, and had entered into a secret treaty with the king of Poland to crush the king of Sweden himself. Frederick Augustus, elector of Saxony, whom neither the eloquence nor negotiations of the Abbé de Polignac, nor the great qualities of the prince of Conti, his competitor for the throne, had been able to prevent from being chosen king of Poland about two years before, was a prince still less remarkable for his incredible strength of body, than for his bravery and gallantry of mind. His court was, next to that of Louis XIV., the most splendid of any in Europe. Never was prince more generous or munificent, or bestowed his favours with a better grace. the votes of one half of the Polish nobility, and overawed the other by the approach of a Saxon army. ‘Thinking he should have occasion for his troops, in order to establish himself the more firmly on the throne, he wanted a pretext for retaining them in Poland ; he therefore resolved to employ them in attacking the king of Sweden in Livonia, which he did on the following occasion. This province, the most beautiful and the most fertile of the North, belonged formerly to the knights of the Teutonic Order. The possession of this country had been disputed by the Russians, the Poles, and the Swedes. The Swedes had carried it, about one hundred years ; and it was formally ceded to them by the Peace of Oliva. The late king Charles XI., amidst his severities to his subjects in general, had not spared the Livonians. He had deprived them of their pri- vileges, and of part of their patrimonies. Patkul, unhappily so famous afterwards for his tragical death, was deputed by the nobility of Livonia to carry to the foot of the throne the complaints of the province. He addressed his master in a speech, respectful indeed, but bold, and full of that manly eloquence which calamity, when joined to courage, inspires. But kings too frequently consider these He had purchased | ” ~ public addresses as little more than idle cere- monies, which it is customary to suffer, without paying them any regard. Charles XI., however, who could play the hypocrite extremely well when he was not transported by the violence of his passion, gently struck Patkul on the shoulder :— “ You have spoken for your country,” said he, “like a brave man, and I esteem you for it; go on.” Notwithstanding, in a few days after, he caused him to be declared guilty ofhigh-treason, and, as such, to be condemned to death. Patkul, who. had secreted himself, made his escape, and carried his resentment with him to Poland, where he was afterwards admitted into the presence of king Augustus. Charles XI. died in the interval, but Patkul’s sentence was still in force, and his indig- nation still unabated. He represented to the Polish monarch the facility of conquering Livonia, where the people were provoked to despair, and ready to throw off the Swedish yoke ; at the same time that their king was a child, and incapable of making any defence. These representations were well received by a prince, already anxious to make a conquest of such magnitude. Augustus ‘had engaged at his coronation to exert his utmost efforts to recover the provinces lost to Poland ; and he imagined that by making an irruption into Livonia, he should at once please the people and establish his own power ; in both these objects, however plausible, he at last found himself dis- appointed. Everything was soon got ready for a sudden invasion of that province, without even condescending to have recourse to the vain form-: alities of declarations of war and manifestoes. The storm thickened, at the sane time, on the side of Muscovy ; the monarch who governed that empire deserves the attention of posterity. Peter Alexiowitz, ezar of Russia, had already rendered himself formidable by the battle he had gained over the Turks in 1697, and by the reduc- tion of Asoph, which opened to him the dominion of the Black Sea ; but it was by actions still more astonishing than his victories that he aspired to. the name of Great. Muscovy or Russia compre- hends the northern parts of Asia and of Europe, extending from the frontiers of China, for the space of 1500 leagues, to the borders of Poland and Sweden. This immense country, however, was very imperfectly known to Europe before the time of Czar Peter. The Muscovites were less civilised than the Mexicans when discovered by Cortez ; born the slaves of masters as barbarous as themselves, they remained in a state of igno- rance, destitute of all the arts, and under such an insensibility of that want as suppressed every motive to industry. An ancient law, which they held as sacred, prohibited them from leaving their native country under pain of death, without the permission of their patriarch. This law, enacted with a view to preclude them from all oppor- tunities of becoming sensible of their slavery, was, nevertheless, acceptable to a people who in the profundity of their ignorance and misery disdained all commerce with foreign nations. The era of the Muscovites bears date from the creation of the world, since which they conceived seven thousand two hundred and seven years had elapsed, at the beginning of the last century, with- out being able to assign any reason for this com- putation. The first day of their year answered e 6 HISTORY OF CHARLES XII. to the 13th of September, new style. The reason alleged for this regulation is, that it is most pro- bable God created the world in autumn, the season when the fruits of the earth are in their full ma- turity ; thus the only appearance of knowledge which they possessed was founded in gross error. Not one of them ever dreamed that the autumn of Muscovy might possibly be the spring of another country, situated in an opposite climate! It is not long since the people at Moscow were going to burn the secretary of a Persian ambassador who had foretold an eclipse of the sun. They did not so much as know the use of figures, but in all their computations made use of little beads, strung upon brass wires ; they had no other manner of reckoning in the public offices of the revenue, not even in the treasury of the czar *. Their religion was, and still remains, that of the Greek Christians, but mixed with many super- stitious rites, to which they were the more strongly attached in proportion to their extravagance and the intolerance of the burden. Few Muscovites would dare to eat a pigeon, because the Holy Ghost is painted in the form of a dove. They regularly observed four Lents in the year, during which times of abstinence they never presumed to eat either eggs or milk. God and St. Nicholas were the objects of their worship, and, next to them, the ezar and the patriarch. The authority of the last was as unbounded as the ignorance of the people ; he pronounced sentence of death, and inflicted the most cruel punishments, without any possibility of an appeal from his tribunal. He made a solemn procession twice a year on horse- back, attended by all his clergy ; the czar on foot held the bridle of his horse, and the people pro- strated themselves before him in the streets, as the Tartars do before their grand-lama. Confes- sion was in use among them, but it was only in cases of the greatest crimes ; in these absolution was necessary, but not repentance. They thought themselves pure in the sight of God as soon as they received the benediction of their papas or priests. Thus they passed, without remorse, from confession to theft and murder ; and what was a restraint from vice among other Christians, was with them an incentive to wickedness. They would not even venture to drink milk on a fast, although, on a festival, masters of families, priests, married women, and maids, would make no scruple to in- toxicate themselves with brandy. There were religious disputes, however, among them, as well as in other countries ; but their greatest contro- versy was whether the laity should make the sign. of the cross with two fingers or with three. One Jacob Nursoff, in the preceding reign, had raised a sedition in Astracan on the subject of this dispute. They had even some fanatics among them, as there are in those civilized nations where every one is a theologian; and Peter, who always carried justice into cruelty, caused some of these unhappy wretches, called Vosko-jesuits, to. be burned as martyrs. The czar, in his extensive empire, had many subjects who were not Chris- tians; the Tartars inhabiting the western coasts of the Caspian Sea and the Palus Meotis are Mahometans ; the Siberians, the Ostiaks, and the * Similar to the shwan-pan at present, in) use among the Chinese. Samoides, who lie towards the Frozen Sea, were savages, some of whom were idolaters, and others had not even the knowledge of a God; and yet the Swedes, who were sent prisoners among them, were better pleased with their manners than with those of the ancient inhabitants of Muscovy. Peter Alexiowitz had received an education that tended to augment the barbarism of this part of the world: his natural disposition led him to caress strangers before he knew what advantages he might derive from their acquaintance. A young Genevese, named Le Fort, of an ancient family in Geneva, the son of a druggist, was the first instrument he employed, by a gradual pro- cess, to change the face of affairs in Muscovy. This young man, sent by his father as a merchant to Copenhagen, quitted his business and followed an ambassador of Denmark to Muscovy, in con- sequence of that restlessness of mind which is always experienced by such as feel themselves superior to their situation. He took it into his head to learn the Russian language. ‘The rapid progress which he had made in it excited the curiosity of the czar, who was still a young man. Le Fort became acquainted with him ; he in- sinuated himself into a degree of familiarity ; he often talked to him of the advantages of com- merce and navigation ; he told him how Holland, which had never possessed the hundredth part of the states of Muscovy, made as great a figure, b means of her commerce alone, as Old and New Spain, then both useless and despised, a small province of which she had formerly been. He entertained him with the refined policy of the princes of Europe, with the discipline of their troops, the police of their cities, and the infinite number of manufactures, arts, and sciences, which render the Europeans powerful and happy. These discourses awakened the young emperor as from a lethargy ; his mighty genius, repressed but not destroyed by a barbarous education, unfolded itself almost instantaneously. He resolved to be a man to rule over men, and to create a new nation. Many princes before him had renounced their crowns from disgust to the weight of business, but none like him had ceased to be a king in order to learn improvements in the art of governing, This was done by Peter the Great. He left Muscovy in 1698, having reigned but two years, and went to Holland, disguised under a common name, as if he had been a domestic servant of the same Mr. Le Fort, whom he sent in quality of Ambassador Extraordinary to the States General. He had no sooner arrived at Amsterdam than he enrolled himself among the shipwrights of the India Company’s wharf, under the name of Peter Michaeloff; but he was com- monly known by the name of Peter Bas or Master Peter. He worked in the yard like the other mechanics. At his leisure hours he learned. such parts of the mathematics as are useful to a prince, fortification, navigation, and the art of drawing plans. He went into. the workmen’s shops and examined all their manufactures, in which nothing. could escape his observation. From. thence he went over to England, where having perfected himself in the art of ship building, he returned to, Holland, carefully observing everything that might turn to the advantage of his own country. At length, after two years of sueh travel and labour 2 38 KING OF as no man but himself would have willingly sub- mitted to, he again made his appearance in Mus- covy, with all the arts of Europe in his train. Artists of every kind followed him in crowds. Then, for the first time, large Russian ships were seen in the Baltic, on the Black Sea, and the ocean. Stately buildings, of a regular architecture, were elevated among the Russian huts. He founded colleges, academies, printing-houses, and libraries. A regular police was introduced into the cities. The clothes and customs of the people were gra- dually changed, though not without some difficulty ; and the Muscovites. learned by degrees the true nature of a social state. Even their superstitious rites were abolished ; the dignity of the patriarch was suppressed ; and the czar declared himself the head of the church. This last enterprise, which would have cost a prince less absolute than Peter both his throne and his life, sueceeded almost without opposition, and insured to Peter the success of his other innovations. Thus, having humbled an ignorant and a bar- barous clergy, he ventured to make a trial of in- structing them, though by that means he ran the _ risk of rendering them formidable; but he was too well persuaded of his own power to entertain any fear of it. He caused philosophy and theology to be taught in the few monasteries that. still remained. Itis granted that this theology still savours of the barbarous period when Peter civil- ised his people. A person, of undoubted veracity, assured me, he was present at a public disputation, where the question was, “ Whether the practice of smoking tobacco was a sin?” ‘The respondent maintained that it was lawful to get drunk with brandy, but not to smoke, because the Holy Serip- ture saith, “ That which proceedeth out of the mouth defileth a man, and that which entereth into it doth not defile him!” The monks were not pleased with these reforms. The czar had hardly erected printing-houses, when they made use of them to decry him, They de- clared in print that Peter was Antichrist, because he deprived the living of their beards, and allowed the dead to be dissected in his academy. Another monk, however, who aimed at promotion, refuted this book, and proved that Peter could not be Antichrist, because the number 666 was not to be found in his name. The libeller was accordingly broke upon the wheel, and the author of the refutation was made bishop of Rezan. One law in particular, salutary in a high degree, was, by this reformer of Muscovy, introduced, the want of which reflects disgrace on many civilised nations ; by this it was enacted, that no man en- gaged in the service of the state, no citizen estab- lished in trade, and especially no minor, should retire into a convent. Peter knew the incalcula- ble consequences of preventing useful subjects from consecrating themselves to idleness, and of hinder- ing young people from disposing of their liberty at an age when they are incapable of disposing of the least part of their patrimony, But this. law, though calculated for the general interest of man- kind, is daily eluded by the industry of the monks ; as if they were, in fact, gainers by peopling their convents at the expense of their country. The ezar not only reduced the church to the subjection of the state, after the example of the Turkish emperors, but, by a more masterly stroke SWEDEN. 7 of policy, he dissolved a militia similar to that of the Janizaries ; and accomplished that in a short time which the Sultans had long in vain attempted. He disbanded the Russian Janizaries, who were called Strelitz, and kept the czars in subjection. This body of soldiery, more formidable to their mastersthan to their neighbours, consisted of about thirty thousand foot, one half of which remained at Moscow, while the other was stationed upon the frontiers. The pay of a Strelitz was no more than four roubles a year ; but this deficiency was amply compensated by privileges andextortions, Peter formed at first a company of foreigners, among whom he enrolled his own name, and did not think it beneath his dignity to begin the service in the capacity of a drummer, and to perform the duties of that mean office ; so much did the nation stand in need of examples! By degrees he became an officer. He gradually raised new regiments ; and, at last, finding himself master of a well-disciplined army, he broke the Strelitz, who durst not resist him. The cavalry was nearly similar to that of Poland, or what the French formerly was when the kingdom of France was no more than an as- semblage of fiefs. The gentlemen were mounted at their own expense, and fought without disci- pline, and sometimes with no other arms than a sabre or a bow ; incapable of command, and con- sequently of conquest. Peter the Great taught them to obey, both by the example he set, and the punishment he in- flicted ; for he served in the quality of a soldier and a subaltern officer, and as czar he severely punished the Boyards, that is, the gentlemen who pleaded the privilege of their order not to serve but by their own consent. He established a regular body to serve in the artillery, and took five hundred bells from the churches to be converted into can- non. Inthe year 1714 he had thirteen thousand pieces of ordnance. He likewise formed companies of dragoons, troopsvery suitable to the genius of the | Muscovites, and to the small size of their horses. | In. 1738 the Russians had thirty regiments of these | dragoons, consisting of one thousand men each, © well-disciplined and accoutred. He likewise raised regiments of hussars in Russia, and even estab- | lished a school of engineers, in a country where, | before himself, no one understood the elements of | geometry. Hewas also himself a good engineer, but _ his chief excellence lay in his knowledge of naval — affairs ; he was an able sea-captain, a skilful pilot,’ | a good sailor, an expert shipwright; and his know- __ ledge of these arts was the more meritorious, as _ he was born with a great dread of the water. i | When he was young, he could not pass over a | bridge without trembling : on all these occasions — he caused the wooden windows of his coach to be | shut ; however, he soon got the better of this con- | stitutional weakness by his courage and resolution. | He caused a beautiful harbour to be formed at the | mouth of the Tanais, near Asoph, where he pro-- posed keeping a number of galleys ; and some time | after, thinking these vessels, so long, light, and flat, — would probably succeed in the Baltic, he had upwards of three hundred of them built at his favourite city of Petersburgh. He instructed his subjects in the method of building ships with deals only, and taught them the art of navigation. He had even learned surgery, and, in a.case of necessity, has: been known to tap a person for the dropsy. He 239 Si win 8 fs HISTORY OF CHARLES XII. was well informed in mechanics, and instructed the workmen. The revenue of the czar, compared with the immense extent of his dominions, was indeed in- considerable. It never amounted to twenty-four millions of livres, reckoning the mark at about fifty livres, as we do at present, though we may not do so to-morrow. But he may aiways be accounted rich who has it in his power to accomplish great un- dertakings. It is not the scarcity of money that debilitates a state, it is the want of men, and of men of abilities. Russia, notwithstanding the women are fruit- ful, and the men robust, is not very populous. Peter himself, in civilizing his dominions, unhap- pily contributed to reduce the population. Fre- quent levies in his wars, which were long and un- successful ; nations transplanted from the shores of the Caspian Sea to those of the Baltic, worn out by fatigue, or cut off by diseases; three-fourths of the Muscovite children died of the small-pox, which is more dangerous in those climates than in any other ; in fine, the melancholy effects of a government, savage for a long time, and barba- rous even in its police ; these are the causes that in Russia, comprehending so great a part of the continent, there are still vast deserts. Russia is, at present, supposed to contain five hundred thou- sand families of gentlemen ; two hundred thousand lawyers ; rather more than five millions of citizens and peasants, who pay a sort of land-tax ; six hun- dred thousand men in the provinces conquered from the Swedes. The Cossacks in the Ukraine, and the Tartars subject to Muscovy, do not exceed two millions ; in fine, it appears that in this im- mense country there are not above fourteen mil- lions of people, that is, a little more than two- thirds of the inhabitants of France *. While the ezar was thus employed in changing the laws, the manners, the militia, and the very face of his country, he likewise resolved to in- crease his revenues by encouraging commerce, which at once constitutes the riches of a particular state, and contributes to the interest of the world in general. He undertook to make Russia the centre of trade between Asia and Europe. He determined to join the Dwina, the Volga, and the Tanais by canals, of which he drew the plans, and by these means open a new passage from the Baltic to the Euxine and Caspian Seas, and from those seas to the Northern Ocean. The port of Archangel, frozen up nine months in the year, and which could not be entered without making a long and dangerous circuit, did not appear to him sufficiently commodious. So long ago, there- fore, as the year 1700, he had formed a design of opening a sea-port on the Baltic that should be- come the magazine of the North, and of building a city that should prove the capital of his empire. Peter had even then attempted the discovery of a north-east passage to China; and the manufac- tures of Pekin and Paris were intended to embel- lish his new city. A road by land, 754 versts jong, running * This was written in the year 1727. The population of Russia has greatly increased since that time, as well by military conquest as by the arts of civil policy, and the assiduity which has been used to induce foreigners to come to and reside in the country. t A verst consists of 754 paces. through marshes that were to be drained, was to lead from Moscow to his new city. Most of these projects he actually put in execution ; and the two empresses, his successors, have even improved upon those schemes of his that were practicable, and abandoned only such as it was impossible to accomplish. He always travelled through his dominions as much as his wars would permit ; but he travelled like a legislator and a naturalist ; ex- amining nature everywhere ; endeavouring to cor- rect or perfect her ; taking himself the soundings of seas and rivers ; ordering sluices ; inspecting docks ; causing mines to be worked ; assaying me- tals ; and in giving orders for accurate charts to be drawn, in the execution of which he himself assisted. The imperial city of Petersburgh, containing at present sixty thousand houses, the residence of a splendid court, and whose amusements are of the most refined taste, he built upon a desert. He formed the harbour of Cronstadt, on the Neva, and St. Croix, on thefrontiers of Persia; he erected forts in the Ukraine, and in Siberia ; established offices of admiralty at Archangel, Petersburgh, Astracan, and Asoph ; founded arsenals ; and built and endowed hospitals. All his own houses were mean, and executed in a bad taste ; but he spared no expense in rendering the public buildings grand and magnificent. The sciences, which in other countries have been the slow product of so many ages, were, by his care and industry, introduced into Russia in full perfection. He established an academy, on the plan of the famous societies of Paris and London. The Delisles, the Bulfingers, the Her- mannses, the Bernouillis, the celebrated Wolf, a man who excelled in every branch of philosophy, were all invited and brought to Petersburgh at a great expense. This academy is still in existence ; and the Muscovites, at length, have philosophers of their own nation. He obliged the young nobility to travel for im- provement, and to bring back into Russia the po- liteness of foreign countries. 1 myself have seen young Russians men of genius and science. It was thus that a single individual reformed the greatest empire in the world. It is, however, shocking to reflect, that this reformer of mankind should have been deficient in that first of all vir- tues, the virtue of humanity. Brutality in his pleasures, ferocity in his manners, and barbarity in his resentments, sullied the lustre of his many virtues. He civilized his subjects, and yet re- mained a barbarian. Of this he was conscious ; and onze said to a magistrate of Amsterdam, “ I reform my country, but am not able to reform myself.” He has executed his sentence upon criminals with his own hands, and, at a debauch at table, has shown his address at cutting off heads. There are princes in Africa who thus, with their own hands, shed the blood of their subjects ; but. these princes pass for barbarians. The death of a son, whom he ought to have corrected or disin- herited, would have rendered the memory of Pe- ter the object of universal hatred, were it not that the great and many blessings he bestowed upon his subjects were almost sufficient to excuse his cruelty to his own offspring. Such was czar Peter; and his great projects were little more than in embryo when he joined KING OF SWEDEN. 9 the kings of Poland and Denmark against a child, whom they ail despised. The founder of the Rus- sian empire was ambitious of being a conqueror ; and such he thought he might easily become by the prosecution of a war, which, being so well projected, could not fail, he imagined, of proving useful to all his designs ; the art of war was a new art, which it was necessary to teach his people. Besides, he knew his want of a port on the east side of the Baltic, to facilitate the execution of his schemes. He coveted the province of Ingria, which lies to the north-east of Livonia. The Swedes were in possession of it, and from them he resolvedto take it by force. His predecessors had claims upon Ingria, Estonia, and Livonia ; and the present seemed to him a favourable op- portunity for reviving those claims, which had been buried for a hundred years, and rendered null by treaties. He entered, therefore, into a league with the king of Poland, to wrest from young Charles the Twelfth all the territories situated between the Gulf of Finland, the Baltic, Poland, and Muscovy. => CHAPTER II. A singular and sudden Change in the Character of Charles.—At eighteen years of age he engages in a War against Denmark, Poland, and Muscovy.—Finishes that with Denmark in Six Weeks.—Defeats Highty Thousand Russians with only Eight Thousand Swedes.—Marches into Poland._-A Description of Poland and its Govern- ment.—Charles gains many battles, and becomes master of Poland, where he prepares to appoint a king. Tuus was the infancy of Charles the Twelfth threatened by three powerful sovereigns. The news of these preparations dismayed the country, and alarmed the council. All their distinguished generals were dead ; and they had every reason to tremble under the reign of a young king, who had hitherto given them but a mean opinion of his abilities. He hardly ever came to council for any other purpose than to lay his legs across on the table ; absent and indifferent, he never ap- peared to interest himself in anything. As the council were one day deliberating, in his presence, on the dangerous predicament in which they stood, some of them proposed to avoid the impending storm by negotiations ; when the young prince immediately rose, with the grave and as- sured air of a man of superior abilities, who had fixed his resolution. Gentlemen,” said he, “I am resolved never to begin an unjust war ; but never to finish an unjust war but with the de- struction of my enemies. My resolution is fixed ; I will march and attack the first who shall declare war ; and when I shall have conquered him, I hope to strike terror into the rest.’’ All the old councillors, astonished at this declaration, looked at each other without daring to answer. In fact, astonished at such a king, and ashamed to appear less confident than their sovereign, they received his orders for the war with admiration. They were still more agreeably surprised, when they beheld him renounce at once the most inno- cent amusements of his youth. From the first moment of his preparing himself for the war, he began an entirely new course of life, from which he never wavered a single moment. Full of the examples of Alexander and Czesar, he determined to imitate those two heroes in everything but their vices. He no longer indulged himself in magnificence, sports, and recreations, and reduced his table to the most rigid frugality. He had he- fore loved pomp in his dress, but now he dressed like a common soldier. It was generally supposed that he had formed a strong attachment to a lady of his court; but whether this supposition was true or not, it is certain that he from that time renounced all fondness for the sex, not only from the fear of being governed by them, but for an example to his soldiers, whom he was desirous of bringing back to the most rigid discipline ; and, perhaps, also, from the vanity of being deemed the only king who could subdue a passion so difficult to conquer. He likewise resolved to abstain from wine during the rest of his life. Many people have told me that he made this resolution merely to get the better of his inclinations in everything, and to add a new virtue to his heroism ; but by far the greater part assured me, that he was de- termined by those means to punish himself for an excess which he had been guilty of, and for an affront he had offered to a lady at table, even in the presence of the queen his mother. Even if that be true, this self-condemnation of his beha- viour, and the abstinence which he imposed on himself throughout his life, is a species of heroism not the less admirable. His first step was to grant assistance to his brother-in-law the duke of Holstein ; eight thou- sand men were immediately sent into Pomerania, a province bordering upon Holstein, to strengthen the duke against the attacks of the Danes. And indeed the duke had need of them. His dominions were laid waste, his castle of Gottorp taken, and Tonningen was pressed by an obstinate siege, the king of Denmark having arrived before the place in order to enjoy a conquest which he imagined certain. This spark began to fan the empire into aflame. On the one side, the Saxon troops of the king of Poland, those of Brandenburgh, Wolfen- buttle, and Hesse Cassel, advanced to join the Danes. On the other, the eight thousand men sent by the king of Sweden, the troops of Hanover and Zell, and three regiments of Dutch, came to assist the duke. At this time the little duchy of Holstein thus became the theatre of war, two squadrons, the one from England, and the other from Holland, appeared in the Baltic. The peace of Altona, which treaty “the Danes violated, had been guaranteed by England and Holland ; the English and Dutch therefore were in earnest, at this time, to support the duke of Holstein, because it was for the interests of their commerce to check the growing power of the king of Denmark. They knew that this monarch, being once master of the passage of the Sound, would lay new and heavy imports upon merchandize, as soon as ever he was in a situation to do it withimpunity. This mutual interest has long engaged the Dutch and English to maintain, as much as possible, the balance of power between the northern princes ; they there- fore joined the young king of Sweden, who ap- peared in danger of being crushed by the combi- nation of so many enemies, and supported him for the same reason that the others attacked him—he- Sati! \ 10 HISTORY OF CHARLES XII. cause they looked upon him as incapable of defend- ing himself. Charles was amusing himself with a bear-hunt when he received the news of the Saxons having made an irruption into Livonia; the manner in which he practised this amusement was as novel as dangerous ; he used no other arms than forked sticks, and a small net fixed to some trees 5 a bear of an inconceivable size made immediately at the king, who brought him to the ground, after a long struggle, by the aid only of the net and his stick. This excess of courage gave those who attended him an idea of the valour which he afterwards dis- played against his enemies. Charles set out to commence his first campaign on the 8th of May, new style, in the year 1700 ; when he quitted Stockholm, to which he never after returned. An innumerable crowd of people accompanied him as far as the port of Carlscroon, offering up prayers for his success, and with tears expressing theiradmiration. Before he left Sweden, he established at Stockholm a council of defence, consisting of several senators, whose duty it was to take care of everything that regarded the navy, the army, and the fortifications of the country. The body of the senate was to regulate, provision- ally, everything in the interior part of the king- dom. Having thus established a regular mode of administration in his dominions, his mind, divested of every other care, was entirely engaged with the war. His fleet consisted of forty-three ships; that in which he himself sailed was called “ The King Charles,” and was the largest that had ever been seen, carrying one hundred and twenty guns. © In this ship, Count Piper, his first minister of state, General Renschild, and the Count de Guiseard, am- bassador from France to Sweden, embarked along with him. He joined the allied squadrons, when the Danish fleet refusing the combat, gave the three combined fleets an opportunity of approaching Co- penhagen nigh enough to throw intoit several shells, It is certain that the proposal then made to General Renschild to make a descent, and to besiege Copenhagen by land, while it was thus blocked up by sea, came from the king himself. Renschild was astonished at a proposal which showed equal marks of skill and courage in a prince so young and so inexperienced. Everything was imme- diately prepared for the descent, and orders given for the embarkation of five thousand men, who lay upon the coasts of Sweden,. and joined the troops on board. The king quitted his large ship, and went into a frigate: they then began by sending off three hundred grenadiers in smallsloops, among which were some small flat-bottomed boats, that carried the fascines, the chevaux-de-frize, and the implements of the pioneers; then followed five hundred chosen men in other sloops ; lastly, the king’s ships of war arrived, together with two English and two Dutch frigates, who were to fa- your the debarkation, under cover of their cannon. Copenhagen, the capital of Denmark, is situated in the Isle of Zealand, in the midst of a beautiful plain, having the Sound on the north-west, and the Baltie sea on the east, where the king of Sweden then lay. At this unexpected movement of the vessels, which threatened a descent, the inhabitants, con- founded by the inactivity of their own fleet, and by the movements of the Swedish vessels, waited with terror to see on what part the storm would fall. —w 242 The Swedish fleet remained over against Humble- beck, about seven miles from Copenhagen, where the Danesinstantly assembled their cavalry. Their foot were posted behind entrenchments, and all the artillery they could bring up was turned against the Swedes. The king then quitted his frigate and got into the first sloop at the head of his guards ; when the French ambassador standing next to him, he said to him in Latin, (for he would never speak French), “ You have nothing, Mr. Ambassador, to do with ‘the Danes : you need go no farther, if you please.” “Sire,” answered the Count de Guiscard, in French, “ the king my master ordered me to reside with your majesty ; I flatter myself you will not banish me your court, which was never more brilliant than - it is to-day.” In saying this, he gave his hand to the king, who leaped into the barge, and was im- mediately followed by Count Piper and the ambas- sador. They advanced under cover of the cannon of the ships which favoured their landing. The long-boats were still three hundred paces from the shore, when Charles, impatient at the slowness of their approach, threw himself from his barge into the sea, sword in hand, having the water above his waist ; his ministers, the French ambassador, the officers, and soldiers, immediately followed his example, and marched to the shore, in spite of a shower of the enemy’s musketry. The king, who had never in his life heard a volley of muskets loaded with ball, demanded of Major-general — Stuart, whom he perceived near him, what it was that occasioned the whizzing in his ears? “It is the noise of the musket-balls that they fire upon you,” said the major to him. ‘“ Good,” replied the king ; “ then from henceforward that shall be my music.” At this instant, the major who had explained the noise made by the musket-shot re- ceived one in his shoulder; and a_ lieutenant dropped down dead on the other side of the king. It generally occurs that the troops who are at- tacked in their trenches are beaten, because those who make the attack always possess an impetuos- ity which those who merely defend themselves can never arrive at ; besides, the waiting the enemy’s approach is often an acknowledgment of their own weakness, and of their adversary’s superiority. The Danish cavalry and militia, after a feeble re- sistance, took flight. The king thus become mas- ter of theix entrenchments, fell upon his knees, to return thanks to God for the first success of his arms. He immediately caused redoubts to be raised towards the town, and marked out with his own hand the place for the encampment. In the mean time he sent back his transports to Schonen, a part of Sweden bordering upon Copenhagen, for a reinforcement of nine thousand men. Every- thing conspired to favour the vivacity of Charles, whose troops were already assembled on the shore, and ready to embark ; accordingly, the next day a favourable wind brought and landed them at Co- penhagen. The passage of these forces was effected in the sight of the Danish fleet, which did not dare to advance. Copenhagen, being dispirited, imme- diately despatched deputies to the king, to beseech him not to bombard the town. He received them on horseback at the head of his regiment of guards, and the deputies threw themselves on their knees before him. He made the town pay him four hundred thousand rix dollars, and ordered them > KING OF to bring in all sorts of provisions to the camp, for which he promised faithfully ‘to pay. They carried him the provisions, because it was necessary to obey, although they did not much expect that the conquerors would have so much condescension : the carriers, however, were not a little astonished at being paid generously, and without delay, by the lowest soldiers inthe army. A rigid discipline had long been kept up amongst the Swedish troops, which had not a little contributed to this victory ; and the young king increased its rigour, There was nota soldier who dared to refuse payment for what he bought, still less to go plundering, nor even to leave the camp. He did still more, for in a victory his troops did not strip the dead till they had obtained his permission ; and he easily brought them to observe this regulation. Prayers were regularly said in his camp twice a day, at seven o’clock in the morning, and at four in the after- noon ; at which he never failed to assist in person, and to set the soldiers an example of piety as well as of valour. His camp, much better regulated than even the city of Copenhagen, had everything in abundance : the peasants preferred selling their commodities to the Swedes their enemies, rather than to the Danes, who did not pay them so well. Even the citizens were obliged to come, more than once, to seek those provisions which their own markets ought to have furnished. — The king of Denmark was at this time in Hol- stein, apparently with no other purpose than to raise the siege of Tonningen. He saw the Baltic covered with the enemies’ ships, a young conqueror already master of Zealand, and ready to seize on his capital. He therefore caused it to be published throughout his dominions, that persons who took up arms against the Swedes should have their liberty. This declaration was of great weight in a country formerly free, but in which at that time all the peasants, and even many of the citizens, were slaves. Charles sent word to the king of Denmark, that he made war only to oblige him to make peace, and that he must either resolve to do the duke of Holstein justice or see Copenhagen destroyed, and his kingdom delivered up to fire and sword. The Dane was too fortunate in having a conqueror who piqued himself on his justice. A congress was assembled in the town of Trawendal, on the frontiers of Holstein. The king of Sweden would not suffer the negotiations to be protracted by the arts of ministers, but was determined that the treaty should be finished with the same rapi- dity with which he had descended into Zealand. It was, in effect, concluded on the 5th of August, to the advantage of the duke of Holstein, who was indemnified for all the expenses of the war, and delivered from oppression. The king of Sweden, satisfied with succouring his ally, and humbling his enemy, would accept of nothing for himself. Thus Charles XII. at eighteen years of age, began and finished this war in less than six weeks. It was precisely at this time that the king of Poland invested the town of Riga, the capital of Livonia, and the czar alsoadvanced on the side of the east, at the head of near one hundred thousand men, Riga was defended by the old count d’ Al- berg, a Swedish general, who at the age of eighty joined the fire of a young man to the experience of sixty campaigns. Count Fleming, afterwards minister of Poland, equally as great in the field as SWEDEN. ll in the cabinet, and Patkul the Livonian, pressed the siege under the inspection of the king ; but in spite of several advantages that the besiegers had gained, the experience of the old count d’ Alberg rendered their efforts useless, and the king of Poland despaired of taking the town. He at length availed himselfof an honourable pretence for rais- ing the siege. Riga was full of merchandise be- longing to the Dutch. The States-General ordered their ambassador at the court of Augustus to make representations to him on that head. The ‘king of Poland wanted no importunity. He consented ‘to: raise the siege rather than occasion the least dam- age to his allies: who were not astonished at this excess of complaisance, the cause of which resulted from themselves. There remained then nothing more for Charles. to do to crown his first campaign, than to march against his rival in glory, Peter Alexiowitz. He was the more exasperated against him, as there were at that time at Stockholm three Muscovite ambassadors, who had just sworn to the renewal of an inviolable peace. He could not comprehend, as he piqued himself on a most rigid integrity, how a legislator, like the ezar, could make a jest of what ought to be so sacred. The young prince, full of honour himself, did not imagine that there could be a system of morality for kings different from that for individuals. The emperor of Muscovy had just published a manifesto, which he had much better have suppressed. He there alleged, that the reason of his making war was, that he had not sufficient honour paid him when he passed incog- nito through Riga, and, likewise, that they sold their provisions to his ambassadors at too dear a. rate. It was for these injuries that he ravaged Ingria with eighty thousand men ! He appeared before Narva, at the head of this great army, on the first of October, at a season of the year more severe in this climate than it is in the month of January at Paris.. The czar, who, in such inclement seasons as these, would some- times ride post four hundred leagues to see a mine or acanal, was not more careful of his troops than of himself ; besides, he knew that the Swedes, since the time of Gustavus Adolphus, could carry on war equally as well in the midst of winter as in summer ; he, therefore, wished to accustom the Russians likewise to pay no regard to any distinc- tion of seasons, and to render them one day not in the least inferior to the Swedes. In this manner, at a time when the ice and snow obliged other nations, even in temperate climates, to suspend the war, did the czar Peter besiege Narva, within thirty degrees of the Pole, while Charles XIf. advanced to relieve it. The czar was no sooner arrived before the place than he hastened to put in practice what he had just learned in his travels. He marked out his camp, fortified it on every side, raised redoubts at due distances, and opened the trenches himself. He had given the command of his army to the duke de Croi, a German, and a skilful general, but who, at that time, was badly seconded by the Russian officers. As for himself, he held no other rank in his own troops than that ofa lieutenant. He thus set the example of mili- tary obedience to his nobles, who were still un- disciplined, and who were only in the habit of governing slaves badly armed, without experience or order ; it was not surprising, that he who turned 12 carpenter at Amsterdam, to procure himself fleets, should serve as lieutenant at Narva, to teach his country the art of war. The Russians are robust, indefatigable, and per- haps as brave as the Swedes ; but time is neces- sary to confer skill, and discipline alone can render troops invincible. The only regiments from which anything was expected were commanded by Ger- man officers ; the rest were barbarians, forced from the forests, and covered with the skins of wild beasts : some were armed with arrows, and some with clubs ; few of them had fusees ; none had seen a regular siege ; nor was there a good gunner in the whole army. A hundred and fifty pieces of cannon, which ought to have reduced the little town of Narva to ashes, were scarcely able to make a breach; while, on the other hand, the artillery of the city destroyed at every discharge whole ranks of the enemy in their trenches. Narva | was almost without fortifications ; and the baron de Hoorn, who commanded it, had not a thousand regulars ; and yet this innumerable army could not reduce the town in ten weeks ! -It was the 15th of November when the czar was apprised that the king of Sweden, having crossed the sea with two hundred transports, was marching to the relief of Narva. The Swedes were but twenty thousand strong ; yet the ezar had no superiority butinnumber. Far then from despis- ing his enemy, he employed every art he was mas- ter of to overpower him. Not content with eighty thousand men, he prepared another army to op- pose him, and check him at every turn. He had already ordered up near thirty thousand men, who advanced by long marches from Pleskow. He then took a step which would have rendered him contemptible, if a legislator who had performed so many great exploits could be made so. He quitted his camp, where his presence was necessary, in quest of this fresh body of men, which might have arrived very well without him, and appeared by this behaviour to be afraid of engaging in an in- trenched camp a young and inexperienced prince who might come to attack him. But, be this as it may, he wanted to inclose Charles between two armies. This was not all: thirty thousand men, detached from the camp before Narva, were posted a league from the city, on the road along which the king of Sweden was to pass; twenty thousand Strelitzes were placed at a greater distance on the same road ; and five thousand others formed an advanced guard. All these troops it was necessary for Charles to defeat before he could arrive at the camp, which was fortified with a rampart and a double ditch. The king of Sweden had landed at Pernaw, inthe Gulfof Riga, with about sixteen thou- sand infantry, and a little more than four thousand horse. From Pernaw he hastened his march to Revel, followed by all his cavalry, and only four thousand foot. As he always marched on first, without waiting for the rest of his troops, he soon found himself, with his eight thousand men only, before the enemy’s advanced posts. He did not hesitate a moment in attacking them, one after the other, without giving them time to get information as to the small number that engaged them. The Muscovitesseeing the Swedes thus rush uponthem, thought they had the whole army to encoun- ter ; and the advanced guard of five thousand men, _who were posted among the rocks, a station in HISTORY OF CHARLES XII. drove right in the enemy’s faces. which a hundred resolute men might have repulsed a whole army, betook themselves to flight on the first approach of the Swedes. The twenty thou- sand that remained, seeing their companions fly, took the alarm and carried disorder with them into the camp. All the posts were carried in two days ; and what upon other occasions would have been counted for three victories, did not retard the march of the king a single hour. At last he ap- peared, with his eight thousand men, fatigued with so long a march, before a camp of eighty thousand Muscovites, defended by one hundred and fifty pieces of brass cannon! and scarcely had the troops taken a short repose, when, without de- liberating, he gave orders for the attack. The signal was two fusees, and the word, in German, “ With the aid of God!” A general officer having - | represented to him the greatness of the danger, “ Why ! do you imagine,” said he to him, “ that, with my eight thousand brave Swedes, I shall not be able to defeat eighty thousand Muscovites 1’? A moment after, fearing that there appeared a little gasconade in these words, he ran after the officer himself : “ Are you not then of my opinion ®” said he to him: * Have I not a double advantage over my enemies? the one, that their cavalry can do them no service ; and the other, that, the place being narrow, their numbers will only incommode them ; and, therefore, I shall in reality be stronger than they.” The officer did not wish to express a different opinion ; and they marched against the Muscovites, about mid-day, on the 30th of Novem- ber 1700. As soon as the cannon of the Swedes had made a breach in their intrenchments, they advanced with their bayonets fixed on their fusees, having at their backs a furious shower of snow, which The Russians stood the slaughter half an hour, not quitting their trenches. The king made his attack upon the right of the camp, where the quarters of the ezar were, hoping to encounter him, not knowing that the em- peror himself was gone to seek the forty thousand men, who were expected every moment io arrive. At the first discharge of the enemy’s muskets the king received a shot in his neck ; but it being a spent ball, it lodged in the plaits of his black cra- vat, and did him no harm. His horse was killed under him. M. de Spart told me, that the king sprang nimbly upon another horse,saying, “ These gentry here make me do my exereise ;” and con- tinued fighting and giving orders with the same presence of mind. After three hours’ engagement, the intrenchments were forced on every side. The king followed the right of the enemy as far as the river Narva with his left wing, if about four thous- and men, who were pursuing near forty thousand, can be entitled to that name. The bridge break- ing under the fugitives, the river was in a moment filled with the dead. The others returned to their camp indespair, without knowing where they went; there they found some barracks, behind which they posted themselves. There they defended themselves for some time, not being able to make their escape ; but, at last, their generals Dolgorouky, Gollofkim, and Fédérowitz, came and surrendered themselves to the king, and laid their arms at his feet ; during which the duke de Croi, general of the army, arrived, and likewise surrendered him- self, with thirty officers. 244 KING OF SWEDEN. 13 Charles received all these prisoners of distinc- tion with as much politeness, and in as friendly a manner, as if he had been paying them the honours of an entertainment in his own court. He detained none but the generals. All the subaltern officers and soldiers were conducted, unarmed, as far as the river Narva, and were there furnished with boats, that they might pass over to their own country. In the mean time night approached, and the Muscovites on the right still continued fight- ing. The Swedes had not lost fifteen hundred men; while eighteen thousand Muscovites had* been killed in their entrenchments, a great num- ber drowned, and many had passed the river ; yet there still remained a number in the camp suffi- cient to have destroyed the Swedes, to the last man. But it is not the number of the dead, it is the terror of the survivors, that occasions the loss of battles. The king took the advantage of the small part of the day that remained, to seize the enemy’s artillery. He posted himself advan- tageously between their camp and the town, where he slept some hours on the ground, wrapped up in his cloak, waiting for day-break, that he might fall on the enemy’s left wing, which was not yet entirely routed. But at two o’clock in the morning, Gene- ral Wade, who commanded that wing, having heard of the gracious reception the king had given to the other generals, and in what manner he had dismissed all the subaltern officers and soldiers, sent to beseech the same favour. The conqueror told him, that he had nothing to do but to ap- proach at the head of his army, and lay down his arms and colours at his feet. Accordingly, this general soon after appeared with his Muscovites, who were about thirty thousand innumber. They marched uncovered, soldiers and officers, through less than seven thousand Swedes. The soldiers, in passing before the king, threw their muskets and swords upon the ground, and the officers laid their ensigns and colours at his feet. He caused the whole of this multitude to be conducted over the river, without detaining a single soldier prisoner. If he had kept them, the number of the prisoners would have been at least five times greater than that of the conquerors ! He then entered victorious into Narva, accom- panied by the duke de Croi, and other general officers of the Muscovites. He caused their swords to bereturned them; and knowing that they wanted money, and that the merchants of Narva would not lend them any, he sent a thousand ducats to the duke de Croi, and five hundred to each of the Muscovite officers, who could not cease admiring this treatment, of which they had not even an idea. A relation of the victory was immediately drawn up, to send to Stockholm, and to the allies of Sweden ; but the king struck out with his own hand everything which appeared too much in praise of himself, and to reflect on the czar. His modesty could not, however, prevent them from striking, at Stockholm, several medals, to perpetu- ate the memory of these events. Among others, they struck one which represented the king, on the one side, standing on a pedestal, to which were chained a Muscovite, a Dane, and a Pole ; on the other side was a Hercules, armed with his club, having a Cerberus under his feet, with this inscrip- tion: Tres uno contrudit ictu. Among the prisoners taken at the battle of Vou. 1. Narva, there was one who exhibited a striking instance of the revolution of fortune ; he was the eldest son and heir of the king of Georgia ; he was called the ezarasis Artschelou. This title of ezarasis signifies a prince, or son of the czar, among the Tartars as well as in. Muscovy ; for the word ezar, or tsar, meant a king among the ancient Scythians, from whom all these people are de- scended, and is not derived from the Ceesars of Rome, so long unknown to these barbarians. His father, Mitelleski Czar, and master of the most beautiful part of the country which lies between the mountains of Ararat and the eastern extre- mities of the Black Sea, had been driven from his throne by his own subjects in 1668, and had chosen rather to throw himself into the arms of the emperor of Muscovy, than have recourse to the Turks. The son of this king, at the age of nine- teen, desired to follow Peter the Great in his ex- pedition against the Swedes, and was taken fight- ing, by some Finland soldiers, who had already stripped him, and were going to kill him, when Count Renschild rescued him from their hands, clothed him, and presented him to his master. Charles sent him to Stockholm, Where this un- happy prince died some years after. The king, on seeing him depart, could not help making, in the hearing of his officers, a natural reflection on the strange destiny of an Asiatic prince, born at the foot of Mount Caucasus, going to live a cap- tive among the snows of Sweden. “ It is,” says he, “as if I were one day to be a prisoner among the Tartars of the Crimea.”? These words made no impression at the time ; but in the sequel they were remembered too well, when an event turned them into a prediction. The ezar was advancing by long marches with the army of forty thousand Russians, thinking to surround his enemy on all sides ; when he heard, before he had proceeded half way, of the battle of Narva, and the dispersion of his whole camp. He was not so obstinate as to think of attacking with his forty thousand men, without experience or dis- cipline, a conqueror who had just destroyed eighty thousand men in their entrenchments. He retraced the ground he had passed over, and pursued with- out ceasing the design of disciplining his troops at the same time that he civilised his subjects. “I know very well,’’ said he, “ the Swedes will beat us for a long time, but in the end they themselves will teach us to beat tkem.” Moscow, his capital, was in terror and confusion at this defeat. Nay, such were the hauteur and ignorance of this people, that they imagined they had been conquered by a power more than human, and that the Swedes were real magicians. This opinion was so general, that public prayers were ordered to be put up on this oceasion to St. Nicholas, patron of Muscovy. This prayer is too singular uot to be repeated : it is as follows :— ‘QO Thou! who art our perpetual consoler in all our adversities, great St. Nicholas! intinitely powerful! by what sin have we offended thee in our sacrifices, kneelings, bowings, and thanksgivings, that thou hast thus aban- doned us? We have implored thy assistance against these terrible, insolent, enraged, dreadful, and unconquerable destroyers; when, like lions, and bears who have lost their young, they have attacked us, terrified, wounded, and killed, by thousands, us, thy people. As it is impossible that this can be without sorcery and enchantment, we 245 Cc — HISTORY OF CHARLES XII. 14 beseech thee, O great St. Nicholas! to be our champion and our standard-bearer, to deliver us from this tribe of sor- cercrs, and to drive them far from our frontiers, with the recompense that is their due.” But, while the Muscovites were complaining to St. Nicholas of their defeat, Charles XII. returned thanks to God, and prepared himself for new vic- tories. The king of Poland had reason to expect that his enemy, being conqueror over the Danes and Muscovites, would presently fall upon him ; he, therefore, united himself firmer than ever with the ezar. These two princes agreed upon an in- terview, that they might take their measures in concert. They met at Birzen, a small town in Lithuania, without any of those formalities which only serve to retard business, and were unsuit- able either to their situation or their humour. The princes of the North see each other with a fami- liarity which is not yet established in the southern partsof Europe. Peter and Augustus passed five days together in pleasures which bordered upon excess ; for the ezar, though he wanted to reform his nation, could never correct in himself his dangerous propensity to debauchery. The king of Poland engaged to furnish the ezar with fifty thousand.German troops, which were to be hired of different princes, and for which theezar was to pay. The czar, on his side, was to send fifty thousand Russians into Poland, to learnthe art of war, and promised to pay to Augustus three millions of rix-dollars in two years. This treaty, if it had been executed, might have been fatal to the king of Sweden ; it was a ready and sure me- thod of rendering the Muscovites good soldiers ; it was, perhaps, forging chains for a part of Europe. Charles prepared himself to prevent the king of Poland from reaping the fruit of this league. After having passed the winter at Narva, he ap- peared in Livonia, in the neighbourhood of Riga, the very same town which Augustus had in vain besieged. The Saxon troops were posted along the Dwina, which is very broad in that place ; Charles, who was on the other side of the river, found it necessary to dispute their passage. The Saxons were not commanded by their prince, he being sick, but were headed by the Marshal de Stenau, who took the office of general—Prince Ferdinand, duke of Courland, commanding under him ; and that very Patkul now defended his country against Charles XII., sword in hand, who formerly vindicated its rights with his pen, at the hazard of his life, against Charles XI. The king of Sweden had caused some large boats to be built on a new plan, the sides of which were much higher than ordinary, and could be raised or let down like a draw-bridge. When raised, they covered the troops on board ; and when let down, they served as bridges to land them. He made use also of another artifice. Having remarked that the wind blew from the north, where he lay, to the south, where the enemy’s camps were, he ordered that they should set fire to a quantity of wet straw ; from which a thick smoke arising, it spread itself over the river, preventing the Saxons from seeing his troops, or observing what he was about. Under the cover of this cloud, he ordered several barks to put off full of the like wet fuel ; so that the cloud, always increasing, and driven a aR ee I by the wind into the eyes of the enemy, made it impossible for them to know whether the king was passing the river or not. Meanwhile he alone conducted the execution of his stratagem. Hav- ing got over the greater part of the river, “ Well,” says he, to General Renschild, “the Dwina will be as favourable to us as the sea of Copenhagen ; believe me, general, we shall beat them.’’ He arrived in a quarter of an hour at the other side, and was mortified to find that he was the fourth person that leaped on shore. He immediately landed his cannon, and formed a line of battle, while the enemy, blinded with smoke, were unable to oppose him, except by a few random shot. The wind having dispersed the smoke, the Saxons saw the king of Sweden already advancing towards them. Marshal Stenau lost not a moment ; scarcely had he perceived the Swedes, when he fell on them with thebest part of his cavalry. The vio- lent shock of this body falling upon the Swedes at the instant that they were forming their battalions, threw them into disorder ; they gave way, were broken, and pursued even into the river. The king of Sweden rallied them in a moment in the middle of the water, as easily as if he had been passing them in review ; after which his soldiers, marching in closer ranks than before, repulsed Marshal Stenau, and advanced into the plain. Stenau finding that his troops were, in some degree, panic-struck, like an able general made them retire into a dry place, flanked with a mo- rass and a wood, where his artillery lay. The advantage of the ground, and the time thus given to the Saxons to recover their first surprise, re- stored to them their former courage. Charles did not hesitate to attack them ; he had fifteen thou- sand men with him ; Stenau and the duke of Cour- land about twelve thousand, with no other artillery than one dismounted iron cannon. The battle was obstinate and bloody; the duke had two horses killed under him ; he penetrated three times into the centre of the king’s guard ; but at last having been knocked off his horse by a blow with the but- end of a musket, disorder prevailed throughout his army, which no longer disputed the victory. His cuirassiers took him up and carried him off with great difficulty, bruised and half dead, under the horses’ heels, which trampled on him, and during the hottest part of the action. The king of Sweden, after his victory, flew to Mittau, the capital of Courland. All the towns of this duchy surrendered at discretion, so that it was a journey rather than a conquest. He passed without delay into Lithuania, conquering as he went along. He felt a flattering satisfaction, and he confessed it, when he entered the town of Bir- zen as a conqueror, where the king of Poland and the ezar had conspired against him some months before. It was in this place that he conceived the de- sign of dethroning the king of Poland, by the hands of the Poles themselves, Being one day at table, his mind entirely taken up with this enterprise, and observing his usual abstemiousness in diet, he was wrapped in profound silence, and seemed absorbed in the greatness of his conceptions, when a German colonel, who was present at dinner, ob- served, loud enough to be heard, that the repast which the ezar and the king of Poland had made 246 KING OF SWEDEN. in the same place was somewhat different from that of his majesty. “Yes,’’ said the king, rising, “and I have the more easily spoiled their diges- tion ;” in short, intermixing a little policy with the force of his arms, he did not delay to prepare the event which he had meditated. Poland, a part of the ancient Sarmatia, is a lit- tle larger "than France, but less populous, though it is more so than Sweden. Its inhabitants were converted to Christianity only about seven hundred and fifty years ago. It is very singular that the language of the Romans, who never penetrated into this country, is at this time spoken nowhere in common but in Poland ; there ever ybody speaks Latin, even the servants. This extensive country is very fertile, and the people are, consequently, less industrious. The artists and traders you meet with in Poland are Scots, French, and Jews, who purchase corn, cattle, and different commodities of the country, at a low price ; and thése they dispose of at Dantzic and in Germany, and sell to the nobles at a high price, to gratify the only species of luxury which they know and love. Thus this country, watered with the most beautiful rivers, rich in pastures, in salt-mines, and covered. with luxuriant crops, remains poor in spite of its plenty, because the people are slaves, and the nobility are proud and indolent. Its government is the most perfect model of the ancient government of the Goths and Celtee, which has been corrected or altered everywhere else. It is the only state that has preserved the name of a republic with the royal dignity. Every gentleman has a right to vote in the election of a king ; and may even be elected him- self. This most estimable right is attended with the greatest abuses ; the throne is almost always put up to auction; and as a Pole is seldom rich enough to buyit, it has been often sold to strangers. The nobility and clergy defend their rights against the king, and deprive the rest of the nation of theirs. All the people are slaves; and such is the destiny of men, that by some means or other the many are, everywhere, subjected to the few. There the peasant sows not for himself, but for his lord ; to whom himself, his Jands, and the la- bour of his hands belong, and who can sell him, or cut his throat, as he would the beast in his field. All who are gentlemen are independent. There must be an assembly of the whole nation to try him in a criminal cause ; and as he cannot be seized till he is condemned, he is hardly ever punished. There is a great number of poor ; these engage in the services of the most powerful, receive a salary, and do the meanest offices for it. They like better to serve even their equals, than to enrich themselves by commerce ; and, as they dress their masters’ horses, give themselves the title of electors of kings, and destroyers of tyrants, Any person seeing the king of Poland in the pomp of royal majesty, would believe him the most absolute prince in Evrope; he is, however, the least so. The Poles really make that contract with him, which in other nations is mere suppo- sition between the king and his subjects. The king of Poland, even at his consecration, and in swearing to the pacta conventa, absolves his sub- jects from the oath of obedience in case he violate the laws of the republic. 247 15 He nominates to all offices and confers all ho- nours ; nothing is hereditary in Poland but the land, and the rank of the nobility. The son of a palatine, or of the king, has no right to the dig- nities of his father ; but there is this great dif- ference between the king and the republic, that the former can take away no office after he has given it, while the republic may take away the crown from him if he transgresses the laws of the state. The nobility, jealous of their liberty, often sell their votes, but seldom their affections. Scarcely have they elected a king, but, fearing his ambi- tion, they oppose him by cabals. The grandees whom he has made, and whom he cannot unmake, often become his enemies, instead of remaining his creatures. Those who are attached to the court are objects of hatred to the rest of the no- bility ; this always forms two parties ; an unavoid- able division, and even necessary in those coun- tries, where they will choose at the same time to have kings, and to preserve their liberties. Whatever concerns the nation is regulated in the states-general, which they call diets. These states are composed of the body of the senate, and of several gentlemen. ‘The senators are the pala- tines and the bishops; the second order is com- posed of the deputies of the particular diets of each palatinate. At these great assemblies, the archbishop of Gnesna, primate of Poland, and viceroy of the kingdom during the interregnum, presides, and is the first man of the state, next to the king. ‘There is seldom any other cardinal in \Poland but him ; because the Roman purple giv- ing no prededetics in the senate, a bishop who shall be a cardinal will be obliged either to take his rank as senator, or renounce the solid rights of the dignity of his own country, to support the pre- tensions of a foreign onour. These diets, »y the laws of the kingdom, ought to be held alternately in Poland and Livonia. The deputies often decide their business sword in hand, like their predecessors the ancient Sarmatians ; and sometimes even in liquor, a vice of which the Sarmatians were ignorant. Every gentleman deputed to the states-general enjoys the same right which the tribune of the people at Rome had, of opposing the laws of the senate. Any one gentle- man who says “I protest !’’ stops, by that single word, the unanimous resolutions of all the rest ; and if he leaves the place where the diet is held, the assembly is dissolved. To the disorders which arise from this law, they apply a remedy more dangerous than the disease. Poland is seldom without two factions : unanimity in their diets, therefore, being impossible, each party forms confederacies, in which they decide by the plurality of voices, without paying any regard to the protests of the minority, These assemblies, not warranted by law, but authorised by custom, are held in the name of the king, though often without his consent, and against his interest ; something in the manner in which the League in France made use of the name of Henry IIT. to ruin him, and as the parliament of England which brought Charles I. to the block, began by placing that prince’s name to all the resolutions which they took to destroy him. When the commotions are finished, it is the part of the general diets to confirm or quash the acts of these confederacies. G2 16 HISTORY OF CHARLES XII. A diet can even alter everything that has been done at preceding ones ; for the same reason that, in monarchical countries, a king can abolish the laws of his predecessor, and even his own. The nobility, who make the laws of the republic, constitute its strength also. They appear on horse- back upon any great occasion, and are able to form a body of one hundred thousand men. This great army, called the Pospolite, moves with difficulty, and is ill-governed: the difficulty of obtaining provision and forage makes it impossible for it to continue long assembled : it has neither discipline, subordination,nor experience ; but the love of liberty which animates it renders it always formidable. These nobles may be conquered, or dispersed, or even held in slavery for a time, but they soon shake off the yoke ; indeed they compare them- selves to the reed, which the wind bends to the ground, but which rises again as the wind ceases to blow. It is for this reason that they have no places of strength ; they will have themselves to be the only bulwark of the republic ; nor will they suffer their king to build any forts, for fear he should make use of them more to oppress than to defend them. Their country is of course entirely open, except two or three frontier towns. If ina war, either civil or foreign, they resolve to sustain a siege, they are obliged to raise fortifications of earth, repair the old walls, that are half ruined, and enlarge their ditches that are almost filled up, so that the town is generally taken before the intrenchments are completed. The pospolite are not always on horseback to defend the country ; they never mount without the order of the diets, though sometimes the simple order of the king is sufficient when the danger is imminent. The ordinary guard of Poland is an army, which ought always to be maintained at the expense of the republic. It is composed of two corps, under command of two different com- manders in chief. The first corps is that of Poland, and ought to consist of thirty-six thousand men; the second, to the number of twelve thousand, is that of Lithuania. The two generals are independent the one of the other ; and, though they are nominated by the king, they are not accountable to any person for their actions but the republic, and have an unlimited authority over their troops. The colonels are absolute masters of their regiments; and it belongs to them to maintain and pay the soldiery as they are able; but, being seldom paid themselves, they ravage the country, and ruin the peasants, to satisfy their own avidity and that of their soldiers. The Polish lords appear in these armies with more magnifi- cence than they do in the towns, and their tents are more ornamented than their houses. The cavalry, which makes up two-thirds of the army, is composed of gentlemen, and is remarkable for the beauty of their horses, and the richness of their harness and accoutrements. The gendarmes in particular, whom they dis- tinguish by the names of hussars and pandours, never march without being accompanied by several valets, who hold their horses, which are adorned with plates and nails of silver, embroidered sad- dles, saddle-bows, and gilt stirrups, and sometimes of massy silver, together with large housings trail- ing after the manner of the Turks, whose magnifi- cence the Poles imitate as much as possible. — SS 248 In the same degree that the cavalry is fine and superb, the infantry was then proportionably wretched, ill-clothed, unarmed, without regi- mentals, or anything uniform. It was so at least till about the year 1710. These infantry, who resemble wandering Tartars, support hunger, cold, fatigue, and all the hardships of war, with astonishing fortitude. One may see in the Polish soldiers the character of the ancient Sarmatians, their ancestors; the same want of discipline, the same fury to attack, the same readiness to fly from and to return to the attack, and, likewise, the same disposition to slaughter, when they are conquerors. The king of Poland flattered himself at first, that, in case of necessity, these two armies would fight in his favour; that the Polish pospolite would arm themselves at his orders; and that all these forces, joined to the Saxons, his subjects, and to the Muscovites, his allies, would form a multitude before which the small number of the Swedes would not dare to appear. But he found himself almost at once deprived of these succours, by means of that very eagerness which he had manifested for having them all at once. Accustomed in his hereditary dominions to | absolute power, he imagined, too fondly, that he might govern in Poland as he did in Saxony. The beginning of his reign made malcontents ; and his first proceedings irritated the party who had opposed his election, and alienated almost all the rest. The Poles murmured to see their towns filled with Saxon garrisons, and their frontiers lined with troops. More jealous of maintaining their liberty than anxious to attack their neigh- bours, they did not regard the war against the Swedes, and the irruption into Livonia, as an enter- prise advantageous to the republic. It is difficult to deceive a free people respecting their real inte- rests. The Poles knew, that if this war, under- taken without their consent, should prove unsuc- cessful, their country, open on every side, would become a prey to the king of Sweden ; and that if it was successful, they would be enslaved by their own king ; who, being then master of Livonia and Saxony, would shut up Poland between these two states. In this alternative, either to be slaves of the king whom they had elected, or to be ravaged by Charles XII. who was justly incensed, they raised but one cry against the war, which they believed to have beewm declared rather against themselves than Sweden. They regarded the Saxons and the Muscovites as the forgers of their chains ; and seeing soon after that the king of Sweden had overcome everything which opposed his passage, and was advancing with a victo- rious army into the very heart of Lithuania, they exclaimed against their sovereign with so much the more freedom in proportion to his mis- fortunes. Lithuania was, at this period, divided between two parties; that of the princes Sapieha, and that of Oginsky. These two factions began from private quarrels, and at last terminated in a civil war. The king of Sweden attached himself to the princes Sapieha ; and Oginsky, ill supported by the Saxons, found his party almost annihilated. The Lithuanian army, whom these troubles and the want of money had reduced to a small number, was partly dispersed by the conquerors, The few KING OF who held out for the king of Poland, were sepa- rated into small bodies of fugitive troops, who wandered about the country and subsisted by rapine. Augustus saw nothing in Lithuania but the weakness of his own party, the hatred of his subjects, and a hostile army, conducted by a young king, enraged, victorious, and implacable. There was indeed an army in Poland, but instead of its being composed of thirty-six thousand men, the number prescribed by law, there were not even eighteen thousand ; not only badly paid and badly armed, but their generals knew not as yet which side to declare for. _The only resource of the king was, to order his nobility to follow him ; but he was afraid of expos- ing himself to the hazard of a refusal, which would have discovered his weakness, and, conse- quently, have augmented it. It was in this state of trouble and uncertainty that all the palatinates demanded a diet of the king, in the same manner as in England, when all the bodies of the state, in times of difficulty, pre- sent addresses to the monarch beseeching him to convoke a parliament. Augustus had more need of an army than a diet, in which the actions of the king are strictly scrutinised. However, it was necessary that he should convoke the diet, for fear he should outrage the nation beyond reconciliation ; it was accordingly appointed to be held at Warsaw, the 2nd of December, in the year 1701. He soon perceived, however, that Charles had at least as much power as himself in this assembly. Those who favoured the Sapiehas, the Lubomirskys and their friends, the palatine Leezinsky, treasurer of the crown (who owed his fortune to king Augustus), and especially the partisans of the princes Sobiesky, were all secretly attached to the king of Sweden. The most considerable of these partisans, and the most dangerous enemy to the king of Poland, was the cardinal Radziejousky, archbishop of Gnesna, primate of the kingdom, and president of the diet. He was a man full of artifice and mystery in his conduct, entirely governed by an ambitious woman, whom the Swedes ealled Madame Cardinal, and who never ceased engaging him in intrigue and faction. The talent of the primate consisted, as we are told, in availing him- self of circumstances, without seeking to give birth to them. He appeared often to be irresolute, for who is not so in a civil war? King John Sobiesky, the predecessor of Augustus, had first made him bishop of Warmia, and vice-chancellor of the kingdom. Radziejousky, being yet but a bishop, had obtained the cardinalship by the favour of the same king. This dignity soon opened his way to that of primate ; thus uniting in his own person everything that overawes mankind, he was in a state to undertake anything with impunity. The first trial he made of his credit, after the death of John, was to place the prince James Sobiesky on the throne ; but the torrent of hatred which the father had incurred, though a truly great man, overwhelmed his son. After this the cardinal primate joined the abbé de Polignac, ambassador of France, to give the crown to the prince of Conti, who was indeed elected: but money and Saxon troops triumphed over his nego- tiations. He suffered himself, at last, to be drawn ! SWEDEN. 17 Saxony, and waited with patience for an opportu- nity of making a division between the nation and this new king. The victories of Charles XII., protector of prince James Sobiesky, the civil war in Lithuania, and the general irritation of the public mind against Augustus, made the cardinal primate believe the time was come when he might send Augustus into Saxony, and open the way to the throne for king John’s son. This prince, formerly the innocent object of the hatred of the Poles, had begun to engage their affections from the time of their hatred to king Augustus ; but he durst not as yet conceive an idea of so great a revolution as that of which the cardinal was insensibly laying the foundation. At first he seemed to wish to reconcile the king and the republic ; he sent circular letters dictated in appearance by the spirit of concord and charity ; common and well-known snares, but with which men are always caught. He wrote an affecting letter to the king of Sweden, conjuring him, in the name of Him whom all Christians equally adored, to give peace to Poland and her king. Charles XII. returned an answer to the cardinal’s motives rather than to his words ; in the mean time he remained in the grand-duchy of Lithuania with his victorious army, declaring that he would not disturb the diet ; that he made war against Augustus and the Saxons, and not against the Poles ; and that, so far from attacking the republic, he came to relieve it from oppression. These letters and these answers were intended for the public. The emissaries that were continually going and coming between the cardinal and count Piper, and the secret assemblies at the prelate’s house, were the springs that regulated the motions of the diet. They proposed to send an ambassador to Charles XII.; and unanimously demanded of the king, that he should call no more Muscovites to his frontiers, and that he should also send back his Saxon troops. The bad fortune of Augustus had already done what the diet required of him. The league secretly concluded at Birzen with the Muscovites was now become as useless as it had at first ap- peared formidable. He was far from being able to send to the czar the fifty thousand Germans he had promised to raise in the empire. Even the ezar, a dangerous neighbour of Poland, was in no haste to assist with all his force a divided king- dom, from whose misfortunes he hoped to reap some advantage ; he contented himself with send- ing twenty thousand Muscovites into Lithuania, who did more mischief than the Swedes, flying everywhere before the conqueror, and ravaging the lands of the Poles ; till, at last, being pursued by the Swedish generals, and finding nothing more to pillage, they returned in bodies to their own country. With regard to the shattered remains of the Saxon armies, beaten at Riga, Augustus sent them to winter and recruit in Saxony; to the end that this sacrifice, involuntary as it was, might regain him the affections of the irritated Poles. Hostilities were now converted into intrigues ; the diet was divided into almost as many factions as there were palatines. One day the interests of king Augustus prevailed, the next they were pro- scribed ; every one cried out for liberty and over to the party that’ crowned the elector of | justice ; but no one knew what it was either to be 2 49 ee 8 HISTORY OF CHARLES XII. free or just: the time was lost by eaballing in private, and haranguing in public ; the diet knew neither what they wanted nor what they ought to do. Great assemblies have hardly ever taken right counsel in civil broils, because the most eou- rageous amongst them are engaged in the sedition, and the well-disposed are generally a prey to their fears. The diet dissolved in tumult the 17th of February, in the year 1702, after three months of cabals and irresolution. The senators, who are the palatines and bishops, remained at Warsaw. The senate of Poland has aright to make laws provisionally, which the diet seldom disannul. This body being less numerous, and accustomed to business, was far less tumultuous, and came to a decision with greater despatch. They decreed that they should send to the king of Sweden the embassy proposed in the diet; that the pospo- lite should mount their horses, and hold them- selves in readiness at all events: they made several regulations to appease the troubles in Lithuania, and still more to lessen the authority of their king, which was more to be feared than that of Charles. Augustus chose rather at that time to receive hard conditions from his conqueror than from his subjects. He determined to sue for a peace to the king of Sweden, and wanted to make a secret treaty with him. It was necessary to conceal this step from the senate, whom he regarded as an enemy still more untractable than Charles. This was a delicate affair; he entrusted it to the countess of Konigsmark, a Swedish lady of high birth, and to whom he was at that time attached. This lady, celebrated in the world for her wit and beauty, was more capable than any minister to bring a negotiation to a happy conclusion. More- over, as she had an estate in the dominions of Charles XII. and had lived a long time in his court, she had a plausible pretext to see this prince. She, therefore, went to the Swedish camp in Lithuania, and addressed herself directly to count Piper, who too hastily promised her an audience with his master. The countess, among those perfections which rendered her one of the most amiable persons in Europe, had the singular talent of speaking the languages of several coun- tries, which she had never seen, with as much ele- gance as if she had been born there ; she even amused herself sometimes in writing French verses, which might have been mistaken for the production of a person born at Versailles. Those she composed for Charles XII. the historian should preserve ; she introduced the heathen gods prais- ing the different virtues of Charles. The piece concluded thus :— Enfin chacun des dieux discourant a sa gloire, Le placait par avance au temple de Mémoire; Mais Venus ni Bacchus n’en dirent pas un mot. Nay, all the gods to sound his fame combine, Except the deities of Love and Wine. All her wit and beauty were thrown away upon a man like the king of Sweden, who persisted in refusing to see her ; she, therefore, resolved to throw herself in his wey, as he rode out to take the air, which he frequently did. She, one day, met him in a narrow path ; she descended from her carriage as soon as she perceived him ; the king made her a low bow, turned his horse about, and rode back in an instant ; so that the only advantage which the countess of Konigsmark gained from her journey was, the satisfaction of believing that the king of Sweden feared nobody but her. The king of Poland was now obliged to throw himself into the arms of the senate. He, there- fore, made them two proposals, by the palatine of Marienburgh ; the one, that they should leave to him the disposition of the army of the republic, to whom he would pay, out of his own revenue, two quarters’ advance ; the other, that they should permit him to bring back twelve thousand Saxons into Poland. The cardinal primate returned him an answer as severe as the refusal of the king of Sweden. He told the palatine of Marienburgh, in the name of the assembly, “that they had re-. solved to send an embassy to Charles XII., and that he would not advise him to bring back any Saxons.”’ In this extremity the king wished to preserve the appearance at least of royal authority. He sent one of his chamberlains on his own part, to wait upon Charles, to know from him, where and how his Swedish majesty would be pleased to re- ceive the embassy of his master and the republic. Unfortunately, they had forgotten to ask a passport from the Swedes for this chamberlain ; the king of Sweden, therefore, instead of giving him au- dience, caused him to be thrown into prison, say- ing, “ that he expected an embassy from the re- public, and not from Augustus.’’ This violation of the right of nations no law, but that of a superior force, could excuse. Afterwards, Charles, having left behind him garrisons in several towns in Lithuania, advanced beyond Grodno, a town well known in Europe for the diets that are held there, but ill built, and badly fortified. A few miles on the other side Grodno he met with the embassy of the republic; it was composed of five senators. They desired, in the first place, to regulate the ceremony of their introduction, a thing the king was a little unac- quainted with ; they then demanded that the re- public should be styled ‘‘ Most Serene ;’’ and that the coaches of the king and the senators should be sent to meet them. They were answered, that the republic should be styled “ Illustrious,” and not “ Most Serene ;” and that the king never made use of a coach; that he had many officers about him, but no senators ; that a lieutenant- general should be sent to meet them, and that they should come on their own horses. Charles XII, received them in his tent, with some appearance of military pomp ; their dis- course was full of caution and reserve. It was remarked, that they were afraid of Charles, that they did not love Augustus, but that they were ashamed to take, by command of a stranger, the crown from a king whom they had elected. No- thing was concluded ; and Charles gave them to understand, that he would settle all disputes at Warsaw. His march was preceded by a manifesto, which the cardinal and his party spread over Poland in eight days. Charles, in this manifesto, invited all the Poles to join their vengeance to his, and pre- tended to persuade them that his interest and theirs was the same. They were, however, very different ; but the manifesto, supported by a great party, by the confusion of the senate, and the 250 nae er eeu KING OF SWEDEN. 19 approach of the conqueror, made a very strong impression. They were obliged to own Charles for protector, because he weuld be so, and be- cause it was happy for them that he contented himself with this title. The senators who opposed Augustus published this manifesto aloud, even in his presence ; the few who were attached to him observed a pro- found silence. At last, when they were apprised that Charles was advancing, by long marches, they all prepared, in the greatest confusion, to depart ; the cardinal quitted Warsaw among the first; the greater part fled with precipitation ; some retired to their estates, to wait the end of this affair, while others went to raise their friends. Nobody remained with the king but the ambas- sadors of the emperor and the czar, the pope’s nuncio, together with a few bishops and _ pala- tines attached to his fortunes. He found it ne- cessary to fly, likewise, as there was nothing as yet decided in his favour. He hastened, before his departure, to hold a council with the small number of senators who still represented the senate ; but however zealous they were to serve him, they were nevertheless Poles, and had all conceived so great an aversion to Saxon troops, that they did not dare to grant him the liberty of recalling more than six thousand men for his de- fence ; and even voted that those should be com- manded by the grand-general of Poland, and sent back immediately after the peace. The armies of the republic, indeed, they submitted to his disposal. After this resolution the king, too weak to re- sist his enemies, quitted Warsaw, little satisfied, even with his own party. He immediately pub- lished orders for assembling the pospolite and the armies, which were Jittle more than empty names. He had nothing to hope for in Lithuania, where the. Swedes then were ; the army of Poland, re- duced to a few troops, wanted arms, provisions, and inclination to fight. The greater part of the nobility, intimidated, irresolute, and disaffected, yemained at their different estates. In vain did the king, authorised by the laws of the land, order, on pain of death, that every gentleman should mount his horse and follow him ; it was become a problematical point whether they ought to obey him or not. His great resource was in the Saxon troops of the electorate, where the form of govern- ment being entirely absolute, did not leave him a doubt of their obedience. He had already se- cretly commanded twelve thousand Saxons to march, who were advancing with precipitation ; he, likewise, recalled the eight thousand men he had promised the emperor in his war against France, and whom the necessity into which he was reduced obliged him to withdraw. T'o in- troduce so many Saxons into Poland was to exas- perate the people at large, and violate the law made by his own party, who allowed him only six thousand : but he well knew, that if he was con- queror, they would not dare to complain ; and if he was conquered, that they would not forgive him for introducing even the six thousand. At the time these soldiers were arriving in troops, and he was going from one palatinate to another, to as- semble the nobility who were attached to him, the’ king of Sweden appeared before Warsaw, on the 5th of May, 1702, At the first summons the gates were opened to him; he dismissed the Polish gar- 251 rison, dishanded the city-guard, established posts in every part of the town, and ordered the inha- bitants to come and deliver to him their arms ; but, satisfied with disarming them, and being un- willing to irritate, he demanded a contribution of no more than one hundred thousand livres. Augustus, while employed in assembling his forces at Cracow, was very much surprised to see the cardinal arrive there. This man pretended to support the decency of his character to the very last, and endeavoured to dethrone the king with the exterior behaviour of a good subject ; he gave him to understand, that the king of Sweden ap- peared disposed to listen to a reasonable accom- modation, and humbly asked permission to seek him. The king granted him what he was not able to refuse ; that is to say, an opportunity of doing him more mischief. The cardinal primate hastened immediately to find the king of Sweden, before whom he had not as yet dared to present himself. He saw this prince at Praga, one of the suburbs of Warsaw, but without the ceremonies with which he had received the ambassadors of the republic; he found this conqueror dressed in a coat of coarse blue cloth, with gilt copper buttons, large boots, and buff-skin gloves, which came up to his elbows, in a chamber without tapestry, in which were his brother-in-law the duke of Holstein, count Piper, his first minister, and several general officers. The king advanced several paces to meet the car- dinal, and they had a conference together of a quarter of an hour, both standing the whole time, which Charles finished, by saying aloud,—* I will not give peace to the Poles till they have elected another king.’’ The cardinal, who expected such a declaration, caused it to be immediately made known to all the palatinates ; assuring them of the extreme sorrow he felt at it, and representing, at the same time, the necessity there was to obey the conqueror, At this news the king of Poland was convinced that he must either lose the throne or preserve it by a battle ; he exhausted all his resources for this great decision ; all his Saxon troops had arrived from the Saxon frontiers, and the nobility of the palatinate of Cracow, where he still was, came in crowds to offer their services : he exhorted each of these gentlemen to remember their oaths, and. they promised to shed the last drop of their blood to support.him. Encouraged by their adhesion, and by the troops who bore the name of “ The Army of the Crown,” he went, for the first time, to seek the king of Sweden in person, whom he soon found, advancing towards Cracow. The two kings met July 13, 1702, on a vast plain, near Clissau, between Warsaw and Cracow ; Augustus had nearly twenty-four thousand men, while Charles had no more than twelve thousand. The battle began by discharges of artillery. At the first discharge from the Saxons, the duke of Hol- stein, who commanded the Swedish cavalry, a young prince of courage and virtue, received a cannon-ball in his reins : the king asked if he was killed, and was told yes ; he made no answer ; some tears fell from his eyes, and he held his hand up to his face for a moment ; when, all on a sudden, he spurred his horse with ali his might, and rushed into the midst of the enemy, at the head of his guards. . 20 eee HISTORY OF CHARLES XII. The king of Poland did everything that could be expected from a prince contending for his crown ; he led his troops three times to the charge ; but he had only the Saxons to fight by him ; for the Poles, who formed his right wing, all fled at the commencement of the battle, some through fear, and others through disaffection. Charles’s good fortune carried all before it, and gained him a complete victory ; he took possession of the enemy’s camp, their colours and artillery, and of Augustus’s military chest. He did not stop in the field of battle, but marched directly to Cracow, pursuing the king of Poland, who fled before him. The citizens of Cracow had the temerity to shut the gates against the conqueror ; he ordered them to be forced, and the garrison did not dare to fire a single gun, but were driven, with whips and canes, into the castle, where the king entered with them. One officer of artillery only having courage to prepare himself to put the match to a cannon, Charles threw himself upon him, and tore it out of his hand; the commander threw himself on his knees before the king. Three Swedish regiments were quartered, at discretion, among the citizens, and the town taxed with a contribution of a hun- dred thousand rix-dollars. The count de Stein- bock, who was made governor, being informed there were some treasures hid in the tombs of the kings of Poland, in the church of St. Nicholas, at Cracow, had them opened ; but found nothing, except some ornaments of gold and silver be- longing to the church, of which, however, he took a part; Charles even sent a gold cup to one of the Swedish churches ; which would have raised the Polish Catholics against him, could anything have prevailed against the terror of his arms. He departed from Cracow with a fixed resolu- tion to pursue the king of Poland without ceas- ing ; but, a few miles from the town, his horse fell, and he broke his thigh bone ; he was obliged to be carried back to Cracow, where he was con- fined to his bed for six weeks in the hands of his surgeons. This accident gave Augustus a little time to breathe; he immediately caused it to be reported throughout Poland and Germany, that Charles XII. was killed by this fall; this false report, believed for some time, threw every mind into astonishment and apprehension. In this short interval he assembled all the orders of the king- dom (before convoked at Sendomir), first at Ma- rienburg and then at Lublin ; this assembly was very numerous, few of the palatinates refusing to send their deputies thither. He regained almost every heart by presents and promises, and that affability, so necessary to absolute kings, to make themselves beloved, and to elected kings, to en- able them to maintain their thrones. The diet was soon undeceived with regard to the false re- port of the death of the king of Sweden ; but mo- tion having been given to this great body, it still suffered itself to be carried along by the impulse it had received, all the members swearing to con- tinue faithful to their sovereign ; so much are great assemblies given to change! The cardinal primate himself, affecting still to be attached to Augustus, came to the diet of Lublin, where he kissed his majesty’s hand, and did not refuse to take the oath with the rest! The oath was, “that they had never attempted, nor ever would attempt, anything against Augustus.” The king excused 9 ~ 52 the cardinal from the first part of the oath, and the prelate blushed when he swore to the last. The result of this diet was, that the republic of Poland should maintain an army of fifty thousand men, at their own expense, for the use of their sovereign ; that they should give six weeks to the Swedes, to deliberate either as to peace, or the prosecution of the war; and the same time to the princess Sapieha, and the first authors of the troubles in Lithuania, to come and ask pardon of the king of Poland. But during these deliberations, Charles reco- vered from his wound, and overturned everything before him, Always firm in the design of forcing the Poles to dethrone their king with their own hands, he caused a new assembly to be convoked at Warsaw, through the intrigues of the cardinal primate, to oppose that of Lublin ; his generals represented to him, that this affair might be at- tended with endless delays, and prove ineffectual at last ; that, in the interval, the Muscovites were improving in military science every day, in pre- sence of the troops he had left in Livonia and Ingria ; that the skirmishes which often happened in those provinces between the Swedes and the Russians were not always attended with advan- tages to the former ; and, lastly, that his presence there might very soon be necessary. Charles, as unshaken in his projects as impatient in his ac- tions, replied :—“ Should I be obliged to stay here fifty years, I will not depart till I have dethroned the king of Poland.” He left the assembly of Warsaw to contend with that of Lublin by speeches and pamphlets, and to endeavour to justify their proceedings by the laws of the kingdom ; laws always equivocal, which each party interprets to his own interest, and which success alone renders incontestible. As for himself, having increased his victorious troops with six thousand horse and eight thousand foot, which he had received from Sweden, he marched against the remainder of the Saxon army, which he had beat at Clissau, and which had an opportunity to rally and recruit, while his fall from his horse had confined him to his bed ; the army shunned his approach, and retired to- wards Prussia, to the north-west of Warsaw. The river Bug was between him and his enemies ; Charles swam across it, at the head of his cavalry, whilst the infantry sought a ford, somewhat higher. They came up with the Saxons the Ist of May, 1703, at a place called Pultusk. General Stenau commanded them, to the number of about ten thousand. The king of Sweden, in his precipitate march, had no more than the same number, pre- suming that a less would suffice. The terror of his arms was so great, that one-half of the Saxon troops fled at his approach, without giving him battle. General Stenau stood, indeed, for a mo- ment, with two regiments, but was soon obliged to join in the general flight ; and this army was dispersed before it was conquered. The Swedes did not take more than a thousand prisoners, nor kill more than six hundred ; having more diffi- culty to pursue than to defeat them. Augustus having nothing but the remains of his Saxons, who were beaten on every side, retired in haste to Thorn, an ancient town of Royal Prussia, upon the Vistula, and under the protection of the Poles. Charles immediately prepared to besiege KING OF SWEDEN. 21 it; and the king of Poland, who did not think himself secure, retired, and flew into every corner of Poland where he could possibly assemble any soldiers, and into which the Swedes had not pene- trated. In the mean time, Charles, amidst so many rapid marches, swimming across rivers, and hur- ried along with his infantry, mounted behind his cavalry, had not been able to bring up his cannon before Thorn, and was obliged to wait till it came from Sweden by sea. While he was posted here, a few miles from the town, he would frequently advance too nigh the ramparts, for the purpose of reconnoitring the enemy. The plain dress which he always wore was, in these dangerous excursions, of more utility than he was aware of ; as it prevented his being remarked and singled out by his enemies, who would have fired upon his person. One day, having advanced too near, with one of his gene- rals *, named Lieven, who was dressed in a blue coat trimmed with gold, and being afraid that the general would be too easily distinguished, he ordered him te walk behind him ; prompted to it by that magnanimity which was so natural to him, and which prevented him from reflecting, that he exposed his own life to imminent danger to save that of his subject. Lieven saw, too late, his error in putting on a remarkable dress, which endan- gered all those who were near him; and fearing equally for the king in any place whatever, hesi- tated whether he should obey; in the midst of this contest, the king took him by the arm, and, placing himself before him, screened him entirely ; but at this instant a volley of cannon, which came in flank, struck the general dead, on the spot which the king had scarcely quitted. The death of this man, killed exactly in his stead, and because he had endeavoured to save him, contributed not a little to confirm the opinion which he entertained throughout his life of an absolute predestination ; and made him believe that his fate, which had preserved him in so singular a manner, had still reserved him for the execution of greater things. He now succeeded in every undertaking ; his negotiations and his arms were equally happy. — He was present as it were in every part of Poland ; for his. grand marshal, Renschild, was in the heart of the kingdom with a large body of troops ; about thirty thousand Swedes, under different generals, spread to the north and east over the frontiers of Muscovy, withstood the efforts of the whole Russian empire ; and Charles himself was in the west, at the other end of Poland, at the head of his choicest troops. The king of Denmark, tied up by the treaty of Trauendal, which his weakness had prevented him from breaking, remained silent. This mo- narch, always prudent, did not dare to discover his disgust at seeing the king of Sweden so near his dominions. Ata greater distance towards the south-west lay the duchy of Bremen, between the rivers Elbe and Weser, the most remote territory of the ancient Swedish conquests, filled with strong garrisons, and opening to the conqueror a free passage into Saxony and the German empire. Thus, from the German ocean, almost to the * The first editions stated that this general was in scar- let ; but the chaplain, Norberg, having sufficiently proved he was in blue, we have corrected the past error. we ou mouth of the Borysthenes, comprehending the whole breadth of Europe, and even to the gates of Moscow, all was in consternation, and on the point of a general revolution. His ships, masters of the Baltic, were employed to transport into Sweden the prisoners he had made in Poland. Sweden, tranquil in the midst of these great commotions, enjoyed a profound peace, and shared in the glory of its king, without bearing the burthens of war, as the victorious troops were paid and maintained at the expense of the conquered. In this general silence of the north before the arms of Charles XII. the town of Dantzic dared to displease him. Fourteen frigates, and forty transports, were bringing the king a reinforce- ment of six thousand men, with cannon and am- munition, to begin the siege of Thorn. It was necessary for these succours to sail up the Vistula. At the mouth of this river is Dantzic, a free and wealthy town, which enjoys with Thorn and Elbing the same privileges in Poland that the imperial towns possess in Germany. Its liberty has been alternately attacked by the Danes, the Swedes, and several princes of Germany, and nothing has preserved it but the mutual jealousy of those powers. Count Steinbock, one of the Swedish generals, assembled the magistrates in the king’s name, and demanded passage for the troops and some provisions. The magistrates, with an imprudence common to those who treat with a superior power, were afraid either to refuse or absolutely to grant his request. The general, however, obliged them to grant him more than he had at first demanded, and even laid the town under a contribution of one hundred thousand crowns, by which means he made them pay for their imprudent hesitation. At last, the reinforce- ment, cannon, and ammunition, having arrived before Thorn, they began the siege the 22nd of September. Robel, governor of this place, defended it for a month with a garrison of five thousand men, at the end of which time he was obliged to surrender at discretion ; the garrison were made prisoners of war, and sent into Sweden. Robel was presented to the king, disarmed. That prince, who never lost an opportunity of honouring merit in his enemies, gave him a sword with his own hand, made him a considerable present in money, and dismissed him on his parole. The honour which the town of Thorn derived from having formerly given birth to Copernicus, the discoverer of the true system of the globe, was of no service to it with a conqueror too little acquainted with these subjects, and who had not yet learned to reward anything but valour: but this poor petty town was condemned to pay forty thousand crowns; an excessive contribution for such a place. Elbing, built on an arm of the Vistula, founded by the Teutonic knights, and annexed likewise to Poland, did not profit by the fault of the Dant- zickers, but hesitated too long about giving passage to the Swedish troops. It was still more severely treated than Dantzic ; Charles entered Elbing the 13th of December, at the head of four thou- sand men, with bayonets fixed to the ends of their fusees. The inhabitants, struck with terror, threw themselves on their knees in the streets, and begged for mercy : he had them all disarmed, quartered his soldiers upon the citizens, and then, having sent for the magistracy, he exacted, that very day, ce 22 HISTORY OF CHARLES XII. a contribution of two hundred and sixty thousand crowns. There were in the town two hundred pieces of cannon, and four hundred thousand pounds weight of powder, which he seized. A battle gained could not have procured him so many advantages. All these successes were introductory to the dethronement of the king of Poland. Scareely had the cardinal sworn to his king that he would attempt nothing against him, than he repaired to the assembly at Warsaw, always under the pretext of peace. He arrived, speaking of nothing but concord and obedience, though he was accom- panied by a number of soldiers, whom he had raised on his own estate. At last he threw off the mask, and on the 14th of February 1704, in the name of the assembly, declared “ Augustus, elector -of Saxony, incapable of wearing the crown of Poland.” They all pronounced, with one voice, the throne to be vacant. The will of the king of Sweden, and consequently that of the diet, was to give to prince James Sobiesky the throne of the king his father, king John. James Sobiesky was at Breslaw, in Silesia, waiting with impatience for the erown which his father had worn. He was, one day, hunting with prince Constantine, one of his brothers, a few miles from Breslaw, when thirty Saxon horsemen, secretly sent by king Au- gustus, rushing suddenly out of a neighbouring wood, surrounded the two princes, and carried them off without resistance. Fresh horses had been prepared, on which they were conducted to Leipsic, and there closely confined. This stroke deranged the measures of Charles, the cardinal, and the whole assembly of Warsaw. Fortune, who sports with crowned heads, placed Augustus, almost at the same instant, nearly in danger of being taken himself. He was at table, three leagues from Cracow, relying upon an ad- vanced guard posted at some distance, when ge- neral Renschild appeared, after having carried off this guard. The king of Poland had but just time to mount his horse with ten other persons ; gene- ral Renschild pursued him for three days, on the point of seizing him every moment. The king fled as far as Sendomir, the Swedish general still pursuing him ; and it was only by singular good fortune that this prince escaped. During all this time the party of Augustus and that of the cardinal treated each other as traitors to the country. The army of the crown was divided between these two factions. Augustus, at last, forced to accept of support from the Mus- covites, repented that he had not recourse to them sooner. One time he fled into Saxony, where his resources were exhausted ; then he returned to Poland, where no one dared to assist him. On the other hand the king of Sweden, victorious and tranquil, reigned over Poland more absolutely than Augustus had ever done. Count Piper, who had a mind as much formed for politics as his master’s was for true greatness, now proposed to Charles XII. that he should himself take the crown of Poland. He represented to him how easily it might be done with a vic- torious army, and a powerful party in the heart of the kingdom, already subdued. He tempted him with the title of “ Defender of the Evangelic Religion,” a name which flattered the ambition of Charles. It would be easy, he said, to do in Poland what Gustavus Vasa had done in Sweden to establish Lutheranism, and to break the chains of the people, already enslaved by the nobility and clergy. Charles was tempted for a moment, but glory was his idol; to that he sacrificed his own interest, and the pleasure he would have enjoyed in taking Poland from the pope. He told count Piper that he was more flattered by giving than gaining kingdoms; and. added, smiling, “ You were intended for the minister of an Italian prince.” Charles was still near Thorn, in that part of Royal Prussia which belongs to Poland ; from thence he extended his views to what was passing at Warsaw, and made himself respected by the neighbouring powers. Prince Alexander, brother of the two Sobieskys who were carried into Silesia, came and implored his assistance to re- venge his wrongs. Charles granted his request so much the more readily, as he imagined he could revenge himself at the same time ; but impatient to give a king to Poland, he proposed to prince Alexander his mounting the throne, from which fortune seemed determined to exclude his brother. Charles little expected a refusal; but prince Alexander told him, that nothing should ever engage him to profit by the misfortunes of his elder brother. The king of Sweden, count Piper, all his friends, and particularly the young palatine of Posnania, Stanislaus Leezinsky, pressed him to accept the crown: he was inflexible. ‘The neigh- bouring princes heard with astonishment this un- common refusal, and knew not which to admire most, a king of Sweden, who at twenty-two years of age gave away the crown of Poland, or prince Alexander, who refused it. ——e——- CHAPTER III. Stanislaus Leczinsky elected King of Poland.—Death of the Cardinal Primate.—Masterly Retreat of General Schu- lemburg.—Exploits of the Czar.—Foundation of Peters- burg.—Battle of Frauenstad.— Charles enters Saxony.— Peace of Altranstad.—Augustus abdicates the Crown in favour of Stanislaus.—General Patkul, the Czar’s Pleni- potentiary, is broken upon the wheel, and quartered.— Charles receives Ambassadors from several Princes.— Visits Augustus at Dresden, unattended. Youne Stanislaus Leczinsky was at this time deputed by the assembly of Warsaw to make a report to the king of Sweden of several differences which had arisen during the absence of prince James. Stanislaus had a happy countenance, full of boldness and sweetness, with an air of probity and frankness, which, of all external advantages, is the greatest, and gives more force to words than even eloquence itself. The wisdom wiih which he discoursed of the king Augustus, the assembly, the cardinal primate, and of the different interests which divided Poland, struck Charles. King Stanislaus did the honour to inform me, that he said to the king of Sweden in Latin, “ How can we proceed to an election if the two princes, James and Constantine Sobiesky, are captives ?” and that Charles made answer, ‘‘ How can we deliver the republic if we do not make an election?” This conversation was the only intrigue that placed Stanislaus on the throne. Charles pur- posely prolonged the conference that he might to on KING OF SWEDEN, 23 the better sound the genius of the young deputy. After the audience, he said aloud, that till then he had not seen a man so proper to reconcile all parties. He made no delay in informing him- self of the character of the palatine Leezinsky. He learnt that he was brave in the strictest sense, and inured to fatigue ; that he accustomed him- self to sleep on a straw mattress, and would not have any of his domestics to attend his person ; that he observed a temperance not common to that climate, possessed great economy, was adored by his vassals, and the only lord, perhaps, in Po- tand, who had any friends, at a time when men acknowledged no ties but those of interest and faction. ‘This character, which in several things accorded with his own, determined him entirely ; and at the end of the conference he said aloud, “ There is the man that shall always be my friend ;” which words they soon perceived signified, “ There is the man that shall be king.” : Charles, who had formed his determination in- stantaneously, could not have found in all Poland a man more proper to reconcile all parties than the person he had chosen. The leading features of his character were humanity and benevolence. When Stanislaus was afterwards withdrawn into the duchy of Deux Ponts, some partisans who had formed a design of carrying him off, were taken in his presence. What have I done to you,’’ said he to them, “that you wouid deliver me to my enemies ? of what country are you?’ Three of these adventurers replied, that they were French- men. “ Well, then,” said he, “be like your countrymen, whom | esteem, and be incapable of a base action.” When he had finished speaking he gave them all that he had about him, his money, watch, and gold box, and they quitted him with tears and with admiration. This I know from two persons who were ocular witnesses of the fact. I can assert, with the same certainty, that, one day, as he was arranging the state of his household, he put upon the list a French officer who was attached to him. The treasurer asked in what quality his majesty chose he should be upon the list. “ In quality of my friend,” said the prince. I have seen a considerable work which he had composed, to reform, if it had been possible, the laws and manners of his country. In this writing he sacrifices the privileges of the nobility, to which he belonged, and the royal prerogative, which had been given him, to the publie good, and to the necessities of the people ; a sacrifice which is more glorious than the gaining of battles. When the primate of Poland found that Charles XII. had nominated the palatine Leczinsky, as Alexander had nominated Abdalonimus, he waited upon the king of Sweden, to endeavour to make him change this resolution, as he wished to give the crown to one Lubomirsky. But what have you to allege against Stanislaus Leczinsky ?” re- plied the conqueror, Sire,” said the primate, ** he is too young.” To which the king drily re- plied, ‘‘ He wants but little of my age ;’’ turned his back upon the prelate, and immediately sent the count de Hoorn to signify to the assembly of Warsaw, that it was necessary to elect a king in five days, and that they must also elect Stanislaus Leczinsky. The count de Hoorn arrived the 7th of July, and fixed the day of election on the 12th, in the same manner as he would have ordered the march ofa battalion. The cardinal primate, disap- pointed of the fruit of so many intrigues, returned to the assembly, and exerted his whole strength to set aside an election in which he had no part. But the king of Sweden arriving at Warsaw, incognito, obliged him, for that time, to be silent ; all that the primate could now do was, not to be present at the election ; and as he could neither oppose the conqueror, nor was willing to second him, he con- fined himself to an useless neutrality. Saturday, the 12th of July, the day fixed for the election, being come, they assembled at three o'clock in the afternoon at Colo, a field appointed for this ceremony: the bishop of Posnania came and presided at the assembly, in the place of the cardinal primate. He arrived, attended by seve- ral gentlemen of the party. The count de Hoorn and two other general officers assisted publicly at this solemnity, as ambassadors extraordinary from Charles to the republic. The session lasted till nine in the evening, when the bishop of Posnania closed it, by declaring, in the name of the diet, Stanislaus elected king of Poland; they instantly threw up their hats into the air, and the noise of their acclamations drowned the cries of the op- posers. Charles XII. was among the crowd, and was the first to cry “ Live Stanislaus !’’ It was of no service to the cardinal primate, or to those who were willing to remain neuter, to absent themselves from the election: they were obliged next day to attend and perform homage to their new king. He received them as if he had been perfectly satisfied with their conduct ; but the greatest mortification they underwent was, that of being compelled to follow him to the quar- ters of the king of Sweden. That prince rendered to the sovereign he had just made, all the honours due to the king of Poland ; and to give a greater weight to his new dignity, he assigned him both money and troops. Charles XII.. departed immediately from War- saw to finish the conquest of Poland. He had or- dered his army to rendezvous before Leopold, the capital of the great palatinate of Russia, a place important in itself, and still more so, by the riches which it contained ; it was imagined that it would have held out fifteen days, on account of the fortifi- cations which Augustus had built there. The con- | queror sat down before it on the 5th of September, and the next day carried it by assault ; all who dared to resist were put to the sword. The troops, victorious and masters of the town, did not sepa- rate themselves to run to pillage, notwithstanding the great treasures which were in Leopold. They formed in order of battle in the great square ; there, those who remained in the garrison came and surrendered themselves prisoners of war. The king caused it to be published, by the sound of trumpet, that all those inhabitants who had any effects belonging to Augustus or his adherents, should bring them to him before the close of the day, on pain of death. The measures were so well taken that few dared to disobey ; and four hundred chests, filled with gold and silver coin, plate, and other valuable things, were brought to the king. The beginning of the reign of Stanislaus was distinguished almost at the same time by an event widely different. Some affairs, which absolutely demanded his presence, had obliged him to remain 255 24 HISTORY OF CHARLES XII. ‘at Warsaw. He had with him his mother, his wife, and two daughters. In this confusion he had nearly lost his second daughter, who was but one year old. She had been carried away by her nurse, who had lost her way, and he found her in the manger of a stable in a neighbouring village, where she had been abandoned. It was this very infant whom fate, after still greater vicissitudes, elevated to be queen of France. The cardinal primate, the bishop of Posnania, and some grandees of Poland, composed the new court of Stanislaus ; it was guarded by six thou- sand Poles of the army of the crown, who had lately entered into his service, but whose fidelity had not as yet been proved. General Hoorn, Governor of the town, had not more than fifteen hundred . Swedes with him. There was a profound tran- ' quillity at Warsaw, and Stanislaus proposed to depart in a few days for the conquest of Leopold ; when all on a sudden, he was informed that a numerous army was approaching the town : it was king Augustus, who by a new effort, and one of the most skilful marches that ever general made, had deceived the king of Sweden, and was coming with twenty thousand men, to fall upon Warsaw, and to carry off his rival. Warsaw was very badly fortified ; the Polish troops entrusted with its defence were not to be relied on ; and Augustus having spies in the town, Stanislaus must have perished had he remained there. He accordingly sent back his family, into Posnania, under a guard of Polish troops, such as he had most confidence in. The cardinal primate fled among the first to the frontiers of Prussia ; many of the nobles took different routes ; as for the new king, heimmediately set out to find Charles XII. 5; learning at an early period tv suffer dis- grace, and forced to quit the capital, of which he had been but six weeks before elected sovereign. The bishop of Posnania was the only person who could not escape ; he was confined by a dangerous distemper in Warsaw. Part of the six thousand Poles followed Stanislaus, the rest escorted his family. Such whose fidelity it was not judged prudent to expose to the temptation of returning to the service of Augustus, were sent into Posna- nia, As for general Hoorn, who was governor of Warsaw for the king of Sweden, he remained with his fifteen hundred Swedes in the castle. Augustus entered into his capital as a sovereign irritated and triumphant. The inhabitants, before laid under contribution by the king of Sweden, were still more hardly treated by Augustus. The cardinal’s palace, and all the houses of the confe- derate lords, with all their wealth, both in town and country were given to pillage. What was the most surprising in this sudden revolution was, that the pope’s nuncio, who came with king Augustus, demanded in the name of his master, that they should deliver up to him the bishop of Posnania, as being accountable to the church of Rome, in the quality of a bishop, and the favourer of a prince placed on the throne by the arms of a Lutheran. The court of Rome, which has always endea- voured to augment its temporal by means of its spiritual power, had a long time since established in Poland a kind of jurisdiction, at the head of which is the pope’s nuncio : its ministers never let slip any favourable opportunity to extend their a power ; a power revered by the multitude, but al- ways opposed by those of more wisdom. They assumed to themselves the right of judging of all ecclesiastical causes ; and in times of trouble had usurped several other prerogatives, in which they maintained themselves till about the year 1728, when these abuses were corrected ; abuses such as are never reformed till they become absolutely in- tolerable. Augustus, happy in any opportunity of punishing the bishop of Posnania with decorum, and at the same time desirous to please the court of Rome, against which at any other time he would have exerted himself, delivered the Polish prelate into the hands of the nuncio. The bishop, after beholding his house pillaged, was carried by the soldiers to the house of the Italian. minister, and from thence into Saxony, where he died. Count de Hoorn sustained in the castle, where he was shut up, the continual fire of the enemy, till the place being no longer able to hold out, he sur- rendered himself prisoner of war, together with his fifteen hundred Swedes. This was the first advantage that Augustus had, during the torrent of his bad fortune, over the victorious arms of his enemy. This last effort was an expiring blaze just going out. His troops, who were assembled in haste, consisted of Poles, ready to abandon him on the first misfortune; of Saxon recruits, who had never till then seen anything of war; of vagabond Cos- sacks, more fit to plunder the conquered than to conquer ; and all of them trembling at the very name of the king of Sweden. This conqueror, accompanied by king Stanislaus, went to seek his enemy at the head of his choicest troops. The Saxon army fled everywhere before him. The towns for thirty miles round sent him their keys ; nor was there a day which was not signalized by some advantage. Success became too familiar to Charles. He said, “It was rather going to hunt than going to war ;” and complained that his vic- tories cost him so little. Augustus entrusted the command of his army for some time to count de Schulemburg, a very able general, but who had need of all his expe- rience at the head of a dispirited army. He studied more to preserve his master’s troops than to con- quer. He carried on the war by cunning, the two kings pushed it with vigour. He stole several marches upon them, took possession of some ad- vantageous posts, and sacrificed part of his cavalry to give his infantry time to make a sure retreat. After many feints and counter-marches, he found himself near Punitz, in the palatinate of Posnania, thinking that Stanislaus and the king of Sweden were at fifty leagues’ distance from him. He learned upon his arrival, that the two kings had marched those fifty leagues in nine days, and that they were come to attack him with ten or twelve thousand horse ; Schulemburg had but eight thousand foot and a thousand horse. It was neces- sary to maintain himself against a superior army, against the name of the king of Sweden, and against the natural fear with which so many defeats had naturally inspired the Saxons. He had always maintained, against the opinions of the German generals, that infantry was able to resist cavalry in the open field, even without the assist- ance of chevaux-de-frize ; and he this day made the experiment, against a victorious cavalry, com- Zou —e KING OF SWEDEN. 25 manded by the two kings, and by the choicest of the Swedish generals. He posted himself so ad- vantageously that he could not be surrounded ; the first rank, armed with pikes and fusees, knelt with one knee upon the ground ; and the soldiers, placed closely together, presented to the enemy’s horse a kind of rampart, pointed with pikes and bayonets ; the second rank inclined a little over the shoulders of the first ; and the third, standing upright, fired at the same time from behind the other two. The Swedes, with their usual impe- tuosity, pressed down upon the Saxons, who ex- pected them with firmness: the fire of the fusees, together with the points of the pikes and bayonets, maddened the horses, who began to rear and caper instead of advancing. By these means the Swedes attacked in disorder, and the Saxons defended themselves by keeping their ranks. If Charles had dismounted his cavalry, Schulemburg’s army must have been routed without resource. This was che chief apprehension of that general, who ex- pected that his enemy would take this resolution every moment ; but neither the king of Sweden, who had so often put in practice all the stratagems of war, nor any of his generals, conceived this idea. This unequal combat of a body of cavalry against infantry, continued, with frequent interruptions and resumed attacks, near three hours; the Swedes lost more horses than men. Schulemburg gave ground at last, but his troops were not broken ; he formed them into an oblong square ; and, though he was wounced in five places, he, in this manner, maintained an orderly retreat, in the middle of the night, to the little town of Gurau, about three leagues from the field of battle ; but he had scarcely begun to breathe in this place, when the two kings suddenly appeared in his rear. Beyond Gurau, in marching towards the river Oder, was a thick wood, by leading them through which the Saxon general saved his fatigued in- fantry. The Swedes, without hesitation, pursued them through the wood; advancing with difficulty through paths scarcely passable by foot travellers ; the Saxons had not crossed the wood above five hours before the Swedish cavalry. On the other side of this wood runs the river Parts, at the foot of a village named Rutsen. Schulemburg, who ordered boats to be immediately assembled, had carried over his troops, of which half were de- stroyed ; Charles arrived at the time that Schulem- burg had reached the opposite shore. Never did a conqueror pursue his enemy so vigorously. The reputation of Schulemburg depended upon his escaping from the king of Sweden: the king of Sweden, on his side, imagined his glory interested in taking Schulemburg, and the remains of his army : he lost no time, but made his cavalry swim over. The Saxons found themselves enclosed between this river of Parts and the great river of the Oder, which takes its source in Silesia, and is very deep and rapid at this place. The destruc- tion of Schulemburg appeared inevitable; he attempted, however, to extricate himself from this extremity by one of those strokes of art which are equivalent to victories, and which are so much the more glorious as fortune has no share in them. He had no more than four thousand men remain- ing : upon his right was a mill, which he filled with his grenadiers ; upon his left a marsh ; a ditch lay before him, and his rear-guard was upon the banks of the Oder. He had no pontoons for pass- ing the river, but, so early as the evening before, he had ordered floats to be prepared. Charles, the moment of his arrival, attacked the mill, per- suaded that, as soon as it was taken the Saxons must either perish in the river or in the field ; or that, at least, they must surrender at discretion, together with their general. However, the floats were ready, the Saxons passed the Oder by favour of the night : and, when Charles had forced the mill, he no longer found the enemy’s army. The two kings bestowed their encomiums upon this retreat, which is, to this day, spoken of with admi- ration in the empire 3; and Charles could not pre- vent himself from saying, ‘Schulemburg has conquered us to-day.’”’ But what covered Schu- lemburg with honour was of very little benefit to Augustus; that prince abandoned Poland once more to his enemies : he retired into Saxony, and repaired, with precipitation, the fortifications of Dresden ; being apprehensive, and not without reason, for the capital of his hereditary dominions. Charles XII. now beheld Poland reduced to subjection ; and his generals, following their king’s example, had just beaten, in Courland, several small bodies of the Muscovites, who, since the great battle of Narva, had only shown themselves in small parties, and made war in this country like the vagabond Tartars, who pillage, fly, and then return only to fly again. Wherever the Swedes came they imagined them- selves sure of a victory, even when they were only twenty to a hundred: at this happy con- juncture Stanislaus prepared for his coronation. Fortune, who had elected him at Warsaw, and who had also driven him thence, again recalled him thither, amidst the acclamations of a crowd of no- bility, whom the fortune of war had attached to him. A diet was convened in that city, and every obstacle removed ; nor were there any, but the court of Rome, who opposed him. It was natural for Rome to declare for king Augustus, who, from a protestant, had become a catholic, that he might mount the throne ; and against Stanislaus, placed on the same throne by the great enemy of the ca- tholic religion. Clement XI. at that time pope, sent briefs to every prelate of Poland, and, in par- ticular, to the cardinal primate, by which he threat- ened all with excommunication who dared to assist at the consecration of Stariislaus, or who attempted anything against the rights of king Augustus. If these briefs were delivered to the bishops who were at Warsaw, it was to be feared that some would obey through weakness, and that the greater part, availing themselves of the circumstance, would become more troublesome in proportion as they felt themselves more necessary ; eVery pre- caution was therefore used that the letters of the pope should not be received in Warsaw : however, a Franciscan received the briefs secretly, in order that he might deliver them into the prelate’s hands : he immediately gave one to the suffragan of Chelm ; this prelate, who was strongly attached to Stanislaus, carried it to the king unopened: the king caused the monk to be brought to him, and asked him, how he dared to take charge of such a business : the Franciscan replied, that it was by order of his general. Stanislaus desired him for the future to mind the orders of his king in pre- ference to those of the general of the Franciscans, 2070 3 and instantly banished him the town. The same day a placard was published by the king of Sweden, by which it was forbidden, under the most griev- ous penalties to all ecclesiastics, secular as well as regular, then in Warsaw, to concern themselves with the affairs of state. For greater security, he had guards planted at the gates of every prelate, and forbade any stranger to enter the town : he took upon himself these little severities in order that Stanislaus should not quarrel with the clergy at his accession. He said, that he relaxed himself from his military fatigues in stopping the intrigues of the Romish court, and that he must fight against that with paper, when he was obliged to attack other sovereigns with real arms. The cardinal primate was solicited by Charles and Stanislaus to come and perform the ceremony of the coronation : but, as he did not imagine him- self obliged to quit Dantzie to consecrate a king whom he did not wish to have been elected, and as his policy was, never to do anything without a pretext, he resolved to provide a lawful excuse for his refusal : he therefore caused the pope’s brief to be fixed in the night time to the gate of his own house. The magistrates of Dantzic, struck with the indignity, made strict search after the offend- ers, but they were never found. The primate pretended to be irritated, but was, nevertheless, well satisfied: he had thus obtained a pretext for not consecrating the new king, and, at the same time, kept fair with Charles XII., Augustus, Sta- nislaus, andthe pope! He died a few days after, leaving his country in dreadful confusion ; having gained no advantage by all his intrigues; and having embroiled himself at once with the three kings, Charles, Augustus, and Stanislaus, the repub- lic, and the pope, who had ordered him to repair to Rome, to give an account of his conduct : but, as even politicians have sometimes remorse in their last moments, he wrote to king Augustus on his death-bed, imploring his pardon. : The consecration was performed with tranquil- lity and a degree of pomp, on the 4th of October, 1705, in the city of Warsaw, notwithstanding the custom which subsists in Poland of crowning the kings at Cracow. Stanislaus Leczinsky, and his wife Charlotta Opalinska, were consecrated king and queen of Poland by the hands of the arch- bishop of Leopold, assisted by several other pre- lates. Charles XIT. saw the ceremony incog.; the only gratification he derived from his conquests ! While he was giving a king to the conquered Poles, and Denmark did not dare to trouble him ; while the king of Prussia sought his friendship, and Augustus was withdrawing himself to his hereditary dominions, the czar was becoming every day more and more formidable: he had but weakly supported Augustus in Poland, but he had made powerful diversions in Ingria. As for him- self, he not only began to be a good soldier, but he likewise taught the art of war to the Musco- vites ; discipline was established throughout his troops ; he had able engineers, an artillery well served, and many good officers ; and: he likewise knew the great art of subsisting hisarmies. Some of his generals had learned both how to fight, and, as occasion required, to decline fighting : besides he had built a navy, capable of making head against the Swedes in the Baltic. Confiding in all these advantages, entirely owing to his own genius, and HISTORY OF CHARLES XII. the absence of the king of Sweden, he took Narva by assault, August 21,1704, after a regular siege, and after he had prevented its receiving any suc- cours, either by sea or land. ‘The soldiers, once masters of the town, hastened to pillage, and aban- doned themselves tothe most enormous barbarities ; the ezar ran on every side to stop the disorder and massacre ; he snatched the women from the hands of the soldiers, who, after they had violated them, were going to cut their throats: he was even obliged to kill with his own hand, several Musco- vites, who would not obey his orders. They show, to this day, at Narva, in the townhouse, the table upon which he laid his sword when he entered it ; and they repeat the words with which he addressed the citizens who were assembled there : “ It is not with the blood of the inhabitants that this sword is stained, but with that of the Muscovites, which I have shed to save your lives.” If the czar had always observed this humanity he had been the firstof men. He aspired to more than the destruction of towns: he, at that time, was founding a city not far from Narva, in the midst of his new conquests ; this Was the city of Petersburg, which he made his residence and the centre of commerce : it is situated between Fin- land and Ingria, ona marshy island, around which the river Neva divides itself into several branches, before it falls into the Gulf of Finland: he him- self drew the plan of the city, the fortress, and the harbour, the quays which embellish it, and the forts which defend its entrance. This island, uncultivated and a mere desert, nothing but a heap of mud during the short summer of those climates, and in the winter a frozen pool, into which there was no entry but through pathless woods and deep morasses, and which had till then been the haunt of wolves and bears, was occupied in 1703, with above three hundred thousand men, whom the czar had assembled from his dominions. The peasants of the kingdom of Astracan and those who inhabit the frontiers of China were transported to Petersburg. It was necessary to clear forests, to make roads, to drain marshes, and to raise banks, before he could lay the foundation of the city : nature was forced in everything. The czar was determined to people a country which did not appear to be destined for men: neither the inun- dations which ruined his works, the sterility of the soil, the ignorance of the workmen, nor even the mortality which destroyed two hundred thousand men in the beginning, could make him change his resolution : the town was founded in spite of the obstacles which nature, the genius of the people, and an unfortunate war, had raised against it. Petersburg had become a city in 1705, and its harbour was filled with ships. The emperor at- tracted strangers by his beneficence, distributing lands to some, giving houses to others, and wel- coming every artist that came to civilize this savage climate. Above all, he had rendered Pe- tersburg inaccessible to the efforts of his enemies. The Swedish generals, who frequently beat his troops in every other quarter, were not able to injure this infant colony. It was tranquil in the midst of the war which surrounded it. The czar, thus creating to himself new domin- ions, always held out his hand to Augustus, who was losing his; he persuaded him, by General Patkul who had lately entered into the service of 208 KING OF SWEDEN. Museovy, and was then the ezar’s ambassador in Saxony, to come to Grodno, to confer with him once more on the unhappy state of his affairs. Augus- tus came there with some troops, accompanied by General Schulemburg, whose passage over the Oder had rendered him famous through the north, and in whom he placed his last hope. The ezar arrived there also, followed by an army of seventy thousand men. ‘These two monarchs concerted new plans for carrying on the war. Augustus, being dethroned, was no longer afraid of irritating the Poles by abandoning their country to the Muscovite troops. It was resolved that the army of the czar should divide itself into several bodies, to dispute every inch of ground with the king of Sweden. It was at the time of this interview that Augustus renewed the order of the White Eagle ; a weak resource, to attach to his interests some Polish lords, more desirous of real advantage than of an empty honour, which becomes ridiculous when bestowed by a prince who has nothing of a king but the name. The conference of the two kings terminated in an ex- traordinary manner : the czar departed suddenly, and left his troops with his ally, to hasten and crush a rebellion with which he was threatened in Astracan. Scarcely was he gone, before Augustus ordered Patkul to be arrested at Dresden. All Europe was surprised that he dared, against the law of nations, and in appearance against his own interest, to throw into prison the ambassador of the only prince who protected him. The secret spring of this transaction, as a son of king Augustus did me the honour to tell me, was as follows: Patkul, proscribed in Sweden, for having defended the privileges of Livonia, his native country, had been general to Augustus ; but his high and lofty spirit could ill accord with the haughtiness of General Fleming, the favourite of the king, who was more imperious and lofty than himself; he, therefore, passed into the ser- vice of the ezar, whose general he then was, and his ambassador at the court of Augustus, Pos- sessed with a penetrating genius, he plainly per- ceived that the views of Fleming and the chan- cellor of Saxony were, to propose a peace to the king of Sweden, at any price whatsoever. He immediately formed a design to prevent them, and to effect an accommodation between the czar and Sweden. The chancellor discovered this project of Patkul’s, and obtained Jeave to seize his person. King Augustus told the czar, that he was a traitor who betrayed them both. He was, however, no further culpable than in having served his new master too well ; but an ill-timed service frequently meets with the punishment due to treason. In the mean time, on one side, seventy thousand Russians were divided into several small bodies, burning and ravaging the lands of Stanislaus’ ad- herents ; while, on the other, Schulemburg was advancing with fresh troops. The good fortune of the Swedes dispersed these two armies in less than two months. Charles XII. and Stanislaus attacked the separate bodies of the Muscovites, one after the other, with such vivacity, that one Muscovite general was beat before he heard of the defeat of his companion, No obstacle could stop the conqueror ; for, if he found a river between him and the enemy, 27 Charles and his Swedes swam across it. . mY — ark = a3 "a j wid » ply ig A bets i BO igs) Rick RE SE ee) ee ROO tebe mae ny r ee "iy Oe ey wt Eee ie 4 Pe ee | ae ; Mar At Naeem: ' 4 ithe 2 . Lake Fi aS aes 4 i's Aviek, ew 4 her ay 3 i Bey aren f soe wm i ae aye, ed ee Pueuts in atay spin ray i-# Leth m: Wed Umie ee hk, A wary Bd ; A ia 7 a > ay . TUE a ch nano ‘ Rae adst ia.” ata Sa wr" 6.4 Soa iV ie “his ny we! ch a tras? hel yee) By Os ee Mea se Aaa,” sg hin wy Qt OAM Bee ; - j 5 7) , ey A if -_—— sa 2 ae se i or Ce y as Ms F, fd ie al g i * i day in wie ; Ave pie 5 aid % y he ia hak 7 q Th) a ‘ae re : ih Mi) + a “e : ieee! i a i Min i ipk yay @Oriqinal Medication, to THE MOST NOBLE HENRY ARTHUR HERBERT, EARL OF POWIS, VISCOUNT LUDLOW, LORD HERBERT OF CHERBURY, BARON POWIS AND LUDLOW, AND TREASURER OF HIS MAJESTY’S HOUSEHOLD, a My Lorp, Permit me to offer to your Lordship, in this more durable manner, the very valuable present I received from your hands. To your Lordship your great ancestor owes his revival; and suffer me, my Lord, to tell the world what does you so much honour, you have given him and me leave to speak truth ; an indulgence which, I am sorry to say, few descendants of heroes have minds noble enough to allow. Hitherto, Lord Herbert has been little known but as an author. I much mistake if hereafter he is not considered as one of the most extraordinary characters which this country has produced. Men of the proudest blood shall not blush to distinguish themselves in letters as well as arms, when they learn what excellence Lord Herbert attained in both. Your Lordship’s lineage at least will have a pattern before their eyes to excite their emulation ; and while they admire the piety with which you have done justice to your common ancestor, they cannot be forgetful of the obligation they will have to your Lordship’s memory for transmitting to them this record of his glory. I have the honour to be, my Lord, Your Lordship’s most obedient, “hey And most obliged servant, HORACE WALPOLE. 317 PREFATORY MEMOIR.* —_?-—- Tue first edition of this spirited and valuable piece of biography was printed for private use only, at Strawberry-hill, in the year 1764. In 1770, a second edition, for the use of the public in general, was printed for Dodsley, in quarto, and a dedication and advertisement prefixed by Lord Orford. In the latter, the circumstances are detailed under which the manuscript, which is in Lord Herbert’s own hand-writing, was recovered and serit to the press, after the world had nearly been deprived of its contents by unwarrantable neglect. Both the work and the gallant author are admirably characterised by Lord Orford ; who, however, unfortunately neglected to gratify the natural curiosity of the reader, to learn the subsequent fate of the hero of such an interesting memoir. The want was in some measure supplied by the same noble lord, in his Catalogue of Royal andl Noble Authors; and considerable additions were made to his account in Mr Park’s valuable republication of that work. The present prelimi- nary pages are destined to unite their observations with those scattered in some other authors, and to give a catalogue and some notices of his writings. Lord Herbert has not in general specified the dates of the principal occurrences of his life ; which renders some attention to that subject necessary in this place. We are informed that he was born at Eyton in Shropshire, “ between the hours of twelve and one of the clock in the morning,” but neither the day nor year are mentioned. The latter was undoubtedly 1581, for in 1600, when he first came to London, he was 18 or 19 years of age; and Wood acquaints us that he was entered a gentleman commoner of University College, Oxford, in 1595, at the age of 14. It appears that he had been sent to the University at the age of twelve. On the 28th of February 1598, he was married, in the house of Eton, to the daughter of Sir William Herbert of St. Gillian’s. He continued, notwithstanding, at Oxford, and there, says Wood, he laid the foun- dation of that admirable learning of which he was afterwards a complete master. He seems to have paid particular attention to the science of medicine, and boasts of several cures performed by the virtue of his private receipts. When he came to the metropolis in 1600, he was received with much distinction by Queen Elizabeth ; and at the acces- sion of James, in the year 1603, was one of the new-created knights of the Bath. Some years subsequent to this, he went over to France, and staid there a considerable time, perfecting himself * This Memoir is attributed to Sir Walter Scott, and is contained in an edition of Lord Herbert’s Life, published at Edinburgh, in 1809. in those accomplishments whick were at that period considered requisite to form the character of a knight and a gentleman. On his return, he did not remain long inactive, but went to Flanders ~ in 1610, where he served with great éclat. He again returned to England, and underwent much persecution from Sir John Ayres, who suspected him to have been engaged in a criminal intercourse with his lady. Having finally settled these dis- putes, he, for the second time, joined the army of the Prince of Orange, in whose favour no one seems to have stood higher. He then pursued his journey through Germany, Venice, and Florence, to Rome, where he unnecessarily exposed himself to the dangers of the Inquisition. From Rome he returned through Savoy, Lyons, and Stras- burg, to the Low Countries, and from thence to England ; constantly engaged in romantic adven- tures, in which he displaye* \ truly chivalrous spirit, at the very period when Vervantes made his successful attacks upon the system of knight- errantry. Shortly after his return he was appointed ambassador to the French court, and set off for Paris on the day of Queen Anne’s burial, which happened in March 1619. He remained in France till the year 1621, in July, when he was recalled, in consequence of his quarrel with the great con- stable Luisnes,* in which he acquitted himself with great honour, “ without committing his dignity of ambassador.” + He purposed to publish an account of his negotiations, and of the events which oc- curred during his embassy ; this honour he never accomplished, and the loss to posterity cannot be sufficiently regretted. The duke of Luisnes dying shortly after, he was commanded to resume his situation at Paris, where, in 1624, he published his first work, De Veritate, dc. The account he gives of the mystical manner in which he obtained divine permission to print this book, is most singular, considering the religious tenets of his lordship. Dr. Leland makes the following observa- tions on that part of the narrative : “I have no doubt of his lordship’s sincerity in this account. The serious air with which he relates it, and the solemn protestation he makes, as in the presence of the eternal God, will not suffer us to question the truth of what he relates; viz. that he both made that address to God which he mentions, and that in consequence of this, he was persuaded that he heard the noise he takes notice of, and which he took to come from heaven, and regarded as a * An account of this dispute, very similar to that of Lord Herbert himself, is given in Lloyd’s State Worthies, p. 1018, et seq. Ed. 1670. + Lord Orford’s Catalogue. Ed. Park, vol. iii. p. 3. PREFATORY MEMOIR. mark of God’s approbation of the request he had made ; and accordingly, this great man was de- termined by it to publish his book. He seems to have considered it as a kind of imprimatur given to it from heaven, and as signifying the divine approbation of the book itself, and of what was contained in it.”—LeExanp’s View of the Deistical Writers, i. 27. Lord Herbert did not proceed further in the memoirs of his own life; and the occurrences during the remainder of it, with which we are acquainted, are not numerous. In the year 1625 he was made a baron of Ireland, by the title of Lord Herbert of Castle-Island, and, in 1631, cre- ated a peer of England, by that of Lord Herbert of Cherbury in Shropshire. When the differences between King Charles and his parliament broke out, Lord Herbert joined his interest to that of the latter. He seems previously to have made a speech in behalf of the king, which gave great offence to the House; but the year after, he changed his politics and supported the parliament, for which change he became a great sufferer from the vengeance of the royalists.— Parl, Hist, vol. xi. pp. 3,87. He attended the army of the parliament to Scotland in 1639, and ob- tained indemnification for his castle of Montgo- mery, which had been demolished by their order. In the year 1648, his lordship died at his/house in Queen Street, London, and was buried at St. Giles’s in the Fields, with this inscription over his grave: © Hic inhumatur corpus Edvardi Herbert equitis Balnei, baronis de Cherbury et Castle-Istand, auctoris libri, cwi titulus est,‘ De Veritate” Red- dor ut herbe ; vicesimo die Augusti anno Domini 1648.” He had, says Lloyd,* designed a fair monument of his own invention to be set up for him in the church of Montgomery, according to the model following: “ Upon the ground a hath- pace of fourteen foot square, on the middest of which is placed a Doric column, with its right of pedestal basis, and capitols of fifteen foot in height 5 on the capitol of the column is mounted an urn with a heart flamboul, supported by two angels. The foot of this column is attended with four angels, placed on pedestals at each corner of the said hath-pace; two having torches reverst, extin- guishing the motto of mortality ; the other two holding up palms, the emblems of victory.” In his lordship’s Occasional Verses occurs the following characteristic “ Epitaph for Himself.” “READER, «* The monument which thou beholdest here, Presents Edward, Lord Herbert, to thy sight; A man, who was so free from either hope or fear, To have or lose this ordinary light, That when to elements his body turned were, He knew that as those elements would fight, So his immortal soul should find above With his Creator, peace, joy, truth, and love !” Lord Herbert was succeeded by his son Richard Lord Herbert, and he by Edward, who dying April 21, 1691, was buried April 28, by the side of his grandfather. The following is the Catalogue of the Works, which he gave to the world in his lifetime, or which were published posthumously by his friends ; * State Worthies, p. 1018. 7 “ De Veritate, prout distingwitur a Revelatione, & verisimili, a possibili, & falso, Cut Operi additi sunt duo alu tractatus: primus, de Causis Errorum ; alter, de Religione Laict. Una cum Appendice ad Sa- cerdotes de Religione Laici; et quibusdam poema- tibus.” Paris 1624 and 1633, and London 1645, qu. In 1639, a French translation appeared at Paris. This, as well as his lordship’s other metaphysical works, has found several opponents. ‘“ Mr. Locke,” says Lord Orford, “ who has taken notice of this work, allows his lordship to be a man of parts. Gassendi answered it at the request of Peirese and Deodati ; but the answer was not published till after Gassendi’s death.* Baxter made remarks on the Treatise de Veritate, in his “ More Reasons for the Christian Religion ;” and one Kortholt, (a foolish German zealot,) wrote a treatise intituled, “ De tribus Impostoribus magnis, Edvardo Herbert, Thoma Hobbes, et Benedicto Spinosa, Liber.+ To these answers may be added, “ Natural Religion insufficient, and Revealed necessary to Man’s Happiness,” by the Rev. Mr. Halyburton, professor of divinity in the University of St. Andrews, printed, after the author’s death, at Edinburgh, in 1714, 4to ; “in which particularly the writings of the learned Lord Herbert, the great patron of deism ; to wit, his books, de Veritate, de Religione Gentilium, and his Religio Laict, in so far as they assert nature’s light able to conduct us to future blessedness, are considered and fully answered.” Leland, in his “ View of the Deistical Writers of England,” enters upon a long refutation of the tenets of our author, who, as he observes, “ may be justly regarded as the most eminent of the deistical writers, and in several respects superior to those that succeeded him.” The following may serve as a summary account of his system, and is extracted from the same performance. “His lordship seems to have been of the first that formed deism into a system, and asserted the sufficiency, universality, and absolute perfection of natural religion, with a view to discard all extraordinary revelation as useless and needless. He seems to assume to himself the glory of having accomplished it with great labour, and a diligent inspection into all religions ; and applauds himself for it, as happier than any Archimedes.f This universal religion he reduceth to five articles, which he frequently mentioneth in all his works. 1. That there is one supreme God. 2. That he is chiefly to be worshipped. 3. That piety and vir- tue are the principal part of his worship. 4. That we must repent of our sins; and if we do so, God will pardon them. 5. That there are rewards for good men, and punishments for bad men, in a future state ; or, as he sometimes expresseth it, both here and hereafter. These he represents as common notices inscribed by God on the minds of all men, and undertakes to shew that they were universally acknowledged in all nations, ages, and religions, This is particularly the design of his book de Religione Gentiliwm; though it is but comparatively a small part of that work, which tendeth directly to prove that these articles univer- sally obtained: the far greater part of it is taken * In his third volume, the title of which is Opuscula Philosophica, pp. 411—419. Lugd. 1658. fol. + Lord Orford, ué supra, ili. 15. t De Relig. Gent. c. 15 init. 819 8 up with an account of the heathen religion and ceremonies, which he hath performed with an abundance of learning, and hath intermixed many softening apologies for the pagan superstition and idolatry. “ As he represents these five articles as abso- lutely necessary, the five pillars, as he calls them, on which all religion is built ; so he endeavours to shew that they alone are sufficient, and that nothing can be added to them which can tend to render any man more virtuous or a better man. But then he subjoins this limitation, ‘ provided these articles be well explained in their full latitude.’ * This universal religion, which all men agree in, his lordship represents to be the only religion of which there can be any certainty ; and he endea- vours to shew the great advantages that would arise from men’s embracing this religion, and this only. One of the reasons he offers to recommend it is this, that this catholic or universal religion answers the ultimate design of the holy scriptures. §‘ Sacrarum literarum fini ultimo intentionique quad- rat” He adds, that ‘all the doctrines there taught aim at the establishment of these five catholic articles, as we have often hinted ; there is no sacrament, rite, or ceremony there enjoined, but what aims, or seems to aim at the establish- ment of these five articles.’ He expressly declares, in the above-mentioned treatise, that it was far from his intention to do harm to the best religion, as he there calls Christianity, or the true faith, but rather to establish both.”—JLeland, I. p. 3. This divine then proceedsin hisrefutation of these tenets, and concludes with allowing, that Lord Herbert, ‘as he was one of the first, so he was ‘confessedly one of the greatest writers that have appeared among us in the deistical cause.”—P. 25. Thomas Master, an account of whom will be given immediately, is said to have assisted Lord Herbert in latinizing the above work. “ De Religione Gentilium Errorumque apud eos causis.” The first part was printed at London 1645, 8vo., and the whole in 1663, 4to., and reprinted in 1700, 8vo. Myr. W. Lewis translated it into English, under this title, “The Ancient Religion of che Gentiles, and Causes of their Errors considered. The mistakes and failures of the heathen priests and wise men in their notions of the Deity, and matters of divine worship, are examined with regard to their being destitute of divine revelation.” 1705. 8vo. Lord Herbert sent the manuscript of this work to Gerard Vossius, in the year 1645, as appears from his letter, and Vossius’s answer.—Biog.Dict. quoted by Mr.Park. “ Kxpeditio Buckinghami Ducis in Ream In- sulam.” Published by Tim. Baldwin, LL.D. 1665. Lond. 8vo. “Life and Reign of Henry the Eighth.”— Lond. 1649, 1672, and 1682. This latter edition was, according to Wood,t collated by certain scholars of the University of Oxford, with the original manuscript, deposited in the Bodleian library by the author in 1¢43. It was reprinted in Kennet’s Complete History of England, Vol. II. The following character of the work is given by Lord Orford: “It was undertaken by command of King James the First, and is much esteemed ; * Appendix to Relig. Laici qu. 3d. { Athene, II. col. 117. PREFATORY MEMOIR. | yet one cannot help regretting, that a man who found it necessary to take up arms against Charles the First, should have palliated the enormities of Henry the Eighth, in comparison of whom, King Charles was an excellent prince. It is strange, that writing a man’s life should generally make the biographer become enamoured of his subject ; whereas, one should think that the nicer disquisi- tion one makes into the life of any man, the less reason one should find to love or admire him.” In another place,* Lord Orford observes, that the life of Henry VIII. is allowed to be a master-piece of historic biography ; and Bishop Nicolson, in his English Historical Library, asserts, “that the author has acquitted himself with the like reputa- tion as Lord Chancellor Bacon gained by the Life of Henry the Seventh ; having in the politic and martial part been admirably exact, from the best records that remain.” Lord Herbert had, however, a valuable assistant in the person of Thomas Master, “esteemed,” says Anthony Wood, “a vast scholar, a general artist and linguist, a noted poet, and a most florid preacher.” He died in 1643, at Oxford, of the same malignant fever which carried off Cartwright, and many others. Lord Edward honoured his memory with a Latin epitaph, printed in his Occasional Verses, p. 94. He had also prefixed a Latin poem to Master’s “ Mensa lubrica Montgom. illustriss. Domino D, Edwardo Baron de Cherbury.” a poem descriptive of Shovelboard play, printed for the second time at Oxford, 1658. _ What assistance he gave to his lordship may be collected from the following extract : “ He was a drudge to, and assisted much, Edward Lord Herbert of Cherbury, when he was obtaining materials for the writing of the life of Henry VIII. Four thick volumes in folio of such materials I have lying by me, in every one of which I find his handwriting, either in interlining, adding, or correcting ; and one of those four, which is entitled Collectaneorum lib. secundus, is mostly written by him, collected from Parliament Rolls, the Paper Office at White- hall, Vicar General’s office, books belonging to the Clerks of the Council, MSS. in Cotton’s Library, Books of Convocation of the Clergy, &c. printed authors, &c. And there is no doubt, that as he had an especial hand in composing the said Life of Henry VIII. (which, as some say, he turned mostly into Latin, but never printed,) so had he a hand in latinizing that lord’s book De Veritate, or others.”—W oop’s Athena, II. col. 39, 40. Lord Herbert’s Historical Collections are pre- served in the Library of Jesus College, Oxford, and several of his letters among the Harleian manu- scripts. In 1668, “ A Dialogue on Education,” 4to. was published, and attributed to his lordship. **Occasional Verses of Edward Lord Herbert, Baron of Cherbury and Castle-Island, who deceased in 1648.” Lond. 1665. 8vo. Published by Henry Herbert, his younger son, and dedicated to Edward Lord Herbert, the author’s grandson. In Joshua Sylvester’s “ Lachryme Lachrymarun, or, The Spirit of Tears, distilled for the untimely death of Prince Henry,” Lond. 1613, 4to. ; and in other publications, several poems of Lord Herbert may also be found. * Advertisement to Lord Herbert’s Life. 320 PREFATORY MEMOIR. The two Latin poems, inserted in his Life, together with a longer, entitled, “ Hered. ac Nepot. suis Precepta et Consilia, FE. B. H. de C. J. de K.” are printed in 1647, 4to. in a unique tract, pre- served in the Bridgewater Library. As a poet, Lord Herbert does not rank high, and is often almost unintelligible. Mr. Park observes, that “his lordship’s scarce volume of Occasional Poems, consists chiefly of metaphysical love verses ; ingenious but unnatural ; platonic in sentiment, but frequently gross in expression ; and marked by an eccentricity which pervaded the life and character of Lord Herbert.” Of the following specimens, the first stanzas are pro- nounced by the editor of the Specimens of Early English Poets, to be the most tolerable verses in the volume, and are selected from thirty-five, of which the poem consists. The two others are selected by Mr. Park, in his edition of Lord Orford’s Royal and Noble Authors.* AN ODE UPON THE QUESTION MOVED, WHETHER LOVE SHOULD CONTINUE FOR EVER? Having interr’d her infant birth, The watery ground, that late did mourn, Was strew’d with flowers, for the return Of the wish’d bridegroom of the earth. The well-accorded birds did sing Their hymns unto the pleasant time, And in a sweet consorted chime, Did welcome in the cheerful spring. To which, soft whistles of the wind, And warbling murmurs of a brook, And varied notes of leaves that shook, And harmony of parts did bind. * * * * When with a love none can express, That mutually happy pair, Melander and Celinda fair, The season with their loves did bless. Walking thus tow’rds a pleasant grove, Which did, it seem’d, in new delight The pleasures of the time unite, To give a triumph to their love. They staid at last, and on the grass Reposed so, as 0’er his breast She bow’d her gracious head to rest, Such a weight as no burthen was. * * * * Long their fix’d eyes to heaven bent, Unchanged, they did never move ; As if so great and pure a love, No glass but it could represent. When with a sweet, though troubled look, She first brake silence, saying, ‘‘ Dear friend O that our love might take no end, Or never had beginning took ! «IT speak not this with a false heart ;” Wherewith his hand she gently strain’d ; «Or that would change a love maintain’d With so much love on either part. «“ Nay, I protest, though Death with his § — — S=—— OO er « Only, if love’s fire with the breath Of life be kindeled, I doubt, With our last air ’twill be breath’d out, And quenched with the cold of death.” x * * * Then with a look, it seem’d denied All earthly power but hers, yet so As if to her breath he did owe This borrow’d life, he thus replied : * * * * «¢ And shall our love, so far beyond That low and dying appetite, And which so chaste desires unite, Not hold in an eternal bond ? % * * * “QO no, belov’d ! Iam most sure Those virtuous habits we acquire, As being with the soul entire, Must with it evermore endure. * * * * ‘* Else should our souls in vain elect; And vainer yet were heaven’s laws, When to an everlasting cause They gave a perishing effect. ‘* Nor here on earth then, nor above, Our good affection can impair ; For, where God doth admit the fair, Think you that he excludeth love ? “‘ These eyes again thine eyes shall see, And hands again these hands infold ; And all chaste pleasures can be told, Shall with us everlasting be. * For if no use of sense remain When bodies once this life forsake, Or they could no delight partake, Why should they ever rise again ? * * * * “Let then no doubt, Celinda, touch, Much less your fairest mind invade: Were not our souls immortal made, Our equal loves can make them such.” * * * * TO A YOUNG PALE BEAUTY. From thy pale look, while angry Love doth seem With more imperiousness to give his law, Than where he blushingly doth beg esteem ; We may observe try’d beauty in such awe, That the brav’st colour under her command Affrighted, oft before you doth retire ; While, like a statue of yourself you stand In such symmetrique form, as doth require No lustre but its own: as then, in vain, One should flesh colouring to statues add, So were it to your native white a stain If it in other ornaments were clad, Than what your rich proportions do give, Which in a boundless fair being unconfined, Exalted in your soul, so seem to live, That they become an emblem of your mind; That so, who to your orient white should join Those fading qualities most eyes adore, Were but like one who, gild‘og silver coin, Gave but occasion to suspect it more. TO His WATCH, WHEN HE COULD NOT SLEEP: Uncessant minutes, whilst you move you tell The time that tells our life, which, though it run Never so fast or far, your new begun Short steps shall overtake : for though life well Worst counsel should divide us here, His terrors could not make me fear To come where your lov’d presence is. * IIL p. 23. o21 . : Lg TI yn a I aa ia A SN UN i Ass th SEEN tn 10 PREFATORY MEMOIR. May ’scape his own account, it shall not yours. You are Death’s auditors, that both divide And sum whate’er that life inspir’d endures, Past a beginning ; and through you we bide The doom of fate, whose unrecall’d decree You date, bring, execute ; making what’s new, Ill ; and good, old; for as we die in you, You die i in time, time in eternity. It is unnecessary to enter into the detail of Lord Herbert’s character, of which the account of his life by himself is the best portraiture. The following extract furnishes a curious apology by the noble lord, for the two principal imperfections which appeared in his character, and of which he frequently shews himself perfectly conscious : “In his book De Veritate, he declares, that those are not lightly to be condemned, who are carried to sin by their particular bodily constitution ; and he instances particularly in the rage of lust and anger; no more than a dropsical person is to be blamed for his immoderate thirst, or a lethargic person for his laziness and inactivity.* He adds, indeed, that he does not set up as an apologist for wicked men, but yet that we ought to pass a mild censure upon those who are carried to sin by a corporeal and almost necessary propensity to vice. Neque tamen me hic conscelerati cujusvi patronum sisto ; sed in id solummodo contendo, ut mitiori sententia de vis statuamus, qui corpored, brutali, et tamtwm non necessaria propensione in peccata prolabuntur.” —LELAND, ut supra, i. p. 6. Lord Orford’s delineation of his character is very lively, and will be found in his Advertisement; ¥* Lelig. Eaici, p. 28 the following is given by Granger in his Biogra- phical History of England: “ Lord Herbert stands in the first rank of the public ministers, historians, and philosophers of his age. It is hard to say whether his person, his understanding, or his courage, was the most extraordinary ; as the fair, the learned, and the brave, held him in equal admiration. But the same man was wise and capricious ; redressed wrongs and quarrelled for punctilios ; hated bigotry in religion and was himself a bigot to philosophy. He exposed him- self to such dangers as other men would have carefully declined ; and called in question the fundamentals of a " yeligion which none had the hardiness to dispute besides himself.””—II. 145. Ben Jonson, who was probably patronised by Lord Herbert, addressed the following compli- mentary epigram to him, which, taking into con- sideration the language of the times, does not appear overcharged with flattery, and, as a general summary of his lordship’s character, may not improperly conclude the present Prefatory Me- moir :— TO SIR EDWARD HERBERT. If men get name, for some one virtue ; then, What man art thou, that art so many men, All-virtuous Herbert ! On whose every part, Truth might spend all her voice, fame all her art. Whether thy learning they would take, or wit, Or valour, or thy judgment seasoning it, Thy standing upright to thyself, thy ends Like straight, thy piety to God, and friends: Their later praise would still the greatest be, And yet they all together, less than thee. = Fa alae AU ie itl SAL SI SOR ela Le ACN We nein en nina THE LIFE or EDWARD LORD HERBERT, OF CHERBURY. I po believe, that if all my ancestors had set down their lives in writing, and left them to pos- terity, many documents necessary tu be known of those who both participate of their natural inclinations and humours, must in all proba- bility run a not much different course, might have been given for their instruction; and cer- tainly it will be found much better for men to guide themselves by such observations as their father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, might have delivered to them, than by those vulgar rules and examples, which cannot in all points so exactly agree unto them. Therefore whether their life were private, and contained only precepts neces- sary to treat with their children, servants, tenants, kinsmen, and neighbours, or employed abroad in the university, or study of the law, or in the court, or in the camp, their heirs might have benefited themselves more by them than by any else ; for which reason I have thought fit to relate to my posterity those passages of my life, which I conceive may best declare me, and be most useful to them. In the delivery of which, I profess to write with all truth and sincerity, as scorning ever to deceive or speak false to any; and therefore detesting it much more where I am under obliga- tion of speaking to those so near me: and if this be one reason for taking my pen in hand at this time, so as my age is now past threescore, it will be fit to recollect my former actions, and examine what had been done well or ill, to the intent I may both reform that which was amiss, and so make my peace with God, as also comfort myself in those things which, through God’s great grace and favour, have been done according to the rules of conscience, virtue, and honour. Before yet I bring myself to this account, it will be necessary I say somewhat concerning my ancestors, as far as the notice of them is come to me in any credible way; of whom yet I cannot say much, since I was but eight years old when my grandfather died, and that my father lived but about four years after, and that for the rest I have lived, for the most part from home, it is impossible I should have that entire knowledge of their actions which might inform me sufficiently; I shall only, therefore, relate the more known and undcubted parts of their lives. * My father was Richard Herbert, Esq., son to Edward Herbert, Esq., and grand-child to Sir Richard Herbert, Knight, who was a younger son of Sir Richard Herbert of Colebrook, in Mon- mouthshire, of all whom I shall say a little. And first of my father, whom I remember to have been black-haired and bearded, as all my ancestors of his side are said to have been, of a manly or some- what stern look, but withal very handsome and well compact in his limbs, and of a great courage, whereof he gave proof, when he was so barbarously assaulted by many men in the churchyard at La- nervil, at what time he would have apprehended a man who denied to appear to justice; for, defending himself against them all, by the help only of one John ap Howell Corbet, he chased his adversaries, until a villain, coming behind him, did, over the shoulders of others, wound him on the head behind with a forest-bill until he fell down, though recovering himself again, notwith- standing his skull was cut through to the pea mater of the brain, he saw his adversaries fly away, and after walked home to his house at Llyssyn, where, after he was cured, he offered a single combat to the chief of the family, by whose procurement it was thought the mischief was committed ; but he disclaiming wholly the action as not done by his consent, which he offered to testify by oath, and the villain himself flying into Ireland, whence he never returned, my father desisted from prosecuting the business any farther in that kind, and at- tained, notwithstanding the said hurt, that health and strength, that he returned to his former exer- * Though his lordship, according to his scrupulous ex- actness, would set down nothing relating to his ancestors but what was of undoubted notoriety, yet it is probable that he had some memorials of his family in writing; for Dugdale, in his Baronage, vol. ii. p. 256, edit. of 1676, quotes a curious passage relating to the family’s assump- tion of the name of Herbert, from a mauuscript book, which he had seen in thehands of our author, Lord Herbert 12 LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. ‘cises in a country life, and became the father of many children. As for his integrity in his places of deputy lieutenant of the county, justice of the peace, and custos rotulorwm, which he, as my grand- father before him, held, it is so memorable to this day, that it was said his enemies appealed to him for justice, which they also found on all occasions. His learning was not vulgar, as understanding well the Latin tongue, and being well versed in history. My grandfather was of a various life ; beginning first at court, where, after he had spent most part of his means, he became a soldier, and made his fortune with his sword at the siege of St. Quintens in France, and other wars, both in the north, and in the rebellionshappening in the times of King Edward the Sixth, and Queen Mary, with so good success, that he not only came off still with the better, but got so much money and wealth, as enabled him to buy the greatest part of that livelihood which is descended to me ; although yet I hold some lands which his mother, the Lady Anne Herbert, pur- chased, as appears by the deeds made to her by that name, which I can shew; and might have held more, which my grandfather sold under foot at an undervalue in his youth, and might have been recovered by my father, had my grandfather suffered him. My grandfather was noted to be a great enemy to the outlaws and thieves of his time, who robbed in great numbers in the mountains of Montgomeryshire, for the suppressing of whom he went often, both day and night, to the places where they were ; concerning which, though many parti- culars have been told me, I shall mention one only. Some outlaws being lodged in an alehouse upon the hills of Llandinam, my grandfather and a few ser- vants coming to apprehend them, the principal outlaw shot an arrow against my grandfather, which stuck in the pummel of his saddle ; where- upon my grandfather coming up to him with his sword in his hand, and taking him prisoner, he shewed him the said arrow, bidding him look what he had done ; whereof the outlaw was no farther sensible, than to say, he was sorry that he left his better bow at home, which he conceived would have carried his shot to his body ; but the outlaw, being brought to justice, suffered for it. My grandfather’s power was so great in the country, that divers ancestors of the better families now in Mont- gomeryshire were his servants, and raised by him. He delighted also much in hospitality ; as having a very long table twice covered every meal with the best meats that could be gotten, and a very great family. It was an ordinary saying in the country at that time, when they saw any fowl rise, “ Fly where thou wilt, thou wilt light at Blackhall ;” which was a low building, but of great capacity, my grandfather erected in his age ; his father and himself, in former times, having lived in Mont- gomery castle. Notwithstanding yet these ex- penses at home, he brought up-his children well, married his daughters to the better sort of persons near him, and bringing up his younger sons at the university ; from whence his son Matthew went to the Low Country wars; and, after some time spent there, came home, and lived in the country at Dolegeog, upon a house and fair living, which my grandfather bestowed upon him. His son also, Charles Herbert, after he had past some time in the Low Countries, likewise returned home, and was after married to an inheretrix, whose eldest son, called Sir Edward Herbert, Knight, is the king’s attorney-general. His son, George, who was of New College, in Oxford, was very learned, and of a pious life, died in a middle age of a dropsy. Notwithstanding all which occasions of expense, my grandfather purchased much lands, without doing anything yet unjustly or hardly, as may be collected by an offer I have publicly made divers times, having given my bailiff in charge to proclaim to the country, that if any lands were gotten by evil means, or so much as hardly, they should be compounded for or restored again ; but to this day, never any man yet complained to me in this kind. He died at the age of fourscore, or thereabouts, and was buried in Montgomery church, without having any monument made for him, which yet for my father is there set up in a- fair manner. My great-grandfather, Sir Richard Herbert, was steward, in the time of King Henry the Eighth, of the lordships and marches of North Wales, East Wales, and Cardiganshire, and had power, in a marshal law, to execute offenders ; in the using thereof he was so just, that he acquired to himself a singular reputation ; as may appear upon the records of that time, kept in the Paper- chamber at Whitehall, some touch whereof I have made in my history of Henry the Eighth: of him I can say little more, than that he likewise was a great suppressor of rebels, thieves, and outlaws, and that he was just and conscionable ; for if a false or cruel person had that power committed to his hands, he would have raised a great fortune out of it, whereof he left little, save what his father gave him, unto posterity. He lieth buried likewise in Montgomery ; the upper monument of the two placed in the chancel being erected for him. My great-grandfather, Sir Richard Herbert of Cole- brook, was that incomparable hero, who (in the History of Hall and Grafton, as it appears) twice passed through a great army of northern men alone, with his pole-axe in his hand, and returned without any mortal hurt, which is more than is famed of Amadis de Gaul, or the Knight of the Sun. I shall, besides this relation of Sir Richard Herbert’s prowess in the battle at Banbury or Edgeot-hill, being the place where the late battle was fought, deliver some traditions concerning him, which I have received from good hands ; one is, that the said Sir Richard Herbert being employed, together with his brother William, Earl of Pembroke, to reduce certain rebels* in North Wales, Sir Richard Herbert besieged a principal person of them at Harlech castle, in Merionethshire ; the captain of this place had been a soldier in the wars in France ; whereupon he said, he had kept a castle in France so Jong, that he made the old women in Wales talk of him ; * It was an insurrection in the ninth year of Edward the Fourth, headed by Sir John Coniers and Robert Riddesdale, in favour of Henry VI. This William, Earl of Pembroke, and his brother Sir Richard Herbert, being sent against them, were to be joined by the Earl of Devonshire; but a squabble happening between the two earls about quarters, the Earl of Devonshire separated from Pembroke, who, engaging the enemy at Danes- moore, near Edgcote, in Northamptonshire, was defeated and taken prisoner, with his brother, and both were put to death, with Richard Widville Ear] Rivers, father of the queen, by command of the Duke of Clarence and the Earl of Warwick, who had revolted from Edward. LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. 18 and that he would keep the castle so long, that he would make the old women in France talk of him: And indeed, as the place was almost impregnable but by famine, Sir Richard Herbert was con- strained to take him in by composition; he surrendering himself upon condition, that Sir Richard Herbert should do what he could to save his life; which being accepted, Sir Richard brought him to King Edward IV. desiring his highness to give him a pardon, since he yielded up a place of importance, which he might have kept longer upon this hope. But the king re- plying to Sir Richard Herbert, that he had no power by his commission to pardon any, and therefore, might, after the representation hereof to his majesty, safe deliver him up to justice ; Sir Richard Herbert answered, he had not yet alone the best he could for him; and therefore most humbly desired his highness to do one of two things—either to put him again in the castle where he was, and command some other to take him out ; or, if his highness would not do so, to take his life for the said capiain’s, that being the last proof he could give that he used his uttermost endeavour to save the said captain’s life. The king finding himself urged thus far, gave Sir Richard Herbert the life of the said captain, but withal he bestowed no other reward for his service. The other history is, that Sir Richard Herbert, together with his brother the Earl of Pembroke, being in Anglesea, apprehending there seven brothers, which had done many mischiefs and murders ; in these times the Earl of Pembroke, thinking it fit to root out so wicked a progeny, commanded them all to be hanged ; whereupon the mother of them coming to the Earl of Pem- broke, upon her knees desired him to pardon two, or at leastwise one of her said sons, affirming, that the rest were sufficient to satisfy justice or example, which request also Sir Richard Herbert seconded ; but the earl finding them all equally guilty, said, he could make no distinction betwixt them, and therefore commanded them to be exe- cuted together; at which the mother was so aggrieved, that, with a pair of woollen beads on her arms, (for so the relation goeth,) she, on her knees, cursed him, praying God’s mischief might fall to him in the first battle he should make. The earl after this, coming with his brother to Edgcot-field, as is before set down, after he had put his men in order to fight, found his brother, Sir Richard Herbert, in the head of his men, Jeaning upon his pole-axe in a kind of sad or pen- Sive manner; whereupon the earl said, What! doth thy great body (for he was higher by the head than any one in the army) apprehend any- thing that thou art so melancholy, or art thou weary with marching, that thou dost lean thus upon thy poleaxe? Sir Richard Herbert replied, that he was neither of both, whereof he should see the proof presently ; only I cannot but apprehend on your part, least the curse of the woman with the woollen beads fall upon you. This Sir Richard Herbert lieth buried in Abergaveny, in a sumptuous monument for those times, which still remains ; whereas his brother, the Earl of Pembroke, being buried in Tintirne Abbey, his monument, together with the church, lie now wholly defaced and ruined. This Earl of Pembroke had a younger son, which had a daughter which married the eldest son of the Karl of Worcester, who carried away the fair castle of Ragland, with many thousand pounds yearly, from the heir-male of that house, which was the second son of the said Earl of Pembroke, and ancestor of the family of St. Gillians, whose daughter and heir I after married, as shall be told inits place. Andhereitis very remarkable, that the younger sons of the said Karl of Pembroke and Sir R. Herbert, left their posterity after them, who, in the person of myself and my wife, united both houses again ; which is the more memorable, that when the said Earl of Pembroke and Sir R. Herbert were taken prisoners in defending the just cause of Edward IV. at the battle abovesaid, the earl never entreated that his own life might be saved, but his brother’s, as it appears by the said history. So that joining of both houses together in my posterity, ought to produce a perpetual obligation of friendship and mutual love in them one to another, since by these two brothers, so - brave an example thereof was given, as seeming not to live or die but for one another. My mother was Magdalen Newport, daughter of Sir Richard Newport, and Margaret his wife, daughter and heir of Sir Thomas Bromley, one of the privy council, and executor of King Henry the Eighth, who, surviving her husband, gave rare testi- monies of an incomparable piety to God, and love to her children, as being most assiduous and devout in her daily both private and public prayers, and so careful to provide for her posterity, that though it were in her power to give her estate (which was very great) to whom she would, yet she continued still unmarried, and so provident for them, that, after she had bestowed all her daughters, with sufficient portions, upon very good neighbouring families, she delivered up her estate and care of housekeeping to her eldest son Francis, when now she had, for many years kept hospitality with that plenty and order as exceeded all either of her country or time ; for, besides abundance of pro- vision and good cheer for guests, which her son Sir Francis Newport continued, she used ever after dinner to distribute with her own hands to the poor, who resorted to her in great numbers, alms in money, to every one of them more or less, as she thought they needed it. By these ancestors I am descended of Talbot, Devoreux, Gray, Corbet, and many other noble families, as may be seen in their matches, extant in the many fair coats the Newports bear. I could say much more of my ancestors of that side likewise, but that I should exceed my proposed scope: I shall, therefore, only say somewhat more of my mother, my brothers, and sisters. And for my mother, after she lived most virtuously and lovingly with her husband for many years, she, after his death, erected a fair monument for him in Montgomery church; brought up her children carefully, and put them in good courses for making their for- tunes, and briefly was that woman Dr. Donne hath described in his funeral sermon of her printed. The names of her children were, Edward, Richard, William, Charles, George, Henry, Thomas ; her daughters were, Elizabeth, Margaret, Frances ; of all whom I will say a little before I begin a narra- tion of my own life, so I may pursue my intended purpose the more entirely. My brother Richard, after he had been brought up in learning, went to the Low Countries, where he continued many years 25 i eS Sl SAAS aan ay $e A A RR a ey ya a a 5 ES ee 14 LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. with much reputation, both in the wars and for fighting single duels, which were many ; insomuch, that between both, he carried, as I have been told, the scars of four-and-twenty wounds upon him to his grave, and lieth buried in Bergenopzoom. My brother William being brought up likewise in learning, went afterwards to the wars in Denmark, where, fighting a single combat, and having his sword broken, he not only defended himself, with that piece which remained, but, closing with his adversary, threw him down, and so held him until company came in; and then went to the wars in the Low Countries, but lived not long after. My brother Charles was fellow of New College in Oxford, where he died young, after he had given great hopes of himself every way. My brother George* was so excellent a scholar, that he was made the public orator of the University in Cam- bridge ; some of whose English works are extant ; which, though they be rare in their kind, yet are far short of expressing those perfections he had in the Greek and Latin tongue, and all divine and human literature: his life was most holy and exemplary; insomuch, that about Salisbury, where he lived, beneficed for many years, he was little ess than sainted. He was not exempt from passion and choler, being infirmities to which all our race is subject, but that excepted, without reproach in his actions. Henry, after he had been brought up in learning, as the other brothers were, was sent by his friends into France, where he attained the language of that country in much perfection ; after which time he came to court, and was made gentleman of the king’s privy chamber, and master of the revels ; by which means, as also by a good marriage, he attained to great fortunes, for himself and posterity to enjoy. He also hath given several proofs of his courage in duels, and otherwise ; being no less dexterous in the ways of the court, as having gotten much by it. My brother Thomas was a posthumous, as being born some weeks after his father’s death. He also, being brought up a while at school, was sent as a page to Sir Edward Cecil,} lord-general of his majesty’s auxiliary forces to the princes in Germany, and was particularly at the siege of Juliers, a.p. 1610, where he shewed such forwardness, as no man in that great army before him was more adventurous on all occasions. Being returned from thence, he went to the East Indies, under the command of Captain Joseph, who, in his way thither, meeting with a great Spanish ship, was unfortu- nately killed in fight with them; whereupon, his men being disheartened, my brother Thomas en- couraged them to revenge the loss, and renewed the fight in that manner, (as Sir John Smyth, governor of the East India Company, told me at several times,) that they forced the Spanish ship * He had studied foreign languages, in hopes of rising to be secretary of state; but being disappointed in his views at court, he took orders, became prebend of Lincoln, and rector of Bemerton, near Salisbury. He died between 1630 and 1640. His poems were printed at London 1635, under the title of “The Temple ;” and his “ Priest to the Temple,” in 1652. Lord Bacon dedicated to him a Translation of some Psalms into English verse.—V. General Dict. + Afterwards Viscount Wimbledon. See an account of him in “ The Royal and Noble Authors.” to run a-ground, where the English shot her through and through so often, that she run herselt a-ground, and was left wholly unserviceable. After which time, he, with the rest of the fleet, came to Suratte,and from thence, went with the merchants to the Great Mogul; where, after he had staid about a twelvemonth, he returned with the same fleet back again to England. After this, he went in the navy which King James sent to Argier, under the command of Sir Robert Mansel, where our men being in great want of money and victuals, and many ships scattering themselves to try whether they could obtain a prize, whereby to relieve the whole fleet ; it was his hap to meet with a ship, which he took, and in it, to the value of eighteen hundred pounds, which, it was thought, saved the whole fleet from perishing. Count Mansfelt to the Low Countries, in one of the king’s ships, which, being unfortunately cast away not far from the shore, the count, together with his company, saved themselves in a long-boat, or shalop, the benefit whereof my said brother refused to take for the present, as resolving to assist the master of the ship, who endeavoured by all means to clear the ship from the danger ; but finding it impossible, he was the last man that saved himself in the long-boat ; the master thereof yet refusing to come away, so that he perished together with the ship. After this, he commanded one of the ships that were sent to bring the prince from Spain; where, upon his return, there being a fight between the Low Countrymen and the Dunkirkers, the prince, who thought it was not for his dignity to suffer them to fight in his presence, commanded some of his ships to part them : where- upon, my said brother, with some other ships, got betwixt them on either side, and shot so long, that both parties were glad to desist. After he had brought the prince safely home, he was appointed to go with one of the king’s ships to the Narrow Seas. He also fought divers times with great courage and success, with divers men in single fight, sometimes hurting and disarming his adver- sary, and sometimes driving him away. After all these proofs given of himself he expected some great command ; but finding himself, as he thought, undervalued, he retired to a private and melan- choly life, being much discontented to find others preferred to him; in which sullen humour having lived many years, he died and was buried in Lon- don, in St. Martin’s near Charing Cross ; so that of all my brothers none survives but Henry. Elizabeth, my eldest sister, was married to Sir Henry Jones of Albemarles, who had by her one son and two daughters ; the latter end of her time was the most sickly and miserable that hath been known in our times ; while, for the space of about fourteen years she languished and pined away to skin and bones, and at last died in Lon- don, and lieth buried in a church called — near Cheapside. Margaret was married to John Vaughan, son and heir to Owen Vaughan of Llwydiart ; by which match some former differ- ences betwixt our house and that were appeased and reconciled. He had by her three daughters and heirs, Dorothy, Magdalen, and Katherine ; of which the two latter only survive. The estate of the Vaughans yet went ‘to the heirs-male, although not so clearly but that the entail which carried the said lands was questioned. Frances, 326 He conducted, also, ° a a ee eee he AS i ee LIFE: OF ‘LORD HERBERT. a my youngest sister, was married to Sir John Brown, Knight, in Lincolnshire, who had by her divers children ; the eldest son of whom, although young, fought ‘divers duels, in one of which it was his fortune to kill one Lee, of a great family in Laneashire. I could say many things more concerning all these, but it is not my purpose to particularize their lives. JI have related only some passages concerning them to the best of my memory, being assured | have not failed much in my rela- tion of them. I shall now come to myself. I was born at Eyton, in Shropshire, [being a house which, together with fair lands, descended upon the Newports by my said grandmother, ] between the hours of twelve and one of the clock in the morning ; my infancy was very sickly, my head continually purging itself very much by the ears ; whereupon also it was so long before I began to speak, that many thought I should be ever dumb. The very furthest thing I remember, is, that when I understood what was said by others, I did yet forbear to speak, lest I should utter something that were imperfect or impertinent. When I came to talk, one of the furthest inquiries I made was, how I came into this world? I told my nurse, keeper, and others, I found myself here indeed, but from what cause or beginning, or by what means I could not imagine ; but for this, as I was laughed at by nurse, and some other women that were then present, so I was wondered at by others, who said, they never heard a child but ‘myself ask that question; upon which, when I came to riper years, I made this observation, which afterwards a little comforted me, that, as I found myself in possession of this life, without knowing anything of the pangs and throes my mother suffered, yet, doubtless, they did no less press and afflict me than her, so I hope my soul shall pass to a better life than this without being sensible of the anguish and pains my body shall feel in death. For as I believe then I shall be transmitted to a more happy estate by God’s great grace, | am confident I shall no more know how I came out of this world, than how I came into it ; and because, since that time, I have made verses ‘to this purpose, I have thought fit to insert them The Argument ra here as a place proper for them. VITA. Prima fuit quondam genitali semine Vita Procurasse suas dotes, ubi Plastica Virtus Gestiit, et vegeto molem perfundere succo, Externamq,. suo formam eohibere recessu, Dum conspirantes possint accedere cause, Et totum tuto licuit proludere foetum. Altera materno tandem succrevit in arvo Hxiles spumans ubi spiritus induit Artus, Exertusa,. simul miro sensoria textu Cudit, et hospitium menti non vile paravit, Que Czlo delapsa suas mox inde capessat Partes, et sortis tanquam presaga future Corrigat ignavum pondus, nec inutile sistat. ‘Tertia nunc agitur, qua Scena recluditur ingens, Cernitur et festum Celi, Terreq. Theatrum ; Congener et species, rerum variataq. forma Et circumferri, motu proprio. vagari Contigit, et leges eternaq. federa mundi Visere, et assiduo redeuntia sidera cursu. Unde etiam vite causas, nexumq. tueri Fas erat et summum longe presciscere Numen ; Dum varios miré motus contemperet orbis 15 Et Pater, et Dominus, Custos, et conditor idem Audit ubiq. Deus; Quid ni modd Quarta sequatur ? Sordibus excussis cum mens jam purior instat, Auctaq. doctrinis variis, virtuteq. pollens Intendit vires, magis et sublimia spirat, Et tacitus cordi stimulus suffigitur imo, Ut velit heic quisquam sorti superesse caduce, Expetiturg. status felicior ambitiosis Ritibus, et sacris, et cultu religioso, Et nova successit melioris conscia Fati Spes superis herens, toto perfusaq. Calo, Et sese sancto demittit Numen Amori, Et data Celestis non fallax Tessera Vite, Cumgq. Deo licuit non uno jure pacisci, Ut mihi seu servo reddatur debita merces, Filius aut bona adire paterna petam, mihi sponsor Sit fidei Numen ; mox hane sin exuo vitam, Compos jam factus melioris, tum simul uti Jure meo cupiam liber, meq. asserit inde Ipse Deus (cujus non terris Gratia tantum, Sed Celis prostat) Quid ni modo Quinta sequatur -Et Sexta, et quicquid tandem spes ipsa requirat ? DE VITA CEHLESTI CONJECTURA. Toro lustratus Genio mihi gratulor ipsi, Fati seeurus, dum nec terroribus ullis Dejicior, tacitos.condo vel corde dolores, Sed letus mediis erumnis transigo vitam, Inyitisq. malis (que terras undiq. cingunt) Ardenti virtute viam super «thera querens, Proxima Celestis preecepi praemia vite, Ultima pretento, divino nixus amore, Qu6 simul exuperans crepere ludibria sortis, Barbara vesani linquo consortia Secli, Auras infernas defflans, spiransq. supernas, Dum sanctis memet totum sic implico flammis, Hisce ut suffultus penetrem laquearia Celi, Atq. novi late speculer magnalia Mundi, Et notas animas, proprio jam lumine pulchras Invisam, Superaimg. choros mentesq. beatas, Quéis aveam miscere ignes, ac vincula sacra, Atq-: vice alterna transire in gaudia, Celum. Que dederit cunctis, ipsis aut indita nobis, Vel que communi voto sancire licebit, Ut Deus interea cumulans sua premia, nostrum Augeat inde decus, propriog. illustret amore, Nec Cali Celis desint, eternavé Vite Secula, vel Seclis nova gaudia, qualia totum /Evum nec minuat, nec terminat Infinitum, His major desit nec gratia Numinis alma, Que miris variata modis hee gaudia erescant, Excipiatq. statum quemvis felicior alter ; Et que nec sperare datur sint prestita nobis, Nee, nisi sola capit que mens divina, supersint ; Que licet ex sese sint perfectissima longe, Ex nobis saltem mage condecorata videntur : Cum segnes animas, celum quas indit ab ortu, Exacuat tantum labor ac industria nostra ; Ac demum poliat doctrina, et moribus illis, Ut redeant pulchre, dotem celoq. reportent ; Quum simul arbitriis usi, mala pellimus illa, Que nec vel pepulit calum, vel pelleret olim, Ex nobis ita fit jam gloria Numinis ingens, Auctior in celos quoqg. gloria nostra redundat, Et. que virtuti sint debita premia, tandem Vel. Numen solito reddunt felicius ipsum. Amplior unde simul redhibetur Gratia nobis, Ut vel pro voto nostro jam singula cedant. Nam si libertas chara est, per amena locorum Conspicua.innumeris Celis discurrere fas est, Deliciasq. loci cujusvis carpere passim. Altior est animo si contemplatio fixa, Cuncta adaperta patent nobis jam scrinia Celi, Arcanasq. Dei rationes nésse juvabit : Hujus sin repetat quisquam consortia secli, Mox.agere in terris, ac procurare licebit Res heic humanas, et justis legibus uti! 16 Sin magé czlesti jam delectamur amore, Solvimur in flammas, que se lambuntq. foventq. Mutuod, et impliciti sanctis ardoribus, una Surgimus amplexi, copula junctiq. tenaci, Partibus, et toto miscemur ubiq. vicissim ; Ardoresq. novos accendit Numinis ardor. Sin laudare Deum lubeat, nos laudat et ipse, Concinit Angelicusq. chorus, modulamine suavi Personat et celum, prostant et publica nobis Gaudia, et eduntur passim spectacula lta ; Fitq. theatralis quasi Celi machina tota. Hane mundi molem sin vis replicaverit ingens Numinis, atq. novas formas exculpserit inde Dotibus ornatas aliis, magis atq. capaces ; Nostras mox etiam formas renovare licebit, Et dotes sensusq. alios assumere, tandem Consummata magis quo gaudia nostra resurgant, Hee si conjecto mortali corpore fretus Corpus ut exuerim, Quid ni majora recludam ? And certainly since in my mother’s womb this plastica, or formatrix, which formed my eyes, ears, and other senses, did not intend them for that dark and noisome place, but, as being con- scious of a better life, made them as fitting organs to apprehend and perceive those things which should occur in this world: so I believe, since my coming into this world, my soul hath formed or produced certain faculties which are almost as useless for this life, as the above-named senses were for the mother’s womb ; and these faculties are hope, faith, love, and joy, since they never rest or fix upon any transitory or perishing object in this world, as extending themselves to something further than can be here given, and indeed ac- quiesce only in the perfect, eternal, and infinite : I confess they are of some use here ; yet I appeal to every body, whether any worldly felicity did so satisfy their hope here, that they did not wish and hope for something more excellent, or whether they had ever that faith in their own wisdom, or in the help of man, that they were not constrained to have recourse to some diviner and superior power, than they could find on earth, to relieve them in their danger or necessity, whether ever they could place their love on any earthly beauty, that it did not fade and wither, if not frustrate or deceive them, or whether ever their joy was so consummate in any thing they delighted in, that they did not want much more than it, or indeed this world can afford, to make them happy. The proper objects of these faculties, therefore, though framed, or at least appearing in this world, is God only, upon whom faith, hope and love, were never placed in vain, or remain long unrequited. But to leave these discourses, and come to my childhood again. I remember this defluction at my ears above- mentioned continued in that violence, that my friends did not think fit to teach me so much as my alphabet until I was seven years old, at which time my defluction ceased, and left me free of the disease my ancestors were subject unto, being the epilepsy. My schoolmaster in the house of my said lady grandmother began then to teach me the alphabet, and afterwards grammar, and other books commonly read in schools; in which I profited so much, that upon this theme Awdaces fortuna juvat, I made an oration of a sheet of paper, and fifty or sixty verses in the space of one day. I remember in that time I was corrected sometimes for going to cuffs with two school-fellows being both LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. elder than myself, but never for telling a fie or any other fault ; my natural disposition and inclination being so contrary to all falsehood, that being demanded whether I had committed any fault whereof I might be justly suspected, I did use ever to confess it freely, and thereupon choosing rather to suffer correction than to stain my mind with telling a lie, which I did judge then, no time could ever deface ; and I can afiirm to all the world truly, that, from my first infancy to this hour, I told not willingly anything that was false, my soul naturally having an antipathy to lying and deceit. After I had attained the age of nine, during all which time I lived in my said lady grandmother’s house at Eton, my parents thought fit to send me to some place where I might learn the Welch. tongue, as believing it necessary to enable me to treat with those of my friends and tenants who understood no other language ; whereupon I was recommended to Mr, Edward Thelwall, of Place-ward in Dengh- byshire. This gentleman I must remember with honour, as having of himself acquired the exact knowledge of Greek, Latin, French, Italian, and Spanish, and all other learning, having for that purpose neither gone beyond seas, nor so much as had the benefit of any universities. Besides, he was of that rare temper in governing his choler, that I never saw him angry during the time of my stay there, and have heard so much of him for many years before. When occasion of offence was given him, I have seen him redden in the face, and after remain for a while silent, but when he spake, his words were so calm and gentle, that I found he had digested his choler, though yet I confess [ could never attain that perfection, as being subject ever to choler and passion more than I ought, and generally to speak my mind freely, and indeed rather to imitate those, who, haying fire within doors, choose rather to give it vent than suffer it to burn the house. I commend yet much more the manner of Mr. Thelwall; and, certainly, he that can forbear speaking for somewhile, will remit much of his passion; but as I could not learn much of him in this kind, so J did as little profit in learning the Welch, or any other of those languages that worthy gentleman understood, as having a tertian ague for the most part of nine months, which was all the time I staid in his house. Having recovered my strength again, I was sent, being about the age of ten, to be taught by one Mr. Newton at Didlebury in Shropshire, where in the space of less than two years, I not only recovered all I had lost in my sickness, but attained to the knowledge of the Greek tongue and logic, in so much, that at twelve years old my parents thought fit to send me to Oxford to Univer- sity College, where I remember to have disputed be my first coming in logic, and to have made in reek the exercises required in that college, oftener than in Latin. I had not been many months in the University, but news was brought me of my father’s death, his sickness being a lethargy, cavros, or coma vigilans, which continued long upon him ; he seemed at last to die without much pain, though in his senses. Upon opinion given by physicians that his disease was mortal, my mother thought fit to send for me home, and presently after my father’s death, to desire her brother Sir Francis Newport to haste to London to obtain my wardship for his and her use jointly, 323 LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. which he obtained. Shortly after I was sent again to my studies in Oxford, where I had not been long but that an overture for a match with the daughter and heir of Sir William Herbert of St. Gillian’s was made, the occasion whereof was this: Sir William Herbert being heir-male to the old Earl of Pembroke above mentioned bya younger son of his, (for the eldest son had a daughter, who carried away those great possessions the Earl of Worcester now holds in Monmouthshire, as I said before,) having one only daughter surviving, made a will, whereby he estated all his possessions in Monmouthshire and Ireland upon his said daughter, upon condition she married one of the surname of Herbert, otherwise the said lands to descend to the heirs-male of the said Sir William, and his daughter to have only a small portion out of the lands he had in Anglesey and Carnarvanshire : his lands being thus settled, Six William died shorily afterwards. He was a man much conversant with books, and especially given to the study of divinity, in so much, that he writ an Exposition upon the Revelations, which is printed; though some thought he was as far from finding the sense thereof as he was from attaining the philosopher’s stone, which was another part of his study : how- soever, he was very understanding in all other things,—he was noted yet to be ofa very high mind: but I can say little of him, as having never seen his person, nor otherwise had much information concerning him. His daughter and heir, called Mary, after her father died, continued unmarried witil she was one-and-twenty ; none of the Herberts appearing in all that time, who, either in age or fortune, was fit to match her. About this time I had attained the age of fifteen, and a match ai last being proposed, yet, notwithstanding the disparity of years betwixt us, upon the eight-and-twentieth of February 1598, in the house of Eton, where the same man, vicar of , married my father and mother, christened and married me, I espoused her. Not long after my marriage I went again to Oxford, together with my wife and mother, who took a house, and lived for some certain time there ; and now, having a due remedy for that Jasciviousness to which youth is naturally inclined, I followed my book more close than ever,in which course I continued until I attained about the age of eighteen, when my mother took a house in London, between which place and Montgomery Castle I passed my time till 1 came to the age of one-and-twenty, having in that space divers child- ren: I having now none remaining but Beatrice, Richard, and Edward. During this time of living in the University, or at home, I did, without any master or teacher, attain the knowledge of the French, Italian, and Spanish languages, by the help of some books in Latin or English translated into those idioms, and the dictionaries of those several languages ; | attained also to sing my part at first sight in music, and to play on the lute with very little or almost no teaching. My intention in learning languages being to make myself a citizen of the world as far asit were possible ; and my learning of music was for this end, that I might entertain myself at home, and together refresh my mind after my studies, to which I was exceedingly inclined, and that I might not need the company of young men, in whom I observed in those times much ill example and debauchery. 17 Being gotten thus far into my age, I shall give some observations concerning ordinary education, even from the first infancy till the departure from the university ; as being desirous, together with the narration of my life, to deliver such rules as I conceive may be useful to my posterity. And first, I find, that in the infancy these diseases are to be remedied which may be hereditary unto them on either side; so that, if they be subject to the stone or gravel, I do conceive it will be good for the nurse sometimes to drink posset drinks, in which are boiled such things as are good to expel gravel and stone; the child also himself, when he comes to some age, may use the same posset drinks of herbs, as milium solis, saxifrigia, &c.; good for the stone many are reckoned by the physcians, of which also myself could bring a large catalogue, but rather leave it to those who are expert in that art. The same course is to be taken for the gout; for which purpose I do much commend the bathing of children’s legs and feet in the water wherein smiths quench their iron; as also water wherein alum hath been infused, or boiled ; as also the de- coction of juniper berries, bay berries, chamedris, chameepetis, which baths also are good for those that are hereditarily subject to the palsy, for these things do much strengthen the sinews; as also olium castorii, and suecconi, which are not to be used without advice. They that are also subject to the spleen from their ancestors, ought to use those herbs that are splenetics ; and those that are troubled with the falling sickness, with cephaniques, of which certainly I should have had need but for the purging of my ears above mentioned. Briefly, what disease soever it be that is derived from ancestors of either side, it will be necessary first to give such medicines to the nurse as may make her milk effectual for those purposes ; as also afterwards to give unto the child itself such specific remedies as his age and constitution will bear. I could say much more upon this point, as having delighted ever in the knowledge of herbs, plants, and gums, and in few words the history of nature, in so much, that coming to apothecaries’ shops, it was my ordinary manner when I locked upon the bills filed up, containing the physicians’ prescriptions, to tell every man’s disease ; howbeit, I shall not presume in these particulars to prescribe to my posterity, though I believe I know the best receipts for almest all diseases, but shall leave them to the expert physicians ; only I will recommend again to my posterity the curing of hereditary diseases in the very infancy, since, otherwise, without much difficulty, they will never be cured. When children go to school, they should have one to attend them, who may take care of their manners, as well as the school-master doth of their learning ; for among boysall vice is easily learned ; and here I could wish it constantly observed, that neither the master should correct him for faults of his manners, nor his governor for manners for the faults in his learning. After the alphabet is taught, I like well the shortest and clearest gram- mars, and such books into which all the Greek and Latin words are severally contrived, in which kind one Comenus hath given an example: this being done, it would be much better to proceed with Greek authors than with Latin ; for as it is as easy to learn at first the one as the other, it would he 329 18 much better to give the first impressions into the child’s memory of those things which are more rare than usual: therefore I would have them begin at Greek first, and the rather that there is not that art inthe world wherein the Greeks have _ not excelled and gone before others ; so that when you look upon philosophy, astronomy, mathematics, medicine, and briefly all learning, the Greeks have exceeded all nations. When he shall be ready to go to the university, it will be fit also his governor for manners go along with him; it being the frail nature of youth, as they grow to ripeness in age, to be more capable of doing ill, unless their manners be well guided, and themselves by degrees habituated in virtue, with which if once they ac- quaint themselves, they will find more pleasure in it than ever they can do in vice ; since every body loves virtuous persons, whereas the vicious do scarce love one another. For this purpose, it will be necessary that you keep the company of grave, learned men, who are of good reputation, and hear rather what they say, and follow what they do, than follow the examples of young, wild, and rash persons ; and certainly of those two parts which are to be acquired in youth, whereof one is goodness and virtuous manners, the | other learning and knowledge, I shall so much prefer the first before the second, as I shall ever think virtue, accompanied with ordinary diseretion,, | will make his way better both to happiness in this | world and the next, than any puffed knowledge: which would cause him to be insolent and vain- glorious, or minister, as it were, arms and advan- tages to him for doing a mischief; so that it is pity that wicked dispositions should have know- ledge to actuate their ill intentions, or courage to maintain them ; that fortitude which should defend all a man’s virtues, being never well employed to defend his humours, passions, or vices. I do not approve for elder brothers that course of study which is ordinarily used in the university, which is, if their parents perchance intend they shall stay there four or five years, to employ the said time as if they meant to proceed masters of art and doc- tors in some science; for which purpose, their tutors commonly spend much time in teaching them the subtilties of logic, which, as it is usually practised, enables them for little more than to be excellent wranglers, which art, though it may be tolerable in a mercenary lawyer, I can by no means: com- mend in a sober and well-governed gentleman, I approve much those parts of logic which teach men to deduce their proofs from firm and un- doubted principles, and show men to distinguish betwixt truth and falsehood, and help them to discover fallacies, sophisms, and that which the schoolmen call vicious argumentations, concerning which I shall not here enterintoa long discourse. So much of logic as may serve for this purpose being acquired, some good sum of philosophy may be learned, which may teach him both the ground of the Platonic and Aristotelian philosophy. After which it will not be amiss to read the Idea Medici- nee Philosophice, written by Severnius Danus, there being many things considerable concerning the Paracelsian principles written im that. book, which are not to be found in former writers ; it will not be amiss also to read over Franciscus Patricius, and Tilesius, who have examined and controverted the ordinary Peripatetic doctrine : LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. all which may be performed in oneyear, that term being enough for philosophy, as I conceive, and six months for logic, for I am confident a man may have quickly more than he needs of these two arts: These being attained, i will be requisite to study geography with exactness, so much as may teach a man the situation of all countries in the whole world, together with which, it will be: fit to learn something concerning the governments, man- ners, religions, either ancient or new, as also the interests of states, and relations in amity or strength in which they stand to their neighbours ¢ it will be necessary also, at the same time, to learn the use of the celestial globe, the studies of both globes being complicated and joined together. 1 do not conceive yet the knowledge of judicial astrology so necessary, but only for general predic- tions ; particular events being neither intended by nor collected out of the stars. It will be also fit to learn arithmetic and geometry in some good measure, but especially arithmetic, it being most useful for many purposes, and among’ the: rest, for keeping accounts, whereof here is much use. As for the knowledge of lines, superficies, and bodies, though it be a science of much certainty and demonstration, it is not much useful for a gen- tleman, unless: it be to understand fortifications, the knowledge whereof is worthy of those who intend the wars; though yet he must remember, that whatsoever art doth in way of defence, art likewise, in way of assailing, can. destroy. This study hath cost me much labour, but as yet I could never find how any place could. be so forti- fied but that there were means in certain: opposite lines, to prevent or subvert all: that could be done inthat kind. It will become a gentleman to have some knowledge: in medicine, especially the dia- gnostic part, whereby he may take timely notice of a disease, and by that means timely prevent it ; as also the prognostic part, whereby he may judge of the symptoms either increasing or decreasing in the disease, as also concerning the crisis or indica- tion thereof, This art will get a gentleman not only much knowledge, but much credit; since seeing any sick body, he will be able to tell, in all human probability, whether he shall recover, or if he shall die of the disease,—to tell what signs shall go before, and what the conclusion will be ; it will become him also to: know not only the ingredients, but doses, of certain cathartic or purging, emetic or vomitive medicines, specific or choleric, me- lancholic, or phlegmatic constitutions, phlebotomy being only necessary for those who abound in blood. Besides, I would have a gentleman know how to make these medicines himself, and after- wards prepare them with his own hands ; it being the manner of apothecaries so. frequently to put in thesuccedanea, that no man is sure to find with them! medicines made with the true drugs. which ought! to enter into the composition when it is exotic or rare; or when they are extant.in the shop, no mam can be assured that the said drugs are not rotten, or that they have not lost their natural force and virtue. I have studied this art very much: also, and have, in case of extremity, ministered physic with that success which is strange, whereof I shall. give two or three examples: Richard Griffiths of Sutton, my servant, being sick of a malignant pestilent. fever, and: tried’ in vain all our country _ physicians could do; and_ his. water at last.stinking ae a aie, ae ne Ne ernn a TNR noe nfs SST RSET) oo LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. 19 So grievously, which physicians note to be a sign of extension of natural heat, and consequently of present death, I was entreated to see him, when as yet he had neither eaten, drank, slept, or known any body for the space of six or seven days; whereupon demanding whether the physicians had given him over, and it being answered unto me that they had, I said it would not be amiss to give him the quantity of an hazel-nut of a certain rare receipt which I had, assuring, that if any thing in the world could recover him, that would ; of which I was so confident, that I would come the next day at four of the clock in the afternoon unto him, and at that time I doubted not but they should find signs of amendment, provided they should put the doses I gave them, being about the bigness of a nut, down his throat; which being done with much. difficulty, I came the morrow after, at the hour appointed, when, to the wonder of his family, he knew me, and asked for some broth, and not long after recovered. My cousin, Athelston Owen, also of Rhue Sayson, having an hydrocephale also in that extremity, that his eyes began to start out of his head, and his tongue to come out of his mouth, and his whole head finally exceeding its natural proportion, insomuch that his physicians likewise left him; I prescribed to him the decoction of two diuretic roots, which after he had drank four or five days, he urined in that abundance that his head by degrees returned to its ancient figure, and all other signs of health appeared ; whereupon also he wrote a letter to me, that he was so sud- denly and perfectly restored to his former health, that it seemed more like a miracle than a cure ; for those are the very words in the letter he sent me. I cured:a great lady in London of an issue of blood, when all the physicians had given her over, with so easy a medicine, that the lady her- self was astonished to find the effects thereof. I could give more examples in this kind, but these shall suffice ; I will for the rest deliver a rule I- conceive for finding out the best receipts not only for curing all inward but outward hurts, such as are ulcers, tumours, contusions, wounds, and the like : you must look upon all pharmacopoeias or antidotaries * of several countries, of which sort I have in my library the Pharmacopeia Londinensis, Parisiensis, Amstelodamensis, that of Queresetau,+ Bauderoni, Renadeus, Valerius Scordus, Pharma- copeia Coloniensis, Augustana, Venetiana, Vononien- sis, Florentina, Romana, Messanensis ; in some of which are told not only what the receipts there set down are good for, but the doses of them. The rule I here give is, that what all the said dispensatories, antidotaries, or pharmacopceias prescribe as ef- fectual for overcoming a disease, is certainly good ; for as they are set forth by the authority of the physicians of these several countries, what they all ordain must necessarily be'effectual: but they who will follow my advice, shall find in that little short an- tidotary called Amstelodamensis, not long since put * Antidotaries usually make a part of the old dispen- satories; for when poisons were in fashion, antidotes were equally s9. + Josephus Quercetanus published a Pharmacopwia dogmaticorum restituta, 1607, 4to Paris. Bricius Baude- ronus, Pharmacopeia, et Praxis Medica, 1620, Paris. Johannes Renadzus, Dispensaterium Medicum, et Anti- dotarium, 1609, 4to. Paris. Valerius Cordus, Dispensato- rium. Antw. 1568. forth, almost all that is necessary to be known for curing of diseases, wounds, &e. There is’ a book called Aurora Medicorum, very fit to be read in this kind. Among writers of physic, I do espes cially commend, after Hippocrates and Galen, Fernelius,* Lud. Mercatus, and Dan. Sennertus, and Heurnius: I could name many more, but I conceive these may suffice. As for the chemic or spagyrie medicines, I cannot commend them to the use of my posterity: there being neither emetic, cathartic, diaphoretic, diuretic medicines extant among them, which are not much more happily and safely performed by vegetables; but hereofenough, since I pretend no further than to give some few directions to my posterity. Inthe mean- while I conceive it is a fine study, and worthy a gentleman to be a good botanic, that so he may know the nature of all herbs and plants, being our fellow creatures, and made for the use of man; for which purpose it will be fit for him to cull out of some good herbal all the icones together, with the descriptions of them, and to lay by them- selves all such as grow in England, and afterwards to select again such as usually grow by the high- way-side, in meadows, by rivers, or in marshes, o1 in corn-fields, or in dry and mountainous places, or on rocks, walls, or in shady places, such as grow by the sea-side ; for this being done, and the said icones being ordinarily carried by themselves, or by their servants, one may presently find out every herb he meets withal, especially if the said flowers be truly coloured. Afterwards it will not be amiss to distinguish by themselves such herbs as are in gardens, and are exotics, and are trans- planted hither. As for those plants which will not endure our clime, though the knowledge of them be worthy of a gentleman, and the virtues of them be fit to be learned, especially if they be brought over to a druggist as medicinal, yet the icones of them are not so pertinent to be known as the former, unless it be where there is less danger of adulterating the said medicaments ; in which case, it is good to have recourse to not only the botanics, but also to Gesnar’s Dispensatory, and to Aurora Medicorum, above mentioned, being books which make a man distinguish betwixt good and bad drugs: and thus much of medicine may not only be useful but delectable to a gentleman, since which way soever he passeth, he may find some- thing to entertain him. I must no less commend the study of anatomy, which whosoever considers, I believe will never be an atheist; the frame of man’s body, and coherence of his parts, being so strange and paradoxal, that I hold it to be the greatest miracle of nature; though when all is done, I do not find she hath made it so much as proof against one disease, lest it should be thought to have made it no less than a prison to the soul. Having thus passed over all human literature, it will be fit to say something of moral virtues and theological learning. As for the first, since the Christians and the heathens are in a manner agreed concerning the definitions. of virtues, it * Johannes Fernelius (Physician to Henry II. of France) published Opera Medicinalia, et Universa Medicina, 1564, 4to, and 1577, fol. Lud. Mercatus (Physician to Philip II. and II. of Spain) was author of Opera Medica et Chirur- gica, fol. Francof. 1620. Daniel Sennertus pubiished, institutiones Medicine, 1620; and Johannes Heurnius a work with the same title, 1597, Lugduni. 331 ae would not be inconvenient to begin with those defi- nitions which Aristotle in his Morals hath given, as being confirmed for the most part by the Platonics, Stoies, and other philosophers, and in general by the Christian church, as well as ali nations in the world whatsoever ; they being doctrinesimprinted in the soul in its first original, and containing the principal and first notices by which man may attain his happiness here or hereafter ; there being no man that is given to vice that doth not find much opposition both in his own conscience, and in the religion and law is taught elsewhere ; and this I dare say, that a virtuous man may not only go securely through all the religions, but all the laws in the world, and whatsoever obstructions he meet, obtain -both an imward peace and _ outward welcome among all with whom he shall negotiate or converse. This virtue, therefore, I shall recom- mend to my posterity as the greatest perfection he can attain unto in this life, and the pledge of eternal happiness hereafter : there being none that can justly hope of an union with the supreme God, that doth not come as near to him in this life in virtue and goodness as he can ; so that if human frailty do interrupt this union, by committing faults that make him incapable of his everlasting happiness, it will be fit, by a serious repentance, to expiate and emaculate those faults, and for the rest, trust to the mercy of God, his Creator, Redeemer, and Preserver, who being our Father, and knowing well in what a weak condition through infirmities we are, will, I doubt not, commiserate those transgressions we commit when they are done without desire to offend his Divine Majesty, and together rectify our understanding through his grace; since we commonly sin through no other cause, but that we mistook a true good for that which was only apparent, and so were deceived, by making an undue election in the objects proposed to us ; wherein, though it will be fit for every man to confess that he hath offended an infinite Majesty and Power, yet as, upon better consideration, he finds he did not mean infinitely to offend, there will be just reason to believe that God will not inflict an infinite punishment upon him if he be truly penitent, so that his justice may be satisfied, if not with man’s repentance, yet at least with some temporal punishment here or hereafter, such as may be _ proportionable to the offence ; though I cannot deny but when man would infinitely offend God in a despiteful and contemptuous way, it will be but just that he suffer an infinite punishment : but as 1 hope none are so wicked as to:sin purposedly, and with an high hand against the éternal Majesty of God ; so when they shall commit any sins out of frailty, I shall believe, either, that unless they be finally impenitent, and (as they say, sold ingeniously over to sin) God’s mercy will accept of their endeavours to return into a right way, and so make their peace with him by all those good means that are possible. Having thus recommended the learning of moral philosophy and practice of virtue, as the most necessary knowledge and useful exercise of man’s life, I shall observe, that even in the em- ploying of our virtues, discretion is required ;.for. every virtue is not promiscuously to be used, but such only as is proper for the present occasion. Therefore, though a wary and discreet wisdom be most useful where no imminent danger appears, | 296 a vention being too late, when the danger is so pressing. On the other side, there is no occasion to use your fortitude against wrongs done by womer or children, or ignorant persons, that I may say nothing of those that are much your superiors, who are magistrates, Kc. sinee you might by a. discreet wisdom have declined the injury, or when it were too late to do so, you may with more equal . mind support that which is done, either by authority in the one, or frailty in the other, And certainly to such kind of persons forgiveness will be proper ; in which kind Iam confident no man of my time hath exceeded me; for though whensoever my honour hath been engaged, no man hath ever beer. more forward to hazard his life, yet where, with my honour I could forgive, I never used revenge, as leaving it always to God, who, the less I punish mine enemies will inflict * somuch the more punishment on them ; and to this forgiveness of others three considerations have especially invited me :— 1, That he that cannot forgive others, breaks the bridge over which he must pass himself, for every man had need to be forgiven. 2. That when a man wants or comes short of an entire and accomplished virtue, our defects may be supplied this way, since the forgiving of evil deeds in others amounteth to no less than virtue in us; that therefore it may be not unaptly called the paying our debts with another man’s money. 3. That itis the most necessary and proper work of every man ; for, though when I do not a just thing, or a charitable, or a wise, another man may do it for me, yet no man can forgive my enemy but myself. And these have been the chief mo- tives for which I have been ever inclined to for- giveness ; whereof, though I have rarely found other effect than that my servants, tenants, and neighbours, have thereupon more frequently of- fended me, yet at least I have had within me an inward peace and comfort thereby ; since I can truly say, nothing ever gave my mind more ease than when I had forgiven my enemies, which freed me from many cares and perturbations, which otherwise would have molested me. And this likewise brings in another rule con- cerning the use of virtues, which is, that you are not to use justice where mercy is most proper ; as on the other side, a foolish pity is not to be pre- ferred before that which is just and necessary for good example. So likewise liberality is not to be used where parsimony or frugality is more re- quisite ; as on the other side it will be but a sordid thing in a gentleman to spare where expending of * This is a very unchristian reason for pardoning our enemies, and can by no means be properly called forgive- ness. Isit forgiveness to remit a punishment, on the hope of its being doubled? One of the most exceptionable pas sages in Shakspeare is the horrid reflection of Hamlet, that he will not kill the King at his prayers, lest he send him to Heaven.—“ And so am I revenged.” Such senti- ments should always be marked and condemned, especially in authors, who certainly do not mean to preach up malice and revenge. His Lordship’s other reasons are better founded, though still selfish. He doesnot appear a humane philosopher, till he owns that he continued to forgive, though he found that it encouraged new injuries. The beauty of virtue consists in doing right though to one’sown prejudice. a atmos | LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. 2} money would acquire unto him advantage, credit or honour ; and this rule in general ought to be practised, that the virtue requisite to the occasion is ever to be produced, as the most opportune and necessary. ‘That, therefore, wisdom is the soul of all virtues, giving them as unto her members life and motion, and so necessary in every action, that whosoever by the benefit of true wisdom makes use of the right virtue, on all emergent occasions, I dare say would never he constrained to have re- course to vice, whereby it appears that every virtue is not to be employed indifferently, but that only which is proper for the business in suestion ; among which yet temperance seems so universally requisite, that some part of it at least will be a necessary ingredient in all human actions, since there may be an excess even in religious worship, at those times when other duties are re- quired at our hands. After all, moral virtues are learned and directed to the service and glory of God, as the principal end and use of them. It would be fit that some time be spent in learn- ing rhetoric or oratory, to the intent that upon all occasions you may express yourself with elo- quence and grace ; for, as it is not enough for a man to have a diamond unless it is polished and cut out into its due angles, and a foil be set under- neath, whereby it may the better transmit and vibrate its native lustre and rays ; so it will not be sufficient for a man to have a great understanding in all matters, unless the said understanding be not only polished and clear, but underset and holpen a little with those figures, tropes, and | colours which rhetoric affords, where there is use of persuasion, I can by no means yet commend an affected eloquence, there being nothing so pedantical, or indeed that would give more sus- picion that the truth is not intended, than to use overmuch the common forms prescribed in schools. lt is well said by them, that there are two parts of eloquence necessary and recommendable ; one is, to speak hard things plainly, so that when a knotty or intricate business, having no method or cohe- rence in its parts, shall be presented, it will be a singular part of oratory to take those parts asunder, set them together aptly, and so exhibit them to the understanding. And this part of rhetoric I much commend to every body ; there being no true use of speech, but to make things clear, perspicuous, and manifest, which otherwise would be perplexed, doubtful, and obscure. The other part of oratory is to speak common things ingeniously or wittily ; there being no little vigour and force added to words, when they are de- livered in a neat and fine way, and somewhat out of the ordinary road, common and dull language re- lishing more of the clown than the gentleman. But herein also affectation must be avoided ; it being better for a man by a native and clear eloquence to express himself, than by those words which may smell either of the lamp er inkhorn; so that, in general, one may observe, that men who for- tify and uphold their speeches with strong and evident reasons, have ever operated more on the minds of the auditors, than those who have made rhetorical excursions. Tt will be better for a man who is doubtful of his pay to take an ordinary silver piece with its due stamp upon it, than an extraordinary gilded piece which may perchance contain a baser metal under it; and prefer a well-favoured wholesome woman, though with a tawny complexion, before a besmeared and painted face. It is a general note, that a man’s wit is best shewed in his answer, and his valour in his defence ; that therefore as men learn in fencing how to ward all blows and thrusts, which are or can be made against him, so it will be fitting to debate and resolve beforehand what you are to say or do upon any affront given you, lest otherwise you should be surprised. Aristotle hath written a book of rhetoric, 2 work in my opinion not inferior to his best pieces, whom therefore with Cicero de Oratore, as also Quintilian, you may read for your instruction how to speak ; neither of which two yet I can think so exact in their orations, but that a middle style will be of more efficacy, Cicero in my opinion being too long and tedious, and Quin- tilian too short and concise. Having thus by moral philosophy enabled your- self to all that wisdom and goodness which is re- quisite to direct you in all your particular actions, it will be fit now to think how you are to behave yourself as a public person, or member of the commonwealth and kingdom wherein you live; as also to look into those principles and grounds upon which government is framed, it being manifest in nature that the wise doth easily govern the foolish, and the strong master the weak, so that he that could attain most wisdom and power, would quickly rule his fellows; for proof whereof, one may observe that a king is sick during that time the physicians govern him, and in day of batile an expert general appoints the king a place in which he shall stand; which was anciently the office of the constables de France. In law also the judge is in a sort superior to his king as long as he judgeth betwixt him and his people. In divinity also, he to whom the king commits the charge of his conscience, is his superior in that particular. All which mstances may sufficiently prove, that in many cases the wiser governs or commands one less wise than himself, unless a wilful obstinacy be interposed ; in which case re- course must be had to strength, where obedience is necessary. The exercises I chiefly used, and most recom- mend to my posterity, were riding the great horse and fencing, in which arts I had excellent masters, English, French, and Italian. As for dancing, I could never find leisure enough to learn it, as em- ploying my mind always in acquiring of some art or science more useful ; howbeit, I shall wish these three exercises learned in this order. That dancing may be learnt first, as that whicl: doth fashion the body, gives one a good presence in and address to all companies, since it disposeth the limbs to a kind of sowplesse (as the Frenchmen call it) and agility, in so much as they seem to have the use of their legs, arms, and bodies, more than any others, who, standing stiff and stark in their postures, seem as if they were taken in their joints or had not the perfect use of their members.. I speak not this yet as if I would have a youth. never stand still in company, but only, that wher he hath occasion to stir, his motions may be comely and graceful, that he may learn to know how to come in and go out of a room where company is, how to make courtesies handsomely, according ta the several degrees of persons he shall encounter. 22 LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. how to put off and hold his hat ; all which, and many other things which become mien, are taught by the more accurate dancing-masters in France, The next exercise a young man-should learn (but not before he is eleven or twelve years of age) is fencing; for the attaining of which the French- man’s rule is excellent, bon pied bon eil, by which to teach men how far they may stretch out their feet when they would make a thrust against their enemy, lest either should overstride themselves, or, not striding far enough, fail to bring the point of their weapon home. The second part of his direction adviseth the scholar to keep a fixed eye upon the point of his enemy’s sword, to the intent he may both put by or ward the blows and thrusts made against him, and together direct the. point of his sword upon some part of his enemy that lieth naked and open to him. The good fencing-masters, in France especially, when they present a foyle or fieuret to their scholars, tell him it hath two parts, one of which he calleth the fort or strong, and the other the foyble or weak. With the fort or strong, which extends from the part of the hilt next the sword about a third part of the whole length thereof, he teacheth his scholars to defend themselves, and put by and ward the thrusts and blows of his enemy; and with the other two third parts to strike or thrust as he shall see occasion ; which rule also teacheth how to strike or thrust high or low as his enemy doth, and briefly to take his measure and time upon his adversary’s motions, whereby he may both defend himself or offend his adversary, of which I have had much experiment and use both in the fleuret, or foyle, as also when I fought in good earnest with many persons at one and the same time, as will appear in the sequel of my life. And, indeed, I think I shall not speak vain-glo- viously of myself, if I say, that no man understood the use of his weapon better than I did, or hath more dexterously prevailed himself thereof on all occasions ; since I found no man could be hurt but through some error in fencing. I spent much time also in learning to ride the great horse, that creature being made above all others for the service of man, as giving his rider all the advantages of which he is capable, while sometimes he gives him strength, sometimes agility or motion for the overcoming of his enemy, in so much, that a good rider on a good horse, is as: much above himself and others as this world can make him. The rule for graceful. riding is, that a man hold his eyes always betwixt the two ears, and his rod over the left ear of his horse, which he is to use for turning him every way, helping him- self with his left foot, and rod upon the left part of his neck, to make his horse turn on the right hand, and with the right foot and help of his rod also (if needs be,) to turn him on the left hand ; but this is to be used rather when one would make a horse understand these motions, than when he is a ready horse, the foot and stirrup alone applied to either shoulder being sufficient, with the help of the reins, to make him turn any way. That a rider thus may have the use of his sword, or when it is requisite only to make a horse go sidewards, it will be enough to keep the reins equal in. his hand, and with the flat of his leg and foot together, and a touch upon the shoulder of the horse with the stirrup to make him go sideway. either way, ot | without either’ advancing forward, or returning backwards. The most useful aer, as the Frenchmen term it, is territerr ; the courbettes, cabrioes, or wn pas et wn soult, being fitter for horses of parade and triumph than for soldiers; yet I cannot deny but a demivolte with courbettes, so that they be not too high, may be’ useful in a fight or meslee ; for, as Labroue hath it in his book of horsemanship, Monsieur de Montmorency having a horse that was excellent in performing the demivolte, did with his sword strike down two adversaries from their horses in a tournay, where divers of the prime gallants of France did meet ; for taking his time when the horse was in the height of his courbette, and discharging a blow, then his sword fell with such weight and force upon the two cavaliers one after another, that he struck them from their horses to the ground. The manner of fighting a duel on horseback I was taught thus. We had each of us a reasonable stiff riding rod in our hands, about the length of a sword, and so rid one against the other; he as the more expert sat still to pass me and then to get behind me, and after to turn with his right hand upon my left side with his rod, that so he might hit me with the point thereof in the body ; and he that can do this handsomely, is sure to overcome his adversary, it being impossible to bring his sword about enough to defend himself or offend the assailant; and to get this advantage, which they call in French gagner la crowppe, nothing is so useful as to make a horse to go only sideward until his enemy be past him, since he will by this means avoid his adversary’s blow or thrust, and on a sudden get on the left hand of his adversary in the manner I formerly related ; but of this art let Labroue and Pluvinel* be read, who are excellent masters in that art, of whom I must confess I learned much ; though, to speak ingenu- ously, my breaking two or three colts, and teaching them afterwards those aers of which they were most capable, taught me both what I was to do, and made me see mine errors, more than all their precepts. To make a horse fit for the wars, and embolden him against all terrors, these inventions are useful : to beat a drum out of the stable first, and then give him his provender, then beat a drum in the stable by degrees, and then give him his provender upon the drum. When he is acquainted herewith sufficiently, you must shoot off a pistol out of the stable, before he hath his provender; then you may shoot off a pistol in the stable, and so by degrees bring it as near to him as you can till he be acquainted with the pistol, likewise remember- ing still after every shot to give him’ more pro- vender. You must also cause his groom to put on bright armour, and so to rub his heels and dress him. You must also present a sword before him in the said armour, and when you have done, give * Antoine de Pluvinel, principal Ecuyer de Louis treize Roide France. He published a very fine folio, in French and Dutch, intituled, Instruction du Roi en Vexercice de monter a cheval. Paris, 1619. It consists of dialogues be- tween the young King, the Duc de Bellegarde, and himself ; and is adorned with a great number of beautiful cuts, by Crispin Pass, exhibiting the whole system of the ‘manege; and with many portraits of the great and re- markable men of that court. LIFE OF LORD HERBERT: 23 him still some more provender. Lastly, his rider must bring his horse forth into the open field, where a bright armour must be fastened upon a stake, and set forth in the likeness of an armed man as much as possible ; which being done, the rider must put his horse on until he make him not only approach the said image, but throw it down’; which being done, you must be sure to give him some provender, that he may be encouraged to do the: like against an adversary in battle, It will be good also that two men do hold up a cloak betwixt them in the field, and then the rider to put the horse to it until he leap over, which cloak also they may raise as they see occasion, when the horse is able to leap so high. You shall do well also to use your horse to swimming ; which you may do, either by trailing him after you at the tail of a boat, in a good river, holding him by the head at the length of the bridle, or by putting a good swimmer in a linen waistcoat and breeches upon him. It will be fit for a gentleman also to learn to swim, unless he be given to cramps and convulsions; howbeit, I must confess, in my own particular, that [ cannot swim ; for, as I was once in danger of drowning, by learning to swim, my mother, upon her blessing, charged me never to learn swimming, telling me further, that she had heard of more drowned than saved by it ; which reason, though it did not prevail with me, yet her commandment did. It will be good also for a gentleman to learn to leap, wrestle, and vault on horseback; they being all of them qualities of great use. I do much approve likewise of shooting in the long bow, as being both an healthful exercise and useful for the wars, notwithstanding all that our firemen speak against it; for, bring an hundred archers against so many musqueteers, I say if the archer comes within his distance, he will not only make two shoots, but two hits for one. The exercises I do not approve of are riding of running horses, there being much cheating in that kind ; neither do I see why a brave man should delight in a creature whose chief use isto help him to run away. I do not much like of hunting horses, that exercise taking up more time than can be spared from a man studious to get knowledge ; it is enough, therefore, to know the sport, if there be‘any in it, without making it an ordinary prac- tice ; and, indeed, of the two, hawking is the better, because less time is spent in it. And upon these terms also I can allow a little bowling ; so that the company be choice and good. The exercises I wholly condemn, are dicing and carding, especially if you play for any great sum of money, or spend any time in them ; or use to come to meetings in dicing-houses, where cheaters meet and cozen young gentlemen of all their money. I could say much more concerning all these points of education, and particularly concerning the discreet civility which is to be observed in commu- nication either with friends or strangers, but this work would grow too big ; and that many precepts conducing thereunto may be had in Guazzo de la Civile Conversation, and Galeteus de Moribus. It would also deserve a particular lecture or recherche, how one ought to behave himself with children, servants, tenants, and neighbours ; and I am confident, that precepts in this point will be found more useful to young gentlemen, than all the subtleties of schools. I confess I have collected. many things to this purpose, which I forbear to set down here ; because, if God grant me hfe and health, [ intend to make a little treatise concerning these points. I shall return now to the narration of mine own history. When I had attained the age betwixt eighteen or nineteen years, my mother, together with myself and wife, removed up to London, where we took house, and kept a greater family than became either my mother’s widow’s estate, or such young beginners as we were’; especially, since six brothers and three sisters were to be provided for, my father having either made no will, or such an imperfect one, thatit was not proved. My mother, although she had all my father’s leases and goods, which were of great value, yet she desired me to undertake that burden of providing for my brothers and sisters ; which, to gratify my mother, as well as those so near me, I was voluntarily content: to provide thus far, as to give my six brothers thirty pounds a-piece yearly, during their lives, and my three sisters one thousand pound a-piece, which portions married them to those I have above mentioned. My younger sister, indeed, might have been married to a far greater fortune; had not the overthwartness of some neighbours: inter- rupted it. About the year of our Lord 1600 I came to London, shortly after which the attempt of the Earl of Essex, related in our history, followed ; which I had rather were seen in the writers of that argument than here. Not long after this, curiosity, rather than ambition, brought me to court ; and, as it was the manner of those times for all men to kneel down before the great Queen Elizabeth, who then reigned, I was likewise upon my knees in the Presence Chamber, when she passed by to. the Chapel at Whitehall. As soonas she saw me, she stopped, and, swearing her usual oath, demanded, who is this? Every body there present looked upon me, but no man knew me, until Sir James Croft, a pensioner, finding the queen stayed, returned back and told who I was, and that I had married Sir William Herbert of St. Gillian’s daughter. The queen hereupon looked attentively upon me, and swearing again her ordinary oath, said it is pity he was married so young, and there- upon gave her hand to kiss twice, both times gently clapping me on the cheek. I remember little more of myself, but that, from that time until King James’s coming to the crown, I had a son which died shortly afterwards, and that I attended my studies seriously ; the more I learnt out of my books, adding still a desire to know more. King James being now acknowledged king, and coming towards London, I thought fit to meet his Majesty at Burley, near Stamford. Shortly after I was made Knight of the Bath, with the usual ceremonies belonging to that ancient order, I could tell how much my person was commended by the lords and ladies that came to see the solemnity then used ; but I shall flatter myself too much if I believed it. I must not forget yet the ancient custom, being that some principal person was to put on the right spur of those the king had appointed to receive that dignity. The Earl of Shrewsbury, seeing my esquire there with my spur in his hand, voluntarily came to me, and said, Cousin, I believe you will be 35 24 a good knight, and therefore I will put on your spur; whereupon, after my most humble thanks for so great a favour, I held up my leg against the wall, and he put on my spur. There is another custom likewise, that the knights the first day wear the gown of some religious order, and the night following to be bathed ; aiter which they take an oath never to sit in place where injustice should be done, but they shall right it to the uttermost of their power ; and particularly ladies and gentlewomen that shail be wronged in their honour, if they demand | assistance, and many other points, not unlike the romances of knight errantry. The second day to wear robes of crimson taffety (in which habit I am painted in my study), and so to ride from St. James’s to Whitehall, with our esquires before us; and the third day to wear a vown of purple satin, upon the left sleeve whereof is fastened certain strings weaved of white silk and | gold tied in a knot, and tassels to it of the same, which all the knights are obliged to wear until they have done something famous in arms, or until | some lady of honour take it off, and fasten it on her sleeve, saying, I will answer he shall prove a good knight. I had not long worn this string, but a principal lady of the court, and, certainly, in most men’s opinion, the handsomest,* took mine off, and said she would pledge her honour for mine. I do not name this lady, because some passages happened afterwards which oblige me to silence; though nothing could be justly said to her prejudice or wrong. Shortly after this I intended to go with Charles, Karl of Nottingham, the Lord Admiral, who went to Spain to take the king’s oath for confirmation of the articles of peace betwixt the two crowns. Howbeit, by the industry of some near me, who desired to stay me at home, I was hindered; and. instead of going that voyage, was made sheriff of Montgomeryshire, concerning which I will say no more, but that I bestowed the place of under sheriff, as also other places in my gifts frecly, without either taking gift or reward ; which custom also I have observed throughout the whole course of my life; in so much that when I was ambas- sador in France, and might have had great presents, which former ambassadors accepted, for doing lawful courtesies to merchants and others, yet no gratuity, upon what terms soever, could ever be fastened upon me. ; This public duty did not hinder me yet to follow my beloved studies in a country life for the most part ; although sometimes also I resorted to court, without yet that I had any ambition there, and much less was tainted with those corrupt de- lights incident to the times. For, living with my wife in all conjugal loyalty for the space of about ten years after my marriage, I wholly declined the allurements and temptations whatsoever, which might incline me to violate my marriage bed. About the year 1608, my two daughters, called Beatrice and Florance, who lived not yet long after, and one son Richard being born, and come to so much maturity, that, although in their mere child- * Tt is impossible, perhaps, at this distance of time, to ascertain who this lady was; but there is no doubt of her being the same person mentioned afterwards, whom he calls ¢‘ the fairest of her time.” LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. | hood, they gave no little hopes of themselves for _ the future time, I called them all before my wife, demanding how she liked them, to which she answering, well; I demanded then, whether she was willing to do so much for them as I would ? whereupon, she replying, demanded what I meant by that. I told her, that, for my part, I was but young for a man, and she not old for a woman; that our lives were in the hands of God ; that, if he pleased to call either of us away, that party which remained might marry again, and have children by some other, to which our estates might he disposed ; for preventing whereof, I thought fit to motion to her, that if she would assure upon the son any quantity of lands from three hundred pounds a year to one thousand, I would do the like. But my wife not approving hereof, answered, in these express words, that she would not draw the cradle upon her head ; whereupon, I desiring her to advise better upon the business, and to take some few days’ respite for that purpose, she seemed to depart from me not very well contented. About a week or ten days afterwards, I demanded again what she thought concerning the motion I made ; to which yet she said no more, but that she thought she had already answered me sufficiently to the point. I told her then, that I should make another motion to her ; which was, that in regard I was too young to go beyond sea before I married her, she now would give me leave for a while to see foreign countries ; howbeit, if she would assure her lands as I would mine, in the manner above mentioned, I would never depart from her. She answered, that I knew her mind before concerning that point, yet that she should be sorry I went be- yond sea ; nevertheless, if I would needs go, she could not help it. This, whether a licence taken or given, served my turn to prepare without delay for a journey beyond sea, that so I might satisfy that curiosity I long since had to see foreign coun- tries. So that I might leave my wife so little discontented as I could, I left her not only posterity to renew the family of the Herberts of St. Gillian’s, according to her father’s desire to inherit his lands, but the rents of all the lands she brought with her ; reserving mine own, partly to pay my brothers and sisters’ portions, and defraying my charges abroad. Upon which terms, though I was sorry to leave my wife, as having lived most honestly with her all this time, I thought it no such unjust ambition to attain the knowledge of foreign coun- tries ; especially, since I had in great part already attained the languages, and that I intended not to spend any long time out of my country. Before I departed yet, I left her with child of a son, christened afterwards by the name of Edward ; and now coming to court, I obtained a licence to go beyond sea, taking with me for my companien Mr. Aurelian Townsend, a gentleman that spoke the languages of French, Italian, and Spanish, in great perfection, and a man to wait in my chamber, who spoke French, two lackeys, and three horses, Coming thus to Dover, and passing the seas thence to Calais, I journeyed without any memorable ad- venture, until I came to Fauxbourg St. Germans in Paris, where Sir George Carew, then ambassador for the king, lived ; I was kindly received by him, and often invited to his table. Next to his house dwelt the Duke of Ventadour, who had married a daughter of Monsieur de Montmorency, Grand LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. 25 Constable de France. Many visits being exchanged between that duchess and the lady of our ambas- sador, it pleased the duchess to invite me to her father’s house, at the castle of Merlou, being about twenty-four miles from Paris ; and here I found much welcome from that brave old General,* who being informed of my name, said he knew well of what family I was ; telling, the first notice he had of the Herberts was at the siege of St. Quintence, where my grandfather, with a command of foot under William Earl of Pembroke, was. Passing two or three days here, it happened one evening, that a daughter of the duchess, of about ten or eleven years of age, going one evening from the castle to walk in the meadows, myself, with divers French gentlemen, attended her and some gentle- women that were with her. This young lady wearing a knot of ribband on her head, a French chevalier took it suddenly, and fastened it to his hatband. The young lady, offended herewith, de- mands her ribband, but he refusing to restore it, the young lady, addressing herself to me, said, Monsieur, I pray get my ribband from that gentle- man; hereupon, going towards him, I courteously, with my hat in my hand, desired him to do me the honour, that I may deliver the lady her ribband or bouquet again; but he roughly answering me, Do you think I will give it you, when I have refused it to her? I replied, Nay then, sir, I will make you restore it by force ; whereupon also, putting on my hat and reaching at his, he to save himself ran away, and, after a long course in the meadow, finding that I had almost overtook him, he turned short, and running to the young lady, was about to put the ribband on her hand, when I, seizing upon his arm, said to the young lady, It was I that gave it. Pardon me, quoth she, it is he that gives it me. I said then, Madam, I will not contradict you ; but if he dare say that I did not constrain him to give it, I will fight with him. The French gentleman answered nothing thereunto for the present, and so conducted the young lady again to the castle. The next day I desired Mr. Aurelian Townsend to tell the French cavalier, that either he must confess that I constrained him to restore the ribband, or fight with me ; but the gentleman seeing him unwilling to accept of this challenge, went out from the place, whereupon I followimg him, some of the gentlemen that belonged to the Constable taking notice hereof, acquainted him therewith, who sending for the French cavalier, checked him well for his sauciness, in taking the ribband away from his grandchild, and afterwards bid him depart his house ; and this was all that I ever heard of the gentleman, with whom I pro- ceeded in that manner, because I thought myself * Henry de Montmorency, second son of the great Con- stable Anne de Montmorency, who was killed at the battle of St. Denis, 1567, and brother of Duke Francis, another renowned warrior and statesman. Henry was no less dis- tinguished in both capacities, and gained great glory at the battles of Dreux and St. Denis, He was made constable by Henry IV. though he could neither read nor write, and died in the habit of St. Francis, 1614. He was father of the gallant but unfortunate Duke Henry, the last of that illus- trious and ancient line, who took for their motto, Dieu ayde au premier Chretien. The Duchess of Ventadour, mentioned above, was Margaret, second daughter of the Constable, and wife of Anne de Levi, Duke of Venta- dour, obliged thereunto by the oath* taken when I was made knight of the Bath, as I formerly reiated upon this occasion. I must remember also, that three other times I engaged myself to challenge men to fight with me, who I conceived had injured ladies and gentle- women ; one was in defence of my cousin Sir Francis Newport’s daughter, who was married to John Barker of Hamon, whose younger brother and heir + * % # % 2 * * * * x ro * sent him a challenge, which to this day he never answered ; and would have beaten him afterwards, but that 1 was hindered by my uncle Sir Francis Newport. I had another occasion to challenge one Captain Vaughan, who I conceived offered some injury to my sister the Lady Jones of Abarmarlas. I sent him a challenge, which he accepted, the place be- tween us being appointed beyond Greenwich, with seconds on both sides. Hereupon, 1 coming to the King’s Head in Greenwich, with intention the next morning to be in the place, I found the house beset with at least an hundred persons, partly sent by the Lords of the Privy Council, who gave orders to apprehend me. I hearing thereof, desired my servant to bring my horses as far as he could from my lodging, but yet within sight of me ; which being done, and all this company coming to lay hold on me, I and my second, who was my cousin, James Price of Hanachly, sallied out of the doors, with our swords drawn, and in spite of that multitude, made our way to our horses, where my servant very honestly oppos- ing himself against those who would have laid hands upon us, while we got up on horseback, was himself laid hold on by them, and evil treated ; which I perceiving, rid back again, and with my sword in my hand rescued him, and afterwards seeing him get on horseback, charged them to go any where rather than to follow me. Riding after- wards with my second to the place appointed, I found nobody there ; which, as I heard afterwards, happened because the Lords of the Council, taking notice of this difference, apprehended him, and charged him in his Majesty’s name not to fight with me ; since otherwise I believed he would not have failed. The third that I questioned in this kind was a Scotch gentleman, who taking a ribband in the like manner from Mrs. Middlemore, a maid of honour, as was done from the young lady above mentioned, in a back room behind Queen Anne’s lodgings in Greenwich, she likewise desired me to get her the said ribband ; I repaired, as formerly, to him in a courteous manner to demand it, but he refusing as the French cavalier did, I caught him by the neck, and had almost thrown him down, when company * This oath is oneremnant of asuperstitious and roman- tic age, which an age calling itself enlightened still retains. The solemn service at the investiture of knights, which has not the least connection with any thing holy, isa piece of the same profane pageantry. The oath being no longer supposed to bind, it is strange mockery to invoke Heaven on so trifling an occasion. It would bemore strange, if every knight, like the too conscientious Lord Herbert, thought himself bound to cut a man’s throat every time a Miss lost her top-knot ! + This space is left blank, because there is certainly something wanting in the original, 26 LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. zame in and parted us. I offered likewise to fight with this gentleman, and came to the place ap- pointed, by Hyde Park ; but this also was inter- rupted by order of the Lords of the Council, and I never heard more of him. These passages, though different in time, I have related here together, both for the similitude of argument, and that it may appear how strictly I held myself to my oath of knighthood ; since, for the rest, I can truly say, that, though I have lived in the armies and courts of the greatest princes in Christendom, yet I never had a quarrel with man for my own sake ; so that, although in mine own nature I was ever choleric and hasty, yet I never without occasion quarrelled with any body, and as little did any body attempt to give me offence, as having as clear a reputation for my courage as whosoever of my time. For my friends often. I have hazarded myself; but never yet drew my sword for my own sake singly, as hating ever the doing of injury, contenting myself only to resent them when they were offered me. After this digression I shall return to my history. That brave Constable in France testifying now more than formerly his regard of me, at his de- parture from Merlou to his fair house at Chantilly, five or six miles distant, said he left that castle to be commanded by me, as also his forests and chases, which were well stored with wild boar and stag; and that I might hunt them when I pleased. He told me also, that if I would learn to ride the great horse, he had a stable there of some fifty, the best and choicest as was thought in France ; and that his escuyer, called Monsieur de Disan- cour, not inferior to Pluvenel or Labrove, should teach me. I did with great thankfulness accept his offer, as being very much addicted to the exer- cise of riding great horses ; and, as for hunting in his forests, I told him I should use it sparingly, as being desirous to preserve his game. He com- manded also his escuyer to keep a table for me, and his pages to attend me, the chief of whom was Monsieur de Mennon, who proving to be one of the best horsemen in France, keeps now an academy in Paris; and here I shall recount a little passage betwixt him and his master, that the inclination of the French at that time may appear; there being scarce any man _ thought worth the looking on, that had not killed some other in duel. Mennon desiring to marry a niece of Monsieur Disancour, who it was thought should be his heir, was thus answered by him: “Friend, it is not time yet to marry ; I will tell you what you must do. If you will bea brave man, you must first kill in single combat two or three men, then after- wards marry and engender two or three children, so the world will neither have got nor lost by you;” of which strange counsel Disancour was no otherwise the author than as he had been an example at least of the former part; it being his fortune to have fought three or four brave duels in his time. And now, as every morning I mounted the great horse, so in the afternoon I many times went a hunting, the manner of which. was this: The Duke of Montmorency having given orders to the tenants of the town of Merlou, and some villages adjoining, to attend me when I went a hunting, they, upon my summons, usually repaired 888 to those woods where I intended to find my game, with drums and muskets, to the number of sixty or eighty, and sometimes one hundred or more persons ; they entering the wood on that side with that. noise, discharging their pieces and beating their said drums, we on the other side of the said wood having placed mastiffs and greyhounds to the number of twenty or thirty, which Monsieur de Montmorency kept near his castle, expected those beasts they should force out of the wood. If stags or wild boars came forth, we commonly spared them, pursuing only the wolves, which were there in great number, of which are found two sorts; the mastiff wolf, thick and «short, though he could not indeed run fast, yet would fight with our dogs; the grey hound wolf, long and swift, who many times escaped our best dogs, although when he was overtaken, . easily killed by us, without making much resistance. Of both these sorts I killed divers with my sword while I stayed there. One time also it was my fortune to kill:a wild boar in this manner. ‘The boar being roused from his den, fled before our dogs for a good space; but finding them press him hard, turned his head against our dogs, and hurt three or four of them very dangerously: I eame on horseback up: to him, and with my sword thrust him twice or thrice without entering his skin, the blade being not so stiff as it should be. The boar hereupon turned upon me, and much endangered my horse ; which I perceiving, rid a little out of the way, and leaving my horse with my lackey, returned with my sword against the boar, who by this time had hurt more dogs, and here happened a pretty kind of fight ; for, when I thrust at the boar sometimes with my sword, which in-some places I made enter, the; boar would run at me, whose tusks yet by stepping a little out of the way I avoided, but he then turning upon me, the dogs came in, and drew him off, so that he fell upon them, which I per- ceiving, ran at the boar with my sword again, which made him turn upon me, but then the dogs pulled him from me again, while so relieving one another by turns, we killed the boar. At this chase Monsieur Disancour and Mennon were present, as also Mr. Townsend; yet so as they did endeavour rather to withdraw me from, than assist me in the danger. Of which boar some part being well seasoned and larded, I presented to my uncle Six Francis Newport in Shropshire, and found most excellent meat. Thus having past a whole summer, partly in these exercises, and partly in visits of the Duke of Montmorency at his fair house in Chantilly ; which, for its éxtraordinary fairness and situation, 1 shall here describe. A little river descending from some _ higher grounds in a country which was almost all his own, and falling at last upon a rock in the middle of a valley, which to keep its way forwards, it must on one or other side thereof have declined. Some of the ancestors of the Montmorencies, to ease the river of this labour, made divers channels through this rock to give it a free passage, divid- ing the rock by that means into little islands, upen which he built a great strong castle, jomed together with bridges, and sumptuously furnished with hangings of silk and gold, rare pictures, and statues ; all which buildings united as I formerly LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. told, were encompassed about with water, which was paved witn stone, (those which were used in the building of the house were drawn from thence.) One might see the huge carps, pike, and trouts, which were kept in several divisions, gliding along the waters very easily ; yet nothing in my opinion added so much to the glory of this castle as a forest adjoining close to it, and upon a level with the house. For being of a very large extent, and set thick both with tall trees and underwood, the whole forest, which was replenished with wild boar, stag, and roe deer, was cut out into long walks every way; so that, although the dogs might follow their chase through the thickets, the hunts- men might ride along the said walks, and meet or overtake their game in some one of them, they being cut with that art, that they led to all the parts in the said forest; and here also I have hunted the wild boar divers times, both then and _ afterwards, when his son, the Duke of Montmo- rency, succeeded him in the possession of. that incomparable place. And there I cannot but remember the direction the old constable gave me to return to his castle out of this admirable labyrinth; telling me I should look upon what side the trees were rough- est and hardest, which being found, I might he confident that part stood northward, which being observed, I might easily find the east, as being on the right hand ; and so guide my way home. How much this house, together with the forest, hath been valued by great princes, may appear by two little narratives I shall here insert. Charles V. the great emperor, passing in the time of Fransoy I. from Spain into the Low Countries, by the way of France, was entertained for some time in this house, by a duke of Montmorency, who was like- wise constable de France; after he had taken this palace into his consideration, withthe forests adjoin- ing, said he would willingly give one of his pro- vinces in the Low Countries for such a place ; there being, as he thought, nowhere such a situation. Henry [V.also was desirous of this house, and offered to exchange any of his houses, with much more lands than his estate thereabouts was worth ; to which the Duke of Montmorency made this wary answer: Steur, la maison est a vous, mais que je sois le concierge ; which in English sounds thus : Sir, the house is yours, but give me leave to keep it for you. When I had been at Merlou about some eight months, and attained, as. was thought, the know- ledge of horsemanship, I came to the Duke of Montmorency at St. Ilee,* and, after due thanks for his favours, took my leave of him to go to Paris ; whereupon, the good old prince embracing me, and calling me his son, bid me farewell, assuring me nevertheless he should be glad of any occasion hereafter to testify his love and esteem for me; telling me further, he should come to Paris himself shortly, where he hoped to see me. From hence I returned to Merlou, where I gave Monsieur Disan- cour such a present as abundantly requited the charges of my diet, and the pains of his teaching. Being now ready to set forth,a gentleman from the Duke of Montmorency came to me, and ‘told me his master would not let me go without giving * Sic orig. But it is probably a blunder of the tran- scriber for Chantilly. 27 me a present, which I might keep as an earnest of his affection ; whereupon also a genet, for which the Duke had sent expressly into Spain, and which cost him there five hundred crowns, as I was told, was brought to me. The greatness of this gift, together with other courtesies received, did not a little trouble me, as not knowing then how to requite them. I would have given my horses I had there, which were of great value, to him, but that I thought them too mean a present ; but the Duke also suspecting that I meant to do so, pre- vented me, saying, that as I loved him, I should think upon no requital, while I stayed in France, but when I came into England, if I sent him a mare that ambled naturally, I should much gratify him ; I told the messenger I should strive both that way and every way else to declare my thank- fulness, and so dismissed the messenger with a good reward. Coming now to Paris, through the recommenda- tion of the Lord Ambassador, I was received to the house of that incomparable scholar Isaac Cawsabon, by whose learned conversation I much benefited myself ; besides I did apply myself much to know the use of my arms, and to ride the great horse, playing on the lute, and singing according to the rules of the French masters. Sometimes also I went to the court of the French king, Henry IV., who upon information of me in the garden at the Thuilleries, received me with all courtesy, embracing me in his arms, and holding me some while there. I went sometimes also to the court of Queen Margaret, at the Hostel called by her name ; and here I saw many balls.or masks, in all which it pleased that queen publicly to place me next to her chair, not without the wonder of some, and the envy of another who was wont to have that favour. I shall recount one accident which happened while I was there. All things being ready for the ball, and every one being in their place, and I myself next to the queen, expecting when the dancers would come in, one knocked at the door somewhat louder than became, as I thought, a very civil person ; when he came in, I remember there was.a sudden whisper among the ladies, saying, C'est Monsieur Balagny, or, it is Monsieur Balagny ; whereupon also I saw the ladies and gentlewomen one after another invite him to sit near them, and, which is more, when one lady had his company awhile, another would say, you have enjoyed him long enough, I must have him now ; at which bold civility of theirs, though I was astonished, yet it added: unto my wonder, that his person could not be thought at most but ordinary handsome ; his hair, which was cut very short, half grey, his doublet but of sackcloth cut to his shirt, and, his breeches only of plain grey cloth. Informing myself by some standers-by who he was, I was told that he was one of the gallantest men in the world, as having killed eight or nine men in single fight, and that for this reason the ladies made so much of him, it being the manner of all French- women to cherish gallant men, as thinking they could not make so much of any else with the safety of their honour. This cavalier, though his head .was half grey, he had not yet attained the age of thirty years ; whom I have thought fit to remember more particularly here, because of some passages that happened afterwards betwixt him and me at the siege of Juliers, as I shall tell in its place. Having passed thus all the winter, until about the latter end of January, without any such me- morable accident as I shail think fit to set down particularly, I took my leave of the French king, Queen Margaret, and the nobles and ladies in both courts ; at which time the Princess of Conti desired me to carry a scarf into England, and pre- sent it to Queen Anne on her part, which being accepted, myself and Sir Thomas Lucy (whose second I had been twice in France, against two eavaliers of our nation, who yet were hindered to fight with us in the field, where we attended them) we came on our way as far as Dieppe in Nor- mandy, and there took ship about the beginning of February, when so furious a storm arose, that with very great danger we were at sea all night ; the master of our ship lost both the use of his compass and his reason ; for not knowing whither he was carried by the tempest, all the help he had was by the lightnings, which, together with thunder very frequently that night, terrified him, yet gave the advantage sometimes to discover whether we were upon our coast, to which he thought, by the course of his glasses, we were near approached ; and now towards day we found our- selves, by great providence of God, within view of Dover, to which the master of our ship did make. The men of Dover rising by times in the morning to see whether any ship were coming towards them, were in great numbers upon the shore, as believing the tempest, which had thrown down barns and trees near the town, might give them the benefit of some wreck, if perchance any ship were driven thitherwards ; we coming thus in extreme danger straight upon the pier of Dover, which stands out in the sea, our ship was unfortunately split against it; the master said, Mes amies nous sommes perdus ; or, my friends, we are cast away 5 when myself, who heard the ship crack against the pier, and then found by the master’s words it was time for every one to save thernselves, if they could, got out of my cabin (though very sea-sick) and climbing up the mast a little way, drew my sword and flourished it; they at Dover having this sign given them, adventured in a shallop of six oars to relieve us, which being come with great danger to the side of our ship, I got into it first with my sword in my hand, and called for Sir Thomas Lucy, saying, that if any man offered to get in before him, I should resist him with my sword ; whereupon a faithful servant of his taking Sir Thomas Lucy out of the cabin, who was half- dead of sea-sickness, put him into my arms, whom after I had received, I bid the shallop make away for shore, and the rather that I saw another shallop coming to relieve us ; when a post from France, who carried letters, finding the ship still rent more and more, adventured to leap from the top of our ship into the shallop, where, falling fortunately on some of the stronger timber of the boat, and not on the planks, which he must needs have broken, and so sunk us, had he fallen upon them, escaped together with us two, uato the land. I must con- fess myself, as also the seamen that were in the shallop, thought once to have killed him for this desperate attempt ; but finding no harm followed, we escaped together unto the land, from whence we sent more shallops, and so made means to save LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. both men and horses that were in the ship, which yet itself was wholly split and cast away, insomuch that in pity to the master, Sir Thomas Lucy and myself gave thirty pounds towards his loss, which yet was not so great as we thought, since the tide anh ebbing, he recovered the broken parts of his ship. Coming thus to London, and afterwards to court, I kissed his majesty’s hand, and acquainted him with some particulars concerning France. As for the present I had to deliver to her majesty from the Princess of Conti, I thought fit rather to send it by one of the ladies that attended her, than to presume to demand audience of her in person: but her majesty not satisfied herewith, commanded me to attend her, and demanded | divers questions of me concerning that princess and the courts in France, saying she would speak more at large with me at some other time ; for which purpose she commanded me to wait on her often, wishing me to advise her what present she might return back again. Howbeit, not many weeks after, I returned to my wife and family again, where I passed some time, partly in my studies, and partly riding the great horse, of which I had a stable well furnished. No horse yet was so dear to me as the genet I brought from France, whose love I had so gotten, that he would suffer none else to ride him, nor indeed any man to come near him, when I was upon him, as being in his nature a most furious horse ; his true picture may be seen in the chapel chamber in my house, where I am painted riding him, and this motto by me, Me totum bonitas bonum suprema Reddas ; me intrepidum dabo vel ipse. This horse as soon as ever I came to the stable would neigh, and when I drew nearer him would lick my hand, and (when I suffered him) my cheek, but yet would permit nobody to come near his heels at the same time. Sir Thomas Lucy would have given me 200/. for this horse, which, though I would not accept, yet I left the horse with him when I went to the Low Countries, who not long after died. The occasion of my going thither was thus : hearing that a war about the title of Cleave, Juliers, and some other provinces betwixt the Lew Countries and Germany should be made by the several pretenders to it, and that the French king himself would come with a great army into those parts ; it was now the year of our Lord 1610, when my Lord Chandois* and myself resolved to take shipping for the Low Countries, and from thence to pass to the city of Juliers, which the Prince of Orange resolved to besiege ; making all haste thither, we found the siege newly begun; the Low Country army assisted by 4000 English under the command of Sir Edward Cecill. We had not been long there, when the Marshal de Chartres, instead of Henry IV. who was killed by that villain Ravailliae, came with a brave French army thither, in which Monsieur Balagny, I formerly mentioned, was a colonel. My Lord Chandois lodged himself in the quarters where Sir Horace Vere was; I went and quartered * Grey Bridges, Lord Chandos, made a Knight of the Bath at the creation of Charles Duke of York 1604; and called, for his hospitality and magnificence, the King of Kotswold. a a LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. with Sir Edward Cecill, where I was lodged next to him in a hut I made there, going yet both by day and night to the trenches; we making our ap- proaches to the town on one side, and the French on the other. Our lines were drawn towards the point of a bulwark of the citadel or castle, thought to be one of the best fortifications in Christendom, and encompassed about with a deep wet ditch ; we lost many men in making these approaches, the town and castle being very well provided both with great and small shot, and a garrison in it of about 4000 men, besides the burghers; Sir Edward Ceeill, (who was a very active general) used often during the siege to go in person in the night time, to try whether he could catch any sentinels perdues ; and for this purpose still desired me to accompany him; in performing whereof, both of us did much hazard our lives, for the first sentinel retiring to the second, and the second to the third, three shots were com- monly made at us, before we could do anything, though afterwards chasing them with our swords almost home unto their guards, we had some sport in the pursuit of them. One day Sir Edward Cecill and myself coming to the approaches that Monsieur de Balagny had made towards a bulwark or bastion of that city, Monsieur de Balagny, in the presence of Sir Edward Cecill and divers English and French captains then present, said, Monsieur, on dit, que vous étes un des plus braves de votre nation, et je suis Balagny, allons voir qui faira le mieux ; they say you are one of the bravest of your nation, and [ am Balagny, let us see who will do best; where- upon leaping suddenly out of the trenches with his sword drawn, I did in the like manner as suddenly follow him, both of us in the meanwhile striving who should be foremost, which being perceived by those of the bulwark and cortine opposite to us, three or four hundred shot at least, great and small, were made against us. Our running on forwards in emulation of each other, was the cause that all the shots fell betwixt us and the trench from which we sallied. When Monsieur Balagny, finding such a storm of bullets, said, Par Dzeu al fait bien chaud, it is very hot here. I answered briefly thus: Vous en wes primier, autrement je wiray jamais ; you shall go first, or else I will never go ; hereupon he ran with all speed, and somewhat crouching towards the trenches, I followed after leisurely and upright, and yet came within the trenches before they on the bulwark or cortine could charge again; which passage afterwards being related to the Prince of Orange, he said it was a strange bravado of Balagny, and that we went to an unavoidable death. I could relate divers things of note concerning myself, during the siege ; but do forbear, lest I should relish too much of vanity : it shall suffice, that my passing over the ditch unto the wall, first of all the nations there, is set down by William Crofts, master of arts, and soldier, who hath written and printed the history of the Low Countries. There happened during. this siege a particular quarrel betwixt me and the Lord of Walden, * eldest son to the Earl of Suffolk, Lord Treasurer of * Theophilus, Lord Howard of Walden, eldest son of Thomas Earl of Suffolk, whom he succeeded in the title, and was Knight of the Garter, Constable of Dover Castle, and Captain of the Band of Pensioners. Von, 1. 29 England at that time, which I do but unwillingly relate, in regard of the great esteem I have of that noble family ; howbeit, to avoid misreports, I have thought fit to set it down truly. That lord having been invited to a feast in Sir Horace Vere’s quarters, where (after the Low Country manner) there was liberal drinking, returned not long after to Sir Edward Cecill’s quarters, at which time I speaking merrily to him, upon some slight oceasion, he took that offence at me, which he would not have done at another time, insomuch that he came towards me in a violent manner, which I perceiving, did more than halt-way meet him; but the company were so vigilant upon us, that before any blow past we were separated ; howbeit, because he made towards me, I thought fit the next day to send him a challenge, telling him, that if he had any thing to say to me, I would meet him in such a place as no man should interrupt us. Shortly after this Sir Thomas Payton came to me on his part, and told me my Lord would fight with me on horseback with single sword ; and, said he, I will be his second ; where is yours? I replied, that neither his Lordship nor myself brought over any great horses with us ; that I knew he might much better borrow one than myself: howbeit, as soon as he shewed me the place, he should find me there on horseback or on foot ; whereupon both of us riding together upon two geldings to the side of a wood, Payton said he chose that place, and the time, break of day, the next morning: I told him I would fail neither place nor time, though I knew not where to get a better horse than the nag I rid on; and as for a second, I shall trust to your nobleness, who, I know, will see fair play betwixt us, though you come on his side; but he urging me again to provide a second, I told him I could promise for none but myself, and that if I spoke to any of my friends in the army to this purpose, I doubted lest the business might be discovered and prevented. He was no sooner gone from me, but night drew on, myself resolving in the meantime to rest under a fair oak all night ; after this, tying my horse by the bridle unto another tree, I had not now rested two hours, when I found some fires nearer to me than I thought was possible in so solitary a place, whereupon also having the curiosity to see the reason hereof, I got on horseback again, and had not rode very far, when by the talk of the soldiers there, I found I was in the Scotch quarter, where finding in a stable a very fair horse of service I desired to know whether he might be bought for any reasonable sum of money; but a soldier replying it was their captain’s, Sir James Areskin’s, chief horse, I demanded for Sir James, but the soldier answering he was not within the quarter, I demanded then for his lieutenant, whereupon the soldier courteously desired him to come to me; this lieutenant was called Montgomery, and had the reputation of a gallant man ; I told him that I would very fain buy a horse, and, if it were possible, the horse I saw but a little before ; but he telling me none was to be sold there, I offered to leave in his hands 100 pieces, if he would lend me a good horse for a day or two, he to restore me the money again when I delivered him the horse in good plight, and did besides bring him some present as a gratuity. The lieutenant, though he did not know me- — a 80 suspected I had some private quarrel, and that I desired this horse to fight on, and thereupon told me, Sir, whosoever you are, you seem to be a person of worth, and you shall have the best horse m the stable; and if you have a quarrel and want a second, I offer myself to serve you upon another horse, and if you will let me go along with you upon these terms, I will ask no pawn of you for the: horse. 1 told him I would.use no second, and I desired him to accept 100 pieces, which I had there about me, in pawn for the horse, and he should hear from me shortly again ; and that though I did not. take his noble offer of coming along with me, I should ever more rest much obliged ‘to him ; whereupon giving him my purse with the money in it, I got upon his horse, and left: my nag besides with him. Riding thus away about twelve o’clock at night to'the wood from whence I came, I alighted from my horse and rested there till morning ; the day now breaking I got on horseback, and attended the Lord of Walden with his second. The first person that appeared was a footman, who I heard afterwards was sent by the lady of Walden, who as''soon as he saw me, ran back again with all speed ; I meant once to pursue him, but that I thought it better at last to keep my place. About two hours after Sir William St. Leiger, now lord president of Munster, came to me, and told me he knew the cause of my being there, and that the business was discovered by the Lord Walden’s rising so early that morning, and the suspicion that: he meant to fight with me, and had Sir Thomas Payton with him, and that he would ride to him, and that there were thirty or forty sent after us, to hinder us from meeting ; shortly after many more came to the place where I was, and told me I' must not fight, and that they were sent for the same purpose, and that it was to no purpose to stay there, and thence rode to seek the Lord of Walden ; Istayed yet two hours longer, but finding still more company came in, rode back again to the Seotch quarters, and delivered the horse back again, and received my money and nag from Lieutenant Montgomery, and so withdrew myself to the French quarters, till I did find some con- venient time to send again to the Lord Walden. Being among the French, I remembered myself of the bravado of Monsieur Balagny, and coming to him told him, I knew how brave a man he was, and that as he had put me to one trial of daring, when I was last with him in his trenches, I would put him to another ; saying I heard he had a fair mistress, and that the scarf he wore was her gift, and that I would maintain I had a worthier mis- tress than he, and that I would do as much for her sake as he, or any else durst do for his; Balagny hereupon looking merrily upon me, said, If we shall try who is the abler man to serve his mistress, let both of us get two wenches, and he that doth his business best, let him be the braver man ; and that for his part, he had no mind to fight on that quarrel; I looking hereupon some- what disdainfully on him, said he spoke more like a paillard than a cavalier ; to which he an- swering nothing, I rid my ways, and afterwards went to Monsieur Terant, a French gentleman that belonged to the Duke of Montmorency, for- merly mentioned ; who telling me he had a quarrel with ‘another gentleman, T offered to be his second, LIFE: OF LORD HERBERT. but. he saying he was provided already, I rode thence to the English quarters, attending some fit occasion to send again to the Lord Walden. I came no sooner thither, but I found Sir Thomas Sommerset* with eleven or twelve more in the head of the English, who were then draw- ing forth in a body or squadron, who seeing me on horseback, with a footman only that attended me, gave me some affronting words, for my quar- relling with the Lord of Walden ; whereupon I alighted,..and. giving my horse to my lackey, drew my sword, which he no sooner saw, but he drew his, and also all the company with him; I running hereupon amongst them, put by some of their thrusts, and making towards him in partieu- lar, put by a-thrust of his, and had certainly run him through, but that one Lieutenant Prichard, at - | thatinstant taking me by the shoulder, turned me aside ; but I, recovering myself again, ran at him a second time, which he perceiving, retired himself with the company to the tents which were near, though not so fast but I hurt one Proger, and some others also that were with him ; but they being all at last got within the tents, I finding now nothing else to be done, got'to my horse again, having received only a slight hurt on the outside of my ribs, and two. thrusts, the one through the skirts of my doublet, and the other through my breeches, and about eighteen nicks upon my sword and hilt, and so rode to the trenches before Juliers, where our soldiers were. Not long after this, the town being now surren- dered, and every body preparing to go their ways, I sent again a gentleman to the Lord of Walden to offer him the meeting with my sword ; but this was avoided not very handsomely by him (contrary to what Sir Henry Rich, now Earl of Holland, persuaded him.) After having taken leave of his Excellency Sir Edward Cecill, I thought fit to return on my way homewards. as far as Dusseldorp. I had been searce two hours in my lodgings when one Lieu- tenant. Hamilton brought a letter from Sir James Areskin (who was then in town likewise) unto me, the effect whereof was, that in regard his Lieute- nant. Montgomery had told him that I had the said James Areskin’s consent for borrowing his horse, he did desire me to do one of two things, which was, either to disavow the said words, which he thought in his conscience I never spake, or if I would justify them, then te appoint time and place to fight with him. Having considered a while what I was to do in this case, I told Lieutenant Hamil- ton that I thought myself bound in honour to accept the more noble part of his proposition, which was to fight with him, when yet perchance it might be easy enough for me to say that I had his horse upon other terms than was affirmed ; whereupon. also giving Lieutenant Hamilton the length of my sword, I told him that as soon as ever he had matched it, 1 would fight with him, wishing him further to make haste, since I desired to end the business as speedily as could be. Lieutenant Hamilton hereupon returning back, * He was third son of Edward Earl of Worcester, Lord Privy Seal to Queen Elizabeth and King James. Sir Thomas-was Master of the Horse to Queen Anne, was made a Knight of the Bath in 1604, and Viscount Somerset of Cassel in Ireland. eee a “ 342 | | | | | | met in avcross street) (1 know not: by what. mira- culous: adventure) . Lieutenant Montgomery, con- veying diverse: of the hurt. and maimed soldiers at the siege of St. Juliers unto that town, to be lodged: and dressed by. the chirurgeons. there ; Hamilton hereupon calling to Montgomery, told him the effects of his captain’s letter, together with my answer, which Montgomery. no sooner heard, but. he replied, (as Hamilton told me after- wards,) I see that noble gentleman chooseth rather to fight than to contradict. me; but my telling a lie: must not be an occasion why either my captain or he should hazard. their lives: I will alight from my horse, and tell: my captain presently how all that matter past ; whereupon also he relating the business about borrowing the horse, in that manner I formerly set down, which as soon as Sir James Areskin heard, he sent Lieutenant Hamilton to me presently again, to tell me he was satisfied. how the business past, and that he had nothing to say to me, but that he was my most humble servant, and was sorry he ever questioned me in that manner. Some occasions detaining me in Dusseldorp, the next. day Lieutenant Montgomery came to me, and told me he was in danger of losing his place, and desired me to make means to. his excellency the Prince of Orange that he might not be cashiered, or else that he wasiundone ; I told him that either I.would keep him in his place, or take him as my companion and iriend, and allow him sufficient means till I could provide him another as good as it ; which he: taking very kindly, but desiring: chiefly he might. go..with my letter to the Prince of Orange, I: obtained. at last he should be restored to his place again, And now taking boat, | passed along the river of Rhine to the Low Countries, where after some stay, | went to Antwerp and Brussels ; and having passed some time in the court there, went from thence to Calais, where taking ship I arrived at Dover, and so went to London. I had scarce been two days there, when the Lords of the Council sending for me, ended the difference betwixt. the Lord of Walden and myself. And now, if I may say it without vanity, 1 was in great esteem both in court and city ; many of the greatest desirmg my company, though yet before that. time I had no acquaintance with them. Richard Earl of Dorset* to whom otherwise I was. a stranger, one day invited me to Dorset-house, where bring- ing me into his gallery, and shewing me many pictures, he at last brought me to a frame covered with green taffeta, and asked me who I thought was there ; and therewithal presently. drawing the curtain, showed me my-own) picture ; whereupon demanding how his. Lordship came to have it, he answered, that he had heard so many brave things of me, that he got a copy of a picture which one Larkin a painter drew for me, the original whereof I intended before my departure to the Low Countries for Sir Thomas Lucy. But not only the Earl of Dorset, but a greater person + than I * Richard Sackville Earl of Dorset, grandson of the Treasurer, and husband of the famous Anne Clifford, Countess of Dorset and Pembroke. + This was certainly Queen Anne, as appears from the very respectful terms in which he speaks of her a/ little farther, and from other: passages, when he mentions the secret and dangerous enemies:he had on this account. o Se aN ae am ek Oh Su Aes oy SU ge el ie hal LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. 31 will. here nominate, got another copy from Larkin, and placing it afterwards:in her cabinet (without that ever I knew any such thing was done). gave occasion. to. these that saw it. after her death, of more discourse than I could have wished ; and indeed. I. may truly say, that taking of my picture was fatal to me,.for more reasons than I shall think. fit to deliver. There was a lady also, wife to Sir John Ayres, knight, who finding some. means to get a copy of my: picture from. Larkin, gave it to Mr. Isaac * the painter in Blackfriars, and desired him to draw it in. little after. his manner ; which beimg done, she caused it to be set in gold and enamelled, and so wore it about her neck so low that. she hid it under her breasts, which I conceive coming after- wards, to the knowledge of Sir John Ayres, gave him more cause of jealousy than needed, had he known how. imnocent I was from pretending to any thing which: might wrong him or his. lady ; since I.could not so much as imagine that either she had. my pietnre, or that she bare more than ordinary affection to me. It is true, that as she hada place in court, and attended Queen Anne, and was beside. of. an excellent wit.and discourse, she had made. herself a considerable person ; how- beit little more than common civility ever passed betwixt us, though I confess I think no: man was welcomer to. her when I came, for which I shall allege this passage :— Coming one day into. her chamber, I saw her through the curtains lying upon her bed with a wax candle in one hand, and the picture I formerly mentioned in the other. I coming thereupon somewhat, boldly to. her she blew out the candle, and hid. the. picture from me ; myself thereupon being curious to know.what that was she held in her hand, got. the candle to. be lighted again, by means whereof I. found it was my picture she looked upon with more earnestness and passion than I could have easily believed, especially since myself was not engaged in any affection towards her: I could willingly have omitted this. passage, but that it. was the beginning of a bloody. history which followed : howsoever, yet I must before the Eternal God clear her honour. And now in court a great person sent for me divers times to attend her, which summons though I obeyed, yet. God knoweth J declined coming to her as much as conveniently I could, without incurring her dis- pleasure ; and this 1 did not only for very honest reasons, but, to speak ingenuously, because that affection passed betwixt me and another lady (who I believe was the fairest of her time). as nothing could divert it. I had not been long in London, when a violent burning fever seized upon me, which brought me almost toe my death, though at last I did by slow degrees recover my health ; being thus upon my amendment, the Lord Lisle + afterwards. Earl of Leicester, sent me word that Sir John Ayres intended to kill me.in my bed, and wished me to keep a guard upon my chamber and person; the same advertisement. was con- firmed by Lucy Countess of Bedford, and the ** Isaac Oliver. + Robert Sidney, Earl of Leicester, younger brother of Sir Philip Sidney. + Lucy Harrington, wife of Edward Harl of Bedford, a great patroness of the wits and poets of that age. 9 . 12 ~~ 32 Lady Hobby* shortly after. Hereupon I thought fit to entreat Sir William Herbert, now Lord Powis, to go to Sir John Ayres, and tell him, that I marvelled much at the information given me by these great persons, and that I could not imagine any sufficient ground hereof ; howbeit, if he had anything to say to me in a fair and noble way, I would give him the meeting as soon as I had got strength enough to stand upon my legs ; Sir William hereupon brought me so ambi- guous and doubtful an answer from him, that what- soever he meant, he would not declare yet his intention, which was really, as I found afterwards, to kill me any way that he could, since, as he said, though falsely, I had whored his wife. Find- ing no means thus to surprise me, he sent me a letter to this effect; that he desired to meet me somewhere and that it might so fall out as I might return quietly again. To this I replied, that if he desired to fight with me upon equal terms, I should, upon assurance of the field and fair play, give him meeting when he did any way specify the cause, and that I did not think fit to come to him upon any other terms, having been sufficiently informed of his plots to assassinate me. After this, finding he could take no advantage against me, then in a treacherous way he resolved to assassinate me in this manner; hearing I was to come to Whitehall on horseback with two lackeys only, he attended my coming back in a place called Scotland-yard, at the hither end of Whitehall, as you come to it from the Strand, hiding himself here with four men armed on purpose to kill me. I took horse at Whitehall- gate, and passing by that place, he being armed with a sword and dagger, without giving me so much as the least warning, ran at me furiously, but instead of me wounded my horse in the brisket, as far as his sword could enter for the bone ; my horse hereupon starting aside, he ran him again in the shoulder, which though it made the horse more timorous, yet gave me time to draw my sword. His men thereupon encompassed me, and wounded my horse in three places more; this made my horse kick and fling in that manner as his men durst not come near me ; which advantage I took to strike at Sir John Ayres with all my foree, but he warded the blow both with his sword and dagger ; instead of doing him harm, I broke my sword within a foot of the hilt. Hereupon some passenger that knew me, and observing my horse bleeding in so many places, and so many men assaulting me, and my sword broken, cried to me several times, ride away, ride away ; but I, scorning a base flight upon what terms soever, instead there- of alighted as well as I could from my horse. Thad no sooner put one fost upon the ground, but Sir John Ayres pursuing me, made at my horse again, which the horse perceiving, pressed on me on the side I alighted, in that manner that he threw me down, so that I remained flat upon the ground, only one foot hanging in the stirrup, with that piece of a sword in my right hand. Sir John Ayres hereupon ran about the horse, and was thrusting his sword into me, when I finding myself in this danger, did with both my arms reaching at his legs, pull them towards me, till he fell down * Prebably Anne, second wife of Sir Edward Hobby, a patron of Camden LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. backwards on his head ; one of my footmen here- upon, who was a little Shropshire boy, freed my foot out of the stirrup, the other, which was a great fellow, having run away as soon as he saw the first assault. This gave me time to get upon my legs, and to put myself in the best posture T could with that poor remnant of a weapon. Sir John Ayres by this time likewise was got up, stand- ing betwixt me and some part of Whitehall, with two men on each side of him, and his brother behind him, with at least twenty or thirty persons of his friends, or attendants of the Earl of Suffolk. Observing thus a body of men standing in oppo- sition against me, though to speak truly I saw no swords drawn but by Sir John Ayres and his men, T ran violently against Sir John Ayres ; but he, - knowing my sword had no point, held his sword and dagger over his head, as believing I could strike rather than thrust, which I no sooner perceived but I put a home thrust to the middle of his breast, that I threw him down with so much force, that his head fell first to the ground,and his heels upwards. His men hereupon assaulted me, when one Mr. Mansel, a Glamorganshire gentle- man, finding so many set against me alone, closed with one of them ; a Scotch gentleman also closing with another, took him off also. All I could well do to those two which remained was to ward their thrusts, which I did with that resolution that I got ground upon them. Sir John Ayres was now got up a third time, when I making towards him with intention to close, thinking that there was otherwise no safety for me, put by a thrust of his with my left hand, and so coming within him, received a stab with his dagger, on my right side, which ran down my ribs as far as my hip, which I feeling, did with my right elbow force his hand, together with the hilt of the dagger, so near the upper part of my right side, that I made him leave hold. The dagger now sticking in me, Sir Henry Cary, afterwards Lord of Faulkland and Lord Deputy of Ireland, finding the dagger thus in my body, snatched it out. This while 1 being closed with Sir John Ayres, hurt him on the head, and threw him down:a third time, when kneeling on the ground and bestriding him, I struck at him as hard as I could with my piece of a sword, and wounded him in four several placesy and did almost cut off his left hand; his two men this while struck at me, but it pleased God even miraculously to defend me; for when [ lifted up my sword to strike at Sir John Ayres, I bore off their blows half a dozen times. His friends now finding him in this danger, took him by the head and shoulders, and drew him from betwixt my legs, and carried him along with them through Whitehall, at the stairs whereof he took boat. Sir Herbert Croft (as he told me after- wards) met him upon the water vomiting all the way, which I believe was caused by the violence of.the first thrust I gave him. His servants, brother, and friends, being now retired also, I remained master of the place and his weapons ; having first wrested his dagger from him, and afterwards struck his sword out of his hand. This being done, I retired to a friend’s house in the Strand, where I sent for a surgeon, who search- ing my wound on the right side, and finding it not to be mortal, cured me in the space ofsome ten days, during which time I received many noble Bid ee ee eee er eee LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. ~ visits and messages from some of the best in the kingdom. Being now fully recovered of my hurts, I desired Sir Robert Harley * to go to Sir John Ayres, and tell him, that though I thought he had not so much honour left in him, that I could be any way ambitious to get it, yet that I desired to see him in the field with his sword in his hand: the answer that he sent me was, that I had whored his wife, and that he would kill me with a musket out of a window. . The: lords of the privy council, who had first sent for my sword, that they might see the little fragment of a weapon with which I had so behaved myself, as perchance the like had not been heard in any credible way, did afterwards command both him and me to appear before them ; but I absent- ing myself on purpose, sent one Humphrey Hill with a challenge to him in an ordinary, which he refusing to receive, Humphrey Hill put it upon the point of his sword, and so let it fall before him and the company then present. The lords of the privy council had now taken order to apprehend Sir John Ayres; when I, finding nothing else to be done, submitted myself likewise to them. Sir John Ayres had now published every where, that the ground of his jealousy, and consequently of his assaulting me, was drawn from the confession of his wife the Lady Ayres. She, to vindicate her honour, as well as free me from this accusation, sent a letter to her aunt the Lady Crook, to this purpose: that her husband Sir John Ayres did lie falsely, in saying that 1 ever whored her ; but most falsely of all did lie when he said he had it from her confession, for she had never said any such thing. This letter the Lady Crook presented to me most opportunely as I was going to the council table before the lords, who having examined Sir John Ayres concerning the cause of his quarrel against me, found him still persist in his wife’s confession of the fact ; and now he being withdrawn, I was sent for, when the Duke of Lennox,* afterwards of Richmond, tellmg me that was the ground of his quarrel, and the only excuse he had for assaulting me in that manner; I desired his lordship to peruse the letter, which I told him was given me asIeameintothe room. This letter being publicly read by a clerk of the council, the Duke of Lennox then said, that he thought Sir John Ayres the most miserable man living ; for his wife had not only given him the lie, as he found by her letter, but his father had disinherited him for attempting to kill me in that barbarous fashion, which was most true, as I found afterwards. For the rest, that I might content myself with what I had done, it being more almost than could be believed, but that I had so many witnesses thereof; for all which reasons, he commanded me, in the name of his majesty and all their lordships, not to send any more to Sir John Ayres, nor to receive any message from him, in the way of fighting, which commandment I observed. Howbeit I must not omit to tell, that some years afterwards Sir John Ayres returning from Treland by Beaumaris, where I then was, some of my servants and followers broke open the doors of the house where he was, %* Knight of the Bath and Master of the Mint. + Lodowic Stuart, Duke of Lennox and Richmond, was Lord Steward of the Household, and Knight of the Garter. 33 and would, I believe, have cut him into pieces, but that I hearing thereof, came suddenly to the house and recalled them, sending him word also, that I scorned to give him the usage he gave me, and that I would set him free out of the town ; which courtesy of mine, as I was told afterwards, he did thankfully acknowledge. About a month after that Sir John Ayrea attempted to assassinate me, the news thereof wss carried, I know not how, to the Duke of Montmo- rency, who presently dispatched a gentleman with a letter to me, which I keep, and a kind offer, that if I would come unto him, I should be used as his own son; neither had this gentleman, as I know of, any other business in England. I was told besides by this gentleman, that the duke heard I had greater and more enemies than did publicly declare themselves, which indeed was true, and that he doubted I might have a mischief before J was aware. My answer hereunto by letter was, That I rendered most humble thanks for his great favour in sending to me ; that no enemies, how great or many soever, could force me-out of the kingdom ; but if ever there were occasion to serve him in particular, I should not fail to come ; for perform- ance whereof, it happening there were some over- tures of a civil war in France the next year, I sent over a French gentleman who attended me unto the Duke of Montmorency, expressly to tell him, that if he had occasion to use my service in the designed war, I wou}d bring over 100 horse at my own cost and charges to im, which that good old duke and constable took so kindly, that, as the duchess of Antador,* his daughter, told me after- wards, when I was ambassador, there were few days till the last of his life that he did not speak of me with much affection, T can say little more memorable concerning myself from the year 1611, when 1 was hurt, until the year of our Lord 1614, than that I past my time sometimes in the court, where (I protest before God) I had more favours than I desired, and sometimes in the country, without any memo- rable accident ; but only that it happened one time going from St. Gillian’s to Abergaveney, in the way to Montgomery Castle, Richard Griffiths, a servant of mine, being come near a bridge over Husk not far from the town, thought fit to water his horse, but the river being deep and strong in that place where he entered it, he was carried down the stream. My servants that were before me seeing this, cried aloud Dick Griffiths was drowning, which I no sooner heard, but I put spurs to my horse, and coming up to the place, where I saw him as high as his middle in water, leapt into the river a little below him, and swimming up to him bore him up with one of my hands, and brought him unto the middle of the river, where (through God’s great providence) was a bank of sand. Coming hither, not without some difficulty, we rested ourselves, and advised’ whether it were better to return back unto the side from whence we came, or to go on forwards ; but Dick Griffiths saying we were sure to swim if we returned back, and that perchance the river might be shallow the other way, I followed his council, and putting my horse below him, bore him up in the manner I did * Ventadour. a4 formerly, and swimming through the river, brought him safe.to the other side. The horse I rode upon I remember cost: me 40/. and was the same horse which Sir John Ayres hurt under me, and did swim excellently well, carrying me and his back above water ; whereas that littlenag upon which Richard Griffiths rid, swam so low, that he must needs have drowned, if I had not supported him. I will tell one history more of this horse, which I bought of my cousin Fowler of the Grange, because it is memorable. I was passing over a bridge not far from Colebrooke, which had no barrier on the one side, and a hole in the bridge not’ far from the middle; my horse, although lusty, yet being very timorous, and seeing besides but very little on the right eye, started so much at the hole, that upon a sudden he had put half his body lengthways over the side of the bridge, and was ready to fall into the river, with his fore- foot and hinder-foot on the right side, when I, foreseeing the danger I was in if I fell down, clapt my left foot, together with the stirrup and spur, flat-long to the left side, and so made him leap upon all four into the river, whence, after some three or four plunges, he brought me to land, The year 1614 was now entering, when I under- stood that the Low Country and Spanish army would be in the field that year; this made me resolve to offer my service to the Prince of Orange, who upon my coming did much welcome me, not suffering me almost to eat anywhere but at his table, and carrying me abroad the afternoon in his coach, to partake of those entertainments he delighted in when there was no pressing occasion. The Low Country army being now ready, his excellency prepared to go into the field ; in the way to which he took me in his coach, and some- times in a waggon, after the Low Country fashion, to the great envy of the English and French chief commanders, who expected that honour. Being now arrived near Emerick, one with a most humble petition came from a monastery of nuns, most humbly desiring that the soldiers might not violate their honour nor their monastery, whereupon I was a most humble suitor to his excellency to spare them, which he granted ; but, said he, we will go and see them ourselves; and thus his excellency, and I and Sir Charles Morgan only, not long after going to the monastery, found it deserted in great part. Having put a guard upon this monastery, his excellency marched with his army on till we came near the city of Emerick, which upon summoning yielded. And now leaving a garrison here, we resolved to march towards Rice ;* this place having the Spanish army, under the command of Monsieur Spinola, on the one side, and the Low Country army on the other, being able to resist neither, sent word to both armies, that whichsoever came first should have the place. Spinola hereupon sent word to his excelleney, that if we intended to take Rice, he would give him battle in a plain near before the town. His excellency, nothing astonished hereat, marched on, his pioneers making his way ‘for the army still, through hedges and ditches, till he came to that hedge and ditch which was next ‘the plain ; and here drawing his men into battle, resolved to attend the coming of Spinola into the field. Whil, * Rees, in the duchy of Cleve, near Emerick. LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. his men were putting in order, I was so desirous to see whether Spinola with his army appeared, I leapt over a great hedge and ditch, attended only with one footman, purposing to change a pistol-shot or two with the first I met. I found thus some single horse in the field, who, perceiving me to come on, rid away as fast as they could, believing perchance that more would follow me ; having thus past to the further end of the field, and finding .no show of the enemy, I returned back that I might inform his exeellency there was no hope of fighting as I could perceive. In the meantime, his excellency having prepared all things for battle, sent out five or six scouts to discover whether the enemy were come according to promise ; these men finding me now coming _| towards them, thought I was one of the enemies, which being perceived by me, and 1 as little know- ing at that time who they were, rode up with my sword in my hand, and pistol, to encounter them ; and now being come within reasonable distance, one of the persons there that knew me told his fellows who I was, whereupon I passed quietly to his excellency and told him what I had done, and that I found no appearance of an army: his excel lency then caused the hedge and ditch before him to be levelled, and marched in front with his army into the middle of the field, from whence sending some of his forces to summon the town, it yielded without resistance. Our army made that haste to come to the place appointed for the battle, that all our baggage and provision were left behind, in so much that I was without any meat but what my footman spared me out of his pocket ; and my lodging that night was no better, for extreme rain falling at that time in the open field, I had no shelter, but was glad to get on the top of a waggon which had straw in it, and to cover myself with my cloak as well as I could, and so endure that stormy night. Morning being come, and no enemy appearing, I went to the town of Rice, into which his excel- lency having now put a garrison, marched on with the rest of his army towards Wezel, before which Spinola with his army lay, and in the way en- trenched himself strongly, and attended Spinola’s motions. For the rest, nothing memorable hap- pened after this betwixt those two great. generals for the space of many weeks, I must yet not omit with thankfulness to remem- ber a favour his excellency did me at this time ; for a soldier having killed his fellow soldier, in the quarter where they were lodged, which is an unpardonable fault, insomuch that no man would speak for him ; the poor fellow comes to me, and desires me to beg his life of his excelleney; where- upon I demanding whether he had ever heard of a man pardoned in this kind, and he saying no, I told him it was in vain then for me to speak; when the poor fellow writhing his neck a little, said, Sir, but were it not better you shall cast away a few words, than I lose my life? This piece of eloquence moved me so much, that I went straight to his excellency, and told him what the poor fellow had said, desiring him to excuse me, if upon these terms I took the boldness to speak for him. There was present at that time the Earl of South- ampton,* as also Sir Edward Cecill, and Sir * Henry Wriotkesley, third Earl of Southampton. | He 346 Be ret tpg MN | LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. 85 Horace Vere, as also Monsieur de Chastillon, and divers other French commanders ; to whom his excellency turning himself said, in French, Do you see this cavalier ? with all that courage you know, hath yet that good nature to pray for the life of a poor soldier ; though I had never par- doned any before in this kind, yet I will pardon this at his request; so commanding him to be brought me, and disposed of as I thought fit, whom therefore I released and set free. It was now so far advanced in autumn, both armies thought of retiring themselves into their garrisons, when a trumpeter comes from the Spanish army to ours, with a challenge from a Spanish cavalier to this effect, That if any cavalier in our army would fight a single combat for the sake of his mistress, the said Spaniard would meet him, upon assurance of the camp in our army. This challenge being brought early in the morning, was accepted by nobody till about ten or eleven of the clock, when the report thereof coming to me, I went straight to his excelleney, and told him I desired to accept the challenge. His excel- lency thereupon looking earnestly upon me, told me he was an old soldier, and that he had observed two sorts of men who used to send challenges in this kind ; one was of those who, having lost per- chance some part oftheir honour in the field against the enemy, would recover it again by a single fight. The other was of those who sent it only to discover whether our army had in it men affected to give trial of themselves in this kind ; howbeit, if this man was a person, without excep- tion to be taken against him, he said there was none he knew, upon whom he would sooner ven- ture the honour of his army than myself; and this also he spoke before divers of the English and French commanders I formerly nominated. Hereupon, by his excellency’s permission, I sent a trumpet to the Spanish army with this answer, That if the person who would be sent were a cava- lier without reproach, I would answer him with such weapons as we should agree upon, in the place he offered ; but my trumpeter was scarcely arrived, as I believe, at the Spanish army, when another trumpeter came to ours from Spinola, saying the challenge was made without his consent, and that therefore he would not permit it. This message being brought to his excellency, with whom I then was, he said to me presently, this is strange ; they send a challenge hither, and when they have done, recal it. I should be glad if I knew the true causes of it. Sir, said I, if you will give me leave, I will go to their army, and make the like challenge as they sent hither; it may be some scruple is made concerning the place ap- pointed, being in your excellency’s camp, and therefore I shall offer them the combat in their own: his excellency said, I should never have persuaded you to this course, but since you volun- tarily offer it, I must not deny that which you think to be for your honour. Hereupon taking my leave of him, and desiring Sir Humphrey Tufton,* a brave gentleman, to bear me company, thus we two, attended only with two lackies, rode had been attainted with the Earl of Essex, but was re- stored by King James, and made Knight of the Garter. * Third son of Sir John Tufton, and brother of Nicholas Earl of Thanet. straight towards the Spanish:camp before Wezel , | coming thither without any disturbance, by ,the | way I was demanded by the guard at the entering into their camp, with whom I would speak; I told | them with the Duke of Newbourg ; whereupon,a soldier was presently sent with us to conduct,us to the Duke of Newbourg’s tent, who remember- | ing me well, since he saw me at the siege of | Juliers, very kindly embraced me, and therewithal | demanding the cause of my coming thither; I told — him the effect thereof in the manner I formerly set down: to which he replied only, he would acquaint the Marquis Spinola therewith; who coming shortly after to the Duke of Newbourg’s tent, with a great train of commanders and .cap- tains following him, he no sooner entered but. he turned to me and said, that he knew well the eause of my coming, and that the same reasons which made him forbid the Spanish cavalier to fight a combat in the Prince of Orange’s camp, did make him forbid it in his,and that I should be better welcome to him than I would be, and thereupon intreated me to come and dine with him; J, finding nothing else to be done, did kindly accept the offer, and so attended him to his tent, where a brave dinner being put upon his table, he placed the Duke of Newbourg uppermost at one end of the table, and myself at the other, himself sitting below us, presenting with his own hand still the best of that meat his carver offered him. He de- manded of me then in Italian, Di che moriva Sign. Francisco Vere ; of what died Sir Francis Vere ? I told him, Per aver niente a fare, because he had nothing to do ; Spinola replied, # basta per un Generale, and it is enough to kill a general ; and indeed that brave commander, Sir Francis Vere, died not in time of war but of peace. Taking my leave now of the Marquis Spinola, I told him that if ever he did lead an army against the infidels, I should adventure to be the first man that would die in that quarrel, and together de- manded leave of him to see his army, which he granting, I took leave of him, and did at leisure view it ; observing the difference in the proceed- ings betwixt the Low Country army and fortifica- tions, as well as I could ; and so returning shortly after to his excellency, related to him the success of my journey. It happened about this time that Sir Henry Wotton mediated a peace by the king’s command, who coming for that purpose to Wezel, I took occasion to go along with him into Spinola’s army, whence, after a night’s stay, I went on an extreme rainy day through the.woods to Kysars- wert, to the great wonder of mine host, who said all men were robbed or killed that went that way. From hence I went to Cullin,# where, among other things, I saw the monastery of St. Herbert ; from hence I went to Heydelberg, where I saw the Prince and Princess Palatine, from whom, having received much good usage, I went to Ulme, and so to Augsbourg, where extraordinary honour was done me ; for coming into an inn where an am- bassador from Brussels lay, the town sent twenty great flaggons of wine thither, whereof they gave eleven to the ambassador, and nine to me; and withal some such compliments that I found my fame had prevented my coming thither. From hence I went through Switzerland to Trent, and * Cologac. tf a RR A al cae ceacaeanteiaaiseadaes sicboeoeeetiooes a 36 from thence to Venice, where I was received by the English ambassador, Sir Dudley Carlton,* with much honour ; among other favours shewed me, I was brought to see a nun in Murano, who, being an admirable beauty, and together singing extremely well, was thought one of the rarities not only of that place but of the time ; we came to a room opposite unto the cloister, whence she coming on the other side of the grate betwixt us, sung so extremely well, that when she departed, neither my lord ambassador nor his lady, who were then present, could find as much as a word of fitting language to return her, for the extra- ordinary music she gave us; when I, being ashamed that she should go back without some testimony of the sense we had both of the harmony of her beauty and her voice, said in Italian, Moria pur quando vuol, non bisogna mutar ni voce ni facia per esser un angelo; die whensoever you will, you will neither need to change voice, nor face, to be an angel : these words it seemed were fatal, for going thence to Rome, and returning shortly afterwards, I heard she was dead in the mean time. From Venice, after some stay, I went to Flo- rence, where I met the Earl of Oxford + and Sir Benjamin Rudier : { having seen the rarities of this place likewise, and particularly that rare chapel made for the house of Medici, beautified on all the inside with a coarser kind of precious stone, as also that nail which was at one end iron, and the other gold, made so by virtue of a tincture into which it was put, I went to Siena, and from thence a little before the Christmas holidays to Rome. I was no sooner alighted at my inn, but I went straight to the English college, where, de- manding for the regent or master thereof, a grave person not long after appeared at the door, to whom I spake in this manner: Sir, I need not tell you my country when you hear my language, I come not here to study controversies, but to see the antiquities of the place ; if without scandal to the religion in which I was born and bred up, I may take this liberty, I should be glad to spend some convenient time here ; if not, my horse is yet unsaddled, and myself willing to go out of town. The answer returned by him to me was, that he never heard any body before me profess himself of any other religion than what was used in Rome ; for his part, he approved much my freedom, as collecting thereby I was a person of honour ; for the rest, that he could give me no warrant for my stay there, howbeit that experi- ence did teach that those men who gave no affronts to the Roman Catholic religion, received none ; whereupon also he demanded my name. I telling him I was called Sir Edward Herbert, he replied, that he had heard men oftentimes speak of me both for learning and courage, and presently in- vited me to dinner; I told him that I took his of State, and Viscount Dorchester. + Henry Vere, Earl of Oxford. He died at the Hague in 1625, of a sickness contracted at the siege of Breda, where, being a very corpulent man, he had overheated himeelf. + Sir Benjamin Rudyard was a man in great vogue, in that age, a wit, and poet, and intimate friend of William Earl of Pembroke, with whose poems Sir Benjamin’s are printed. LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. courteous offer as an argument of his affection ; that I desired him to excuse me, if I did not accept it; the uttermost liberty I had (as the times then were in England) being already taken in coming to that city only ; lest they should think me a factious person, I thought fit to tell him that I conceived the points agreed upon on both sides are greater bonds of amity betwixt us than that the points disagreed on could break them ; that for my part I loved every body that was of a pious and virtuous life, and thought the errors, cn what side soever, were more worthy pity than hate ; and having declared myself thus far, I took my leave of him courteously, and spent about a month’s time in seeing the antiquities of that place, which first found means to establish so great an empire ~ over the persons of men, and afterwards over: their consciences ; the articles of confession and absolving sinners being a greater arcanum imperit for governing the world, than all the arts invented by statists formerly were. After I had seen Rome sufficiently, I went to Tivoli, anciently called Tibur, and saw the fair palace and garden there, as also Frascati, anci- ently called Tusculanum. After that I returned to Rome, and saw the Pope in consistory, which being done, when the Pope being now ready to give his blessing, I departed thence suddenly ; which gave such a suspicion of me, that some were sent to apprehend me, but I going a bye way escaped them, and went to my inn to take horse, where I had not been now half an hour, when the master or regent of the English college telling me that I was accused in the Inquisition, and that I could stay no longer with any safety, I took this warning very kindly ; howbeit I did only for the present change my lodging, and a day or two afterwards took horse, and went out of Rome to- wards Siena, and from thence to Florence. I saw Sir Robert Dudley,* who had the title of Earl or Duke of Northumberland given him by the emperor, and handsome Mrs. Sudel, whom he carried with him out of England, and was there taken for his wife. I was invited by them toa great feast the night before I went out of town ; taking my leave of them both, I prepared for my journey the next morning ; when I was ready to depart, a messenger came to me, and told me if I would accept the same pension Sir Robert Dudley had, being two. thousand ducats per annum, the duke would entertain me for his service in the war against the Turks. This offer, whether procured by the means of Sir Robert Dudley, Mrs. Sudel, or Sigr. Loty, my ancient friend, I know not, being thankfully acknowledged as a great honour, was yet refused by me, my intention being to serve his excellency in the Low Country war. After I had stayed a while, from hence I went by Ferrara and Bologna towards Padua, in which university having spent some time to hear the learned readers, and particularly Cremonini, I left my English horses and Scotch saddles there, for on them I rid all the way from the Low Countries. I went by boat to Venice. The lord ambassador, * See an account of this extraordinary person in the Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors, vol. ii. Hand- ‘ome Mrs. Sudel was Mrs. Southwell, daughter of Sir Robert Southwell, who had followed Sir Robert Dudley rom England, under the disguise of a page. 348 LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. Sir Dudley Carlton, by this time had a command to reside a while in the court of the Duke of Savoy, wherewith also his lordship acquainted me, demanding whether I would go thither ; this offer was gladly accepted by me, both as I was desirous to see that court, and that it was in the way to the Low Country, where I meant to see the war the summer ensuing. Coming thus in the coach with my lord ambas- sador to Milan, the governor thereof invited my lord ambassador to his house, and sometimes feasted him during his stay there. Here I heard that famous nun singing to the organ in this man- ner; another nun beginning first to sing, per- formed her part so well, that we gave her much applause for her excellent art and voice ; only we thought she did sing somewhat lower than other women usually did ; hereupon also being ready to depart, we heard suddenly, for we saw no body, that nun which was so famous, sing aneight higher than the other had done; her voice was the sweetest, strongest, and clearest that ever I heard, in the using whereof also she shewed that art as ravished us into admiration. From Milan we went to Novara, as I remember, where we were entertained by the governor, being a Spaniard, with one of the most sumptuous feasts that ever I saw, being. but of nine dishes, in three several services ; the first whereof was, three ollas podridas, consisting of all choice boiled meats, placed in three large silver chargers, which took up the length of a great table ; the meat in it being heightened up artificially, pyramid-wise, toa sparrow which was on the top. The second ser- vice was like the former, of roast meat, in which all manner of fowl from the pheasant and partridge, to other fowl less than them, were heightened up to a lark. The third was in sweetmeats dry of all sorts, heightened in like manner to a round comfit. From hence we went to Vercelly, a town of the Duke of Savoy’s, frontier to the Spaniard, with whom the duke was then in war ; from whence, passing by places of least note, we came to Turin, where the Duke of Savoy’s court was. After I had refreshed myself here some two or three days, I took leave of my lord ambassador with inten- tion to go to the Low Countries, and was now upon the way thither, as far as the foot of Mount Cenis, when the Count Scarnafigi came to me from the Duke,* and brought a letter to this effect : That the duke had heard J was a cavalier of great worth, and desirous to see the wars, and that if I would serve him J should make my own condi- tions... Finding so courteous an invitation, I re- turned back, and was lodgéd by the Duke of Savoy in a chamber. furnished with silk and gold hang- ings, and a very rich bed, and defrayed at the duke’s charges in the English ambassador’s house. The duke also confirmed unto me what the Count Searnafigi had said, and together bestowed divers compliments on me. I told his highness, that when I knew in what service he pleased to employ me, ‘he should find me ready to testify the sense I had of his princely invitation. It was now in the time of Carnival, when the duke, who loved the company of ladies and dancing as much as any prince whosoever, made divers ~ errr, * Charles Emanuel. a erst was his manner to place me always with his own hand near some fair lady, wishing us both to entertain each other with some discourse, which was a great favour among the Italians, He did many other ways also declare the great esteem he had of me without coming to any particular, the time of the year for going into the field being not yet come ; only he exercised his men often, and made them ready for his occasions in the spring. The duke at last resolving how to use my ser- vice, thought fit to send me to Languedoc in France, to conduct 4,000 men of the reformed religion, who had promised their assistance in his war, unto Piedmont. I. willingly accepted this offer ; so taking my leave of the duke, and bestow- ing about 70/. or 80/. among his officers, for the kind entertainment I had received, I took my leave also of my lord ambassador, and Sir Albertus Moreton, who was likewise employed there, and prepared for my journey, for more expedition of which I was desired to go post. An old Scotch knight of the Sandelands hearing this, desired to borrow my horses as faras Heydelberg, which I granted, on condition that he would use them well by the way, and give them good keeping in that place afterwards. The Count. Scarnafigi was commanded to bear me company in this journey, and to carry with him some jewels, which he was to pawn in Lyons in France, and with the money gotten for them to pay the soldiers above nominated ; for though the duke had put extreme taxations on his people, insomuch that they paid not only a certain sum for every horse, ox, cow, or sheep that they kept, but afterwards for every chimney ; and, finally, every single person by the poll, which amounted to a pistole, or 14s. a head or person, yet he wanted money ; at which I did not so much wonder as at the patience of his subjects, of whom I demanded how they could bear their taxations? I have heard some of them answer, We are not so much offended with the duke for what he takes from us, as thankful for what he leaves us. The Count Scarnafigi and I, now setting forth, rid post all day without eating or drinking by the way, the count telling me still we should come to a good inn at night. It was now twilight when the count and I came near a solitary inn, on the top of a mountain; the hostess hearing the noise of horses, came out with a child new-born on her left arm, and a rush candle in her hand : she presently knowing the Count de Searnafigi, told him, Ah, Sig- nior, you are come ina very ill time, the duke’s sol- diers have been here to-day, and have left menothing I looked sadly upon the count, when he coming near to me whispered me in the ear, and said, It may be she thinks we will use her as the soldiers have done: go you into the house, and see whether you can find anything ; I will go round about the house, and perhaps I shall meet with some duck, hen, or chicken ; entering thus into the house, I found for all other furniture of it, the end of an old form, upon which sitting down, the hostess came towards me with a rush candle, and said, I protest before God that is true which I told the count, here is nothing to eat; but you are a gentle- man, methinks it is pity you should want ; if you please I will give you some milk out of my breasts, 349 37 masks and balls, in which his own daughters, among divers other ladies, danced ; and here it | 38 into a wooden dish I have here. This unexpected kindness made that impression on me, that I re- member I was never so tenderly sensible of an thing. My answer was, God forbid I should take away the milk from the child I see in thy arms ; howbeit, I shall take it all my life for the greatest piece of charity that ever I heard of ; and there- withal, giving her a pistole, or a piece of gold of 14s., Scarnafigi and I got on horseback again and rid another post, and came to an inn, where we found very coarse cheer, yet hunger made us re- lish it. In this journey I remember I went over Mount Gabelet by night, being carried down that precipice in a chair, a guide that went before bringing a bottle of straw with him, and kindling pieces of it from time to time, that we might see our way. Being at the bottom ofa hill, 1 got on horseback and rid to Burgoine, resolving to rest there a while ; and the rather, to speak truly, that I had heard divers say, and particularly Sir John Finnet* and Sir Richard Newport, that the host’s daughter there was the handsomest woman that ever they saw in their lives. Coming to the inn, the Count Scarnafigi wished me to rest two or three hours, and he would go before to Lyons to prepare busi- ness for my journey to Languedoe. The host’s daughter being not within, I told her father and mother that I desired only to see their daughter, as having heard her spoken of in England with so much advantage, that divers told me they thought her the handsomest creature that ever they saw. They answered that she was gone to a marriage, and should be presently sent for, wishing me in the meanwhile to take some rest upon a bed, for they saw I needed it. Waking now about two hours afterwards, I found her sitting by me, at- tending when I would open mine eyes. I shall touch a little of her description ; Her hair being of a shining black, was naturally curled in that order that a curious woman would have dressed it, for one curl rising by degrees above another, and every bout tied with a small ribband of a nacca- rine, or the colour that the Knights of the Bath wear, gave a very graceful mixture, while it was bound up in this manner from the point of her shoulder to the crown of her head; her eyes, which were round and black, seemed to be models of her whole beauty, and in some sort of her air, while a kind of light or flame came from them not unlike that which the ribband which tied up her hair exhibited ; I do not remember ever to have seen a prettier mouth, or whiter teeth ; briefly, all her outward parts seemed to become each other, neither was there anything that could be misliked, unless one should say her complexion was too brown, which yet from the shadow was heightened with a good blood in her cheeks. Her gown wasa green Turkey grogram, cut all into panes or slashes, from ‘the shoulder and sleeves unto the foot, and tied up at the distance of about a hand’s- breadth, everywhere with the same ribband, with which her hair was bound; so that her attire seemed as bizare as her person. I am too long in describing an host’s daughter, howbeit | thought I might better speak of her than of divers other beauties, held to eee * Master of the ceremonies. + Afterwards created a baron, and ancestor of the Earls of Bradford. LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. be the ‘best and fairest.of the time, whom I have often seen. In conclusion, after about an hour’s stay, I departed thence, without offering so much as the least incivility ; and indeed, after so much wearmess, it was enough that her - sight alone did somewhat refresh me. From hence I went straight to Lyons. Entering the gate, the guards there, after their usual man- ner, demanded of me who I was, whence I came, and whither I went? to which, while I answered, I observed one of them look very attentively upon me, and then again upon a paper he had in his hand. This having been done divers times, bred in me a suspicion that there was no good-meaning in it, and I was not deceived in my conjecture ; for the Queen-mother of France having newly made an edict, that no soldiers should be raised in France, the Marquis de Rambouillet,* French ambassador of Turin, sent word of my employment to the Marquis de St. Chaumont, then governor of Lyons, as also a description of my person. This edict was so severe, as they who raised any men were to lose their heads. In this unfortunate conjuncture of affairs, nothing fell out so well on my part, as that I had not raised as yet any men ; howbeit, the guards requiring me to come before the governor, I went with them:to a church where he was at vespers ; this while I walked in the lower part of the church, little imagining what danger I was in had I levied any men. I had not walked there long, when a single person came: te me, apparelled in a black stuff suit, without any _ attendants upon him, when I, supposing this person to be any man rather than the governor, saluted him without much ceremony. His first question was, whence I came? I answered, from Turin. He demanded then, whither I would go? I an- swered, I was not yet resolved. His third ques- tion was, what news at Turin ? to which I answered, that I had no news to tell, as supposing him to’ be only some busy or inquisitive person. The mar- quis hereupon called one of the guards that eon- ducted me thither, and after he had whispered something in his ear, wished me to go along with him, which I did willingly, as believing this man would bring me to the governor. ‘This man silently leading me out of the church, brought me:to a fair house, into which I was no sooner entered but he told me I was commanded to prison there by him I saw in the church, who was the governor ; I replied, I did not know him to be governor, nor that that was a prison, and that if I were out of it again, neither the governor nor all the town could bring me to it alive. The master of the house hereupon spoke me very fair, and told me he would conduct me to a better chamber than any I could find in an inn, and thereupon conducted me to a very handsome lodging not far from the river. T had not been here half an hour when Sir Edward Sackville} (now Earl of Dorset) hearing only that an Englishman was committed, sent to know who I was, and why I was imprisoned, The governor, not knowing whether to lay the fault upon my * This gentleman, I believe, was husband of Madam de Rambouillet, whose assemblies of the wits and poets were 50 much celebrated i in that age. They were parents of the famous Julie d’Angennes, Duchesse de Montausier, well- known by Voiture’s Letters to her. + Well-known by'his duel with the Lord Bruce. 5Y ' = all | | penned to this effect: That whereas he had given | said presently, C’est assez; it is enough. 1 then 351 LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. short answers to him, or my commission to levy men contrary to the queen’s edict, made him so doubtful an answer (after he had a little touched upon both) as he dismissed him unsatisfied. Sir Edward Sackville hereupon coming to the house where I was, as soon as ever he saw me embraced me, saying, Ned Herbert, what doest thouhere? Janswered, Ned Sackville, I am glad to see you, but I protest I know not why I am here. He again said, hast thou raised any men yet for the Duke of Savoy? I replied, not so much as one ; then, said he, I will warrant thee, though T must tell thee the governor is much offended at thy behaviour and language in the church ; (I replied it was impossible for me to imagine him to be governor that came without a guard, and in such mean clothes as he then wore). I will go to him again, and tell him what you say, and doubt not but you shall be suddenly freed. Hereupon returning to the governor, he told of what family I was, and of what condition, and that I had raised no men, and that I knew him not to be governor ; whereupon the marquis wished him to go back, that he would come in person to free me out of the house. This message being brought me by Six Edward Sackville, I returned this answer only: That it was enough if he sent.order to free me. While these messages past, a company of handsome young men and women, out of 1 know not what civility, brought music under the window and danced before me, looking often up to see me; but Sir Edward Sackville bemg now returned with order to free me, I only gave them thanks out of the window, and so went along with t em to the governor. Being come into a great hall where his lady was, and a large train of gentle- women and other persons, the governor, with his hat in his hand, demanded of me whether I knew him ? when his noble lady, answering for me, said, how could he know you, when you were in the church alone, and in this habit, being for the rest wholly a stranger to you ? which civility of hers, though I did not presently take notice of it, I did afterwards most thankfully acknowledge when I was ambassador in France. The governor’s next questions were the very same he made when he met me in the church ; to which I made the very same answers before them all, concluding that as I did not know him, he could think it no incon- gruity if I answered in those terms: the governor yet was not satisfied herewith, and his noble lady taking my part again, gave him those reasons for my answering him in that manner, that they silenced him from speaking any further. The governor turning back, I likewise, after an humble obeisance made to his lady, returned with Sir Edward Sackville to my lodgings. This night I passed as quietly as I could, but the next morning advised with him what I was to do ; I told him I had received a great affront, and that I intended to send him a challenge, in such courteous language, that he could not refuse it: Sir Edward Sackville by all means dissuaded me from it ; by which I perceived I was not to expect his assistance therein, and indeed the next day he went out of town. Being alone now, I thought on nothing more than how to send him a challenge, which at last I ee 39 me great offence, without a cause, I thought myself bound as a gentleman to resent it, and therefore desired to see him with his sword in his hand in any place he should appoint ; and hoped he would not interpose his authority as an excuse for not complying with his honour on this occasion, and that so I rested his humble servant. Finding nobody in town for two or three days by whom I might send this challenge, I resolved for my last means to deliver it in person, and observe how he took it, intending to right myselfas I could, when I found he stood upon his authority. This. night it happened that Monsieur Terant, formerly mentioned, came to the town ; this gen- tleman knowing me well, and remembering our acquaintance both at France and Juliers, wished there were some occasion for him to serve me ; I presently hereupon, taking the challenge out of* my pocket, told him he would oblige me extremely if he were pleased to deliver it, and that I hoped he might do it without danger, since I knew the French to be so brave a nation, that they would never refuse or dislike any thing that was done ‘in an honourable and worthy way. Terant took the challenge from me, and after he had read it, told me that the language was-civil and discreet ; nevertheless he thought the gover- nor would not return me that answer I expected ; howsoever, said he, I will deliver it. Returning thus to my inn, and intending to sleep quieter that night than I had done three nights before ; about one of the clock after midnight, I heard a great noise at my door, which awakened me, certain persons knocking so hard as if they would break it ; besides, through the chinks thereof I saw light. This made me presently rise in my shirt, when, drawing my sword, I went to the door, and de- manded who they were ; and together told them that if they came to make me prisoner, I would rather die with my sword in my hand ; and there- withal opening the door, I found upon the stairs half-a-dozen men armed with halberts, whom I no sooner prepared to resist, but the chief of them told me, that they came not to me from the gover- nor, but from my good friend the Duke of Mont- morency, son to the duke I formerly mentioned, and that he came to town late that night, in his way from Languedoc (of which he was governor) to Paris ; and that he desired me, if I loved him, to rise presently and come to him, assuring me further that this was most true ; hereupon wishing them to retire themselves, I drest myself, and went with them. They conducted me to the great hall of the governor, where the Duke of Montmo- rency, and divers other cavaliers, had been dancing with the ladies ; I went presently to the Duke of Montmorency, who, taking me a little aside, told me that he had heard of the passages betwixt the governor and me, and that I had sent him a chal- lenge ; howbeit, that he conceived men in his place were not bound to answer as private persons for those things they did by virtue of their office ; nevertheless, that I should have satisfaction in as ample manner as I could reasonably desire. Here- upon, bringing me with him to the governor, he freely told me that now he knew who I was, he could do no less than assure me that he was sorry for what was done, and desired me to take this for satisfaction : the Duke of Montmorency hereupon ne nT, NE ‘ cae A RE eR A RR TER a NN eee trees 40 LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. turning to him, demanded whether he would have taken this satisfaction in the like case? He said, yes. After this, turning to the governor, I de- manded the same question, to which he answered, that he would have taken the same satisfaction, and less too, I kissing my hand, gave it him, who embraced me, and so this business ended. After some compliments past between the Duke of Montmorency, who remembered the great love his father bore me, which he desired to continue in his person, and putting me in mind also of our being educated together for a while, demanded whether I would go with him to Paris? I told him that I was engaged to the Low Countries, but that wheresoever I was I should be his most humble servant. My employment with the Duke of Savoy in » Languedoc being thus ended, I went from Lyons to Geneva, where I found also my fame had pre- vented my coming; for the next morning after my arrival, the state taking notice of me, sent a messenger in their name to congratulate my being there, and presented me with some flaggons of wine, desiring me (if I staid there any while) to see their fortifications, and give my opinion of them ; which I did, and told them I thought they were weakest where they thought themselves the strongest ; which was on the hilly part, where indeed they had made great fortifications ; yet as it is a rule in war, that whatsoever may be made by art may be destroyed by art again, I conceived they had need to fear the approach of an enemy on that part rather than any other. They replied, that divers great soldiers had told them the same ; and that they would give the best order they could to serve themselves on that side. Having rested here some while to take physic (my health being a little broken with long travel) I departed, after a fortnight’s stay, to Basil, where taking a boat upon the river, I came at length to Strasbourg, and from thence went to Heydel- berg, where I was received again by the Prince Elector and princess with much kindness, and viewed at leisure the fair library there, the gar- dens, and other rarities of that place ; and here I found my horses I lent to Sandelands in good plight, which I then bestowed upon some servants of the prince, in way of retribution for my welcome thither. From hence Sir George Calvert* and myself went by water, for the most part, to the Low Countries, where taking leave of each other, I went straight to his excellency, who did extraor- dinarily welcome me, insomuch that it was observed that he did never outwardly make so much of any one as myself. It happened this summer that the Low Country army was not drawn into the field, so that the Prince of Orange past his time at playing at chess with me after dinner; or in going to Reswick with him to see his great horses ; or in making love ; in which also he used me as his companion, yet so that I saw nothing openly, mre than might argue a civil familiarity. When I was at any time from him, I did by his good leave endeavour to raise a troop of horse for the Duke of Savoy’s service, as having obtained a commission to that purpose for my brother William, then an officer * Afterwards Lord Baltimore. See an account of him in the Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors, vol. ii. in the Low Country. Having these men in readi- ness, I sent word to the Count Scarnafigi thereof, who was now ambassador in England, telling him that if he would send money, my brother was ready to go. Scarnafigi answered me, that he expected money in England, and that as soon as he received it, he would send over so much as would pay an hundred horse. But a peace betwixt him and the Spaniard being concluded not long after at Asti, the whole charge of keeping this horse fell upon me, without ever to this day receiving any recompence. Winter now approaching, and nothing more to be done for that year, I went to the Brill to take shipping for England. Sir Edward Conway, who was then governor at that place, and afterwards secretary of state, taking notice of my being there, — came to me, and invited me every day to come to him, while I attended only for a wind; which serving at last for my journey, Sir Edward Conway conducted me. to the ship, into which as soon as I was entered he caused six pieces of ordnance to be discharged for my farewell. I was scarce gone a ‘league into the sea, when the wind turned con- trary, and forced me back again. Returning thus to the Brill, Sir Edward Conway welcomed me as before ; and now, after some three or four days, the wind serving, he conducted me again to the ship, and bestowed six volleys of ordnance upon me. I was now about half way to England, when a most cruel storm arose, which tore our sails and spent our masts, insomuch that the master of our ship gave us all for lost, as the wind was extreme high, and together contrary ; we were carried at last, though with much difficulty, back again to the Brill, where Sir Edward Conway did congratu- late my escape ; saying, he believed certainly, that (considering the weather) I must needs be cast away. After some stay here with my former welcome, the wind being now fair, I was conducted again to. my ship by Sir Edward Conway, and the same volleys of shot given me, and was now scarce out of the haven, when the wind again turned con- trary, and drove me back. This made me resoive to try my fortune here no longer ; hiring a small bark, therefore, I went to the Sluice, and from thence to Ostend, where finding company, I went to Brussels. In the inn where I lay here an ordinary was kept, to which divers noblemen and principal officers of the Spanish army resorted : sitting among these at dinner, the next day after my arrival, no man knowing me, or informing himself who I was, they fell into discourse of divers matters in Italian, Spanish, and French ; and at last three of them, one after another, began to speak of king James, my master, in a very scornful manner ; I thought with myself then, that. if I was a base fellow, I need not take any notice thereof, since no man knew me to be an English- man, or that I did so much as understand their language ; but my heart burning within me, I, putting off my hat, arose from the table, and turn- ing myself to those that sat at the upper end, who had said nothing to the king my master’s preju- dice, I told them in Italian, Son Jnglese ; 1 am an Englishman ; and should be unworthy to live if I suffered these words to be spoken of the King my master ; and therewithal turning myself to those who had injured the king, I said, You have spoken falsely, and I will fight with you all. Those at the rt i tt LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. upper end of the table, finding I had so much reason on my part, did sharply check those I questioned, and, to be brief, made them ask the king’s forgiveness, wherewith also the king’s health being drank round about the table, I departed thence to Dunkirk, and thence to Graveling, where I saw, though unknown, an English gentlewoman enter into a nunnery there. I went thence to Calais ; it was now extreme foul weather, and I could find no master of a ship willing to adventure to sea ; howbeit, my impatience was such, that I demanded of a poor fisherman there whether he would go ? he answered, his ship was worse than any in the haven, as being open above, and with- out any deck, besides, that it was old ; but, saith -he, I care for my life as little as you do, and if you will go, my boat is at your service. T was now scarce out of the haven, when a high grown sea had almost overwhelmed us, the waves coming in very fast into our ship, which we laded out again the best way we could ; notwithstanding which, we expected every minute to be cast away ; it pleased God yet, before we were gone six leagues into the sea, to cease the tempest, and give us a fair passage over to the Downs, where, after giving God thanks for my delivery from this most need- less danger that ever I did run, I went to London. I had not been here ten days when a quartan ague seized on me, which held me for a year and a half without intermission, and a year and a half longer at spring and fall : the good days I had during all this sicknéss, I employed in study, the ill being being spent in as sharp and long fits as I think ever any man endured, which brought me at last to be so lean and yellow, that scarce any man did know me. It happened during this sickness, that I walked abroad one day towards Whitehall, where, meeting with one Emerson, who spoke very dis- graceful words of Sir Robert Harley, being then my dear friend, my weakness could not hinder me to be sensible of my friend’s dishonour ; shaking him therefore by a long beard he wore, I stept a little aside, and drew my sword in the street ; Captain Thomas Scriven, a friend of mine, being not far off on one side, and divers friends of his on the other side. All that saw me wondered how I could go, being so weak and consumed as I was, but much more that I would offer to fight ; how- soever, Emerson, instead of drawing his sword, ran away into Suffolk house, and afterwards in- formed the lords of the council of what I had done ; who not long after sending for me, did not so much reprehend my taking part with my friend, as that I would adventure to fight, being in such a bad condition of health. Before I came wholly out of my sickness, Sir George Villiers, afterwards Duke of Buckingham, came into the king’s favour : this cavalier meeting me accidentally at the Lady Stanhope’s * house, came to me, and told me he had heard so much of my worth, as he would think himself happy if, by his credit with the king, he could do me any service ; I humbly thanked him, but told him, that for the present I had need of nothing so much as of health, but that if ever I had ambition, I should take the boldness to make my address by him. * Catherine, daughter of Francis Lord Hastings, first wife of Philip Lord Stanhope, afterwards created Earl of Chesterfield. a Pa dinner, and would afterwards attend them. 41 I was no sooner perfectly recovered of this long sickness, but the Earl of Oxford and myself re- solved to raise two regiments for the service of the Venetians. While we were making ready for this journey, the king having an occasion to send an ambassador into France, required Sir George Villiers to present him with the names of the fittest men for that employment that he knew ; where- upon eighteen names, among which mine was, being written in a paper, were presented to him ; the king presently chose me, yet so as he desired first to have the approbation of his privy council, who, confirming his majesty’s choice, sent a mes- senger to my house among gardens, near the Old Exchange, requiring me to come presently to them. Myself little knowing then the honour intended me, asked the messenger whether I had done any fault, that the lords sent for me so suddenly ? wishing him to tell the lords that I was going to T had scarce dined when another messenger was sent ; this made me hasten to Whitehall, where I was no sooner come, but the lords saluted me by the name of lord ambassador of France ; I told their lord- ships thereupon, that I was glad it was no worse, and that I doubted, that by their speedy sending for me, some complaint, though false, might be made against me, My first commission was to renew the oath of alliance betwixt the two crowns, for which purpose I was extraordinary ambassador, which being done, I was to reside there as ordinary. I had received now about six or seven hundred pounds, towards the charges of my journey, and locked it in certain coffers in my house ; when the night following, about one of the clock, [ could hear divers men speak and knock at the door, in that part of the house where none did lie but myself, my wife, and her attendants, my servants being lodged in another house not far off: as soon as I heard the noise, I suspected presently they came to rob me of my money ; howsoever, I thought fit to rise, and go to the window to know who they were ; the first word I heard was, Darest thou come down, Welchman ? which I no sooner heard, but, taking a sword in one hand, and a little target in the other, I did in my shirt run down the stairs, open the doors suddenly, and charged ten or twelve of them with that fury that they ran away, some throwing away their halberts, others hurting their fellows to make them go faster in a narrow way they were to pass ; in which disordered manner I drove them to the middle of the street by the Ex- change, where finding my bare feet hurt by the stones I trod on, I thought fit to return home, and leave them to their flight. My servants, hearing the noise, by this time were got up, and demanded whether I would have them pursue those rogues that fled away; but I answering that I thought they were out of their reach, we returned home together. While I was preparing myself for my journey, it happened that I passing through the Inner Temple one day, and encountering Sir Robert Vaughan in this country, some harsh words past betwixt us, which occasioned him, at the persua- sion of others, whom I will not nominate, to send me a challenge ; this was brought me at my house in Blackfryars, by Captain Charles Price, upon a Sunday, about one of the clock in the afternoon. ; ee ee ee En ee ee ee eer rn 49 When I had yvead it, I told Charles Price that I did ordinarily bestow this day in devotion, nevertheless that I. would meet Sir Robert Vaughan’ presently, and gave him thereupon the length of my sword, demanding whether he brought any second with him ; to which Charles Price re- plying that he would be in the field with him, I told my brother Sir Henry Herbert, then present, thereof, who readily offering himself to be my second, nothing was wanting now but the place to be agreed upon betwixt. us, which was not far from the waterside near Chelsea. My brother and I taking boat presently, came to the place, where, after we had staid about two hours in vain, I desired my brother to go to Sir Robert Vaughan’s lodging, and tell him that I now attended his coming a great while, and that I desired him to come away speedily ; hereupon my brother went, and after a while, returning back again, he told me they were not ready yet ; I at- tended then about an hour and a half longer, but as he did not come yet, I sent my brother a second time to call him away, and to tell him I catched cold, nevertheless that I would stay there till sun- set: my brother yet could not bring him along, but returned himself to the place, where we staid together till half an hour after sun-set, and then returned home. The next. day the Earl of Worcester, * by the king’s command, forbid me to receive any message or letter from Sir Robert Vaughan, and advertised me withal, that the king had given him charge to end the business betwixt us, for which purpose he desired me to come before him the next day about two of the clock ; at which time, after the earl had told me, that being now made ambassador, and a public person, I ought not to entertain pri- vate quarrels ; after which, without much ado, he ended the business betwixt Sir Robert Vaughan and myself. It was thought by some, that this would make me lose my place, I being under so great an obligation to the king for myemployment in France ; but Sir George Villiers, afterwards duke of Buckingham, told me he would warrant me for this one time, but I must do so no more. I was now almost ready for my journey, and had received already as choice a company of gen- tlemen for my attendants, as I think ever followed an ambassador ; when some of my private friends told me, that I was not to trust so much to my pay from the exchequer, but that it was necessary for me to take letters of credit with me, for as much money as I could well procure. Informing myself hereupon who had furnished the last am- bassador, I was told Monsieur Savage, a French- man: coming to his house, 1. demanded whether he would help me with monies in France, as he had done the last ambassador ; he said he did not know me, but would inform himself better who Iwas. Departing thus from him, I went to Sigr. Burlamacchi, a man of great credit in those times, and demanded of him the same ; his answer was, that he knew me to be a man of honour, and I had kept my word with every body ; whereupon also going to his study, gave me a letter of credit to one Monsieur de Langherac in Paris, for 2000/. sterling: I then demanded what security he ex- * Edward Somerset, Earl of Worcester, lord privy seal and knight of the garter. LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. pected for this money ? he said, he would have nothing but my promise ; I told him he had put a great obligation upon me, and that I would strive to acquit myself of it the best I could. Having now a good sum of money in my coffers, and this letter of credit, I made ready for my journey ; the day I went out of London [ remem- ber was the same in which’ Queen Anne was carried to burial, which was a sad spectacle to all that had occasion to honour her. My first night’s journey was to Gravesend, where being at supper in my inn, Monsieur Savage formerly mentioned came to me, and told me, that whereas I had spoken to him for a letter of credit, he had made one which he thought would be to my contentment. I demanded to whom it was directed ; he*said to Monsieur Tallemant and Rambouillet, in Paris ; I asked then what they were worth ¢ he said, above one hundred thousand pounds ‘sterling ; I de- manded for how much this letter of credit was ? he said, for as much as I should have need of: I asked what security he required ? he said, nothing but my word, which he had heard was inviolable. From Gravesend, by easy journeys I went to Dover, where I took shipping, with a train of an hundred and odd persons, and arrived shortly after at Calais, where I remember my cheer was twice as good as at Dover, and my reckoning half as cheap. From whence I went!to Boulogne, Mon- streville, Abbeville, Amiens, and in two days thence, to St. Dennis near Paris, where I»was met with a great train of coaches that were sent to receive me, as also by the master of the cere- monies, and Monsieur Mennon, my fellow scholar, with Monsieur Disancour, who then kept an academy, and brought with him a brave company of gentlemen on great horses, to attend me into town. It was now somewhat late when I entered Paris, upon a Saturday night ; I was but newly settled in my lodging, when a secretary of the Spanish ambassador there told me that his lord desired to have the first audience from me, and therefore re- quested he might. see me the next morning ; I replied, it was a day I gave wholly to devotion, and therefore intreated him to stay till some more convenient time : the secretary replied, that. his master did hold it no less holy ; howbeit, that his respect to me was such, that he would prefer the desire he had to serve me before all other con- siderations ; howsoever I put him off till Monday following, Not long after, I took a house in Fauxbourg St. Germains, Rue Tournon, which cost me 2001. ster- ling yearly ; having furnished the house richly, and lodged all my train, I prepared for a journey to Tours and Touraine, where the French court then was: being come hither in extreme hot weather, I demanded audience of the king and queen, which being granted, I did assure the king of the great affection the king my master bore him, not only out of the ancient alliance betwixt the two crowns, but because Henry the Fourth and the king my master had id ee with .each other, that whensoever any oné of them died, the survivor should take care of the other’s child: I assured him further, that no charge was so much imposed upon me by my instructions, as that I should do good offices betwixt both kingdoms ; and therefore that it were a great fault:in me, if I pe enero te ES ES SS 354 a a nr er i i a i ag NA cI ce Nae SS ner nanan an la Se TR a OT a et ar = —— — = wh LIFE: OF LORD HERBERT. 43 behaved myself otherwise than with all respect to his majesty : this being done, I presented to the king a letter of credence from the king my master: the king assured me of a reciprocal affection to the king my master, and of my particular welcome to his court : his words were never many, as being so extreme a stutterer, that he would sometimes hold his tongue out of his mouth a good while before he could speak so much as one word ; he had besides a double row of teeth, and was observed seldom or never to spit or blow his nose, or to sweat much, though he were very laborious, and almost indefatigable in his exercises of hunting and hawking, to which he was much addicted ; neither did it hinder him, though he was burst. in his body, as we call it, or herniosus ; for he was noted in those sports, though oftentimes on foot, to tire not only his courtiers, but even his lackies, being equally insensible, as was thought, either of heat or cold; his understanding and natural parts were as good as. could be expected in one that was brought up in so much ignorance, which was on purpose so done that. he might be the longer governed ; howbeit, he acquired in time a great knowledge in affairs, as conversing for the most part with wise and active persons. He was noted to have two qualities incidental to all who were ignorantly brought up—suspicion and dissimula- tion ; for as ignorant persons walk so much in the dark, they cannot be exempt from fear of stum- bling ; and as they are likewise deprived of, or deficient in those true principles by which they should govern both public and private actions in a wise, solid, and demonstrative way, they strive commonly to supply these imperfections with covert arts, which, though it may be sometimes excusable in necessitous persons, and be indeed frequent among those who negociate in small matters, yet condemnable in princes, who, proceed- ing upon foundations of reason and strength, ought not to submit themselves to such poor helps : how- beit, I must observe, that neither his fears did take away his courage, when there was occasion to use it, nor his dissimulation extend itself to the doing of private mischiefs to his subjects, either of one or the other religion; his favourite was one Monsieur de Luynes, who in his non-age gained much upon the king, by making hawks fly at all little birds in his gardens, and by making some of those little birds again catch butter-flies ; and had the king used him for no other purpose, he might have been tolerated ; but as, when the king came to a riper age, the government of public affairs was. drawn chiefly from his counsels, not a few errors were committed. The queen-mother, princes, and nobles of that kingdom, repined that his advices to the king should be so prevalent, which also at last caused a civil war in that kingdom. How unfit this man was for the credit he had with the king may be argued by this; that when there was question made about some business in Bohemia, he demanded whether it was an inland country, or lay upon the seat And thus much for the present of the king and his favourite. After my audience with the king, I had another from the queen, being sister to the king of Spain ; I had little to say unto her, but some compliments on the king my master’s part; but such compli- ments as her sex and quality were capable of. 355 This queen was exceedingly fair, like those of the house of Austria, and together of so mild and good a condition, she was never noted to have done ill offices to any, but to have mediated as much as was possible for her, in. satisfaction of those who had any suit to the king, as far as their cause would bear. She had now been married. divers years without. having any children, though so ripe for them, that.nothing seemed to be wanting on her part. J remember her the more particularly, that she shewed publicly at. my audiences that favour to me, as not only my servants, but divers others took notice of it. After this my first audience, I went to see Monsieur de Luynes, and the principal ministers of state, as also the princes and princesses, and ladies then in the court, and particularly the princess of Conti, from whom I carried the. scart formerly mentioned ; and this is as much as I shall declare in this place concerning my negociation with the king and state, my purpose being, if God sends me life, to set them forth apart, as having the copies of all my despatches in a great trunk, in my house in London ; and considering that in the time of my stay there, there-were divers civil wars in that. country, and that the prince, now king, passed with my Lord of Buckingham, and others, through France into Spain ; and the business of the Elector Palatine in Bohemia, and the battle of Prague, and divers other memorable accidents, both of state and war, happened during the time of my employment; I conceive a narration of them may be worth the seeing, to them who have it not from a better hand. I shall only therefore relate here, as they come into my memory, certain little passages, which may serve in some part to declare the history of my life. Coming back from Tours to Paris, I gave the best order I could concerning the expenses of my house, family, and stable, that I.might settle all things as near as was possible in a certain course, allowing, according to the manner of France, so many pounds of beef, mutton, veal, and pork, and so much also in turkeys, capons, pheasants, par- tridges, and all other fowls, as also pies and tarts, after the French manner, and. after all this, a dozen dishes of sweetmeats every meal constantly. The ordering of these things was the heavier to me, that my wife flatly refused to come over into France, as being now entered into a drepsy, which also had kept her without children for many years : I was constrained therefore to make use of a stew- ard, who was. understanding and diligent, but no very honest man ; my chief secretary was William Boswell, now the king’s agent. in the Low Coun- tries ; my secretary for the French tengue was one Monsiewr Ozier, who afterwards was the king’s agent in France. The gentleman of my horse was Monsieur de Meny, who afterwards commanded a thousand horse, in the wars of Germany, and proved a very gallant gentleman. Mr. Crofts was one of my principal gentlemen, and afterwards made the king’s cup-bearer ; and Thomas Caage, that excellent wit, the king’s carver; Edmund Taverner, whom I made my under-secretary, was afterwards chief secretary to the lord chamberlain ; and one Mr. Smith, secretary to the Earl of Northumberland; I nominate these, and could many more, that came to very good fortunes after- wards, because I may verify that which 1 said before concerning the gentlemen that attended me. fc nme Sar irene eS nest a 44 When I came to Paris, the English and French were in very ill intelligence with each other, inso- much that one Buckly coming then to me, said he was assaulted and hurt upon Pont Neuf, only be- cause he was an Englishman: nevertheless, after I had been in Paris about a month, all the English were so welcome thither, that no other nation was so acceptable amongst them, insomuch, that my gentlemen having a quarrel with some debauched French, who in their drunkenness quarrelled with them, divers principal gentlemen of that nation offered themselves to assist my people with their swords. It happened one day that my cousin, Oliver Herbert, and George Radney, being gentlemen who attended me, and Henry Whittingham, my butler, had a quarrel with some French, upon I know not what frivolous occasion. It happened my cousin, Oliver Herbert, had for his opposite a fencer belonging to the Prince of Conde, who was dangerously hurt by him in divers places; but as the house, or hostel, of the Prince of Conde was not far off,and himself well beloved in these quar- ters, the French in great multitudes arising, drove away the three above mentioned into my house, pursuing them within the gates; I perceiving this at a window, ran out with my sword, which the people no sooner saw, but they fled again as fast as ever they entered. Howsoever, the Prince of Conde, his fencer, was in that danger of his life, that Oliver Herbert was forced to fly France, which, that he might do the better, I paid the said fencer 200 crowns, or 60/. sterling, for his hurt and cures, The plague now being hot in Paris, I desired the Duke of Montmorency to lend me the castle of Merlou, where I lived in the time of his most noble father, which he willingly granted. Removing thither, I enjoyed that sweet place and country, wherein I found not a few that welcomed me out of their ancient acquaintance. On the one side of me was the Baron de Monta- terre of the reformed religion, and Monsieur de Bouteville on the other, who, though young at that time, proved afterwards to be that brave cavalier which all France did so much celebrate. In both their castles, likewise, were ladies of much beauty and discretion, and particularly a sister of Boute- ville, thought to be one of the chief perfections of the time, whose company yielded some divertise- ment, when my public occasions did suffer it. Winter being now come, I returned to my house in Paris, and prepared for renewing the oath of alliance betwixt the two crowns, for which, as I said formerly, I had an extraordinary com- mission ; nevertheless the king put off the business to as long a time as he well could. In the mean- while Prince Henry of Nassau, brother to Prince Maurice, coming to Paris, was met and much wel- comed by me, as being obliged to him no less than to his brother in the Low Countries. This prince, and all his train, were feasted by me at Paris with one hundred dishes, costing, as I remember, in all, 1002. The French king at last resolving upon a day for performing the ceremony, oetwixt the two erowns above mentioned, myself and all my train put ourselves into that sumptuous equipage, that I remember it cost me one way or another above 1000/. And truly the magnificence of it was such, LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. as a little French book was presently printed thereof. This being done, I resided here in the quality of an ordinary ambassador, And now I shall mention some particular pas- sages concerning myself, without entering yet any way into the whole frame and context of my nego- ciation, reserving them, as I said before, to a par- ticular treatise. I spent my time much in the visits of the princes, council of state, and great persons of the French kingdom, who did ever punctually requite my visits. The like I did also to the chief ambassadors there, among whom the Venetian, Low Country, Savoy, and the united princes in Germany, ambassadors, did bear me that respect, that they usually met in my house, to ad- vise together concerning the great affairs of that time: for as the Spaniard then was so potent that he seemed to affect an universal monarchy, all the above-mentioned ambassadors did, in one common interest, strive to oppose him, All our endeavours yet could not hinder, but that he both publicly prevailed in his attempts abroad, and privately did corrupt divers of the principal ministers of state in this kingdom. I came to discover this by many ways, but by none more effectually than by the means of an Italian, who returned over, by letters of exchange, the monies the Spanish ambassador received for his occasions in France; for I per- ceived that when the said Italian was to receive any extraordinary great sum for the Spanish am- bassador’s use, the whole face of affairs was pre- sently changed, insomuch that neither my reasons, nor the ambassadors above mentioned, how valid soever, could prevail: though yet afterwards we found means together to reduce affairs to their former train; until some other new great sum coming to the Spanish ambassador’s hand, and from thence to the aforesaid ministers of state, altered all. Howbeit divers visits passed betwixt the Spanish ambassador and myself; in one of which he told me, that though our interests were divers, yet we might continue friendship in our particular persons ; for, said he, it can be no occa- sion of offence betwixt us, that each of us strive the best he can to serve the king his master. I disliked not his reasons, though yet I could not omit to tell him, that I would maintain the dignity of the king my master the best I could: and this I said, because the Spanish ambassador had taken place of the English, in the time of Henry IV., in this fashion: They both meeting in an antichamber to the secretary of state, the Spanish ambassador, leaning to the wall in that posture that he took the’ hand of the English ambassador, said publicly, I hold this place in the right of the king my master; which small punctilio being not resented by our ambassador at that time, gave the Spaniard occa- sion to brag, that he had taken the hand from our ambassador. This made me more watchful to re- gain the honour which the Spaniard pretended to have gotten herein ; so that though the ambassador, in his visits, often repeated the words above men- tioned, being in Spanish, Que cada wno haga lo que pudiere por su amo, Let every man do the best he can for his master, I attended the occasion to right my master. It happened one day, that both of us going to the French king for our several affairs, the Spanish ambassador, between Paris and Es- tampes, being upon his way before me in his coach, with a train of about sixteen or eighteen persons 356 , LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. 45 on horseback, I following him in my coach, with | speak high, for I am deaf: my answer to him was, about ten or twelve horse, found that either I must vo the Spanish pace, which is slow, or if I hasted to pass him, that I must hazard the suffering of some affront like unto that our former ambassador received; proposing hereupon to my gentlemen the whole business, I told them that I meant to redeem the honour of the king my master some way or other, demanding further, whether they would assist me? which they promising, I bid the coachman drive on. The Spanish ambassador seeing me approach, and imagining what my inten- tion was, sent a gentleman to me, to tell me he desired to salute me; which I accepting, the gen- tleman returned to the ambassador, who, alighting from his coach, attended me in the middle of the highway ; which being perceived by me I alighted also, when, some extravagant compliments having passed betwixt us, the Spanish ambassador took his leave of me, went to a dry ditch not far off, upon pretence of making water, but indeed to hold the upper hand of me while I passed by in my coach ; which being observed by me, I left my coach, and getting upon a spare horse I had there, rode into the said dry ditch, and telling him aloud, that I knew well why he stood there, bid him after- wards get to his coach, for I must ride that way : the Spanish ambassador, who understood me well, went to his coach grumbling and discontented, though yet neither he nor his train did any more than look one upon another, in a confused man- ner: my coach this while passing by the ambassa- dor on the same side I was, I shortly after left my horse and got into it. It happened this while, that one of my coach-horses having lost a shoe, I thought fit to stay at a smith’s forge, about a quar- ter of a mile before; this shoe could not be put on so soon, but that the Spanish ambassador over- took us, and might indeed have passed us, but that he thought I would give him another affront. Attending, therefore, the smith’s leisure, he staid in the highway, to our no little admiration, until my horse was shoed. We continued our journey to Estampes, the Spanish ambassador following us still at a good distance. : I should scarce have mentioned this passage, but that the Spaniards do so much stand upon their pundonores ; for confirming whereof I have thought fit to remember the answer a Spanish ambassador made to Philip II. King of Spain, who, finding fault with him for neglecting a business of great importance in Italy, because he could not agree with the French ambassadorabout some such pundo- nore as this, said to him, Como a dexado wna cosa di importancia per una ceremonia! How have you left a business of importance for a ceremony ! The ambassador boldly replied to his master, Como por wna ceremonia? Vuessa Majesta misma no €s sino una ceremonia; How, for a ceremony ? your majesty’s self is but a ceremony. Howsoever, the Spanish ambassador taking no notice publicly of the advantage I had of him herein, dissembled it, as I heard, till he could find some fit occasion to resent this passage, which yet he never did to this day. Among the visits I rendered to the grandees of France, one of the principal I made was to that brave general the Duke of Lesdigueres, who was now grown very old and deaf. His first words to me were, Monsieur, you must do me the honour to Vouil You was born to command and not to obey ; it is enough if others have ears to hear you. This compliment took him much, and indeed I have a manuscript of his military precepts and observa- tions, which I value at a great price. I shall relate now some things concerning my- self, which, though they may seem scarce credible, yet, before God, are true: I had been now in France about a year and a half, when my tailor, Andrew Henly of Basil, who now lives in Blackfryars, de- manded of me half a yard of satin, to make me a suit, more than I was accustomed to give; of which I required a reason, saying I was not fatter now than when I came to France. He answered, it was true, but you are taller; whereunto, when I would give no credit, he brought his old mea- sures, and made it appear that they did not reach to their just places. I told him I knew not how this happened ; but howsoever he should have half a yard more, and that when I came into England I would clear the doubt; for a little before my departure thence, I remember William Earl of Pembroke and myself did measure heights together, at the request of the Countess of Bedford, and he was then higher than I by about the breadth of my littlg finger. At my return, therefore, into England, I measured again with the same earl, and, to both our great wonders, found myself taller than he by the breadth of a little finger ; which growth of mine I could attribute to no other cause but to my quartan ague formerly mentioned, which, when it quitted me, left me in a more perfect health than I formerly enjoyed, and indeed disposed me to some follies which - I afterwards repented, and do still repent of; but as my wife refused to come over, and m temptations were great, I hope the faults I com- mitted are the more pardonable. Howsoever ] can say truly, that, whether in France or Eng- land, I was never in a bawdy-house, nor used my pleasures intemperately, and much less did ac- company them with that dissimulation and false- hood which is commonly found in men addicted to love women. To conclude this passage, which I unwillingly mention, I must protest again, before God, that I never delighted in that or any other sin; and that if I transgressed sometimes in this kind, it was to avoid a greater ill ; for certainly if I had been provided with a lawful remedy, I should have fallen into no extravagancy. I could extenuate my fault by telling circumstances which would have operated, I doubt, upon the chastest of mankind ; but I forbear, those things being not fit to be spoken of; for though the philosophers have accounted this act to be inter honesta factu, where neither injury nor violence was offered, yet they ever reckoned it among the turpia dictu. I shall, therefore, only tell some other things alike strange of myself. I weighed myself in balances often with men lower than myself by the head, and in their bodies slenderer, and yet was found lighter than they, as Sir John Davers, knight, and Richard Griffiths, now living, can witness, with both whom I have been weighed. I had also, and have still, a pulse on the crown of my head. It is well known to those that wait in my chamber, that the shirts, waist- coats, and other garments I wear next my body, are sweet, beyond what either easily can be be- Kk ~ Lo Ee —————— eee 307 46 LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. lieved, or hath been observed in any else, which sweetness also was found to be in my breath above others, before I used to take tobacco, which, to- wards my latter time, I was forced to take against certain rheums and catarrhs that trouble me, which yet did not taint my breath for any long time ; I scarce ever felt cold in my life, though yet so subject to catarrhs, that I think no man ever was more obnoxious to it; :ll which I do in a familiar way mention to my posterity, though otherwise they might be thought scarce worth the writing. The effect of my being sent into France by the king my master, being to hold all good intelligence betwixt both erowns, my employment was both noble and pleasing, and my pains not great, France having no design at that time upon England, and king James being that pacific prince all the world knew. And thus, besides the times I spent in treaties and negociations I had either with the ministers of state in France, or foreign ambassa- dors residing in Paris, I had spare time not only for my book, but for visits to divers grandees, for little more ends than obtaining some intelligence of the affairs of that kingdom and civil conversa- tion, for which their free, generous, and cheerful company was no little motive ; persons of all quality being so addicted to have mutual enter- tainment with each other, that in calnt weather one might find all the noble and good company in Paris, of both sexes, either in the garden of the Thuilleries, or in the park of Bois de Vincennes ; they thinking it almost an incivility to refuse their presence and free discourse to any who were capa- ble of coming to those places, either under the recommendation of good parts, or but so much as handsome clothes, and a good equipage. When foul weather was, they spent their time in visits at each other’s houses, where they interchanged civil discourses, or heard music, or fell to dancing, using, according to the manner of that country, all the reasonable liberties they could with their honour, while their manner was, either in the garden of the Thuilleries, or elsewhere, if any one discoursing with a lady did see some other of good fashion approach to her, he would leave her and go to some other lady, he who conversed with her at that time quitting her also, and going to some other that so addresses might be made equal and free to all without scruple on any part ; neither was exception made, or quarrel begun, upon these terms. It happened one day, that I being ready to return from the Thuilleries, about eight of the clock in the summer, with intention to write a despatch to the king about some intelligence I had received there, the queen attended with her prin- cipal ladies, without so much as one cavalier, did enter the garden ; I staid on one side of an alley, there to do my reverence to her and the rest, and so return to my house, when the queen perceiving me, staid a while, as if she expected I should attend her ; but as I stirred not more than to give her that great respect I owed her, the Princess of Conti, who was next, called me to her, and said I must go along with her, but I excusing myself upon occasion of a present despatch which I was tomake unto his majesty, the Duchess of Antador, who followed her, came to me, and said] must not refuse her ; whereupon, leading her by her arms, according to the manner of that country, the a Princess of Conti, offended that I had denied her that civility which I had yielded to another, took me off, after she had demanded the consent of the duchess ; but the queen then also staying, I left the princess, and, with all due humility, went to the queen, and led her by the arms, walking thus to a place in the garden where some orange trees grew, and here discoursing with her majesty bare- headed, some small shot fell on both our heads ; the occasion whereof was this: the king being in the garden, and shooting ata bird in the air, which he did with much perfection, the descent of his shot fell just upon us ; the queen was much startled herewith, when I, coming nearer to her, demanded whether she had received any harm ; to which she answering no, and therewith taking two or three small pellets from her hair, it was thought fit to send a gardener to the king, to tell him that her majesty was there, and that he should shoot no more that way, which was no sooner heard among the nobles that attended him, but many of them leaving him, came to the queen and ladies, among whom was Monsieur le Grand,* who, finding the queen still discoursing with me, stole behind her, and letting fall gently some comfits he had in his pocket upon the queen’s hair, gave her occasion to apprehend that some shot had fallen on her again ; turning hereupon to Monsieur le Grand, I said that I marvelled that so old a courtier as he was could find no means to entertain ladies but by making them afraid ; but the queen shortly after returning to her lodging, I took my leave of her, and came home. All which passage I have thought fit to set down, the accident above men- tioned being so strange, that it can hardly be paralleled. It fell out one day that the Prince of Conde coming to my house, some speech happened con- cerning the king my master, in whom, though he acknowledged much learning, knowledge, cle- mency, and divers other virtues, yet he said he had heard that the king was much given to cursing : I answered that it was out of his gentleness ; but the prince demanding how cursing could be a gentleness ? I replied, yes, for though he could punish men himself, yet he left them to God to punish ; which defence of the king my master was afterwards much celebrated in the French court. Monsieur de Luynes+ continuing still the king’s favourite, advised him to war against his subjects of the reformed religion in France, saying, he would neither be a great prince as long as he suffered so puissant a party to remain within his dominions, nor could justly style himself the Most Christian King, as long as he permitted such here- tics to be in that great number they were, or to hold those strong places which by publice edict were assigned to them; and therefore that he should extirpate them as the Spaniards had done the Moors, who are all banished into other coun- tries, as we may find in their histories. This counsel, though approved by the young king, was yet disliked by other grave and wise persons about him, and particularly by the chancellor Sillery, and the president Jannin, who thought better to have a peace which had two religions, than a war that had none. Howbeit, the design of Luynes * Roger duc de Bellegarde, grand Escuyer. +t Charles Albret, Duc of Luynes. PS oe ee =a Cai eee, = ae — @LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. 47 was applauded, not only by the Jesuit party in #rance, but by some princes, and other martial persons, insomuch that the Duke of Guise* coming to see me one day, said, that they should never be happy in France, until those of the religion were rooted out: I answered, that I wondered to hear him say so; and the duke demanding why, I replied, that whensoever those of the religion were put down, the turn of the great persons, and governors of provinces of that kingdom, would be next ; and that, though the present king were a good prince, yet that their successors may be otherwise, and that men did not know how soon princes might prove tyrants, when they had no- thing to fear; which speech of mine was fatal, since those of the religion were no sooner reduced into that weak condition in which now they are, but the governors of provinces were brought lower, and curbed much in their power and authority, and the Duke of Guise first of them all; so that I doubt not but my words were well remembered. Howsoever, the war now went on with much fervour ; neither could I dissuade it, although using, according to the instructions I had from the king my master, many arguments for that purpose. I was told often, that if the reformation in France had been like that in Eng- land, where, they observed, we retained the hierarchy, together with decent rites and cere- monies in the church, as also holidays in the memory of saints, music in churches, and divers other testimonies, both of glorifying God, and giving honour and reward to learning, they could much better have tolerated it ; but such a rash and violent reformation as theirs was, ought by no means to be approved ; whereunto I answered, that, though the causes of departing from the Church of Rome were taught and delivered by many sober and modest persons, yet that the reformation in great part was acted by the com- mon people, whereas ours began at the prince of state, and therefore was more moderate ; which reason I found did not displease them. I added further then, that the reformed religion in France. would easily enough admit an hierarchy, if they had sufficient means among them to maintain it, and that if their churches were as fair as those which the Roman Catholics had, they would use the more decent sorts of rites and ceremonies, and together like well of organs and choirs of singers, rather than make a breach or schism on that occasion. As for holidays, I doubted not but the principal persons and ministers of their religion would approve it much better than the common people, who, being labourers, and artizans for the most part, had the advantages for many more days than the Roman Catholies for getting their living ; howsoever, that those of the religion had been good cautions to make the Roman Catholic priests, if not better, yet at least more wary in their lives and actions ; it being evident that since the re- formation began among those of the religion, the Roman Catholics had divers ways reformed them- selves, and abated not only much of their power they usurped over laics, but were more pious and continent than formerly. Lastly, that those of the religion acknowledged solely the king’s autho- __* Charles, son of Henry, Duke of Guise, who was killed at Blois. rity in government of all affairs ; whereas the other side held the regal power, not only inferior in divers points, but subordinate to the papal. Nothing of which yet served to divert Monsieur de Luynes or the king from their resolutions. The king having now assembled an army, and made some progress against those of the religion, I had instruction sent me from the king my master to mediate a peace, and if I could not pre- vail therein, to use some such words as may both argue his majesty’s care of them of the religion, and together, to let the French king know, that he would not permit their total ruin and extirpation. The king was now going to lay siege to St. Jean d’Angely, when myself was newly recovered of a fever at Paris, in which, besides the help of many able physicians, I had the comfort of divers visits from many principal grandees of France, and par- ticularly the Princess of Conti, who would sit by my bedside two or three hours, and with cheerful discourse entertain me, though yet I was brought so low, that I could scarce return any thing by way of answer but thanks. The command yet which I received from the king my master quickened me, insomuch, that by slow degrees I went into my coach, together with my train, towards St. Jean d’Angelw Being arrived within a small distance of that place, I found by divers circumstances, that the effect of my negociation had been discovered from England, and that I was not welcome thither; howbeit, having obtained an audience from the king, I exposed what I had in charge to say to him, to which yet I received no other answer but that I should go to Monsieur de Luynes, by whom I should know his majesty’s intention. Repairing thus to him, I did find outwardly good reception, though yet I did not know how cunningly he proceeded to betray and frustrate my endeavours for those of the religion; for, hiding a gentleman, called Monsieur Arnaud, behind the hangings in his chamber, who was then of the religion, but had promised a revolt to the king’s side, this gen- tleman, as he himself confessed afterwards to the Earl of Carlisle, had in charge to relate unto those of the religion, how little help they might expect from me, when he should tell them the answers which Monsieur de Luynes made me. Sitting thus in a chair before Monsieur de Luynes, he demanded the effect of my business ; I answered, that the king my master commanded me to mediate a peace betwixt his majesty and his subjects of the religion, and that I desired to do it in all those fair and equal terms, which might stand with the honour of France, and the good intelligence betwixt the two kingdoms ; to which he returned this rude answer only: What hath the king your master to do with our actions! why doth he meddle with our affairs? My reply was, that the king my master ought not to give an account of the reason which induced him hereunto, and for me it was enough to obey him ; howbeit, if he did ask me in more gentle terms, I should do the best I could to give him satisfaction ; to which, though he answered no more than the word bien, or well, I, pursuing my instruction, said, that the king my master, according to the mutual stipula- tion betwixt Henry the Fourth and himself, that the survivor of either of them should procure the tranquillity and peace of the other’s estate, had sent this message ; and that he had not only testi- 309 RI ees NA Se 8) De ys AR cee EN Rae et ea SN RR An IO rE pe es EE ers 48 LIFE OF LORD HERBERT.» fied this his pious inclination heretofore, in the late civil wars of France, but was desirous on this oceasion also to shew how much he stood affected to the good of the kingdom ; besides, he hoped that when peace was established here, that the French king might be the more easily disposed to assist the palatine, who was an ancient friend and ally of the French crown. His reply to this was ; We will havesnone of your advices: whereupon I said that I took those words for an answer, and was sorry only that they did not understand suffi- ciently the affection and good will of the king my master ; and since they rejected it upon those terms, I had in charge to tell him, that we knew very well what we had to do. Luynes seeming offended herewith, said, Nous ne vous craignons pas, or, we are not afraid of you. I replied here- upon, that if you had said you had not loved us, I should have believed you, but should have returned you another answer ; in the meanwhile, that I had no more to say than what I told him formerly, which was, that we knew what we had todo. This, though somewhat less than was in my instructions, so angered him, that in much passion he said, Par Diew, si vous néties Monsieur ? Ambassadeur, je vous traiterois dun’ autre sorte; by God, if you were not Monsieur Ambassador, I wouldeuse you after another fashion, My answer was, that as I was an ambassador, so I was also a gentleman ; and therewithal, laying my hand upon the hilt of my sword, told him, there was that which should make him an answer, and so arose from my chair ; to which Monsieur de Luynes made no reply, but, arising likewise from his chair, offered civilly to accompany me to the door; but I telling him there was no occasion for him to use ceremony, after so rude an entertainment, I departed from him. From thence returning to my lodging, I spent three or four days afterwards in seeing the manner of the French discipline, in making ap- proaches to towns ; at what time I remember, that going in my coach within reach of cannon, those in the town imagining me to be an enemy, made many shots against me, which so affrighted my coachman, that he durst drive no farther ; where- upon alighting, I bid him put the horses out of danger; and notwithstanding many more shots made against me, went on foot to the trenches, where one Seaton, a Scotchman, conducting me, shewed me their works, in which I found little dif- fering from the Low Country manner. Having satisfied myself in this manner, I thought fit to take my leave of the king, being at Cognac, the city of St. Jean d’Angely being now surrendered unto him. Coming thus to a village not far from Cognac, about ten of the clock at night, I found all the lodgings possessed by soldiers; so that alight- ing in the market-place, I sent my servants to the inns to get some provision, who bringing me only six rye loaves, which I was doubtful whether I should bestow on myself and company, or on my horses, Monsieur de Ponts, a French nobleman of the religion, attended with a brave train, hearing of my being there, offered me lodging in his castle near adjoining : I told him it was a great courtesy at that time, yet I could not with my honour accept it, since I knew it would endanger him, my business to those parts being in favour of those of the reli- gion, and the chief.ministers of state in France being jealous of my holding intelligence with him ; how beit, if he would procure me lodging in the town, I should take it kindly ; whereupon, sending his servants round about the town, he found at last, in the house of one of his tenants, a chamber, to which, when he had conducted me, and together gotten some little accommodation for myself and horses, I desired him to depart to his lodgings, he being then in a place which his enemies, the king’s soldiers, had possessed. All which was not so silently carried, but that the said nobleman was accused afterwards at the French court, upon sus- picion of holding correspondence with me, whereof it was my fortune to clear him. Coming next day to Cognac, the Mareschal de St. Geran, my noble friend, privately met me, and said I was not in a place of surety there, as having of- - fended Monsieur de Luynes, who was the king’s favourite, desiring me withal to advise what I had to do: I told him I was in a place of surety where- soever I had my sword by my side, and that I in- tended to demand audience of the king ; which also being obtained, I found not so cold a reception as I thought to meet with, insomuch that I parted with his majesty, to all outward appearance, in. very good terms. From hence returning to Paris shortly after, I found myself welcome to all those ministers of state there, and noblemen, who either envied the greatness, or loved not the insolencies of Monsieur de Luynes ; by whom also I was told, that the said Luynes had intended to send a brother of his into England with an embassy, the effect whereof should be chiefly to complain against me, and to obtain that I should be repealed; and that he intended to relate the passages betwixt us at St. Jean d’Angely in a much different manner from that I reported, and that he would charge me with giving the first offence. After thanks for this advertisement, I told them my relation of the business betwixt us, in the manner I delivered, was true, and that I would justify it with my sword ; at which they being nothing scandalized, wished me good fortune.* The ambassador into England following shortly after, with a huge train, in a sumptuous manner and an accusation framed against me, I was sent fox home, of which I was glad, my payment being so ill, that I was run far into debt with my merchants, who had assisted me now with 3000/. or 4000/. more than I was able at the present to discharge. Coming thus to court, the Duke of Buckingham, who was then my noble friend, informed me at large of the objections represented by the French Ambassador ; to which when I had made my defence in the manner above related, I added, that I was ready to make good all that I had said with my sword ; and shortly after, I did, in the presence of his Majesty and the Duke of Bucking- ham, humbly desire leave to send a trumpet ta Monsieur de Luynes, to offer him the combat, upon | terms that passed betwixt us; which was not permitted, otherwise than that they would take my offer into consideration. Howsoever, notice * Howell thus mentions the author’s recall: “ My Lord Hayes is by this time, ’tis thought, with the army ; for Sir Edward Herbert is returned, having had some clash ings and counterbuffs with the favourite Luynes, wherein bs comported himself gallantly.” Familiar Letters, Book I. Sect. 3. Letter V. SSRI eeeeemeereeer errr | 360 : LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. being publicly taken of this my desire, much occasion of speech was given, every man that heard thereof much favouring me ; but the duke of Luynes’ death following shortly after, the busi- ness betwixt us was ended, and I commanded to return to my former charge in France. I did not yet presently go, as finding much difficulty to obtain the monies due to me from the ex- chequer, and therewith, as also by my own revenues, to satisfy my creditors in France. The Earl of Carlisle* this while being employed ex- traordinary ambassador to France, brought home a confirmation of the passages betwixt Monsieur de Luynes and myself ; Monsieur de Arnaud, who stood behind the hangings, as above related, having verified all I said, insomuch, that the king my master was well satisfied of my truth. Having by this time cleared all my debts, when demanding new instructions from the king my master, the Earl of Carlisle brought me this mes- sage, that his majesty had that experience of my abilities and fidelity, that he would give me no instructions, but leave all things to my discretion, as knowing I would proceed with that circumspec- tion, as I should be better able to discern, upon emergent occasions, what was fit to be done, than that [should need to attend directions from hence, which besides that they would be slow, might perchance be not so proper, or correspondent to the conjuncture of the great affairs then in agita- tion, both in France and Germany, and other parts of Christendom, and that these things, there- fore, must be left to my vigilance, prudence, and fidelity. Whereupon I told his lordship, that I took this as a singular expression of the trust his majesty reposed in me ; howbeit, that I desired his lordship to pardon me, if I said I had herein only received a greater power and latitude to err, and that I durst not trust my judgment so far as that I would presume to answer for all events, in such factious and turbulent times, and therefore again did humbly desire new instructions, which I promised punctually to follow. The Earl of Carlisle returning hereupon to the king, brought me yet no other answer back than that I formerly mentioned, and that his majesty did so much confide in me, that he would limit me with no other instructions, but refer all to my discretion, promising together, that if matters proceeded not as well as might be wished, he would attribute the default to anything rather than to my not performing my duty. Finding his majesty thus resolved, I humbly took leave of him and my friends at court, and went to Monsieur Savage; when demanding of him new letters of credit, his answer was, he could not furnish me as he had before, there being no limited sum expressed there, but that I should have as much as I needed ; to which, though I answered that I had paid all, yet, as Monsieur Savage replied, that I had not paid it at the time agreed on, he said he could furnish me with a letter only for three thousand pounds, and never- theless, that he was confident I should have more if I required it, which 1 found true, for I took up afterwards upon my credit there as much * James Hay, Earl of Carlisle, knight of the garter, master of the great wardrobe, and ambassador in Ger- many and France, 49 more, as made in the whole five or six thousand pounds, Coming thus to Paris, I found myself welcomed by all the principal persons, nobody that I found there being either offended with the passages be- twixt me and Monsieur de Luynes, or that were sorry for his death, in which number the queen’s majesty seemed the most eminent person, as one who long since had hated him: whereupon also, I cannot but remember this passage, that in an audience I had one day from the queen, I de- manded of her how far she would have assisted me with her good offices against Luynes? she re- plied, that what cause soever she might have to hate him, either by reason or by force, they would have made her to be of his side; to which I answered in Spanish, No ay feurce por las a reynas; there is no force for queens; at which she smiled. And now I began to proceed in all public affairs according to the liberty with which my master was pleased to honour me, confining myself to no rules but those of my own discretion. My nego- ciations in the mean while proving so successful, that during the remainder of my stay there, his majesty received much satisfaction concerning my carriage, as finding I had preserved his honour and interest in all great affairs then emergent in France, Germany, and other parts of Christen- dom ; which work being of great concernment, I found the easier, that his majesty’s ambassadors and agents everywhere gave me perfect intelli gence of all that happened within their precincts ; insomuch, that from Sir Henry Wotton, his ma- jesty’s ambassador at Venice, who was a learned and witty gentleman, I received all the news of Italy ; as also from Sir Isaac Wake, who did more particularly acquaint me with the business of Savoy, Valentina,* and Switzerland ; from Sir Francis Nethersole, his majesty’s agent in Ger- many, and more particularly with the united princes there, on the behalf of his son-in-law, the palatine, or king of Bohemia, I received all the news of Germany ; from Sir Dudley Carlton, his majesty’s ambassador in the Low Countries, I received intelligence concerning all the affairs of that state ; and from Mr. Witliam Trumball, his majesty’s agent at Brussels, all the affairs on that side ; and lastly, from Sir Walter Aston, his ma- jesty’s ambassador in Spain, and after him, from the Earl of Bristol and Lord Cottington, I had intelligence from the Spanish court: out of all whose relations being compared together, I found matter enough to direct my judgment in all public proceedings ; besides, in Paris, 1 had the chief intelligence which came to either Monsieur de Langherac, the Low Country ambassador, or Mon- sieur Postek, agent for the united princes in Germany, and Sigr, Contarini, ambassador for Venice, and Sigr. Guiscardi my particular friend, agent for Mantoua, and Monsieur Gueretin, agent for the palatine, or king, of Bohemia, and Mon- sieur Villers, for the Swiss, and Monsieur Aino- rant, agent for Geneva, by whose means, upon the resultance of the several advertisements given me, I found what I had to do. The wars in Germany were now hot, when several French gentlemen came to me for recom- mendations to the queen of Bohemia, whose service * The Valteline — 361 re, 2a ee 50 they desired to advance, which also I performed as effectually as I could: howbeit, as after the battle of Prague, the Imperial side seemed wholly to prevail, these gentlemen had not the satisfaction expected, About this time, the Duke de Crouy, employed from Brussels to the French court, coming to see me, said, by way of rhodomontade, as though he would not speak of our isles, yet he saw all the rest of the world must bow under the Spaniard ; to which I answered, God be thanked they are not yet come to that pass, or when they were, they have this yet to comfort them, that at worst they should be but the same which you are now; which speech of mine, being afterwards, I know not how, divulged, was much applauded by the French, as believing I intended that other coun- tries should be but under the same severe govern- ment to which the Duke of Crouy, and those within the Spanish dominions, were subject. It happened one day that the agent from Brus- sels, and ambassador from the Low Countries, came to see me, immediately one after the other, to whom I said familiarly, that I thought that the inhabitants of the parts of the seventeen provinces, which were under the Spaniards, might be com- pared to horses in a stable, which, as they were finely curried, dressed, and fed, so they were well ridden also, spurred, and galled; and that I thought the Low Country men were like to horses at grass, which, though they wanted so good keep- ing as the other had, yet might leap, kick, and fling, as much as they would ; which freedom of mine displeased neither : or, if the Low Country ambassador did think I had spoken a little too sharply, I pleased him afterwards, when, continu- ing my discourse, I told him that the states of the united provinces had within a narrow room shut up so much warlike provision both by sea and land, and together demonstrated such courage upon all occasions, that it seemed they had more need of enemies than of friends, which compliment I found did please him. About this time, the French being jealous that the king my master would match the prince, his son, with the king of Spain’s sister, and together relinquish his alliance with France, myself, who did endeavour nothing more than to hold all good intelligence betwixt the two crowns, had enough to do. The Count de Gondomor passing now from Spain into England, came to see me at Paris, about ten of the clock in the morning, when, after some compliments, he told me that he was to go towards England the next morning, and that he desired my coach to accompany him out of town ; I told him, after a free and merry manner, he should not have my coach, and that if he demanded it, it was not because he needed coaches, the pope’s nuntio, the emperor's ambassador, the duke of Bavaria’s agent, and others, having coaches enough to furnish him, but because he would put a jea- lousy betwixt me and the French, «s if I inclined more to the Spanish side than to their’s. Gondo- mor then looking merrily upon me, said, I will dine with you yet ; I told him, by his good favour, he should not dine with me at that time, and that when I would entertain the ambassador of so great a king as his, it should not be upon my ordinary, but that I would make him a feast worthy of so great a person ; howbeit, that he might see after what manner I lived, I desired some of my gen- LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. | tlemen to bring his gentlemen into the kitchen, where, after my usual manner, were three spits full of meat, divers pots of boiled meat, and an oven, with store of pies in it, and a dresser board, covered with all manner of good fowl, and some tarts, pans with tarts in them after the French manner ; after which, being conducted to another room, they were shewed a dozen or sixteen dishes of sweetmeats, all which was but the ordinary allowance for my table. The Spaniards returning now to Gondomor, told him what good cheer they found, notwithstanding which, I told Gondomor again that I desired to be excused if I thought this dinner unworthy of him, and that when occa- sion were, I should entertain him after a much better manner. Gondomor hereupon coming near me, said, he esteemed me much, and that he meant only to put a trick upon me, which he found I had discovered, and that he thought that an English- man had not known how to avoid handsomely a trick put upon him under shew of civility ; and that 1 ever should find him my friend, and would do me all the good offices he could in England, which also he really performed, as the Duke of Lenox and the Earl of Pembroke confirmed to me ; Gondomor saying to them, that I was a man fit for employment, and that he thought English- men, though otherwise able persons, knew not how to make a denial handsomely, which yet I had done. This Gondomor being an able person, and dex- terous in his negociations, had so prevailed with King James, that his majesty resolved to pursue his treaty with Spain, and for that purpose, to send his son Prince Charles in person to conclude the match, when, after some debate whether he should go in a public or private manner, it was at last resolved, that he, attended with the Marquis of Buckingham, and Sir Francis Cottington, his secretary, and Endimion Porter, and Mr. Grimes, gentleman of the horse to the marquis, should pass in a disguised and private manner through France to Madrid ; these five passing, though not without some difficulty, from Dover to Boulogne, where taking post horses, they came to Paris, and lodged at an inn in Rue St. Jacques, where it was advised among them whether they should send for me to attend them ; after some dispute, it was concluded in the negative, since, as one there objected, if I came alone in the quality of a private person, I must go on foot through the streets ; and because I was a person generally known, might be followed by some one or other, who would discover whither my private visit tended; besides, that those in the inn must needs take notice of my coming in that manner : on the other side, if I came publicly with my usual train, the gentlemen with me must needs take notice of the Prince and Marquis of Buckingham, and consequently might divulge it, which was thought not to stand with the prince’s safety, who endeavoured to keep his journey as secret as possible ; howbeit, the prince spent the day following his arrival in seeing the, French court, and city of Paris, without that any body did know his person, but a maid that had sold linen heretofore in London, who seeing him pass by, said, certainly this is the Prince of Wales, but withal suffered him to hold his way, and presumed not to follow him: the next day after, they took post horses, and held their way towards Bayonne, a city frontier to Spain, a2 The first notice that came to me was by one Andrews, a Scotchman, who, coming late the night preceding their departure, demanded whether I had seen the prince? when I demanding what rince? for, said I, the Prince of Conde is yet in taly ; he told me the Prince of Wales, which yet I could not believe easily, until with many oaths he affirmed the prince was in France, and that he had charge to follow his highness, desiring me in the meanwhile, on the part of the king my master, to serve his passage the best I could. This made me rise very early the next morning, and go to Monsieur Puisieux, principal secretary of state, to demand present audience ; Puisieux hereupon intreated me to stay an hour, since he was in bed, and had some earnest business to dispatch for the king his master, as soon as he was ready; I returned an- swer, that I could not stay a minute, and that I desired I might come to his bedside; this made Puisieux rise and put on his gown only, and so came to the chamber, where I attended him. His first words to me were, I know your business as well as you; your prince is departed this morning post to Spain; adding further, that I could demand nothing for the security of his passage, but it should be presently granted, concluding with these very words: Vous serez servi au point nommé, or, You shall be served in any particular you can name. I told him that his free offer had prevented the request I intended to make, and that because he was so principal a minister of state, 1 doubted not but what he had so nobly promised, he would see punctually performed ; as for the security of his passage, that I did not see what I could demand more, than that he would suffer him quietly to hold his way, without sending after, or interrupt- ing him. He replied, that the prince should not be interrupted, though yet he could do no less than send to know what success the prince had in his journey. I was no sooner returned cut of his chamber, but I dispatched a letter by post to the prince, to desire him to make all the haste he could out of France, and not to treat with any of the religion in the way, since his being at Paris was known, and that though the French secretary had promised he should not be interrupted, yet that they would send after his highness, and when he gave any occasion of suspicion, might perchance detain him. The prince, after some examination at Bayonne, (which the governor thereof did afterwards particularly relate to me, confessing that he did not know who the prince was) held his way on to Madrid, where he and all his company safely arrived. Many of the nobility, and others of the English court, being now desirous to see the prince, did pass through France to Spain, taking my house still in their way, by whom I acquainted his highness in Spain how much it grieved me that I had not seen his highness when he was in Paris, which occasioned his highness afterwards to write a letter to me, wholly with his own hang, and subscribe his name, your friend Charles, in which he did abundantly satisfy all the unkindness I might conceive on this occasion. I shall not enter into a narration of the passages occurring in the Spanish court, upon his highness’s arrival thither, though they were well known to me for the most part, by the information the French queen was pleased to give me, who, among other things, told me that her sister did wish well unto the prince. I had from her also, intelligence of certain messages sent from Spain to the pope, and the pope’s messages to them; whereof, by her permission, I did afterwards inform his high- ness, Many judgments were now made concern- ing the event which this treaty of marriage was likely to have ; the Duke of Savoy said that the prince’s journey thither was, Un two di quella cavalliert antichti che andavano cost per il mondo a diffare li incanti ; that it was a trick of those ancient knight errants, who went up and down the world after that manner to undo enchant- ments; for as that duke did believe that the Spaniard did intend finally to bestow her on the imperial house, he conceived that he did only en- tertain the treaty with England, because he might avert the king my master from treating in any other place, and particularly in France : howbeit, by the intelligence I received in Paris, which I am confident was very good, | am assured the Spaniard meant really at that time, though how the match was broken, I list not here to relate, it being a more perplexed and secret business than I am willing to insert into the narration of my life. New propositions being now made, and other counsels thereupon given, the prince taking his leave of the Spanish court, came to St. Andrews in Spain, where, shipping himself, with his train, arrived safely at Portsmouth, about the beginning of October, 1623 ; the news whereof being shortly brought into France, the Duke of Guise came to me, and said he found the Spaniards were not so able men as he thought, since they had neither married the prince in their country, nor done any thing to break his match elsewhere ; I answered, that the prince was more dexterous than that any secret practice of theirs could be put upon him ; and as for violence, I thought the Spaniard durst not offer it. The war against those of the religion continuing in France, Pere Segnerand, confessor to the king, made a sermon before his majesty upon the text, “ That we should forgive our enemies,” upon which argument, having said many good things, he at last distinguished forgiveness, and said, We were indeed to forgive our enemies, but not the enemies of God ; such as were heretics, and parti- cularly those of the religion ; and that his majesty, as the most Christian king, ought to extirpate them wheresoever they could be found. This particular being related to me, I thought fit to go to the queen mother without further ceremony, for she gave me leave to come to her chamber whensoever I would, without demanding audience, and to tell her, that though I did not usually intermeddle with matters handled within their pulpits, yet be- cause Pere Segnerand, who had the charge of the king’s conscience, had spoken so violently against those of the religion, that his doctrine was not limited only to France, but might extend itself in its consequences beyond the seas, even to the dominions of the king my master ; I could not but think it very unreasonable, and the rather, that as her majesty well knew that a treaty of marriage betwixt our prince and the princess her daughter, was now begun, for which reason I could do no less than humbly desire that such doctrines as these henceforth might be silenced, by some dis- creet admonition she might please to give to Pere Segnerand, or others that might speak to this ee 503 9? purpose, The queen, though she seemed very | willing to hear me, yet handled the business so, that Pere Segnerand was together informed who had made this complaint against him, whereupon also he was so distempered, that by one Monsieur Gaellac, a provencal, his own countryman, he sent me this message; that he knew well who had accused him to her majesty, and that he was sensible thereof; that he wished me to be assured, that wheresoever I was in the world, he would hinder my fortune. The answer I returned by Monsieur Gaellac was, That nothing in all France but a friar or a woman durst have sent me such a message. Shortly after this, coming again to the queen mother, I told her, that what I said concerning Pére Segnerand, was spoken with a good intention, and that my words were now discovered to him in that manner, that he sent me a very affronting message, adding, after a merry fashion, these words, that I thought Seznerand so malicious, that his malice was beyond the malice of women: the queen, being a little startled hereat, said, A moy femme, et parler ainsi? To me a woman, and say so? I replied gently, Je parle a v6tre majesté comme reyne, et non pas comme femme; I speak to your majesty as a queen, and not as a woman, and so took my leave of her. What Pére Segnerand did afterwards, in way of performing his threat, I know not ; but sure I am, that had I been ambi- tious of worldly greatness, I might have often remembered his words, though, as I ever loved my book, and a private life, more than any busy pre- ferments, I did frustrate and render vain his greatest power to hurt me. My book, De veritate prout distinguitur a revela- tione verisimili, possibili, et & falso, having been begun by me in England, and formed there in all its principal parts, was about this time finished ; all the spare hours which I could get from my visits and negociations, being employed to perfect this work, which was: no socner done, but that I communicated it to Hugo Grotius, that great scholar, who, having escaped his prison in the Low Countries, came into France, and was much wel- * In the little book of Lord Herbert’s verses, published after his death, is a copy addressed to Tilenus ‘‘after the fatal defluxion upon my arm.” Daniel Tilenus was a the- dlogic writer of that time. He wrote about Antichrist, and animadversions on the synod of Dort. Some of his works were published at Paris, He was, however, a Silesian, and his true name might be Tieleners, latinized into Tilenus, according to:the pedantry of that time; as Groot was called Grotius, the similitude of whose studiés might well. connect him with: Tieleners. LIFE OF LORD HERBERT. of the greatest scholars of his time, who, after they | had perused it, and given it more commendations than is fit for me to repeat, exhorted me earnestly to print and publish it; howbeit, as the frame of my whole book was so different from any thing which had been written heretofore, I found I must either renounce the authority of all that had writ- ten formerly concerning the method of finding out truth, and consequently insist upon my own way, or hazard myself to a general censure, concerning the whole argument of my book ; I must confess it did not a little animate me, that the two great persons above mentioned did so highly value it, yet as I knew it would meet with much opposition, I did consider whether it was not better for me a while to suppress it. chamber, one fair day in the summer, my case- ment being opened towards the south, the sun shining clear, and no wind stirring, I took my book, De Veritate, in my hand, and, kneeling on my kuees, devoutly said these words: O thou eternal God, Author of the light which now shines upon me, and Giver of all inward illumi- nations, I do beseech thee, of thy infinite goodness, to pardon a greater request than a sinner ought to make ; I am not satisfied enough whether I shall publish this book, De Veritate; if it be for thy glory, I beseech thee give me some sign from heaven ; if not, I shall suppress it. I had no sooner spoken these words, but a loud though yet gentle noise came from the heavens, for it was like nothing on earth, which did so comfort and cheer me, that I took my petition as granted, and that I had the sign I demanded, whereupon also I resolved to print my book. This, how strange soever it may seem, I protest before the eternal God is true, neither am‘I any way superstitiously deceived herein, since I did not only clearly hear the noise, but in the serenest sky that ever I saw, being without all cloud, did to my thinking see the place from whence it came. And now I sent my book to be printed in Paris, at my own cost and charges, without suffering it to be divulged to others than to such as | thought might be worthy readers of it ; though afterwards reprinting it in England, J not only dispersed it among the prime scholars of Europe, but was sent to not only from the nearest but furthest parts of Christendom, to desire the sight of my book, for which they promised any thing I should desire by way of return; but hereof more amply in its place. The treaty of a match with France continuing still, it was thought fit for the concluding thereof, that the Earl of Carlisle and the Earl of Holland should be sent extraordinary ambassadors to France. THE END, ‘ ec RD ASIST BEF SSPE I SS TTS RS IG ER Ste Soe eT a at EI niall 804 Being thus doubtful in my _ ee i" » ss ce saat ee eb alee . . 4 + ee NS Ee SOV ' — WN —_ S \\ u ~ > $ my! \ fr THE MALEDICTION.—Page 33. = i — ares ee ne ee er RS NR Soe. nee rp er THE NEIGHBOURS. | 1 & Wee EY i} \ \\. be, FRANCISKA AND BEAR, BY FREDRIKA BREMER. a ~leh emia @ 100.4 3. . ») ‘ ‘ o as ail SS Bar? ed 1M ar = eer * ity nis” aa ar id ; LOIS CAUI U Aie AI TUE aA eS fe eee a | | 1 | , { | ‘ | i | 4 { { THE NEIGHBOURS . , ® | | - | | | | BY FREDRIKA BREMER, | AUTHORESS OF ‘THE PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTERS,” ‘‘STRIFE AND PEACE,’ THE H—— FAMILY,’’ ETC. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | i } | a | | i 4 | | r | | | | & i oy - i “ y 5 by é 2% ok } Roe ts Bek im: A - bidet we ox i Peas iy Brat © betes Beak ae wes Oho Pe hae i \ . 7 vi Z y ee - m-.-thene ater Ue s Saaee \p ; ro s) yt J heer’ THE NEIGHBOURS. LETTER I. FRANCISCA W. TO MARIA M. Rosenvik, 1st June, 18.. Here I now am, dear Maria, in my own house and home, at my own writing-table, and with my own Bear. And who, then, is Bear ? you ask, no doubt. Who else should he be but my own hus- band ? I call him Bear, because, it so happens. I am seated at the window. The sun is setting. Two swans are swimming in the lake, and furrow its clear mirror. Three cows—my cows—are standing on the verdant margin, quiet, fat, and pensive, and certainly think of nothing. What excellent cows they are! Now, the maid is ad- vancing with the milk-pail. Delicious milk in the country! But what is not good in the country ? Air and people, food and feelings, earth and sky, everything there is fresh and cheering. Now, I must introduce you to my place of abode, no! I must begin more remotely. Upon yonder hill, from whence I first beheld the valley in which Rosenvik is situate, (the hill lies some miles within Smdland,) do you descry a carriage co- vered with dust? In it are seated Bear, and his wedded wife. The wife is looking out with curi- osity, for before her lies a valley so beautiful in the tranquillity of evening. Below are green groves, which fringe mirror-clear lakes, fields of standing corn bend in silken undulations round grey mountains, and white buildings glance amid the trees. Round about, pillars of smoke are shoot- ing vertically up from the wood-covered hills to the serene evening sky. This seems to indicate the presence of volcanoes, but in point of fact it is merely the peaceful labour of the husbandman burning the vegetation, in order to fertilise. the soil, At all events, it is an excellent thing, and I am delighted, bend forward, and am just think- ing about a happy family in nature, Paradise, and Adam and Eve, when suddenly Bear puts his great paws around me, and presses me so, that I was well nigh giving up the ghost, while, kissing me, he entreated me to be “comfortable here.” I was a little provoked ; but when I perceived the heart-felt intention of the embrace, I could not but be satisfied. In this valley, then, was my permanent home ; here my new family was living ; here lay Rosenvik ; here I was to live with my Bear. We descended the hill, and the carriage rolled rapidly along the level way. Bear told me ~ the names of every estate, both in the neighbour- hood and at a distance. I listened as if I were dreaming, but was roused from my reverie, when Q: he said with a certain stress: “ Here is the resi- dence of ma chére mere,” and the carriage drove into a court yard, and stopped before a large and fine stone house. What, are we going to alight here?” Yes, my love.” This was by no means an agreeable surprise to me. I would gladly have first driven to my own home, there to prepare myself a little for meeting my husband’s step-mother, of whom I was a little afraid, from the accounts I had heard of that lady, and the respect Bear entertained for her, This visit ap- peared entirely mal a propos to me, but Bear has his own ideas, and I perceived from his appear- ance, that it was not expedient then to offer any resistance. It was Sunday, and, on the carriage drawing up, the tones of a violin became audible to me. «“ Aha!” said Bear, “so much the better,’ made a ponderous leap from the carriage, and lifted me out, Of hat-cases and packages, no manner of account was to be taken. Bear took my hand, ushered me up the steps into the magnificent hall, and dragged me towards the door from whence the sounds of music and dancing were heard. “ Ob- serve,” thought I, “now I am, forsooth, to dance in this costume!” I wished to go into some place where I could shake the dust from my nose and my bonnet ; where I could, at least, view myself in amirror. Impossible! Bear, leading me by the arm, assured me that I looked “most charming,” and entreated me to glass myself in his eyes. I then needs must be so discourteous to reply, that they were “too small.” He protested that they were only the clearer, and opened the door to the ball-room. ‘“ Well, since you lead me to the ball, you shall also dance with me, you Bear!” I ex- claimed in the gaiety of despair, so to speak. “ With delight, the deuce !” cried Bear, and at the same moment we found ourselves in the saloon. My alarm diminished considerably when I per- ceived in the spacious room only a crowd of cleanly-attired maids and serving-men, who were sweeping merrily about with one another. They were so busied with dancing as scarcely to observe us. Bear then conducted me to the upper end of the apartment, and there seated on a high seat, I saw a very tall and strong lady about fifty, who was playing on a violin with a degree of earnest zeal, and beating time with her foot, which she stamped with energy. On her head she wore a-remarkable and high projecting cap of black velvet, which I will call a helmet, because that word occurred to my mind at the very first view I had of her, and I know no one more appropriate. She looked 2. THE NEIGHBOURS. well, but singular, It was the lady of General Mansfelt, my husband’s stepmother, ma chére mere! She speedily cast her large dark-brown eyes at me, instantly ceased playing, laid aside the violin, and drew herself up with a proud bearing, but an air of gladness and frankness. Bear led me towards her. I trembled a little, bowed profoundly, and kissed ma chére mére’s hand. She kissed my fore- head, and for a while regarded me with such a keen glance, that I was compelled to abase my eyes, on which she again kissed me most cordially on lips and forehead, and embraced me almost as lustily as Bear had. Now, it was Bear’s turn ; he kissed the hand of ma chére mére right respect- fully ; she, however, offered him her cheeks, and they appeared very friendly. ‘“ Have welcome, my dear friends !” said ma chére mére, with a loud masculine voice. “It was handsome in you to come to me before driving to your own home. I thank you for it. I would indeed have given you a better reception had I been prepared; at all events, I know that ‘ Welcome is the best cheer.’ I hope, my friend, you stay the evening here ?” Bear excused us, said that we desired to get home soon, that I was fatigued from the journey, but that we would not drive by Carlsfors, without paying our respects to ma chére mére. “ Well, very good, well, very good!” said ma chére mere, with satisfaction, “ we will shortly talk farther about that in the chamber there ; but first I must say a few words to the people here. Hark ye, good friends !’’ and ma chére mére knocked with the bow on the baek of the violin, till a gene- ral silence ensued in the saloon. ‘ My children,” she pursued in a solemn manner, “I have to tell you—a plague upon you! will you not be still there, at the lower end?—I have tv inform you that my dear son, Lars Anders Werner, has now led home, as his wedded wife, this Francisca Burén, whom you see at his side. Marriages are made in heaven, my children, and we will suppli- cate that heaven to complete its work in blessing this conjugal pair. We will this evening together drink a bumper to their prosperity. That will do! Now, you can continue your dancing, my children. Olof, come you here, and do your best in playing.”’ While a murmur of exultation and congratula- tions went through the assembly, ma chére mére took me by the hand, and led me, together with Bear, into another room. Here she ordered punch and glasses to be brought in. fn the inte- rmm she thrust her two elbows on the table, placed her clenched hands under her chin, and gazed stedfastly at me, but with a look which was rather gloomy than friendly. Bear, perceiving that ma chére mere’s review embarrassed me, broached the subject of the harvest or rural affairs. Ma chére mere vented a few sighs, so deep, that they rather resembled groans, appeared to make a violent effort to command herself, answered Bear’s ques- tions, and on the arrival of the punch, drank to us, saying, with a serious look and voice: “ Son, and son’s wife, your health!” On this she grew more friendly, and said in a tone of pleasantry, which beseemed her very well : “ Lars Anders, I don’t think people can say you have bought the calif in the sack. Your wife does not by any means look in bad case, and has a pair of eyes to buy fish with. Little she is, very little, it is true ; | my head was all confusion. but ‘little and bold is often more than a match for the great.’ ”’ I laughed, so did ma chére mére also ; I began to understand her character and manner. We gossipped a little while together in a lively man- ner, and I recounted some little adventures of travel, which amused her exceedingly. After the lapse of an hour, we arose to take leave, and ma chére mere said, with a really charming smile : “ I will not detain you this evening, delighted as I am to see you. I can well imagine that home is attractive. Stay at home to-morrow, if you will ; but the day after to-morrow come and dine with me. As to the rest, you know well that you are at all times welcome. Fill now your glasses, and come and drink the folks’ health. should keep to ourselves, but share joy in common.” We went into the dancing-room with full glasses, ma chére mére leading the way as herald. They were awaiting us with bumpers, and ma chére mére addressed the people something in this strain : “ We must not indeed laugh till we get over the brook ; but when we set out on the voyage of matrimony with piety and good sense, then may be applied the adage, that ‘ Well begun is half won;’ and on that, my friends, we will drink a skal * to this wedded pair you see before you, and wish that both they and their posterity may ever ‘ sit in the vineyard of our Lord.’ Skil!” “Skal! skal!” resounded from every side. Bear and I emptied our glasses, and went about and shook a multitude of people by the hand, till When this was over, aud we were preparing to prosecute our journey, ma chére mére came after us on the steps with a packet or bundle in her hand, and said in a friendly manner : “ Take this cold roast-veal with you, children, for breakfast to-morrow morning. After that, you must fatten and consume your own calves. But forget not, daughter-in-law, that I get back my serviette. No, you shan’t carry it, dear child, you have enough to do with your bag (pirat) and mantle. Lars Anders shall carry the roast-veal.” And, as if Lars Anders had been still a little boy, she charged him with the burdle, showed him how he was to carry it, and Bear did as she said. Her last words were : “Forget not that I get my napkin again!’* I looked with some degree of wonder at Bear; but he smiled, and lifted me into the carriage. Inter- nally I was now content to have made acquaint- ance thus impromptu with ma chére mére. I felt that, if it had been effected with more preparation and formality, her bearing and her look would have operated powerfully upon me. I was really glad to have received the roast- veal, for I knew not what was the condition of the provision-room at Rosenvik. too, I was to get home ; see the face of a maid, and a bed prepared for rest; for we had that day travelled ten (Swedish) miles, + and I was very tired. I slumbered a little on the quarter of a mile of road which we had to measure from Carls- fors to Rosenvik. It was so dusky when we ar- rived home at about eleven o’clock at night, that { could not see how my Eden looked. The house appeared to me rather grey and rather small in —— * Health. ¢ About sixty-five English. Sorrow we . Really glad, THE NEIGHBOURS 3 comparison with the one from which we had just come. But that was of no import, for Bear was so heartily good, and I so heartily sleepy. All at once I was quite wakeful, for it sped with me as things are wont to be in the fairy tales. I entered a beautiful and well-lighted room, and beheld a spread tea-table, glittering with silver and porce- | lain ; at the table stood a little maid, the pink of neatness, clad in the charming costume peculiar to the peasant girls of this part of the country. I uttered an exclamation of delight, and my entire sleepiness left me. In a quarter ofan hour I was in order, and seated as mine hostess of the tea- table, admiring the buxom maiden, the tea-urn, the cups, the tea-spoons, on which I read the initial letters of Bear’s name and my own, and serving tea to my Bear, who seemed pleased to his inmost heart. ‘‘ And the evening and the morning were the first day.” On opening my eyes next morning, I perceived that my Adam was already quite awake, and that his regards were directed with almost a devo- tional expression to the window, where a sun- beam was making its entry through a little hole in the blue-striped window-curtains. The mewing of a cat became audible. “My beloved consort,” I began solemnly, “I give you thanks for the beautiful music you have bespoken for my welcome. I conjecture you have also ordered to be marshalled here, a troop of country lasses, decked in white, who are to strew fir branches before my feet. I shall soon be ready to veceive them.” “7 have arranged for something better than the old-fashioned scene,” said Bear, in a sprightly manner. “In concert with a great artist, I have set up a panorama which shall show you how things look—in desert Arabia-—You need only draw up these blinds.” You may imagine that I was soon at the window, and drew up the blinds with a holy awe. Ah, Maria, there lay before me a mirror-clear lake ; verdant meadows and groves were distributed around, and in the centre of the water was an islet with a lofty oak upon it, and the sun shone bright on all this ; everything was so tranquil, so paradisiacally beautiful ! I was so captivated by this sight, that at first I could not give deliver- ance toa word. I merely folded my hands, and tears suffused my eyes. “May you be happy here!” whispered Bear, and clasped me to his heart. “Iam happy.... too happy!” said I, with deep emotion and gra- titude. “Do you see the island, the little Svané ? Thither I shall frequently row you in the summer. We will take our supper with us, and eat it there.” “ Why not breakfast?” I exclaimed, sud- denly inspired. “ Why not to-day, at this delight- ful hour of morning, drink our coffee there? I will immediately... .” “No, not in the morning,” said Bear, smiling at my eagerness. “I must go into the town and visit my patients.” “Ah, that people would keep in health!’? I exclaimed with chagrin. “And what should J do then?” asked Bear, with droll alarm. rm “ Go with me to Svano.” “ J] shall return this afternoon at three o’clock, and then we can That confounded hole up there. I did not think the blinds were so tor...” “The hole shall remain there as long as [ am here!” I exclaimed with zeal. “ Never shall I forget that through it I first saw the sun at Rosenvik. But tell me what old castle is that glancing far beyond the lake—yonder, where the forest is black.’’ “ It is Ramm, a large domain.” *¢ And who resides there ?”’ “* Nobody at present. Fifteen years ago, it be- longed to ma chéere mere; but not liking it, she removed to Carlsfors, and sold Ramm. ‘The estate was purchased by peasants, who do indeed cultivate the fine land attached, but let the beau- tiful mansion and the park go to decay. People now say, that they have been engaged by a foreigner, who proposes hunting inthe neighbour- ing country here. And a fine opportunity he has for such sport in the park itself, which extends beyond a (Swedish) mile in cireumference, and in which game of every kind has been suffered to increase and multiply in undisturbed repose. We will occasionally look about us there. But now, my little wife, 1 must have breakfast, and bid you farewell for some hours.” When the coffee was despatched, and Bear seated in his cab, I began to take a survey of my little world. But of house, and its out-door accom- paniments, anon ; I must first speak of the master of the house ;-for you, my Maria, are not yet acquainted with my own Bear. I have your letter before me, your dear letter, which I got some days after my marriage. Thanks, good, beloved Maria, for all the words of cordial affec- tion, and wise counsels. They are well treasured, where they will never be forgotten. And now tuo your questions, which I will endeavour to answer quite in detail. First Bear. This is a portrait of him. Of the middle stature, but duly—not un- pleasantly—corpulent, and broad-set. A fine pe- ruke, with bright tresses made by the hand of Nature. Large countenance, couleur de rose, small bright gray eyes, with a certain penetrating ex- pression, and set beneath a right bushy pair of auburn eyebrows. Nose well formed, though some- what broad ; large mouth with good teeth, but brown—O woe is rme!—from smoking tobacco ; great paws, but well shaped and kept, large feet ; gait like that of Bruin—but with all this you have not an idea of Bear’s outward man, unless you perceive an expression in his countenance, which, good, frank, and kind-hearted, instantly inspires you with cheerful confidence. This is eloquent when the tongue is at rest, which is its custom. His forehead is smooth, and manner of carrying his head like that you imagine an astronomer’s to be ; his voice, a low bass, and does not make a mean figure in song. Here you have a picture of Bear’s external man; the inward—excellent Maria-— that I have still to study myself. A bride of two months, and a wife of a fortnight, I have not exactly been able to penetrate to the inmost being of a man who is mostly silent, and whom I have not known above six months. But I have faith and hope in all that is good. You ask if I “have affection, real affection for him,” and enumerate half in earnest half in jest a number of odd signs by which I can test this, ra THE NEIGHBOURS. «“ Whether I feel an insupportable vacuity of mind when he is away? Whether I, like Madame L., am pale and constrained when he enters society in which I found myself prior to his entrance ? Whether he has any fault, any bad habit, which in another would pain me, but in him pleases me?” No, Maria, all this I do neither feel nor experience. Love, dear Maria, observe you—like him I certainly might, have found him to be good, older than I. He is verging towards fifty, and I have three years to pass ‘before I attain to thirty. —Then—he has been long a bachelor; has his good and bad habits, and the latter I find by no means excellent. But they shall not disturb our domestic happiness, that I am resolved upon. To some I shall accustom myself, others I shall teach him to put off. For instance : in the first place, he has a custom of spitting about everywhere, alike on beautiful carpets and bare floor. That he shall put off, but he shall have spitting-boxes in every room.—Secondly, he smokes a great deal of tobacco. ‘To that I shall accustom myself ; for I know how necessary and dear the pipe is to him who has long had it as a companion on the road of life. But we will conclude a contract to this purport : I shall be glad to see the lighted pipe, though—seldom in the room in which we see our friends, and never in the bed-room. Bear can indeed puff out the smoke at his pleasure, both in his own room and in the saloon. Thirdly, Bear has a singular custom of making the most fright- ful grimaces while silent, sometimes in accompa- niment to his own thoughts, sometimes to the words of others. But on this point we will come to an agreement. Sometimes I shall be ecom- pelled to say to him: “ Bear, do not make such horrid faces.” Most frequently I shall let him indulge his habit ; for it would be painful to him, and probably impossible to counteract this sport of the muscles, now that they have been so long in full career. “Besides, it frequently affords a sort of language which is most expressive, and looks rather droll tnan disagreeable. In the fourth place, he has a kind of joinery-mania, and in the evening carves and glues, and while thus engaged, soils tables, chairs and floor. This from my inmost heart I will accustom myself to, and merely have everything carefully cleaned in the morning. I like a gentleman to occupy himself with some little handicrafts, and after fatiguing himself the entire day in his medical vocation, this is to Bear acheerful means of relaxation. While he is earving I will read him romances, which are an especial amusement to him. Fifthly, he has accustomed himself to certain coarse words. These I shall induce him to lay aside slowly and by degrees ; but what before all things I am firmly resolved to accustom him to, is—to feel himself happy, and to find contentment and plea- sure in his own home. For, Maria, I was poor, was obliged to earn my bread by the sweat of my brow—teaching music is no easy labour—I was no longer young, possessed neither beauty nor accomplishments—except my bit of music—and he, of a good family, ina lucrative position in life, and generally respected for his character, know- ledge and ability,—he chose me in preference to others richer, handsomer, and better than I. He attended me during my fever with so much kind- ness, and when my mother was preparing tu pay him with what remained of the money we had accumulated, he refused it, and solicited —my hand. Then he was so good to my kindred, made presents to my brothers, and caused prosperity to enter that home which had previously been so needy. Ought I not to be grateful to him, hold him dear, seek to make him happy to the best of my strength and ability? Ah yes! thatI will ; in sickness and in health, in sport and in earnest, in good and in bad, it shall be my will to make him happy; and a voice within me says, I shall succeed in this. Tuesday Morning, 3d June. We poor mortals! What are all our good in- tentions when we have not power over ourselves ? The day before yesterday I sat pluming myself —how happy I would make my husband ; yester- day—to punish myself I will tell you all. I return then to the evening of the day before yesterday, on which I was so satisfied with myself. Bear was on a Visit to a patient in the neighbourhood, and I writing ; he returned ; I wrote no more ; I spoke to him seriously and in playfulness; we adjusted several domestic arrangements, and seri- ously and in playfulness the contract respect- ing smoking tobacco was made out and _ssub- seribed. Thus far all was well, and so ended that day. Next day we were to dine with ma chére mere. I had a little headache, and set my cap as I would, and dispose my tresses as I would, they did not become me, and I fancied I looked old and faded. I imagine Bear thought the same, though he regarded me without jsaying anything. This dis- pirited me ; for I feared I should not be able to please ma chére mere, and I knew how strongly Bear wished it. The weather was unpleasant. I had a vehement desire to stay at home. But on my making slight allusion to this, Bear put on such a frightful grimace that 1 instantly desisted from the attempt. Besides, I was more low- spirited than indisposed. We got into the cabrio- let, then, and drove off in the drizzling rain, sheltered by our umbrellas. Ma chére mére gave us a kind reception, but appeared not to be in a good temper. There were strangers to dinner; some old ladies and gentle- men who appeared to me especially dull. The table was splendidly spread: I, however, was unable to eat. In the afternoon, immediately after coffee, Bear went down with the other gentlemen into the billiard-room. I remained with ma chére mére, the old ladies, who for the most part gos- siped among themselves,,and a certain Lagman Hok, a tall gentleman, and an old friend of ma chére meére’s, who sat beside her, and snuffed. Ma chére mére was silent, played at the game of Patience, and looked very serious. Isaid a word now and then, but grew more and more taciturn, for my head pained me. The rain beat against the windows ; and, to speak the truth, I was irri- tated at the conduct of Bear, who, I thought, during the long afternoon, might once have come to look after his little wife, and ought not to sur- render himself to his old, hideous bachelor-habits of playing billiards, smoking and drinking. We THE NEIGHBOURS. 5 Se = ee, continued in this sad state of mind till the after. noon passedaway. About tea-time ma chére mére asked to have some music. I sat down to the piano-forte, preluded, and began to sing the bean- tiful little piece, “Youth.” But the heat, the head-ache, and the irritation had put me entirely out of spirits. I sang first tremulously, then out of tune, and finally got entirely into wrong time in a piece which I had played a hundred times. Tt was still as death in the room, and I was well nigh weeping ; but so coy I would not appear at my years. I went through a few of the conclud- ing chords, and quitted the piano-forte with an apology, and some words about my head-ache. Now ma chére mere was heartily kind to’ me, sat down beside me on the sofa, ordered an ample dish of strong tea to be brought to me, and treated me like a sick child. I had now really got into a strait, for this, as well as the courtesy of good Lagman Hék, vexed me. I thought it the con- summation of that lamentable part I had played the entire day, and believed ma chére mére would internally think Lars Anders had made a bad choice in taking to him a wife who was at once old and childish, coy and sickly. I was com- pletely unhappy. At length Bear came, and we eould drive home. The weather had cleared up, and the tea operated’ beneficially upon my head ; but my evil nature was the predominant Spirit in me. Iwas mortified with myself, Bear, and the entire world. And Bear sat there mute the whole way, and took not the slightest concern about my head-ache. When he had inquired: “ How is the head 2” and I answered : “ Better,” we spoke not another word. On our return home, I had to look te some- thing in the kitchen, and on my entering the parlour again, Bear was nestled upon the sofa, lowing tobacco smoke in long eddies before him, while he read the newspaper. He had not selected precisely the fittest moment for his breach of con- tract. | beat alarum; true, ina lively tone, but at the bottom I was not in an amiable temper. There was a sort of evil desire in me to make Bear indemnify me for having had such a day of vexation. Bear exclaimed, “ Pardon,” in a sprightly manner, but was still bent on keeping his seat with the pipe. This I was not willing to concede ; I fancied the quondam young bachelor had been at liberty to range freely enough the whole afternoon. Bear sued only this once for a fumatory peace ; I, however, would not listen to | any terms, but threatened that, if the pipe were | not immediately laid aside, I would take my seat in the ante-room for the entire evening. had first playfully entreated peace; now he be- came more serious, he begged it with tenderness, with undissembled earnestness; begged it for “hissake.” I saw that he designed to prove me, saw that really in his heart he wished me to yield, and I — abominable creature — did not; I re- mained resolute, though still in a lively tone, in maintaining my purpose, and at length took up my work in order to leave the room. Then Bear did lay aside the pipe. Had he but been angry and defying, had he not put away the pipe, but with it marched out proud as a Nabob, and shut the door violently after him, and not returned the entire evening, ay, then there would have been a time for a rising on my part, some consolation, Bear | “1 something “ paid and acknowledged,” and I could have suffered the whole disastrous affair to be and abide as it was. But he did nothing of the kind. He laid aside his pipe, and continued sit- ting in silence, and I instantly began to trace twinges of conscience. Neither did he make any grimaces, but looked into his newspaper with a certain serious and sedate air, which went to my heart. I begged him to read aloud; he did so, but there was a something in his voice to which I was not able to listen. In a sort of choking state of indignation against myself, I became more tyran- nical towards him. I snatched the newspaper from him—it was meant for a jest : do you under- stand !—and said that I myself would read. He looked at me, and let me lord it. I read with tolerablg vivacity part of a debate in the English Lower House of Parliament. But I could not long endure things thus; I burst into tears, sidled up to Bear, fell upon his neck, and begged him to pardon my bad temper, and my absurdity. Without returning me an answer, he merely held me pressed quietly to himself, so tender, so for- giving. I saw some tears trickle quite gently down his cheeks. Never did I love Bear as at that moment; at that moment I felt real affection for him. I was on the point of commencing an explanation, but Bear silenced me. I then begged him, if he liked me, to light his pipe afresh and smoke it out here at my side. He would not, but I entreated so long and pressingly, entreated it as a token of pardon obtained, that he at length ac-, ceded to my petition. I held my nose as much as possible in the smoke. It was then to me the sweet savour of reconciliation. Once I was well nigh coughing, but I converted this into a sigh, and said: “ Ah, my own Bear, this woman would not have been so naughty, if you had not been unmindful of her the entire afternoon. She lost patience in longing for you.” Bear took the pipe from his mouth, regarded me kindly, yet half reproachfully, and said: “I was not unmindful of you, Fanny, but I was beside a painful death-bed at the next tenant-farm ; this circumstance pre- vented my being with you.” I put my hands before my face, and confusion thrilled through my inmost being. I who had cherished so ill and wrong a distrust of him, and now revenged myself in my vanity—unworthy that Tam! I, who was to make my Bear so happy—what a sweet recrea- tion I had prepared for the weary and saddened man! The thought of my absurdity torments me even at this present moment, and the only thing that affords me solace is, the feeling that Bear and I love each other, after this scene, more than before it. Beloved, good Bear! rather than I would wittingly occasion you an unpleasant mo- ment, you may smoke every day in the parlour, sleeping chamber, in bed even, if youlike! Yet I pray heaven you may have no such fancy! And now I revert again to your letter, and some ques- tions in it: “ Whether, as a married lady, I shall write to you just as willingly and frankly as when single?” Yes, my Maria, be assured of that; I cannot do otherwise. It is now seven years since I first became acquainted with you, and from that time you have been to me my conscience, my better self. You were the clear mirror in which I beheld myself as I was; you were ever vera- cious, though ever mild, and though, two years 6 THE NEIGHBOURS. ago, you voyaged far across the sea away from me, you still remained ever the same tome. O, abide so henceforth, and always, Maria! I shall else fear losing myself. Under your eyes, and with your aid, I first attained to truth of cha- racter ; under your eyes, and with your counsels, Lshall form myself to a good partuer. It is so dear to me, it makes my life more affluent, to be able to live in your sight, and, so to speak, in your presence, though lands and seaseparate us. Bear, moreover, belongs not to that class of men who are jealous of their wives’ friends ; he is not of opinion that we must renounce a friend because we have a husband or wife. It is not Bear’s will to make narrow the heart ; he is too good a man, a man of too much reflection, for that. I do think he would cheerfully subscribe to these words of a beloved teacher of mine, who instructed me in the Christian religion. “ It is with the heart as with heaven: the more angels, the more space.” Ah, look! there ismy Bear. Read what I have written, and subscribe Bear. Friday, 6th June. Matters go on well between ma chére mére and me, heaven be thanked! How unlike can one day be to another! Tuesday so out of spirits, yes- terday so gay in heart. On the afternoon of that day, I proposed to Bear that we should visit ma chéere mere. He was contented with the proposal. On our way I related to him how coyly I had de- ported myself, and said I should be happy to wipe away the impression Ithen made. Bear laughed, made grimaces, looked kind—and we arrived at our point of destination. There was a stir and an ado in the house. All the inmates were astir, and ma chére mére was the mainspring and wheel of the movement. ‘She was busy in getting in order some rooms for the reception of her two proper stepsons—Bear is only half such—who with their young wives are shortly expected, and are to-reside in the house, the one couple for some weeks, the other for a permanency. Ma chére mere met us in avery friendly manner, furnished Bear with news- papers and Virginia tobacco, and appointed me her auxiliary for the afternoon. I was glad and willing, and I succeeded quite well in approving myself acceptable to ma chére mere. Furniture was shifted, blinds were put up ; everything went briskly and well under ma chére mére’s command, and my helping. We accomplished a vast deal of labour, and continued quite gay the while. I uttered some bon mots, which pleased ma chére mere. She patted me, pinched my ear, laughed and answered cheerfully. Upon the whole, I had much pleasure with her. There is something quite peculiar and racy in her mind and manner, Without question she has a good understanding, and a great deal of natural wit. She treats her household at once like slaves and children, strictly as well as tenderly ; it seemed extraordinary to me. However, all appeared very devoted, and obeyed at the slightest nod. Once only ma chére mere and I were on the eve of growing somewhat at variance. ladies’ dressing-tables, which I wished to see vather less needily furnished. But ma chére mére got angry at this, and warm in her condemnation of the “accursed luxury of our times, and the This was on the subject of the young | | pretensions of young ladies,” and declared that the dressing -tables should stand just as she had placed them, with the same covers and the same glasses ; they were good enough thus. As I was silent to all this, everything was soon well again, and I am not certain whether the covers of the dressing-tables will not be changed, notwithstand- ing; for ma chére mere, in a short time, repaired to her linen chest. To these chamber-arrange- ments succeeded various household concerns of a less refined complexion, which ma chére mére in- vited me to take an active part in. “ For, it may be an advantage to you, little friend, to see how things are done in a well-ordered house, it may be necessary for you to learn this thing and that in the matter of domestic economy. Roasted pigeons do not fly into our mouths, we must see that there is something in the cellar if we are to have any- thing on table,” &e. I followed ma chere mere into the cellar, which she entered with a great piece of red chalk, and made divers, to me, cabalistic flou- rishes and signs on barrels of herrings and salmon. But ma chére mére explained everything to me, and allowed me a sight into every corner of the subterranean and well-stored vault. We then went up into the loft, and here I helped to revise bread-bins, anathematise rats and mice, and weigh sundry sacks of flour; in the end I was obliged to allow myself to be weighed, and most lustily did ma chére mere laugh at me, when it turned out that I did not weigh full five pund (z.e. stone of 14lbs.), and assured me that in the reign of Charles XI. a woman weighing less than five pund would have been burnt as a witch. I took all this quite philosophically, and in return did not sparingly pour forth my admiration of ma chére mére’s household and order. This admira- tion came from the heart. In effect, such a house perfectly equipped and ordered from the greatest to the least appointment, where everything stands in its appropriate place, and bears its number, such a little world is worthy of being seen and admired equally with the lady of the house, who is the living Promemoria over all this, and knows her affairs as well as any general his amount of efficient force. When the rummaging and domestic surveying was terminated, we sat down to rest on a sofa, and ma chére mere spoke to the following purport : “ It is only now and then, my dear Francisca, that I go through such a review of my house. It brings respect into the minds of the people and things in order. Draw the clock up at the right point of time, and it will then go of itself, and you need not yourself go backwards and forwards like the tic-tac movement of a pendulum. Bear that in mind, my dear Francisca. Some ladies affect, and wish to make such an important figure with their bunch of keys, and are constantly running about in kitchen and store-rooms: all useless stuff. Francisca ! it is better that a lady order her house with her head than her heels, a husband is best circumstanced thus ; and if he doesn’t think so, why, he is a blockhead, and the wife may in hea- ven’s name frisk about his ears with the bunch of keys. Some ladies are perpetually at the heels of those subject to them,—that profits nothing. Domestics must also have their freedom and rest. ‘ Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn.’ Let the people about you be respon- sible for what they do. It is good for them as well | as the lady of the house. Hoid them fast to you either by their heart or their honour, and give them what is theirs, to the full. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire.’ But three or four times in the year, only not at stated periods, come upon them like the Day of Judgment, and ransack every nook and corner, bluster like a storm, and strike down this and that at the right time—this cleanses the house for several weeks ; ‘ if there were no thunder, the hobgoblins would never allow us any peace.’ ”’ Such was ia chére mére’s household doctrine. Next she led the conversation to Bear, and said : “ Yes, you may well say, my dear Francisca, that you have obtained a husband who is a man throughout the day; but he is right headstrong in his way, and you will doubtless have to deal with him as I had with my husband. Well, well, we shall see how she deports herself. Little she is, but she can stir about, and this I can tell her, that, deport herself as she may with her husband, she will never find him aught but a man of honour; and therefore, too, I will give her this piece of counsel : ‘ Never advance an untruth to him, be it ever so small, to get cut of a dilemma, be it ever so great. One untruth ever leads you into a greater, for it scares confidence from the house.” T gave ma chére mere a lively account of what I thought on that article, and, satisfied with each other, we went into the room of every-day use, where Bear sat yawning over his newspaper. Mamsell Tuttén—whom ma chére mére calls Adju- tant Tuttén—set out the tea-table. Ma chére mére asked me to sing (she had, then, entirely forgotten my last sample) and I did sing—I myself felt that it went well. Ma chére mére laughed heartily at several merry little songs, and I saw Bear’s eyes glancing a side-look of perfect pleasure athwart the newspaper. After tea, we, together with Tuttén, made up a match at ma chére meére’s Bos- ton, which is of the merriest I ever took part in. Ma chére mere and I were especially cheerful, and they made merry sport of me when I committed blunders in the game. But this was better for me than if I had played like a master, and we jaughed and cried out like children. When after supper we took leave, ma chére mére clapped me lustily on the shoulders, kissed and thanked me fora cheerful day. On coming out on the steps, the weather was so beautiful, that Bear and I re- solved to do part of the way on foot, and sent for- ward the cabriolet. The walk was a gay one, and after some wanton tricks, I succeeded in getting Bear into a ditch. Still I cannot but laugh when I think of it. He looked so like a real Bruin as he lay there on all-fours. (Between ourselves, I am not entirely sure whether he did not allow himself to be overturned.) Kind-hearted Bear. But I will not perpetually talk to you about Bear and his lady Bear, you must learn some- thing about residence and family. It is a little difficult fully to comprehend the history of the latter. Try, kind Maria, to understand what I now wish to make clear to you. General Mansfelt was first married to a widow, who brought him two stepsons. The elder was my Bear, the younger, Adolph Werner, died some years since, This same lady bare him two sons, Jean Jacques, and Peter Mansfelt, still living. While mere children they lost their mother. A year afterwards the General was united to the rich and proud Miss Barbara B ** *, our present ma chére mere. Bear, then thirteen years old, was little satisfied with having a mother of twenty. The latter, however, demeaned herself in an exem- plary manner, and became an excellent though strict mother to the four stepsons, whose affection and veneration she soon won to herself, notwith- standing a certain straitness and scantiness of expenditure, to the observance of which she held them. This, however, was due to the extrava- gance of the General, who had got his affairs into the greatest disorder, and only through a deed of settlement did ma chére mére succeed in securing her own property. With part of it she defrayed the expenses of the sons’ education, and spared nothing in that. The sons were held to the ob- servance of the greatest respect in their parental home. They were taught a certain punctilious politeness, and French phrases. Every morning at an appointed hour they were to go to their parents, kiss their hands, and say, bonjowr, mon cher pére ; bonjour, ma chére mére ; and every evening also they were to repeat the kissing of the hand, and say: bonsow, mon cher pére; bonsoir, ma chere mere, (hence is derived the appellation ma chére mere, which is still current with the sons). The hand-kissing is still customary when mama and sons meet, but the French salutation is disused. As for rest, the almost stern mother allowed the sons a great deal of time and freedom for games and gymnastic exercises, and moving in the open air, &c. It was an ebject of care with her, to in- vigorate their frame as well as spirit, and upon the whole the sons had a cheerful youth. General Mansfelt was a handsome man and gallant sol- dier, but for the rest dissolute, domineering and thoughtless ; he took little concern about his chii- dren, and squandered his fortune. Ma chére mére’s union, with him was little happy. At his death he bequeathed nothing to his sons. Ma chére mere then, without much ostentation, did an entirely noble act of generosity. Without making any distinction between the sons and stepsons of her husband, she engaged to pay a certain yearly income of a considerable amount to each of them on his attaining to his majority, during which time she undertook the administration of her estates, which were extensive, but encumbered with debts. Bear, who had already entered upon his career, and by skill and diligence won for himself an honourable position in life, declined, though respectfully, this boon from his foster- parent ; for he would not be dependent on any one, and least of all on ma chére mére, whose de- spotie spirit did not assort well with his love of independence. This circumstance, together with some opportune explanations which were come to between him and her on various occasions, have had the effect of placing him on an independent and very good footing with her, while the other sons must accommodate themselves more or less to her will. Bear and she stand, as it were, in fear of each other; but have obviously the greatest reciprocal respect. Yet she has declared that she will never see him in the capacity of physician to herself ; she says, a truce to all physic and doctors, will never have aught to do with such, and supports herself upon the adage that, ** Nobody becomes a good physician ere he has filled a churchyard.” a THE NEIGHBOURS. Having begun to write ma chére mére’s history, 1 will draw her portrait. You behold a very tall wotman, of a strong but handsome figure, whieh still retains the strength and well-turned fulness of youth, very upright, somewhat stiff, ywith almost the air and bearing of a general. The countenance would be handsome, if its features were not so strongly marked, and complexion so eray 3 the chin also is too large and prominent. About the mouth, which is furnished with large white teeth, there frequently is seen to play a really kind-hearted and friendly smile ; but when moved by less benevolent feelings, the under lip rises above the upper, and then forms an expres- sion of stern resolution, which is not pleasing in a woman. But ma chére mére is rather peculiar. Her hair is quite gray, and at times stands out from beneath the “helmet,” which, | am now informed, has received the name of Slurka from ma chére mere. No tresses. The Slurka is en- throned in solitude on her stern, high, frequently eloud-wrapped forehead. Not an ornament or decoration is seen on her entire dress, but it is extremely clean, and rather peculiarly appropriate and comfortable. Ma chére mére does not lace. (To speak it in a parenthesis, I should be asto- nished if lacing did not belong to the causes which make us less agreeable than we might be in society. The spirit never can be free while the body is pinched in.) Her dress is mostly a brown or gray silk garment. A white neckerchief covers herneck, which is still beautiful ; in the forenoon, and about mid-day, it is changed for a stand-up collar. Her hands are large, beautifully formed, white, but hard ; and, they say, are not always employed in matters of peace. Ma cheére mere has a bass voice, enun- ciates distinctly, and with strong intonation, often employs extraordinary words, and has a multitude of proverbs on her tongue ; she walks with great strides, frequently in boots, swings her arms, but ean as often as she chooses deport herself with the highest courtesy and refinement of manner. They charge ma chére mére with parsimony, meddling with other people’s concerns, and paying no re- spect to decorum. They tell a host of stories about her. Nevertheless they have great respect indeed for her in the country around, and her words have a regal authority. People are univer- sally agreed that she is prudent, trustworthy, and a fast friend. This, methinks, is excellent. She reminds me of Gitz von Berlichingen. But at times I fancy feelings of greater delicacy might dwell beneath this stern exterior, and in that case, I think I could love her. Hitherto she has ad- ministered her estate alone, and. ordered her affairs excellently, but now she desires Jean Jacques to aid her in it. The latter has studied agriculture abroad, recently married, and is going to settle at Carlsfors with his wife. Bear shakes his head at the partnership of “ Ma chére mére and Jean Jacques.” It were impossible for me to talk about ma chere mere, without also making mention of her maid Elsa. They have both lived together for forty years, and seem unable to live without each other. Elsa is at once ma chére mére’s bondmaid and tyrant. She is so parsimonious that she scarcely» allows her mistress to make use of her own apparel, and she murmurs over every clean pocket-handkerchief she has to surrender. But ape a RR 4 in point of fidelity, cleanliness and order, she has not her peer, and this induces my stepmother to entertain a degree of respect for her, and in many a disputed question Elsa’s will gains the ascen- dancy. With all this she labours day and night for ma chére mére, whenever there is necessity for it. Ma chére mére is her destiny, ma chére meére’s chamber her sphere of action, ma chere mére’s word her law, ma chére mére’s person her virtual self. Without her mistress Elsa is a cipher. Once she obtained permission to visit her family and remain away for the space of a week. Before even two days were elapsed Elsa was back again with her lady, not being able to endure distance from her. They say that on the very same evening she got a box on the ears from ma chere mere for seme negligence of the toilet, She took it, was silent, and went away no more after this attempt. Elsa is dry and stiff ; the contour of her frame is perfectly angular. People say she knows more about ma chére mére than any other mortal ; but Elsa is taciturn as a mummy ; she deserves embalming. Shade of a shadow, appear, Tutién! Elsa is a Rembrandtic shade, Tuttén one of those inde- - finite ones, which, though not possessing any character of their own, yet cannot assume the distinct form of another. Elsa’s vigorous trusti- ness of character is her beauty ; Tuttén’s constant phrases are: “My Lady General says, my Lady General thinks, it is my Lady General’s will,” but still she secretly scandalises the Lady General and her obedience is without devotion. At times humble to self-abasement, she is at other times ready to rear up restively unless reined in by the vigorous hand of ma chére mere ; but under the press of this necessity, she develops her capabi- lities and displays her excellent household accom- plishments. When about to discuss a glass of her matchless ale, I am almost ready to exclaim, “ Long life to Tuttén !” But how will she live in a world in which there is neither brewing nor baking, where no ale froths, and no tarts puff up, how will she there collect her thoughts ?—But peace to Tuttén and metempsychosis ; I will not wander too far from my home. Of my beloved home, my little Rosenvik, you must now have a little sketch. Rosenvik is a sub- farm of Carlsfors. It lies a good half mle distant from W., where Bear is the principal and favourite physician. He has rented the little place of me chere mere, because he, like myself, likes it very much. We have Rosenvik, then, more for pleasure than profit; I have my speculations about the garden, of which much may be made, though at present it looks almost like a wilderness. This garden, a grove of birch trees, a meadow on which three cows and one horse graze, are the possessions of Rosenvik. Wherefore Rosenvik (i.e. Rosebay) has received this name, I cannot understand. True, it lies on a bay of Lake Helga, but not a single rose-bush is found there, but a vast deal of hyssop and number of elder-berry bushes. The latter shall be preserved and the former not neglected, and I hope Rosenvik will yet do honour to its name. However, the beau- tiful shall not supplant the useful. I shall planta number of currant-bushes, peasand beans. Upon the whole I am glad to have come to a piace where there is still something to be done. and ail aU ——-—$ THE NEIGHBOURS. 3 is not ready and complete. My mind and my temperament render a great deal of employment necessary for me, and I know how dear that on which we expend labour becomes to us. Our house is small but excellently appointed. We have four rooms and a kitchen on the basement story. Bear has furnished them most neatly. The parlour especially, with its furniture covered with blue chintz and white muslin curtains, is a charming little apartment. On the upper story are two spare rooms; kitchen and storehouse were badly equipped, but, thank heaven ! there is a remedy for that. With respect to pecuniary matters, Bear has adopted an arrangement which both pleases and occasions me a degree of dis- quietude. He puts all his money into a cash-box, to which he has had two keys made. The one he has, I have the other, and I am vested with plenary power to draw from it whenever I choose and as much as I choose, without rendering him an account of it. This proof of his perfect trust in my prudence rejoices me ; but at the same time, such confidence is a more stringent tie than parsi- mony on the part of my husband would be. Iam always afraid of taking too much and not economi- sing well, I dread gratifying my heart and fancy by little purchases out of the ordinary way—for I myself contributed not a penny to the cash-box ; all that is there belongs to Bear, and is the re- ward of his labours. I fancy I should be freer and it would be a better arrangement, if he were to give me a certain monthly sum to administer. Ove day I made a proposition of this nature to him, laying before him my scruples with a tear in my eye; but he would not listen to anything of the sort. “Are we not one?” said he, “and I have observed that you are a skilful calculator.” With respect to the scruples, he maintained that they would give place as soon as we were better acquainted ; I should then perceive that there was no mine and thine between us. I am almost inclined to believe in the good man’s prediction, but I think notwithstanding, to keep an accurate account of my expenses both for the sake of order and my own peace of conscience. A source of hearty joy to me is the little maid Bear has procured me here, and who is to be my own maid. She is a young peasant girl whose appearance is so cheerful, innocent and pretty too, that it does one good to look at her. She is sedate and industrious, endowed with understanding and a good heart, and it will afford me pleasure to be her educator. If heaven bestows any children upon me, Sissa shall mind them. I will train her as a real “bonne” for them, so that I may be at ease on their account, though they are not in my arms. The recollections of my own childhood tell me how important are these first impressions. Cleanliness, kindness, and good sense shall watch over my child’s cradle ; there even these qualities shall begin to settle in its soul. We do not rea- dily grow cold towards the friends of our child- hood. I talk of educating my maid, but believe me, my Maria, I shall not forget to educate myself. Wherefore does the flame so easily go out on the altar of love? Because the wedded pair forget to keep up the fire. We must develop and perfect ourselves as life advances; then that life becomes an advancing career of love and happiness. i My first concern now is to order my house, so that contentment and peace may be its inmates. I will strive to be a prudent lawgiver in my little —but not unimportant—world. And do you know what law | propose laying down and to en- force with rigid accuracy? A law to regulate the treatment of animals. The following shall be among its enactments : All the animals of the farm shall be tended with the greatest care and treated with benevolence and indulgence, They shall be slaughtered in such a manner that the animal shall thereby be tormented little as possible. No animal shall be tormented in the kitchen ; no fish shall be dressed alive or writhe in the kettle ; no bird shall be hanged half-dead on a nail. A stab shall give them instant death and deliver them from torture. The above and some other precepts shall be comprised in my law. How much unnecessary cruelty is daily practised from imadvertency— people think not what they are doing! And how improper, how unworthy is cruelty to animals ! Is it not enough that in the providential ordination of this world they are doomed to be subject to us, and to serve us as food after their death? Shall we still embitter this stern doom? We are in many instances constrained to actin hostility to animals, but cruel enemies we need not be. How infinitely less would they suffer if we treated them humanely in all those instances in which they re- semble men ; if we had feeling for their feebleness in old age and pains in their diseases and death ! In the ancient world there were laws which imposed it on men as their most sacred duty to exercise clemency to animals, and rigorous punish- ment awaited their transgressors. And we, Maria, we who profess the religion of love—shall we treat the brute creation worse than the heathen ? Does not He who stablished the kingdom of love on earth say, that not a sparrow falls to earth without being seen by the Father (observe, Maria, he does not say that the sparrow shall noé fall, he merely says it 7s seen by the Eye of the Father). Yes, observed also are all the unnecessary suffer- ings which the licence, the levity, and cruelty of men inflict on animals; and their wailings and cries are heard. Shall not an echo of vengeance beyond this world add another torment to hell, and disturb the peace of man’s heaven itself ? O Maria, let us women and married ladies not lay ourselves open to this punishment! Let us, when we stand forth at the tribunal of the Father of All, be unspotted by maltreatment and ingrati- tude towards the living beings of His creation ! Let us merit to behold about us in a better world ennobled races of animals, and there to live with them in the connexion of indulgence, to which we have laid the foundation on earth ! Here comes Bear, whois preparing me for shortly visiting to our neighbours—we have a multitude —and he assures me that there are people longing to make my acquaintance, very good and sensible people, he assures me. Hold yourself, therefore, ready soon to make new acquaintances. Brothers- in-law and sisters-in-law I shall also be able to introduce to you in a short time. I rejoice at their arrival; I am especially glad to make ac- quaintance with Bear’s favourite brother, Peter | | | | | Nee ao ae ec ti etn ne accent pp ci A a AT TET 12 10 THE NEIGHBOURS, Mansfelt, who is said to possess a very amiable character and to bea very clever jurist. In a month we expect a guest at Rosenvik. With all this and with Bear I expect a cheerful and happy life. I could take a fancy to write a romance upon it. Romances generally close with a wedding. Does | not the real romance of human life first date its commencement from marriage! Surveyed in all its points of view the life of every human being is indeed a romance, a little episode from the book of existence, written by the Great Author of the world. Suppose, therefore, the case, Maria, that I write you a littie romance. Let it, my kind, affectionate lady reader, obtain a place in thy heart. Cheerful | or sorrowful—be that as it may ; so that it is not rejected by thee! Farewell, and think kindly of thy romantic and devoted FRANCISCA, —4— SECOND LETTER. Rosenvik, 9th June. THe weather was clear and fresh yesterday morning. I took my seat beside Bear in the cab- riolet when as usual he drove off at eight o’clock for the city. At Carlsfors he left me and promised to take me up on his return, “ provided he did not forget it.” “Forget it?” © Horrid Bear !”— With this passport he pursued his journey. I walked down the large, beautiful avenue which leads to the mansion. In the court-yard stood a tall, extraordinary figure. It wore a broad gray mantle, green head-gear, and flourished something which bore resemblance to a witch’s staff, while with a powerful voice it exclaimed : “ Get forward —do you hear—get forward with the heaven cha- riot.” * J looked up involuntarily towards heaven, and the thought of the Prophet Elijah’s chariot came into my head, but was driven out again with equal speed when in the Stentor wrapped in the gray mantle I recognised ma chére mére. On coming nearer I heard her lustily scolding the groom be- cause all the oats were consumed, and saw her accompany her lecture with a vigorous flourish of the whip—but only in the air. Soon as she perceived me, she suddenly changed her expres- sion of countenance, kindly seized my hand, pressed it and said in a friendly manner: * Now see! good day, my dear Francisca. You have just come in the nick of time. I have to-day put on my January (she pointed to her mantle) because I fancied it was cold. Soon my grays and the cha- riot will be here. We will have a drive together.” At the same moment four horses drove up into the court-yard, drawing after them a singular equi- page, with a canopy resting on four lofty pillars. It was the heaven chariot. Ma chére mere caused me to mount, clambered up after me and took the reins in her hand. } . “Serena?” Irepeated: “that is a singular name.” “ Thus it will not appear to you, when you see her. Our Lord seems to have baptised her him- self. But now I must leave you and drive on farther. And if after this conversation you say I am erazy or malicious, I will tell you that I shall not concern myself about it. I may endure you at all events, and hope to see you again soon.” Hereupon she pressed my hand in a most friendly manner, rose and lightly and rapidly took leave of all. As she left the room, I re- marked that she was rather. crooked, to conceal which, too, she was at no pains. “ Who is she? Whoisshe?” Tasked, when she had left the room. “ What ? Francisca!” said ma chére mére, “do you not know Miss Hellevi Husgafvel? Well, I was a blockhead, not to introduce you to each other !” I stood as if thunderstruck. “ Miss Hellevi Husgafvel!” I at length exclaimed. “ But Mivs Hellevi Husgafvel is assuredly said to be old?” “ That is one of her own tales,” replied ma chére mere. “She has her own peculiar freaks, and is at equal pams to pass herself off as old, as others are to appear young. I do not think great things of her ‘ Bird’s Nest,’ for I cannot understand all the snails and worms and fungi which she collects there; but she herself is a, witty and worthy person, whom I can endure exceedingly well.” “ But what will she think of me?” thought I ; * House-gable. + An allusion to the similarity of sound between the Swedish word dal, a valley, and the family name Dahl. 13 while, embarrassed at my want of caution, I re turned with Bear to the cabriolet. My bonnet had created little sensation, and I had uttered an absurdity. The commencement of our drive was not bright. “ Bah !” said I by way of consolation, “ Miss Husgafvel is a sensible person, nor am I so stolid; we will make good the matter. La Bruyére says, to be sure, ‘ Le sot ne se retire jamais du ridicule, cest son caractere ; Von y entre quelquefois avec de Pesprit, mais Von en sort.” And merrily rolled the cabriolet on towards Adam’s-ro (rest), Major Stil- mark’s place of residence. Not far from the estate there came a young maiden, of about four- teen years of age, riding without saddle on an Oelandie horse; her hair was reddish and, like her entire toilet, in great disorder. “ Good day, Miss Malla,” cried Bear to the little Amazon; “ Are papa and mama at home?”—“ Ay, truly,” she cried, in return. “I am riding Putte to grass.” She rode on we pursued our course. “ Heaven preserve me,” said I, “is that a young lady ?”— * Yes,” replied Bear, laconically. We arrived at the estate. A tremendous noise was _ heard. Three young men, dressed in hunting attire, were roistering about with at least half a score of dogs. At sight of Bear and the lady Bear, the entire baying community turned against our innocent equipage ; but, happily for Polles’ and my heroism, were decoyed away by the young people, and the sprightly but unharmonious choir withdrew. . “ This place must be called Adam/’s-oro (wproar),” thought I internally. While passing through the vestibule, I got something entangled between my feet and was well nigh overturning. I perceived that it was a piece of wood, and looking about me, discovered in a corner of the apartment two little figures, grinning slily, who were preparing to bombard the peaceful guests afresh. I menaced them with the clump of wood, and had an inde. scribable itching to let the unruly little ones make more close acquaintance with it. But Bear, who was already through the portal, called me, and I was compelled to enter, in the greatest hurry flying from something (heaven knows what it was) that came sweeping after my heels. and yet constrained to laugh. Bear, however, got angry when he heard what had happened to me, opened the hall door again, threatened to thrash —I believe—the Adamites well, if they did not refrain from molesting people. When we had recovered ourselves—Bear, by growling his full, and I, by laughing,—we entered, and in a pretty ante-room saw two persons of an appearance which is a willing attendant on people of a cer- tain rank and fortune. I would call this appear- ance reputable. It was the Major and his lady. The Major, a man advanced in years and still handsome, was marked by kindness and courtesy of manners. The lady Major was very stout, still young, not handsome, but whose ap- pearance possessed something frank and straight-: forward. Bear presented “my wife,” “my wife,” and “my wife” was just as kindly received as my Bear. The gentlemen paced up and down the room and gossipped ; the ladies were to make more intimate acquaintance with each other on the . sofa. The lady Major regarded me, I her. Her countenance appeared familiar to me, her voice still more so; the latter especially, which had a I was vexed, | }4 THE NEIGHBOURS. Finnish accent, made a peculiar impression upon me: I could not avert my eyes from her; I saw a cicatrice upon her neck, and—suddenly there arose in me an entire episode of my past life; I once again experienced what you must experience conjointly with me, if you will understand the following. Follow me, in the first place, to my exploits in the gymnastic-house ; follow me back to a time when I was still young, when the blood flowed not with so smooth a current In my veins as now (though Bear protests that it might flow more smoothly without any harm), to a time when I was so heartily weary of seeing the same sun and the same faces, when I longed for adventures, let them cost me what they would, when a conflagra- tion, or a tumult, was a real recreation for me, when the bataille de Prague and bataille de Fleury were my choicest pieces of music, when I would weep because I was not a man and could not go to battle; when, in a sort of want to commit some extravagance, I once drank five cups of watery tea, and the lady of the house, in the frenzy of be- nevolence, so to speak, wished to torment me with a sixth. I was then sixteen years old, and, fortunately for my restless spirit, my left shoulder began about that time to shoot out. Gymnastic exer- cises were at this period in vogue as a remedy for every description of physical imperfection, and my parents resolved to let me gymnase. Dressed in garnished pantaloons, and a surtout of green cloth, on my head a tulle négligé with rose rib- bons, I one day made my début in an assembly of from thirty to forty figures, who were dressed in about the same style as myself, and were thronging about a spacious hall full of ropes, ladders and poles. It was a peculiar and singular sight. The first day I deported myself sedately, and suffered a teacher to instruct me in flexions of the back with movements of the feet and arms; on the second day I entered into thee-and-thow fellowship with some of the young ladies; on the third I vied with them on rope and ladder ; before the end of the second week I was captain of the second divi- sion, and began to spur them on to all sorts of enterprises. I was then reading the history of Greece. The heroes of the story and their exploits hovered about me in the gymnastic-house. I made a pro- position to my division that they should assume names of men of antiquity, and that henceforward we should, in that place, address each other only with the names Agamemnon, Epaminondas, Pelo- pidas, &c. For myself, I chose the name of Orestes, and called my best friend in the division, Pylades. A tall, meagre young lady, who had a Finnish accent, and for whom, on account of a daring independence of me and my ideas, which she ever made a point of displaying, I had an especial aversion,—chose to ridicule our change of name, and called me and my friend—who were both littlke—Orre and Pylle. This mortified me deeply, especially because it despoiled the entire troop of the Greek spirit it had been my object to inspire them with. My tall foe would not, she said, be called aught else than Brita Kajsa ; I continued, nevertheless, to call her Darius. New oe-asions for strife were superadded, Although less partial to that of Sweden. Charles XII. was my idol, and many a time I would entertain my friends in a body with rehearsing his actions, and during this, was fired by the most ardent en- thusiasm. Like cold water, Darius one day came upon me, and opposed herself with the assertion that Peter the Czar was a greater man than Charles XII. I accepted the challenge, with blind zeal and quiet rage. My adversary coldly, and with knowledge, set forth a multitude of facts in support of her proposition; and when I, relying upon these, wished to extol my hero in triumph to the skies, Pultawa and Bender were again and again cast in my teeth. O Pultawa, Pultawa! many are the tears that have been shed upon thy bloody arena, yet none more bitter than those I silently wept, when I, like Charles XII. before me, there suffered a defeat. They were full ofa pain, I now no longer comprehend. My adver- sary became really odious to me. I hated her, as well as Peter the Czar himself, and the people, whose lord he was. Another spark, and the flame burst forth. A neat, lame young lady, whom the manly apparel could not make less feminine and timid, won to herself my chivalric attachment, and 1 declared myself her knight. One day, while on the point of declaiming to her some verses from Racine, the abhorred Darius stood suddenly at my side, and said with a sneer: “Iam your rival!” I ecasta withering look at my rival, and replied contemp- tuously: “ Brita Kajsa, abide by your sewing- needle.” This vexed Brita Kajsa ; she blushed, while my party burst out into a roar of laughter. The next moment I was seated upon the ladder contemplating the thronging crowd beneath me, when a vigorous hand suddenly seized hold of my feet, and I beheld my tall foe, who had raised her arm, and held me fast, while she scornfully ex- claimed : “ Hollah, up there! help yourself now like Orestes, or remain seated, and coo to us like an Orre (woodcock).” What Orestes would have done in my situation, I know not ; but my anger, my shouting, and my gestures, probably suggested to the mind some bird caught fast in a springe, rather than a captive hero, for an indescribable peal of laughter arose all around, and threw me into perfect frenzy. With a loud voice I called Pylades to my assistance. Pylades looked like a poltroon, directed a vast deal of remonstrance at my foe, but without any effect. ‘TI call you out, I demand satisfaction,’ I exclaimed down to Darius, who merely laughed, and said, “ Bravo, Orre, bravo! Look! just in this manner did Peter the Czar keep the great Charles XII. in Bender.” I was on the way of committing some desperate act, when one of the teachers came to us, speedily put an end to this scene, and delivered me. But internally my blood was boiling in bit- terness. I went to Pylades, and said: “ You have deported yourself like a poor craven, Pylades ! Follow me on the instant, I will challenge this braggart ; she has offended me—you shall be my second.” Pylades looked timid as a hare, but ventured not to say no. (You probably remark, excellent Maria, that I apply the pronouns he and she to the same per- sons, but extend your indulgence to this confu- sion ; it characterises alike the entire scene, and oured of the Grecian history, yet I was not | the confusion which then prevailed in my brain.) nn ee SE RSS ea TR are EN ELE NE eT ae OED) Seal PRA Ee ald Nay ihe THE NEIGHBOURS. 1g I then went in quest of Darius, who, with in- sulting sang-froid, stood reclining against a wall, and trilling an air to vacancy. With knitted brow I appeared before her, and asked : “ What did you mean by the conduct you but now exhibited ?”’ Brita Kajsa measured me with a proud look, and said: “What did I mean? Yes, precisely what I said.” “Then I have a word to speak to you,” I burst forth, enraged ; “you have offended me in an unworthy manner, and I require you to beg my pardon in face of the entire assembly, and ac- knowledge Charles XII. to be a greater man than Peter the Czar ; otherwise, you must fight me, if you have honcur in your breast, and are no pol- troon.” Brita Kajsa blushed, but said with horrid coldness : “ Bag pardon? No, I don’t choose to do that. Fight? Well, very good! But when, and with what, with pins or..... 76 With small swords, if you are not a coward and here. We can get here half an hour before the rest. The weapons I will bring with me. Pylades is my second ; choose one for yourself.” I said this with great pride. “TI take no concern about that,” answered Brita Kajsa, with unbearable insolence ; “I alone am enough for you both.” * But you shall have a second,” I exclaimed, stamping with my little foot, “ such is the rule.” “ Well, very good ; Grénwall, come hither.” Elizabeth Grénwall was another tall maiden, stupid and plump, with hanging lips, called by me JVestor, in derision. She came, informed herself about the matter in question, and with a very im- portant air, instantly evinced her readiness to become my adversary’s second. “To-morrow, at nine o’clock in the morning !” said J, withdrawing. “ At nine o’clock,” repeated Brita Kajsa, with a sneer. On our way home, I occupied myself with ex- horting Pylades to courage, and binding her tongue by means of both good and bad words. Pylades, who really liked me, after putting forth a great many remonstrances, promised to observe silence, and to be true to me till death. My blood was in strong ebullition, but on going to bed in the evening, and when all around me was still, I cannot deny that some wonder and a slight thrill came upon me, when I reflected on the deed I was going to commit. But to retreat, leave Charles XII. in the lurch, and my own honour unvindicated, to merit the scorn and further per- secution of my enemy? no, die rather! But then I thought again on the words of the commandment, my parents—how would they weep were I to die. My adversary stood before me, strong and cruel as Peter the Czar, and I—ah ! I felt it distinctly—was no Charles XII. While thinking on my parents’ tears, I began to weep bitterly myself, and weep- ing, I fell asleep; on awaking next morning, it was bright day, and the clock struck half-past eight ; I was well nigh oversleeping myself and avoiding the duel, but while rubbing sleepiness from my eyes, it seemed as if some one were trumpeting in my ears: “at nine o’clock,” I sprang up; the combat stood clearly before my imagina- tion; in five minutes I had made my toilet. I seized two small swords, which on the preceding evening I had taken from my brother’s room, who was then absent: but at that instant it suddenly Vou. II. occurred to me that I ought to write to my parents, in the event of my falling in the struggle. On a piece of paper I wrote with a lead-pencil: “ Be- loved parents, should these lines meet your eyes” .... despair! the clock just struck a quarter to nine; I should arrive too late if I delayed any longer: [hastily cast the letter I had commenced into my drawer, myself, like Ceesar, into the arms of my fortune, and with the swords under my cloak, betook myself to the gymnastic-house. You may readily conceive that I possessed no knowledge of fencing: but that little concerned me : torush blindly upon my adversary, appeared simple as easy to me. As for the rest, I confess that I reflected as little as possible on my way to the place of contest. On entering the large hall, my enemy and second were already on the field : Pylades did not make his appearance; I beshrewed him in secrecy. Darius and I greeted proudly, and in scarce a visible manner, I allowed him to choose his weapon: he took one and wielded it with faci- lity and dexterity, as if he had been accustomed to its use; in spirit I beheld myself already transpierced : at this moment came Pylades, pale and anxious : I looked at him with an angry ex- pression, and locked the door. “ For heaven’s sake!” he exclaimed, “ murder not each other : it is folly indeed.” “Silence!” I cried in anger, and turning to Darius, said : “ You persevere, then, in not consenting to con- fess your injustice, and beg my pardon ?” “TI persevere!” said Darius, with unprecedented sang-froid, trying the temper of his sword by bending it on the floor— Peter the Czar was a great man.” “Death to him, long live Charles XII. !” I ex. claimed, kindling into a flame, and placed myself in a sort of attitude ; Darius did the same. “Stay, stay!” anxiously exclaimed Pylades. ‘Stay, I am to give the signal.” “ Well, give it quickly then !” “ Stay, stay ! I am thinking of something.... stay !” “Stay not,” exclaimed I. ‘Friend to the Russians, I count one, two, three, and we set to! One, two, three!”” .... and our swords clashed together, and at the same instant I was disarmed, and lay prostrate on the ground. Darius stood beside me, and I fancied my last moment was come. But what was my astonishment when my foe cast away her sword, took my hand and raised me up, exclaiming in a sprightly manner : “Well, now you have had satisfaction, let us become good friends. You are a brave little man,” Pylades was upon his knees, nearly fainting ; Nestor sat up on the ladder, and cried out with his mouth wide open. I had lost all self-possession, and gazed at my former enemy, who was blezding strongly from a wound in her neck. “ You bleed !” I at length exclaimed. “TI have killed you.” “Ah, bah, it is a little graze, which will soon heal !” As for the rest, I will tell you that I can bear the-Russians just as little as yourself: I merely did so to....” She turned pale, and was com- pelled to sit down. . «“ What have I done, unfortunate that I am!” a NY iG and. rolled round near the bleeding one. “ Pardon ——O pardon me.” At the same moment a terrible noise was heard at the door; Pylades dragged herself towards and opened it, and in rushed the fencing-master with three teachers. I then lost my consciousness. Not before several weeks afterwards I learned that Pylades had betrayed me, had written to one of the teachers and entreated her to prevent my foolish purpose. The note, however, had arrived too late, and hence too the teacher came too late to prevent the duel. Brita Kajsa, for from that time I no more bap- | tised people in other names, did in reality get the better of her wound in a short time, but I lay for more than three months dangerously ill. This illness, however, was advantageous to me; it cooled down my ardent temperament in a beneficial man- ner. When restored again to health, I learned that Brita Kajsa had travelled with her parents to their place of residence in Finnland, that she had visited me several times during my sickness, when she expressed her sorrow at having excited me, and being obliged to leave Sweden before I was in health,and a perfect reconciliation effected between us. I too was very grieved at not being able to say a friendly word to her in farewell; but my violent illness had greatly weakened my former impressions, and then came a multitude of new ones, as death, distress, labour for bread, and much that pained me, but operated beneficially upon my mind. I forgot the past, and therefore no more about it—now for the present. Twelve years had hurried past. I had en- tirely lost sight of my former foe ; I had entirely forgotten my former valour; I had become a being who could honour Peter the Czar, and wish well to all men, even the Russians.—I had become Bear’s devoted partner, and was following in the cabriolet on visits, decorous and sedate as any Mrs. Prudentia. Very well, Maria, the lady Major, on whose sofa I was then seated, the stout lady with the serious, open countenance, who was at once so familiar and strange to me—who else was she but my former gaunt enemy in the gym- nastic-house, Darius, Peter the Czar: in one word, Brita Kajsa! Her voice, and the scar on her neck, caused me to recognise her again perfectly. I eannot easily describe to you my strange sensa- tions, _ I was embarrassed, moved, but far more strongly did Ifeel a gaiety of heart which yearned to burst forth in exclamations and laughter. The spirit of pranks and roguish tricks acquired power over me again. I took upaknitting-needle which chanced to lie on the table, put myself in a mar- tial attitude before the lady Major, and ex- claimed : “ Long live Charles XII.! We fight. One, two, three ! ” She gazed at me a moment, as if she thought I had become crazy, but in an instant afterwards, she exclaimed : “ Peter the Czar was a great man !” seized another knitting-needle, and placed herself in a position of defence. On this we let our arms fall, and, laughing, fell ourselves in each other’s arms. Figure to yourself—but I defy you to figure to yourself—the surprise which Bear and the Major evidenced at this scene ; all the questions, excla- | arn rere re ptt leit SS THE NEIGHBOURS, ; ‘ Paha al Ge Re aera a tS, I exclaimed, beside myself, threw myself to earth, | mations, explanations, wonder, and laugliter which followed this, you cannot easily conceive. Brita, Kajsa and I regarded each other again. “The deuce!” she exclaimed, “how old you have grown since then.” ‘And you not more amiable,” thought I, but said: “ You, contrari- wise, according to appearances, are far younger.” And it was so in point of fact ; the fair, stout wife was far more handsome than the dark, gaunt maiden. After we had fully cherished our surprise, nar- rated and laughed, we passed on to a chapter upon the pleasures and pranks of youth in general. The gentlemen got sprightly over the narration of their vicious tricks and adventures. Brita Kajsa declared she had never been so gay as in the days of her childhood. All seemed to agree in deter- mining this to be the golden age of life: “Yes, . yes,” said Bear, at length, sighing, “that was a good time—it will never return.” “ My dear one!” said I, a little annoyed at this | enthusiasm for childhood, “ fancy not that it was so exceedingly good. Is not childhood to the adult like a landscape seen in perspective? It appears so delightful, merely because it is far distant from him. Iam persuaded that you, as a child, had many a heavy hour with lessons, chidings, punish- ments, indoor-incarceration, and many such things, from which you are now exempt. (Bear laughed.) I, for my part, will never laud the days of child- hood. Tome the entire period was full of ¢ ah’s’ to become big. ‘Ah, what an excellent thing to grow big and get no more chiding when I should tear my clothes! Ah, that one were big and could drink coffee every day! Ah, how happy to be big, and go to a ball, like mama, in gauze dresses with flowers! Ah, that one were big and were permitted to read romances! Ah, ah, that one were big!’ I am convinced that all children, each in its way, have such ‘ ah’s.’ And if at times’ we are positively happy as children, what, now, is this happiness? A transitory, half conscious com- placency, which we can therefore but half enjoy. And when at length we arrive at the goal of our childhood’s ¢ ah’s,’ when we grow big, drink coffee, read romances, drive to balls, ah, then this ah has first struck root in the heart itself, and we have so much disquietude to attain really and actually to quietude. ‘Then we have the lauded happiness of childhood.” “Truly Madame Werner is not very wrong,” said the Major, seriously, “and every age has indeed its difficulties. That was cursedly well said, that about the perspective. Ay, ay ! it is true.” But Bear looked at me half with surprise, half with solicitude, and said: “ You did not, then, enjoy the period of your early youth, Francisca?” *‘ No, in truth, I did not, for that I was much too restless and irrational ; and without reason and peace, there is really no true happiness.” “ Very good, very good,” said the Major. Tea was brought in, and at the same time the young gentlemen entered: three vigorous, sprightly young men, who appeared only too rustic. They were Brita Kajsa’s stepsons. They talked about hunting, horses and dogs ; on this the conversa- tion turned upon the neighbour at Ramm. They said he was an American, and—added one of the sons—people say he is very rich, and has had turns of fate like a real hero of romance. | ee ee “ Oh, certainly,” s THE Picasa vieaisseincinadhninss AOE AMI eo dai ithe lady Maj jor, or, shrugging | lowing : « her shoulders. ‘Jam persuaded that he is just like other people. But you, dear Robert, always exaggerate 80.’ Robert blushed, as if he had given expression to something most i improper. At that instant the Adamites came thronging in like gnats, and setiled down upon the tea-tray, from which they endeavoured to usurp to themselves all that was edible. The hostess sought to gain peace by preaching morality ; the little monsters, however, concerned themselves little about that, and did not grow quiet till their demands were satisfied. I wished Bear had seen this, but he was in another room with the gentlemen. “ We must not op- press children,” said the lady Major to me, “ we must allow them liberty. By such means they become natural when older, and not, like so many others, artificial and affected. Have you seen the daughters of the P ’3 family ? Heavens ! how foolish they appear to me, when they sit there in their white gloves, and twist their mouths, and fancy themselves so splendid and genteel !” The door was at this moment thrust open, and in stepped a figure that could not be reproached with an appearance of affectation. Bearing, hair, garments, all seemed the work of the wind. The lady Major cried: “Come hither, Mally !” and introduced her daughter (step-daughter) to me. Mally made an awkward, clownish obeisance, and turned, like her young kindred, to the tea-table, at which all three Soon began scolding, and I heard the sweet words: “Fie, are you not ashamed of yourself? will you not let my biscuit alone, you pig, you ugly, uncivil thing! I will tell mama!” But mama took no concern about it; the gen- tlemen entered, and while the Adamites ate and quarrelled, and we could therefore hope to get out of the house with life and sound limbs, Bear and I took leave. Brita Kajsa and I extended our hands to each other in a most friendly manner, and reciprocally congratulated one another on our neighbourly connexion. Quietly, however, I re- solved not so speedily to expose myself again to the danger of being struck to the earth by clumps of wood, nor the pleasure of allowing myself to be complimented on my elderly appearance. The Major accompanied me to the cabriolet ; he was very courteous, and seemed satisfied with me. Upon the whole, this visit gave me pleasure, but I quitted the house with two little stings in my heart. Do you desire to know what they were ? Firstly, it stung me a little to have heard Bear declare that he had been so vastly happy in his childhood, accompanying, as he did, his declara- tion with a sigh, as if the present appeared heavy as lead to him. In the second place, I am fearful I spoke too much, and with too much zeal, in a place where I found myself for the first time; I was fearful Bear would be dissatisfied with me, and would have a mind to oppose the Major’s “very good, very good!” with “not good, not good!” I would for my life have gladly known how it was with respect to this ; but there sat the good man quite obdurately still at my side, merely contemplating the reins. “I must know ib however,” thought I, and began refining as to what faanner 1 should introduce the question; but while opening my mouth, Bear suddenly spake the fol- 19 7 lowing : “ it pirdilesvened kT eangplenming grieves me, Fanny, that you were not happy in your childhood.” “ But it grieves me still more,” I exclaimed, half disposed to weep, “ that you were so dread- fully happy in yours, that you can never again feel yourself so happy, but must needs find everything here dull in comparison. You had more pleasure with your ball than you have with your wife.” Bear looked at me with an expression of asto- nishment, which immediately quieted me. “ You little fool!” said he, “that you do not believe. You cannot deem me so crazy. Yes, certainly, that was a good time, but this is a better.” “ Heaven be praised,” said I, in a low tone, but thankfully. “ And yet,” repeated Bear, “few children have been happy as I was. When I think how the entire world then laughed upon me; when | think what I experienced as I lay on the grass, and looked up at the sky, and listened to the murmur- ing of the wood—when I think how at a later period I rambled through the wood at Ramm, while everything around me was life and enjoy- ment—then, Fanny, I would that you also had experienced the same, that you had had a child- hood and youth happy as mine.” “ But life, Bear, like the year, has at times an after-summer, and I feel that mine has com- menced.” Bear seized my hand, and pressed it. We sat silent, but happy, and the cabriolet rolled merrily forward on the level road. We were driving in the direction of our house. What a gloomy country!” said I, after a while. “ It is not like our valley. Where are we? Here indeed there is but mountain and forest.” ‘‘We are close to Ramm,” replied Bear. pi | have designedly taken this road, that you might see the place where I spent my youth. Besides, the house is worth seeing, the park no less. I am glad that somebody is going to reside here. It is unpleasant to see desolation in places where men might live and enjoy life.” “Who can enjoy life here, Bear ? All is indeed so black and gloomy. This long avenue is dark as a burial-vault. And yonder at its termination is that the house? Oh! it looks like a castle haunted by ghosts.” “ And there has been much joy, much happi- ness here but true, much sorrow too... .” “ Has any misfortune happened here ?” “tYV'es a misfortune as things have grown together.”’ “ As the scar grows over the closed wound,” I cited. “ True,’’ said Bear, “true, heaven be praised. I have not been here for a long time, and seareely know myself again in the place. And the house how black it has grown !” “JT assure you that there are spectres here. I saw a little grey manikin peeping out of a win- dow.” “Perhaps the new inmate has arrived.” “Tf he is not more lively than this place, Wity oss zs Pho cabriolet stopped, and we alighted. With a certain sensation of awe and anxiety, I looked up at the splendid and gloomy mansion, which, with its lofty double-storied fagade, with a dark tower, and its two black wings in connexion with ©2 18 that fagade, looked like an owl lurking for its prey. Lofty oaks were growing about the place, and a multitude of the younger offsprings of the wood, the arbutus, the poplar, and round-leaved willow, were thronging about the walls and at the windows, like the peop'e when eager to get sight of a royal banquet table. On the left I sawa silver wave glance through the trees. It was the lake of Helga, the same sheet of water with that on which friendly little Rosenvik is situated. In the court-yard of the mansion weeds grew in pro- fusion ; in the middle of it, there lay a paved place, on which an invalid Neptune, surrounded with a moss-clothed piece of water, told you that a fountain had formerly been in that place. Every- thing looked decayed and unhappy. In the house, however, there was something stirring, and not spectres, as we svon learned. The large door stood open, and from an artizan passing through it, we ascertained that they were just preparing to arrange it for the new occupant, who was ex- pected to arrive shortly. We entered the man- sion, and I was surprised by the great extent of the rooms, and the view from the opposite side of the edifice, and well nigh exclaiming with a certain lady : “ Ah, how celestially beautiful is it here ! Trees in this part, and suitors there!” I con- tented myself, however, with contemplating a large meadow in the distance, encompassed by heights overgrown with forests of trees. In the left wing you can see the lake of Helga, nay, the lake passes close by the walls, which, in this part, rest on a low cliff, crowned by alder-bushes. The waves beat against the cliff with a sweet music. In one of the handsomest rooms I was surprised by the sight of a large organ, which appeared to have been recently put in order. “ Mr. Romilly is very fond of music,” said the foreman of the works, who conducted us with great courtesy through the apartments. ® What countryman is he?” said Bear. “A Portuguese,” was the answer ; “he was of Don Miguel’s party, afterwards inherited the property of an uncle in India, and means now, they say, to enjoy his large fortune in our country, the only one in the entire world that is peaceful and secure.” —“ If fortune is kind,” thought I, “ we shall have also Don Miguel himself for a neighbour at Ramm.” I could not forbear trying the organ, which has a divine tone, though almost too powerful. But it spell- bound me, as it were, and I should have sate there much longer, had not Bear reminded me that it was evening. “Well, the only agreeable thing in this house,” said I, “is this organ, and then the prospect to- wards Rosenvik. I would not like to dwell here for all the property in the world. But on an autumnal evening, in moonshine, I should indeed like, if you, Bear, will be present, to stroll about the house here, and see if here, as in old castles I have read about, there are moveable walls, or spectral shades, spots of blood which are never eradicated, skeins. of pack-thread which roll at one’s heels, and which, when at length unravelled, display a bloody dagger ..... ’? Here I sud- denly paused, for Bear sighed, and I saw upon his usually so benevolent and friendly countenance such a clouded expression, that I thrilled with alarm, and turned involuntarily round, to see if THE NEIGHBOURS. career. But thank heaven, I saw nothing of the kind, and with dissembled haste I followed Bear out of the house. Just as we got out upon the steps, a flight of jackdaws flew out of the tower over our heads into the wood. ‘“ And here it was so cheerful, so beautiful,” sighed Bear. ‘“ It was a homestead for youth, sports and life.” He again sighed. “ But why became it so unlike itself?” I asked. “Wherefore did ma chére mere leave a residence which is far more splendid than Carlsfors, and as you say, once had more cheerful and sprightly guests than jackdaws 2?” “ Because, because she had a great grief here. Talk not to her of Ramm, Fanny ; tell her not that you have been here. Another time I will tell you wherefore I entreat this of you. Do you see the park? That entire beautiful wood, of nearly a (Swedish) mile in circumference, is, or rather was,a park. Now the avenues are indeed choked up. We will often look about us here.” “It is quite dark in this place,” said I. At that moment a beam of the setting sun burst forth, and flung its golden splendour on the dark grey mansion, and the summit of the wood. I know not how it was, that at this very instant, the name of Serena entered my mind, a literal interpretation as it were of that sunbeam. But it speedily melted into darkness. “ So, yes, precisely so,” said Bear to vacancy, while contemplating with a melancholy smile the mansion which a moment before had been illumi- nated, but now was dark again. I saw a tear standing in his eye. In silence we seated ourselves in the cabriolet, and in silence we drove home. I breathed with more facility when we came into a more luminous part. As soon as it appeared to me that we had been long enough silent in remembrance of the old nest of crows and misfortune, I raised my voice, and asked : “‘ Where does Serena tarry ?” A smile then came upon Bear’s countenance, like the sunshine in the wood, and he said: Yes, she is lovely.” “That I willingly believe, but where can you see her?” “She dwells in the city, and is the fairest and best damsel in the entire country around.” “ But, Bear, you have never spoken to me about her.” “T like best to let men and things speak for themselves. You will soon see her. In a few days we will pay a visit to the old Dahls.” It was my intention to pursue my questions farther, but a big rain-drop struck upon my nose, then came a second, a third, and a complete shower followed. We searched for the umbrella ; it had been forgotten, and then cloths and shawls flew up to cover my bonnet. But, alas! in vain. My gauze bonnet for state and festive occasions was, on our arrival home, entirely spoiled ; shape, colour, freshness, gauze and flowers, all were drenched and disfigured. But the only sour look this mishap called forth, came from—Bear. Thus terminated the first day’s visiting. ——_4+ — THE SECOND. What is the way of the bird of passage? He some skein of packthread were not actually in | goes forth into the world and restlessly seeks a 20) * THE NEIGHBOURS. place, where he may establish his rome, build, and nestle. For he never gets rest—who does ever t— before he has discovered a home, a little world of his own, in which in freedom and in peace he can be operative in his own way. And has he found the strand, or the tree on which to rest, he gathers together leaves and wool and straw, and builds himself a nest and a couch. Then he grows com- posed, sits in his nest, contemplates the world therefrom and sings. So till the next migration. After this little preface I shall immediately transport you to the Bird’s Nest of Miss Hellevi Husgafvel. My heart was not altogether buoyant as a feather, while I was ascending the steps of the house. The words “malicious and ridiculous” pressed heavily on my conscience, but from the topmost step Miss Husgafvel flew down to meet me, embraced me with a laugh, and I, cordially reciprocating the embrace, thought “ Miss Hus- gafvel isa sensible person.” And the more I sur- veyed the Bird’s Nest, the more I was convinced of that. The little house was a perfect little museum. Excellent copper-plate engravings, after the pic- tures of great masters, adorned the walls ; beau- tiful busts in bronze and plaster of Paris, were tastefully distributed about; in one room you rejoiced to see a library, in another were collec- tions of spiral shells, minerals, and a great number of curious natural productions displayed under glasses. Everything was refreshing, and in good order ; wherever you looked were found objects to give animation to the senses and feelings ; and the little sprightly Husgafvel, who frisked through the apartments with us, and excellently explained everything, was not the least interesting of the collection. I was quite gay and refreshed. “ Why, here it is divine!” I exclaimed. “ How could one feel tedium in this place !” “ Observe, my dear Madame Werner,” Miss Hellevi answered in a sprightly manner, “now you do me great pleasure. For it is precisely my chief wish to keep at a great distance from me that irksome enemy—tedium, with its train of yawnings and vapours. Everything at the Bird’s Nest that I have for the last ten years collected, is designed solely to prevent my friends, and be- fore all things myself, from experiencing tedium ; and my daily occupation and pleasure consists in constantly conveying a fresh halm of straw into my nest and improving it more and more. Ob- serve this engraving of John, after Domenichino, and this head of Venus in plaster of Paris—I got them here yesterday, and to-day am entirely happy in consequence. I am not rich enough to procure original master-pieces, but copies of them I can possess, and at a trifling expense collect the em- bodied ideas of great artists in my Nest.” “ But these master-pieces, however, are originals!” said I, as we passed out into the little cabinet of natural productions. “Yes,” answered Miss Husgafvel, “and are therefore to me the choicest I possess. The Great Artist, our Master, deals with them as with all things ‘en grand Seigneur ;? he scatters his inimitable works over land and strand, in the desert places, and the depth of the ocean.’ The earth is full of them; man needs but to go out and gather.” 21 19 This discourse came rather unexpectedly upon me. “QO Miss Husgafvel,” said I, “ you are right! how much more affiuent would our life he, if we went out as collectors, and each one each day sought to bring home a halm of straw, as you term it! But we frequently go about like blind ones, and see nothing.” ** Yes, that is the misfortune! Could the doc- tors successfully operate upon this sort of dulness of vision... .” “That alone would not be a remedy,” said Bear, “there is still another kind of operation required.” “ Heavens! what is your meaning, Doctor Werner ?” “ That in many you find an indolence, and dul- ness of mind, which..... 4 “TI hate all dulness!” exclaimed Miss Hus- gafvel, springing up like a startled bird, “it sends lead into my heart merely to hear the word. I have zealously strove to escape it, in dread of it I have taken flight into the Bird’s Nest here ; but even in this place I must, alas! experience that there is in the world a law called the law of gravity, which draws bodies down to the earth. Yet I have sought to liberate my spirit, and therefore it is that I collect objects around me, which give wings to that spirit and enable it to fly like a bird round the world, and drink dew from every flower of Eden. Were I a Corinna, or a Madame de Staél, I should probably possess enough in the inspira- tions of my own imagination ; 1 would sit solitary in my Bird’s Nest, take my lyre in hand, and like the nightingale, would with my own notes alone rap my friends into ecstacy. But I am merely Hellevi Husgafvel, needily furnished in body and spirit ; and since, notwithstanding this, it is my desire that people shall find things agreeable at my house, I have called these offsprings of nature and art to my assistance. And if those who visit me feel tedium in society with these, I maintain that it is their own fault.” Thus spoke the sprightly lady while leading us down into the garden, where we entered blooming plantations of the vine, and fragrant peach con- servatories, and saw a profusion of beautiful and rare plants, which Miss Hellevi nurtures, and calls her children. The Bird’s Nest comprises merely the house and garden, an extensive one, and richly furnished with trees, bushes, and flowers. In a neat little pavilion we ate an exquisite collation. While still occupied with this, several visitors came from the city; among them Lagman Hék, who was received with particular cordiality by Miss Hellevi. Conversation became general, and soon turned upon the expected neighbour at Ramm. The most opposite kind of rumours and conjec- tures about him were talked of. He was in turns a native of every nation, and his journey hither was imputed to the most opposite motives, They at length abided by the conjecture that he was a spy ; but what he had to spy out nobody could say. They began to guess a multitude of merry things, and Miss Hellevi said :—“I wager that our ill-famed neighbour is, quite simply, an honour- able man, who, having got weary in his native country, wishes to divert himself with shooting hares and roebucks in Sweden. I have now been ten years in the Bird’s Nest, and have seen neither spies, nor renegades, nor heroes of romance. I | \ i 20 fancy this species continues to decrease more and more in the world. On the other hand, I have seen a vast number of people who feel tedium, and seek to beguile the irksomeness of life. God this species also became extinct! I have, however, no objection to our new neighbour’s being a man of the first stamp ; nay, this is pre- eisely my wish. It would enliven the whole country around, and perhaps occasion some inte- resting romance.” The conversation continued long on this article, andwasmost gay. Miss Husgafvel isof that pretty rare class of persons who really impart animation to a conversation, and can also draw out good things from others. I was entirely surprised to hear Bearsowitty ; he and Miss Husgafvel taunted each other quite adroitly, and bantered like good old friends. On our preparing to go away, Miss Hellevi followed us to the garden-gate. I had a strong mind to express to her an apology for the words which had so prematurely escaped me on the first occasion I saw her, and I fancy she saw my intention in my eyes, for she took my hand and said in a very friendly manner :—‘“ My excellent Madame Werner, you will assuredly come again often to the Bird’s Nest? I ask not whether people say that Miss Hellevi is ridiculous and malicious—I have myself heard that report— it shall not cause her a single grey hair more than she has already ; but to you, Madame Werner, I would gladly appear otherwise, and, therefore, Miss Hellevi is bold enough to entreat you—to come again; and Doctor Werner will, I hope, accompany his wife ; I feel more healthful when Tonlysee him. But bear in mind—I do not press upon you ; I hateall constraint in social life ; and should you, excellent Madame Werner, ever say to the Doctor, ‘Ah, dear husband, we must really visit old Miss Hellevi Husgafvel ; she is all too tedious, but she entreated so strongly ; I beg you in the name of heaven not to come ; and should you never again visit Miss Hellevi Husgafvel, she would say, notwithstanding, ‘The Werners are very charming people, and it would be a joy to me to see them frequently.’ ”’ “ But,” said I, “the Werners are less liberal ; they pride themselves upon the idea of ‘seeing you shortly at Rosenvik, and will say bad things about you if you do not come soon.” “Is it possible! Then I will come at the first epportunity.” And the little sprightly figure kissed her hand to us and flew away. Miss Hus- gafvel has a remarkable resemblance to a bird ; | all her movements are rapid, but too hurried to be graceful. While the cabriolet continued to roll on in the beautiful tranquil summer evening, I endeavoured to make clear to my mind the impressions which the Bird’s Nest and its possessor had wrought upon me. I had had pleasure; Miss Husgafvel pleased me, firstly, because she so kindly pardoned my stupidity ; secondly, because of her Bird’s Nest and philosophy of life ; but still I was not entirely satisfied ; one Rut after another rose up in my mind adversatively to the Bird’s Nest ; then again other Buts rose against these, and in order to ex- tricate myself from this conflict of ‘Buts, I deter- mined to draw Bear into it. “ Bird’s Nest,” I began, “ is very neat, and beau- tiful, and interesting, but... .” Would to. THE NEIGHBOURS, “ Well,’ but ?” “ But I perceive something to be wanting in this little museum, when I represent it to myself in the light. of ahome. To me it seems as if there were something dry in all, something egotistical in the entire establishment.” “« How so ?” said Bear, and grew attentive. “What shall I say ?...it appears to me as if, while indulging its love to those shells, the heart would dry up. . . Whom does Miss Husgafvel make happy with her arrangemenits,andher life? Whom does she profit thereby ?” “My little Fanny, we must be vigilant over ourselves not to judge too strictly, and take the word profit in too one-sided a sense. True it is that Miss Husgafvel leads an agreeable life her- self, but she also shares it with her friends. Without Miss Hellevi and her Bird’s Nest there would be far less enlightenment and pleasure in this part. Miss Husgafvel’s Wednesday’s soirées are alike cheerful and interesting ; we shall fre- quently visit them.” “ Well, very good, Bear ; it is indeed laudable in her to amuse people ; it is indeed well that somebody will take the pains; but still I believe that the Bird’s Nest would be doubly attractive if it—how shall I express it—if it presented to one some human interest, something that preferred some claims to the interest of the heart.” “In such, too, it is not deficient, though it is concealed.” . “ How 2” “Miss Husgafvel has a younger sister, who formed an unfortunate matrimonial connection, and has been very unhappy in consequence. When she became a widow, and her fortune was ruined, Miss Husgafvel took her and her daughter, and became a support and an excellent friend to her. The lady,a worthy mother, has become very timid of society. If you ever enter the upper- most story of the house, you will see a still emist- ence that is not less interesting than are Miss Hel- levi and her museum ; people cannot love each other more strongly than the two sisters.”’ “Tf there are such eggs in the Bird’s Nest I am | perfectly satisfied. Observe, my own Bear, with- out affectionate hearts I cannot conceive a happy home, filled though it be with works of art and | precious stones. Now long live Miss Hellevi Husgafvel and the Bird’s Nest.” es THE THIRD DAY'S VISITING. A seanty day in a wealthy family. The latter wishes to appear splendid, and is merely tricked out. The gentleman wishes to be a grand seignews, but—is ostentatious about his chandeliers and French carpets. The lady wishes to be of the best ton, and have the most interesting conversation, and a strange hodge-podge is the result. The daughters wish to be educated, talented, and déga- gees, and utter a sort of jargon, whence arises greatinanity. The son wishes to appear of import- anee, and is a little blond gentleman with crisp hair. The entire family is an assemblage of dis- appointed pretensions. A great inheritance, a patent of nobility (N.B.—M. Von P——-says he has only merged his German nobility in his Swedish), and a journey to Paris, have placed the Von P. - friends; they were counts and countesses. thoughts. ‘Two years since they settled at Brite- berg, sojourned there during the summer, fur- nished a splendid house, would be like the eagle among the lesser birds, hut must see with astonish- ment that ma chére mere looked down upon them. Mrs. Von P. was, however, avery courteous lady, but a certain trait of condescending friendliness towards me despoiled her courtesy of its charm forme. Some young gentlemen were there on a visit and gossipped and laughed a great deal with the Misses Emilie and Adele, who sat there in extremely elegant toilets, with French gloves on, and moved their heads as if they rested on steel wires. Mrs. Von P. asked me immediately about the lady of General Mansfelt, and instituted an inquiry into my affinity with her, the upshot of which was that I was in no wise related to her. I had not thought of that before and I was sorry to perceive it. Then we began to converse about Stockholm and persons of note there, and lo! they were Mrs. Von P.’s acquaintances and intimate Of the family of Count L. I must hear frequent mention. Count L. and his family had recently been at Briteberg ; the Von P.’s were invited to spend part of the summer with Count L. at H—nis; the Von P.’s had last suzamer formed a party to Uddewalla with Count L., and lived together on Gustavsberg; the Countess L. was an extrzordi- narily charming person, who was fond of Mrs. Von P. asa sister; the young ladies of the L.’s family were sweet and educated young ladies, tout a fait comme il faut. “Madame Werner, do you know Count L. ?” “No!”—Madame Werner was constrained to confess her non-acquaintance. “At Count L.’s you see the best society in Stockholm ; I was there lige with Baron N.’s family ? Probably the latter are known to you!” “ No.” “Not? They are of a very good ton. But it were matter of surprise to me if I have not seen Madame Werner of an evening at Count B.’s ?” “It is not possible, for I have never been there.” , “ But it seems to me precisely ..... Pardon me—may I ask Madame Werner’s family name?” “ Burén.” “Bure ..... Burén,. . .. the. name of an ancient noble family, I fancy.” “1 know not—I think” .... (1 blushed, I was aware that my family were not noble, but a lamentable little weakness had come over me). “ Yes, yes,” Madam Von P. continued in a con- solatory strain, “it is assuredly a noble name, but in our troubled times every thing is easily con- founded. Our family for example, which is des- cended ofan ancient German family of noble blood —even princes and counts of the Empire have borne the same name—our family, I meant to say, had as it were forgotten its rank and lived quite anonymously in Sweden, till Count L. said to my husband: “It cannot long continue, my excel- lent friend; you with your great fortune and merits must have a seat and a voice in the House of Knights (Riddarhus),” and a good deal of that sort of thing, which determined us to enforce ovr ancient nobility. The matter in itself is cer- tainly a trifle, especially at the present day. He THH NEIGHBOURS, family high in the world, according to their ewn 21 who only goes but a little with his age, readily perceives that the edueated are now the real aristo- eracy, and that art is as good as a patent of nobility. We live in an enlightened age, my excellent Madame Werner, and my friend the Countess L. ever says : ‘ Education imparts real rank.’ Well, true it is that people may be glad and thank heaven for not having the name of Backstrom, or Wallquist, Léfgren, Sjogren, or the like ;—to have a good name, as also to possess a certain property, is ever a fortunate thing. When we have been placed by fate upon a certain eleva- tion, we can more easily choose our connaissances and get into certain spheres. Amalie L ’s sister, the Countess of W., once said .... Do you, Madame Werner, know the Countess of W.?” ONG. c's 5 YOR a 0'a/0 a Untkee “Well, is she not most charming ? Amalie herself says: ‘ma secur vaut mieux que moil’ IT rejoice, Madam Werner, that you are acquainted with a lady so distinguée. Ah, do tell me several more of your acquaintances in Stockholm. Per- haps they may chance to be mine also.” I confess to you, Maria, my infirmity. I racked my brain in quest of Counts and Countesses. I do think that Mrs. Von. P. had infected me with gentility-aping. I at length made mention of the Baroness R. Mrs. Von P. looked detractingly. “Don’t know her,”—said she—*“ probably retirée dumonde. At Count L.’s aud our own house you ever see the very best society. Corps diplomatique is at home at Count L.’s and our house.” Suddenly I caught sight of Bear, who, with a very arch grimace, glanced at me from the corner of his eye; this, together with the ill-sped attempt with my Baroness R., banished all aping-g entility from my mind, and in order entirely to relieve and make myself clear of it at a stroke, 1 viva- ciously named the family of his Excellency O. as my acquaintances in Stockholm. Mrs. Von P. started a little. “ Yes—indeed,” said she slowly.— Well, I was there too.....a few times.” ' “O,I was there twice, three times a week,” said I smiling. “So—o.... . a house of high distinetion. Perhaps the Countess O. is an intimate friend of my dear Madame Werner.” “ No, 1 saw her but very rarely. daughters lessons in music.” “ Ah,rveally!.... for the sake of the acquaint- ance I presume ?” “ No, for money. myself by it.” Mrs. Von P. reddened and looked entirely em- barrassed. But Bear smiled, and inspirited by this I pursued: “ My brother-in-law, Bergwall. aud my friend Madame Wallquist, through Demoiselle R., governess in the family of his Excellency O., pro- cured me an engagement as teacher of music to the daughters in that excellent family.” “Indeed .... indeed....indeed....” said Mrs. Von P. obviously put out of conceit, and giving the conversation another turn, she said« “ My sweet girls, will you play and sing us somes some of the pieces you have sung I gave her I was poor and supported The young ladies did not stir before some of the young gentlemen had supported the motion of ———— a oe ene ee » ) 2 o | 22 THE NEIGHBOURS. Mrs. Von P., and then sang French and Italian pieces, which they spoiled by their affected and tasteless manner. Inthe meanwhile Mrs. Von P. “discoursed about colouring, about Weber, Rossini, and Meyerbeer. “ Weber,” said she, “ is bizarre, Rossini poor in melodies ; but Meyerbeer surpasses both; he is truly ‘le prince de la musique.’ Madame Werner, you must not think that I do not appreciate the practice of every art. In my opinion it is art alone that allows us the enjoyment of a higher existence, and therefore I have ‘given my daughters the education I received myself ; they are conversant with four languages, possess several accomplishments, and some time since we journeyed to Paris with a view to finish them. Have.you, Madame Werner, been in Paris 2” “No.” “Then go there speedily. On wit a Paris, et Von végete aillewrs / Adele, my dear, sing also the little piece that Count B. sent you. Does Madame Wer- ner know Count B. ?” “No.” & “He is coming to us this summer—an exces- sively clever young man.” % Sy your grace know the family of Dahl, the merchant?” I then asked in my turn, wearied with having ever to answer. “No....alittle....we have such different circles; good, very good people, I believe: I once met them casually in society. The what, now, is their name again ?—the Dall—Dalhéns, have little to do with the higher class of society in this part.” “ Because they are so old probably. I have heard a great deal said about their grand-daughter, Miss Lifwen. She is very amiable, it should seem.” “ The maiden is a very nice person, but a poor mis-shapen, sickly little creature ; she will not live long. The entire family is infirm.” “ Mis-shapen, sickly little creature!” I re- peated before me with wonder, “what for all the world... .” But I had not much time for astonishment at this, for one of the gentlemen named the new neighbour at Ramm, (I shall soon be wearied of hearing about the new neighbour,) and Mrs. Von P., who seemed apprehensive that the conversation might pause, projected herself on to the subject, and elaborated it thus :-— “ Ah, he is said to be an interesting man, a real ‘héros de roman/’? His name is Romanus or Romulus, and he is an Italian of a princely race. He murdered his first wife, then eloped with a beautiful English woman, and went to America with her. There he fought a duel with her brother and killed him, and his beloved one died of grief at this circumstance. At present he journeys round the world in order to dissipate his sorrow and do good: his beneficence, it should seem, is commensurate with his fortune.” I yawned. “Such occurrences,” pursued Mrs. Von P., talking with great affectation, “belong so eminently to our eccentric and impassioned age, that one is not allowed to judge them according to the laws of a rigid moralité. Profound, passionate, Byron- like natures require to be meted by their own standard. We must also take climate into consi- deration, and not require of man beneath the glowing sun of the south what we require of man in our frigid north.” I was internally astonished at Mrs. Von P.’s discourse, and mostly at her expression, “ our eccentric and impassioned age ;” but I soon ob- served that Mrs. Von P. had derived her know- ledge only from romances. Remark, good Maria, that I here say only, for romance-reading pro- duces confusion of mind only when it is indulged in to the exclusion of all other kind of reading. With this reservation, romances for ever! and romance readers and romance writers, especially as I myself now belong to the latter fraternity. “ Mais revenons anos moutons.” The young ladies sung and quavered, and seemed to have forgotten. that there is a word called leaving off. I went up to them, and was malicious enough to ask them whether they sang Swedish also, on which they answered “ No.” They then spoke of Malibran, Paris, the fashions, &c., and they did not speak well. Affectation, false Education, Conceit, how I abominate you! and therefore it is too that I now fly from the three owl-sisters. Mrs. Von P. took a ceremonial but cold leave,, and did not ask me to come again: I conjecture that my music lessons and acquaintances in “ quist” and “ wall” made Mrs. Von P. feel that I was not suited for her circle. Well—she may be right. Or our way home we met luggage waggons with effects for the new neighbour. If after all I have heard said of this man he proves but quite an every-day mortal, I shall be vexed. 14th June. Yesterday evening we were at home, and rejoiced at it. Bear wrought like a true joiner, and I read to him what I had written of our visiting days. It gave him pleasure, he laughed, but censured my speaking so rigorously of some persons, and was by no means satisfied with my, judgment of the family of Von P. ‘ You call them an assem- blage of disappointed pretensions,” said he, “and yet you have seen them but one single time. My dear Fanny, it is a very difficult thing, even after a long acquaintance, to judge a man, and alto- gether an impossibility to do so from a single visit. Besides many people exhibit different sides on different occasions ; I have seen people affected and ridiculous in society, whom I have admired on the sick-bed ; many a one-in one case tedious and presumptuous, whom in some other instance I have found modest and agreeable. Others have peculiarities at one time which they put off entirely at a later period; many turn their best side inward and perform the handsomest deeds, while the world laughs at the fool’s cap which they wear outside. With this family it may be pre- cisely so.” “ Conceded, conceded, dear Bear, and I promise you that as soon as I perceive this excellent side, I will paint it in my best colours.” “ Were it not the better course to keep the faults in the back-ground till then? precisely through such premature judgments it is that we do in- jury to our fellow-creatures, for none who listens to them reflects that one fault does not spoil the entire man.” “What is your meaning, Bear?... You make me sad!.... shall I cast the whole writing inte the fire?” a a a EE Oe 24 THE NEIGHBOURS. —< “No, let it now remain thus; thy lady reader will probably ponder what we have just said.” “‘ And to be more certain of this, Bear, and as a relief to my conscience, I will here communicate to her our little conversation.” And this I have now done, my excellent Maria. Ah, I ever abide indeed a hasty creature, who judges according to first impressions. Pardon me, and love me, notwithstanding, thy FRANCISCA. a THIRD LETTER. 16th June. a better world; I have been in the kingdom of heaven! Would you know what aspect it wears there? There was a patri- arch, and his partner. The heart was rejoiced in merely gazing upon the venerable old pair. Calm- ness was on their foreheads, glad wisdom upon their tongue, and in their looks you read affection and peace. They were compassed about by a host of angels, some blooming damsels, some children. One of them, who perfectly realised the concep- tion I had formed to myself of a Seraph, especially riveted my attention, not because all were sur- rounding her, not because she was handsome— for handsome she was not—but because she looked so pure and loving, and because she appeared to be there for all. Now, she was with the patri- arch, and mutual love smiled from glance and gesture ; now she took the children, angels, up in her arms, kissed and embraeed them ; now she spoke to the young lady-angels cheerful and sweet words. She was a benevolent, celestial being, whose felicity seemed to consist in love. She gave a sign, and nectar and costly fruits were car- ried around, and she herself took care that the children got as many as their little hands could hold. Her clear, gently arched forehead was circled by a splendour of innocence which touched me, and awoke in my mind the anticipation of an inmate of heaven. The glance of the beautiful blue eyes was clear and pious, and possessed that modest, quiet unreserve which we like so in chil- dren. I had never before seen a look which bespoke such hearty kindness ; and at intervals there beamed from the mild eye a something, which told me that her entire world was pure hap- piness. Her hair was a light brown-colour, of unequalled brightness and beauty; her skin, fair and transparent. I have never seen a body which so much resembled a beautiful soul, nor a style of deportment which more strongly reminded me of music. I learned that the sweet maiden was named Serena, and that the children were assem- bled to celebrate her birth-day. All associated with Serena; all required her presence; all wished to’ hear and be heard by her. “Ah, Serena,” said the young lady-angels, “sing us the Flower-gil, that beautiful, sweet song.” “QO Serena,” the children entreated, “ play to us, so that we may dance.” “T will do all you wish,” answered the friendly Serena, “ but what shall I do first ? I think I must obey the children, and play fora dance. Then we will solicit the strange lady to sing the beautiful song, for she certainly sings it better than we.” And Serena sat down to play, and the youth I come from. 23 danced, and the more aged smiled, for it was a pleasure to look on. After the dancing, the fruit-basket was again. borne round ; and Serena came and begged me in the name of all to sing the Flower-girl. I went to the piano-forte. The entire band, with oranges in their hands, thronged around me, their rosy cheeks and joyous looks animated my song, and on my coming to a close they shouted from all sides : “ Ah, encore, ah, encore.” And I sang once, twice again; the angels could not satisfy themselves sufficiently with lis- tening to the Flower-girl. The patriarchs thanked me for the song just as cordially as the chil- dren, and I thanked the poet. Serena set gambols on foot: There was joy and laughter. I sat beside the patriarchs. During the game, one of the little angels, who still pos- sessed a rather strong portion of earthly covetous- ness, crept into the room in which I was sitting, and took of her sister’s hoard. Serena, who, at that moment, was pouring out nectar for the pa- triarchs, followed the child with her eyes. She then went quite softly to the little girl, took her aside, set her upon her knee, and said with a serious, though mild look: “ Why, little Eve, did you take your sister’s apple! Was that right ?” Little Eve, frightened, and on the point of weep- ing, stammered : “ She had two, and I none !” ** Because you have eaten yours ; but in every case you had no right to take your sister’s fruit. That was naughty, Eve.” “ T thought nobody saw it,” answered the little one, weeping. “ But if no other eye saw you, still God saw you, and he does not love children who do what is wrong. Go now and restore the apple, dear Eve.”’ . Little Eve went and restored the apple. (Had great Eve but done the same!) Tears moistened her countenance while she said to Serena: ‘ Will you never like me again ?” “ Will you promise me not to do this again, and never take any thing without permission that does not belong to you?” said Serena, with her mild and serious expression. “Oh yes ! ” sobbed the little one; “ I will never do it any more.” “Then I will like you again, and you shall again be my little, dear Eve!” said Serena,"who took the child upon her knee again, and let her quietly weep her fill upon her bosom. This little scene, on which I stealthily bestowed attention, while gossiping with the aged couple, afforded me a pattern and a precept which I shalt not forget. At Dahl’s, also, they spoke of the expected guest at Ramm, but not with precipitate conjectures ; they told about something good and noble that he was reported to have done “The man is certainly not Miguel ”’ and there was joy at it in the kingdom of heaven. They had a little sparrow there, such a sparrow I have not hitherto seen. It was tame, and friendly to all. Theangel-children were especially delighted. There was a laughing, a noise, a joy, when the sparrow flew round about their little heads, and “ Gullgul ! Gullgul !” was repeated by the exult- ing choir. : Thus it sped the entire evening, with gambols, ! i) pL a eS le Se ee Sa UTA SO ENUM TNE NOME SE TS aa i ea 25 24 dance, and song. Once the host of angels, headed by Serena, came and, dancing, formed a ring round the patriarchs; Bear, too, and his little wife, found themselves circled by the fair, glad band, who separated again with song, to collect themselves into fresh groups. Cheerful and delightful as it was in the kingdom of heaven, still we were constrained to think about returning to our little earthly home, and after we had supped with the angejs, we entered upon our departure. But the worthy patriarchs, and the fair Serena, entreated us so cordially and earn- estly to come again soon and spend a day with them, that we were compelled to give our hands to them in assent. I confess that I desired no- thing better. On our way home I could not talk of aught else but Serena, and fell asleep with her hallowed image inmy mind. Perhaps I shall one day see this family in a more prosaic light, and you will then get a less poetic picture. Life more frequently wears its every-day dress, than its fes- tive robes. For the present, I merely know that I have seen a vision of heaven. . 18th June. *¢ Staying out may be good, but stopping at home is still the best.”’ I have been able to think so much during the few beautiful days I have passed in stillness at home. I tame my Bear and my tittle animals. Things go well. Six fowls, three ducks, and two turkey-hens, are now my most intimate acquaintances. ‘To-day, I have earessed and fed my cows. The splendid animals! The largest and the finest, I have christened Audwmbla,* in re- membrance of the beautiful northern fiction I have read in the allegorical doctrine of the Edda. My Bear is a peculiar personage. While I am weaning hini from his “lesser vices,’ he acquires —heaven knows how —an ever greater power over me. This much is certain, that he is kind- hearted, and sensible. Yesterday evening he came into the parlour with the pipe in his mouth, advancing not, however, from the vicinity of the door, and made a roguishly-inquiring grimace while regarding me. I sprung up, embraced him and his pipe, and pulled them both into the room. I was so happy that the pipe had no aversion to the room. But all too much friend- SGD e. ss 5 ye yee, Roe tet) 19th. Miss Hellevi Husgafvel, gaiety up to the very house-top, supper on Svané,—in these you have the afternoon of yesterday. Miss Hellevi Hus- gafvel is a very lively person, sometimes too lively for me. “She appears to me like pre- served ginger; if we take it occasionally, we are refreshed by it, and think it delicate ; but every day we wish not to have it. Bear, come hither, angel ;—what do you say to this simile 2” “ That there is malice in it, and that you your- self are ginger, you little ape.” “Ginger? That you yourself may be, you Bear !” 20th. The sisters-in-law are arrived. Yesterday morning, just as Bear and I were rude to each * Audumbla, in the Northern mythology — the cow whose milk gave support te the Giant Ymer. THE NEIGHBOURS, | other, a note came from ma chere meére, in which she invited Bear and me to her house for the evening; firstly, because she wished to see us ; and secondly, because she wished that, with her, we should receive their sister-in-lawships, who were, that evening, expected at Carlsfors, She added: “ If the little lady will come a little earlier, I shall be most glad to see her, and for that purpose will let my chesnuts, with the Norrképing’s earriage, immediately after dinner, make a tour to Resen- vik. This time I have taken it on my conscieace to put asunder man and wife ; but if they can come together, I shall like it all the better.” I was most eager upon the subject of brothers and sisters-in-law. Bear was completely happy at the thought of again seeing his beloved brother, Peter; yet could not, on account of some patients, drive to Carlsfors before evening. I went alone, then, in the Norrképing’s carriage, the course of which was far better than the chariot. I found Lagman Ho6k at ma chére mére’s. He visits her regularly once a week, and dines with ma chére mere; on which occasion be brings news- papers and reports of cases with him from the city, in which he resides ; for ma chére mere has a strict sense of- right, and many law-suits. She then talks a great deal to him about her concerns, which are of stronger interest to him than his own. The conversation commences with the coffee after dinner—for during the meal ma chéere mere is to the full an agreeable hostess to all her guests —and continues till six o’clock. At that hour ma chéremére says : “ Now, let us promenade,” They then both rise and commence walking side by side up and down the large saloon. This is considered a period of rest. The promenaders speak nota word during it, but ma chére mere holds her hands upon her back, and says unceasingly, but aimost inaudibly, and by a mere motion of the tongue, “ Trallall-la, trallala, trallall ; trallall-la, trallala, trall.” This promenade, which is called Zralln, lasts about half an hour, at the expiration of which ma chéere mére says, “ Now, Lagman, let us be seated.” And then they take their seats and com- mence gossipping again, yet not about business, but the good old times, of distinguished people who were then living ; and they tell anecdotes and drink tea. Thus have they promenaded, trailed and gossipped for more than twenty years. At times Lagman H6k has extraordinary fits of mental absence. He will, for instance, go and place him- self in a door-way or against a wall, and stand there for consecutive hours rapt in thought, with- out stirring from the spot ; sometimes at table, when pouring out water or wine, he observes not that the glass is full, but continues pouring till the glass runs over. Ma chére mére is little satisfied with this ; on no occasion, however, does she say an unkind word about it to Lagman Hék, but merely jests with him about his “poetical reve- ries.” However, when she sees his gréat hand grasping at a decanter, she mostly hastens to anti- cipate him. But I am letting my pen fiy like a wild-fowl from one subject to another. I was speaking of the evening on which my brothers and sisters-in- law were expected. Ma chére mére had put both herself and her house in a festive dress. The slurka sat high and proud upon her serious brow, and with the air and deportment of a ge: cral she ae) | THE NEIGHBOURS. A re marched through the room on the arm of Lagman Hbk. They were occupied with the “Tralln.” All the doors stood open. Servants in livery thronged every stair. Everything wore a high- day aspect. * Welcome, now, my dear Francisca,” said ma chére mere, hearing herself witha stately air, while she extended her hand to me. “ Now you will make acquaintance with your new family, We shall see what they are, the young ladies. Do what vou please tili I bring my Trall to a close.” I availed myself of this permission to enter and look about me a little in the rooms of my sisters- in-law. I discovered that the coarse toilet-covers had been changed for some much finer. This occasioned me joy. The apartments were com- pletely appointed as to the rest ; everything was substantial, sterling, and clean, but I missed a dash of the poetical, a little of the luxury of life, without which existence and home would be but needy things. “ Ma chére mere will leave this to the ladies themselves,” thought I, “she will allow them to beautify their world according to their own minds.” Though I acknowledged that such might be the best course, ] was notwithstanding irresistibly impelled to anticipate my sisters-in-law in this matter. [I went down into the garden, precured a multitude of flowers, of which there was a superabundance in that place, hastily wove a few wreaths, which I hung upon the mirrors on the dressing-tables of my sisters-in-law, placed flowers in glasses, too, and rejoiced at the grateful sight. Suddenly I heard a stern voice behind me say, “ Well, indeed ! it is your pleasure to go rang- ing about in my garden and among my flowers ? What, indeed, does Francisea think I shall say to that ?” . I turned round with alarm and looked in ma chére mére’s stern countenance, which, how- ever, speedily took an altered expression, and laughing, and patting me upon the cheeks, she added, “‘ Well, well, look not so hébétée, I will not say anything but that she is poetical, and that if she desires to fill the chambers of her sisters-in- law with plunder, it is her business and not mine ; the thing, moreover, looks most neat ; I see, my dear, that Francisca is not without taste ; if she will have a cup of tea, let her come with me ; for my commander (so ma chére mére styles her sto- mach) has no mind to wait for the young gentry. Hk is fixed in one of his reveries in the door-way of the saloon, but we will take care to rouse him.” I followed ma chére mére, and on entering the saloon, I heard Bear’s footsteps in the next room. I had only time to whisper to ma chére mére, “ If he inquires after me, you have not seen me,” and slipped behind a door that stood open. Ma cheére mére nodded her approbation of my little trick, and Bear entered. Almost at the same time he greeted ma chére mere and, kissing her hand, he asked, “ Where is my wife ?”__“ I have no intelli- gence of that,’ said ma chére mére seriously, “ I have not seen her at all.”—“ Heavens ! where is she then?” exclaimed Bear, with such an air of consternation and alarm, that I endured not to see him, and when, after looking about him on every side, he turned round to quit the room, I suddenly darted forward and locked him in my arms. Ah, what a sweet thing to see one’s-self beloved ! Heaven be thanked for it. “ Ha, ha, ha, ha !” laughed ma cheére mére-at our embrace. TT a 2 Se a NR a OF EO 25 Bear was quite in high spirits -at finding nis little wife again, and the prospect of soon em- bracing his beloved brother. Ma chére mére sat down in her large elbow-chair covered. with red damask, at the lower extremity of the large saloon, bade me sit beside her, and then arranged, ina semicircle around her, Bear, Lagman Hék, and Tuttén. I saw that ma chére mére would haye a grand scene, and wished to awe the young ladies, In order to reach her, they would have to pass’ along the entire, long saloon. I assure you that my heart beat from sympathy with them, and to myself I heartily praised the prudence of my Bear, who let me make ma cheére mére’s acquaint- ance in a manner so entirely impromptu, and thereby prevented her putting my self-possession to the test of a formal presentation, which to me is an abomination, and a rock of offence. Ma chére meére’s strong nerves appear to pre- vent her from forming a conception of such feel- ings, and in a sprightly and droll manner she gave us, as we were seated at our posts, an account of her first introduction at court, her long previous practice in making her obeisance to five chairs set up for the purpose, and the manner in w, .ch they were at length carried out in the pre- sence of crowned heads. Ma chére mére de- seribed this scene, and the principal personages in it, with so much spirit and fire, that I forgot where I sat, or why I sat there. The rolling of a carriage, however, was heard, ma chére mére was silent and moveless ; I grew warm and rose, but ma chere mere laid her heavy hand interdictingly upon my arm, and said to me and Bear, “Sit still, the old lady shall be the first to welcome them to her house, and she will await them here.” She looked solemn, and I sat down again witha beating heart. Bear looked irresolute; but when tumult and voices were heard in the ante- room, he said: “It is Jean Jacques !” and sat down again. J ootsteps were now audible, and a servant announced with a loud voice: “ Baren Jean Jacques and his lady.” A silk dress rustled, and a lady, accompanied by a gentleman, entered the room; she was about my age, but taller than I. Her appearance was entirely comme a faut, she walked quickly and with a decorous assurance through the room, up to ma chéere mére, who rose from her seat, drew herself majestically up, advanced a few paces towards the guests, and her appearance was highly imposing. My sister-in-law made a low reverence, and kissed ma chére mére’s hand, as I had done. Ma chére mére kissed her, but merely upon the forehead, embraced her, and begged the young lady to be welcome, and feel herself at nome in her house. She then saluted Jean Jacques in the same manner as she had greeted Bear. After this we and our new relations were introduced to each other. I sat down next my sister- in-law. At first we were a little “ moved,’ but soon becalmed ourselves, addressed each other with thee and thou, and commenced an agreeable conversation ; and greatly, greatly in- deed, did Jane Marie please me. She is not handsome, but has something distinguished in her appearance, and an excellent figure. Her man- ner and address strongly attest mildness and un- derstanding. Her toilet, too, was very appro- rn re en eee NAR a ER NE 26 THE NEIGHBOURS. priate and pleasing ; a brown silk dress, with a gold chain and watch appended, a plain but modern cap, light-blue ribbons, which are ex- ceedingly well-suited to her fair complexion and hair. Iam pleased with a lady who knows how to dress well. It betokens understanding and taste. “ But where is Peter?” Bear had positively shouted seven times in succession, even before the first salutations were over. At length Jean Jacques answered: “ Peter will not arrive till some time later, if he comes at all this evening. Ebba took it into her head to fall asleep in E ; where we dined, and she would not allow herself to be awakened by any means. Peter called and knocked ineffectually. At length my wife and I were constrained to leave them, that ma chére mere might not be disappointed in her expectation of seeing us this evening. Ebba, I thought, might just as well have slept in the carriage ; for she cannot bear to look at the country, and sits con- stantly wrapped up in her double crape veil. Ma chére mere slightly knitted her eye-brows, but Bear contracted his strongly. I cast a glance at Jane Marie; she smiled and shrugged her shoulders a little. Almost at the same _ in- stant we heard a carriage roll, and come to a stop. “There he is!” cried Bear, sprang up like a bomb, and rushed out of the door to meet his beioved brother, before ma chére mére could detain him. She shook her head and looked angry; but I liked my Bear, because he loved his brother so. Behold now my sister-in-law No. 2. A little delicate form floated wantonly, but gracefully, into the room. Her eyes were half closed ; her little straw bonnet hung from her arm ; the little cap, with rose-coloured ribbons, rested upon one ear, permitting, as it were unawares, some tresses of brown hair to thrust themselves forward. Her husband’s eyes fol- lowed her, while at the door he was again caught in Bear’s embrace. Ma chére mére drew herself majestically up as before, advanced three paces towards the little Sylphide ; but to the asto- nishment of us all, the latter floated past her, without looking up, and cast herself negligently into the arm-chair ma chére mére had just va- cated, exclaiming: “Ah! I am _ so fatigued, so fatigued, so warm, that I could die! Horrid !” The little silken dress flew up and showed a fine, white lawn garment, under which glanced the prettiest of miniature feet. You should have seen ma chére mere. She stood as if thunderstruck. But Peter pressed hastily forward, took Ebba’s hand, and endea- voured to raise her from the chair, whispering : “‘ Ebba, in the name of heaven, bethink yourself ! Ebba, it is ma chére mere.” “‘ Heavens !’’ cried Ebba, as if awaking from a dream, and looked up with a pair of beautiful brown eyes at ma chére mere, in some such wise as people might look up at a church steeple. Ma chéve mére on her part approached her with an air which seemed to say, “ What extraordinary little creature are you ?’ When ma chére mére had drawn quite close to Ebba, the latter extricated her hand from Peter’s, sprang up on the chair, flung both arms round ma chére mére’s neck, and kissed her with the sweet- ness and frankness of a child. This appeared to make a peculiar impression upon ma chére mére. With her two large hands she laid hold of Ebba’s delicate body, lifted her up, placed her like a child upon her arm, advanced with her beneath the chandelier, which was then glancing from the rays of the setting sun, and regarded the Cherub’s head surrounded with rays of light. Ebba laughed ; we were all obliged to laugh, and then ma chére meére’s deep-mouthed ‘“ Ha, ha, ha !’’ resounded, overpowering all the rest. She patted and pinched the cheeks of the beautiful perverted child, till she knit her fine dark eyebrows, and exclaimed in succession, “ Let me go!’’ Ma chére mere, however, who probably wished to chastise her a little, still continued promenading about with her, jesting as you jest with a child ; but when tears began to appear in Ebba’s eyes, ma chére mere shook her in a friendly manner, kissed her fore- head, set her down upon the ground, and greeted Peter with the words, “ My dear son, chastise your wife, or else she will chastise you.” Ebba saluted me in a most ungraceful manner, did not even once look at Bear, but threw herself upon a sofa, and looked about her in the room and at those assembled with a negligent air. Ma chére mére permitted all this to pass, but regarded her with an expression of some severity, which, to my mind, was to say, “ We will keep you in order, little malapert.”’ However, from head to foot Ebba is the pret- tiest little being I have ever seen. She more resembles a fairy child than a mortal, but her countenance is disfigured by a rather insolent and pert trait of expression, which plays especially about the dilated nostrils and the little defying mouth. To be sure she is still very young, but she appears to me a child especially difficult to train, Bear seems to think the same, and regards her and Peter with a look of solicitude. Peter has obviously a strong attachment for his capri- cious little wife, who appears not to take especial concern about him. Nor does it surprise me that he cannot inspire love in so young, childish a crea- ture. He is ugly, and has a very large nose ; his hair, of a greyish sand-colour, projects towards every point of the compass. He is taciturn and collected in himself, but his eyes are beautiful, and have an eloquent expression, {ull of soul. He sat the entire evening as if self-absorbed, pressed Bear’s hand at times, and frequently looked upon his wife, who had fallen asleep upon the sofa. The evening would have been somewhat tedious had not Jean Jacques been there. He had recently travelled abroad, and gave us various most interesting accounts about mechanical and industrial enterprise, — railways, the tun- nel under the Thames, &e. Jean Jacques looks well, has the gift of conversing with ease, and appears to be full of spirit, and stored with know- ledge. Ma chére méve was much amused by Jean Jacques’ stories, and we all listened to them with great interest. I was heartily sorry when the announcement of supper interrupted them. We looked round for Ebba; she lay upon the sofa in the sweetest sleep, and was indescribably pretty, as she lay there like a rose-bud amid green leaves. I said something of the sort as we were standing around her. Peter thanked me with a beautiful glance. He stooped down, kissed Ebba’s cheeks, and said, “ Ebba, my angel, get up.”’ 28 nae ee ee ae ee ee en En ee Ee i "iii a a a = AEE AE A A aS I A a eR Ra I a eg ee ere Wenn “Why can you not leave me to repose? You are intolerable,” was Ebba’s affectionate answer ; and she would have fallen asleep afresh, if ma chére méve had not raised her powerful voice : “Hark, my dear child, if you do not instantly come to table, we will leave you, and you will get nothing to eat. You must not imagine that any- body thinks to put himself to trouble on your account,” The little one opened her eyes with an expres- sion of great surprise, raised herself up, and with- out further ado, ma chére mére took her by the hand and led her into the dining-room. Ebba allowed herself to be led, but with an air which betokened unspeakably bad temper. Ma chére mére, however, was surprisingly kind to her, sat next her at table, and evinced a thousand little pleasing attentions towards her. There was, as usual, something so irresistibly animating in ma chére mére’s kindness, that even Ebba was thawed by it, and opened like a rose to the beams of the sun. The sour looks disappeared, and were sup- planted by a cheerful and good expression. She grew vastly fair, and her little Amor’s head appeared ravishing to me. She ate, laughed and chatted with ma chére mére, who occupied herself a great deal with her. Peter looked entirely happy. Jean Jacques talked to Tuttén—who looked no less happy—about genwine English roast beef and French omelette soufilée. Imaintained an unbroken conversation with Jane Marie, whose courtesy of manners and agreeable style of con- versation pleased me more and more. Bear sat silent beside Peter, and made grimaces. At the close of the repast ma chére mére ordered in a bowl of fuming punch, filled the glasses for us all, and made a motion with her hand to the domestics to leave the room. We all grew suddenly silent, as if in expectation of something extraordinary, and ma chére mére, having cleared her throat by the emission of various sounds, raised her sounding voice, and spoke with stress and earnestness :— “My sons and daughters ! I will address you, because I now, for the first time, see you all assembled in my house, and at my table; I will address you, my children, because I wish to see you often here, as three united and happy families. An old martial law which was in the possession of my husband, General Mansfelt, of blessed memory, ran thus : that at the moment when the men were about to join battle, they received. no other com- mand than ‘Do your best!’ This regulation may also apply to those in the wedded state. Books of education, paternal and maternal exhor- tations, and the precepts of teachers, extend only to the altar of Hymen ; but there they halt, and say to the betrothed, ‘ Do your best!’ For it is in truth no easy matter to give precepts in that ease. Every marriage has its freemasonry, each different from the other, and to look into which is not well for any one uninitiated. But some good counsels, my children, you may listen to from an old woman, who has seen a bit of the world, and has laboured a little in the freemasonry of matri- mony ; and if you take these counsels ad notam in your union, you will find yourself well under their observance. If you would be happy, my children, guard against sour looks and a changeful temper, By such means Satan is lured into one’s house. ' families. THE NEIGHBOURS. 27 ‘A little cloud can conceal even sun and moon. Yes, guard yourselves, my daughters, against what may be called bad weather at home, and you, my sons, guard against being the November storm which calls it forth. Call to remembrance what the proverb says :—* Peace cherished is strife banished.’ J have seen in you, my children, that which does not please me ; yes, I have seen it, but I hope that it will pass away, and amendment wilil follow, and therefore I will not now talk farther about it. Let no dissimulation be between you, neither in great nor small things. One single little untruth has disturbed a union in its en- tire duration. ‘A little cause has often great effects.’ Do not sit idle with folded hands. ‘ In- dolence is the pillow to the devil’s couch.’ Leave not your own home often. £ Our own hearth has golden worth.’ “Many a marriage, my children, has com- menced like the morning red, and perished like a mushroom. Wherefore, my friends? Because the married pair neglected to be as agreeable to each other after their union as they were before it. Seek always to please each other, my children, but in doing so keep heaven in mind. Lavish not your love to-day, remembering that marriage has a morrow and again a morrow. Lay up fuel for the winter. Bethink ye, my daughters, what the word housc-wife* expresses. The married woman is her husband’s domestic trust. On her he ought to be able to place his reliance in house and family ; to her he should confide the key of his heart and the lock of his store-room. His honour and his home are under her protection, his welfare in her hands. Ponder this! And you, my sons, be true men of honour, and good fathers of your Act in such wise that your wives respect and love you. And what more ghall I say to you, my children? Peruse diligently the Word of God, that will guide you out of storm and dead-calm, and bring you safe into port. And, as for the rest—‘ Do your best I have done mine. God help you, my children, and bless you altogether.” At these words ma chére mere extended her arms, as if to bless us, gave a solemn greeting with her head, and then quaffed her glass of punch to the bottom. Ebba was impertinent enough to yawn quite audibly. She touched not her glass, but reclined against the back of her chair, and closed her eyes. Jane Marie emptied her glass with an air of deco- rum, At the commencement of the harangue, I found difficulty in refraining from laughter at the horrid grimaces Bear continued to make ; but by- and-by the force and the earnestness of ma chére mére’s words laid hold of my mind; Bear also became quiet, and at the conclusion of the dis- course our glances met, and we heartily drank to each other and ma chére mere. When the Skal was drunk, ma chére mere rang. The domestics entered, and, with her stiffest general’s air, ma chére mere rose, placed herself beside Lagman Hok, and caused us all to march two abreast by her, while she, as it were, reviewed us. As I was walking by her, she clapped me on the shoulder, and said ** You are still the least.” (This is not true, for I have measured with Ebba, ——— tee * In Swedish the word is Hustryu (t. e. House-troth), which, in its primary sense, signifies house-faith—slic in whom domestic faith centres. 22 : THE NEIGHBOURS. nnn aera and am half a head taller than she ; but ma chére mere will banter with me.) Ebba only, was not willing to conform to ma chere mére’s directions ; she would go alone, and, in order to escape her husband, she hopped about like a bird, and ran between us. Ma chére mere with Lagman Hoék brought up the rear. We still gossipped a little after supper, then ma chére mere ushered the young couples into their rooms. I followed, and Bear also, who would by no means be excluded. Ebba preserved her good humour, but it found utterance in laughter and derision at the old-fashioned furniture. Ma chére mere gave her a little lecture for this; Ebba listened attentively, and when it was over, she kissed her hand, and bowed with comie humility. She is a sweet child, but entirely spoiled, and ap- pears especially ill-suited for the taciturn and serious Peter. Jane Marie, on the contrary, seemed perfectly satisfied with all things ; observed, too, my flowers witli complacency, and exhibited, in her sensible and refined manners, a perfect contrast to the insolent Ebba. Ma chére mére was in high spirits, and joked with us all, though not in a refined, yet really.in a witty style. There is something quite peculiar in her manner, which captivates people. I remarked too this evening, how by her decisive and unequivocal deportment she is enabled to impart satisfaction and security to those around her. She immediately puts every one in his place. You easily conform to her arrangements, and find yourself well in doing so. Ma chére mere asked me and Bear to dine with the family on Wednesday. I was glad of it, for I wished to see the family at a close view. I augur that I shall gain a friend in Jane Marie, and my heart requires feminine friendship. Since you, Maria, have left me, I have a strong sense of vacuity in my life—for writing is not suf- ficient—and if I win Jane Marie’s affection, I shall not love you the less. But to return to the last evening, Bear, and Rosenvik. When arrived there, I communicated to Bear all my remarks upon brothers and sisters- in-law. But he was absorbed in one single reflec- tion, and to everything I said to him, he replied with a sigh, and the words “ Poor Peter.” Rather impatient at this everlasting “Poor Peter,” I at length said: “Very good, then, Peter must indeed do as a certain Bear does, he must tame his wife by good sense and kindness, and then subject him- self to her tyranny.” Bear looked kindly at me, said some fine things to me, but concluded again with : “ Poor Peter.” He is positively troubled on account of Ebba, calls her a witch, and will not even admit that she is beautiful. As myself, he likes Jane Marie. And now I will dress for dinner. I send you a thousand kisses, and post my letter. Rosenvik, 2st June. The dinner went off well yesterday. Ma cheve mere was cheerful and friendly ; Ebba most cour- teous, and beautiful as the morning red; Jane Marie exceedingly elegant, and well-dressed—yet I could have wished greater freedom, and the large Sévigné of her forehead. I like nothing which overshadows the brow. Jean Jacques amused us with his interesting reports. Lagman Hék and must have been strongly roused by this acci- dent. After a while I saw Jacques zealously de- seribing to him a winged steam apparatus, by means of which people could fly in the air; Lag- man Hodk listened with strained attention. Ani- mated by this, Jean Jacques went on describing with greater and greater zeal, and more and more in detail, when the Lagman suddenly interrupted him, and asked with concern: “ Pardon me, which decanter are you speaking of ?” Ma chere mére laughed, and Jean Jacques looked completely per- plexed. Jean Jacques talks a vast deal ; I thought this rather fatiguing to-day, especially after dinner, At last I heard but one unceasing din, above which the words, railroad, Manchester, tunnel, steam- engines, Penny Magazine,sounded and struck upon my ear. The further Jean Jacques pursued his description the more sleepy I became, and at last he forsook me, his unworthy auditor ; a singular occurrence, however, soon awakened me from my drowsiness. Ja chére mére was seated upon the sofa, laying out her spare cards from the game of Patience, for “la blocade de Copenhague.” Beside her sat Lagman H6k, oceupied with snuffing. Jane Marie was preaching morality to Ebba, but ineffectually, it appeared. A young at- tendant was passing through the room with some cups of coffee, when Jean Jacques ex- claimed : “Heavens, how he resembles Bruno !” At the same instant, a push was communicated to ma chére mére’s Patience-table, so that it over- turned ; but we could then look on no one, save ma chere mere. She was first pale, then yellow. The nose becarne pointed, the lips blue, and her breathing sounded like a heavy, strong hiss; she rose, and you might have compared her rising to a roaring wave; stretched her clenched fist menacingly towards Jean Jacques, while her eyes, bewildered and thrilling, protruded from their orbs, and the slurka seemed to rise up upon her head. Jean Jacques, too, turned pale and retreated a few paces. It was really fearful to look upon ma chére mére, and, almost breathless with fright, I awaited a formidable outburst. But suddenly ma chére mére appeared to growrigid in the threatening attitude she stood in; moveless, mute and wild, as if struck by frightful soreery, or some horrible apparition had started up before her eyes, she stood there a long time, and only the wild sibila- tion of her breath gave testimony of internal anger or anguish, I know not which. While she stood thus, my fright was converted into heartfelt solicitude, and I was on the point of hastening up to her, but Bear kept me back by force, and while holding his arm round my waist, he himself sat there entirely still, and quietly regarded her. No other person present ap- proached her, and after some moments the terrible excitement disappeared of itself. The clenched fist sunk down ; a vital hue ‘returned to the counte- nance and blue lips; her eyes became milder. She breathed deeply a few times, but softly and more softly, and, as it were, with a sigh ; and without saying a word, or looking around at any one, she walked slowly out of the room, and closed the door behind her. Notwithstanding this I was going to follow her, but Bear prevented me, and seeing that I was so troubled and excited, he drew me poured half a decanter of water upon the table, THE NEIGHBOURS. 29 aside, and in the following words gave me an ex- planation about this singular and distressing scene : “ Ma chere mére had a son whose name was Bruno.” —“And is he dead?” I interrupted him with an inquiry. “ Yes.”-—“ And hence it is that his name, and the remembrance of him, have such an effect upon her?” I asked with astonishment. “ Not on that account alone ; he occasioned her a great deal of grief, and everything that calls him to memory, especially the mention of his name, agitates her strongly. But such outbursts as this, must be suffered to pass unnoticed ; they go off most speedily when she is left entirely to herself.” ——“But what has occurred with respect to her son ?”—“ That is a long story, Fanny; I will relate it to you some other time.”’—-“* Another time’ is a scoundrel ! I hate that ‘another time.’ T cannot wait longer than till this evening, Bear.”— “ Well, very good, this evening. Now we ought not to stand whispering here any longer.” We returned to the rest. Lagman Hék was seated upon the sofa at the Patience-table, and I saw that he was endeavour- ing to re-arrange “la blocade” as it was, when the table was overturned, so that upon ma chére mere’s entering the room again, she might not be reminded by any circumstance of the scene which had just transpired. When he had heen success- ful in putting the cards in order, he snuffed and sneezed nine times in succession, which threw Ebba into a violent fit of laughter. His consider- ateness for ma chére mére touched me. Actions of this kind are amiable. In suchwise ought friends to think of each other. Have I sketched you Lagman H6k’s portrait? I thinknot. Here is a hasty outline. He may be about sixty years of age, is tall and gaunt, has long feet, long hands, along neck, and long face, from whose scars of small-pox and furrows the mind receives an im- pression of actual ugliness, till it comes to a pro- minent aquiline nose, and encounters a pair of eyes which, under strongly arched brows, have a tranquil, good and pleasing expression. They produce in you an impression like that of friendly lights when seen glimmering from the windows of an inn ona cold evening in Autumn. You might faney every member of his frame were fastened with a peg ; I have never seen such a long, stiff back, and every time I look at him I wonder how any one could charge him with perpetrating “‘ poetic fancies.” But respecting this, ma cheére mere appears to havea fixed idea. As for the rest I can judge but little of him. Excepting ma chére mere, he seldom speaks to any one. His voice, his entire deporiment, is soft; but though he is sedate and taciturn, yet you are never inclined to forget he isin the room. He is assuredly a good man, but he snufis so dreadfully that there are always large heaps lying upon his “ whereabout.” Well, neither is that anything iniquitous. While Lagman Hék,was putting Patience in order, and Jane Marie, Jean Jacques, and I, were talking about music, Ebba had an opportunity to testify her courtesy. After drawing my knitting- needles from the stockings, overturning Lagman HGk’s snuff-box, and practising all kinds of mis- chief in the reom, she erept behind Bear and Peter, who were laying their heads together in come important conversation, and sewed their coatlaps together. The good brothers had no anticipation of anything wrong, neither had J, when, perceiving how beautiful the weather was, I proposed a walk. The proposal was acceded to; the two brothers rose, and ratsh/ cratsh! ve. sounded as the coat-laps were violently rent apart from each other. Bear capered desperately, and made the most horrible grimaces. I could not possibly refrain from laughing aloud, and Ebba rolled upon the sofa in a paroxysm of childish joy. Peter was at a loss how to take the affair; Bear was in the beginning rather enraged at Ebba, and, I think, me also, but afterwards beshrewed us both facetiously and good-naturedly. Jane Marie shook her head a little, but yet was constrained to laugh too, But when she needs must see that Ebba had also invaded her beautiful tapestry-work, and put in some false stitches, her complexion heightened to a deep red, and she cast a stern glance at Ebba, and spoke in a tone of entire aus- terity of “unpardonable impertinence.” And cer- tainly it is a vexatious thing to see such beautiful work maltreated. It was more easy for me to solace myself upon my knitting-needles being drawn out. Lagman H6k sat quite still, and strove to gather up his snuff. With a view to get clear of this scene, I again pressed the motion of taking a walk. All were prepared to go, except Ebba. Lying negligently upon the sofa, she declared that long as she was in the country she would never set her foot out of doors, that she abomi- nated the country and the dust upon the country roads, that verdure pained her eyes, &c. Ineffee- tual were our efforts to persuade her, ineffectually did Jane Marie represent to her her puerile want of understanding. She abided obstinately by her purpose, and Peter staid at home with her. Then I, like Bear, was constrained to sigh “ Poor Peter!” Lagman Hék, moreover, sat moveless upon his seat, awaiting, I presume, the return of his friend. Under pretext of fetching a shawl, I crept quite softly to the door of ma chére mére’s bed-room, and there listened for her with solicitous sympathy. I heard that she had long and violent hysterical and spasmodie yawning, and, greatly composed on her account, I followed my compas nions to the promenade. The weather was beautiful. Jean Jacques talked to Bear about the new arrangements he would make upon the estate, and censured ma chére mére’s old fashioned methods, at which Bear made vehement grimaces, while he blew eddies of smoke from his pipe. I fell into conversation with Jane Marie on Bulwer’s and Miss Martineau’s excellent novels, and had great pleasure in listening to her remarks upon them. I found that she was well. read, and understood several languages, and we agreed to read Dante’s “ Commedia Divina” toge- ther. That will be divine! While rejoicing together at this, we passed down a beautiful way in the wood leading towards a mill, the plunge of whose waters we heard reverberate through the forest. Suddenly I perceived something which caused me to stand motionless, and pluck Bear by the arm to engage his attention. We all stood still, and looked in silence to the left, where the sun illumined an open spot of verdure. Beneath the oaks there a man ofa vigorous, almost athle- tic figure, was walking, dressed in a dark, nobie, chivalrie costume. He went ata slow pace, with his arms crossed upon his breast, and head sunk, 31 einai; 3) THE NEIGHBOURS. . ° : { as in deep reflection. Near, or rather behind him, moved a handsome, glossy, black horse, whose bridle was richly set with white shell-like studs. The reins hung loose, and the beautiful head now stooped down to the grass, was now raised caress- ingly above his master’s shoulder, who seemed to be accustomed to this, and gave unrestricted liberty to his faithful companion. We could merely catch a glimpse of the gentleman’s profile, for he walked with his face turned away from us, but this led us to anticipate a dark and gloomy countenance. Thus went man and horse in amicable peace with each other, farther and more far into the depths of the wood, and at last vanished from our sight. But our conjectures followed them, and we soon abided by the decision, that we had seen the much talked of mysterious neighbour at Ramm. Whe- ther or no he is named Romulus or Romanus, whether he warrants Mrs. Von P.’s romance or not, thus much is certain, that his appearance before us, and his looks, had positively a touch of the romantic. I confess that I am quite curious to see something more of him ; I am convinced that if IT only once get to see him en face, I shall instantly be able to say, whether he is a spy, or merely an honourable fellow who feels ennwi ; whether he is a Don Miguel or a Howard ; for the account I heard in the kingdom of heaven was of the latter character. After strolling for about an hour, we returned home. In the ante-chamber sat ma chére mére at her Patience, Lagman Hék beside her. Every- thing was as if nothing noticeable had occurred. Only ma chére mere’s countenance was pale, and unusually serious. She greeted us kindly, but spoke to no one, Tuttén gave us tea. Jane Marie sat down to the piano-forte, and played one of Herz’s difficult pieces ; to me it appeared more difficult than beantiful. She is truly a master on the piano-forte. Only it is a pity she has no voice, were it otherwise we should sing together. But she will accompany me. Iam happy to have her as a sister-in-law. Whata difference between Jane Marie and Ebba! This evening, however, Ebba was most amiable, and only desired that every body should dance. As no one else was willing, she began to dance alone for herself, in the next room, and sang quite charmingly to it. Peter devoured her with his eyes. I do not won- der at this ; she is a little grace when good and cheerful. Partly to please her, partly led away by a fancy for dancing, I kept her company after some moments. We led away Jean Jacques, and finally, even Peter, and for a while danced in the gaiety of our heart, and to the indeseribable delight of Ebba. But when'the gentlemen, having grown tired, left us, when, crouching down near me ina corner of the sofa, Ebba began to tell of all the balls she had visited in Stockholm, how she was dressed, and how often she had been especially invited by this one and that, I became ower- powered by an irresistible longing to yawn, which would soon have led me into the arms of sleep, had not a very loud conversation in the ante- chamber allowed me to interrupt Ebba’s gossip, in order to go into the room. Ma chére mére was playing Boston with Jane Marie, Lagman Hok and Bear, and had just been disputing with Jane Marie, who, I conjecture, plays better than my- self, and in some way or other, had made ma chére mere lose. you think of not following when you have four trumps, and the king of spades in hand? ”—“ 1 do not think of following where I see that I cannot carry my point,” answered Jane Marie piqued.— “ And therefore I was to become bée,” said ma chere mére, angrily, ‘and I was renonce in clubs, and you in diamonds !” They were by no means on good terms with each other. This scene was interrupted by the clerk, who entered and com- plained about two servants who refused to obey his commands in the stable. Ma chére mére caused him to deliver an accurate statement of the nature of his command, and the refusal of the men, and as the latter indicated churlish defiance on their part, her countenance took a stern expression, — and she rose with vehemence of manner. Jean Jacques rose too, but ma chére mere pressed him down again, went out, came instantly back, how- ever, dressed in her January and casket, and, accompanied by the clerk, repaired with great strides to the stable below. After the lapse of ten minutes she came back, apparently quite refreshed by the adjustment she had effected. “How has it sped?” asked Bear. ‘¢ How else should it speed but well !” answered ma chére mere, in a sprightly manner. “I gave them words and no songs. By such they learn where they are at home, and I should like to see whether they would venture not to obey promptly. Besides, it was no such dangerous thing with the people. Tannerstrém was indeed too much at his ease ; and that he needs must hear, But so it is. ‘All wish the axe to move, but none will hold the handle. All would be gentlemen, but none will bear the sack.’ ” Supper was ordered, and ma chére mére was, as usual at table, a courteous and sprightly hostess. Every vestige of the afternoon scene had dis- appeared. When, late in the evening, Bear and I were again in our quiet home, I desired and obtained from him enlightenment on the occurrences which had troubled ma chére mére’s peace, and here you have, in pretty nearly the same words Bear re counted it to me, a singular and gloomy story :— Ma chére' mére had an only son by General Mans- felt, who was named Bruno, after his father. His birth almost cost his mother’s life, and he who was bought thus dearly was almost more dear to her than life itself. More than once the mother was seen upon her knees beside the cradle of her son, as it were adoring him, Many a night, when slight indisposition troubled his sleep, she would sit at his couch and watch in silence. She herself gave her breast to the child : none but herself was permitted to nurse, nay, to touch him; her bosom was his cradle, her knee his chair, her arms hig world, and she cherished with boundless affeetion the prematurely wild and despotic boy, who yet, on his part, would hang with strong tenderness upon her neck, and appeared to have rest no- where but upon her bosom. It was a fine sight to see them together. It was the lioness and ber young one, that, in a mixture of wild strength and deep-seated affection, contend and kiss at the same time. Notwithstanding this, the connexion between mother and son was even from the cradle singular, and at times hostile. One day, she of- fered her breast to the child of nine months; the I heard only the words: “How can ee ee ee ee ae 32 ———<—<$—<——— THE NEIGHBOURS. ate per esd eS a sp sc in amp arn co i pn cr a i A aE SET LG 31 boy, hungry or angry, bit violently. In the irri- tation of pain his mother struck him. The child instantly let go the breast, and never took it again. They were obliged to wean him, for the mother endured not the thought of a strange nurse giving him milk. At a subsequent period, when the mother was once going to inflict condign punishment on the boy of eight years, he turned round as a cub might turn, and struck her. But at intervals between similar wild scenes, we witnessed others of a character which testified unlimited devotedness. She would cast herself between him and every kind of danger ; he would kiss the ground she had trodden upon. When they met again after a brief separation, it was marked by outbreaks of the strongest affection ; the next moment might involve them in strife. This connexion between them increased with years. Both had strong and decisive resolution of character. They seemed incapable of living either with or without each other. A more handsome boy could not have been seen; but though his mother adored him in her heart, yet lier sense of justice was so rigorous, that she never favoured him in preference to his step- brothers, not even in the most trifling matter. He was never spared before them when punish- ment was in question, never was preference shown him in respect to rewards and pleasures. He was preferred before them in nothing save the caresses of his mother. We were all treated with strictness at home, and, in regard to money, kept too strait. I was ever inclined to economy ; notwithstanding this, I was frequently obliged to have recourse to harm- less industry, in order to procure money for post- age, and other little expenses, which ma chére mere deemed superfluous. Then it was that I be- came a joiner, secretly. Bruno was a prodigal by nature, and prone to dissipation. To satisfy his appetite for dainties of the palate and pleasures, he had previously had recourse to a less innocent kind of occupation. He would purloin what he could not get with good-will, first from his bro- thers, then from the people of the house. But no- body durst punish him for this, or apprise his mother of it. Endowed with a Herculean strength of body, the spirited and vigorous boy soon ac- quired great influence over his brothers, and was feared both by them, and all in the house. Be- loved he was not by any one, except myself. I do not rightly know what it was which bound me so strongly to him. I admired his great native abi- lities ; his wild, but witty pranks frequently lured from me a smile, at the same time that I was con- strained to censure them; but what operated most effectively, was his being really attached to me. (Bear said this with a voice tremulous from emotion, was silent a moment, and then pursued:) I must do him the justice to say, that he was never disobedient when addressed with reason and mildness ; and more than once he has, at my en- treaty, abstained from violent deeds, or has wept vehemently at my remonstrances, while acknow- ledging his unhappy entrance upon the way of vice. But I was seldom at home during the period in question. Being much oider than Bruno, I had already terminated my academical career when he commenced his, and was almost constantly at a VoL. II. distance from the family in the practice of my medical vocation. A remarkable influence was acquired over Bruno from his thirteenth to his sixteenth year, by a child, a little girl. It was the same Serena Lofven you were recently so taken with in the city. She was then a beautiful, quiet, but sickly child. Ma chére mére, who had ever entertained great respect for Madame Dahl, prevailed upon her to pass some months of each summer, for three years, at Ramm, that, by drinking the waters, and living in the fresh air of the country, Serena’s health might be invigorated. The wild Bruno was attracted by the little, angel-like child : it was strange to observe what restraint and self-denial he would subject himself to for her sake ; how he would leave everything to bear her about in the woods at Ramm, to caress her, or sit still and contemplate her while asleep. On festive days, when Bruno had a holiday, he was wont to take a basket of provisions in his hand, and Serena upon his arm, and early in the morning wander forth from the house, and they were seldorn seen again before the evening. This mode of life strengthened Serena, and made Bruno more mild. An entreaty preferred by Serena’s childish voice, or her tears, were to Bruno a more effective mo- tive than the commands of his mother and teachers. Had attention been given to this bias in Bruno, to resist severity and yield to gentleness, and had he been dealt with accordingly, I am per- suaded he would have become a good and distin- guished man, who would have done honour to his family. But his preceptor, a man of aspe- rity and inflexibility of character, and his mother still more, seemed to have made it an object to subjugate his wild temper by violent means alone. Ma chére mere, however, had no anticipation of what a perilous way Bruno was pursuing, and I know nothing that I feared so much as her dis covering it——her, who was so proud, and sensi- tive upon her point of honour, so rigorous in her principles, and her entire moral conduct. Bruno’s blooming beauty, his great talents, and agility in athletic exercises, his boldness, nay, even his inso- lent power, constituted the pride of his mother, and her eyes flashed joy at sight of him, or mere mention of his name. To have heard anything dishonourable on his part must have been a death- blow to her. Bruno also had pride, and a sense of honour, and the approbation of his mother was matter of great concern with him; but his velie- ment passions, and inability to command himself, led him ever on to criminal acts. But there came a period when it seemed that they would cease. I spent some summer months at Ramm. In the spring preceding, Bruno had partaken of the Sacrament ; I found him unusu- ally quiet and reflecting. The connexion between him and his mother was more tranquil and '‘affec- tionate than ever. I hoped that Bruno had ab- stained for ever from his aberrations. He him- self told me that such was the fact. But that | even then he had secret and far greater expenses than he ought to have had, I soon perceived, not- withstanding his professions. I had for some time been in a Situation to aid Bruno with differ- ent sums of money, and hoped, too, by such means, to refruin him from procuring the like in an 33 NE OLS MRE 94.28 Ss 32 unrighteous way. He laid claims upon me more than once, and I supplied him with what I could ; but one day he requested so large an amount that, in my surprise, I refused him (nor could I do otherwise) and reproached him for his extrava- vance. Bruno was silent, but gnashed his teeth, and quitted me. This happened on the very last day we were to pass together at home. On the following day we were both to depart, he to col- lege, I to S In the forenoon, Bruno rode into the city to take farewell of the old Dahls, and his little bride, as he called Serena. He was not expected to return before the evening. Immediately after dinner the clerk announced, with great consternation, that a considerable sum of money which he had had in the counting-house that morning, was missing, and that he must have suspicion of a thief in the house, since nobody but one well acquainted with it could know where he was accustomed to keep the money in his charge. It was the first time that, to ma cheére mére’s knowledge, anything of the sort had occurred in her house: She took up the matter with the greatest warmth, and instantly undertook a search in the house. Accompanied by the clerk, and two of her oldest and most trusty domestics, she her- self went through the house, searched every cor- ner, and visited her household with the greatest rigour ; the old servants also were obliged to sub- mit to an examination. As in no place was there found anything that could give the slightest occa- sion to suspicion, ma chere mere hit upon the thought that the accuser himself might be the thief, and the effects of the young clerk, and even the clothes he wore, were examined with greater accuracy than had been observed towards the rest. This young man was Bruno’s personal enemy, and whether he really had suspicion of Bruno, or did he wish merely to vent the exacer- bation which ma chére mére’s conduct had occa- sioned him—enough, he said with bitter indignation: * Your Grace might find what you seek more closely to yourself,” “What do you mean?” demanded ma chére mere, with a fearful glance. “ Yes,” the irritated clerk pursued, “ that your Grace might find upon one of your own flesh and blood that which you unjustly suspect innocent people of !”——“ Man, thou liest ! ” exclaimed ma chére mére, pallid with anger, taking his arm and shaking it, Provoked still more, and almost wild, the latter said : “I will consent to be called a liar, if one of your sons is not the thief.” “ Follow me!” said ma chére mére, and with flaming eyes and pale cheeks she repaired to our rooms, accompanied by the clerk and the two ser- vants. I had been out, was just returned home, and apprised of what had happened in the house, when ma chére mére, with her attendants, entered where I was. I cannot describe what feeling seized me at that moment ; an anticipation of the real state of the matter thrilled through me; I turned pale, and placed myself involuntarily upon Bruno’s travelling-trunk, which stood packed up next mine in the room. Ma chéere mére gazed at me with a piercing look, started, and grew pailid. She then said to me and my brothers, who had also entered : “My sons! for the sake of the honour of the eee ——— | manner. THE NEIGHBOURS. family, you must subject yourself to an examina- tion, which all the rest in my house have under- gone. I need not tell you that all this is done merely pro formd, and that Iam convinced of your innocence.” Upon this, she fixed on me a look which was then inexplicable to me, passed by my trunk, and examined the effects of my brothers. She then came back into the room and opened my packed portmanteau. Everything was snatched out, even to the bottom. Nothing was found which ought not to have been found ; my joinery implements lay undermost. When all had been examined, ma chére mere cast at me a glance full of maternal love and joy. Ah! she had suspected me, the man of reflection rather than the wild youth ; for she then raised her head, and in her vigorous and expressive countenance you read a “ Heaven be praised! Now, I am tranquil.” “ Now there are only the effects of the young Baron remaining,” said one of the old servants in a reverential tone, “ but his trunk is locked, and, besides, it is indeed unnecessary .... .” “That may be!” ma chere mere ‘exclaimed. “ But he must share a like fate with the rest. The box shall be broken open.” “ But the young Baron is..... is not at home,” said the servant, with anxiety, “we can- not.” “ His mother commandsit,’’ said ma chére mere, with warmth. Tt wasopened. With her own hand his mother took up books and wearing apparel, which had been thrown into the box in a very disorderly Suddenly her hand drew back as if it had been burnt by glowing-iron: it had lighted upon a bundle of notes. It was the sum of money that had been missed. She took it up, turned it about in her hand, regarded it as if she could not trust her own eyes, and grew paler and more pale; an exclamation of unspeakable distress of mind at length rose from her breast. My blood!” she exclaimed, “ my own flesh and blood ! ” and sank lifeless to the ground without venting a sigh. We bore her away, and our efforts at length restored vital energy to her frame. Dreadful was the waking. But she shed not a tear, uttered not a word of anger or complaining ; she seemed strong and resolute. She immediately sent for Pastor Rhen, minisfer of the parish. He was an iron-man, stern, power- ful, ready to contend for the law with mouth and hand, and, moreover, an honest and _ faithful friend of ma chére meére’s. To him she confided herself, and they concerted between them what course should be pursued. I augured what they proposed to do, and made ineffectual trial of the influence I sometimes had with ma chére mére to persuade her to less severe, or at least, less vio- lent measures. But all my representations were, and continued, fruitless. She merely answered : “ Disgraceful conduct unpunished, produces crime. ~——Bitter must be atoned for by what is bitter.” In the evening, at the time Bruno was expected to return, my three brothers and I, the old ser- vants, and the clerk, were summoned into ma chere mére’s room. It was but faintly lighted, and there in the gloomy, dusky apartment sat Bruno’s mother, with the minister at her side, in a large arm-chair; on ber countenance you could read the 34 THE NEIGHBOURS. grief she bore in her heart. But above grief, and shame, and anger, there prevailed resolution such as I have never yet witnessed in a human being.— Here was now assembled the little but terrible tri- bunal, before which Bruno was to be arraigned. Here we expected him during a dreadful hour. Noone spoke. In the pale reflection from the lights I saw beads of cold perspiration on the forehead of the unhappy mother. It was one evening towards the end of the month of September. Without-doors, tempestuous weather had already commenced, and the wind made the windows shake. For a moment it was hushed, and at that moment the tramp of a fiery horse was heard in the court-yard of the castle. I saw ma chere mere tremble. I had never seen such before. I heard a horrid clashing it was not the windows——it was from teeth knocking together. My brothers wept. The old servants stood mute, and with downcast eyes; on the face of the clerk was a trait of remorse ; even the irou-framed pastor seemed to hold his breath. At that moment the door was pushed quickly open, and Bruno entered. I see him plainly, as if he stood before me this instant. He was warm from riding in the storm, full of health and ardour ; I never saw him look more handsome. He came in to his mother, eager, as was his wont to be, after a day’s absence, to rush into her arms. But before passing the threshold he stood still, started, and east a look of alarm at his mother. She covered her face with her hands. Bruno turned pale, looked round upon us, and looked down upon his mother. At that instant he encountered her flaming look, and his sank abased; his head drooped, he grew paler and more pale as he stood there——a criminal. And then the voice of his mother was raised, accusing him with awful severity of theft ; she pointed to his portmanteau, broken open, the sum of money which had been discovered there, then to the witness, and demanded a confession on his part. With inconceivable, defying insolence, Bruno acknowledged his guiit. “ Fall down upon thy knee and take thy punish- ment!” said the stern judge to her son. But Bruno stood moveless. A consciousness destruc- tive to all power seemed to have overwhelmed him after the first moment of his daring confes- sion. He was deathly pale, his head was sunk upon his breast, and eyes riveted on the ground. Pastor Rhen advanced towards him. “ Young man!” he addressed Bruno with a low voice. “ You have committed a heavy trans- gression against God’s holy commandment, and your mother. Confess your crime, and submit yourself te our chastisement.” Bruno stcod there stunned, and speechless. The pastor construed his silence as acquiescence, and then commenced in a powerful, solemn voice, to read the usual questions from the church formu- Jary of repentance. Bruno stood still immovable, apparently without seeing or hearing anything. But the priest next asked in a stern tone of voice : “ Dost thou confess that through thy erime thou hast not only offended heinously against God, but hast occasioned great grief in his church ?” At these words, Bruno awoke from his stupor. He raised his head proudly up, a flaming glance flashed from his eyes, and he answered not a word, 35 30 ’ Again the question was repeated ; again every- thing remained still. Ma chére mére rose: “ Fall down upon thy knee, transgressor !” she ex- claimed with a fearful stress. Bruno regarded her gloomily, and with defiance. She returned the glance in the same manner. “I will not!” said Bruno, at length, daringly. “ What has this priest todo with me? I have not desired his presence. If there is to be question here of a confession of sins——others besides my- self might be taken into account. .... Pro- VORO DIG MOG a; «Ne OP vas ats “ Be silent,” said ma chére mére sombrely, “and do nought but answer my questions. Confess thyself alone guilty of this theft.” Bruno was silent, and looked darkly up at his mother. “ Answer,” said she with vehemence, “ answer. Does any other share this guilt with thee ?” Bruno cast another long look at his mother, and then said in a firm tone of voice : “No: I alone am guilty.” “Then bend thy knee, unhappy one! Thy mother, whom thou hast covered with shame, commands thee to suffer the ignominy thou hast merited. Fall down.” Brunostamped his foot with wildness, clenched his hand, and cast fierce, defying gla.ces round about. “Fling him down, you -thers !’’ exclaimed ma chére mére, with fearful anger. “ Priest, if you are aman, bend the disobedient, degenerate son to earth. Let him humble hiinself before the commandments of our Lord.” I was going to interpose, but the pastor had already laid his vigorous hand on Bruno's shoulder ; but at the same instant it was dashed away with such violence, that the clergyman pre- sented a perfect change of front. “Dost thou outrage the servant of the Lord !” exclaimed the priest in the fury of anger, and, forgetting himself, he seized Bruno with a sinewy arm. But the latter had the elasticity and strength of the lion, and, after a short struggle, the priest lay prostrate on the ground. “Seize him ! Hold him!” cried ma chére mere, beside herself with anger. The clerk and my brother, who laid hands on Bruno, soon lay stretched across the priest. Bruno sprang back some paces, seized a stick which stood in a corner, brandished it above his head, and threatened, with an expression of frantic rage, to strike in the face of every one that should venture to approach him. No one did venture except his mother. “ Keep your places !” said she to the others ; and with a firm step, and calm deportment, she ad- vanced to her son, laid her hand on his head, bowed him down low, and asked him in a tone of voice which chilled the blood in my veins to stag- nation, whether he would submit himself to her will, or receive her malediction ! Mother and son looked on each other’s eyes as they mutually flashed defiance. Thus they stood along while. Again was the question repeated, and then followed terrible words on both sides. Silence ensued. The lips that had pronounced a curse, ceased to move, their defying glances were extinguished. Mother and son both sunk in a profound swoon. They were both borne to their respective chambers. D2 34 Bear paused. “O horrible! horrible !” I ex- claimed, leaning my head, with a shudder, upon his shoulder. He then pursued. They both returned to consciousness, but did not again see each other that evening. I wished to speak to Bruno, but he, simulated sleep ; at last I betook myself to my own room. In the night, when all was still and dark, a wild, conti- nuous, and piercing scream was heard in Bruno’s room. I sprang up and hastened thither. His mother stood there alone with her hair dishevelled, and wild, troubled looks. Bruno was gone. The opened window seemed to indicate that he had escaped through it; though to leap from such a height seemed almost incredible. It was so, however. Bruno had ‘that night fled from his maternal roof, and never returned. We never afterwards heard anything of him. All efforts that were made in quest of him proved ineffectual, Bruno was gone, as if blotted out from the land of the living. Seventeen years have elapsed since that unhappy time, and we have not discovered the slightest trace of his life. We have therefore assumed his death to he probable. In his flight, Bruno did not take the ieast thing, save the dress he wore, and some papers. Upon his table lay a sheet of paper, on which the fol- lowing words were written with visible haste : «‘ Harshness I have met with defiance, violence with violence; and this circumstance has made me appear more criminal than I am in effect. But in your sight, brother Lars, who were never harsh and unreasonable in your deportment towards me, in sight of you, who, I do believe, are attached to me, I wish not to appear worse than I am. Attend to my words therefore——for it is the last time——this last theft (and I had sworn it should be the last) was not entirely such. The day after to-morrow the money was to be re- turned. Speak to Mr. E. in W , if you desire to convince yourself of the truth of this. The money was not for my own use; it was for the unfor .... . but what has this to do with the affair? My mother refused me a loan ;——I did but take of that which was one day to be mine ——it was discovered, and she ..... onher lights the blame of what has happened, and will happen hereafter. Farewell for ever ! Bruno!” Ma chére mére snatched the paper from my hand, and perused its contents. “ He has, there- fore, stolen several times,’’ said she, with warmth. “] have, then, brought a thief into the world.” She rent the note into a thousand pieces. From that moment she spoke not a word for three years, She locked herself in her room, bore neither the light, nor the sight of men, scarcely slept at all, spoke to no one, and no one was permitted to be about her, except Elsa. If any of us made bold to go into her chamber contrary to her command- ment, she would become violently angry, and eject the rash intruder; or she would sit motionless, with her hands before her face, and remain obsti- nately silent, and deaf to all entreaties. Lagman H@ék, with Pastor Rhen, meanwhile administered her affairs ; they were safe in the hands of those honourable men. A skilful stew- THE NEIGHBOURS. the estate under their supervision. But, as ma | chére méere’s hypochondriacal condition had lasted so long, and threatened to continue still longer, j is after consulting with those friends, determined to call her family together, and with them to con- clude in what manner to arrange matters then and for the future. This family meeting took place at Ramm, in October 18—, three years after Bruno’s flight. One day, when we were all assembled in the large saloon engaged in eager discussion, the Goor suddenly sprang open, and ma chére mere entered —lofty, calm, self-collected, and more awe-inspiring than ever. She addressed those assembled in her usual forcible and solemn style, said she knew the object of their coming together, approved it with reference to her long sickness, but declared the meeting then dissolved ; for she was at that moment in health again, and felt herself perfectly competent again to dispose over, as before, her property, and her family. With an earnestness which moved all, she thanked her friends for their assistance, and their patience with her, “on whom heaven had dealt so heavy a blow.” She then bade all her kindred a friendly welcome, begged them to stay there for a long time still, and hoped they would be glad, and find pleasure at Ramm as they had previously. It would be difficult to describe the impression which this scene produced upon the assembly. Admiration, esteem, and compassion, were the feelings entertained by the greater number ; I ex- perienced real joy, for I sincerely loved ma cheére mere. In order to conform to her wishes, the family sojourned some days longer at Ramm. But all joy had disappeared from the place, and ma chére mere, though vigorous and commanding as before, went about like a shadow of what she once had been. Her complexion was changed, her hair become entirely gray; her beautiful countenance, that had once been so fresh with animation, wore traces of terrible suffering ; she who was wont to be so cheerful, was then gloomy and melancholy. She constantly wore a dark gray dress, and con- temned every kind of ornament. At intervals she ever had fits of deep melancholy, and then she would sit whole hours mute, with her countenance buried in her hands. The first application ma chére mere made of the self-command she had regained, was to remove from Ramm to Carlsfors. Shortly afterwards she purchased that estate; she seemed to consider Bruno dead, never pronounced his name, and en- dured nothing which called him to remembrance. The old domestics were dismissed with pensions ; she renewed almost her entire house. Elsa alone remained. Years passed away, gradually the gloomy sadness of ma chére meére’s spirit dimi- nished, and for some years she has again assumed much of her earlier freshness and vivacity of manner. Only we must avoid everything that touches the wounds in her heart ; they will doubt- less never heal here on earth. Bruno’s flight made a great sensation in the country about ; but ma chére mere was so honoured and loved by her household, that the ignominious oceasion of his running off remained unknown to the world. Some loose rumours were soon dissi- pated, and people abided by the belief that incom- ard, who was acquainted with the locality, managed | patibility of temper in mother and son was the sole 36 THE NEIGHBOURS. ee 85 cause of this violent separation. And at the bottom it was indeed so. Under different treat- ment from his childhood upwards, Bruno’s fate would probably have been different. But now .-.. . unfortunate Bruno ! I shall ever deplore and compassionate him. * Thus did Bear conclude, with a tear in his eye, and a deep sigh. I became discomforted, and sad in spirit after this story; but I confess that ma chéere mére was vested with a heightened interest in my eyes. I now perceived the wounded and bleeding affections of a mother in the depth of her being, and her misfortune was greater than her errors ; I felt that I stocd in a more intimate con- nection with her, and I fancied that I could love her. 22nd. I shall now despatch this packet of letters, but - I must add beforehand, that I am at present sit- ting here a grass-widow*. Bear has gone to G with Peter, to arrange some money mat- ters. The former has got together a nice little fortune, the fruits of twenty years’ practice, which, by the advice of Peter, he is going to invest in the commercial house of E. In the interim, I alone . have the rule and command over Rosenvik, the cab, and Pollé. Bear has begged me to make fre- quent use of the latter for a drive to Carlsfors. Peter entreated me in so kind a manner “ to look after his little Ebba.” I will accede to their wishes, though I now prefer staying at home, my beloved home, and looking at my blooming peas. At the end of next week we shall receive a visitor at Rosenvik ; a circumstance which occa- sions me a little anxiety. It is the young Baron Stellan S., the son of a youthful friend of Bear’s, the late Court-Chamberlain S. Bear was guardian to the son, and likes him as well for his father’s sake as his own. Young Stellan has an appoint- ment as Chamberlain, is handsome, rich, and talented. All this is certainly not so alarming ; but various things which I have heard about his elegance, his ton and toilette, make me really anxious about worthily receiving into my incon- siderable and needy house, a gentleman of such refinement. I see not how he can find pleasure here, and yet would gladly that a friend of Bear’s should be comfortable in his house. All, however, may have its course——but what course is my romance taking? I have got no story, no perplexing intricacy, and, consequently, no disentanglement, I am mefely introducing new characters. How shall J be able to get out of such confusion with them all, how hold all the threads together, without getting into a perfect jumble ? At this present moment there come two fresh per- sonages, both pertaining to the race of romantic heroes : the brilliant Stellan S., and the mysteri- ous Romilly. I am getting entirely out of breath. How will my romance speed? But speed as it may, | remain thy FRANCISCA. ——_+—— A STRANGE LADY TO THE READER, _ [TL hope, worthy reader, that this will find thee in good health and good temper. I hope that, con- * A phrase, used playfully by the Swedes, for a lady whose husband is absent for a time. ppt entrances oo | —~ sequently, thou wilt excuse it, if now and thena letter from a “gentleman” should slip in among the “letters of a young lady,” and that thou wilt not take it altogether in such bad part, if an wn- married lady should now and then take up the pen to converse with thee. All this is done only with a view to spare thee trouble, nor do I really know how otherwise thou, dear reader, and the “young lady” could get out of such confusion ” with the Neighbours. I remain, my reader, with all respect for thee, A Srrance Lapy. BRUNO MANSFELT TO ANTONIO DE R. Ramm, Midsummer Evening, 18—. Here I am again, here where I was born, where T played and loved in childhood and youth. Be- tween that period and the present interposes a sea, a Sea of —-— but no matter ! ——— I am here again. The oaks stand just as green, the moun- tain top rises just as high as then, and the clouds post on above them as formerly. Feelings, thoughts, actions, —— why, they are clouds ; they speed on, they fly, and space engulfs them ; —— engulfs ?——-No, some trace of them remains bhe- hind. I feel this. I have ascended the summit of the mountain ; I have stood there where I stood when a boy ; where I stood with a breast breathing loud, and saw the winds lash the waves of the lake to fury, with blue mountains rearing high on the opposite banks, while my anticipations, my aspirations and longing, extended far beyond them. I stood be- side the self-same cluster of firs, they have grown taller than I, though their roots rest on the rocky mountain. A heap of stones lay near at hand. I was acquainted with it. The boy builta pyramid on the mountain top, arid there planted his standard of liberty. The pyramid had fallen to the ground, and the man then stood there and sntiled——a bitter smile. I have roamed about in the wood, the fields, and on the sea-beach ; I have sought out many a spot, and awakened many a recollection, The stormy seemed to me calm, the criminal, innocent. You can conceive whence this comes. I have lived through my entire spring-tide again. I have enjoyed, I have wept——it was luxurious ! Now it is evening, and all around me is tran- quil. I, too, have a moment’s peace. Just as of yore, the foliage of the ash tree is quivering to the evening breeze, and striking softly upon the win- dow ; just as of yore, the falcon is circling high over the meadow. Clouds lie white and transpa- rent above verdant ground, and creatures repos- ing. I hear the grasshopper’s monotonous carol- ling I know nothing more beautiful. To this lullaby I used to fall asleep every evening, when a child, with my face turned towards the evenin sky, which was glowing as now, and beheld the clouds take their golden tints, and beam with in- creasing brightness, as the sun stooped down lower and more low like the deeds of a noble existence, when this is sinking to its close. O! ..... And when I closed my eyes, when the images of life began to weave themselves into a fantastic tissue, then ever came —— every even- ing, every evening somebody came to my bed-side, and a fostering hand drew about me the coverlet I had thrown negligently off——a warm, caress- ~] 36 THE NEIGHBOURS. ing breath passed over my cheek. I knew well who was near me; it was my mother. O! how does every fibre of my soul palpitate and quiver at this adored and dreaded name !—-—She was a beautiful and noble woman. I was proud to call myself her son. Sometimes I would sud- denly throw aside the covering in which she had carefully enveloped me, and at a bound I was on her breast and embraced, and kissed her, as I have never yet kissed a beloved one. .And she, on her part, would enfold me in her arms ; that——that was love. At times, too, I remained motionless and feigned sleep, and then I saw her fall down upon her knees beside my bed. She prayed prayed for me! In what way was she heeded ! I have had the rooms repaired and furnished. I wished not that they should all too much re- semble each other. I was fearful that the spirit of a child in the white robes of innocence might appear to me there.’ Only the sleeping-chamber of my mother have I left unaltered. I have not been in it. I could not enter it. It is now locked. Will youacknowledge me again after this ? Will you not charge me with having grown weak and pusillanimous ? Attend! I am glad that I can yet feellike a man. Iam glad that no torpid peace has made frigid my heart. But be rendered effemi- nate, or cast down by any feeling in life, I will not, even though it came from the abyss——by any joy, or any pain. I know but tvo well that I shall never be happy; I shall never obtain peace of mind——I shall never forget no matter I will erdure. But I will bear what I alone have drawn upon myself. Life may lure many a note from my breast, but never that of grief. I defy pain and the world. Besides, we can ever give over) when we are wea- ried of the wretched jugglery called life. At times I was wont to think in this strain: perhaps things will be better; perhaps bright days will wipe out the past; perhaps the storm will lay itself, these complaining and accusing voices will die away! .... . The lapse of years, rural occupation, custom, perhaps domes- tic happiness! . . ... Yousmile, Antonio; I also smuled, for I dreamed like a child. It may be so, but as one fully awake I will, at all events, seek something———perhaps this, too, will prove a mere dream. Have you heard of a man who was in search of his shadow? (He had lost it, and found ease nowhere in the world afterwards.) I am that man. I am seeking my lost shadow. Iam in quest of respect and reputation in the place where I first offended against the laws of the state. I will win the civic crown, and expiate former wisdeeds by acts of well-domg. Can such be compassed? In face of the world——yes ; but found, all the rest is nought. If this is denied me, I will once more quit the land of my child- hood, and go once more out in the world, and that, too——cursed. ——Wherefore was Cain’s brow branded by Heaven with everlasting dis- quietude? He was cursed by his mother. I know what Cain felt. I, too, am cursed of my mother, and without peace on earth. And now, on that forehead upon which her malediction rests so Js heavy, I desire, I will, her to lay her hand, take away the curse, and put a blessing there. O! not till then will its parching heat be cooled. Shall I indeed be permitted to nestle my head on that breast which first gave me nutriment? Shall I see pardon in that stern look? Will it be per- mitted me, once more in affection, to kiss the lips which at one time pronounced a malediction upon me? Oh! I thirst, burn, pine for this luxury .. . Do you know an august, holy, sweet, fearful name, a name which has its origin in a struggle between life and death, a name which Deity himself pronounced when loving and suffering as a man ? This name I will call into the soul of her who has rejected me mother, O mother! Mother, my mother! Wilt thou acknowledge thy criminal son, wilt thou pardon him? Scarce do I venture to hope it. Yet she ought. She was to blame in much. Asperity in return for aspe- rity, acrimony for acrimony—— this could not speed well. But if she will only now be gracious, will she only pardon me now, I will do penance at her feet. You know my passion for music. In this place I can gratify it. In one of the rooms I have had an organ built ; it has a good tone. Every even- ing when twilight has commenced, I sit down to it, and play till dead of night. The deeper stillness grows, the more darkness thickens around me, the higher mounts the organ’s thunder. That calms me. It elevates and recreates my spirit. In the stream of harmony I drown the wild remi- niscences which rise to life in the depth of night. Music is a glorious thing. It is an inebriation, an ecstasy, a world wherein to live, to struggle, to repose a sea of painful delight, incomprehen- sible and boundless as eternity. At such moments I sometimes have a vision 3; and then methinks there rises, floats above this troublous world, this sea of rushing harmony, a what shall I name it ? a precursive hope, a celestial Spirit, a gracious, conciliatory Genius, who attracts and assimilates to himself what is most beautiful, and most ethereal in the stream of music, and of it weaves the tissue of his own pure form. The more profoundly the fugue of the organ peals, the more does this image become enhanced in brightness, like the star in the deep- ening night. Then sinks the storm, then my spirit grows calm, all discords, all pangs disappear, and that celestial form alone hovers radiant over the lulled waters. But then it also melts into air, and is gone. I cannot hold it fast. It mounts on the pinions of harmony, and sinks with them. Neither can I, at all times, call up this divine phantom ; but I have an indescribable longing to contemplate it. A reality beautiful as this vision life has not, for a moment, conferred upon me. It is a rare thing for me to retire to rest before the earliest beams of the sun are dancing on the lake of Helga. Then my soul has grown faint from the conflict and the rapture of the night; then I can rest for some hours, Will my mother’s ear once hearken to the song of my heart, my soul’s Miserere to her? But before she hears my voice, I will send out mes- sengers, who, in friendly melodies, shall speak to her about the stranger. She shall hear him praised and extolled, and she will then shudder less in him to acknowledge her son. — TUE NEIGHBOURS. eae Re pene iret eeoy” ee Po iy foe gh eee 37 But will she not hearken then you, An- tonio, will, in a short time, see again, at rouge-et- noir, Your FRienp. FRANCISCA WERNER TO MARIA M. FIFTH LETTER. Rosenvik, 25th June, in the Hvening. Horrid ! a tempestuous day, a truly “unlucky day.” The commencement, however, was good. Yesterday I was invited to dinner, and the Mid- summer’s dance at Carlsfors, but got my head- ache, and could not go. f let my maid-servants go to the dance (except Sissa, who would not leave me on any condition), and spent the beautiful Midsummer day lying on the sofa. This was little agreeable ; but it was beneficial to me to think on the many who that day were joyous. ‘This morn- ing I arose again full of health and buoyant life. I had a mind for a long walk, and, taking my work-basket, I rambled to Carlsfors. The weather was a little dull, but tranquil and pleasant. The country lay robed in its full summer array. The scythe had not passed over the flowery meadows ; butterflies flew above them, with shining wings ; the birds sang ; I also sang as I tripped along on the beautiful earth, and felt happy at being one of the little beings that, from a light and thankful bosom, are permitted to lift up their voice in praise of the Creator. To walk thus alone, with- out society, is one of the greatest joys I know. I ever grow light and free from care as the bird of the air,-and forget all that is dull on earth when I have air, flowers, verdant meadows, and blue waves before and about me; the life of nature becomes one with my own. When arrived at Carlsfors, I found ma chere mere in full occupation at her turning-bench. She appeared glad to see me, embraced me cordially, chided me for my “stupid head-ache,” and soon there arose between us a lively and playful conver- sation, during which she pursued her labours, and I admired her mechanical skill. It gives me real pleasure to feel that ma chére mére and I ever ap- proximate nearer, and more near to each other. There is something in us that agrees together. I can bear with her, and in her presence I always grow buoyant and free in spirit. She is a dis- creet, trustworthy, though rigorous lady, and belongs to that rare class of people who always know what object they have in view. Such per- sons exert a beneficial influence upon me. My mercurial temperament feels itself as it were steadied and ordered by theirs. Twice or three times during the conversation, ma chére mére ad- dressed me by the pronoun thow, which, in her mouth, has something especially sincere and com- placent in it. Usually ma chére mére addresses all ladies in the third person (she)*, and Jane Marie is with her, “my son’s wife.” That little word thow gave me a peculiar pleasure; I rejoiced, too, at the present of a handsome turned box, which ma chére mére completed before my eyes. *# This, the reader will have already perceived, has been achered to, in some few instances, in the early part of the translation, where it could be done without awkwardness; but generally to introduce it would be too strongly repug- nant to our native idiom.—Tr. a SS sp ecmee see Sa Can, indeed, two people here in this part converse together without mentioning the new neighbour at Ramm? I believe this to be impossible. ‘Even ma chére mere spoke about him to-day. The sin- gular man has, it should seem, consecrated his sojourn, in this part of the country, by a munifi- cent donation for the erection of a school, which has long been a desideratum here. The aged, worthy Mr, Dahl, who at his advanced period of life is still so operative for good, is said to have undertaken to carry out this business, with the co- operation of D., the clergyman in W . Ma chere mere also talked about it, as if she would par- ticipate in it, and contribute oak timber, as well as her good counsel, for the erection of the school. Some words which this conversation gave ma chere mere occasion to express on the subject of education and enlightenment, rejoiced me on ac- count of the clear and wholesome thoughts they indicated, Thus we went on in sunshine with each other ; but in the afternoon clouds collected about our horizon. Jane Marie was as usual affable and complaisant towards me, but towards Ebba she evinced the stiff and admonitory tone of the governess, which beseemed her as little as it benefited Ebba. As to the latter, she was in such a hateful temper that a lover would hardly have designated it by any other name. Negligent in dress and deport- ment she reclined on the back of her chait with the most sulky air, would eat nothing, made gri- maces, threw knife and spoon away from her, scolded right and left, and demeaned herself with the utmost impropricty. Jane Marie blamed and moralised in vain ; ma chere mére said nothing, but I perceived in certain glances that a storm was not far distant: once Ebba quite unpolitely answered a question put by ma chére mére, when a“ Nay, nay, my little friend,” was levelled at the little capricious one in a tone of serious admonition. I dreaded a storm in the house above all things, and did what I could to avert that which was menacing us; but Jane Marie was singular: it seemed as if she would rather make obvious than hide Ebba’s faults ; Ebba began singing in a low tone to vacancy. “ People do not sing at table, Ebba,” said Jane Marie more loudly than was ne- cessary ; ma chére mere seemed still desirous to side with me and dissipate the storm. She addressed Ebba at once in a kind and playful tone ; Ebba was silent and gazed at her with defiance. “ Ebba, it is not beseeming to look in that manner at ma chére mére,” said Jane Marie preceptorily. “ A cat may look at a king,” said ma chere mere, still in a good temper, but added with some seri- ousness, that she thought she had a sensible lady and not a child at her table, &c. Ebba began again to trill a ballad. “Do not sing, Ebba,” said Jane Marie, “but listen to what ma, chére mere says.” “| don’t know wherefore I should do that,” answered Ebba with unprecedented defiance. “ Because it is your aceursed duty,” thundered ma chéere mére, striking her clenched hand upon the table ; “and if you do not know that, beshrew me but I will teach you.” She drew herself up, her nose became pointed and white, her breath sibilating : however this storm-cloud would doubtless have passed away % 39 38. had not Ebba’s impropriety exceeded all limits. I have observed that Jane Marie likes to have the preference before me and Ebba in small things: she likes to pass through the door first, to be first invited to partake of what is on table, &e. Once I heard her say to the servants: “ Remember that you always present your dishes to me before the Baroness Ebba.” I cheerfully suffer this to pass, for Jane Marie is my superior both in rank and ability, but Ebba seizes every opportunity to oppose Jane Marie’s assumed seniority. A dish of cream which was unfortunately held between the _ two sisters-in-law now became an object of conten- tion. Jane Marie, with a superior air, wished to appropriate it to herself, when Ebba snatched it to herself with such impetuosity, that the cream was spilt and fell down upon Jane Marie’s muslin dress. Now all was lost; Jane Marie raised a cry of dis- tress. Ma cheére mére put back her chair, advanced, without uttering a word to Ebba, took her bythe arm, and led her out of the dining-room. I reddened with shame at this scene, and wished myself far away. We all rose; Jane Marie went to change her dress, and we all assembled in the ante-room, which ma chere mére also soon entered, conducting Ebba by the hand; her complexion was strongly height- ened, and she suppressed her sobs with difficulty. Ma chere mere led her to Jane Marie, and spelt her a form of penance, which Ebba repeated word for word, and then both sisters-in-law embraced, but it was devoid of all cordiality. On this Ebba sprang up into another room, flung herself upon the sofa, and wept herself to sleep. After coffee, ma chére mére made the proposal to Jane Marie that they should make an effort to do something, and play a piece together. Jane Marie cast a half sneering glance at me, for she attaches no especial worth to ma chére mére’s musical ac- complishments ; acceded to the challenge however, and played a sonata from Mozart, which ma chere mere placed before her, and accompanied her with the violin, however without remarkable grace ; but Mozart’s music ever delights me.. Jane Marie will play nothing from anybody else but Herz and Czerny ; these are too chequered and ornate for me. Jane Marie’s superior talent, ma chére meére’s zeal, and familiarity with “her Mozart,” as she styles him, made the sonata go off quite well, and ma chére mere herself exclaimed “ Bravo !” After Jane Marie I was to make my effort; but partly because the “grande sonate par Steibelt avec accompagnement de viclon,’’ was entirely unknown to me, and partly because I am a mere bungler on the piano-forte beside Jane Marie, I acquitted myself badly. In vain did ma chére mére stamp time, in vain did she sweep such strokes on her violin that my tympanum was on the point of snapping asunder ; we got perpetually out of time: we began again, we repeated, she got impatient, I became impatient, and we closed with a perfect charivari. MJa chére mere put her violin out of her hand, calling me “a little sheep.” “ When Jane Marie and I come together,” she added, “it goes differently. That may be called harmony.” The harmony between Jane Marie and ma chére mere was, however, soon destroyed ; they came to an issue upon some domestic question. At her large brewings ma chére mére uniformly used six 40 THE NEIGHBOURS. bushels of malt to two casks of beer, and half a cask of ale. Jane Marie was of opinion that by following her method, the same quantity of good beer and ale might be obtained with one-third less malt. Ma chere mere said this was an utter impossi- bility ; but Jane Marie adhered to her opinion, and thus they went on disputing for a while, till Jane Marie let fall an insinuation that ma chéere mére was not acquainted with the proper art of brew- ing. This wrought an ill effect. “ Will the egg know better than the hen 2” said ma chere mere with perfect acrimony. “I do not care for your new-fashioned arts of brewery and miracles of discoveries. There may be art there- in, but the less strength. He who has tried a thing, knows a thing ; and I have seen more, and more brewings than you, daughter-in-law, Jane Marie. ‘ He who has lived longest is oldest’ ; remember that.” Jane Marie worked assiduously at her embroi- dery, was very red, but continued silent with an air of superior wisdom. All this was not very agreeable. Meanwhile Ebba was awakened. She joined us, and her ap- pearance was like that of a bird after a drenching. With a view to arouse her, I proposed taking a hand at some merry game at cards. Ma chere mere cheerfully acceded, and we all seated our- selves about a round table. But at the very com- mencement of the game, Jane Marie and Ebba fell into a dispute about an established rule, and that too a most serious one. Ebba appealed to me, and I confirmed the correctness of her views, with a little pleasantry on Jane Marie’s meaning. The latter felt herself offended, and she gave me back a smart reply. Heaven knows how it came, that my thermometer rose several degrees in a twink- ling ; I got hot about the ears, said something sharp in answer, and we’ bayed most lustily for some moments, when I saw ma chére mere’s large eyes fixed quite attentively upon me. This put me to confusion, I blushed and strove to make good my precipitancy. But never was game so little cheerful. Jane Marie sat there as if she were in church, and opposed an icy coldness alike to ma chere mere’s refined and ruder sallies of enlivenment. I was entirely rejoiced when they announced to me that the cab was come. On taking leave of Jane Marie, she drew her- self back to avoid the kiss which I was going to imprint with such cordiality upon her lips, and touched my hand coldly and scarce perceptibly with the tip of her fingers. I saw that she was still quite angry with me. This pained me. J/a chére mere accompanied me into the ante-room and said: “My dear Francisca, we have all been most wearisome people to-day !” “ Ah, yes,” I answered from the very bottom of my heart, so that ma chere mére began to laugh, em- braced me, and, keenly regarding me, said : “ Yes, neither were you better than the rest, you child !” “Nor you, mama, either,” said I roguishly ; but a little alarmed at my boldness, J. added cor- dially, “Pardon me,” and heartily kissed her hand. Laughing, she deait me a slight tap on the cheek and said with kindness: “ Well, come again to-morrow, and we will endeavour to deport our- selves with greater propriety. Will you ? Come, THE NEIGHBOURS. 39 my child. I will send the Norrkdépings carriage to fetch you, and have you driven back also. Some exercise may be beneficial to the horses.” This little scene in the ante-room lightened my heart considerably. I feel that ma chére mére ac- quires more and more attraction for me. But Jane Marie? How speeds it with our friendship and “la Commedia Divina??? But from this one day I cannot form a judgment. There are unpro- pitious days, on which tempers become ill-affected, —as milk in the milk-room will turn sour when a storm is in the air. I myself was indeed, as ma chére mere said, no better than the rest. T'o-mor- row I hope all will be well again between Jane Marie and myself, 26th, in the Evening. No. All was not well again between Jane Marie and myself. Strange thing! how can peo- ple cherish a grudge so long on account of a mere trifle, a little heat ; which, too, was reciprocal? Ma cheére mere met me yesterday more cordially than usual. But Jane Marie was constrained and un- friendly 5 she did not address me, and scarcely answered when I spoke to her. This made my heart contract. Ebba also grieved me. She was pale, depressed in spirit—though not in a bad temper, and looked as if she were at a loss what to think of herself and of life ; as if she needed a lady friend, and I resolved in my own person to supply that want to the best of my ability. I also ob- served that Jane Marie’s preaching morality did not benefit her ; and that her and Jean Jacques’ perpetual admonitions, “to have common sense, go out and walk,” only strengthened her little obstinate brain in the resolve it had already em- braced—not to set her foot out of doors, and to be as little rational as she possibly could be. I watched for a moment when we were alone, and then said to Ebba: “ Have you any fancy early to-morrow morning to drink some milk fresh from the cow at my farm? I have a cow named Au- dumbla, that gives the-most delicious milk, and is so tame to boot, that she will eat bread out of your hand, if you will feed her. Have you any faney ?” “Ah... Yes!” said Ebba, taken by surprise, and opening her beautiful eyes, that suddenly became beaming. “ Well, I will come and fetch you to-morrow morning early, But can you get up at six 0 clock ? ” “At five, at four, if it is to be so,” said Ebba with eagerness. «“ But you cannot walk so far. It is above a quarter of a [Swedish] mile from here to Rosen- vik. No —it is too far.” “No, no! certainly not. I can walk a good mile and more. I am strong; why, I can dance for an entire night.” “ Well, then, [ will come to-morrow morning at six o’clock, fetch you away, and keep you the en- tire day with me. We will bake our own pan- cakes for dinner, and in the evening |! will con- vey you home in the cab ; Polle is so good that I am convinced you can manage him yourself.” ‘“ Heavens, what a merry thing that will be !” exclaimed Ebba enraptured. “But we must first obtain permission from ma chéere mere, Ebba.” 41 “ Of course ; I will instantly run and talk to her about it,” and away was Ebba. The aversion of — the country, her resolve not to walk out, every- thing was forgotten in the prospect of drinking milk at my farm-yard and managing Pollé. I was glad at my little triumph, and that it was permit- ted me to have Ebba an entire day with me. A something tells me that she has a goed heart and a good understanding, if brought out in a proper manner. On going into ma chére mére’s closet some mo- ments after this, I found her with Ebba sitting upon her knee, and chatting with the cheerful freedom of a child, while she gave all sorts of bends and shapes to ma chére mére’s cap. Ma, chere mére laughed, and let her do as she pleased... The very best understanding subsisted between them. Ma chére mere looked at me ina kind manner, and exclaimed : “ Well, my dear Francisca, I hear that you think of running away with Ebba to-mor- row, to drink sweet milk with the calves of your farm-yard. I-suppose you are going to convey her in a balloon, for you know indeed that she cannot endure dusty roads and green grass.” ‘“‘ How gay it will be !” exclaimed Ebba, clapping her hands, as she sprang out of the room. “There is naught ill in her,” said ma chére mere, “but she is a wrongly educated child, and must still receive correction. Had this been done before, it would not now be necessary. If you are a mother, Francisca, remember Sirach’s words: ‘If you have children, chastise them.’ ” I suggested that by reason alone we were able to influence children and educate them to thinking, and good men. ‘All ways may lead to Rome,” said ma chére mére, “but you will get there more quickly by the way of the rod, than that of reason, Of course we must pursue both ways with reason. But to talk rationally with children, is to talk one’s self hoarse, without reaping anything from it. ‘Teach the wolf the Lord’s Prayer, and still he will run away with the lamb.’ My brother-in-law Reinhold’s children were to be educated according to this rational method, and be made such splendid creatures. They were abominable! The self-willed brood were a plague to all inmates of the house. One day there were guests at my brother-in-law’s, and the childen ran and rioted about like little devils. One of the visitors chanced to say something about ‘black as a raven,’ and one of Reinhold’s little ones cried amain: ‘The raven is white.’ ‘ No, youngster, the raven is black.’ ‘No,’ cried the boy with impetuosity, ‘the raven is white, the raven is white.’ ‘The raven is black,’ said the mother. ‘The raven is white,’ shouted the boy. Well, what was to be done? Could a raven be instantly taken up to convince his understanding ? No, and thus the boy was at liberty to have the last word. If I had had him in hand, he should soon have learned, and that with stress—that the raven was not white. No, no, Francisca, reason is a good thing in itself, but it does not avail with children. ‘He that will not obey father and mother, will obey the drum.’ ” The story and ma chére mere’s zeal made me laugh heartily, but the thought, how unfelicitously ma chere mere had applied her doctrine to her own son, inspired me with a sorrowful feeling, and pensively I said : 40 “ No doubt, it may be thus,—that there are dif- ferent kinds of treatment for different children.” “Perhaps so,” said ma chére mére, and a dark cloud spread itself over her forehead, but she quickly dispelled it, and again said in a gay tone : “ However, Francisca, f rejoice that you are taking that beautiful romp, Ebba somewhat under your protection. At her age sensible words seldom fall without effect. What the snow conceals, comes up in the time of thaw.’ ” The beautiful romp wasin most high spirits, and amiable the entire day. Jane Marie, on the con- trary, was the more sour, at least towards Ebba and me. It looked as if she fancied we had con- spired against her, I had a strong desire to show her that it was not so, and that I wished nothing more ardently than to be on an amicable footing with her again ; but then she let me perceive a trait of disposition, that put her entirely out of her place in my affections, for it betrayed great want of kindness and real education. Evening was approaching. Bellini was the topic of conversation. Ebba was in ecstacies with his somances. Jane Marie said he was too monotonous, and that there was no spirit in his melodies. “O!” exclaimed Ebba, “I must sing you one of his pieces which is full of divine spirit, and which I learned last winter of Mr. B. You must hear it.” She sprang to the pianoforte, and sung, really with a great deal of grace, a delightful little piece by the melodious master. I listened with great pleasure, but just as Ebba was executing an expressive movement with pointed attention, Jane Marie pushed back her chair with a noise, and went out of the room, opening and closing the door with violence. Ebba’s complexion heightened ; so, too, mine ; for Jane Marie’s conduct, plainly calculated to lower Ebba, was offensive. I perceived from a glance of ma chere mére’s that she also thought the same as I, and on Ebba’s closing with tears in her eyes, ma chére mére praised her most strongly, and assuredly more strongly than she would have praised her, had not Jane Marie evinced such great unfriendliness. Jane Marie is lauded as a lady of distinguished education. ‘ Ah,” thought I, during this scene, “ how superficially is this beautiful, broadly-sig- nificant word frequently taken.” And I felt no more desire to strive all too much after a recon- ciliation with Jane Marie. I let it come when it will. But O! what came at that moment with joy and delight tome? A letter from you, my Maria, so excellent, so full of that which makes me happy. Though it is now late, yet I cannot go to rest, till I have disburthened myself of the feelings and words, which you have awakened in my heart! *.... The 27th, in the Evening. At five o’clock this morning I set out upon my journey to Carlsfors, to fetch Ebba away. The weather was as fine as could possibly have been desired. At six o’clock I was on the spot, where * This effusion of feeling is not inserted above. Liberty has been taken to expunge from the letters of the young lady everything that was only for Maria, and the reader is begged to excuse it. Omission, too, has been made of the greater part of the conclusions of the letters, which, of all conclusions have ever appeared to us the most tedious, and least instructive. 42 THE NEIGHBOURS. I met Ebba, already dressed and awaiting me with eagerness and impatience. Except the people of the house, no one but Ebba was stirring. We entered upon our way. At the commencement of it, Ebba chatted, frisked, laughed, sang, and re- joiced like a bird in her existence; but when, about half-way between Carlsfors and Rosenvik, we entered an extensive fine forest of trees, thick- set with foliage, she suddenly became entirely still. And in effect the scene which lay spread out around us, was well calculated to inspire thoughts at once agreeable and serious. ——_ THE OLD LADY. An aged countenance, a bent form ; you see an old lady. But show her something beautiful, talk of something amiable, and her look and smile are radiant with the eternal youth that abides immor- tal in the feeling soul. You must then involun- tarily exclaim : “ What beautiful old age.” When you sit beside and look upon the mild, devotional eyes, you feel as if you would open your entire soul to her, and have faith in her words as in those of the Gospel. She has lived through much, experienced a great deal, and yet, she says, she wishes to live that she may learn assuredly we must have still to learn of her. Her tone and manner betoken sterling education, and great knowledge of men. She alone educated her chil- dren ; and still the thoughts and deeds of her life are for her children and children’s children ; she still bears her home and family upon her shoulders ; but now she supports herself upon Serena. Since the death of her youngest daughter, she has grown rather melancholy ; this you do not observe in her words, but she sighs often. Like her husband, she is generally beloved and venerated, and all are agreed that a-inore perfect union than that which subsists between this mar- ried pair is not conceivable. Will you see a miniature picture of the whole in one little trait ? Every evening the old man himself bakes two apples, one of which he, every evening, gives to his “fine old lady,” as he calls his wife. Thus they have shared everything for fifty years. The kind old lady immediately called me “ Fran- cisca,” and addressed me with “ thou,” in a good, grandmotherly tone, which did my inmost heart good. Ma chere mére I can endure, but this good old lady I could love. And now to the third person, properly the beauty and ornament of this home. —_——_ SERENA. Her mother’s name was Benjamina, and, like the Benjamin of the Bible, was the youngest and most loved of her parents. When scarcely eighteen years old, she married a young man, who possessed and merited her entire affection. It was a union beautiful as a day in spring, but all too speedily dissolved. ‘The daughter that was the fruit of it, after two years had elapsed, was named Serena; in her it reached its consumma- tion on earth. The mother blessed her daughter, and died ; the father followed her ina few months afterwards. They could not long be separated, The cradle of the little bereft one was taken into the house of the grand-parents. Serena became their comfort, and soon, too, their sweetest joy. Not only to them, however, was Serena dear, but to all their acquaintances and friends. The beau- tiful life of their parents, and their timely death, threw a veil of mourning over the motherless child, which so readily lures a sympathetic tear into the eye of the good. Her childhood was marked by suffering ; an infirmity of the hip, which kept her long a captive, and severed her from the sports of childhood, paled her cheeks, and, at an early age, induced upon her lips that smile of quiet melan- choly, which still at times lingers there, with a power of fascination. All this, combined with quiet patience, and the intrinsic amiability of her entire character, bound the sympathies and heart of every one to her, 45 44 It seemed for a time as if the languishing angel were to raise her wings and follow her parents in their ascension. But it was not so. Affectionate and faithful nursing kept her back on earth. Like a rose on a grave in the sunshine, like a young vine that twines its tender branches round firm and older stems, did Serena grow up, with the affectionate looks of friends shining upon her, and tenderly supported and trained by those who had been the stay of her parents. She grew healthful, smiled, played, bloomed, and gradually became matured into a beautiful and harmonious being. She learned all she attempted with a degree of difficulty, but a faithful memory retained all she did acquire, Ever a little timid at the com- mencement of a labour, she never quitted it till it was accomplished, and accomplished well. Her teachers were at first impatient, but ever satisfied in the end. Serena was not richly gifted, but she did her possible so well ; and then she was so good, so veracious, so affectionate! | Thus she grew up, advanced to maturity, and became the flower of the valley. Her seriousness of purpose, and the clearness of her understanding, made‘her cheerful ; cheerful as an angel is cheer- ful, from pure, animating, diffusive joy. “ Look at Serena,” each mother in the country around would say to her daughter, and the daughters did regard, and seek to resemble her whom they were constrained to love. But the prosaic part of this picture, the earthly trait in this angelic image! Ah, this must be brought isto light. Serena is lame in her hips. The phrase affrights me. Iam ready to exclaim “No!” to what I have just said. And if your imagination now sees a halting and awkward figure in Serena, I will cry out with all my might, “ No, no, no, it is notso. Behold a graceful, perfectly beautiful figure, whose slight inclination—obser- vable when she walks—does by no means mar it in front ; it is a gentle undulation, which looks more like a pleasing exception to the rule of beauty than a positive defect: is it the remembrance of suffering, or the tone of her entire béing, that covers so perfectly this natural imperfection ? Re this as it may, it inspires the beholder with no other feeling than an involuntary desire to be per- mitted to support her. Serena’s appearance, apart from the above, you must infer from my former delineation. The in- nocence on her forehead, and her clear, child-like glance, with the star in the azure sky, enraptured me as on the first occasion, and | thought her almost more beautiful in her plain every-day dress than her festive array. I must not forget Gullgul, who frequently flew twittering around his fair mistress. On inquir- ing how the little creature had beeome so tame, Madame Dahl answered: “ In the course of the rigorous winter, two years since, Serena one da discovered the little bird lying half dead in the hall. She took charge of it, and fed and nursed it. The sparrow recovered, and has, since then, been as attached to Serena, as if it were suscepti- ble of gratitude.” True, Serena is tenderly care- ful about it, as everything else she takes under her protection. Gullgul is now going into his cage to feed, but is never confined, except at night. _ And now to me for neither ought I to forget 46 a THE NEIGHBOURS. myself Madame Dahl asked me to sing (it is an agreeable thing, though, to have some one little accomplishment.) I acceded, met with applause, and was thanked in a lively manner. The old Dahl exclaimed with sprightliness: “Now, Se- rena also must sing a bit.” “O, grandfather,” said she, blushing, ‘how would that sound after what we have just heard 2” “ My dear child,” said the aged man, with a smile, “don’t let Madame Werner hear that you are vain.” “No,” rejoined Serena, cheerfully, “and, there- fore, Madame Werner shall hear my feeble hoarse voice.” She instantly sat down at the pianoforte, and sang a beautiful sterling little piece, by Lindeblad. Her voice was not hoarse, but obviously weak, and unpractised ; but still she sang with so much soul, with so much of thought in tone and words, that it heartily rejoiced me. “ Ay,” said the aged man, visibly rejoiced in heart, “I like this better than all our Catalanis, Maras, Duleamaras, and whatever they are called, who are rather instruments than singers. This, at least, is intelligiblé to my feelings, as well as un- derstanding. If Serena had only had opportuni- ties of learning. ... .” The old man put ona significant mien. “Is there then no teacher of singing in the town ?” I asked. “ None, except old G., who sings horribly out of tune. Several of our kinsmen have desired to take Serena with them to Stockholm, that she might there develope her natural abilities; but she will not leave us. She well knows that with- out her we could not find ourselves so comfortable. And hence her voice remains sticking in her throat, and has grown hoarse to boot, from her reading so much Latin.” Hereupon the old man extended his hand in tenderness to Serena, who embraced liim with child-like cordiality. Both laughed. “ If youare not tired of singing,” he pursued, “ come and read me some Latin out of the new book by Victor... I always forget what his name is. child ?” “With all my heart,” answered Serena, and they went out of the room together. “Does Miss Léfven read Latin?” I asked Madame Dahl, somewhat surprised. The good old lady answered with a smile: “ Ah, that is folly. Since the eyes of my hushand have been so feeble, Serena often reads aloud to him. His favourite reading consists of books of travel and romances, of the latter of which, he says, that they preserve his spirit youthful. When in these works passages occur, which Serena deems it not proper to read aloud, she is used to skip over them, and when there is a difficulty in doing this, she says: ‘Here comes some Latin.’ My husband, who sometimes half slumbers during the reading, in the beginning let the excuse about the Latin pass current, though he thought it strange it should occur so frequently. ‘The style our modern authors have adopted, he would sometimes say, ‘is most peculiar ; it is accursed pedantry,’ &c., and he grew quite irritated at it. But one day the Latin showed itself so often during the reading, that he, greatly surprised, Will you, my Menem la le pat I Ie Send Mtr nena a tn ‘began to investigate the matter. When Serena had ceased, and left him, he put on his double spectacles, and himself set about studying the alleged Latin passages. He soon discovered how things were, and henceforward the Latin became a standing item in his jokes with Serena, whom he, by-and-by, persuaded to be less nice before him with the pieces of Latin.’ We continued long conversing about Serena, and the good old lady listened with pleasure to what I expressed concerning her favourite. She then said with a sigh : “ Yet she is far less beauti- ful than she was. For a year past she appears to me to have grown thin and at times she coughs. | fear the retired life she leads with us injures her. Dr. Werner has prescribed her country air and exercise. “Several of our acquaintances have invited Serena to their estates, but she will not leave us, neither do we rightly know how we should live without her ; my husband, especially, will not hear a word about her separating from us. We have therefore thought of renting a small villa in the suburbs of the town, where Serena might be with us and yet take care of her health. In the interim she shall make little tours on horseback into the country, as often as possible, and my husband and I will accompany her in the chaise. We think of com- mencing this regimen next week, when Serena will get a good, sure little pony.” This I retained ; and asked with eagerness if it could not be arranged that Serena should take her ride to Rosenvik, and occasionally stay the day and night with me ? I would then take such care of her, she would be out in the open air, we would drink fresh milk from the cow, would sing together, and beaven knows all I said besides, for a flood of eloquence opened in me. The dear old lady thanked me, looked half pleased, half concerned, knew not whether it were practicable,and at length said with a sigh : “ We'll see what my husband says, we will talk to him about it.” “1 wiil talk to my Bear,” thought I, “and if I get him on my side, who will then make opposi- tion 2”? IT was moved by the utmost zeal to carry through the affair. Bear came. I immediately surprised him with my project at the door. “ My sweet Bear, if you love me, you must be on my side, and’converse with me and for me, about Serena’s being allowed to come to Rosenvik and there to stop an entire’ day. Observe you, she is to ride out for the sake of exercise,—that you yourself have prescribed, Angel !—Presecribe now also that she ride over to us. Say it is necessary for her health. I will Nurse her, sing with her. Say this to the old people, talk to them and cause it to be so. You are also willing that it should be so, my own Bearlet ¢” “ Bless me, what a flux de bouche! May we get breath ? Ooph ! _Well, I perceive you are already completely at home here, Marmoset ?” “ All of my own merits, and nobody else’s.” Bear was received and weleomed by the family as a very dear and respected friend. On such oc- casions he always looks rather Pasha-like, and ac- cepts all marks of friendliness and courtesy as a tribute due to him. And this, too, may have its justification, PO" 6 8 ¥ THE NEIGHBOURS. a = 45 Having this day limited myself entirely to the prosaic point of view, at the dinner-table I had a vigilant eye upon this part of the domestic arrange- ments, without whose completion, all poetry of life— here in the North at least—flies off in effervescence like champagne. -But here my only discovery was, that I should have very much to learn of Serena in cooking, ordering, &c. For some years she has directed the internal economy of her parents’ house, and scems to acquit herself exeel- lently. The sweet maiden was an attentive and complaisant hostess for the entire table ; while, seated beside her grandfather, she dedicated to him her constant care. After dinner, I soon began to bring my project about Serena upon the earpet again. Bear sup- ported the proposition with great, ability and sense, and we succeeded in carrying it. The aged Dahli at first looked rather dubious, but on my men- tioning how Serena and I would practise singing together, he cheerfully acquiesced, shook, my hand and said it was an excellent thing. When Serena heard the hearty approbation of her grand- parents, she also evineed her joy at the plan, em- braced me and said, while a tear moistened her eye, that it was indeed too good in me thus to be willing to interest myself in behalf of her and her voice. I experienced in-felt pleasure, and, light in heart, all the rest appeared agreeable tome. The afternoon passed away in pleasing conversation. Mr. Dahl spoke in a lively manner about Mr. De Romilly’s large donation, andall the advantages the establishment of a school of the kind and ex- tent of that now about to be formed, would confer on that part of the country. The aged, but still vigorous, man was already in full activity as its director. In his seventieth year he is still as ar- dent for the welfare of men as ever an enthusiast of twenty. When one sees such as this, one has a mind to live long. Serena’s conversation is infinitely agreeable. You cannot exactly cite her words as containing anything remarkable, but there springs from them a certain harmony of soul, which I will eall— womanliness. I would she were my sister. Ah, could [ obtain her as a friend! this desire is so vividly present to my mind, True, she is very young compared with myself, and does not indeed view life as I view it, but she draws me with irre- sistible power into her quiet angelie world. On our return home, Bear and I conversed almost entirely about her. He was more eloquent on this subject than he is wont to be on any other. “ She is a most worthy young lady,” said he among other things ;“it would affect any one thatshouldsee how she is altogether sacrificing herself to her old grandparents, and forgets herself on their account. ‘* As physician to the house, I have had good op- portunities of learning this. I know for a certainty that she has refused four very good offers of mar- riage—they talk about others besides — always under the pretext that she could not love him who had made the overture ; but the prineipal reason is assuredly her not being willing to leave the aged people. They show but too plainly that they could not live separated fromher. Two years ago, an amiable young Englishman, who was desperately in love with her, solicited her hand. He, like the rest, got a rejection, though it is believed that Serena was not indifferent tohim. He made no 47 46 THE NEIGHBOURS. secret of his distraction, plunged into dissipation, and a year afterwards his life came to an unhappy termination. This was imputed to the desperate state of his circumstances ; but unquestionably the unfavourable issue of his love was the main cause of his misfortune. Be that as people choose to re- gard it, this much is certain, that the occurrence made a strong impression on Serena, and since that time her temper has been less cheerful and her cheek paler. But her calmness and amiability have not forsaken her, notwithstanding.” “‘ May she gather roses and reap joy at Rosen- vik!” I exclaimed. 5th July. I have seen him, I have seen him! the Man of the Woods, the Spy, Don Miguel, Courtesy itself, Beneficence, and the Mystery,—in one word—the Neighbour at Ramm, Mr. De Romilly. I have seen him, and if I live for fifty years longer I shall not forget him. Is he so handsome then? I do not know. Or so ill-favoured ? I do not know. Or so amiable? I do not know. Whom is he like ? I do not know? What is he? I do not know. Thus did Miss Husgafvel interrogate me to-day, and thus did I answer. Now listen, my Maria. Yesterday afternoon I was agreeably surprised by a visit from my brothers and sisters-in-law. I had already let them pursue all possible varieties of voyages of discovery in my little world ; we had already begun to be gay and at home, and were projecting a plan for supping at Svano, when suddenly the door was opened and at the same time shadowed by a lofty, strong built, and gloomy form. At the first sight I recognised the Man of the Wood, and I became quite oppressed— I know not wherefore—and a voice within me eried, “Samiel! Samiel!” Bear advanced to meet the visitor with his usual friendly frankness, and bade him welcome. The stranger pronounced his name in a tone of voice which sounded in- harmonious to me; Bear introduced him to me, and we all took our seats. There is not a man in the world that makes fewer inquiries than Bear, and strangers especially may remain everlasting secrets for him. Not so Jean Jacques. He immediately exhausts the subject of questioning with people, though in an off-hand manner, which is not repulsive to any one who is not too sensitive. In a few minutes he had asked Mr. De Romilly how long he had been in Sweden, how long he thought to stay, how he found things here, &c. ? It must be confessed that his zeal did Aot inspirit the stranger, for never have I heard any one give such short, indefinite, and dry’answers. Notwithstanding this I was, as it were, infected by Jean Jacques, and also asked—speaking French as the rest—whether the Swedish language did not strike hard upon his ear. To my great astonish- ment he answered, in Swedish —true, with a foreign accent, but yet with an entirely altered, melodious voice :—“On the contrary, it appears quite euphonious, especially in the mouth of a lady.” “You speak Swedish,” said I, surprised. “Some years since,” he answered, in the same gentle tone as before, ‘‘ I spent a winter in Sweden und learned your beautiful language.” The conversation was then further pursued in Swedish, but Mr. De Romilly took but a slight part init, though Jean Jacques did his utmost to draw him out, by broaching subjects which must have been known to the stranger ; in particular, he related a great deal about Portugal, its commerce, and colonies. The conversation then turned upon the different races of men, a topic on which Jean Jacques disserted with knowledge of his subject and interest. But I fancied he was unjust towards the race he called Ethiopian, placing them, as he did, upon the same footing with the brute, and declaring the negro incapable of higher culture ; Peter partly disputed this assertion. The slave-trade was made a subject of discussion: to my surprise Jean Jacques spoke in favour of it, and maintained that the slave could only obtain a value and enjoy a happiness to some extent permanent, as a slave to the civilised European; Peter controverted | this as fundamentally fallacious, and supported his position with profound reasoning ; Jean Jacques quoted words from Messrs. Tarleton and Gas- coigne in corroboration of his proposition. Peter answered them triumphantly with expressions of Wilberforce and Canning. Doring this entire time the stranger never spoke a word, but he followed the discussion visibly with the utmost interest. At times there came a scornful and bitter smile upon his lips, at times his dark eyes flashed with a peculiar fire. I could not avert my regards from him ; but what the tendency of his sentiments was I could not fathom.. Yet I faneied he listened with great pleasure to Jean Jacques, particularly during a long and zealous discourse which the latter delivered, in which he strove to prove the low stage on which the negro stood, especially in an intellectual point of view, as also that in this Nature herself had set him an insurmountable barrier. “Deal as you will with the negro ”-— thus Jean Jacques concluded his harangue—“ shower education and enlightenment upon him, still his understanding willever be subject to that of the European ; develope all his capabilities, and still he shall abide merely a machine in the hands of the European; nature has designed him to serve the latter.” From Bear’s grimaces I pereeived that this discourse made him ill at ease, and at its close he said with stress : “1 know not whether the negro is capable of developing high intellectual power ; neither do I know that this is the most important consideration in the formation of the human character,—but this I do know, that he is a man, and as such, my brother. . . .” “ Brother ¢” cried De Romilly in a voice that thrilled me, it sounded so strange, wild, and almost threatening. “ Yes, brother,” exclaimed he, growing warmer and more warm ; “ and he who barters his life and liberty is a monster, is worse than a murderer,” “A murderer !” repeated the stranger with a convulsive contraction of his eyebrows, and in so hoarse a tone of voice that all looks were involun- tarily fastened upon him. ‘The expression of his countenance again changed, and calmly but seri- ously he said to Bear: “ Monsieur, je pense entiére- ment comme vous.” Hereupon he was silent, sat there in quiet self-collection, and appeared not to bestow the slightest attention on the conversation which Jean Jacques with his usual ease had led to other subjects. After a short time I again agitated the question about Svané, and proposed to those assembled that 48 they should immediately repair thither, while I would follow them rather later, with a collation to be dressed in the interim. Mr. De Romilly must have no taste for such repasts: he excused himself to us, took leave, and when we were putting our- selves in motion for Svané, we saw him mount his handsome black horse, and with a courteous greet- ing he disappeared behind the trees. I was light- ened in spirit when he was gone, and yet I involun- tarily looked after him with the desire to catch another glimpse of the gloomy handsome form; we went to Svané and had a cheerful evening there. The green sward equals all pretensions and disputes about precedence of rank. Jane Marie and Ebba drank milk out of the same glass ; but at present I cannot converse about aught but the stranger; I eould not think of anything else the entire evening (Jane Marie, too, rallied me upon my distraction @esprit) ; I cannot get his image out of my mind, I have nowseen the much-talked-of neighbour en face, and yet know not what I shall say of him. The first impression he produces upon you is that of great simplicity and great power at the same time. But this power is felt to be rather oppressing. He re- minds you of a beautiful thunder-cloud ; he is very tall with a strong-knit frame, rather stout than lean; his countenance is vigorous and his com- plexion very dark. Some scars, as if from the strokes of a sabre, do not disfigure him; about the mouth there plays at times an agreeable trait of ex- pression ; but what mars the entire countenance, and invests it with something gloomy, almost ugly, is his habit of contracting his large black eye-brows, so that they almost unite in a straight line above his nose. When they part again, his face lights up, and one is inclined to exclaim: “Tt is hand- some.” Beneath the brows are a pair of eyes which I cannot comprehend. They appear to me to vary in colour between black and a bright chestnut (brandgult). Sometimes they do not look up for a large space of time, even when the mouth is speaking ; sometimes, again, they are firmly fixed upon you, with such a keen and penetrating expression, that you must involuntarily abase your own; and sometimes again they suddenly look up with a glance that resembles a night when coruscations flash from out its depths: thus he locked when uttering the words “brother,” and “murderer.” This strange and rapid variation also prevails in his voice, and it will be matter of surprise to me if it does not extend deeper. Some- thing about him which seems to be an unpropitious omen, since I have before observed the same peculiarity in some men of very strong passions, 1s 2, vein on his forehead which is formed entirely like a thunder-bolt, especially on occasions of itsswelling strongly ; as for the rest his manner pleases me : it is perfectly plain, without a vestige of constraint or pretension of any kind ; and yet there is nothing open in kim, nothing which inspires confidence. To me he seems to resemble a natural force of great power, of which I know not whether it is good or evil, will destroy or make happy. But if these extraordinary eyes should fix themselves in affection on one, should this voice speak words of love then, I believe, it would be dangerous : altogether I have never seen anybody so strongly resembling a mystery. I am at once solicitous and desirous to sound him to the bottom. But, thank heaven, my Bear is no dark mys- Wks Ll, si THE NEIGHBOURS. 40 47 tery ; that his soul is clear and open as the light of heaven! This it is, after all, that constitutes the felicity of intercourse, and the peace of home. 6th July. To-morrow Baron Stellan S. comes to us. I cannot say that I rejoice about him. Bear is quite zealous concerning the arrangements for re- ceiving him. There is scarcely anything good enough for him. He is to be dealt with, and fondled, as if he were some little coquettish coun- tess. A gentleman of such refinement, and so perverted, will be a difficult guest, especially at rustic Rosenvik. Yes, yes, Bear, he shall be furnished with your Turkish slippers. This ewer of real porcelain? Yes, yes, child. Your golden young gentleman shall have all these.” I would the Chamberlain were seated in Constantinople. But Bear is so glad. He loves men so strongly, and for his sake | will now appear philanthropic. 10th July. Baron Stellan is here. Well, it speeds quite happily with our cousin. He is polite, agreeable, shows himself satisfied with all things, and it isa vastly easy matter to live with him, He walks with Bear, and converses with him on politics, and natural philosophy. He reads to me, or gossips pleasantly, while I sew. You soon become familiar with him, especially when you have seen him several days. True it is that life in the country contributes a great deal to this, especially when people are entire days together. Bear has asked me to stay at home for cousin Stellan’s sake, and to take care that he finds satisfaction and pleasure in our house. Bear loves his former ward really, with hearty affection. Behold his portrait, struck off at a few strokes of the pen: I would almost call him an antithesis to Mr. De Romilly. I likened the latter to a grand, but wild scene in nature; I would compare cousin Stellan to a beautiful English park laid out to perfection. His polite education has polished cousin Stellan, and made the best of him. His handsome and graceful figure displays itself to you well, and with ease. The absence of restraint in his manners enhances his natural gifts. His mouth, about which there plays, at times, a refined, rather sar- castic smile, when opened shows the most beauti- ful of teeth, whose whiteness is still heightened by the dark colour of his mustachios. His eyes are not large, but have a fine expression, and his light brown hair falls in graceful tresses over his smooth forehead. His toilet is arranged with the utmost care and great taste. What more shall I say? Cousin Stellan has several accomplish- ments; he draws, sings well, converses most agreeably, and with all this there is at least in the country something unassuming in his tone and manners, for which we thank him, especially when his position in life and his prospects are thought of. With his toilet he appears to occupy himself too much. But there is nothing wrong in that ; it is so natural in any one who is young, handsome, and rich. ilth, Odd, however, our worthy cousin Steflan is, nor do I so rightly comprehend what he really is. In the first place, I see that he is no true Christian. Yesterday evening he spoke a good deal about the i A A8 THE NEIGHBOURS. religion of Mahomet, which he called the wisest and most excellent of all religions, and he lauded the Koran as the wisest of books. He confessed, without any reserve, that he wished with all his heart he had been born a Turk or Persian, that he might have passed his days in Oriental ease, have had a seraglio, &c. I was quite provoked at these sentiments, contended against the Koran, without knowing much of its contents, and ex- pressed much contempt for these Turkish ideas. Cousin Stellan did not allow himself to be troubled by this, but spoke out plainly the thoughts he entertained respecting the highest happiness of man. This was not at all edifying to hear. I be- came a little angry, and was, moreover, vexed at my own heat, as well as Stellan’s coolness. Yet, especially with Bear, who did not say a word, but only made the most horrid grimaces while carving his chess-queen. The conversation was inter- rupted by supper, and afterwards not farther pur- sued. But before Bear was allowed to retire to rest, he was obliged to render me an account of his golden young friend’s morality. I must own that I was not so entirely satisfied with Bear either, at least not upon this occasion. He vindi- cated Stellan all too strongly to me, and protested that, notwithstanding his Turkish notions, he was an honourable fellow, and could never do aught evil. “His only fault,” said Bear, “is a little levity with respect to ladies, but this was so gene- ral a fault with young people, that we should not call him so strictly to account for it.” “ Very good, Bear,” said I, “I make me a note of that ; and if, while you are away, he, from a little levity, should seek to win my heart, I will think this is only an ordinary matter with young people, and will not be too strict towards him.” Bear looked so astonished and perplexed at this, that I could not but laugh internally, embrace him, and extricate him from his error. In the end, he fully coincided with my opinion, that it would be a most fortunate thing for Stellan to ac- quire sounder principles, become more steady, and marry. His mother, and all his family, are very desirous that he should form such a connec- tion: but Stellan does not show the least inclina- tion to do so. Bear greatly encouraged me to converse with him on the happiness of the mar- ried state. I will not, seriously, forbear talking to him on this subject, neither to read him a little of the Catechism. He is no Sultan yet, and will doubtless listen to the truth. 13th, in the evening. My dear Maria, I have certainly several of the qualities which make up a good preacher, as faith, earnestness, zeal; but, alas, not that of convincing my auditors! Have you a mind now, good Maria, to listen to my sermon, and its fruits? Bear, as usual, was in the Town during the forenoon, oceu- pied with his patients. I was seated at an open window. My heart was light, and I vied in song with the little bird in the cluster of elder-trees. Stellan entered, took his seat beside me, and began to strip off the leaves of a beautiful monthly rose that stood in a glass upon the table. I thought to improve the opportunity, and felt my- self moved in spirit to deliver a lecture. By way of introduction to the conversation, | began—— perhaps not very skilfully kindly to reproach him with destroying a flower which, if spared, would yield him more pleasure. He answered, pursuing his labours: ‘ ‘They would, at all events, speedily fade. And it is precisely their perish- able nature that makes them agreeable to me; I know no flowers more irksome to one than éter- nelles.’” You have no difficulty in perceiving to what way the door was now opened. I speedily directed my course thither, and led the conversa- tion to the article of matrimony. I discharged a volley at Stellan’s favourite ideas, and extolled the permanent and pure joys of life in opposition to transitory pleasures, a flippant butterfly-existence, I painted in glowing colours—which came from my heart—the noble, endless felicity that flowed froma happy marriage. Cousin Stellan at first only answered me evya- sively, sometimes with a little pleasantry, some- times by saying courteous things ; as, for instance, “Tf all wedded ladies were like. Francisea, I would instantly become a convert to matrimony. If all unions were like this,” &c. I feigned to hear nothing, but in my zeal to marry him, prought into review this and that handsome and courteous maiden. But Stellan dis- covered imperfections in all. The one had too great feet, the other too unsightly teeth, a third did not dress well enough, a fourth had a displeas- ing voice. At last, all these difficulties vexed me, and I asked him, whether he thought himself so exceedingly fine ? “Oh heaven forbid !” answered he, with his little agreeable grating voice. But I perceived, from his appearance, that he was en- tirely satisfied with himself. And, since I couid not deny that he was uncommonly handsome and graceful, I began to talk of the inward man, re- proached him for his superficiality, said how exter- nal advantages were mere dust, and extolled the beauty of the soul, especially in some of the young ladies whose hands and feet he had found fault with. In connection with this, I gave utterance to the finest things about family life, which I lauded, and approved quite as zealously as did formerly Mamsell Rénquist, of blessed memory. My description made me quite warm myseif, and affected me ; but Stellan cooled me down by an affected yawn, and low humming, like the melody of “ Gubben Noach.” * Then I became almost angry, told him he was a heathen, and an orang- outang, unworthy the hand of a noble-spirited maiden, and he deserved not to taste the highest and purest species of earthly happiness. Suddenly Stellan became entirely serious, and said: “ Butis the happiness of which you speak, Francisca, a subsistent reality? Is it not like the bird Phoenix, merely a fiction on earth? Fran- cisca, you, who appear to be so positive and at home in the matter, name to me, out of the families you know, a single one that is really happy, really united, and that blesses the ties which bind its members together, not merely for one moment of their life, but amid all changes of their term of existence. Name me such a family, Francisca,” Stellan gazed at me keenly and with an earnest expression of countenance, and I began to reflect and toinguire. Isit not the most vexatious thing in the world, that frequently the very word, the *i, e. Old Noach: a favourite song among the Swedes, by their popular poet, Bellman. 59 THE NEIGHBOURS, thing we require, needs must fail us, and that the more we seek for it, the more it is concealed from us? Thus it was with me relatively to the happy family. I thought I should know a multitude of such, at that moment I could not call a single one tomy remembrance. I sought and sought, went from one house of my acquaintances to another, grew anxious and warm, for I nowhere found what I was in quest of. With secret malice Stellan sat there looking at me in expectation. In order to rescue myself and domestic happiness, I then thought of making reserve against his ex- travagant demands, and began thus: “ Perfect happiness is found nowhere on earth,” Stellan interrupted me, saying :— * You are right, Francisca, and least of all is it found in domestic life. Man, that ephemeron, can on earth only know joy and happiness, on condition of living like the ephemera,—rocking like the but- terfly on the branch of a tree, sucking honey from the flowers, and not fixing himself like them to earth. Assoonas he does this he becomes the spoil of worms and maggots; all that life possesses in point of dulness, insipidity, its ponderous, weari- some prose, comes over him, the wings of Psyche drop off, and the butterfly becomes a worm. Credit me, Francisca, I have seen more of family life than you, and toc much indeed to allow me to praise it and to wish myself to figure as a “ Pére de famille.” A family is an instrument which must of necessity get out of tune sooner or later ; this is involved in the very nature of the strings and their relation to each other. J will prove this to you by the examples of some families known to me. I might begin with my own; for I too, Francisca, have had parents, and brothers and sisters ; I too have heard quarrels of a like cha- racter, have myself quarrelled, envied and bickered with my own flesh and blood ; but that is now past, for we are now separated and disunited with regard to our interests, and by such means have become —good friends.” “{ will speak of A s. They had a good income, I think, till their children grew up. ‘The latter were imperfectly educated. They turned out bad. The parents are now, through them, in distress and poverty.” «“ B——s pursued a different course. They were sirict and despotic. They are left alone. The children have fled from the house and dread it more than a prison.” C———s made it their concern of greatest im- portance to educate their children well. They had them iastructed in all things, gave them pre- cepts of every kind, spared no expense, and for a time rejoiced and plumed themselves upon the progress of their children. The children acquired a fund of knowledge, became talented, and con- temned their parents, who, in comparison with them, were ignorant. The old people were consumed by silent grief beside their brilliant children.” “With D s things wear a better aspect. They have no children, they are rich. They now give splendid suppers as they did thirty years since. But if you saw them near, if you knew the inanity, the eoldness of their existence oh ! the dishes on their table are the only things that warm and unite them.” « At E——+s’ it looked gay for a long while. They were cheerful, friendly and hospitable. Their 49 daughters were called the three graces. There were feasts and suitors there. Years passed away. The graces grew old in their parental home; they faded away together. The world has forgotten them. They abide alone with each other and pout away their life. In the evening they sit about a round table, kindle lights and await visitors—but nobody comes.” “J will not talk of F s. The wife has one will, the husband another ; there it is a perpetua! storm ; the children are wont to say: If there is no hurricane blowing from the north, there is from the south, but a north wind is ever blowing.” “Tf people do but understand how to smooth asperities,” said the good Madam G., “when she had repaired a breach which her violent husband had made in her house. And thus this family has gone on smoothing, and gradually glided out of all order and comfort. They still smooth, they hold together and break not ; they are in a perpetual asthma ; ‘they choke not neither do they live’. ” ** My mother wished me to seek a wife out of the H—’s family. I went there one evening ; things looked quite well; the daughters handsome and well-dressed. All was perfumed and comfortable. I went again in the forenoon. A pair of—not clean—stockings lay upon a chair in the saloon. A vile smell of sour paste there assailed me. I went into another room. The young ladies darted up from the weaving-frame. ... . Domesticity is an excellent thing, but weaving deranges the toilet quite desperately, and the smell of sour paste is now an abomination tome. Sour paste and domestic felicity, to my mind, never assort with each other.” ‘“ But this is puerile,’ I exclaimed. “ With such fastidiousness you are entirely unfit for living on earth.” “ Well,” he replied, “I confess that this may sound petty. Butof such a nature] am. The sour paste of domesticity terrifies me from be- coming a father of a family.” “ My friend I had been married four years, and I had not seen him during that period. Some time ago I travelled to the part where he was re- siding, responding to the invitation I had received from him to see him in his ‘Idyllic home” In the first room two barefooted servant-maids were prostrate, washing the floor. In the second, I was well nigh falling down from entangling myself in some string by which a weaving-frame was made fast to the foot of the stove. From the third I heard the noise of children crying with all their might. I waited a few minutes for the crying to cease, but got tired of that, and with a spring over the washing-pails, hastened away out of this ‘ Tdyllic home’.” ; “You chose your time of visiting very badly,” said I, nettled. “Are not people to have their houses washed ? And must not little children sometimes ery ? Ought we not to have patience with little children ?”’ ; “1 think so, Francisca, But precisely because I have not this fine gift of patience, and do not consider such family scenes so beautiful—-precisely on this account it is that [am entirely unfit for the wedded state. But I have still more import- ant reasons than these against domestic life. There is in men something that perpetually repels them from each other. The more individuals are brought into intimate and permanent contact, the 51 BE 2 50 more are they sensible of this rock of offence, the more keenly do its rough edges and its corners wound. External circumstances contribute to this ; people jostle against each other so easily, they are in each ofher’s way, and the considerations which they have and are constrained to have for each other, are so many leaden weights upon free- dom andenjoyment. When the order of things is, that all should live for each other, nobody in reality lives fully and happily for himself. I do not question that there may be elevated and en- during happiness in the marriage-state and domes- tic life; but such domestic lives are of the class of rare exceptions, the echo that sounds to us from a lost paradise. And—since I have once broached the subject—what say you to the apple of Adam and Eve’s story ? It has been transmitted to pos- terity and most families on earth get an apple to bite, that produces dissension and distress. Would you know, Francisca, where the greatest want, the greatest ennui, the greatest envy, the greatest acrimony and the most hearty mutual hatred have their home ; would you know where the most tear- ful eyes, the palest cheeks, the most joyless and faint hearts are found ? I would show you all this in matrimony, in the domestic circle, in a word, in family life.” I cannot say what was my state of feeling at this description of Stellan’s; for I was compelled to acknowledge its truth in many points, and though I deemed the view he took one-sided, and could not but smile at many of its traits, as for example, that of sour paste, yet others really went painfully to my heart. I shuddered at the thought that there was so much spiritual indigence, and so much deep misery in family life. But I loved the idea of family life, I had faith in it, and it had grown together with the best I had in me. At this moment it seemed to me desecrated by Stellan, I felt indignation, I felt anguish and pain, and a thousand mingling sensations, made me burst into tears, while I exclaimed almost with a scream: “But I am happy, Bear is happy, we are happy.” “ Yes, at present, during the honey-moon, per- haps for a year, two, three years” said the unmerciful Stellan,—“ but let age, let children, and cares come.... You have, for the sake of illustration, ten girls ; what will you do with them all? no money, no marriage, one of them lame, another scrofulous... .” “Ten girls!” I was alarmed, I already saw them all around me, stout, tall, requiring me to give them a fortune as I had given them life; I beheld one deformed, another scrofulous—I sank beneath the burden, it overwhelmed me, and whilst I wept without being able to say a word, Stellan rose, threw away my last monthly rose and went out; the abominable creature! I almost wished never to see him again. “Ten girls !” for a long time I could think of nothing else but these words, but by-and-bye I en- deavoured to compose myself, and began to reflect seriously and asa Christian upon the matter ; and gradually itassumed an entirely alteredappearance: I was no more alarmed at my ten girls, but became quite familiar with them; I resolved completely to devote myself to them, train them to pious and in- dustrious women ; theyshould become cheerful and good, love one another, and be able to show them- selves with a good spirit in the world. The longer Or nN THE NEIGHBOURS. I contemplated my family picture, the more friendly it appeared. I began in due course to love my ten girls with hearty affection; and most strongly the lame and the scrofulous ; I was not deceiving myself, but I felt in my invigorated heart that with the help of heaven and Bear I should make my ten maidens happy, and I thought how at the Day of Judgment I should present myself so rich, and say: “ Father, here am I with the children Thou hast given me.” Thus I thought and felt, and became calm and glad in spirit. I went out into the grove of birch-trees to cool my inflamed eyes and glowing cheeks ; then I had to look after something in the kitchen and store-room, and what with one thing and another I had almost forgotten my ten girls ; but when Bear returned home they all fell heavily upon my heart: I became most childish again; on his coming to kiss me, I laid my arm about his neck, and said, weeping and laughing at the same time: “ You, Bear, will like me and be satisfied, and we shall be happy, even though we have ten girls, is it not so ? . and you will love them all, though they be lame and scrofu ” T could not finish this sen- tence: Good Bear; he made a terrible grimace and looked as if he already had the ten girls upon his neck ; but when he saw me so excited he really grew troubled, gave me a glass of water, and begged me to talk Swedish. (He thought probably that “ten girls ” was something Hebrew.) I ex- plained the matter to him in plain Swedish, and then he laughed heartily at me, and assured me that we should always be happy, and that he would ever love me,and the children I should bestow upon him: at this moment Stellan entered ; he seemed em- barrassed and sad when he perceived that I was ruffled, but in the joy of my heart I extended him my hand, and exclaimed: “ We shall be happy, my Bear and I, we shall be happy even with ten girls, though all and each of them be deformed ; we shall love each other and them also.” Stellan was positively touched ; his complexion reddened, and, kissing my hand, he begged pardon for having jested in so discourteous a manner. Bear was kind as an angel to me, and would not sit down at table till I had become more calm. I composed myself as speedily as I could, but was unable to get down a mouthful of food: I fancied the ten girls were sticking in my throat: besides this, I thought Bear regarded me with a degree of consternation. Ten maidens—they were indeed too many. But I will not think of this any longer. While Bear and Stellan are walking, and Evening is painting scenes like those in sepia and {ndia ink, I will again cast a glance at cousin Stellan’s ornate pictures of family life. Are they really true pictures? In many isolated cases——alas, yes! but in general, no,O no. And, even if there were more shade than light in this our sublanary existence——Allwise Artist, that hast drawn the great picture of life in so glorious a light Thou wilt teach us better to lay on our colours upon our little canvass. But this Thou hast already taught us; the rest depends upon our own selves. If we labour with earnestness of purpose, and in sincerity, our family picture will also be beautiful, and worthy of its piace in the gallery of the blest. “There is in men,” says Stellan, “something THE NEIGHBOURS. $1 that perpetually repels them from each other.” This I grant; there are envy, pretensions, unfair- ness, tedium, a thousand great and small stum- bling-blocks, which may occasion bitter feelings. I grant that they are felt most keenly, precisely where the circle is narrowest——family life. But what then? Is there no power——mild and potent——whose efficacy consists in smoothing and sweetening all things, and converting evil into good? Who can fail in this place to call to re- membrance the precepts of the Apostle——and who has not blessed them a thousand times in his life——namely, “ Charity * suffereth long, and is kind,” &c. I will go through some of the family scenes described by Stellan. I will let the exter- nal circumstances stand as they are, but introduce into the heart of the family the angelic sisters, Love and Truth. Behold how the picture shall | alter. Behold, for example’s sake, a house of ac- ~ complished children, and parents less favoured in respect of cultivation. Sterling education, real enlightenment has ennobled the children. It enters not their thoughts to hold cheap their kind-hearted and honest parents, because they are much better informed than the latter. They know that true human worth consists in moral goodness, in acting an honourable part. They return their parents respect and gratitude, and enliven their house with their accomplishments, and lend beauty to their days. And now for the three graces ; in effect a sad picture. I am com- pelled to yawn when I think upon it ; the family tie, however, it is not, that has reduced them to this puppet-condition, but vanity, and high-mind- edness, and mental inanity. If Stellan casts out happiness from families, I should like to know what local habitation he gives it. I shall ask him what being, and what condi- tion of life he himself regards as the most happy ? Peradventure, the life of the bachelor? But then the latter must be an egotist, and renounce all the ties of nature. I envy no one such felicity ; but I shall ask Stellan whether he himself is happy. 13th. IT have asked Stellan. At first he sought to evade the question, joked, and was facetious, but without gladsomeness ; on my inquiring with in- creasing earnestness, however, and entreating him to speak the truth, he also became earnest, and said: “Iam not happy. Life appears poverty- stricken to me, and I frequently feel an almost insupportable vacuity within me.” “Ah, thank heawen,” I exclaimed, quite de- lighted and moved. He regarded me with a look of astonishment. “ You are not therefore,” I pur- sued, “an unworthy egotist ; but this you must be, if you could be happy with the sentiments you entertain. You have described married life to me in such a way, that one might weep over the pic- ture ; but I, Stellan, could pourtray to you the life of a bachelor, and you would deem it so * It may interest some readers to know that in the ori- ginal of the above passage, ‘*‘ Agapé ”’ is rendered not, as in our authorised version of the Bible, by “ Charity,” but by “Jove”; Christian, or Gospel, love being, of course, un- derstood by the word. This is probably due to the infiu- ence which Luther’s version of the Bible——the esta- blished one in protestant Germany——has exercised over the sacred literature of Sweden. wretcheds so dry, that you would not give a pinch of snuff for it. But with you, Stellan, there is no need of this. You are a good and reflecting man; you will perceive the true worth of life, and will renounce extravagant pretensions, and excessive sensibility, you will become happy through em- ployment in noble pursuits, an amiable partner, domestic and family life.” He smiled in a half melancholy manner, shook his head, and said something about sour paste. * But, cousin Stellan,” said I, “in my house domestic employments also occur; in it there is weaving, pasting, scrubbing. Is it therefore so uncomfortable here ?” “Tf all married ladies were like you, Francisca!” rejoined Stellan. He took my hand, kissed it, said something about a “fine, white hand,” kissed it again and again, reddened, and cast a strange glance at me. I also coloured; peculiar sensa- tions came over me ; I drew back my hand, began to talk about the weather, and instantly after- wards betook myself to the kitchen. ; _ tone, as he went out of the room. —aAnd that apple, “which is found in every | Stellan now had an answer for a!l | Ah, cousin Stellan, you are wily, but your fox shall not bite my goose. I see quite well how things stand. Stellan will have me sound Serena’s heart, and then let him know whether it is warm or cold for him. In the first ease, he will ad- vance with confidence; in the second, he wili lady,” and will then have nothing committed himself either in point of his personal comfort or dignity. But—is there real love where there is such caution ?. In any case it will be interesting to see how “this sour paste” might at once grow sweet ; I, too, will really seize the first opportu- | tunity of inquiring whether Serena is warm or cold in heart for my fine cousin. Whether I shall communicate to him anything about my disco- veries, is another thing. 6th. Now, I know what o’clock it is ; and you, too, my Maria, shall learn it. O Serena, Serena ! Yesterday afternoon I was with her alone. I was thinking of Stellan, and asked her what she thought of our young guest. To my astonishment I discovered that she had thought very little about him. She granted that he was handsome, pleasing and accomplished, but she pronounced her approbation with a dubious indifference. Then I began slightly to seandalise him. ‘ Love,’ I thought, “ has strange lurking-places, and when you cannot lure it forth with sugar, you often get it out with salt.” But in vain did I salt my re- marks on Stellan’s love of ease, levity, &c.; I could not discover the slightest arrow-point in the quiver of affection. Serena excused him like Christian charity itself, while she admitted his faults. «“ You are very mild towards him, Serena,” said I, “ Would-you not undertake his improvement, as his wife, for example 2’ “« Ah, no, no,” said Serena, laughing. “Wherefore ah, no,no! You yourself admit that he possesses many good qualities, and with all zeal excuse his faults.” “ Yes, but I could not thiuk of jim as my hus- band.” “ And why not, Serena ?” “What shall Tsay? He appears tome good and pleasing, but I do not think he can love an- other, or anything else but himself,’’ ‘* You would rather take my Bear, Serena ?”’ “ Him, who is so good towards all, has so warm a heart, and is so active for others—oh yes,” “ it is well that I have taken him in safe keep- ing. But tell me, dear Serena—and pardon me if 1 go too far with my questions—is there no other who stands in Stellan’s way !—for I really think you must be a little warmer towards him.— Perhaps your heart is already given away ! They have told me of a young man, who, some years ago, solicited your hand... . ” Serena’s complexion heightened strongly at the commencement ef my question ; she then turned pale, and answered, after some reflection : “ No, I did not love him, but if I could have acted with entire freedom, I had probably become his part- ner.” ** And wherefore, if you did not love him ?”’ “ Because I thought he loved me sincerely, and that I could make him happy.—It is really a fine thing to be able to secure the happiness of a being on earth.”’ “ But you have had several suitors. Did no one of them please your parents, or were you not so gracious towards them as the one just men- tioned ?” * They did not need it,” said Serena, smiling. “ How so ?—they loved you not?” ‘Oh ! there are many kinds of love.” “That is true. Let us see: The first place we will assign to moderate love. It delivers itself in about this strain: ‘There is a good, sensible maiden. She will be an orderly housekeeper, and not occasion me great expenses. She would be just the wife for me.’ Which species of affection shall we give the second place to ?” “ Falling in love,—take for the second exam- le.” ee Most certainly—falling in love. This passion has a bandage before its eyes, and may get into ecstacies with a foot anda shoe. It may be vio- lent as a storm in Spring, or modest as a violet, and passes away as readily as the latter. Yet it, like moderate love, may rise to a more hearty affection, and come to be in close affinity with a species, for which I entertain full respect; I mean warm friendship.” “ Oh ! that is beautiful,” said Serena,“ it is not developed to perfect maturity before matrimony itself; and | have often heard in my family, that it is expressed more in deeds than words.” *“ Rehearse me that style of language, sweet Se- vena, for | fain would introduce it into my home.” If a man had, at that moment, stood before Serena, he would have cast himself at her feet, so charming and amiable was she while she said : ‘Your welfare is mine, my welfare is yours. Let misfortune do its worst, it cannot make me unhappy, if I do but retain you. When I have erred, or acted well, I read it in your eye. That is my punishment, and reward. Whither should I go with my joyand my pain, but to you? Where shouid you, too, turn but to me? Have we not ali things incommon? If you fail, if you are at Vou. ‘THE NEIGHBOURS. 65 times wrong, what of that? I fold you the more tenderly to my heart, and our love is only en- hanced. At your side I have everywhere a sup- port, a home, and joy. In the entire wide world there is no one who understands me as you do.” I dried a tear, and said: “ But what more could love itself, the most exalted passion, say 2?” ** The most exalted passion ?” repeated Serena, and a slight paleness chased the purple from her cheeks—‘‘ What it would say I know not, but I anticipate what it would feel. It is a quickened pulsation in the vein of friendship, it is divine spirit. ....” Serena paused, her eyes suffused with tears, and the look of enthusiasm completed the thought which the tongue was unable to give utterance to. “And you, Serena,” said I, after a few mo- ments, “who so well understand the greatest hap- piness of matrimony, will you never enjoy it? Will you remain unmarried ?” “Tthink so,” she answered, again composed; “but yet {shall love my parents with equal ten- derness—you, together with all good men, and be happy in doing so.” ‘“‘ My dear Serena-—that will be well as long as your heart is free.” A palpitation, a shudder, thrilled through the delicate warm hand, which I was holding in my own. It was as if a pulsation of the heart had shot through her veins, and on my regarding her, her cheeks were mantled with red, and she breathed more quickly. Just as I was on the point of asking whence came this sudden excite- ment, I received a painful solution. I heard the rapid sounds of a horse’s hoof, and Bruno soon after alighted near the door. Serena must have recognised the horse’s tread from afar off. “Is it so?” thought I, and a slight, fearfui shudder passed like a luckless boding through my mind and frame. I grasped Serena’s hand more closely, felt as it were impelled to embrace her and press her with greater tenderness to me, but was prevented from this by Bruno’s noisy entrance. He always comes like storm. But at the moment Iam speaking of, he shook my hand so cordially, cast so beautiful a glance at Serena, that the un- pleasant impression I experienced was to some degree removed. ’ Serena then worked zealously at her work- frame, and Bruno’s eyes rested upon her fingers, and the flowers which rose beneath them. “It is a beautiful day,” said I to Bruno. “ Yes,” he answered, with his melodious voice, “ but I now am first made sensible of it.” We were silent for a long space of time, and I was rejoiced when our trio was augmented to a quartet by Bear, and soon afterwards to a quintet by Stellan. But this appeared not to please Bruno. He rose, and after pacing up and down the room a few times, he sat down to the piano-forte at the other end of the apartment, and softly, as if with feelings sup- pressed with difficulty, did his tones sound in their extraordinary, thoughtful spirit. Serena seemed to dream ; she followed not the conversation, and not till we began to talk of the Golden Wedding of her grandparents did she evince attention. “It must really be a fine thing,” said I, with warmth, “after so long a series of years, to look back on such a day, and behold only good deeds, and pure recollections.” 63 | | } | wishes ? 64 Bruno made a motion, the tones were hushed ; he bent ever the back of the chair, and I saw that he was listening. Cousin Stellan sighed, and said: “Such a for- tune is only the lot of few mortals.” «And. wherefore, cousin Stellan?” I began again. “ For this reason, because so few live for such an object; because so few are willing to know and command themselves.” * And who does know himself ? who can know himself ?” said Bruno, rising. “ Hem——very many, I hope,’’ answered I, -yather confused at this harsh interruption. “ Yes, people fancy so,” Bruno pursued, with gloomy impetuosity; “people faney they know themselves, and merely for this reason, because they have not been tried, because they have never looked into the depth of the soul. Circumstances make smooth their way, life passes off like a sunny day, and the calm spirit that has been agitated by no storm, darkened by no night, deems itself firm and luminous. The blind, the happy one! He knows little of life. But who that has made trial of what life possesses in temptations, sufferings, and joys; who that has felt his soul stirred by pas- sions, ventures to say that he knows himself, ven- tures to believe that he can be and act as he And who is ever the same? Look at the pages of history. Do not vice and paltry foibles sully the lives of the greatest men? Can- not the wrong-doer perform generous actions ? May we not one hour possess a paradise of love in our heart, and the next feel all cola, peverty- stricken and desolate there? To know one’s self ? Is not that to feel one’s self the summation of all contradictions, all possibilities—a play-ball between heaven and hell, with which angels and devils ply their sport. Man may compassa great deal with- out abiding like himself. He may achieve the greatest.and most generous things, but merely for a@ moment; the next draws him down from his high position. To know one’s self is to know one’s frailty.” Like a rushing stream that suddenly swells above its banks, and breaks down every barrier, flowed the impetuous current of Bruno’s words ; ‘and J confess that I felt myself, as it were, inun- dated by them. In my own frequently changing and erring heart, a- hundred witnesses rose in cor- roboration of Bruno’s sadtenets. I felt my spirit sink ; but Serena had not lostherhelm. She kept ‘her clear glance fixed on Bruno’s countenance, as ne stood there opposite to her, and when he was silent, she said with tender, consolatory confidence: “ Unquestionably there are contradictions and inequalities in the heart of all men; but can we not assume that in proportion as they strive after personal improvement, these become less ? ” “Thus it ought to be,” said Bruno, slowly; and let his eyes repose, as it were, on her divinely bright countenance, “And do we not see in a diversity of examples, that such personal ennoblement is of real and: ac- tual occurrence ? Do we not know, that fallen creatures have again risen, that the severely-tried have come off triumphant from the struggle ? Does not every human being bear a divine image concealed in his bosom, which is capable of shed- ding light on his nature, and exalting him toa more elevated existence $” j THE NEIGHBOURS. “ Yes, it is so, I believe,” said Bruno, mildly, but with gloom. He sat down beside Serena. “Let us then hope for all men,” continued Se- rena, with in-felt emotion. “To certain tempers, the way may be more than ordinarily difficult, but He who is bright and good, and eternally true to Himself, will one day also let them hear His call- ing, and exalt them to light and harmony.” “Amen, amen, so let it be!” said Bruno, rest- ing his head on his hand. “May all troubled spirits find peace.” “ Before all things a good will,” thought I, to myself, but I would not raise my voice te pro- nounce a word after Serena’s angelic tones. We sat there long silent, each one occupied with his own thoughts. ‘They, at length, re- solved themselves into Mozart’s Don Juan, which was proposed by Stellan; and Bruno, who led the way, inspired each and all, with something of his potent inspiration. He actually transported me this evening. And, I faney, all present were, equally with myself, enraptured. We scarcely allowed ourselves time to eat a morsel, but went on almost without intermission till nearly eleven o’eclock. Divine art! Glorious Mozart ! Through him we had all become such good friends that, on Bruno’s departure, we accompa- nied him a good part of the way. The air was mild, and the star-set firmament shone in radiant splendour through the deep twilight of a midnight in the month of August. Involuntarily we looked up in silent admiration, and Stellan—who for some days past has apparently had deeper sensi- bility for all things—Stellan said: ‘ Beneath such a sky as this man must have had his first anticipation of immortality.” —“ Or, perhaps, really comprehended his mortality rather, his in- dependence of external powers,” objected Bruno ; “for what is the language of this host of stars to us, those eternal wanderers on paths eternally the same, that in their celestial careers are mute as the Trappists? Uneonscious of our feelings, sufferings, and joys, they revolve in everlasting quiet ; and to our inquiries seem merely to an- swer: ‘Poor dust, measure thyself with immortal things, and be awed to silence.’ Immortal life ? No, this great. thought we never derive from that non-sentient grandeur. The firmament of stars rather depresses than inspires us with confidence. But the world of sound—can we absorb our- selves in this, and not augur, not—ait least for moments—comprehend the greatness of life, its harmony, and its infinitude ? Oh!” (and Bruno’s voice here took its deep melodious tone), “ Oh! if there is a great thought in this universe, in the life we pass through, it must be that for which music finds expression. Listen to the fugues. Hearken how sphere sings to sphere, how one thought answers another ; how all is diversified, and yet how one thought sustains this diversity in power and in beauty. The fugue is the ‘ Let there be’ of the Creator ; thus countless worlds repeat that primal-word. Listen to one of Beetho- ven’s symphonies, if you would have an interpreta- tion of life. Mark the tones: how they live, suffer, love, twine around one another, and thus form all the ineffable melodies of existence. Mark how, finally, all the discords melt into harmony, how storms, commotions, pangs, joy, love, and hate, post on, like the streams of the earth, to pour 66 THE NEIGHBOURS. 65 themselves into that ocean where all mingle, and | presence there, and——and set ont, accompanied. blend into one harmonious chord, and attain to | by my sincere wishes for his welfare. I cannot, peace.” I was agitated and carried away by Bruno’s expressions, though not fully satisfied with his notions. We were at this moment walking down towards the avenue. Cousin Stellan conversed with me, and I faney that, in the hurry, I received two pair of eyes and ears, for I listened to him, and answered him ; while, at the same time, I be- stowed marked attention upon what was passing between Bruno and Serena, who were some paces in advance of us. Bruno plucked a flower, offered it to Serena, and said in a low tone of voice, in which there was something infinitely mild and soft: * Flowers and congratulations are given together. Will you now aceept these from me ? May you ever be peaceful as now. May your most bitter cares be like this night-scene full of celestial luminaries. May you be happy as you are good and pure! But”—--and now his voice sank deeper “ when cherished by the fostering care of good angels, pray for those who have no peace, who are not pure-minded as you—-—pray for them and—-——pray for me.” These last words I rather divined than heard. At the same moment, Bruno bent his head over Serena’s hand, and cousin Stellan also began to acquire a double power of vision and hearing. Serena had turned her countenance towards Bruno, but I could not hear whether she said anything in answer, or no. Bruno’s horse was led forth ; he took a hasty fare- weil of us, and soon disappeared from our view. Bruno——this strange spirit you can neither come to harmony with, nor obtain peace on its aecount. And those very contradictions in him, the rapid change from frost to thaw, tempest to calm, night to sudden day; this fulness of life and warmth, invest him at once with a disquieting and potent interest ; he both repulses and attracts you to him. ‘The latter especially, because he is so perfeetly natural. But I am greatly troubled at Serena’s attaching herself to him. What shall the white lily do on the stormy wave? Can Bruno make a partner happy ? Does he deserve such a partner? Think, if he is one of those criminals whose cause he advocates! Whatis he? What object does he propose to himself? Thus I interrogate myself and Bear. Bear ever believes the best, and loves Bruno sincerely. He does not, however, perfectly console me. I have distressful misgivings. With my heart oppressed by such, I bid you farewell for the present, my good Maria. —_—+—-- NINTH LETTER. Rosenwik, Lath August. Again a week has elapsed since I last wrote to you, my Maria. Over the romance which is now enacted about me, I forget that I was to write one. But the necessity I feel to live in your sight, leads me again to take up the pen and narrate Cousin Stellan has taken his departure. He must have been more and more strongly con- vinced that Serena had that ‘‘defeet which he deemed least venial in a lady;” had a powerful fancy for yawning as often as Bruno came to Ro- | peenniary matters, which required his personal “ genvik, got letters from Stockholm about pressing however, but feel sorry that his reformation should be checked at its very beginning. But Serena and Bruno have occupied me so much, that I had less thought for others than them. Bruno has made my home his own. Bear sees this with joy, and I, troubled as I am in mind, yet cannot be indifferent about this extraordinary man. Serena lives, as it were, beneath the power of a secret spell, and—what do you think ?—I have not, up to this moment, ventured to disturb her by a single word. She appears so happy, so glad, so heartily trustful, that I am afraid to utter a word which might ruffle her, or probably wake to consciousness feelings still half slumbering. Besides, she is thus maturing to a more beautiful existence ; her voice has developed the sweetest tones—but Bruno is an entirely different master from myself—never was her countenance, and whole being, more attractive. And Bruno? He is taciturn ; but you perceive that he is fully and completely absorbed by her; he follows her where- ever she goes; he takes his place beside her. At times, he fastens upon her one of those glances which do not proceed without effect from a human eye. And this glance, too, of his eye! It does not please me. Sometimes it makes me quail beneath it. It is said that, when the snake determines to make the lark his prey, he rises and. fixes his gaze upon it. The lark looks into the eyes of the snake, and is seized with a strange and fearful fascination—fluttering its wings, it wheels gyration upon gyration around him, and sings; at no former time has its song been so enchanting, never did its pinions tremble with a more enhanced joy of ex- istence; and thus it carols and circles about the snake, ever approaching more closely, till it drops into his jaws and is silent for ever. O Serena, Serena. In effect, it will not do to allow things to conti- nue thus. I must warn Serena. She must know about this dangerous man, what we know. I must speak to Bear. Later. Here is our conversation :— “But, my dear Bear, it will not do. I assure you that something most seriousmay result from it.” “ Well, what then! Could we wish anything better 2 J wish it may be so serious as to come to marriage. I really think these two are very well suited for each other.” «But, is he worthy of such a partner? Do we indeed know that he has not done much worse things than what he didin his youth? There is something in Bruno that prejudices me against him. TI have not confidence in him. I sometimes fancy he were capable of the most revolting deeds. Think, if he prove to be a murderer. . . 3 “ My little Francisca,” said Bear, almost pro- voked to anger, “wherefore do you sufier your- self to be misled by your imagination? Where- fore do you entertain such entirely gratuitous sen- timents respecting a fellow-creature? You are now unjust, Francisea.” “ Pardon me, angel, but you are you not all too lenient? Entirely gratuitous ? Why, we know that he has stolen.” a G6 THE NEIGHBOURS. a eee « And have you never stolen anything-—when a child ?” I paused, reflected, blushed, and was put to silence. From the innocent period of my child- hood, rose, spectre-like, a host of biscuits, confec- tions, pieces of ribbon, a certain little box of pearls, &c, and deposed against me. “ Yes, Bear, [ have stolen—I confess my sins, but at fifteen I stole no more.” “ Call to remembrance the circumstances amid which Bruno grew up. Almost all children err a little on this point, but a good education, a judi- cious mode of treatment, stifies the dangerous, and yet so natural impulse, to appropriate to one’s- self that which takes the fancy. Bruno was dealt with injudiciously, and ought to be judged accord- ingly. At all events, his last lines addressed to me, testify that he had acknowledged his error, and would abstain from it. And assuredly, the fearful lesson which the last scene with his mother gave him, has driven him from that path.” I sighed, and said : “ At any rate, we have seen that he shoots down him who will not acquiesce in his will. He who isso barbarous towards horses, may he so towards men also.” “ There is, however, an immensely great differ- ence, Fanny. I wish by no means to defend Bruno’serrors. Yes, he is wild and unreasonable, at times. Even now, as in his youth, he is not strong in principle, and fanciful, but not evil-dis- posed,: On the contrary, his heart is warm, and Tam persuaded that he will become a good man. It is just such an angel as Serena who ean obtain power over him, and make him kind and reasonable, while she, at the same time, makes him happy,” “ My little Bear, you talk very finely, but I am by no means satisfied. Ought we not, at all events, to make Serena acquainted with him she is sur-. rendering herself to? Ought she not to know what we know about his youth and his adven- tures ?’’ “Wherefore ? For what purpose? If she loves him, this will not estrange her from him. But as his partner, it might be painful to her to know that Bruno once merited the contempt of his kin- dred. Atany rate, none but Bruno himself shall apprise her of it. Hye to eye, heart to heart, much may be said and reconciled.” “Ah, if we did but know something more of Bruno’s later career !” “{ have heard his story, I have seen his papers. Everything is correct, and in due order. T have seen letters to him from several distin- guished persons. They tell entirely in his favour. Besides—even if he should have erred—do we not plainly perceive in him a desire after good- ness? Our Master would not reject him—and you, Francisca, would !” ‘Ah! no, no, Bear ; but Serena .... .” “Think of Bruno’s warm heart, his great taients, nay, his genius, and then—his large for- tune, Wherefore should not Serena be happy with him 2?” “ Ah, Bear, that which makes a partner happy, that which sheds beauty on a home, is not a man’s fortune, is not his talents, not even the fire in his soul—_this may also consume domestic peace— no, 2 wiie’s happiness is this, that her husband be 68 2 man of probity, kind-hearted, sensible, equitable, and orderly——like you, Bear.”’ We disputed no longer. * oe FRAGMENT OF A LETTER FROM BRUNO ANTONIO DE R. M. TO I approached her without design. I wished merely to gaze at the beauty of her countenance, the light of innocence that rested upon it like a serene sky; I wished merely to listen to her voice, her words,—all the impersonation of grace. What the freshness of the waves, the tones of song—what the endearments of my mother had been to me—such was her presence. I felt a complacency of spirit at sound of her voice ; at- sight of her glance every painful feeling subsided, every unholy thought,--I became a better man. Not her, not myself, but the power that im- planted voleanic fire in the depth of my being, bears the blame of this feeling, suddenly becoming a consuming flame. But I love her not if I have loved before. No Serena had stood previously on my night-like way, She engages my first, pure affection. Precisely because she is so dissimilar to the women I have hitherto sought and won, precisely for this reason, it is that Serena is so fascinating to me. Her gentle, virgin-like dignity, which stamps her manner and actions with such a beau- tiful propriety, binds me to her like some magic power. Precisely because all coquetry is so dis- tant from—lI feel a desire to fall upon my knees and adore her. My eyes rest with inconceivable rapture on that mouth which no wanton kiss has ever desecrated, which no word of anger, or un- truth, has polluted. Purtty—a word I have learned too late to appreciate,—purity is the heaven that irradiates her brow, the spirit that proceeds from her, and on account of that purity it is that I adore her; I who... .. yes, I can worship her, and in this is my salvation. What is there beautiful, what divine, that is not at the same time pure ? Light, virtue, heaven-—- eternal luminaries ! Dark has been my life; but you are dear to me through her. Serena stands before me, and with her all the angels of this life; those I have dishonoured and despised ;—the unostentatious virtues, peace, family life, hallowed ties, which I have mistaken ' and defamed, how entrancingly do they beckon me back through her. Do not tell me it is too late. I have rioted amid the throng of life’s turbulent magic forms. Like Faust, I have danced with the witches of the Blockberg, and the body of the one I enfolded in my embrace was ashes, and out of the mouth of the other whom I kissed, sprang forth a disgust- ing thing; the third was transformed into a snake in my arms, and thus I stood on the steep precipice of my way, and looked around me, and all was frightful and dark. In me there was still the same restless fire and the same thirst, but they sought other sources. I required a vigorous and full eareer. In battle, in conflict with furious elements, I felt a higher power, a more potent vitality within me; but then all was—such inanity, such inanity. J anticipated not that the fulness of existence could be found on a human breast eee EEE ———E—————E—E——_——————————————E | | } 67 A. human bosom expansive in its sympathies, and full of love as heaven itself; faithful, gentle, pure -——O, there is a world to live in, complete, beautiful, eternal. There the fire of the spirit is defecated without being damped; disquietude calmed, power invigorated and made more firm. If a companion, with a heart thus great and affec- tionate, went at my side, if her celestial spirit moved like a breeze of spring over my soul, every hour of the day ; if she diffused the purity and harmony of her character through my every day accompaniments, if I could support myself on her as O God, I cannot say, a mother’s breast, for mine rejected me. But could I press a partner to my heart, in a firm and enduring embrace, and say from the depth of my soul: “ You are an angel, and you are mine ;”—O do you not think, that things past might be recon- ciled, bitter recollections blotted out, that the vacillating heart might be made steady in an elevated affection ; don’t you think that a fresh paradise might spring up from ground now lying waste ? I look upon Serena—and I must deem this pos- sible. I have said to myself: “She must be mine, if I am to find peace on earth.” But she, the pure, the good, the amiable,—will it be possible for her to love me, will she be willing to unite her fateto my own? And those who have authority over her, who value, above all things, purity of character, the civil and domestic virtues, will they consent to give the most beautiful and precious of their possessions to a man whose re- putation has been spotted from his childhood, whose life is enveloped in obscurity ? I hear these questions from you, and this is my answer : There is a something in me—call me pre- sumptuous, haughty, or what you will,—but I know that there is a something in me which no one can resist so easily; a strength of purpose, a will that can break through iron, a fire that can clear away all things to burn in that atmosphere it seeks. I have often verified this, nobody has been able to resist me, save my mother. For my blood also flows in her veins. But we have not yet decided our struggle, my mother. I have seen my mother. She did not recognise me, and scarcely did I recognise her. She was a beautiful woman. She is greatly altered, and, it seems to me, not merely by age. I wished to make an attempt to see her ; I was forced to see her; but when I stood there like a stranger before her, when I heard her well-known voice— I did not endure it. I know not when I shall discover myself to her. She has in no wise been prepared for this, neither have I. My feelings rise in violent and painful commotion in her presence, therefore I avoid meeting her—for a time. I love and fear, I pine and fly. And in a conflict painful as this I stood, when Serena passed before me; I seated myself beside her, and from that moment became calmer, A ray of hope and light glimmered upon me. Though my mother ..... my mother should not pardon. ..... Cain had committed a heavier crime than I ; his mother’s curse rested upon him, and yet—in the desert, whither he wandered, his com- ' panion followed him. With him went a concilia- tory angel, 69 affection for thee, I would compassionate thee ; for I feel that my eyes have not rested upon thee in vain, But I will love thee as no woman has ever been loved. I wili surround thee with all the charms of existence. Each day will be made happier through thee, and thy generous nature shall be sustained by blessings. Hagar shall submit to her fate. She has long ceased to demand any- thing of me, and that too she must do if we are to remain together. She will and must, without murmuring, see herself happy with another. She knows me, she will not venture .... Let her be accursed if she breathe a venomous breath upon her who... . But I grow wild when I think of this woman, and this I do not wish to be. Good, affectionate I would be,—just what Serena desires. ‘There is still goodness and tenderness in me, the source is not yet defiled beyond resto- ration ;—it desires nothing more strongly than to be purified—but an angel must move upon the surface of its waters. But can an angel approach him whom the eurse.... My mother, if she should not pardon! Thoughts, fatal to all peace, vulture that gnawest at my heart, away, away ! Soon all will be said and decided, for my soul yearns after certainty. It were, perhaps, more prudent to defer it, to await the result of time; —but this I cannot and will not do. I ever carried my fortune by storm. May it be so in the present case also. —- =the TENTH LETTER. FRANCISCA W. TO MARIA L. Rosenvik, August 17. Yesterday was an extraordinary, rich, gay and yet unpleasant day. Wespentitat Ramm. We, together with several] of the neighbours, were invited there. Ma chére mére was also of this number ; but she declined, alleging in excuse, that she had not accepted any invitation for several years, and could make no exception then. Serena had spent the previous day with her grand-parents, and was to accompany them to Ramm, whither they were pressingly invited by Bruno, who, on account of the new school and several other matters, had placed himself in a close connexion with the aged Dahl. On our arrival at Ramm, we found everything unchanged with respect to external appearances ; the trees grew as formerly, wild and _thick-set around the blackened walls. Bruno came out on to the steps and received us with grave friendli- ness. He has at times something so prepossessing in his countenance. Bear was moved and pale as he shook his brother’s hand. Not one of us said anything, and in silence Bruno ushered me up into the rooms, the luxury of whose furniture threw me into astonishment. But my dear Serena soon fettered my entire attention, I fancied I had never seen her look so beautiful. The light blue muslin dress, the tulle neckerchief which was thrown. over her snow-white neck, all became her so well, and her innocent countenance was radiant with health and cheerfulness. “ Rosenvik and I have some share in those rose-tints,” thought I, with perfect self-complacency, The Patriarchs also said the kindest of things to me on this subject. 68 The guests assembled. Lagman Hék and Miss Hellevi Husgafvel came together in the désobli- geant. Just as we were about to sit down to dinner, the sound of another visitor’s arrival was | heard in the court-yard, and to my astonishment, I caught sight of a cabriolet drawn by an Oelandic horse, and driven by a young damsel, who made a superb turn round the court with her equipage, smacked her whip and pulled up before the door. “Ha, ha, ha! that’s Mally, my little Mally,” laughed the Major, who was standing with me at the window. “ Yes, yes, she makes a figure in the world. She has taste in horses .... we should suffer children to follow their own inclina- tions, Madame Werner ; it makes them fresh in spirit and vigorous. It is not proper to coerce them ; they grow knowing soon enough. I know this myself.” At this moment Mally entered with her hair disordered, and gait alike wanton and awkward. Mrs. Von P. cast a glance first at her and then at her daughters, which seemed to say : “Thank heaven ! my daughters have breeding and education.” My good Brita Kajsa, though an admirer of what is natural, coloured when her daughter entered, and looked dissatisfied. “How you look !” said she, putting her hair and dress into order. “Oh, oh, mama, you hurt me,” cried Mally, grinning. Bruno led Madame Dahl totable. The rest followed in pairs. The dinner was splendid. Bruno will spoil the simple manners of this part of the country by such examples of luxury. I will tell him so. Bruno was an agreeable host. In his attentions to the old Dahls there was some- thing reverential and filial, which beseemed him well. Serena appeared to observe this with delight. From the dinner table we were ushered by Bruno into the garden, in which two large tents had been erected. The comfort of the Patriarchs seemed to liave been provided for with the greatest care. In one of the tents two easy chairs were placed for them, and the floor was covered with costly carpet. Outside, in front of it, a fountain cast forth its fresh, flashing jet. Orange trees loaded with bloom and fruit stood around at some distance, and each light breath of air wafted their balsamic fragrance to us. I was enraptured with this entire arrangement, which was rendered more grateful by the unusual warmth of the day. My imagination transported me into an ideal world ; I pictured to myself a nomadic state of life in natural scenery like this, and shepherdesses like Serena, and patriarchs, and tents,,and orange- groves,and.... But. at that very instant Mrs. von P. came rushing to me, and exclaimed: “ Ah, how charming is all this, my dear Madame Werner. Count L. and we had exactly such tents at Gus- tafsberg. One day they were at our house, the next we were at theirs, tout familiérement. I was uncommonly gay. The L.’s and we had little intercourse with the other circles. We were sufficient to one another. Ah, 1 should indeed like to know how our mutual friend, the dear Baroness H., finds herself. A charming person. She and I amused ourselves so together. Of course, we have seen each other very often in the great world, and have a multitude of ac- quaintances in common,” “Tt is quite warm here,” said I. (in the ° nn THE NEIGHBOURS. tent it was pleasantly cool, but Mrs. von P.’s dis- course made it'sultry to me.) I rose; my perse- eutor did the same, Just without the tent we met Bruno. Mrs. von P. fell upon him with: “4% mon cher Monsieur Romilly, c'est charmant, c'est charmant, cest charmant. Your park is divine! What tints on those trees! What groups there ! What perspective ! Look, my excellent Madame Werner, through the arch of that bridge there, what effect! No, you must stoop a little lower still, alittle lower ..... beneath these branches et 516 iniait's is it not divine? (1 was well nigh breaking my neck.) What an ensemble, what effect!” Bruno bowed profoundly to Mrs. von P. and betook himself into the tent. I thought: O, that this affectation in some people should mar even the enjoyment of nature to others. Mrs. -von P.’s “tints and effect ” had spoiled the entire beautiful scene to me. At this moment I heard a loud shouting, and on my hastening to the part whence it proeeeded, I saw the Adamites who had plucked flowers and fruits from the orange-trees, and were then resisting the tangible interference of some young gentlemen. “Here we have the state of nature,” thought I with a sigh. Brita Kajsa came out, dealt cuffs and blows among her brood, and peace was for this once restored, and we could enjoy coffee and its train of delicacies in quiet. Bruno proposed an airing in the park, and in a short time two open carriages drove up. They were for the older persons present ; the younger were to go on foot. Bruno offered Serena his arm. The aged Dahls, Bear and I, got into one carriage. The Major’s lady, who sat with Mrs. von P. in the other, wished to have her children with her; but the Adamites eried and would not ride, and were therefore put under the supervision of their sister Mally during the pro- menade. We drove off ; the weather was beautiful, the drive would have been pleasant, if I could have forborne thinking of Bruno and Serena. “ Will he say anything to her?” thought I, “and what will he say ?” The Patriarchs had their afternoon nap in the slightly rocking carriage. Bear sat silent and thoughtful. In this way we went on for about an hour and a half. As we were coming back we saw the pedestrians also returning in various groups. On Serena’s entering the room with Bruno, I was troubled, for I immediately saw that something had occurred. Serena was pale and excited, Bruno’s countenance and eyes were, on the contrary, full of beaming life. After greeting us, and inquiring of the aged people whether the drive had been agreeable to them, the carriage soft enough, &c., he sat down at the organ and made the powerful instrument peal forth its tones. There were the same power, the same spirit, the same deep inspiration, that transported me that evening on the lake, and they now laid hold of my inmost feelings, as then. The Misses von P. walked arm-in-arm in the next room, gossiped and laughed incessantly with some gentlemen, and were visibly only occupied with themselves. Mrs. von P. had fallen into vehement talk with Jane Marie, nor can I understand how Jane Marie, who is musical, could sit chatting during such music. It was more natural that Miss Hellevi Husgafvel, who has no taste whatever ar ae i ise gin be sede dibs ain AA aid ded clndd dp lee tee pd for the art of sound, should linger with Lagman THE NEIGHBOURS. 69 Hék, contemplating some fine pictures. Bruno, however, was not without devoted auditors, Among these were Bear, the Patriarchs, and Serena, who now sate between them. I was seated so that I could discern Bruno’s features. At this moment they were peculiar, full of boldness, suffering, and affection. That which was here depicted he poured forth in a fantasia, in which all his feel- ings, powers, pangs, and joys seemed struggling with each other, and the conflict rose to despera- tion ;—then Br uno made a singular and bold transition, and in tones that reminded you of the words “Let there be light,” he fell into one of the most splendid arias of Haydn’s “Creation,” in which is expressed in tones as in words how the elements range themselves to order under the eye of the Creator. I looked at Serena. Deep emo- tion but at the same time a bright tranquillity lay upon her countenance. Ah, it isin such moments as these that we comprehend the fulness of exis- tence, that heaven opens to our souls; they mount thither on the wings of harmony, embrace all the angels of life, comprehend all the love ef Ged, all the beauty of the creation, and are ready to die of bliss. Bruno’s voice properly speaking is not a fine one ; but it is strong, manly, and expressive. It bespeaks a powerful mind. “O Bruno,” thought I, “ have you received such beautiful gifts to abuse them! Is it that you are able to sing the pure glory of existence, and not appropriate it to your own spirit and exhibit it in your life ?” The music ceased. Bruno’s auditors sat in silence with tears starting from their eyes ; even Miss Adele von P. stood in astonishment and as if spell-bound at the door. Then came the luckless Mrs. yon P. and overwhelmed Bruno with reflec- tions on his skill, and on ancient and modern composers. “ Weber,” said she, “is bizarre, Rossini poor in melodies ; Meyerbeer excels both; he is, so to speak, de prince de la musique.” The aged Madame Dahl evinced her satisfaction in another way ; she pressed Bruno’s hand, and said cordially: ‘you have made the old young again. Ihave not had such a pleasure for a long time, and thank you for it with all my heart.” «Tam happy to hear it,” said Bruno, kissed her hand reverentially, and sat down beside her. Ait this instant a loud noise was heard in the saloon ; it proceeded from the Adamites, who had just then returned from the wood, dirty, seratched, but with exuberant animal spirits. They had star- tled roe-bucks, killed a snake, caught a young squir- rel which they led home in triumph, Brita Kajsa sought to damp this Adamite joy; she succeeded in this, but only partially with Mally. The two younger children sprang about shouting and making a noise, clambered on chairs and sofas with their dirty feet I would ma chére mere had seen it ! while they amused themselves with first let- ting loose the squirrel and then catching it. Their parents at last did not at all concern themselves any more about their unruly manners, but Serena and I gave each other a nod and interfered in the matter. The upshot was that I released the squirrel, while Serena, half seriously, half play- fully, dvew the children to her, and she contrived to keep them quiet, while she cut them a number of equipages and other figures out of paper, and : herein also displayed her skill in taming wild nature. The sprightly Miss Hellevi, who likes to keep people astir, proposed some social gambols, and we set the game of forfeits afloat, which soon became roost merry sport. A great number of forfeits was collected, and during their redemption Miss Hellevi was conspicuous for her cheerful and facetious sallies. Bear’s being obliged te dance was indescribably amusing ; I have never laughed so heartily. You should but have seen his droll gravity and grimaces. “What shall the possessor of this forfeit do?” was the next question. “ He shall tell us a little story,” answered Miss Hellevi. The forfeit belonged to me, and without any reflection I began to relate what first occurred tome. It was the following little legend :— “ Two little boys went one holy-day down to the river, which flowed at no great distance from their father’s house ; there they heard the sounds of beautiful music, and saw Wecken* seated upon the blue waves in the shade of the alder trees, playing upon the harp, and singing with unrestrained joy. After listening a long while to the music, the boys exclaimed : ‘What does it profit you, Necken, that you sing so beautifully? you can, notwithstanding, never become happy.’ On hearing these words Necken threw away his harp, and sunk into the depth of the water.” Here I paused, for having accidentally looked up at Bruno, I encountered a glance from his eye so piercing, gloomy, and sad, that I was silenced as it were by it. Some moments elapsed before I could continue :— “ When the boys returned home they apprised their father of what had happened. The latter rebuked them for speaking so harshly to Necken, and told them that they were in the wrong, for Necken also might one day be happy. ‘‘The evening of the apt WINE day the boys again went down to the river; they heard no more sweet music, but they saw Necken’ who was seated in the shade of the alder trees weeping : and they called out to him: ‘Do not weep, Necken, our father says that you also will one day become hap- py.’ Then Necken wept no more, but took his harp again, and played and sang most beautifully till the night was far advanced. 3 Again I glanced at Bruno—he was pale ; those extraordinary eyes of his were fixed upon me, as before. But this time they were suffused with tears. “ Madame Werner shall have her forfeit again, and praise and thanks to boot for the beautiful legend,” said Miss Hellevi. Several forfeits followed, and were redeemed with all sorts of amusing things. The redemption of one was to be effected by the owner’s declaiming something in prose or verse. It was a silk pocket- -handkerchief, and Miss Hellevi, who caught sight of it, asked: ‘Does not this belong to our host 1 “Yes,” eried Mally Staalmark, with a loud voice ; « but I took it because I hadn’t anything myself to give as a forfeit.” ‘éMally makes a figure in the world,” thought I. “The law of the game must stand inviolate,” eX- claimed Miss Hellevi; “ the possessor of the forfeit * A Water Spirit among the ancient Scandinavians. ee ee rae 79 must redeem it. Mr. Romilly you have heard judgment pronounced.” “¢ But I had no part in the game,” answered the latter evasively. “ But now you have,” cried Miss Hellevi with zeal, and when Madame Dahl also uniting with her, begged him to fulfil the condition of the game, he kindly consented. He rose, made no preparations, and yet was in an instant entirely transformed, as he stood there august and calm, absorbed as it were in the gloomy investigations of a subtle spirit. At his first gesture, his first word, a thrill shot through me ; the scene was truth itself: it was from himself, his own cloud-enveloped mind, that Bruno recited Hamlet’s celebrated soliloquy : “To be or not to be ;—that is the question.” In truth Bruno is no ordinary man, is endowed with no ordinary gifts, and yet how much higher does my Bear stand, viewed as a man. A long silence ensued in the room when Bruno had ceased speaking, and it seemed difficult to return to the amusements of life, after this glance into its depths. Meanwhile it had grown late, and the aged Dalils, who would not stay supper at Ramm, took leave of their host, whom they thanked with great cordiality for the agreeable day. They also took Serena with them, and promised duly to set her down at Rosenvik. Bruno accompanied them to the carriage; when they had left everything seemed to grow tedious to me, and in order to _get away from the everlasting game of forfeits, I asked Adele von P., who happened to sit next to me, if she would not go down with me into the park; she acceded with zeal. I took her arm, and we went out: the evening was beautiful; the twilight silence, everything that surrounded us, seemed to invite us to those pleasantly serious thoughts light and company so readily dissipate. * How beautiful it is here,’ said I. “ Yes,” answered Adele, “ for here is seriousness, truth.” I started a little at the stress with which these words were pronounced, and gazed at my com- panion. Adele von P. pursued with emotion : “ Madame Werner, you have doubtless hitherto thought mea superficial, silly person ; and I now perceive that such I have been. But this day strange feelings haye been roused within me ; I feel humiliated and yet exalted ... I fain would begin again to live to learn ... | would fain return to nature and truth of character.” “ You would like to return from affectation to real nature, would you not?” said I. “ You would like to apprehend and reflect life inits full signifieancy.” “Yes... think so. I have at times had a misgiving that my education has been mere vain display but now— —when I am more strongly impressed with this, so mueh time has been lost . «+ Heaven knows whether I shall be able to attain to clearness.” “Have no doubt upon the subject,” said I zealously. “Do but retain this impression, and maintain the aspiration which has this day been roused within you.” At this moment an anxious troubled voice was heard in the park, calling out: “ Adele, Adele!” | Adele answered, and Mrs, von P. came running | Se eee ee re EES SOE TNE ee THE NEIGHBOURS. up to us, exclaiming with visible alarm: “ Adele, my little angel, you here without shawl and with that cough ! and the dew and the night air. My sweet child, wherefore do you act thus ? come up. stairs, I entreat you but you must not go so thinly clad ; you must take my shawl, I need it less. than you.” And notwithstanding her daughter’s refusal, she wrapped her own shawl about her and carefully drew it round her chest ; mother and daughter kissed each other heartily during this operation, and hastened into the house together. Had I formerly thought Madame von P. ridicu- lous ? I forgot it entirely at this moment ; I saw only the tender amiable mother, and I thought: “ This is water for Bear’s mill. Did Madam Von St pm PEST SENT P. know how truly poetical and interesting she but ~ now was, she would scorn to appear in any other light.” Meanwhile I was left alone in the park, and while returning slowly, I fell in with young Rohert Staalmark, who was walking up and down, talking to himself. He bore me company, and, after a short time, said with an expression of displeasure on his face : “ It is, though, a foolish thing to have no accomplishments, to understand nothing, to be able to do nothing, that forms part of ....” « What is called a liberal education ?’ said I in- terrogatively. (This evening I thought myself chosen to extend a helping hand to people.) “ Ay indeed,” auswered young Robert ; “I hear so much said about nature and nature, but still it would net be contrary to reason to improve her by a little art, a little education.” “ Yes, we must draw a distinction between na- ture in its indigence and rude state, and nature enlightened.” Robert leoked at me with one of those animated, intelligent glances, which betoken that a thought has become clear to their possessor ; but imme- diately afterwards he said with a melancholy ex- pression, “ Yes, if I were not so old;.... but now it is certainly best to banish all such thoughts from one’s head.” “Whatthoughts?” Linquired eagerly ; “thoughts about an accomplishment, or a liberal education ? Excellent Robert, to possess an accomplishment in any one of the fine arts, is, comparatively, but an unimportant matter ; but the capacity to love and appreciate what is beautiful,—the capacity of enjoying the society of educated people,—ability to create for one’s-self a career replete with inte. rest ; this is no slight matter, and you are still young enough to train yourseif to this. Let no amount of trouble induce you to close to yourself one of the richest sources of happiness existence affords.” We had now arrived at the top of the steps, and I heard Robert say, as it were apart: “No, no, that I will not. I will be serious in the matter. It shall be different yet.’ ; These two little scenes occasioned me joy. Sud- denly and strangely the noble germ that lies torpid in the human soul is sometimes awakened to life. Bruno’s potent spirit had, as it were with magic power, roused two beings to a higher consciousness of themselves. Thus the manifestation of each noble faculty of the seul is a call to “rise” to other human spirits. But to return to Ramm and supper. I was 02 ) THE NEIGHBOURS. glad when it was over, and so too was Bruno, un- | standing all grounds for consolation) it went to my questionably. He was no more like the man he had been in the course of the day than November is like May. His eye-brows were contracted, and it seemed to cost him trouble to sustain the part of the courteous host to the end of the drama. : How sweet it was when the cab was again rolling on tewards Rosenvik, and I could in Bea’s hear- ing disburthen myself of all the accounts I have now written down. In clear moonlight we got home. I found Se- rena in the ante-room. She was standing at the open window with her face directed towards Ramm. I went up to her and wound my arm round her. She leant her head against mine. The evening breeze blew cool, but mild, bringing with it melo- dious tones. They came from Ramm. I felt a tear fall upon my breast. Serena’s lips touched my cheeks as she whispered: “My good, dear Fanny. I must leave you. I have been too long away trom my home. Let me return to my aged parents to-morrow.” “ Serena, my angel,” I exclaimed with alarm, “what is amiss? What has occurred ? Where- fore ?” “ Ask not,” Serena entreated, putting her deli- cate hand, hot with fever, upon mine. “ Ask not. Some day I will tell you all; at present I cannot. Let me go to-morrow early with Dr. Werner.” “¢ And what will your grand-parents say, if. . .”’ *¢] shall tell them how it is; [ shall satisfy them. Do not be uneasy, good Fanny. They will be satisfied, they... .” “Yes, they! That I certainly do not doubt,’ { interrupted her, in an abominable temper, “ they who will learn all ;—but I, who am to lose you and learn nothing—I? You have no confidence in me, Serena. You do not love me... .” Serena flung her arm round my neck and said : *O Fanny, you hurt me. You know I have had no friend whom I have loved like you. What I now conceal from you, I will disclose to no other. But one day I shall have no secret for those who are dear to me.”’ “It is well, my dear Serena. I was naughty just now. Pardonme. But, you see,Serena... You are become dear to meas a sister ; your wel- fare is as much at my heart as if it were my own, and....and....’’ I began to weep like a child. So Serena. Thus we were discovered by Bear, who chided us for having the window open. After he had closed it, he took my hand and’ Se- rena’s, and with a look of kind concern, inquired ‘what made us so sad 2”? ' * Ah, she is going away from us, Bear. Serena wishes to go home early to-morrow morning.” Bear then looked so confounded that 1 was a little alarmed, and thought: “ Well, well, it is no national calamity, that should strike him with paralysis.” But Bear’s countenance changed again, and with his usual good-natured composure he said: “ Well, if she goes away, she will doubtless return again.” The possibility of this I had almost forgotten in my anxiety, and, half comforted again, I exclaimed: “Oh yes, Serena. You will scon, soon come again, will you not? You will not stay long away ?” : But J will not waste paper by writing question and answer on this subject, and closely (notwith- ‘3 heart to separate from Serena; for I saw well that she would come no more to me this year to stop any length of time. At seven o’clock this morning she drove off, sitting with a large bouquet of flowers in her hand, beside Bear, who in an undertone to himself beshrewed a great basket of berries, which he had got between his feet. There is such vacuity here after Serena's depar- ture. I endeavour to forget it while oceupying myself with writing; but I cannot. One cannot describe what complacency, what spring a being like her diffuses around, She was ever so friendly, so transparent in spirit, so good. I was better while living with her. Through her I learned to bestow attention upon mucl: good that is about me and in life. At present we shall write to each other every day. This is something at all events. Bear will be postman. I am rejoicing at the prospect of receiving a note through him to-day. But yet I shall not get at Serena’s secret. This saddens and troubles me. —~- A STRANGE LADY TO THE READER. DEAR AND CURTOUS READER,—Availing myself of an excuse which has been made before, and compassionating that great pain in which you, I presume, participate with Madame Werner, I, who, strange enough, know this thing and that more than has come to the knowledge of our good Doe- tor’s lady—I will now, in confidence, tell you a word about the secret. Madame Werner, as she has already recounted, is taking a drive inthe park at Ramm. We—the reader and I—are quietly following the pedes- trians in theirstroll. During this we observe how the Misses von P., notwithstanding their great pride, condescend to jest with the brothers Staalmark in a manner which bespeaks neither refinement nor sensibility. From hence we perceive that false education and coarseness often shake hands. But we tarry not long in the contempla- tion of this picture, destitute alike of grace and attitude. We prefer to look after Bruno, who is escorting Serena with a degree of respect and care, which plainly reveals to thy glance, clear. sighted reader, what it is, and what are the feelings of which it is the expression. They are followed by the Adamites, amid laughter and roystering. “ Support yourself more upon my arm,” Bruno solicits, with a low melodious voice. ‘ Let me be your stay, allow me to think, at least for a moment, that L am something to you.” They walked on in silence ; gently the wood murmured around them, stooping his crown of luxuriant foliage. At that time the presiding feeling in Bruno’s spirit—and he has often said that it was precisely this feeling which made him so happy at Serena’s side—was a tranquillity he rarely enjoyed. Something of her meekness and serenity of character seemed to be transfused into him ; he felt as if his good genius were near him, and that beneficent elevation of spirit, those friendly sentiments, those pure thoughts, that vague and yet so potent hope of a better future, those glad May-anticipations which are alien to no heart that beats in a luman breast ;—all these came like angels greeting his spirit. Then there ea ran a en nn SO Tn Sn Ns SD aT ae 49 THE NEIGHBOURS. arose within him a voice—it was that of repentance —exclaiming: “Weep at what is past, what: is lost.” But another, sweet and powerful, like the mercy of the Eternal, cried more loudly, “ Doubt not, for she is near.” And then he looked upon her countenanee—it was so friendly and bright— and he saw nought but her. All at once the Adamites raised a loud shout of joy and bounded into the wood. Sister Mally called them back, while she herself pursued. A roebuck ran timidly on before them. All dis- appeared; Bruno was now alone with Serena. The latter paused moveless with irresolution. They were just then standing near a lofty oak 5 its stem was circled with a fresh bank of verdure, and flowers were planted around; the place, to all _ appearance, was carefully kept. “Will you not rest here fora moment?” asked Bruno. “ We can here await our little friends, who will no doubt return to us.” Serena acceded, and sat down. Bruno stood before her and attentively followed her glances, which rested in contemplation of the scene, and at the same time betokened awakening recollections. “ T think I again recognise this place, this tree,” she at length said. “ Yes ; here it was, most cer- tainly, where many years ago I stood in great danger. Iwas then only a little child ; a snake had wound itself about my neck. It would pro- bably have stifled me, had nota little boy’s courage and presence of mind saved me, though he himself was in peril by doing so.” “ You call this occurrence to mind ?” inquired Bruno, deeply moved. “ He also remembers it,” “He? What? Who? How have you this know- ledge?” .. . Serena asked with astonishment, and quickly. “He is my friend, he has frequently told me about the child he was wont to bear about on his arms in the park at Ramm.” “O, is he still alive?... Where is he? What do you know concerning him?” asked Serena with vivid emotion. “ He is alive. were not alive. His life has brought joy to no one. But itis not permitted that his unquiet heart shall rest ere he has found a better one with which to unite hisown. He made early trial of misfortune —crime, too ; he was—rejected by his mother—he then roughed it about for a long time in the world, and struggled with men, with life, and himself. He sought—he knew not what—he had lost himself at an early age. He who has.the bosom ofa mother or a partner on which to rest ; he who has a dear sister to take by the hand; knows not, comprehends not the desolation, the darkness of which that man is sensible, who has no one in the entire wide world that loves him, or preserves him in love, who calls to him with tenderness : ‘Come again.’ No one who will press the repentant one upon his breast and say: ‘I pardon.’ He who is thus east away....is it to be wondered if he, ship- wrecked in heart, roams about a prey to all the winds of fate, and astray? ... Serena, would you condemn him ?” “7% Ah, I would weep over him.” “Do weep over him, Serena. He blesses those tears, and he—is not unworthy of them. Bruno erred, but he sank not. An invisible hand held him up. Was it the angel that secretly whispered to him of | Perhaps it would be better if he | % fairer and better world? This. I will believe. Certain it isthat he never forgot her. In his sweetest recollections, in his best feelings, in the depth of his spirit, she was present in the bright-. ness of innocence ...O Serena, if he now stood before you and said: ‘That attachment of his childhood has become love, real, eternal love ; those recollections are reality. They are dear to me, Serena, dear as reconciliation with my mother, as hope of heaven’s grace ; dearer, a thousand times dearer, than life.’ Serena, it is Bruno, the friend of your childhood, who now adores you here.” (And with boundless affection Bruno sank upon his knee before his dearly beloved one.) “ It is Bruno who is before you petitioning for his peace, his felicity, his life. Serena, do you reject me?” “Omy God!... Bruno!” exclaimed Serena in unspeakable agitation of mind, and extended her hand to him. He clasped it ardently in his own, and with a look, a tone of voiee that seemed potent to call to light secrets that lie hid in the depths of the soul, asked: “Is it compassion ... is it love that is extended to ine with this hand ?” “Tt-is ... not compassion .. . ah, do rise.” Voices were heard, steps drew near. Bruno pressed Serena’s hand to his breast as he rose, saying : “ Preserve my secret. The hour is not yetcome...” He could sayno more. Miss Hellevi Husgafvel, at the head of a troop of sprightly pedestrians, joined them and quitted them no more. In the evening, while conducting Serena to the carriage, he held her back for a moment and said to her in an audible whisper : “ A word—a word. Not compassion—it was a finer sentiment : Serena, a word, alook.. .” But Serena spoke ne word, gave no look in answer. She drew her hand out of Bruno’s, and timid as the bird flies to its nest, she hastened to her age-stricken parents. Bruno looked darkly after the carriage as it rolled away. And I, my reader, now take a kind farewell of thee. > ELEVENTH LETTER. BPRANCISCA W. TO MARIA L. Rosenvik, 22nd August. The cloud that lowered upon us has descended stillnearer. There will be a storm most certainly. May heaven only dispose it to blessing, and not destruction. Serena was gone ; aud with her much joy, much pleasure. Bruno. He came of an evening as usual, but he was no longer like himself. He wouid enter, greet us in a gloomy manner, walk up and down in a troubled state, or seat himself near the spot where Serena was wont to sit, and support his head on his hand. In this manner he would sit a long while in silence, and only the vein which swelled high upon his forehead, gave evidence of the struggle within him. Bear would often fix upon him that quiet atten- tive look of the physician, which seems to.examine the course of the inward conflict, and await the moment of the crisis. I was friendly, yes, friendly as a sister towards No one felt this more deeply than .- ——————————— THE NEIGHBOURS. Bruno, for I saw that he suffered, and was un- | happy. At times he appeared as if he wished to express something ; I fancied he wished to solicit or confess something that pressed heavily upon his heart. But not a word came forth toenlighten us upon this, and each conversation we commenced with him ke put an end to by abrupt answers, or remaining perfectly mute. I must say, however, that no bad temper—that demen through whose instrumentality little souls often tyrannise those who have immediate intercourse with them—was exhibited in his address and manner. You saw that it was some deep-seated pain that made him deaf to what was passing about him, and induced his silence. We at last resolved to leave him to himself, and spent our evenings as we usually passed them when we are alone—Bear with his jomery, I by reading aloud to him. Bruno could listen if he would. _ Yesterday evening he came, and was milder than | usual. He tock Bear’s hand and mine, pressed them -and said : “ 1 am no agreeable guest for you, my friends ; but have indulgence towards me.. .” He turned away, hastily left us, and sat down to the piano-forte, on which he played a lively and noisy piece. Tea was brought in. I prepared it, and poured out a large dish for Bear—he has always a par- ticular cup for himself, with ugly, diminutive, blue Cupids, which he likes exceedingly. On my then presenting him this and his kissing my hand with pleasure, { know not how it came—but it often is so—I thought him so neat, so good, so excellent, that IT put aside tea-cup and basket of light bread, laid hold of his large head, and pressed it, with hearty-affection to my breast. Bear laid one arm round my waist, but, O woe is me ! extended the other hand in quest of the basket of fine bread. I was, at that moment, so kindly dis- posed towards him that I merely rallied him with delicate pleasantry upon his divided affection. Bear answered me in the same vein, when a sigh, deep-drawn, painful, and almost resembling a suppressed ejaculation, made us start back ; we looked up and our regards fell upon Bruno; who pale, and with anexpression one could not describe, was observing us. “QO, heaven, kind heaven,” said he slowly, pressing his hand upon his fore- head as in ineffable pain, and then tears flowed,— no, they gushed from his eyes with a vehemence that at once surprised and agitated me. Bear rose, and from a common impulse we both ap- proached Bruno. Now the fence was broken away from before bis heart ; he stretched out. his arms towards us, and exclaimed in a voice that was all at once choked with the most powerful emotion : “ My mother ...a reconciliation with my mother.” Bear and I advanced to him, we opened our arms and embraced him. Bruno was almost be- side himself ; he pressed us with wild impetuosity to his breast, and in abrupt sentences, which were cast up, as it were, from his agitated bosom, he exclaimed : “ Act for me Teannot. There is a malediction upon me speak, prepare my way——if I may come compass things so that when I do come she will not reject me. Tell her that I have suffered a great deal a great deal Jet me rest upon her bosom. Before this I shall obtain no rest-——my mother, my mother ...” 73 We were moved to tears. We spoke to Bruno tender assuaging words of consolation ; we pro- mised to act for him; told him that everything would be well. But the storm which had at last burst forth could not speedily subside. Bruno’s mind was intensely agitated, and after pacing the room a few times with great excitement, he said to us: “J must now leave you. Pardon this scene. Think of me and forme. Let me know what course you pursue, and let what is to be done, be done quickly. Expectation is agony.” A moment afterwards Bruno was seated upon his horse, and vanished with the speed of lightning. Bear and myself stood there vis-a-vis to each other, looking as if the day of judgment had burst upon us. Bear forgot to drink histea. I never before saw him so troubled. This, his state of mind, almost astonished me, for I fancied that—though a difficult one to introduce—the affair must needs have a favourable issue, and the prodigal son be again received into his mother’s house. “ How can it be conceived that a mother should not re- ceive a repentant son who has returned 2.” “ Yes you do not yet rightly know ma chére meére—” said Bear, grinning and spitting ; the latter of which now only happens in extraordinary cases. — She is as it were petrified in certain no- tions, and then her mental distemper ... I hope she will acknowledge and receive her son when she sees him and learns his state of mind. I hope so. But how effect this? How prepare the way with her, when the mere mention of his name distracts her senses ? I would not vouch that her former malady will not return. People like her and her son, through the vehemence of their passions, move constantly on the brink of insanity, A push may cast them into the abyss.” “‘ Heaven preserve us !” I exclaimed. “Viewing the matter in every point of survey,” Bear pursued more calmly, “the attempt at re- conciliation must be made. It were better for mother and son to die in mental alienation than in eninity. But we must go to work cautionsly. Ma chéere mere must first be sounded, her pulse first be felt ; she is not a patient you can treat easily.” We then reflected again and again,in what way we should set about the matter. We projected and rejected a great number of plans. At length we abided by the following : For some time past it has been customary at Carlsfors, sometimes, when assembled in the even- ing, to read romances, or other light and amusing tales. I have usually been reader, and ma chére mere, who does not concern herself greatly about books, except her Bible and Book of Cookery, has, notwithstanding, at times appeared to listen with pleasure. Bear and I now resolved, the next evening we spent together at Carlsfors, to propose reading something, and then to have a story in readiness, which should be of a nature to awaken the feelings of a mother, and enable us to judge of her sentiments towards her son. Should these prove propitious, a farther step might speedily Le taken. Of what character this should be, we were not agreed. I wished that Bruno himself should write to his mother; but Bear rejected this as too violent and uncertain a procedure. Bear appeared disposed rather to place me ina sort of mediatorial capacity, between mother and A at TE ON Pe tn Et nt } Sr a eee ge ae a SR ep Dg a RE aa gE A a a TNL 74 son. “Itisa peculiarity in her,” said he, “ that what she reads on paper never operates im any marked way upon her feelings. She must read the eye, and hear th: voice, if the words directed to her are to reach her heart. You, my Fanny——~” “Thanks, my dear Bear, many thanks for your good opinion. Bitlet me, if possible, be exempted from the commission. I feel that I have not courage enough to go between these two viclent spirits. I might easily be crushed to pieces. Do you still remember the fable of the pot of clay ?” «Well, well, we shall see. There will, more- over, be time enough remaining for thinking about the second step, when the first is taken.” “And for this 1 will instantly gird myself. While you are in the town, I will procure a fitting story, or fabricate one myself.” “ Excellent. Thus we shall have our weapons in readiness for the hour of conflict. But bear in mind, my little Fanny, that the allusions must not be too plain. Should ma chére mere remark a concealed design, she would oppose herself to it immediately.” “7 will do my utmost, Bear. In every case you shall read and review my story, before it is made trial of with ma chére mere.” In the course of the night—we frequently get bright ideas in darkness—my mind beeame clear as to what text I should make use of ; and when Bear had gone off in the morning, I took from my book-case, which Bear had supplied in the best manner, “Frysell’s Stories from Swedish History,” and began to glance through and ponder the his- tory of Erik Stenbock and Malin Sture. The more I reflected on it, the more satisfied I was, and scarcely had I read it through the second time, when there came an invitation from ma chere mere for us to spend the evening at Carlsfors, in the event of our having nothing better to do. I acknowledged it, and said that we would come. From that moment I have been excited almost to fever, and have endeavoured to beguile my trouble of mind, by writing what you here peruse. This very morning, previously to his departure, Bear wrote a few lines to Bruno, to let him know about our plan. The answer which was brought by the messenger to this, I broke open in Bear’s absence, It contained merely the words : “Do what you will.—Bruno.” In the Afternoon. Bear has read the story. He is satisfied with it. We shall drive to Carlsfors. Ah, Maria, this evening! I am oppressed and distressed. I am going to sound the depths of a heart, and much depends upon this point of time. ‘The thought of this operates alike on mind and body. Adieu, adieu. The 23rd. We were at Carlsfors. Evening had come on. The lights were standing upon the green-covered tables in the parlour. We were seated around it, The momentous hour of trial was come; I ex- perienced strange sensations, and all the rest were unusually taciturn and dull. Bear had gota pen- knife into his hand, and, for want of something else, was carving the table. a chéremére rapped his knuckles, and then gave him a bundle of pens to cut. She then took her seat to knit a fishing- 76 ! a ES THE NEIGHBOURS. net; which is her usual evening occupation ; for her eyes are not strong, and endure no fine-work. To me she said: “ Well, little lady, now read your little story; but let it be a merry one. We can have enough in the world here to mourn over, without also weeping at what stands in books.” “TI cannot promise that it will be merry,” an- swered I, “but f think it very interesting, and it is, hesides, historically trne in every particular.” “That is always a recommendation,” said ma chere mere, “and we do weil to regulate our tastes according to the fare.” I began to read : ‘ ERIK STENBOCK AND MALIN STURE. (FROM MALIN’S OWN FAMILY-BOOK.) | In the diocese of Mérkié, in the province of Sidermanland, deep in a bay of the Baltic, lies a small wedge-shapen island. On this rises a rock to the altitude of ninety feet, from which you have a wide prospect over the fields, the Swedish guard-fieet, and the navigable waters around. Hence it became, at an early period, a place of resort for the Vikings, and at the present | day they show you deep cavities in the rock, which, it is thought, were used as places of abode or dungeons. Some are of opinion that it was in this place that, in the time of Jngiald IJliraada, Granmar—F ylkes-king of Sédermanland—received the Viking Hjoward Ylfing, and the fair Hilde- gund, Granmar’s daughter, drank to Hjorward the health of Rolf Krakes. The place is called Sjimonsé (island), which some will construe as Seaman’s-island, Ata later period it was named Hérnings-holm on account of its form, aud was gradually changed into a peninsula by damming. Jt was in succession the property of the races of the Folkungar, Ornefotar, the Ulfvar, and the younger Sturarne, was strongly fortified, and frequently besieged, taken, and razed; the last time was under Christian the Tyrant. Svante Sture, son of Sten Sture the younger, and married to Martha Lejonhufvud, afterwards caused to be erected upon the ancient site a castle, which was as splendid in point of architecture as it was strong by its situation and style of fortifi- cation, On many fathoms cf foundation-walls rests the four-storied castle, furnished with firm towers at each angle, An idea of Sture’s wealth, and, generally, of the nobility of that period, may be formed, when we read that at the marriage of Sigrid Sture with Thuré Persson Bjelke, in the year 1562, 50 tierces of wine, 4 casks of mead, 12 casks of cherry-brandy, 14 of mast, 8 ves- sels of mulled ale, 20 barrels of ale, 45 oxen, 200 sheep, 21 head of swine, 17 calves, 453 pots of honey, &¢., were consumed. In con- sequence of the confiscation of church property, a great number of possessions had escheated to the nobles, and especially to Sture, the only scion of so many families once so mighty. This wealth, the untarnished splendour of the name of Sture, the affinity with Gustav Wasa, and the dis- tinguished abilities of its numerous offspring, rendered the Hérningsholm family long the chief one in the kingdom, after the Royal family, and the homestead of honour, generous pride, and joy. Joy departed after the Sture-murder in 1657; but the Lady Martha maintained their pride, for the family themselves had preserved a EEDA MAAINEM SO eR 7 Nt Nt - bishop Laurentius in Upsala. THE NEIGHBOURS. 75 their honour. ‘Two remaining sons and five daughters promised also to restore joy to them. During the period of their minority, Lady Martha directed the affairs of the Hornings-holm family and all its dependencies with such good sense and vigour, that she gained the by-name of King Mar- tha. At the same time she was distinguished for generosity. Erik XIV. had murdered her husband and two of her sons. When, after a change in the succession to the throne, his consort and children were dispersed about the country, with- out protection and defence, Lady Martha took Sigrid Wasa, a girl of four years, and educated her with maternal tenderness and care. “| like this story,” observed ma chéere mére, on my pausing for a moment in my reading: “it is a good one.” Ma chére mere drew herself proudly up, as if she herself had been King Martha. Iam convinced that she felt some affinity with her. I continued :— Krik Stenbock, son of the aged Gustaf Olsson of Torpa and Brita Lejonhufvud, being near of kin, frequently stopped at Horningsholm, and thus conceived a strong passion for Miss Malin, the second of the number of daughters. The latter reciprocated his affection; but Lady Martha would not hear a word about it, on account of the closeness of affinity between the lovers. They were cousins. Stenbock made use of the usual expedients in such cases. He overwhelmed mo- ther, sisters, and the domestics, with presents ; but all in vain. Many were moved, but the old countess was not. She had taken counsel of Arch- The latter firmly persisted in the sentiments he had given utterance to on the occasion of Gustaf Wasa’s third mar- riage, and persuaded her not to countenance the matter ; after this it was of no avail to talk to the countess on the subject. elapsed. The two lovers saw their youth passing away; Lord Erik had attained to his thirty- fourth, Miss Malin her thirty-third year. Noi- withstanding this, their reciprocal affection conti- nued just as vivid. Seeing that the attempts to persuade the mother had proved abortive, they, at last, resolved to fly. Stenbock confided his design to Duke Charles of Soodermanland, whose age was twenty, and from him received the aid of two hundred knights. Inthe monthof March, 1573, he went with his sister, Caecilia, (who was mar- ried to Gustaf Roos) to Horningsholm, concealed the knights at some distance from thence, and commanded them what they were to accomplish. The same evening, he came to an agreement with Miss Malin, that they should elope next day. She spent an anxious night. When alone in her chamber in the morning, she threw herself upon her knees in a window niche, and prayed amid copious tears. At the same moment, her elder sister, the Lady Sigrid, entered. “ God bless you ! you are preparing for a noble act,’ said she. “Would to heaven it were a good one," answered Miss Malin. “ Assuredly it is good to supplicate Heaven with tears in one’s eyes.” “Ah,” Malin broke forth, “though all my family reject me, you will not turn your faithful heart from me.’’— “ Wherefore do you employ such language 2?” said Lady Sigrid. “ No one of the race of Sture has done anything that should give us cause to alien- ate our hearts.” Atthis instant, the old countess Thus several years - called the Lady Sigrid to her; but Malin went into another room. Lord Erik entered the same immediately, greeted those present. and then said to Malin: — “Dear sister, would you see the charger I have offered for your acceptance? It stands below in the court-yard of the castle.”? She consented, and he took her arm to descend. On passing through the hall, they saw Nils and Anna Sture’s nurse, Lucia. Malin besought her to follow her; which she did. Under the arehed gateway below stood the horse put to a sledge, in which the lady and her companion were placed. Stenbock took his post behind, and drove out, while a great many of the domestics were looking on, thinking it was only a hunting excursion. When the nurse, however, observed that Lord Erik went in the direction of the lake, and drove at such a rapid rate, she anticipated something was amiss, and began to exclaim : “ What are you doing, dear Lady? Think how angry your mo- ther will be at your travelling thus alone.” But Lord Erik drew forth a short gun, and held it to the nurse’s breast, with the words: “ Be still, or you will never speak again.” Down by the lake the horsemen came forth from both sides, and surrounded the sledge ; away they then went as fast as the horses could gallop, till they reached Svardsbro. There were tailors and seamsters with precious stuffs of every kind, who took the lady’s measure, and began to fashion garments for her. Meanwhile, the horsemen kept watch about the house so that nobody should enter or have egress. Just as Lord Erik passed down to the lake, Miss Margaret Sture went accidentally to the window, saw, and comprehended the journey- ing. She immediately began to scream: “ Lord Erik is certainly running away with my sister !” At these words, the aged countess, and Lady Sig- rid, first sprang to the window, and then down into the court. But in descending the stairs, the mother lost her consciousness, and sunk to the ground. When she had recovered a little, she commanded Lady Sigrid instantly to go in pursuit, and try if she could bring back the runaways. In the interim, Lady Martha sat upon the steps, with weeping and wail, and could not be perfectly restored. Then came hastening to her Lord Erik’s sister, the Countess Caecilia Roos, and lamented his acting ina manner so contrary to Lady Martha ; protested that she herself knew nothing about it; but never could she have believed Lady Martha wouid have regarded it with such indignation. The latter turned her head with vehemence, and said: “May God inflict punishment upon you and your bro- ther, who has robbed me of my child. Ge after them now at all events, and be with her, that no- thing may happen to dishonour her.” Lady Cae- cilia was silent, and took her departure. When Lady Sigrid—whom the aged countess had sent in pursuit—came to Svardsbro, she was allowed —and that with difficulty—to enter the house. There she began to acquaint her sister with the lamentation and grief of their mother, and to ex- hort her to return, in which case her parent had promised pardon. Malin answered not a word. Then Sigrid began again, and with greater stress, to exhort Malin to return, and to beseech her ; she would else be the occasion of her mother’s death. Malin said: “If you can assure me that our lady mother will give consent to our marriage, eee 76 I will gladly return.’—* That I cannot,” an- swered Lady Sigrid. “Then,” said Malin, “the first error is as good as the last,’’ and began to weep bitterly. Lady Sigrid, being unable to per- suade her sister, turned towards Horningsholm, where the mother was confined to her bed from distress and lamentation. Both were increased when Sigrid returned alone. At a former period misfortune had befallen her house, but now dis- grace was superadded. She saw no prospect either of comfort or assistance, nor even hope of revenge. She was a lone widow with several daughters; her sons were still seareely advanced beyond the age of children. While, on the other hand, he who had abducted her daughter was himself a powerful man, brother of the dowager Queen Katharina ; besides, supported by the Duke, and im favour with the king. Notwithstanding, Lady Martha resolved not to yield. Malin Sture was, meanwhile, travélling with the Countess Cecilia Roos, and Lord Erik, to the brother-in-law of the latter, Per Brahe, at Sund- holm, in the province of West Gothland. There Erik left them, and journeyed to Stockholm. But Lady Martha’s letter of accusation had arrived there before him. On his entering the city, he was deprived of his fiefs and functions, and was detained in custody. Now arose constant feuds, and mediating between the races of Sture and Stenbock. The final result of this was, that Lord Erik was set at liberty again. Thereupon, he exerted himself to the utmost to win Malin Sture’s kinsmen to himself, and he succeeded with all except the mother. He wrote to the Lutheran Theological Seminary at Rostock, and obtained from thence the approbation of the divines—which he forwarded to her—that marriages between cousins were lawful; but to this she paid no at- tention. possibility of her relenting ; fifteen months had elapsed since their flight. They travelled beyond the Hallandic frontiers, obtained a Danish priest to give them his benediction, and returned to Torpa the same day, where their marriage was solemnised. At the same time it was arranged that King John, the Queen Dowager, Duke Charles, the Princess, the Imperial Councils, and all the kindred of Stenbeck should write to Lady Martha, pleading for Erik and his wife. But the mother’s grief and anger were augmented by the intelligence of the marriage, which had taken place without her knowledge. In spite of all en- treaties she would not hear a word about either daughter or son-in-law. Here I paused fora moment, with a view to sound ma chére mére’s heart. “ Is such obstinacy really possible 2 Howcan people be so inflexible, so implacable ?” said I. “It is unreasonable,” said Jean Jacques. “Tt is repugnant to good sense,” said Jane Marie. “It is unnatural,” growled Bear, with a horrid grimace. “Tt is right,’ exclaimed ma chere mére, with a thundering voice. “It is nothing more than right. I would have acied precisely in the same manner.” “O no, that you would not, really,” said I, re- garding her with a supplicatory look. “A murrain on me, if I had not acted thus,” Then Erik and Malin despaired of the’ ee THE NEIGHBOURS. said she, with greater warmth, and struck the table with her clenched hand, so that the light shook ; “yes, that I would, though you yourself, Francisea, had been the transgressor, and I your actual mother. Yes, I would have punished you in like manner. You would never more have been permitted to appear in my presence, though the King himself had fallen upon his knees before me, and entreated in your behalf. ¢ Easy mother, loose manners. Strict mother, pure manners.’” My heart swelled within me. I felt the extra- vagance of ma chére mere’s views, but her words : “had you yourself, Francisca, been the trans- gressor, and I your own mother,’”’ had made a peculiar impression upon me. They transformed me, as it were, into the unhappy Malin Sture, and placed me in her situation. I suffered, I repented with her ; I felt deeply all the horrors of a mo- ther’s wrath, and it was only with difficulty that I could read the following :— 8 Her parent’s anger, meanwhile, pressed hea- vily on the daughter’s heart. Even from the flight from Horningsholm, Malin had worn none but black garments. She had received a great num- ber of precious stones from her husband, but never made use of them. She was perpetually writing the most sorrowful letters to her nearest kindred, entreating them to interpose in her favour. The incessant petitioning of sons and sons-in-law, and finally the prostration of all the daughters at her feet, at last moved Lady Martha to relent, and she gave the rejected couple per- mission to return. Here ma chére mére dropped her net, leant back, erossed her arms, and stooped her head towards her breast, as it appeared to me, in deep atten- tion. I remarked all this at a rapid glance, and pursued :— It was now a year and a half since their mar- riage, and almost three years since their elope- _ ment. They durst not, however, immediately enter the castle, but were obliged to dwell some weeks in the bathing-house attached to it. At length, through the petitions of brothers and sisters, the near approach of winter, and Malin’s delicate state of health, they were permitted to remove into the castle. Malin was conducted up into the grand saloon, in which Lady Martha was seated high upon the dais, with all her children standing around. On Malin appearing at the door, her mother burst forth: “Oh, thou un- happy child!” Then Malin fell upon her knees, and in this posture crept up to her mother, crav- ing her forgiveness amid tears, and nestling her head upon her knee. I paused, for my voice faltered, and tears were near. My heart was with Malin. At that in- stant ma chére mere pushed the table from her, stood up, her countenance pale, and without cast- ing a look at any one of us she went out of the room with great strides, and slammed the door after her. We all sat there mute and amazed. We knew not what to think. Was ma chére mére angry or moved? Did she anticipate any design, or . ... Bear and I gazed inquiringly at each other. I was displeased with myself, and the emotion which interrupted my reading atso important a moment. Ma chére mere had thereby had time for reflection, and now she could not hear the best part of the 18 ET ne eo ee ee Se eee ee ‘THE NEIGHBOURS. 77 story, the fine ending. Ah, if ma chére mere had but heard it! It would have occasioned her to feel how sweet a thing is reconciliation, and per- haps King Martha’s example would have ope- rated upon her heart. I had an unspeakable long- ing for her return. But one quarter of an hour passed away after the other, and ma chere mére did not return. I became most sad when they announeed supper, and at the same time brought intelligence that the Lady General would not come to table. She had head-ache, had gone to bed, _and sent her wishes that we might have an agree- able repast, and a quiet night. I was out of tem- per, and troubled in spirits ; Bear likewise. We knew not on what ground we stood. Immedi- ately after supper we separated from Jean Jacques and Jane Marie. On eur way home we grew less displeased with our evening. Our attempt had not altogether proved a failure. The piece read had produced a strong impression, and the excite- ment with which ma chére mére was at last af- fected, might with greater probability be con- strued favourably than badly. We resolved that next day, Bear, under pretext of business with Jean Jacques, should drive to Carlsfors, and then inquire more closely how things stood with respect to ma chére mere. We spoke of the rigorous. principles of conduct she had given expression to. I rose in objection. Isaid: “It is not unmitigated rigour, but it is wisdom and affection that produce virtue, purity of manners, and peace in a family.” “That is the excellent doctrine of our own time, Fanny,” answered Bear; “but ma chére mere still adheres. to the views of an age, in which good men endeavoured, by excessive severity, to oppose a dam to the looseness of manners which pre- vailed among the greater number. She was trained in strictness of principle. Her native disposition, and her circumstances, have contri- buted to confirm her in this view. This is based on a pure foundation, it is merely her one-sided apprehension and appli bless me! are we at home already ?” This day, as had been concerted, Bear went to Carlsfors. Ma chére mére was not to be seen, kept her room,and, through Elsa, made known her intention not to see anybody. What will result from this? Bruno will certainly come here this evening. Ah, that we could give him glad tidings ! 28th August. I have not written to you for some days. I have been so troubled. No change in ma chére mere since I last wrote. Jean Jacques, who, with Bruno’s approval, is informed about every thing which concerns the latter, sends us news every day. Ma chére mére will not see anybody, remains shut up in her room, in which it is silent as the tomb. Elsa stalks out and in like a shadow, and answers every question with a shake of the head. Bruno, in a most unhappy state of mind, has paid us daily visits. He is wont to come at dusk, put the same question, receive the same answer, and go away, with his eye-brows strongly con- tracted and regards fixed on the ground. Some. times of a night, when the wind blows from Ramm, I hear the wildly sad but beautiful tones which onee delighted me at Svané. They mount, they -me with his pangs. die away like melodious sighs. And then I faney there is moving over the waters, a spirit that has not attamed to bliss, and who wishes to acquaint I would not on any account that Serena should hear these tones ; they take strong hold of the heart. That I may not be constrained to weep at them, I draw the coverlet over my ears. Serena—ah, she has, no doubt already heard more than is good for her peace of mind. But what this is I know not. It is an extraordinary thing that I am never to learn what it is. And yet Serena is not close in character. Yesterday evening she was here with her grand-parents. The good old people came for the purpose of—as they said—* returning thanks for her.” I thanked them for her society. Gullgul was one of the party. But the wanton little thing was not so faithful as usual in its attendance upon its gover- ness, but flew restlessly out of and in at the window ; at last it took its course across the lake in the direction of Svané and we lost sight of it. We awaited its return, but it came not back. It grew late, and Serena, troubled about her little favourite, repaired herself to Svané in order to getit back. But she stayed long, all too long, away ; we grew concerned,and I most of all ; for I know not what misgiving I had that Bruno had some share in this delay. I endured not being in such uncertainty, but, whispering a word in Bear’s ear, I surrendered to him the care of our venerable guests, ran to the shore, took a little boat, and went off in quest of Serena. I arrived at Svand precisely at the right time, to receive Serena half senseless in my arms, and to see Bruno standing there rather resembling a pillar of salt than a human being. I condueted Serena home. On the way she recovered, and her death-like composure. resolved itself into a flood of tears. She wept with such deep feeling and pain, that I was quite beside myself. “ Has this man offended you, Serena? I will abhor him, and hear no more about him.” *O no, no,’ unhappy.” More I could not learnfrom the deeply moved one ; Gullgul flew twittering above us. I was annoyed at the little creature. I designedly rowed at a very slow rate, in order that Serena might weep herself to calmness. It had already begun to grow dark when we returned. The aged people, satisfied with having their favourite again, did not inquire the cause of her long delay ; Serena had grown more composed, and the twilight concealed the inflammation of her eyes induced by weeping. This day with Bear IJ got a little note from her, informing me that she was calm again, begging me not to be troubled on her account, “and at present toask no questions ;’ hereafter I “should learn everything.” In other respects she wrote so kindly and affectionately that I eould not be angry. Butstrange it is that we both have seerets from each other, and those, too, with both of us, concerning Bruno. ’ answered Serena, “ but he is so Later. Bruno has just been here more gloomy than aye. He went away, glancing wildly, with the words : “I will come nomore. Ifa change takes ae i A a a Ce A ne er EEE oe ee ee Ne TN, a ee I ee Re gS Se awwoese * Hee EE a SE IO a EN a) a TR RR | Oe OE Pe RT OO aD 78 THE NEIGHBOURS. place, let me know.” leave. ' Six days have now elapsed since the evening when I read the story of Erik Stenbock and Ma- lin Sture, and everything is still the same with ma chare mere. Ah, what is to come of all this? Hea- ven aid us. He left us without taking —-<}-——— A STRANGE LADY TO THE READER, BUT ESPECIALLY TO THE YOUNG LADY READER. Young maiden, that hast hitherto culled thy knowledge of the world and of men merely in the fiowery land of romance, and who at thy entrance into the world expectest with a thrill of joy that people will concern themselves about thee, either as the butterfly about the rose or the spider about the fly,—a word to thee: Be at ease. The world is not so perilous. People are too much occupied with themselves. Thou wilt of necessity experience that they will take no more concern about thee than the Moon, and sometimes less. Thou girdest thyself, thou of seventeen summers, to resist the storms of life ; ah, thou wilt probably have to cope more with its inaction. But do not let thy spirits droop ; of life and love there is a rich abundance on earth, only not frequently in the form in which they generally appear in romances. In them—you have life distilled. They extract one day out of ten years, one drop of spirit out of a hundred grains of corn. It is their trade. Reality pro- ceeds differently. Rarely are great occurrences and powerful scenes of love there found. They are not the rule, but the exceptions to every-day life. Therefore, thou good one, sit not in expec- tation of them, else thou wilt get wearied. Seek not the affluence of life without thyself; create it in thy own breast. Love! Love heaven, love nature, wisdom, all good men about thee, and thy life will be rich ; in its aérial career it will be kept buoyant with refreshing breezes, and thus by-and-by rise to the homestead of light and love. Wherefore do I say all this? Yes, because, in order to help Madame Werner with her every-day story (she, indeed, wished to compass a romance, but such was not her lot), I must now delineate one of those exception-scenes which are exhibited more frequently in books than in life. It was evening, and one of those evenings when a sweet tranquillity breathes throughout nature, and man is involuntarily moved to an anticipation of those days when all was well in the world. Serene and glowing with a roseate radiancy the vault of hea- yen spanned the earth, that stood like a myrtle- crowned and happy bride beneath the bridal roof, smiling, composed, and in the fulness of beauty. The sun shone upon golden corn and ruddy fruits. Thick-set with foliage, and not stirring a leaf, the trees mirrored themselves in the clear lake. Light vapours wrapped their veil around the tops of the mountains. Here arose a twittering, there the carol of a peaceful voice. All seemed to enjoy their existence. Then it was that Serena’s boat—like a leaf with its bud—glided upon the placid waters. Then, too, it was that from dusky Ramm an eye, aided by a telescope, was pointed with strained attention to innocent Rosenvik: Bruno saw the little boat ‘sion of her eye. oo ee NE RN i St IO ETS AO pushed off from the shore ; divined whom it was bearing in it, and his mind was seized with an indescribable longing and potent desire. The tempestuous bosom that had heaved with wild agitation, the thirsting spirit that had con- sumed itself in days and nights of torture,— desired recreation and peace. There is a simoom more parching than that which blows over the wastes of Africa ; there is a spring whose waters are more refreshing, and longed for with greater intensity, than those of that of the oasis in the desert. Bruno is the pil- grim burning with racking feelings ; Svan, the oasis, bearing in its bosom the refreshing stream of life. For she is there, she with the pure heart, with the clear, heavenly glance, and beside her, beside the gentle woman, near Serena, Bruno yearns after peace, life, yearns and puts off from the margin of the lake. “ Hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow ?’” or, “Seen what way the light parteth ?” “ Hast thou entered into the springs of the sea? or hast thou walked in the search of the deep ?” Well indeed might He make such inquiries, the unsearchabie Creator of nature and the human heart, and the earthly inquirer, like Job, lay his hand upon his mouth and be silent. In the depth of the human heart, more than in any other, it is the eye of the Eternal alone that sees how light rises, how night and storms come on, Bruno was like the climate at the Equator. His spirit had its line of fire, and all his feelings were under its influence. Hence at one time that dead calm ; at another, that violent storm with its desolating force : hence, too, that exuberance of feeling, vivacity, and affection, which at times burst forth with such strength, and like the luxuriant vegetation that overspreads a region parched by lava, and like love itself, concealed all transgressions— And thus it happened that, in the beauty of evening, and riding on towards the little island, on which kindness and peace had then their home, Bruno felt a storm gathering in his breast, and glowing emotions flashing like lightning athwart it. A secret impulse of anger against something, a vague and indefinite desire after something, and fever and pangs were swelling in his heart. There, there were words that could bless, flames that could consume—like the spirit of the voleano he stood upon the shore of the little island. Serena was standing near the oak. Its leafy branches extended themselves with friendly pro- tection above the beautiful, light Seraph’s head. A cloud of melancholy was seated upon her inno- cent brow, and with a sad smile she looked upon Gullgul, that, at the luring tones of her voice, had just flown from branch to, branch on to her hand. But suddenly it flew up, and away from her, and Bruno’s tall, dark form stood before Serena. Slie blushed, trembled, but remained moveless, and looked up at him with the clear Madonna expres- Bruno gazed on it, and his spirit was calmer 3 and there was diffused through him that indefinable emotion of joy which he never felt except when near her. But this feeling now fell like a rose on a living fame. Damped for an instant, the fire next moment derived support from it. 80. aap eaten ete perenne egg haa red Aen : { ee EE eee ee ee eee THE NEIGHBOURS. 79 “‘ Will you, too, fly me? Will you, too, reject me?” he asked, with his dark flashing eyes fixed upon her, And as she still regarded him quietly, and with an inquiring and sorrowful look, he said: “Serena, speak a kind word to me. My heart requires it.” “Friend of my early years,” said Serena with her angelic voice, and extended him her hand. “Q Serena,” said he, raising her hand to his lips, “hear me. I would speak to you. Sit down beside me. You will not. Will you not bestowa moment on the friend of your early years ?” There was such strength of entreaty and so rauch pain in look and voice, that Serena did not — resist. She seated herself upon a moss-grown stone. He prostrated himself upon his knees be- fore her. There was something child-like, some- thing tender and mild in his entire manner. He gazed at her, and the fire of his eye melted into an expression of unspeakable sensibility, tears glis- tened therein ; he spoke not, but about his lips there was the eloquence of ardent and sweet thoughts. ‘hey opened and entreated: * Say to me Zhou, Serena, O say Thou, as when we were children—happy children; bride and bridegroom.” Tears moistened Serena's drooped eyelids, but she hesitated. “Say Thou,” Bruno entreated more tenderly and ardently. “Serena, good, beautiful Serena, eall me Thou.” Serena still hesitated. She was deeply con- But I comprehend your anxiety. Like the flower upon the island here you have grown up, lived and weened that the limits of the world extended not beyond its shores. But the world is large, Serena, and for two hearts in union there are a hundred paradises open, There are other climes than that in which you were born; other lands and other manners ; but the sun and love prevail everywhere. I have seen that beautiful world ; I have seen life there free from fetters—millions of beings live in that atmosphere of freedom, and obey only the dictates of the heart ....” “And were they happy, Bruno, were they .con- tented, those beings who renounced all the ties of | duty, and all the commandments of heaven? Were you yourself so happy in that world you extol so highly ?” “ Happy '—No, that I was not, for then I had discovered no Serena. But now—O, hear me, Serena ; and reflect that my life depends upon your answer: though everything should oppose itself to our union—will you not be mine, in spite of that? Life, Serena, is poor, is wretched, when not exalted by love. ‘The all-powerful Being who implanted in us the want of felicity, has given us no commandment to forego it. He who implanted love in our hearts as the lode-star of existence, cannot will that we should despise its guidance. Serena, I love you. I will place my heart in your hands and say—Deal as you will with it, but be mine for ever. O let me lead you from this nar- row corner of the world, where your life will fade and pass away ; let me conduct you to a life of freedom and joy. Give me your handas you have given me your heart; be my partner in another scious of the significancy of that word, and that moment. “You will not?” ejaculated Bruno. He rose life of the heart. and said with pain, “ Serena, am I then entirely indifferent to you !” “O no, no,” rejoined Serena, strongly excited. “ Not?” Bruno again resumed with ardour, and seized her hand. ‘QO Serena, torture me no longer. Abandon me not to this distracting doubt: O epeak ! will, can Serena love me ?” Serena looked up at him with tearful eyes and said, “ Yes,’’ Wer whole soul was in that word. “‘O then you must be mine, celestial being,” ex- claimed Bruno, embracing her knee with passion- ate joy ; “Serena, youshall be, you must be mine. Quail not. Reject me not, glorious, adored angel. Follow the dictates of your heart, listen to my affection, and felicity will be your portion on earth. Wherefore do you tremble?) When I was a child and bore you upon my arm about the woods at Ramm, and sprang with you over many a preci- pice, then you did not tremble. O, as in the days of my childhood, I will bear you through our whole life on my arms, and hold you secure on my breast. Let all uncertainty, all doubt vanish with this moment ; we will bind fate with our love. Serena, give me now your plighted troth, swear you will be mine, that hereafter nothing shall separate us.” ‘“‘ Bruno, Bruno,” said Serena, terrified at his vehemence, “have you forgotten—your mother— my parents ?” “ Forgotten? No, Serena, I have not forgotten them, nor the usages and manners which fetter the Ihave not forgotten them. But they do not bind me; I acknowledge a higher power than theirs; I know a higher world than that wherein they put shackles on, and obstruct us, ! Vou LI, land, beneath a fairer sky. Your path shall be over roses ; riches shall be at your command 3; at your pleasure you shall open your hand and dis- pense happiness, and I will thank you for all, all, with a love that has not had its equal on earth ; of all that is beautiful in nature, and good and joyous in existence, I will make up a paradise for you, — Serena, then— what will be wanting to rou?” ‘ “ Peace,’ answered Serena, rising, and her breast heaved violently ; “ peace with myself, peace with heaven.” “ Indeed?” said Bruno slowly, also rising, and fixing his flashing eyes with an indescribable expression of scornful reproach on Serena :— “‘ Serena,” he pursued, “ you, too, are one of those common-place women. Your affection is merely a household lamp, a faint, timid flame, that can only burn in closed, well-kept chambers. You will not make me happy, you will not follow the dictates of your own heart ; for you are appre- hensive about your eternal felicity. You would not make the slightest sacrifice for him who would surrender everything for you. And this is called virtue 2 O feeble, wretched selfishness! But listen—(and he approached her with wild defi- ance)—I will teach you what love, real love is.— Yet, perhaps you will not comprehend me, pious maiden !—Do you know what he who really loves sacrifices without seruple for the beloved one? Yes, precisely his eternal felicity. O, that you were doomed to the deep, glowing abyss ; I would plunge into it with boundless joy to be doomed with you, and there with you, with you in the abyss, I would despise alike the thunders and the bliss of 81 G — -———--— - -a ae = THE NEIGHBOURS. heaven. But you do not understand me—you know not what love is.” Serena supported her noble forehead on her hand ; strong agitation passed through her soul. Night and lightnings appeared there alternately. Ah, Serena did know what real love was, and Bruno’s words found an echo in her heart. The clearness of her mind was obscured for a moment, and the question of sacrifice, in its higher signifi- cancy, was not distinct to her. In a feeling of in- effable anguish she raised her eyes and her folded hands to heaven, and spoke as if to herself : “ They would be unhappy, they would rise in the morning and not find me, they would betake themselves to rest with tears for their child.” Bruno perceived what was going on within her. Satanic powers prevailed over his spirit, and they exulted when they saw her waver, and in his glances were flames, and in his voice tones boldly insinuating ;—before such angels have fallen. “QO Serena, let no childish weakness mislead you to belie your own heart. Be strong, be true in your affection, and confide in me. Be mine, and I will make reparation for every pain, I will convert every sigh that disquiets you into felicity. Away with pusillanimous fear. Vanquish, my Serena, the ordinary weakness of your sex. Give me that promise, that oath, which will raise me above all the vicissitudes of fortune, and the me- naces of fate; which will bestow a home on the banished one, a blessing on the accursed one, and peace upon my heart. O, my Serena, wherefore hesitate, wherefore waver? Are you not mine already? MHave not our souls been united from childhood? Are they not now warmed by the same flame? Serena, we are one already, one be- fore Him who poured his love into our hearts. Or do youthink they could be separated? In vain, Serena, most heartily beloved, thou art mine, mine.” He had seized her hand, and with bland, strong force he drew her near to his breast. There are sudden, extraordinary suggestions, by virtue of which the tempted but pure spirit acquires power to vanquish even that which is most dear to it. Such was that which rose in Se- rena’s soul, filled at onee with despair and divine light. In order to resist Bruno’s power over her, she was constrained to tear herself from him 3 and to Bruno’s words “ Thou art mine, mine,” she an- swered with a shudder, “ No, I love you not.”’ *“ You may fancy so,” ejaculated Bruno with a Satanie smile, “ but you deceive yourself’ He embraced her, pressed his hand on her heart, and pursued in a thrilling tone of exultation: “ You love meas I love you. By the pulsations of this heart I swear, if you resist me thy cheek shall pale before this love, and my unhappiness become yours. Ineffectually do you resist, ineffectually do you belie yourself. Certainly as your heart is heating beneath my hand, as certainly has a higher power entwined our destinies. Resist it not. It is in vain, Serena, You are mine.” Serena stood moveless; her dark eye-lashes drooped towards her pale cheeks; faintly and more faintly her heart beat beneath Bruno’s burn- ing hand, but like the whisper of a spectre, clear, Jow-toned, awful, and strangely penetrating, the words, “ No, I love you not,” passed from her lips. Anicy chill erept through Bruno’s veins, A voice like the above, words so pronounced, he had never before heard, and Serena stood like a marble sta- tue near his breast, so cold, so still, so—death-like. He released her, he contemplated her with wild astonishment, “I love you not,’ repeated Serena, and drew back a pace; her cheeks grew paler and more pale, her heart beat more and more faintly. “Serena,” exclaimed Bruno, ina tone of voice which might have wakened the dead from eternal sleep. Serena sighed deeply. ‘No, I love you not, ” said she once more, with a voice still more firm and clear. Her knees faltered, she would have sunk to the earth, if Francisca had not at that instant come and caught her in her arms. eee BRUNO TO SERENA. O those words once more..... utter them once more, and no sigh of love and pain on my part shall again disturb your peace. But, Serena, if you are deceiving me, if you are deceiving your- self at this moment, if your heart abjures the words your lips pronounced, then—listen to me once again. My vehemence of manner wounded you. Pardon me for this, Serena, it is now over ; [am calm—and yet—this unquiet, this thirsting heart yearns to believe that it does not beat alone ; and though unworthy of such, I will still trust that 1 am loved. JI am arrived at the erisis of my life. Love alone can save mé. I have a mother; I have transgressed against her and she has. eursed me. J have no hope of reconciliation with her, though I seek it. If denied me, shall I despair on that account, Serena? Will no dear hand hold me fast to life? Will no angel follow me into the wilderness? O Serena, do you love me, and have you not courage to share my fate ? Observe, I will not embellish our future career ; I will not invite you to share fortune and joy; I invite you to a participation in pain and tears. Perhaps our future course will be a dark one, perhaps, too, your heart will never obtain peace at my breast ; perhaps, moreover, your cheek will pale under my endearments, but in spite of this— in spite of this I ask you, Serena, have you not courage, not affection enough to suffer with me and for me? Serena, there are sufferings, sufferings that end only with the capacity of suffering, which are not bitter, which possess their own great and extraordinary enjoyment. Great is the power of love, to make happy even in the night of pain. But how ? should the rejected one breathe more calmly at your side, should his eye, through you, rise to a heaven where mercy and love have their home, and should that eye then rest upo you in infinite love and blessing—Serena, would you in that case be unhappy? And though your cheek grew pale: if you reclined your head against a breast occupied fully and solely by you, and if in the latest scene your glance met one of inef- fable love, which, living only through you, would be extinguished with yours, and, waking, would seek you alone—O Serena, to live together, to suffer, to enjoy, to depart together, to be owe here and in those realms beyond—such was my vision when I beheld you. Was ita vision? O Serena, was that a vision which I felt as the reality of my existence, as the solution of its enigma, till then 82 THE NEIGHBOURS. an incomprekensible one? Serena, answer me in the spirit of that truth which once subsisted so beautifully upon thy childish lips—I ask once again: was it a vision? Say no, and be mine. Or—yrepeat your last words. psig, SERENA TO BRUNO No, Bruno. I will not repeat those words. They were not the truth. Fear of my own infirmity called them forth. If it ean be of any benefit to you, Bruno, if it can afford any comfort to your heart, accept this declaration : “I love you.” To share suffering and life with you were felicity for me. But hear also this my last word, Bruno. I write to you on the couch of my grand-parents. They are slumbering gently. My voice has lulled them to sleep. The reflection of the lamp falls upon their awe-inspiring heads and illumines their grey hairs ;—Bruno, here is my post. I will not recede from it, whatever my heart may suffer. To make peaceful and glad the existence of those age-stricken parents who have hitherto cherished my entire life from its infancy, this is my vocation and my duty of love. That light which illumines the evening of their life was placed by Providence in myhands. OQ, I will be a faithful watcher over them till my last sigh. O Bruno, if you wish to win ne, gain them first. Only when they joyfully place my hand in yours, can I cheerfully and without regret be yours. The way to.me must be through them. And if this must be a parting salutation to you -—then farewell, Bruno. God bless you. Whither- soever your way may lead you, think that one faithful heart follows you with sympathy, with supplications, Bruno..... friend of myearly years..... I fain would say a word to you, that should afford you peace. 1 fear you deem me indifferent, cold ; —this pains me. But I know there is another and a better world. There you shall better comprehend my heart. There you will pardon SERENA, 7 > ee = LWELFTH LETTER. FRANCISCA W. TO MARIA L. Rosenvik, 31st August. For two more days subsequently to that on which I last wrote we waited with great disquie- tude of mind, but, inasmuch as not the slightest change had manifested itself in ma chére mére’s condition, Bear drove off to Carlsfors and fright- ened Elsa into speech. The latter then said that ‘the Lady General was almost” as she was fifteen years since. She did not sleep at night, spoke not, ate and drank scarcely anything. She had caused her chamber to be darkened, sate constantly with her face supported upon her hands, and sighed at times as if her heart would break. Moreover, she had forbidden Elsa to speak a word about her to anybody. “We cannot suffer this to continue,” ejacu- lated Bear, after he had told me about it. “It may prove 2 relapse of the former. distemper. We must in some manner break this spell—it vmust be effected—through you, Fanny.” “Through me!” I exclaimed starting back, J am persuaded that I was quite pale. | 81 “ Yes, through you. that no one is on such a good footing with ma chere mére as yourself; no one has such influence over her heart. Makeuse of itnow. You must make | forcible entrance into her chamber and her heart. | Yes, you must; and in doing so, you must have the forecast and the boldness of a thief in the night.’ “But the picklock-key, the picklock-key ?, How am I to get through the locked doors, and how into her now locked heart ?” “Through her door? Elsa will have it opened. I have talked to her about that. And how into her heart? Let your own grow warm, and your tongue will find words that shall penetrate bone and marrow.” “ Ah, Bear !” “Neither must you suffer yourself to be terrified from your object by a few violent expressions and ill looks. Be courageous, intrepid, strong and tender. Think of Bruno, think of a reconciliation between mother and son !—Yes, precisely in this way you must look, and feel, and you will compass a good thing, Fanny, or at least bring to an effusion that gloomy suffering, which, if it continue as it at present is, will lead once again to mental alienation.” Dulcet is the voice of flattery, especially when you hear it proceeding from your wedded moiety. I suffered myself to be persnaded to hazard the attempt. But of good cheer at the prospect I was not. To obtrude myself into ma chére mére’s chamber and appear before her..... horrid! We resolved farther that, during my interview with ma chere mere, Bruno should abide in Jean Jacques’ room, that,in the event of its taking a favourable turn, he should instantly cast himself at the feet of his mother. It would be necessary to prevent her relenting feelings from hardening again,—to fashion the iron while hot. Bear wrote about this proposition to Bruno, who answered merely with the words: “I agree with you, and will be present.’ The next day was appointed for the dreaded conversation. No sleep entered my eyes that night, and once I was | actually upon the point of waking my Bear, and telling him I had not courage to interpose in this matter. But then I again heard the wondrous, sad tones from the unhappy recluse at Ramm. They sounded as if imploring ; I called to remem- brance the tears in Bruno’s eye and his words : “Reconcile me to my mother! ” and I internally madeafirm resolution to bring myself in subjection to Bear’s desire. But still 1 was anxious with a thousand anxieties how I should earry out the business. I should say to her “what my heart might suggest” said Bear. But my head would also join in the game and act in the capacity of the heart’s guardian ; it rejected the latter’s some- what indefinite plans, and prescribed it discourses which the heart again would hear nothing about. Thus head and heart debated till the hour of our departure. My situation was little to be envied. But I said nothing to Bear: I would not disquiet him with my disquietude. ; We drove off. It was Sunday. The bells sounded with such friendly seriousness through the quiet air! Rustics in holiday array, and with You know well, little ape, prayer-books in their hands, met us on the way. They looked so untroubled, so peaceful, as they ie) ~~ Gis Mines was ‘the | THE NE IGHBOURS. Elsa’s profile is like her. The original is still sitting in the same place, and gazing immoveably in the same direction. At Four o'clock. Elsa came tome but a moment since, and, in a tone of voice scarce audible, whispered in my ear : “Yo you think her life will be saved? Do you think she will awake ?” ‘“ Yes, [ believe it for a certainty.” ‘If she dies, I will die too.” ““ Why so, Elsa ?” “ What should I do here upon earth without her? And then the General’s Lady must indeed have somebody in heaven to wait upon her, and be at her hand day and night.” “ She will then be with the angels, Elsa.’’ “ Ay, dear Madam, they could not so conform to her temper as I. They have not lived with her | forty years.” ' Elsa went again to her post and resumed her former position. I again saw the dark profile upon the light canvas. Elsa’s devotion, trusty and firm as a rock, touched me deeply, and I | thought of Goethe’s words : ** Not service alone, but fidelity, too, Isa guard to our person,” At Six o'clock. Ma chére mére is still asleep, in a profound sleep, and in the dawning light of day her countenance looks so awfully pale. Think, if she were sleeping her last sleep ! Bear and I have maintained a lively scriptorial correspondence through the key-hole. Will you have a specimen of it? For I will not cumber the post with the entire collection. Ist Slip of Paper. “She is sleeping, sleeping begin to fear she will not wake.” , sleeping. I 2. ** She will wake,” 3. ** Oracles have before proved fallacious.” 4. “But not in this instance.” & ** Wise man, Bear, and prophet, say,— Since thou knowest all things,—pray, Who in darkest hour of night Called thee star and guiding light? ” G6. ‘No one else but thou, my life, Called me so,—my own dear wife.” ‘*s Wise man, Bear, and prophet, say— Since thou knowest all things,—pray, Who it was, in night’s retreat, Laughed outright at thy conceit?” “TT 8. *“* No one, other than my wife,— Whose meaning now there ’s no mistaking :— * Conceit ’ replace by ‘judgment waking,’ And—putan end to this verse-making,” But enough of these puerilities. Nine o'clock. Away with coffin, baked meats, and funeral! Ma chére mere has awakened, is calm, reasonable, and feels well ; only she is extremely faint. Bear now vouches for her life. We have embraced each other left and right in our joy. And Bruno? I was forced to weep when I saw him embracing Bear’s knee. O, I will love Bruno, for he can love. Ia chere mere eels seems to be a little surprised, but is contented and composed. I have just given her some tea. On taking the cup out of THE NEIGHBOURS. sa i aa i aici meiaaeedaagnseenseceeere rr ce ee ere eens) ear nev eT) DO my hand, she regarded me with a kind, roguish look, and gave mea slight tap upon the cheek. She has fallen asleep again with entire composure, and now also I will betake myself to a little repose. : llth. Everything goes on well, very well, and we shall all speedily be healthful, in so far as I do not growsick of utter home-grief formy little Rosenvik. Ma chére mére is rapidly returning to strength, and can already rise a little: but is resolved not to depart from hence till Bruno is sufficiently healed to be able to follow her to Carlsfors ; neither am I permitted to go home before this. “ Patience,” says Bear: a horrid word. It is precisely when I hear it that I grow impatient. Meanwhile I post this letter, embrace you, my Maria, and thank heaven that things are as . they are. a FIFTEENTH LETTER. Ramun, 16th September. Has it ever chanced to you, Maria, that just like Robinson Crusoe his island you have deemed a person dry and barren, and all of a sudden some accidental circumstance, some little voyage of discovery, has brought you—like the aforesaid Robinson—in sight of a beautiful country abounding in salutary fruits? Voyages of discovery there are, too, made in the world of humanity— frequently of evil—as elsewhere, and it is no rare case for us to remain like Captain Ross, sticking fast amid ice but I myself have more often been conducted by them into tracts of a friendly nature. Have you any desire to follow me upon such a voyage of discovery ? my island in the present instance is——-Lagman Hok. Behold him planted upon a low seat—like a fir- tree upon a cliff—in ma chére meére’s chamber at Ramm ; behold there also, buried in a large mma —like a bird in its nest—sprightly Miss Hellevi Husgafvel. Behold in a stately posture, and like —herself alone, ma chére mére reclining in a corner of the sofa, the Slurka again rising high above her large forehead ; behold Bruno like a beau- tiful night alike darkening and adorning the other end of the sofa; behold farther a couple of everyday figures, sitting faithfully beside each other, like a pair of doves, ora bear and his mate ; behold comfort in the apartment, and peace upon the countenanees of its inmates, and listen to what at evening twilight flowed lightly from the heart to the tongue, and now reaches your ears. Miss Husgafvel. Uncle Hék, you look so strait- threaded and perfect this evening, that I feel myself entirely oppressed thereby. It would just enliven me a little, if now in this twilight you would make confession of an error, a little foible of some kind or other. I am persuaded that, for the sake of illustration, you have a little savouring of covetousness in some one thing. Why, every mortal has such, if he will honestly examine himself. Ma chére mére. “ First sweep your own door before that of your neighbour,” says the proverb. First begin with yourself, cousin Husgatvel, and confess your own sins. Miss Husgafvel. 1, poor sinful mortal, confess with all my heart that I am possessed of an 57 infirmity for pins and waste sheets of paper, which borders upon covetousness. Lagman Hék (gravely). And I am acquainted with nought on earth so precious in my sight as bottles,—be they full or empty—and it is a diffi. cult thing for me not to give my servant a box on the ears when he has broken an empty one. Miss Husgafvel. Ha, divine, divine, my dear excellent unele. Hark ye, good people there, do no better nor worse than we. Be brave, and confess your sins, your shortcomings in respect of covetousness, Doctor, medicines, perhaps ? Bear (laconically). Paper. Miss Husgafvel. Very good; the fewer pre- scriptions ; but yet we cannot live without you, Your infirmity, Madame Werner ? Francisca, Knitting-needles and thread. Miss Husgafvel. Our General’s lady will not withhold her contribution to our little collection ? Ma chére inére. Wherefore should I not? but I am afraid it would be all too much if I were to put the whole amount of my covetousness in the scale. Be content, however, with what I otherwise do not willingly give away pieces of ribbon and old linen, but remember, my friends : ‘ he who does not preserve one penny never gets two;” “he who wastes more than he wins, soon has an empty store-room ;” “he who collects, possesses.” A brief pause ensued: it was now Bruno’s turn to make acknowledgment of his harmless sins ; but was it that he had none this sounds hate- fully to me or that he had not given attention to our talk, he evinced no inclination whatever to utter a confession, and not one of us had a mind to desire it of him. He sat with downeast eyes, in silent self-absorption, and supported his banded head upon his hand. Lagman Hék broke the rather embarrassing silence, by saying, in answer to ma chére mere’s words : ‘The General’s lady is entirely in the right, and we must, each in his own way, be collectors.” Miss Husgafvel. Take care, uncle Hék, that you do not make virtues of our shortcomings. You know it is written that we should lay up our treasures where no thief can dig them up, or steal them. - Lagman Hék. A great deal there, but a little here also. This is perfectly consistent, if you regard the matter rightly. Ma chéere mere. Such, too, is my opinion. Francisca. What else is the entire race of man but a procession of seekers and collectors? But, alas, how many are there who neither find nor obtain anything. Lagman Hék. And that mainly because they have neither sought ‘nor found themselves. At the bottom, however, every man does chiefly seek to be in harmony with himself—but you must understand what I mean. Francisca. Give us an example, Lagman Hik, a living one, if possible ; then we shall get at your meaning without going a long, circuitous way. Miss Husgafvel. You, for example, have un- doubtedly found yourself ; for never have I seen any one so quiet, so steady, and, I may indeed say, so wise and good. Tell us how you sought, and found yourself. Francisca. O yes, excellent Lagman, tell us this. Lagman Hék. Are you really aware what you are requesting, ladies? Nothing less than the main features of my biography. 98 Miss Husgafvel and Francisca. Oh, yes, yes, make us acquainted with your biography. Lagman Hék. “1 can refuse two such amiable ladies nothing. I may.at once begin with the most difficult part of my confession, for, doubtless, you do not know that he who is now talking to you is —an unsuccessful author. that it is now so dark !—Well, the first difficult step being taken, the others will be more easy. | My father was a literary man of merit, and he educated his son to pursue the same career. natural abilities appeared to favour his wish. At an early age I wrote verses and dramatic pieces | for anniversaries and birthdays, was rewarded with confectionary and praise, and already scented the crown of laurel at a distance. Iwas educated amid the works of poets, which surrounded me on every side. I read them through and through till I knew them by heart, and adopted their thoughts as my own. My parents were ambitious, and gave additional stimulus to my desire of dis- tinction, then already ardent. Some poetical attempts gained applause of the public, and were praised in newspapers. Intoxicated by this, and the incitement of my parents, and eulogies of my young friends (among whom a young man of a sanguine temperament, named Lirka, was par- ticularly conspicuous), I resolved, like Byron, to spring at a bound upon the summit of the Parnas- sus of the age. I wrote a tragedy in five acts, “nd—wait a little. I must dwell for an instant upon this hour of apparent felicity. Really great poets are, I think, possessed of deliberate repose of mind, even at the moment of inspiration. They surrender themselves to their subject, and identify themselves with it in holy earnestness. When they review what they have thus produced, they are probably rather disposed to be dissatisfied than contented with their effusions. This is due to the profound apprehension they have of the greatness of life. Precisely because they feel thus, are they great. Little spirits, writers who are greatly de- lighted with themselves and their labours, ought to think with apprehension on this verse of Boi- leau’s : ‘ Le sot, a chaque vers soi-méme s’admire.’ No apprehension had I when I wrote my tragedy. I was delighted, and deemed my eestacy that of the public. I paced my room with large strides, declaiming my verses. At passages of pathos— that is, those passages which appeared thus to me —I would pause still, and listen to the applause of the audience. They elevated me ; I rose high— came down again—but not to reflection. The par, tiality of my parents and friends favoured my inebriation. ‘You will come to eminence, said Lirka. I thought so, and only saw one represen- tation of my tragedy between myself and undying fame. The representation took place. My hopes were screwed up to a high pitch; my tragedy—failed. Nota single mark of applause ; silence, coolness, some hisses, even laughter. A few days later there were critiques in the news- papers which did not leave a single hair of my Christian II. untouched, and essayed to deprive me of all hope of ever being able to win for myself a single leaf of laurel. I well knew, however, that the like had occurred to many a one before, who had, notwithstanding, become a great and cele- It is a fortunate thing | My | THE NEIGHBOURS. | brated author, and I resolved not to be deterred by this failure. But in vain did I endeavour to solace myself with the want of understanding on the part of my reviewers, and the experience of great writers ; the reviewer that annihilated me was the entire public, and, what was worse still— myself. (And this is ever the highest tribunal, from which there is no further appeal.) Yet at the first moment, after the fall of my Christian, I was far from this. Humbled, but still more irri- tated than humbled, I determined to do battle with my reviewers, nay even with the public ; to punish the former with bitter replies, and the latter with another tragedy. But then my friend, the lady of General Mansfelt, now present, whom I can never sufficiently honour, came to my aid, and — kept me back from my purpose by that vigorous and sound sense for which she was conspicuous even in early years. ‘ My friend,’ said she, ‘ better flee than fight badly. It is too late to seare away the cat when the sausages are eaten. It issuperfluous to carry coals to Neweastle. Wherefore cast butter into the fire that burns you! Let people cry out, and look well whether they are not in the right. I don’t understand a great deal about your piece, and such things, but I tell you that it does not please me very much; it appears to me unnatural. Yet if I am wrong, and people are wrong, very good, your piece will assuredly one day have jus- tice done it. Such, I take it, has occurred before, with books as well as men. If, however, after accurate examination you find that people are right, why, abandon your piece. Contending for it is of no avail—a monkey will abide an ape, fain though it be to change its shape. And if you have composed a bad play, very good, you can compose a better. And if you cannot accomplish this, you are not fit for an author—and what then? Are you the worse man for that? Are there not open to you many ways for becoming happy and good? Dear H6k, do but look to it that you open your eyes at the right time. It isas well to be condemned first as last, and at once accept the bitter lesson with thanks.’ I laid my worthy friend’s moral to heart, went home, and reflected in stillness upon my unfortunate tragedy. A veil seemed then to fall from before my eyes. I had not been prudent enough not to suffer my mind to be intoxicated ; but neither was I so foolish as not to return to mental sobriety. I saw distinctly that my tragedy resem- bled the muse of Schiller as an ape resembles a man, and cast it into the fire. As for the rest, it was not such an easy matter for me to come to a resolution in this matter. I had prepared myself to run the race of a literary man, and was con- strained more and more to acknowledge my want of creative power aud poetic gifts. I had no inclination to any other occupation ; I knew not what to undertake, or what I should become ; I had lost the helm ; my vessel was the sport of the waves. In addition to this there were the ill- humour and grief of my parents, the long faces of my friends, and their ‘ poor Hék.’ Even Larka said ‘poor Hoék.’? This was not to be endured. At this juncture my youthful lady friend again came to my assistance, and obtained for me my parents’ permission to make a tour abroad, ‘to remove the affair from my mind,’ as she said. I travelled — frequently on foot, for I was not rich—through a great part of Europe ; travelled 1C0 THE NEIGHBOURS. for two years, saw life in a diversity of forms, reflected, and made comparisons. My ill-sue- cess in the world of imagination had strength- ened my understanding, and the suffering I had experienced inspired me with an urgent desire to comprehend that which, after a certain stage of education, gives peace and self-dependence to the character. Of the numerous observations I made, I will only make mention of one (however trivial it may appear), because it was of great im- portance to my life. There is an abundance of what is excellent and beautiful in the world. To comprehend, to appreciate, and to admire this, is a great means of personal ennoblement, repose of mind, and happiness. If that overweening fancy to produce something, which has the ascendancy over so many a youthful and lively spirit, were changed into the desire of insight—the capacity of admiring the beautiful and the excellent—its rest- lessness would be changed to quietude, the world would possess a smaller number of incompetent and discontented people, and feeble productions of art ; those of unquestionably great talent would possess a greater number of real admirers, and rise higher in consequence. Artists and judges of art require each other, and reciprocally elevate each other. I discovered the best and happiest men among those who, with a useful and well- ordered sphere of activity in civil life, combined an exalted sense of the beautiful, and the capacity of enjoying the noblest productions of art. After two years of travel and observation I returned, , healthful in mind and body, and commenced a new career. I did not, however, renounce polite literature ; on the contrary, the more secure my position in life became, with the more hearty | affection did I recreate myself at this life-giving | source. But I had made acquaintance with myself, I strove no more for the artist’s fame, laurels, and crown of thorns ; but I strove with earnestness to form myself to an enlightened lover and judge of art. no one should surpass me in the art of heartily esteeming and enjoying it. And I may say that I have not entirely failed in this. From the time when I renounced a vain pursuit, and rightly estimated my talent, I have been calm and happy. i am nowold, and every year is removing me fur- ther from the world, but not from the undying beauty which is there unceasingly renewed in varying forms. I hold fast to it with affection, it makes my heart young, it prevents my thoughts from growing grey with my hair, and inspires me with the hope that I shall one day become not an unworthy adorer in the proper home of beauty.” Thus spoke the old man, and cheerful serenity shone in his mild blue eyes. We thanked him unfeignedly, and I exclaimed—rather inconsider- ately—“ O, I would that all men, both those who have not found themselves, and those who have, would make their confessions before they retire from the scene of action. 1 am certain that no book would be more agreeable and useful than a collection of such autobiographies. They would be a good introduction for the seekers in life. Excellent Miss Husgafvel, will you not on the instant supply your contribution to it? I will undertake to write it. You are cer- It was my wish that, though I | myself could not produce what was beautiful, — | | 99 tainly one of those who have sought and found themselves,”’ ‘IT cannot altogether say no to that,” answered Miss Husgafvel, “though there still remains a great deal to accomplish before I shall be fully satisfied with myself. I have, however, found far more in the world than I anticipated in my youth, and if you, dear friends, will listen to a tedious story, I will gladly relate it. “‘T have experienced no great misfortunes, have no great troubles to complain of ; I have passed through my world pretty quietly, but I have felt tedium, cruel tedium, and accordingly may say that I have borne the heaviest burthen in the world. My father—be good enough, my friends, and observe well these words of mine—my father was a man of honour, probity, and veracity ; all the Husgafvels in a direct line of descent have pre- served this character,—lovers of justice even to inflexibility, upright in attitude and principles, wavering neither to the left nor right; nor do I know how it comes about that I am so unworthy a scion of my honourable aneestors. My father, as I have already said, possessed an excellent moral character—and therefore he is now happy in heaven—but he held most rigorous and old- fashioned tenets in reference to the education of women. He thought, for instance, that it was well for young maidens to feel tedium, or, as he called it, to be curbed.’ He was an avowed enemy to everything he called vanity, but in this category were placed a number of innocent plea- sures. He also abominated pedantic learning in ladies ; but, comprehended under this head, a vast deal of knowledge which leads to utility and hap- piness was anathematized. He valued domestic virtues more highly than anything else ; but these also were comprised within a narrow compass. We were to weave, spin, knit, attend to culinary and household economy, study Kajsa Warg,* (he saw any other book in our hand with the utmost displeasure,) and in such wise to form ourselves to able women and housewives. He himself kept strict supervision over me and my five sisters. My sisters wove, I spun, and each had her week for looking to the kitchen. Well, our days passed away; agreeable they were not. I, especially, often thought them insupportably long, particularly as I advanced in age. My spinning appeared to me entirely useless, knowing as I did that we had property. Years rolled on ; save some old rela- tions, friends were never seen at our house. My sisters wove, and I spun—I confess with ever- increasing feebleness of hand—the inanity of my life and spirit was oppressive to me. I had fre- quent fits of melancholy and tears—I knew not wherefore. Good aunt Anna Stina, who stood in the place of a mother to us, was a genuine Hus- gafvel, obeyed the will of her brother in all things, had faith in the wisdem of his prineiples, but in everything else was very good to us. She had ‘Advice to my Daughters ’+ constantly upon her tongue, and frequently preached the words : ‘ Our household is our republic, Our toilet is our politics,’ &c. * Authoress of a Book of Cookery extensively used in Sweden. + A poem by the Swedish poetess, Anna Lenngren, of whom frequent mention is made in Miss Bremer’s writings. We lived upon a country estate in a remote situa- tion. Life in the country may be one of the most affluent modes of existence on earth, but it may «lso be one of the most indigent. Does the great volume of nature lie open to the individual’s eye,— and radiant with the light of heaven, from his own little clod of earth he may survey and enjoy the splendour of the entire world.—If in nature he has only eyes for the potato field which yields him food, then her golden vein is closed to him, and he, like the potato, is rooted to earth. Our family was rooted to earth pretty much like the potato. I must, however, except myself. At an early age my admiration was roused by the order which prevails in nature, and my curiosity by the objects it presents to our contemplation. At an early age I became—though quite secretly—a collector of herbs, minerals, and shells. On the long ram- bles my father would at times undertake, in order to see how the sown fields were going on, we, in most instances, were obliged to accompany him. Tt must have been edifying to behold us dragging on in a row, like a flock of snipes, sometimes in the sun’s heat, sometimes in the wet. I, however, would frequently continue in the rear of the rest, absorbed in contemplation of some plant or little insect. Both on account of this, and my ‘ réve- vies’? I was often afterwards teased in a manner which, however mild it may have been, yet deeply wounded my sensitive love of distinction. My father, for instance, would often amuse himself with sketching little family pictures of how things would appear in future in our house. At such times it ran thus: ‘Anna Maria will wind silk, Lotta will weave, Lisen will go and mete out the sugar and seasoning for dinner, Josepha will spin, Grete Marie feed the fowls,’ and at the close of the domestic picture ever came, ‘and Hellevi will sit and gaze upon the sun,’ (or some similar useless occupation) ; a conclusion which always. affected me so strongly, that I burst into tears. To be the only worthless member of the family—no, that was altogether intolerable, altogether humiliating. When my household-week at length came, I would rattle my bunch of keys lustily, that my father might hear with what zeal I fulfilled my important office. Alas, this, however, was of no avail. In the next family picture it was, notwithstanding, ‘and Hellevi will sit and gaze upon the sun.’ It was a standing remark in my family that, ¢ Hellevi will never make a good housekeeper.’ (And what will she be fit for ?) In this belief my father and aunt died; in this belief my sisters still live. I have mentioned in what manner we spent our days ; I must add a word about ourevenings. At seven o’clock we every evening assembled in my father’s chamber: We sat there occupied with embroidery and other needlework, ranged about a large round table with two candles—on the subject of which we always fell quarrelling. My father, sate at some distance from us at a little table, with a shade to the Jamp, and read to us aloud. ‘This would necessarily have afforded us pleasure, but, on the one hand, the history of France on which we were engaged, I know not how long, was of a very old style; and, on the other, my father’s delivery was most especially slow and monotonous. Now when, of an evening in autumn or winter, rain or snow was beating against the windows, and the storm which raged without doors, howled } THE NEIGHBOURS. his melancholy strain to the ponderous, long-drawn words that sounded within, it will be matter of wonder to no one that sleep gained potent influ- ence over us, and that we vied with each other in nodding over our embroidery. If any one of us surrendered herself unconsciously to Morpheus, aunt Anna Stina would wink and_ blink quite roguishly to the rest, as if to say, ‘Now our sister has gone off.’ At nine o’clock both wakers and sleepers were roused by my father’s pushing back his chair, and we proceeded one after the other—precedence of seniority has ever been deemed inviolate in the Husgafvel family—into the dining room to take our supper. This was a frugal repast, and did not last above ten minutes. At its conclusion, we withdrew again to my father’s chamber, where we were obliged to remain till the clock struck ten. During this latter time we were not to do any more work, but devote ourselves exclusively to conversation. Each one of us. had her appointed place in the room. Mine was beside the stove, whose warmth in some measure indemnified me for the frost of our entertainment, for every subject that might have imparted any lively interest to it, was prohibited, and if I at times ventured upon forbidden ground, I was soon chastised with the rebuke that women had not'to oceupy themselves with such matters. In our conversation we were not permitted to touch upon anything besides the minor occurrences of the day, the preference to be given to those of home, our acquaintances, genealogies, household questions, &c. This, to my taste, yielded a tolerably meagre concoction, and gladly would I have kept myself excluded from it, but we were not allowed to be silent during this time; each one was always obliged to have something to say. When any one of us had not opened her mouth for a time, she was. challenged in a friendly manner to deliver something. In order to give variety to our plea- sures, my father would sometimes draw forth an old casket, containing a number of curiosities, which were set up, turned about, and looked at twenty times, I should say. That daughter who did not, like the rest, stand at table and gaze at the casket, was not altogether held in favour. It was an unfortunate thing that my father would never cease to regard us as little children. Bat the little clasps and rings, the profiles of grand- father and grandmother, the little box containing the feathers of the canary bird, that delighted the maiden of, nine years, the magic lantern, that excited her entire curiosity, could not possibly be any longer of interest to the woman of five-and- twenty, who stood there with constraint, and viewed the casket with languid and indifferent regards. I said that we were always obliged to say something after supper, even though we did not wish it. From this there sometimes arose strange scenes of a paltry complexion. An exam- ple will convey an idea of this. My sisters and myself had one day seen from the window a little herd of vagrant young pigs come swarming into the court-yard, and hunted about by the three dogs there, we preserved during the day in our memory, in order to season the conversation of the evening with it. It chaneed that on the evening in ques- tion we entered our father’s chamber, not in close succession, but with some pauses of intermission. 102 This precious occurrence of real life. THE NEIGHBOURS. 103 Anna Maria, the first who took her place, told the story of the sucking pigs and the dogs ; also Lotta, who came after her; also Lisen, who came after her; also Josepha, who came after her; also Grete Marie, who came after her. When I at length came, and took my place beside the siove, and began to relate the story about the sucking © pigs and dogs, my father interrupted me rather | petulantly, ‘Yes, I hear this story for the sixth time.’ I confess that this made a strong impres- sion upon me, and opened my eyes more than ever to the contracted state of our potato-like existence. My father’s death occurred two years afterwards, | and my good aunt, thinking it perfectly natural that we should continue to live in the same man- ner as before, Hellevi looked up to the sun and said, ‘ No, thou beautiful sun, that givest life to all things, the world thou shinest upon cannot be so poor. merely from kitchen and cellar. forth to thy world, free air, and the celestial realm of beauty.’ I knew what I had in view, I knew the worth of my talent, and my place, and thanks ever be to the honourable man, the good and wise guardian, who extended me his hand, and, notwithstanding the opposition which my independent project called forth among the Hus- gatvels, assisted me to accomplish it. I was twenty-seven years old, gave out that I was thirty, | rented the Bird’s Nest, arranged my affairs in such a manner that I could purchase it in a few years. You, my friends, know how I established myself there. During the last ten years I have every day looked up at the sun, even when enveloped with clouds, and praise him and the beautiful world he shines upon—thanks for it, my guardian, and excellent uncle.” A tear trickled from Miss Hellevi’s lively eye | as she extended her hand to Lagman Hok, who pressed it heartily, and kissed it. « And the sum total of all this,” said ma chére mere, “is, that there is nothing bad from which good does not result, if people do but take it ina proper manner.” Francisca. Yes,—but how comes it so few people hit upon the right manner? Yet all would gladly do so. Lagman Hék. We might read a long homily upon the causes of this. Before all things we may impute our own misfortunes to ourselves, our own want of courage, our own want of virtue, in the sense the ancients attached to the word. We do not anticipate what power and force of resistance the Creator has endowed human nature with. We have not courage to resign with vigour, nor courage to rush forward with fortitude ; we will neither capitulate nor fight, and meanwhile the garrison are starving to death, or the enemy Death comes in person and takes the entire place by storm. “ Devilishly well said,” muttered Bear. Hereupon Bruno rose in silence ; all stood up ; the strangers prepared to withdraw. Miss Hellevi was standing at the window. I went up to her and expressed my admiration of Lagman Hiék. “He is indeed a very good and interesting man,” said I. “ What would you say then,” replied Miss Hus- gafvel in a sprightly manner, “if you knew him 'as I know him, if you knew how active he is | for human welfare, how he quietly lends his support to talented but poor artists, and brings their works into notice? He is certainly one of the best and noblest of men.” “ He can make a will for one of my ten daugh- ters,” thought I. I had not thought about my ten daughters for a long while, but after the con- versation of this evening I thought a great deal about them. Thank heaven I have # prospect of returning home. ‘To-morrow and the day after are spoken of. I doso heartily long to get back to my little Rosenvik. This mansion is great and splendid, but it does not please me here. , It is gloomy, and a frightful number of jackdaws are constautly screaming in the old tower. I grow uneasy in _ spirit, and I fancy I am always becoming more: narrow, the life thou givest animation to, not so _ The sources of life and virtue do not spring — No, I will go | and more like an old family portrait which is sus- pended in my room. Bruno and ma chére mére spend much time together ; they speak little, but appear to be happy when they see each other, and sit in the same room. Bruno seems to have: half satisfied ma chére mére’s scruple respecting Hagar, and the latter shows herself but little since Bruno has been better. Bruno wins my heart entirely by his great tenderness for his mother. SIXTEENTH LETTER. Rosenvik, September 20, 18—. I got here yesterday evening. I cannot tell you | how happy I am to be here again ; how enraptured with my rooms, chintzed furniture—with what pleasure I this morning greeted the hole in the window curtain, and saw the daylight peeping through it! Idrank in my home-air with long inspirations, for the atmosphere of my beloved home has a peculiar charm, at once refreshing and exhilarating. I have been flitting about like a flame the entire day, on basement story and in cellar, in barn and in garden ; I have scolded and have praised. With Sissa, and everything she has had under her care, I am highly satisfied. But the housemaid had been disorderly, and she was obliged to hear it. Audumbla has a calf, which I, with due propriety, have baptized Bor ; —a little wanton fellow he is! JI have seen my flowers, and was surprised to find them so fresh and carefully tended. I was touched by her kindness when I heard that Serena had been here twice in the week, and looked after them. Good, amiable Serena. I liked my flowers, I kissed them, they were so beautiful, I have cut cauli- flowers for the evening. There had been a little rain during the day, and everything in the garden was fresh and fragrant, though the frost had made yellow a leaf here and there. It is now evening, and I am seated at my writing-table ; I have seen the swans furrowing the quiet lake as they glided on to their nest at Svané ; I have contemplated the grey walls of Ramm, between which I lately experienced somuch. Jam happy and grateful. IT am expecting my Bear home from the town, where he has passed the entire day, and I have prepared a little feast for him. A duck from Helga, large as life, will crown our little evening table, and in her retinue there will be eauliflowers, and the freshest of salads. Pancakes, with rasp- 103 Oe ee Sens tae ee ee berry jam, will do quite excellently after this. The weather being rather cold this evening, I have had the saloon heated, and Bear’s warmly-lined coat and slippers laid out beside the stove. Iam going to pet him. While awaiting the good man’s coining, I will tell you something about the scenes of yesterday. Lagman Hék came to Ramm to accompany ma chére mere to Carlsfors. We discussed our breakfast en famille, after which the carriage drove before the door. The weather was fine, and all of us ‘in high spirits.”* Hagar helped to pack, but concealed herself behind the people when ma cheére mere, with stiff and proud bearing, appeared upon the steps. Bruno led his mother to the carriage. Before she had entered, the horses (those horses are terrible creatures) grew shy at sight of a cart covered with black cloth, which drove slowly into the court-yard. Bruno called out lustily that it should be stopped. The cart did stop, and the driver came up to ma chére mere. It was Master Svensson. tained the coffin ma chere mére had bespoken, and which—singular enough—they had, till that mo- ment, forgotten to countermand. This strange rencounter threw us all into some embarrassment. Ma chére mére was the first to gain her self-possession, and with a loud voice she said to the carpenter : “Good Master, this once—as you see—I rec- koned without the host. I thought I should die, but it pleased heaven to let me live. Its will be praised. But neglected is not rejected. The coffin will certainly be of service to me some other time. Atall events we abide by the price agreed upon, and toa feast, a feast of joy, I invite you, Master Svensson, for Sunday next at Carlsfors. Now you might be brave and convey the coffin to where I myself am going.”’ Master Svensson was greatly embarrassed. His horse was tired ; besides which, he himself had business in another part. “Very good,” said ma chere mére, “let the coffin be put in the loft here for a time. I will have it fetched away some day.” Bruno called “ Hagar,’’ spoke a few words to her, and at his nod there came several people, who lifted the coffin from the cart, and, led by Hagar, conveyed it into the house. Mark my words,” said Hagar on passing me, “some misfortune will soon happen in this house ; this coffin will not be carried from hence empty.” I would gladly have said a kind word to Hagar in farewell, for she was unhappy, and had been good to me; but this scene, and her words be- wildered me, and when I had again collected my thoughts, she was gone, and ma chére mére calling to me with impatience. Lagman Hék led the way in his Désobligeant to preserve the road clear, Then followed ima chére mere with Bruno in her large family carriage ; they had Elsa with them inside. Bear and I brought up the rear in our eab. We arrived safe. It was a fine sight to see Jean Jacques and Jane Marie in state array, standing at the gate, adorned with festive wreaths of foliage, in order to receive the comers ; it was a fine sight to see the domestics, and the multitude of those sub- * So in the original. 104 THE NEIGHBOURS. The cart con- | | ject to her, with visible joy and devotedness collect about ma chére mére as she alighted from the carriage. Even in her own person deep emotion and joy seemed to temper her usually proud bear- | ing, as, together with her son leading her by the hand, she ascended the steps in front of the house, attended by a host of people who raised their voices to congratulate and bless. When ma chére mere had got to the top of the steps, she paused, turned round, and made a motion as if to request silence. After coughing several times as if to clear her voice, ma chére mére made the following speech :— “ My dear friends, servants, and others subject to me, it is with great joy I now see you assembled around me for I am desirous to apprise you that it has pleased the Almighty to bestow upon me again my son, Bruno Mansfelt, who was absent for a while, but has now returned, and whom you see at my right hand ; it is he who recently saved my life at the peril of his own—yes at the peril of his own, when it pleased heaven by its lightnings to strike my horses with terror, whereby my life was in jeopardy, but delivered by this my son; in doing which, he was roughly dealt with by the horses, and, in consequence, still wears a bandage: round his head, as you see, my friends. My friends, servants, and others subject to me, IL apprise .you that I did recognise, and have ac- knowledged this man as my only son, Bruno Mansfelt, and I request and demand of you, my friends and servants, that you act accordingly, and in all things deport yourselves towards him as my legitimate son and heir, and that you in all things testify towards him the same respect and obedience you have hitherto shown to me, as I hope and believe my son will prove himself worthy of such, and be a just and good master to you. And now, my dear friends, I beg you to unite with me in invoking the blessing of heaven upon his head.” A hearty “ Long live Bruno Mansfelt,” followed this speech, and people pressed forward to ma chére mére and Bruno in order to shake hands. with them; but ma chére mere prudently inter- rupted this scene, which would have been indeed too fatiguing, by saying, ‘‘ Many thanks, my dear friends. But now you must excuse my son’s not remaining; longer with you, for he is weak in con- sequence of his wounds, and has need of rest. But on Sunday we will talk longer with one another ; I invite you all to Carlsfors here on Sunday next, that you may be my guests and rejoice with me. Beer and wine shall flow in abundance, and every one that is willing to parti- cipate in my joy and drink a Sk4l to my son, will be heartily welcome to me. Adieu, adieu, my good children.” And hereupon ma chére mére took Bruno’s arm and went into the house. Bruno was really faint and excited, and ma chére mere was infinitely amiable in her tenderness and care forhim, She seemed to have become youthful again while ordering Bruno’s room, and making his bed herself ; in doing this she was as glad as a young mother. . Bruno spent some hours alone in his chamber ; on coming down to us he was very pale ; yet under the influence of his mother’s gladness of heart, his countenance took more and more tone, and beauty of expression. And this in effect operated ani- matingly upon us all. Ma chére mére had cordially THE NEI asked Bear and me to stay the evening with her, but altogether happy I was not till we were rolling on in moonlight towards our dear Rosenvik. When I at length found myself in my rooms at home, I leaped high up for joy, embraced and kissed my little Sissa, who returned it warmly and cordially. Bear looked on and laughed. This morning Bear repaired to Carlsfors, before driving to the town, and from thence the good man sent me these lines :—- “Two words are better than none at ali, and I wish my Fanny to rejoice with me that all is well here at Carlsfors. Bruno is far better to-day. Ma chére mére has not been so fresh in spirit for many years. I, too, am pleased, pleased with those who are reconciled, the sun now shining, my wife, and am in time and eternity, Your Bear.” “PS. Don’t go cut this evening, dear Fanny. ia chére mére said she would fetch you; but don’t allow yourself to be carried away ; I should be glad to have another quiet evening with you at Rosenvik.” “Go out ?’”’ No, no, my own Bear, not if the king himself should come ... Hark !—the roll of those wheels ! It is my king, my Bear. The 22nd. Do you remember, Maria, a little song com- mencing thus :— ‘* Believe not life,— Believe not joy, &c.” This I could have sung to-day if I had had the very slightest desire to sing, but I have not. The evening before yesterday I threw away my pen so gladly, and flew to meet my Bear. But at sight of him I became mute and motionless. He was pale and looked excited, though he extended me his dear hand cordially as ever. *“ What’s the matter, Bear, are you unwell ?” Nov” “Has anything sorrowful occurred 2 me what it is?” J will tell you by-and-by.’’ “‘ By-and-by,”’ soon came, for Bear perceived my disquietude, and when we were alone in our room, he sat down upon the sofa, drew me towards him, wound his arm about me, and said with calm- ness and tenderness :—“It is upon the whole, merely a temporal affair, my Fanny, a misfortune which I am persuaded you will be able to bear as well, if not better than myself. Look here ; read it yourself.’ And Bear put a letter in my hand ; it was written by Peter, obviously in haste and agitation of mind. Its contents were that the house of L and Co., in which Bear, by the advice of Peter, had invested his entire fortune, had become insolvent, and so that the creditors had not the slightest hope of getting anything. Peter’s little hoard too, was lost there. What Bear had saved from twenty years’ exertions was now gone at once. ““* My brother,”—so Peter concluded his letter — “ my dearest brother, what I have lost is trifling, and I well merit it for not having been more cautious. But you,—you are unhappy through me, and this drives me to despair. This is the bitterest feeling I have had in my life. If I were not kept a prisoner here by the W——law- Ah, tell GIIBOCURS, 163 suit, I would be with you now, that I might throw myself into your arms, and entreat your forgive- ness.” — SEVENTEENTH LETTER. Rosenvik, September 28. Something strange has been going forward in ma chére mére since the day on which she returned to Carlsfors. She is no longer like herself. She is singularly taciturn, and as it were sunk in a reverie. Her steps and her voice no longer resound through the spacious halls at Carlsfors. You hear no, “domestic thunder,’ no words of rebuke, but also no proverbs, nor fresh and home- pleasantry. Each day she seems te take less interest in what is passing around her. Steward and clerk come to make inquiries about matters connected with the estate; she refers them to Jean Jacques. The servant-maids come to taik about their occupations ; she refers them to Tut- tén. Tuttén comes to give in her accounts, and receive orders, and stands a long while, and makes divers proposals, without getting an answer. Ma chere mére appears at last to forget that she is in the room, and, after coughing and wandering, questioning and waiting, she withdraws with an anxious mind, but yet secretly delighted at the prospect of having solely to order and dispose in the house ; suddenly stumbles, however, upon Jane Marie, who, by-and-bye, assumes dominion over her. Towards Bruno also ma chére mére is changed in her deportment, and when he is in her fastly upon him. Yesterday, while sitting thus, with her eyes fastened upon him, I saw two great tears roll down her cheeks. They were the first T have seen ma chére mére shed since she has recovered her son. What is going forward in ma chéere mere? What does this silence, this unusual quietness of demeanour, signify? May no attack of hypochondria, or greater affliction, threaten her. Even Bruno forebodes something calamitous. Yes- terday he took me aside, and inquired with dis- quietude how things were with his mother. IT could not make him any reply. And Bear absent! What course can we take without him ? I have written him how matters are here, in order that, if circumstances will permit, he may accele- rate his return. The 3rd October. T got a letter from Bear yesterday. In his epistles he is even less diffuse than in oral dis- course ; his words have always a certain kind of flavour about them. I could discern from his letter (though it was not written in words), that Peter had gained new life at his arrival, and that his journey had been useful in several respeets. | Of Ebba he wrote: “She looks like a little bird, which, when darkness comes on, buries its head beneath its wings. those wings.” infinitely kind and assuaging. It is well that Peter is now | Upon the whole, Bear’s letter was He thinks he can chamber, she will sit there mute, and gazing sted- be here on the 6th of October. May he speedily return! . His presence is highly necessary here. IT become more and more troubled on ma chére mére’s account. A great change of some kind is certainly approaching, and now, since I am seriously apprehensive about her, I grow more and more conscious how dear she isto me. For some days past she has been even more quiet and more taciturn than previously, and seems to pos- sess a sort of internal composure; but in her movements, and in everything she undertakes, or accomplishes, there prevails an uncertainty, a per- plexity, and an awkwardness, most unlike her former manner, which was so secure and skilful. Now, too, she is so uncommonly gentle and kind, that the servants of the house are at once surprised and affected by it. They look at each other, and at us, seeming to inquire, “ What is the matter with her?’ So also do I inquire. The (th October. Ah, Maria, now I know all, and you too shall now be made acquainted with all. Bear came home the evening before last. I received him as if he had been the only being in the world (N.B. save myself). What he told me about his journey, our concerns, Ebba and Peter, I will relate to you some other time. At present I can only speak of what happened yesterday. It was Sunday, and we were at dinner at Carls- fors. Bear’s eyes were directed inquiringly upon ma chere mere, and the grimaces bespoke no good, i. €. they did not show themselves at all, which is a sign that Bear is disposed to seriousness and sadness. At table ma chére meére had Bear on her right, Bruno on her left; then, too, she was taci- turn and quiet, but most unusually pale: neither was her bearing as proud, or her toilet as well arranged as in general; the Slurka was on one side, and straggling locks of grey hair fell upon her pale cheeks. It grieved me to look at her. When we had eaten soup, ma chére mere filled a glass with wine for Bruno; the wine ran in streams upon the table-cloth, and she did not observe it. Bruno was going to take the decanter out of her hand, saying, in an under tone: “ My mother is spilling the wine.” “Am 1?” said she, in a gloomy tone of voice 5. “ well I now see that there is an end of me; my son. pour out wine for yourself, your mother will do it no more.” She placed the bottle upon the table, pushed back her chair, and rose. We all rose simultaneously. “Sit still,” said me chere mere with a powerful peremptory voice: “sit still ; let no one follow me.” She greeted us with a motion of the hand, and walked slowly and majestically on through the midst of the astonished servants, but stumbled at the door, on which Bear and Bruno sprang up with impetuosity. She turned quickly round and said: “He who follows me is not my friend! remain still where you are,’ she added, more gently ; “1 will shortly have you called in to me.” We were too weil acquainted with ma cheére mere’s character to oppose her will when pro- nounced with such decision, but you can scarcely conceive what a state of excitement we were in. We passed upwards of an hour in the most pain- ful expectation ; I suffered on account of Bruno’s sufferings. With strongly knitted eye-brows he ICG paced the room with vehement emotion, and at times would wipe cold perspiration from his pale forehead. At last Elsa came: the sedate hand- maiden was no longer like herself ; with a look of bewilderment, and an unsteady voice, she asked us to come in to the General’s lady. Bruno rushed out first, we followed him in haste, and quailing internally, I expected to behold something alarming. Ah, no: the sight which was presented to us in sma chére mere’s chamber was not one to terrify. She was seated at the lower end of it in her great easy chair, upright and calm, but with no General-like air, and on her pale countenance alone, and her inflamed and swollen eye-lids, were the vestiges of violent mental agitation, but already surmounted. “Are you all present?” mw chére mere inquired with an unfaltering voice. An affirmative answer | was returned as we all collected about her. “ My children,” ma chere mere then began with a strange mixture of strength and humility, “it was my will to be alone for a while to the end that I might prepare myself as it beseems a chris- tian lady to appear before you, and reveal to you my calamity. Grief has already asserted its rights ; it is now time for reason to prefer its claims: my dear children, the hand of heaven presses heavily upon me: it has struck my eyes with darkness.” A Jow murmur of pain was heard, and its echo sounded round about: I seized Bear’s hand, and perceived in his looks that he had anticipated the affliction. “ My dear children,’ ma chére mere resumed, * you should not grieve for me, I grieve no more: at the beginning, I confess it was difficult for me, and for a long time I would not believe that it was with meas it is in effect. No, I could not bring my mind to believe it; I refused, I complained internally, I struggled against the stream. But darkness became thicker and more thick; my roisfortune more and more certain to me—this day I was perfectly convinced of it, and now I have humbled myself. Ab, my dear children, let us be mindful, in the first place, that it is impossi- ble to cope with heaven ; ‘if we throw pebbles we get large stones in return.’ In the second place, we are all short-sighted beings, and have little knowledge of what is good either for ourselves or others ; and therefore, my children, it is good for us to bow beneath our Lord’s yoke, and be sub- missive ; for He knows well what He is doing.” I could not stand still there any longer. With tears in my eyes, I cast myself upon mca cheére mere’s neck, exclaiming : “‘ Bear will assist ma chéerve mere: he will restore mother her sight.” “7{ hope really to be able to do so,” said Bear, as he advanced nearer to her, seized her hand, and observed her keenly. “ It is glaucoma ; it is curable ; in a year or two it will be matured, and then an operation can be commenced.” “Lars Anders,” said ma chére mere, pressing his hand, “ I will believe you, and live cheerfully in this belief. I will wait patiently till the day comes when it shall be permitted me to see the sun of heaven again. Andif it never comes to me here on earth, still I will sit with resignation in my obscurity. THE NEIGHBOURS. happy : my eyes have at all events been able to satiate themselves with the sight of a great joy, and though I cannot see, yet can I hear my son and you all,” she added, asif fearful to commit injustice towards us.” Bruno stood bending over his mother, his head was stooped down to hers, and she felt his breath upon her brow. “Ts it you, my son?” she asked with tender- ness, and raised her clouded eyes a little. “ Yes, my mother,” he answered in a melodious tone of voice, betokening emotion. “ Give me your arm then, my son, and lead me into the saloon,” said ma chére mére. ‘And you all, my children, follow me: Bruno will play us one of his beautiful pieces, and we will all be as we were before. I indulge my will in this, my children; do not allow yourselves to be distressed through my misfortune, and think not that you ' need pity me: no one shall have more trouble than I formerly sat in darkness of | gets nothing a worse complexion ; now I am comparatively | in pleasure any more than other things. A formerly in waiting upon and assisting me. I shall know how to help myself, and should I at times require the aid of another’s hand or another’s eye, I will solicit it, and Iam certain that I shall not be without it. For the rest, we will make as little as possible of this calamity. ‘To wail and rail is an old woman’s comfort,’ said our great Gustavus Adolphus, and I say that it keseems every reason- able mortal to keep his eyes on God, and patiently bear the cross put upon him.” Thereupon ma chére mére rose, and offered Bruno her arm; he, however, wound his round her waist, as with infinite tenderness he pressed her hand to his lips, and thus led her out of the room. At this moment a faint rose tint coloured ma chére mére’s pale cheek, and with a smile that might well be called felicitous, she leant her head against his shoulder. In this manner they went out ; the rest of us followed them. Bruno then played as his mother had desired, and played divinely: I have never heard anybody lure forth such tones from an instrument. “Fle plays not like an angel, but an archangel,” said ma chére mere: but on his falling into a gloomy strain, she said: “ Dear son, play some- thing sprightly, that is really so distressing.” Like the celebrated Queen Elizabeth, ma chere mere does not in truth admire any but gay and blithesome music. After the music a general conversation arose. We formed in a circle about ma chere mere and each one of us did his utmost to divert and enliven her, and never did conversation appear so animated and entertaining to me, and ma chére mere was more sprightly and in higher spirits than I have ever seenher. Bruno shone in interesting stories, which he told with animation. Ma chére mére at times cried out aloud, now from alarm, now from surprise and delight; and I confess that I did the same. Strange, incomprehensible, interesting Bruno. With conversation of this kind the afternoon and evening passed away, we knew not how. We were all astonished when supper was announced. On rising ma chére mére said: “My dear children, you are so exceedingly mirthful and interesting this evening that I could sit and listen to you the entire night. But ‘he who eats out of the iron-pot I have in the dish,’ and we must not revel THE NEIGHBOURS. not found myself well to-day, and act most prudently in going to bed: I thank you all, my children, for a pleasant evening, and wish you an agreeable repast, and good night.” Bruno conducted his mother into her chamber, and lingered a long while with her there. On returning to us he was taciturn, sad, but gentle in manner. After supper he talked long to Bear about the cataract, and made exact inquiries con- cerning its species, development, the mode of operating upon it, &c. ; all which the good doctor described con amore. Bear thinks it likely that ma chére mére’s blind- ness is due to the violent agitation of her feelings on recognising her son, but Bruno must not have any suspicion of this. Strange thing, that this mother and this son should be led by fate to be the occasion of misfortune to each other : but now since darkness has come upon her, the struggle must assuredly cease, and the angel of reconcilia- tion that has descended upon her spirit spread his wings also over their life. But how, in other respects, will it be with ma chére mere in future ? will she preserve her vigour of mind ? will not her strength decline? what will she do, what will be her pursuits in future ? she who was so stirring, so restless,—will she not be oppressed by inactivity, will she not become splenetic, quarrelsome, querulous, a plague to herself and to others! “Say, Bear, what is your opinion on this ?” “ Hem—we shall see, no doubt.” 9th. We are endeavouring to adjust our affairs. This will be more difficult than we thought at first ; debts to a considerable amount will press upon us. Bear’s liberality towards poor relations on the mother’s side now falls upon him like a heavy burthen. Many retrenchments will be made in our household economy, and in spite of all this I still perceive that we shall be in a per- fect strait as to money for the winter ; but Bear is vigorous and kind, and I shall give instruction in music as soon as I get into the town. We shall soon remove there; Bear has rented a little dwelling there containing three rooms and a kitchen. It grieves me to leave ma chere mere at this present time. Since our last meeting she has been indisposed : I have the tooth-ache, my heart is heavy: there are times when everything is so wearisome : but we ought not then to forget that we have had hours of joy, that we have been happy ; I will not do so, nor make my life dull by too great impatience. Dulness I hate as tho- roughly as ever Miss Hellevi Husgafvel hated it. ‘There are (and that I now feel) species of dul- ness and burthens from which we cannot and wish not to relieve ourselves. In such cases it should be our endeavour to bear them lightly. 4th. Ma chéere mere for ever, for ever! One could not demean one’s-self better and with greater sense _ than does she in her affliction ; one could not with greater dignity “bow beneath” the yoke of heaven. She has transferred the management of the out- door economy to Jean Jacques, that of the house to Jane Marie, and has only reserved it to herself 107 to be consulted on certain occasions ; on formally delegating this power she deliveréda long and pom- pous speech to her servants, and those subject to her. (Tuttén has given warning for the winter, she and Jane Marie are not the best friends.) Farther, ma chére mére has written to engage a person from the B institute in Stockholm, who is to instruct her to occupy herself with various matters during her blindness, as, for instance, writing, card-playing, &c. In the in- terim she diligently knits her large net, and practises the violin most zealously : in mind she is calm, mild, and even cheerful. I must also say that Jane Marie now deports herself excellently towards her, and of an evening plays, with a self- denial which bespeaks our respect, all the sonatas of Steibelt and Pleyel, “ avec accompagnement de violon,” which ma chére mére can play on her violin from memory. Ma chére mére also is now more cordial in her manners towards Jane Marie, and this seems to operate beneficially upon the latter. Bruno is at Carlsfors every day. Ma chére mére hears from a distance the gallop of his horse, will then blush and say: “ Now he’s coming.” When he is with her there predominates something far more womanly and pleasing than usual in her manner. Bruno will purchase Ramm, and settle there. The 15th. To-day we made divers payments, which ab- sorbed all our money. I thought we had not another farthing. I subsequently discovered that we possessed a shilling-piece. I was so delighted at this, that I could not help laughing at myself ; but then I wept; and finally I laughed again, and embraced my Bear. The day after to-morrow we remove into the town. Iam rejoiced to think that I shall there see Serena and the excellent old Dahls. For the rest, we shal*cultivate no acquaintances whatever, but live quietly for ourselves. The winter will be all very well, but in spring!... Ah, in spring, when everything is so beautiful in the country, when air and flowers, the butterfly, and the carolling of the birds . . . No, I- will not make my- self sad ; I will not. I will have flowers in my room, and will myself be butterfly to them and my Bear. ~~ pe EIGHTEENTH LETTER. W—, 20th October. We have been in the town for three days. On Monday morning we quitted Rosenvik—not with- out tears on my part, I confess ; but I took espe- cial pains not to let Bear see them. Ah, I shall no more call that sweet little place my home. The morning was bleak and cool, snow flew about in the air ; the road was slippery from the frost of the previous night. Poor Pollé had a hard tug with Bear and his lady Bear. We breakfasted at Bird’s Nest, whither Miss Hellevi Husgafvel had expressly invited us. Her good coffee, with due accompaniment of delicacies, her beautiful mu- seum, and her own sprightly prattle enlivened me, and I was in good spirits again by the time I arrived at the town. Our three rooms are snug and in excellent con- dition, but do not lie in a sunny situation, which 109 108 THE NEIGHBOURS. pains mea good deal. Farewell, my flowers. Well, | one can exist without them. I have swept about a great deal during these three days. Yesterday | I myself made some blinds for our room. Serena | was here and assisted me. How interesting our conversation was during this, you may conceive to yourself. “My angel, give me that piece of muslin.”—“ Have you the scissors ?”—“ Where are the pins?” — “Here they are.” — “ The ; hammer ?”—‘ There it is.”’—“ Does this valance hang right ?”—‘* No, it is too much to the left.” — This tack is blunt.”.—“ Look, here is another one,” &c., and then a little pleasantry, and a little laughter. With Serena labour becomes a pleasure; she does everything with facility, and well. By the afternoon we had everything in order, and when Bear returned home, I led him with some pride into his room, which he had never before seen so adorned. «Ah, the deuce!”’ he cried out with all his might, opening his mouth wide, and making grimaces. Serena dined with us. She was cheerful and jested with Bear; our cheer was good ; it was an zgreeable little dinner-party. When Serena had left us, which was in the course of the afternoon, Bear feil into a sort of eestacy about her, and ex- claimed: “ Sheis a true angel.” “Yes, Bear, and therefore would in no wise suit you for a wife ?” “‘ Not in the least ; just as little as I should suit her fora husband. There is but one suitable for me, and that is—my wife.” “ Well, that is eminently suitable.” Everything is now ordered in my little home. O, that I could but see the sun! But thank heaven I have the brightest sun that can shine ona home—peace. The lst November. Our misfortune is now generally known. Are you aware by what means we first learned this ? Thus :—Bruno came one morning to Bear, and placed half of his property at his disposal. He was grieved at Bear’s declining to accept any- thing save a loan, and this only that he might be in a situation to liquidate a debt which then op- pressed him. The good old gentleman, Mr. Dahl, also came himself to Bear in order to make offer of his services to him. All our acquaintances have shown us a great deal of friendship and sympathy ; severalof the families to whom Bear is physician have now sent in their usual annual fee. All this has removed our present cares, and I am quite delighted at the goodness of men. a No visit, no act of kindness, however, has touched me like ma chére mére’s. Yesterday afternoon she came here, so kind and cordial ; she gotme to conduct her about everywhere through the rooms, the kitchen, and store-house, spoke in high terms of all my arrangements, and only re- gretted that she could not see my curtains, which “report says are particularly tasteful.”’ She men- tioned not a word about the loss we had Sustained, but after tea she said, suddenly breaking out into a strain of rebuke : “ Listen, Lars Anders—what piece of absurdity is this people are taiking, and you thinking, about ? To leave Rosenvik? That I deprecate. I will not hear a word about it. And if for some years | you are unable to pay any rent, beshrew me but | | to shame by it. you shall have it without rent. Yes, that you shall. I will not hear a word of opposition. It is now said, and concluded.”’ Bear, with his dreadful independence, was going to say a great deal by way of opposition ; but I was so delighted at ma chére mére’s words, that in an instant I kissed her cheeks, hands, and garment, and this took all force from Bear’s re- sistance. He merely growled to himself: “Too much... We cannot accept what we cannot make acknowledgment for.” But ma chére mére interrupted him with force, and said, holding me upon her knee :— “ Dear Lars Anders, do not stand there grum- bling, like a beetle in a butt. Too much and too little spoils everything. To be independent and one’s own master is a fine thing ; but to be un- willing to accept a service from a friend is pride, and of no avail. You have had a loss; it was not your fault. Very good, you must not be put Take the spoon in your right hand, Lars Anders, and conform to your cireum- stances. Every one must do so, earlier or later. ‘To-day me, to-morrow thee.’ That which is offered from the heart, should not be rejected. Besides, in doing you a service, my friends, I am also doing myself a service, for I like to have you for neighbours ;—there are none I like so well. Let it be as I have said ; hold Rosenvik for five years without rent; after this, you may pay me as usual, Better times will assuredly come for you, my children, since you are industrious and circumspect, and after a storm heaven sends its sunshine. Be not obstinate, Lars Anders. Be a good man. Consider your wife ; she is far more sensible than yourself. Consider. Come now, and kiss my hand, and let us agree.” And she ex- tended her hand to Bear, who kissed and shook it half sullenly, half thankfully and affectionately. The matter was now settled, was talked of no more, and ma chére mere drove off, kind and glad as when she canie. i was so heartily happy at having Rosenvik again, and there enjoying spring with its flowers and birds, that Bear did not persevere in his obstinacy of independence, but became happy with me. I shall now scent my roses again, pluck my gooseberries, cut my cauliflowers, and cultivate my garden. All this is divine. The 14th November. For a week and three days I have given in- struction in music. Serena, whom I confided my situation to, has procured me four pupils. They come during the forenoon, while Bear is away. He knows nothing about this, and shall in due season express his wonder how d ishly well the housekeeping goes on, and yet how little the money in the cash-box diminishes. This it is a pleasure to do for a man who is so good, and makes so few demands. In the opposite case it would be a pain. The music lessons sueceed— what does not, when it is our will that it should ? Three of my fair pupils are slow of apprehension, and have been badly taught ; I do my utmost to quicken them. We labour through the “ bataille de Prague” by dint of great exertion and pains- taking, My fourth scholar is a sensible young lady, and gives me pleasure. THE NEIGHBOURS. My connection with the old Dahls becomes more and more familiar. They treat me like a child of the family. In Serena I have the best, the most amiable friend. Bear is so kind,—ah, IT have so much that is good to be grateful for, and yet-——and yet I am low-spirited, and there is hanging over me a cloud that will not pass away. Neither am I entirely in good health ;— for—it is so dark in the town here, and for this week past there has been incessant fog alternately with rain; and thea—I have certain thoughts which... I should like to know what ma chére mére would say to these sounds of lamentation ; perhaps “he who wishes to sing is never in want of a song.” Ma chére mére plays upon her violin, and is gay in her misfortune. O, that I were but half as sensible as she. he NINETEENTH LETTER. W——, 17th November. We have now been in the town a month. This fog, this gloomy period depress one’s spirits. And this everlasting dirty weather. One cannot get even a nostril-full of fresh air. Everybody, too, has a cold, and inflammation of lungs. Bear is so much engaged that I only get sight of him to dinner and late at evening. Old Mr. Dahl has an attack of the gout, and Serena cannot leave him. I am not sufficiently well in health to go out much, and hence I do not see her frequently. I endeavour to occupy myself at home; but nothing avails me. Only a minute ago I made an effort to enliven myself with the beautiful “Song to the Sun,”—but I had no voice. Then I laboured at a little poem, but could not find any rhyme to “heart,” except “smart,” and that dis- posed me to tears ; then I sat me down to sewing most sedulously ; but work went neither right nor wrong ; finally, I seated myself at the window, amid the noise of carts and the water dropping from the houses, to inform you about my ill- temper. My little scholars, are also irksome to me; we cannot by any possibility get through the “bataille de Prague ;” we must try something else. Tellme, do you know anything more annoy- ing than water dripping incessantly from the roofs ? The 19th. I wished to see Serena yesterday. I required to look on her friendly countenance ; for I was out of humour with many things, and especially with myself. My pupils had plagued me so in the morning, that I wept when alone. At dinner the soup was smoky. Bear was obliged to leave me immediately after dining. I thought everything intolerable, and in order to chase ill-temper from the house, I walked with umbrella, and through mud, to makea call upon the Dahls. I found them alone; the little family was assem- bled in the sick-room of the old gentleman. He was sitting in a Jarge arm-chair, with his feet wrapped in flannel. Serena’s look and friendli- ness of manner would have cheered me, had not the paleness of her countenance alarmed me, and made me conjecture that here also things were not altogether right. Mr. and Mrs. Dahl, too, were uncommonly taciturn and grave. I saw distinetly, 109 however, that the connexion between the old people and their favourite was just as cordial as ever, After tea Mrs. Dahl went into her room, and asked me to accompany her, as Serena was to read aloud to her grandfather, who was not strong enough to converse that evening. Neither when we were alone would conversation go on with any real spirit ; the good old lady was absorbed in thought, and sighed deeply. I tenderly inquired the cause, and learned it, too: Bruno had solicited Serena’s hand of her grand-parents a few days previously. “ His request,” pursued Mrs. Dahl, “ hurt me, especially as he made it known in a manner at once so ardent and manly; for I always liked Bruno, and yet, for many reasons, we could not , think of him as Serena’s partner, at least, we can- not look upon him in such light at present, when we are so little acquainted with him. Strange reports about his youth, and. the occasion of his flight from his maternal home, were formerly in circulation. Nothing was heard of him for many years, and even now there is some équivoque about him, especially in reference to a lady he has in his house. My husband is rigorous in his demands upon a man’s honour and unspotted reputation, and if any one has a right to make such demands, it is certainly he. He, as myself, has undissembled affection for Bruno, and heartily rejoices at the good he now both desires and accomplishes ; but he does not wish that we should call him son. Se- renais hiseye,his joy, his pride ;—it is not to be won- dered, therefore, that he is not.willing to give her to a man whose life and character are enveloped in darkness. Hence he received Bruno’s application coldly, and, without rejecting tt, he begged him not to think further about it at present, talked about the future, more intimate acquaintance, &c. 5 and in order to put an end to a conference so little agreeable, he added playfully: ‘For the rest,— if, as the Bible relates, Jacob served seven years and yet seven other years for Rebecca, you must not deem it extraordinary to wait some years, and endeavour to deserve a damsel who is assuredly more beautiful and better than the shepherdess in the land of Mesopotamia.’ But this piece of pleasantry about Jacob and Rebecca appeared by no means to afford Bruno any amusement. With a gloomy look, he took up his hat, bowed, and left us without saying a word. “When he was gone, we felt entirely out of spirits, and resolved to disclose to Serena all that had just transpired, and hear what she would say to it. “We did so, and her strong emotion confirmed what I had anticipated, and what she herself frankly confessed, on our putting the question to her—Serena loves Bruno. Even when a child she conceived a singularly tender attachment for him, and this has now become love. But when my husband set forth to her the reasons which had induced -him to give Bruno an answer so little encouraging, she said—though amid tears—that he was in the right. And upon his then adding with emotion, that his grey hairs would go care- worn to the grave, were she to unite herself toaman unworthy of her, and even at that time he could not have peace of mind, if: Serena were'so cap- tivated with Bruno as to think she would be 110 unhappy if not united to him ; Serena wound her arm about his neck, besought him to be at ease, and declared she loved us more than Bruno, and would never bestow her hand without our full consent ; that she would ever abide with us, and said such sweet things to us—how contented she was with her position in life, how happy our ten- derness made her, and so on, that we felt a great deal lighter in heart. ‘From that time we have not discussed the matter any farther—but heaven knows what the upshot will be—we are all a little low-spirited. I perceive from Serena’s looks that her heart is heavy, though she deports herself in as friendly a | manner as ever. My husband has exerted him- self too much by conversing upon the subject these last few days, and his malady has become worse in consequence. Neither has anything been heard about Bruno, who was formerly here so frequently; perhaps he takes the delay in such ill part, as to return to the West Indies on account of it.” “Tf so, let him return,” said 1; “if so, he is not worthy of Serena. Truly I must say with Mr. Dahl, that she is a young lady whose merits entitle her to be waited and served for. But, in sooth, methinks to serve seven, and yet seven other years, is really a great deal at the present time, when people do not live half as long as the patriarchs.” Mrs. Dahl laughed and said: ‘ You have always a word to cheer one, my little Francisca. Ah well, I have also thought and expressed the same thing ; but my husband—so sensible and ex- cellent in all else besides—is rather headstrong in matrimonial concerns. Besides this, he is not pleased when Serena’s hand is solicited. Ah, Francisca, I have often thought and had misgivings that indeed some selfishness might be mingled with our affection for Serena, and that, perhaps, we are just us apprehensive about losing her con- siderate care and society, by her marriage, as we are solicitous about her happiness when wedded. I find it difficult,” (she added with a sigh,) “ really to form a clear conception of this. Ah, life is a warfare to its very close. Old age has to wrestle with temptations just as well as youth, perhaps with temptations more difficult to withstand. Our blood in age gets so sluggish, the feelings become so torpid, the chill which steals over our bodily members is so apt to insinuate itself into the soul. We feel that we need a great deal of assistance, and begin to make demands upon others ; we have frequent little nervous strainings, and in the pain of these we frequently forget to participate in the griefs and joys of others. Of a verity there are severe trials for age, and had we not the Gospel whereby to hold, and wherewith to warm ourselves, | it is my unfeigned belief that we should sink beneath the pressure of our burthens. And, per- haps, we nevertheless allow ourselves to be en- thralled by them to a greater extent than we are aware of.” In the course of our conversation the clock struck nine. Mrs. Dahl and myself partook of a light meal. Serena remained in the inner room with her grandfather. After supper we also went and joined him, that we might be present at even- ing prayer, which has been held every evening in this house for fifty years. On reaching the door of the apartment, I heard Serena reading aloud. | from bad to worse ? THE NEIGHBOURS. ‘‘ Heavens !” thought I, “she has assuredly not been reading during the entire time which has elapsed since I left her.” We entered; the read- ing ceased ; the people of the house assembled in the room, and the aged man himself read, with dignity and devotion, the short but beautiful form of evening prayer. At its conclusion housemates and domestics mutually extended their hands to each other, wishing a friendly “ good, night.’’ The whole scene was one of peace, and operated bene- ficially upon the heart. When we were alone again, I observed that Serena looked fatigued. She coughed some few times. I did not like this coughing ; but on my regarding her with inquiring solicitude, she smiled back at me most kindly and cheerfully, as if to remove this impression from me. On my taking leave, and wishing old Mr. Dahl an untroubled night’s repose, he said : “ Sleep has not been my friend for some time, but I am still fortunate enough to have beside my couch a little Scheherezade, who, by her agreeable stories, abridges the length of the night to me. And this she has done indeed more than a thousand and one nights. This evening, however, you are, perhaps, tired, my good girl ?” he added, regarding Serena. “T can read a little while longer quite well,” she replied, cordially. I was on the point of opposing this by making an observation upon Serena’s fatigued. aspect ; at my first “but,” however, Serena, quickly put her hand upon mine so interdictingly, so urgently, that I closed my open mouth again. Serena accompanied me tothedoor. “Serena,” said I in a tone of reproach, “ why did you not speak the truth to your grandfather? You are fatigued, I see you are. Do you think he would like you to read yourself to death in order to amuse him. It would not be right or reasonable.” “ Hush, hush, you who are so reasonable ;” said Serena with a smile, and caressingly, while a tear glistened in her eye. Let my reason have the sway this evening, another time yours shall com- mand. Grandfather is not in good health, and this evening his spirits are very low. If he thought I was not well, he would be greatly troubled. Neither am I unwell; Iam merely a little tired. Soon I shall again be like a winter new-moon.” “In that case you must speedily pay me a visit, for my spirits have for some time been constantly on the wane.” “ Ah, I anticipated it was so. What ails you, Fanny? My dear Fanny, what is it that oppresses you so? Sit down; let me take off your fur. May I not now learn « “No, no, not now. But come to me soon, Serena.” “ As soon as I possibly ean.” Dahl’s servant attended me with the lantern till I reached home. It rained, and heavy as the rain- drops fell my thoughts. “Shall Serena ”—thus they spoke—* fade in her youth, because she has become so beloved of the aged people, and ren- dered herself so indispensable to them. I wish she was run away with—she will otherwise grow spell-bound in this reading. Bruno would be just the man for accomplishing such a thing. But Bruno—that restless, and not pure spirit—could he make her happy? Would not this be falling My poor, good Serena, like {lz i the water-lily, you seem destined to be borne now upon the unrufiled, now upon stormy waters, and te live only to adorn them, or become their victim. The 22nd. The water-lily has her own root, however, though it is concealed in the deep ; and although her blossoms willingly suffer themselves to be tossed by the waves, still she has an object to view, and that is—the heavens. From thence she derives strength and light. And now from the flower of the waters to the flower of the valley, Serena. This day, in the course of the cool, dark morn- ing, she surprised me, and, I confess, surprised mein tears. I was ashamed of them, and to her inquiries and endearments could only answer, « Ah, take no concern about it, Serena. I ama little weak to-day. You should have come some other day. To-day I am absurdly squeamish. . .” “No, this is precisely the day on which to come,” replied Serena with warm cordiality ; “precisely to-day I am delighted to be here. I have had no peace since I last saw you. You spoke in so melancholy a strain, so unlike yourself. Now I am here, and will not go away till you have told me what it is that oppresses your heart.” “ Beware of reprisals, Serena.” “Oh, you are eager for a fray, I perceive. Well, in that case I immediately become more peaceably disposed. Lo, now you are laughing. Thank heaven, now all will be well; but tell me now, dear Fanny, tell me... . .” Weclimbed up on the sofa, we chatted, we wept, we laughed together, and Serena’s tender and sensi- ble words alleviated my heart considerably. But when I became calmer within myself, ] commenced a sudden attack upon her, and said : “ Now it is your turn,Serena. Now you must make your con- tession to me. No, no, you must not withdraw, you must not leave me before you have solved this enigma. You come to me to-day, speak to me, about me, as if there were nothing else in the world to talk about. You have something in your look which seems to say that everlasting peace indwells in your soul, ‘Tell me, can it be so? I know that Bruno has solicited your hand. I know, too, that though not refused him, yet it is dis- played to him in such doubtful and distant per- spective, as to render his ever attaining it highly improbable. I know, too, that this has hurt him —can all this be of indifference to you ?” “No... .. not of indifference.” It seemed painful to Serena to talk upon this subject. “Dearest Serena,” I exclaimed, “pardon me. I see I annoy you. But this time you must let me look into your heart. I know that Bruno has strong affection for you. You yourself have confessed to me what your feelings towards him are, Can you thus renounce him without pain 2” “Not without pain..... but yet without suffering a very great deal.” ‘Are you not deceiving yourself? You now say, I do not suffer, and yet areso pale. One day you will die, while saying, I am not dying.” Serena smiled a melancholy smile, as, blushing, she said ; “No, Fanny, I shall not die of this grief. I have examined myself, and know I can endure it. In a short time I shall no longer be pale, I shall Nou, fi. a on a A pa THE NEIGHBOURS, iil be perfectly calm and strong. My parents have acquainted me with the reasons which induced them not to accede to Bruno’s wishes. I feel that they are right, and that they cannot possibly think and act otherwise. I have, therefore, restrained all expression of my own feelings, nay, I have banished all thoughts of a union with Bruno. I will live solely for my parents. As long as they love me, and are happy through my care for them, I shall not hold myself unhappy.” “Is your sense of duty so strong, then? Is your tenderness for them so full a measure of con- tentment to your heart as to silence every wish, every bitter longing, which, if you love, you will assuredly feel ?” “Yes, though not in every instance, yet, gene- rally speaking, so it is. Observe, Fanny, granting that during the day some amount of impatience, ardent desire, some species of § Ah,’ as you call it, may arise in the heart, yet, when the day is past, and I go to rest, and can say to myself that those who nursed my childhood with affection have had comfort and pleasure through me, and think that they are at this time reposing in contentment, and bless their child, then, Fanny, all is so well with me, my heart so calm ; then every ‘ Ah’ is hushed, and I am satisfied and thankful for my lot.” “ And if your parents live ten or twenty years longer? Each year they will require your care more than previously—and this reading—Serena, you will fade prematurely, you will grow old in yor best years.” “ And if the cheek does wrinkle, and eye grow dull—what then, kind Fanny, if one has gained peace of heart? I have thought about such a future career as you speak of, and do not dread it. When parents are not entirely good and worthy of respect, it may be hard, very hard, to live only for them ; and in such a case the word sacrifice may be used to designate it. But how very different it is in the present instance—in my case—and how many charms, of which nobody has an anticipation, does my life possess! Do I indeed express a wish which my parents do not desire to gratify? Is not their purse always open to me? How many great enjoyments do their kindness and libera- lity supply me with. In effect, to live for such good and honourable parents is a beautiful and a noble vocation.” “ You speak exceedingly well, and finely, Serena,” said I, in ill-temper ; “and nobody can admire your parents more than myself; but I cannot altogether endure their never giving counte- nance to your suitors, their uniformly opposing your marriage ; and I would ask if there is not indeed a good share of selfishness in this. They will not bestow you on another, because they wish to keep you for themselves, to nurse them, to read, to sing to them, till... .” «“ Francisca !’? said Serena, interrupting me, “do not talk in this manner. Is it not such thoughts that stix up acrimony in the heart, and paralyse all power of doing good? My dear Fanny, such must be banished by main force, as tempters to evil. Besides, if parents will have something in return for all they have sacrificed, if they wish not to be forsaken in their old age, and would have about them the child they have nursed and educated, is it to be wondered at, is it aught but equitable? Ah, I fain would exclaim to all whose position aan nnn nn ennenoepneemeemeenemeeneererenermeeeneneeemeee ceememmeenememe mma sanmanmeee nee eeeeneemeansene tee anemeee tamer aumeeeeetetereeteneennenemaemeereeenaeeeenemnenne= rene cee emeanaae eee ee ee ee 112 resembles my own: ‘Let us reflect on this, and love our filial duties.’ ” «“ And when those duties cease, when your parents are gone, gone, too, is'the best part of your life,—will not existence seem a void to you? You have separated yourself, on their account, from your young companions and their interests. You have cut yourself off from joyous, stirring life, to attend and alleviate declining age. All at once you stand alone. Will not your soul also have ' become a recluse, that sees a desert in the world, and withdraws in silence to the cold cloister.” “1 do not think so,” said Serena, looking up as she spoke ; a tear glistened in her eye, her bosom heaved as if it would cast off some pressure that was upon it, and she pursued: “ Life is affluent and beautiful, God’s kindness flows with a per- petual current; wherefore should our. hearts cease to accept of it? why should they dry up so long as rich sources of enjoyment are flowing? If they do it is their own fault: the heart contracts so, confines itself to such a narrow range of objects, it will not expand that it may rejoice at the joys of others, and admire what is beautiful in the world. Ah, this is poverty of soul: my dear Fanny, this I do not desire. I would preserve my heart open to sympathy... . spring and friendship and song never indeed die from the earth: hard and sorrowful times may come upon us, but they will also pass away; and even during such days ought we not to look at the sun- shine that lights upon our path of life, rather than that which is diverted from it ? and for this very reason, excellent Fanny, let us talk no more about that which oppresses me: let me now enjoy that sunshine which is now greeting us after so many gloomy days ; look how beautiful it is at this mo- ment glistening upon the green table-cover.” (And Serena put her fair hand amid the sun’s light, earessing it, so to speak.) “ Let me now be happy on your account, and for this reason, because I see that your affection to me is equal to my love to. you.” And with tears of calm emotion upon her bright countenance, Serena embraced me, and leant her head upon my shoulder. “ But Bruno, Serena, but Bruno? (I was like some fiend, I would not allow her any rest.) While you are consoling yourself and enjoying life, he, who is not possessed of your strength, will be lonely and unhappy.” I had scarcely pronounced the harsh words when I repented I had uttered them. The friendly bright expression, which lent animation to her countenance, suddenly vanished: a cloud, evi- dence of painful sensations, passed over it, but she soon composed herself, and said with quiet tenderness : “No, Fanny, Bruno will not be unhappy : no, he also will obtain peace.” “ And how? .... and whence this certainty?” T asked with astonishment. «Ah, I know how things will be .. . . I have a presentiment, a belief which will not deceive me : observe, a time will pass by—this will not be a cheerful time, but it will pass away—and then Bruno will come again: then it will be as it was in my childhood, and his early youth: we shall be brother and sister again : and this relationship will make us both happy. This is so clear and cer- ror) THE NEIGHBOURS. tain to me—and rejeices me. Bruno will choose another partner, but I shall always abide his friend, his sister. You shall see that he will come. My parents, Bruno, and yourself to love and live for O Fanny, how kind is heaven !” The bears at Spitzbergen did not fall with greater violence upon the huts of the four sailors than did my Bear at this moment upon the saloon door. It was dinner-time, and Serena was obliged to leave me to hasten home: at table my mind was wandering, and I had to listen to Bear’s taunts for it ; to appease him, I ordered ‘an extra cup of coffee, and while he was drinking it I sat down at the piano-forte in order to play a melody to the poem I had composed during dinner, and which I now send to you. THE WATER-LILY, From crystal stream a Lily rose, So fair and delicate, Beholds the Sun, and to him vows Her life to consecrate. And faithfully her eye she turns, * Up to the day-spring soaring, Herself an offering pure she burns With love while God adoring. Lovely as angel’s prayer the waves’ Rude face above now moving, Reward she nor expects wor craves, Save that which flews from loving. When winds are blust’ring in their power And rains to earth descending, With meekness yields that gentle flower, To heaving billows bending. Nor does she quit her place assigned, From whence her being springs, But keeping heaven fast in mind, There hopes for better things. As hushed to rest the storm now lies, And purple evening’s flow’rets glisten With pearly dew-drops,—there arise A harp’s bland strains,—0 listen ! *Tis NECKEN’s * shell, that sweetly rings From out his silvery dwelling, Beneath the waves ; to her he sings, His love immortal telling. ‘¢ O come, my hidden treasures see, On every side outspread, And I will wake my harp to thee, As coral-groves we thread. ‘¢ Cool are the breezes here that blow All through my shell-decked home 3 O Lily, come from sunny glow, Affection bids thee come.” But glancing up to heayen’s height, Its azure vault she eyes, Prefers to bide amid such light, And thus to him replies; ‘¢ And wishest thou to gain my love ? Come up, come up to me; Where shines the day of Him above, My heart shall beat for thee. ‘*O come, ’tis goodly here to be; Come, Ocean’s vocal Sprite ; The heavens robed in lustre'see, And sing of love and light.” From vainly dreaming Necken wakes, Allis so dark below ! His former joy his heart forsakes, Longing consumes him now. * A Water Spirit among the ancient Scandinavians. be Til NEIGHBOURS. 26th. Ever one and the same thing! Ever one and the same thing makes our life irksome, especially when this same thing is made up of fog and muddy weather. Nothing thrives in this state of the atmosphere, except disease; I see Bear searcely for one hour during the day (and _ his friendly look is now more than the sun to me). He is at present in extreme trouble about one of his patients, a respected father of a family, and will sit up with him this night. What different aspects life may assume at different times ! some- times so sportive, so bright, and... . this instant a poor woman has fallen down in the street, and spoilt her fur-cloak. Now the wind has turned a gentleman’s umbrella inside out ; in another part a young servant-maid was bespattered with mud by a chaise as it drove past: all three look un- happy : the little swallows are twittering—I would T were a swallow. The 28th. Bear is afflicted. The father of the family I spoke of is dead. He was a man in the prime of life, and has left a widow and seven children, most of whom are little ones ; their only means of sub- sistence were the father’s earnings. They came here quite recently, and have neither kindred nor acquaintance who canassist them. The poor little ones! It touches me to the quick when I think of them. “ Have you any black stuff that would he suitable for mourning ?” “Heaven help us, Bear! methinks everything about us at present looks black: even this red garment here. Yousaid Serena was there. How did she look ?” “‘ Kind and amiable, like an angel of comfort.” * Good Serena.” . Bruno does not let us hear anything about him- self ; perhaps his pride has actually been so deeply wounded, that he gives up the thought of Serena. If it were so, he would sink in my estimation. And Serena? Is she strong as she wishes to make herself appear ? Will not this passion, this suffering, gnaw at her vitality like a hidden worm ? Everything has a sorrowful aspect tome. I see Serena growing pale—see Bruno clouding over ; I think of the orphan children that are in want of bread and care ; ma chére mere sits in darkness, Bear is saddened, and 1... Ah! so much in this life rises to the view, and there is an end of it; so many things dawn upon us, but brighten not to clear day ; so many things are begun, but not accomplished, so that in contem- plating them one might let one’s hand drop nerve- less from faint-heartedness, were it not for the consolatory thought—* This is but the beginning of an eternity.” eos TWENTIETH LETTER. W——, the 4th December. You say, Maria, that I am no ionger like my- self. You discover something so desponding and melancholy running through my letters ; you in- quire the cause. I cannot resist your gentle, tender words, and will tell you everything, though you should deem me quite odd and childish, It istrue that for some time past I have cast a despairing look at life. I have not been well either in mind or physically, or felt any joy of life. Ah, Maria! I feel that I am—a mother, and this feeling makes me ill. Allat once so many strange and anxious thoughts have arisen in my mind. I have looked upon the world, as it were with an entirely new sense, and discovered in it a thousand dangers and sufferings, which I had not thought of previously, and all of which now seem to threaten my child, Every fresh step forward in life appears to me compassed about with snares and difficulties. To learn to walk, to learn to read, to learn to think, to learn to conform to the usages of the world—how irksome, how difficult ! And then the whole catalogue of ills, from the earliest teething to the last agony of death, all the dangers to mind and body— falling down stairs, falling in love, falling into sin, and the like ; how fearfully, how gloomily have these night spectres risen to my imagination ! Nor could I say to them: “ Away, delusive phantoms!” For I looked about me in life, and perceived that they were really and ac- tually every-day guests in the habitations of men. And when I observed this, and saw the Heavens looking down upon me with so dark and gloomy an aspect, then, Maria, I would have enfolded my child in my arms and shielded it from the world and from suffering. I dreaded its haying to encounter such trials. I have partially succeeded in subduing these sickly, painful feelings; but. the most grievous of all, that which occasions me most torment, is, the fear that my child will not be weleomed by my husband. I think I can observe evidence of this in many things. He never says a word about children, never expresses a wish to have any } and when on one occasion the conversation turned upon somebody who had a large family,.he cast.a hurried glance at me, which seemed to say : “ You will not indeed bless us with anything of this sort.” Ah, Maria! and, notwithstanding this, I do bless him with such a blessing. Bear knows nothing about it yet: I fancy, however, that he must have an anticipation of it. But this very circumstance of his making no mention of it, deprives me of all courage to discover it to him. Ah! I must also confess that my distempered state of mind has lately made me less kind towards him than usual. I have avoided him, I have withdrawn from him when he would have laid his arm in tenderness around me. I perceived that this hurt him, but yet I did not alter my behaviour : in this, how- ever, I was the greater sufferer. Bear is no longer a young man. He loves his undisturbed domestic peace. It is not to. be wondered at that children’s cries and. children’s noise, and all the troubles which little ones occasion, are annoying to him. And then, after the loss of his property, it must be oppressive to him to have fresh ex- penses and fresh cares, which, instead of decreas- ing, are continually augmenting. And shonld I now have two daughters at once, and afterwards an addition of eight more (the ten girls of Stellan’s prediction), what would he think ¢ how would he like it? You cannot conceive, Maria, how these thoughts oppress me. My poor little girl! It is not enough that many a pain, much bitter experience will fall to thy lot in the world; perhaps thy father will not even greet thy waking to existence with a smile ; Bo a ee ee Il4 perhaps he will press thee to his bosom with a secret sigh. And shouldst thou be prematurely bereft of thy mother—perhaps even at thy birth (for how many women die while giving life to a child ! and I am not strong), who then, my little maiden, will-sit a faithful watcher at thy cradle ? Who will lull thy trouble to rest ? Who at a later period will comfort thee in difficulties ? Who will love thee and teach thee to accommodate thyself to the circumstances of life? Where wilt thou ever find openarms? My tears are flowing in streams, and I must conclude. The 5th. But now I dry my tears and continue. Yester- day evening I sat in solitude working a little child’s cap. My heart was oppressed, and I was on the verge of weeping. Bear had not then come home, The wind blew kard without doors, and was dis- | It was also due to this, that I | pleasing to me. was not aware of Bear’s return till he had opened the door of the room in which I was sitting with his usual noise. I quickly threw my work under a shawl, blushed, and scarcely had time to say good evening to him. Bear looked unusually - cheerful, and cried out loudly : ‘ Good evening, my | | penetrated to the inmost part of my soul. At that little wife, how d’ye do 2” “ Quite well,” I answered, and, with a view to avoid farther questioning on his part, I myself inquired : “‘ What have you in your hand there 2” “Only an unsightly pasteboard box,” answered Bear. “ An old woman plagued me to buy it. Let us see whether you can make any use of it for stowing combs, hair pins, &c.” He then placed the large, pretended box upon the table, raised the cloth it was enveloped in, and there lay before me a picture in a splendid gold frame. Two figures, as if alive, stood out from the canvas. The beautiful mother of our Lord was floating amid clouds with the Divine Child in her arms. It was a copy of Raphael’s Madonna Sixtina, executed in black chalk by the skilful Demoiselle Rohl. I saw celestial peace in Mary’s countenance ; I saw the child’s divine look that shed a glory on all things, and I felt so well, so transcendently well, at heart, I could not speak, and without my being conscious of it, sweet, happy tears rolled down upon the glass of the picture. I had forgotten everything about me, I knew not whether I was in heaven or upon earth, when I felt myself embraced by Bear’s arms, and heard him say in a tone of tenderness and emotion : “ Fanny, wherefore should I not know that I am a father ?” At this moment I was strongly moved internally. * * % # * * * T reclined my head upon Bear’s shoulder, and only stammered forth : “O Bear, I was fearful you would not be pleased ! ” My Maria, what were my sensations when I saw Bear fall upon his knee before me, kiss both my hands, my dress, while, with great tears standing in his eyes, he exclaimed in broken accents: “ i not pleased? I not happy? Iam delighted. My Fanny, my wife, my child !” Such as he was then I had never beheld him before, and my heart resolved itself into effable love and joy. This was a beautiful, a divine hour. Possess one such in sublunary life, and one may be con- tented. One has comprehended what Heaven is. When our first violent emotion had’ subsided THE NEIGHBOURS. Bear took his seat beside me, and remonstrated with me, half in a tenderly playzul, half in a serious strain, about my extraordinary secrecy. My heart was open ; I permitted him to read it, permitted him to see everything that had lately been moving there. At first he smiled, then he became more serious, and finally said, almost out of humour, “ But that is very foolish, Fanny. Where then was your confidence in the Most High? is such lamentable misgiving beseeming indeed in those who have faith in Him and His goodness ?”’ “ Ah,” I sighed; “I do assuredly believe in Him, out still little children will fall down stairs, or out of window, and become cripples or imbeciles for their whole lives.” “ Well, what then 2” said Bear, and gazed upon - my face with a look which was at once firm and | clear (I did not believe his small eyes could dilate ic cnn ai lel MaMa N= mip df agp By 116 to such a size). I abased my eyes, and said in a low tone: “ Our child may indeed sustain such ills.” “ Well, and what then ?” exclaimed Bear, and looked at me as before. “What then? What then?’ I exclaimed with impatience, and was well nigh getting in a passion; but then I again encountered his glance, which moment I understood him, understood his manly strength, his affection and piety. “ Bear,” said I repentantly, “TI will participate in your trust ; whatever may come, I will not complain, I will not despair, but maintain a steady faith in Him who is eternally good.” Bear‘pressed me to his bosom. I was a little solicitous as to whether I should make mention of ‘those unexpressed fears [ still entertained ; but Bear earnestly set about ques- tioning me, and did not desist till he had elicited everything. On my telling him of my doubts of himself, he grew almost indignant, and said, “ How could you think so ill of me, Fanny? How could you consider me so pitiable, unnatural a man? You can only be excused by the fact that. you were sickly.” “ But Bear now that we are poor, it will, in fact, be a matter of anxiety to support and educate children, especially if we have a large family—if we really have ten girls.” I laughed while saying this, though with tearful eyes. “There will be a means of meeting that,” said Bear in a lively manner, “we shall discover a way to provide for them. Children that are received with affection bring blessings with them. The more children, the more Paternosters.” “ But their education, their education,” I said with a sigh, “what difficulties are involved in that, considering the demands of the present day.” “The take the demands of the present day, im more respects than one,” growled Bear, and added seriously, and with deep kindness : “ We will love our children, Fanny, we will induce in them unclouded and steady piety ; we will teach them to be diligent and love order: as to accomplish- ments, and the refinements of education, they shall receive these when we have means for them; if we do not possess means, let us not be troubled at it. The main thing is that they should be good and useful beings. In that case they will make their way alike here and hereafter : you, my Fanny, will instil into them at an early age the » ee ee 5 THE NEIGHBOURS, sentiments of the song you like so much to sing :— ‘Who knows his Paternoster well Need fear neither devil nor witch.’ ” Bear’s words, and his mild manly manner of expressing them, affected and braced my heart. “ No,” I exclaimed, “I will no longer be anxious and fearful: with you, my Bear, I cannot be so ; away with these dark phantoms, and you, little exiled prophet (I drew forth the little cap), now come to light, and speak openly of the secret.” How delighted was Bear with the little cap! he had never before seen anything so neat and pretty ; 1 then finished sewing the lace border round it. When complete, Bear placed it upon his great hand and smiled, as if it were already _ adorning the head of his child. This entire evening was a series of feelings and scenes of the most joyous character; it would have been too much for me to bear, if Bear had not set a limit to them. He compelled me to drink a few cups of tea, and wished also to divert my attention to the subject of bread and butter : he himself took scarcely anything ; he looked at me, then at the little cap, and his eyes frequently became moist—we were happy. Sth. Where is my former melancholy, Maria? my indisposition, my anxious misgivings ? I feel as if all these were fled, never to return again: the beautiful picture hangs in my bed-room ; I con- template it many times during the day ; in face of it I perform my morning and evening devotions, and it has a language for me, it speaks to me of all that is comforting and beautiful and divine: even at this moment I am writing before it, and I fancy the Madonna and the child Jesus are look- ing down upon me with a look of benediction. O my child * * * * * * * thy mother will no longer take concern for thee ; she knows that she does not watch over thee alone: a tender Protector, who was also born of an earthly mother, is with me and thee ; His glance rests upon thee as the sunshine on the undeveloped bud: as He is immortal, so art thou immortal too: as He went to God, so too wilt thou (led by Him) go to the Everlasting Father: come then, my little one, whatever may be thy portion on earth, we will not despair nor lose confidence, my child; we will have faith that He who has called thy spirit into existence will develop it to maturity, and lead it to Himself. O my child, thy earthly father will press thee to his bosom with joy; thy mother will live to minister to thy happiness, she will surround thy cradle with song and cheerfulness, * * *% cd * # * ~ =

——- TWENTY-THIRD LETTER. IV ———.,, Sth Februaiy. Yesterday there was a grand ball. at the. town- hall. The corporation gave it to their patriarchs. * You must go,” said 1to Bear. “I mustnot go,” said he ; “ I intend stopping at home and dancing a pas de deux with my wife.” At first I did indeed raise some difficulties, but was obliged at. last to acquiesce, and in the gaiety of our hearts. we did actually dance a miniet, to which I sang, while Bear growled bass. After this I sat down to sew They danced in cloaks and great- — coats, they sprang about in every direction with | They | as a thronging hornet's nest—ladies wrapping | little prophets. THE NEIGHBOURS. (You already know what this signifies.) Bear laid open his treasures of speech, which cireumstance never fails to make me greatly reioice, and he drew forth many a valuable little thing from his rich store of experience of men and the world. I have made notes of some of his stories, and will communicate them to you at some other time. It is a great fortune to possess a good husband, who is at the same time agreeable society, At Dahls’ they are already thinking about the wedding. Bruno is pushing and driving with his love and stubborn will. May he pardon me the expression! It is now determined that the marriage shall be in May, and that my little friend Mattea shall remain with the Dahls in place of Serena. partly at her grandparents’. Serena is the most amiable of brides, and equally the same good friend—the same excellent daughter as before. She is still the same modest woman she was previously to her engagement, and no doubt will be nought else when a wife. Stil her deportment towards Bruno is so fasecmating, as involuntarily to compel his adoration. What further shall I say of Bruno? He is kind and not kindy happy and not happy. Day and night, sunshine and thunder-clouds, alternate constantly in him, He appears to me as one who feels that he does not merit his good fortune, and is, consequently, at variance with himself on the one hand, and, on the other, fears that it may be wrested from him. I would I were wrong in this! This day he entered Serena’s chamber, when I, but not she, was there. He exchanged a few words with me, but soon seemed to forget that I was in the room. He surveyed Serena’s books, her pic- tures, and work-box, with a sort of painful tender- ness; he looked around the room, and said in an undertone to himself: “ Innocence,—purity,— peace.” He took up a litt'e silk handkerchief of a bright green colour, which Serena is wont to wear frequently, kissed it, and buried his face in it. He then rose with hastiness of manner and went away. I looked atthe little shaw] ;—it was wetted with tears. “ Peace,” said Bruno, and sighed so deeply, so painfully. Ah, peace he has not. He cannot be at peace when removed from Serena, nor even when near her. He comes and goes, and comes again, three times during the day. He evinces towards her an affection, whose vehemence he subdues only for .her sake; he overwhelms her with presents, which she accepts only for his sake; but his disquietude evidently hurts her. “ What the d—— is that shouting and fighting. I do not know what is the use of it!” Bear just this moment growled with displeasure. “Tt is far better to sit at ease and eat one’s sweet-flavoured soup, isn’t it?’’ said I, placing a dish of fuming soup on the supper table. “Yes, when one has them in company with one’s most charming little wife.” I was gratified with the courtesy, though it savoured of the genial influence of the soup. But this influence must also be cherished and attended to, The myrtle-tree of matrimony does not thrive well without it here in the North. The 12th February. An appalling occurrence: in the Dahls’ house, After the lapse ofa night since it took place, my 126 Serena will reside partly at Ramm, and | 125 tt ‘and still trembles in such wise that I cannot wield the pen with any certainty. O my forebodings ! Last evening Bear and I were with our friends. Bear sat with the two old people. Serena and Bruno were in the next room. [ also was there ; I was seated at the piano-forte, playing through some choral music I had recently received. By degrees I played softly and more softly, and made long pauses at each point d’orgue, for 1 caught the sound of words which engaged my entire atten- tion. Bruno had been in an uncommonly gloomy mood throughout the evening, and I heard Serena, who was sitting beside him, inquire the cause of this with that tone of tender affection, those bland delicate words, which woman’s love alone is able to preduce. Bruno answered :— “T had a horrid dream last night ; the remem- brance of it still pains me.” “ A dream ?” “ Yes, a dream. Shall I relate it to you?” “ Yes, by all means.” “ Very good, then, Serena. I dreamt that you were my wedded partner, my own, my life’s com- pavion, the half of myself, and I—was not happy. Years had passed away; you were mine; I loved you as I now love you, and, if possible, more strongly ; we had spent quiet days; we had often seen the sun go down and the stars rise above the lake of Helga; in the shades of night I had clasped you in my arms, rested upon your bosom ; but I —was not happy. I dreamt that evening had again approached. The stars mounted one after the other, and glassed their quivering beams in the tranquil waters ; the sky was clear, and the wood lay hushed and moveless. You were my companion, I enfolded you in my arms; but I had not peace. There was a dull sensation of pain in my heart, as if from festering wounds ;—for even the soul, Serena, may have such wounds, but you are not acquainted with these;—in order to lull the pain, I pressed you to my breast; ah, it became the more acute! I fancy I can now feel something of it—put your hand here, Serena.” Bruno was silent for a moment and then pursued: —“ A change occurred in my dream. I found my- self alone in the park at Ramm. I was hunting a stag, and my hounds were pursuing him with open mouth, panting for blood. I also was thirsty—I imagined I was thirsting for blood. Over hill and through valley, through wood and over meadow, the chase went restlessly on ; it was a wild chase, From glen to glen, hiding-place to hiding-place, I hunted the flying stag. The hours sped away ; the stag bounded forward, I followed, the hounds bayed in eager pursuit; it seemed as if the chase would never terminate. The hounds grew tired, but not so 1; my horse flagged, but I spurred him on: a demon was pursuing me, I the stag—my thirst became more and more parching. “The chase was suspended for a moment; I had lost sight of the stag; but on my coming forth from a thicket, I suddenly saw him, panting at the edge of a brook. He was at no great distance from me; he perceived me, but thirst and weari- ness overcame fear. He stood still, drinking the water of the brook. I shot him to theearth. At sound of the shot the hounds gained fresh spirit; they rushed forward, and their bloody fangs seized hold of the stag’s legs, and they tugged at the fine antlers of his front. I flung myself from off my horse, ‘and hastened to deal the death-blow to my victim. I was already holding the knife to his throat, when he turned towards me hisbeautifule yes in death and full of tears, and gazed at me with a look of distress and reproof. My sensations were as if a dagger had been thrust into my heart, and with voiceless gloom I looked upon those eyes, which with each moment assumed a stronger and more strong resemblance to human eyes. At last —O fearful sight !—I perceived that they were yours, Serena;—it was you that I killedit was you—you it was, that gazed thus upon me. © Heaven, if ever your look should... . .” “ Bruno, Bruno,” Serena interrupted him, ten- derly and with excitement, “ why talk thus ? Why, it was a dream, and indeed a hateful, silly dream. Look at me, Bruno ; no, turn not away. Look at me, and see that never, never such a look shall encounter you from my eyes. Ah, that you rightly knew and felt how impossible it is! Listen, Bruno: I, too, have a dream to acquaint you with, and one of more real signifi- cancy than yours. I dreamt, Bruno, that the world was frozen, frozen to ice. There was no lon- ger sunshine, no verdure upon the earth, no bluc sky above; in place of it there was dark, blank space. Magnificent palaces, the forests and the mountains existed still, but they were transformed to ice. Strange and mysterious lights, whose origin you saw not, and which diffused no warmth, but projected long shadows of a displeasing aspect, stalked amid these ice forms. All animate crea- tures were dead; two mortals only survived with beating and warm hearts in this frigid world. And these two, Brano, were you and I. Slowly we floated along through extended colonnades of ice. We clung not to the earth, yet were not able to raise ourselves above it. Our appointed doom was slowly to freeze, last of all living creatures. “ Your heart was bitter, O my friend, and your cheek pale. When the lights advanced, casting their menacing shadows towards you, you stretched out your arm, as if to wrestle with them, and raised your voice with exelamations. But amid this chill world, amid this night of terror and of death, I felt in my heart a warmth, which neither icy air nor time could indurate. There was, so te speak, a living spring of vitality in it, which diffused itself through my entire being, and impart- ed to me greater strength than I had possessed during the sunny days of Spring on earth. 1 loved you more tenderly than ever, Bruno; I was pleased to suffer with and for you, and-when my heart grew calm and warm, while resting on yours, and your cheek less pale, then I feit assured that it was given me to lay down my life for you, with the warmth of my heart to protect you against cold and the dread formsof darkness. I felt such: happiness in this thought, such bliss, that I awoke in its intensity—my dream was at an-end, but I had a distinct consciousness of what T experienced in my vision ; and I have frequently felt, and feel now, that 'I would gladly sustain great pain for you, inasmuch as then I could make you ‘better understand how strongly I love you.” “OQ Heaven,” said Bruno, ina low tone of voice, but with the expression of racking pain, ““ O Heaven, how little do I merit such affection; ..... how unworthy ..... . Serena, thou gracious angel, thou waom I shall ‘call my partner——” 127 pl ese ES Th AL AA Rea A AE ED LRT ATES te ee THE NEIGHBOURS. ee ee VOR IZ «“ That shall never be!” cried a wild piercing voice. Hagar, resembling rather a fury thana human being, rushed into the room; a dagger flashed in her hand——next moment it seemed as if it would penetrate Serena’s heart. But with the speed of lightning Bruno seized Hagar’s arm, the thrust was diverted, and the dagger merely wounded Serena’s shoulder. With the gestures of one frantic Bruno tore the murderous weapon from Hagar’s hand, pushed her violently back, took hold of her hair with one hand, and the steel gleamed near her breast. “ Wretched woman!” he ex- claimed with hollow voice and white lips, “ Curse of my life. .... . you must die!” «“ Bruno, O Heaven !” exclaimed Serena, spring- ing up and hanging upon his arm. Bruno mode- rated his rage, his wild look grew more rational, and his lips muttered: “A woman!” The dagger dropped from his hand. He looked upon Serena, saw her blood flow, clasped her in his arms with desperation, and conveyed her to the sofa. “ Your will shall be done,’’ cried Hagar wildly. “* Behold here your victim, Bruno, that had merely wished to die at your feet.” She ran up to him, plunged the dagger into her own bosom, and sank down at his feet, bathed in her blood. “ Bruno, for you, for you,” her lips stammered forth ; she then was silent, and her eyes closed. All this was the work of a few seconds. The moment was an awful one, but that which followed was still more dreadful. Bruno, in his despair, was gloomy and mute. Old Mr. Dahl tore his grey hair, and cried, “ My child! my child!” Bear alone preserved his self-possession ; he alone restored us to reflection and things to order. “ Why, it is merely a seratch ; beshrew me if she is any more in danger than I am !’’ he shouted to her aged grandparents, as he prepared to dress Serena’s wound. She, however, put away his bandage, and, pointing to Hagar lying there pro- strate and motionless, said: ‘ Assist her! assist her! She needs it more than myself.” But Bear did not quit her till her wound was bound ; he then asked me to conduct her and the old people — weeping —into another room. Hagar, whom they thought dead, but who soon gave evidence of life, was put into a bed, and. delivered over to Bear’s protection. With great presence of mind Serena arranged everything that was requisite for her comfort, and appeared to have forgotten that she herself had suffered. She endeavoured to appease the aged people with words of the greatest tenderness, and closed their lips with kisses when they were preparing to pronounce reproaches on Bruno. “ We indeed know nothing yet,” said she entreatingly, and taking part in what they said ; “ we cannot, dare not judge yet awhile, Let us await the time—Bruno will explain—all may yet be well.” She then went to Bruno, who stood there wrapt in gloomy speculations, and besought him: “ Drive back this evening to Ramm, Bruno, and return to-morrow. Then we shall all of us be more calm. Be not uneasy on account of this night. She will have the greatest care. Dr. Werner will remain with her. My beloved one, go now, but come to- morrow, and, if you can, quiet my grandparents, and all the rest of us.” and you ?” Bruno stammered, and gazed at her with pain. THE NEIGHBOURS. | spairing spirit. — Serena averted her face, in order to conceal that expression of suffering she could not restrain. “TI have faith in you,’ said she gently ; “ good night, Bruno.” And she covered her eyes with one hand, while she extended to him the other. “ You turn away from me, you will not look at me,’’ said Bruno, with gloomy complaining. Serena then turned her countenance to him: she wished to smile upon him, but her eyes were filled with tears. Perchance Bruno saw in this look what he had perceived in his dream, for he was like one wild; he imprecated himself, struck his forehead vehemently with his clenched fist, and rushed out. Bear and I did not return home that night. He sat with Hagar, who had fallen into violent febrile — delirium, and who now uttered words of love, now expressions of fury, but which continued equally wild, and gave evidence of an irregular and de- I stayed with Serena, whose bed- room lies adjacent to that of her grandparents, and prevailed upon her to go to bed and seek rest for their sakes. She acceded to my entreaties, aud feigned to sleep, but I heard her weeping softly. I was obliged to go several times to Hagar’s room, in order to procure Serena intelligence of her condition. (Bear does not think it mortal.) At intervals the door of the aged people's sleeping chamber was opened softly, and anxious inquiries about their beloved child were breathed in a whis- per, and to which consolatory answers were uni- formly given. Bear was with all, growled at all, cheered all, and administered sedative drops to all, Bruno came again three times in the course of the night ; he would not enter the house, however, but merely requested of, and obtained from, Bear information respecting Serena’s and Hagar’s state, at which he again hurried away, as if chased by furies. Tt was a long, painful night. Serena frequently inquired: Will it not soon be morning? Is it not dawning ?” Ah, she longed for morning, for she thought that light and Bruno would come with it. When, however, morning came, Bruno came not, but merely a note which contained these wild, incohe- rent lines :-— “TI was to return, to give an explanation..... to this effect you entreated me. O that a wish spoken by you should ever remain unfulfilled by me! Serena, I cannot explain, I cannot come ..... Her I will not see—you I cannot; the sight of you consumes me. I can give no enlighten- ment on the subject now. Honour commands, honour forbids me also. Hagar can, but will not ..... Farewell, adored one, compassionated one, for you love me. I cannot come..... but I shall be about you, invisible, unhappy. Was it not the punishment of the exiled pair that they saw Paradise near them, but were excluded from it by a flaming sword? Retribution, fearful retri- bution ..... Pray for me, Serena, for hell is in my heart.” After perusing these lines, Serena buried her face in her hands, and sat long thus, removed from the world as it were. But certainly she must have prayed to the everlasting Source of Consolation, certainly her heart must have risen to the Father of Love ; for otherwise, on lifting her head again, her countenance would not have worn so mild an 128 oe 2 I ee eee ae SI So RY AS ea a eA ne OU A ALR i, Jeo SRDS Meron ee OM SSUES rR a THE NEIGHBOURS. )27 EEE expression of resignation in the midst of her pain. Her first step was to proceed to her aged parents ; the first words her lips pronounced after this blow was a request made to them to have patience, not to be precipitate, not to judge, but to await the hour when this obscurity would be cleared up, and Bruno stand before them in a less ambiguous light than now. She acquainted them with the contents of Bruno’s letter, contrived to interpret the ex- pressions to his advantage, gave a hint relatively to the possible solution of the enigma, and attained what she sought. The old people grew more at ease, and left it to her to conduct the affair, O, how beautiful is such confidence between parents and children ! I quitted Serena at breakfast, which she pre- pared with her wonted attention for the aged people, assuring them that she felt no pain from her wound, and that it would soon be quite well. I repaired home to rest. I was fatigued, but yet more agitated and excited than wearied. To compose myself I have written to you, my Maria; for to open one’s heart to one’s bosom-friend is a salutary opiate to the soul. I already trace its effects, and will endeavour to sleep. Bear and Serena have decided that Hagar shall continue in Dahl’s house until she either dies or recovers. She could not be conveyed to any other place without danger. As for the rest, the horrible occurrence will be kept as secret as possible, and especial pains taken to prevent its coming to ma chere mére’s ears. Ah, what will be the issue of this? I will tell you more, Maria, when I learn more myself. ea a A STRANGE LADY TO THE READER. But Madam Werner’s knowledge extends merely to what lies on the surface of the development of the events which are to follow. Chance made me acquainted with their intrinsic nature, and I am now going to lift the veil from some of the scenes which occurred about the time under review in Hagar’s sick-chamber. Shadowings I will call them, for they arose from deep darkness in strong light. They might be compared to those profiles which people draw of a winter evening from the shadow projected by the countenance in the re- flection of the lights. If he who has attained to proficiency in art, and knowledge of human nature, should be of opinion that these sketches are indeed too hasty, and not sufficiently elaborated to deserve profound attention, but that, on the other hand, they possess too many traits of truth to be rejected, I am content—and quietly commence THE FIRST SHADOWING. “ Jealousy knocked at my heart’s door and cried, kill, kill.” SHAKSPEARE. In a quiet room whose windows looked out upon a little garden, on which a care was bestowed as if it had been the favourite child of the house, lay the sick and criminal Hagar. A few days had elapsed. Hagar raved, now in the delirium of fever, now with full consciousness. Dr. Werner sat beside her bed, contemplating the warfare of ~ passions almost with astonishment,— passions that kad never agitated his quiet spirit. Except him, and a maid who was in attendance upon her, Hagar saw no one; but an invisible genius was a TL te £29 is Vo:. 11. . Hagar, eagerly, watching over her. The odours which refreshed her burning forehead, the sedative draught which lulled the pain of her wounds, were administered by Serena. One evening she lay in troubled slumber. Serena was alone in the chamber with her, and stole for- ward in order to regard her a moment. “ Thank Heaven,” her lips whispered, “ you are reposing, poor object of compassion! You have destroyed my happiness, but O, how much more unhappy are you !” Hagar awoke. Serena drew quickly back, but she had been seen. “Who is there?’ demanded Serena was silent, in the hope that she had not been recognised ; but Hagar pur- sued: “ You do not answer, but I know you, I have seen you before flitting about my bed, pale inaiden, to drink my heart’s blood! Do not ima- gine that you play the hypocrite tome. I know that Iam in your power, and I know what you would do; you intend tormenting me, taking away my life by slow poison. In punishment for my crime, I am by degrees to suffocate for want of vital air; and therefore you have removed him from me that I may see him no more, hear his voice no more——for this was my delight, my life’s sustenance. He himself has delivered me over to your power, that I may be tormented. Yes, he and all the rest hate me, and rejoice at my misery, but I will deceive him and all..... I will re- lease myself.” While uttering these words she endeavoured to tear the bandage from off her wounds. But Serena ran up to her, seized her hands, and held them back with almost incredible power. Hagar gazed vacantly on her mild coun- tenance, on which were tears of pain and sympathy, and said :— “Do you wish to preserve my life to make me die the more slowly ?” “OQ no, no, Hagar! Do not distrust me. I wish you may live.” « That I do not believe. Why, you love him I love, who is mine—yes, turn pale, tremble—who is mine, for I had his promise before you had; my claims upon him are of an earlier date, are more inviolate. .... They have been sealed with blood. Ha, you mean well tome? You? Away! I know what jealousy is, that black, black passion which incites to murder, madness ..... which, in the hour of solitude, whispers in a hoarse, sepulchral voice: ‘kill! kill? Ha, pale maiden, now you, too, grow black and base;..... humph! everything about one grows black, black, black 3? Hagar fainted. Serena called in her nurse, and herself hastened into her own chamber, beside herself with painful sensations. There she dropped upon her knees, and exclaimed: “O Heaven, he meant then to deceive me!” Every object about her was dark, but not for long. ee THE SECOND SHADOWING. “Charity suffereth long, and is kind.” Hagar. You do not really wish my death, then? Serena. No, Hagar. May you live, and obtain peace. ML Hagar. But if I live, I shall destroy your peace, If I live, you will never be happy. 123 Serena (with quiet dejection). I have renounced that hope. Hagar. His mistress you might have been. In either case you would have been what I, what many others have been but his wedded partner never,never. Serena ejects Hagar from home. Will you be his mistress ? Serena (calmly). No, Hagar. Hagar, Are you too proud to be such ? Serena was silent. Hagar. You don’t love him. You are not wil- ling to sacrifice anything for him. Serena. Oh yes. My life, my earthly happiness, cheerfully. Hagar. That is little. But do you know what I have sacrificed for him? Riches, reputation, honour, my native country, parents, happiness, everything. In my father’s house I could com- mand a thousand slaves; I quitted all, I became his slave. And therefore he must love me; there- fore he must be mine..... Who stood beside him in mortal danger, who braved with him the laws of damnation, if not 1? Pale maiden, white and cold as the snow upon the mountains of your country, do you think you could snatch him from me? No, he will return to me ; my fire flows in his veins ..... Feeble one, dread his kiss..... Flee him, for he is mine here and beyond..... O!my wound. -God, what pangs. Help, help! ! Serena hastened up to her. With a soothing salve which Dr, Werner had prepared, Serena’s gentle and skilful hands dressed her wounds. “Thank you,” said Hagar more mildly; “thank you.... You are kind.” “(0 Hagar, love him, but do not hate me.” “No, I hate you no longer: who can hate you?” oo THIRD SHADOWING. * Whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain.” Hagar (passionately). If you wish me to live, cause him to come again: better to lie upon thie rack and enjoy his presence, than to live in Para- dise without him: they have told me that you have a great deal of influence over him. Cause him then to return again, and if possible——to pardon me. Jealousy makes me wild, but hatred at his hands I do not deserve ; at least not.... Hagar was silent, absorbed in reflection. She had been better during the last few days: Serena’s indefatigable care and kindness operated like a healing balm upon the unhappy creature. Later that same evening Serena sat by Hagar writing. Affection and melancholy hovered about her lips, that moved gently as if whispering words to her pen. An expression of serenity more than usually elevated sate upon her forehead ; it resem- bled the repose of virtue and love triumphant : Hagar observed this, and in her bold bitter manner she suddenly said :— “ You are certainly very much pleased with yourself ?”” — Serena blushed, and Hagar pur- sued :— “You are certainly making a display of being so pure and virtuous ; you certainly think you stand much higher than such a wretch as I.”* “ No, in truth I do not,” answered Serena with a tear in her eye. “You would be in the wrong if you were,” 13,) THE NEIGHBOURS. the former continued, “for gifts are very uneqzal, and temptations still more so.” “That is true,” answered Serena with humility. “What has that being to boast of, who has never been tempted ? if you iiad been so, perhaps you would not have been better than many others.” Serena was silent. “Happy is she whose bosom is not agitated by passions, whose blood flows gently, whose carly associations are virtue and peace. If she abides unspotted, if she does not fall, her merit is trifling.” “You are right,” said Serena, quietly and meekly as before : she supported her head upon her white hand. “‘ Fate determines our lot, and the world judges us—both of them blind,” the embittered Hagar pursued. “ Hence it is that the way of one being is to victory and honour, that of another to failing and reprobation.” “But Heaven, that sees what is concealed,” said Serena in a firm voice, “ Heaven, that is more powerful than fate and the world, will one day adjust all that was unequal here. Then, Hagar, it will frequently be seen that he who only laboured during the last hour, will obtain equal reward with him who was called at the first.” Hagar raised herself up and regarded Serena with astonishment. What divinity lives in thy heart?” said she, “and wherefore such kind words to the hated, the rejected one ?” “Net hated, nor rejected,” said Serena, ap- proaching the sick-bed: “ O no, Hagar, you have ‘certainly to look forward to a gracious Judge.” With an expression of high-wrought excite- ment Hagar fixed herinquiring looks upon Serena’s fair countenance, at this moment near her bed, and looking down upon her with an angel’s pity, Serena continued :— “ Jealousy has seduced you to a dark deed, but your affection is true and strong. I have listened to you, Hagar, when your heart opened its inmost thoughts 3 in the hours of twilight and of night, when you thought you were alone, and I compre- hended how you loved——no base spirit, no com- mon woman could love thus. Passion, cirecum- stances, the darkness which obscures your soul, have led you astray. But in your bright hours even now, Hagar, look into your heart and ask whether there subsists anything that you would not sacrifice for Bruno’s happiness ; if there is any affliction you would not bear for his sake. Is not love to him the strongest, nay the only, the deepest seated feeling of your heart ?” “Yes,” exclaimed Hagar, I have loved him ardently, unspeakably ; I love him still, but——— this passion has betrayed me into crime... .” “ And if you had struck my heart, Hagar, and I now lay dying beside you, still I would say the deed of the moment will not condemn the heart that loves with constancy.” Hagar gasped for breath: a refreshing feeling descended upon the despairing spirit, and quenched its bitter ardour. Folding her hands, she sank back upon her bed. ‘ Yes,” she whispered lan- guidly, “yes, you are in the right: ah, there is then some one who can understand me, believe my words. Hear me now, Serena, you who have angelic benignity and intelligence of soul, hear me. It was not my will to kill you; n0, IT would not have done Bruno anything so evil. THE NEIGHBOURS. When I sat alone in the dark-—when jealousy awoke murderous thoughts, I banished them with horror; when I saw Bruno’s engagement to an- other, when I saw that my destiny was irrevocably fixed, I resolved to destroy myself, and in order to get strength for it I wished to see him in your society,—you his plighted bride... . Ah, the first time I saw you a cold thrill went through my heart, I feit. that he would love you with a different love from that with which he had loved others ; I felt that he was lost to me for ever, and’ yet I was the object of his first love, I received his first pledge. But to the point: I came one evening and saw you both together ; but when I saw. you lean your head upon his shoulder, when I heard him call you his partner, a fury must have torn my bosom, and worked in my brain : it was jealousy, my soul was bewildered, and my dagger thirsted for your blood, before it should be cvoled in my own. Yes, it was the work of a moment; now, how- ever, a gleam of hope penetrates the veil of night. But you, you whom I would have destroyed, and who give me life,—say, who are you, strange maiden? Are youa child of heaven, sent to diffuse comfort on earth, and who have nothing in common with earth’s passions and pains ? Or do you belong to that class of fascinating ereatures I have heard speak of, who with silver voice and exciting words beguile mortals — but then suddenly transform themselves into forms of the abyss, and drag down their unhappy victims into eternal darkness?” Hagar’s wild and heated itnagination appeared at this moment as if it would realise to her this dreadful transformation. With bewildered glance she looked upon Serena, who said calmly :— “JT am only a frail woman, but one on whom Heaven has bestowed the grace of power to subdue the passions and pains of the heart. Read, Hagar, these lines, which will soon bring back to you him whom you love ; read, and distrust me no longer.” Serena gave her the letter she had just written, and Hagar read :— “You fly me, Bruno, you avoid my home. Bruno, come again ; not only in my name and for my sake do I entreat you—I ask it of you in the name of a person, who appears better able to dis- pense with light and life than sight of you. Come, Bruno, O come to her who is worthy of pity! Beside her couch I will expect you. Let us together call her to life again, or together minister comfort to her in her latest hour. Let us be together, Bruno. O my friend, amid the dark- ness which now encompasses me, I have a clear conception of one thing, and this is that I love you, that you are dearer to me than my life, and that nothing, nothing in the world, could remove this feeling from my heart. At this moment we cannot determine upon our future condition in life. Very well, then let us await the time when we can, and meanwhile have peace in each other. And should any obstruction oppose itself to our union as companions, nothing indeed will prevent our connection as friends. Hagar has spoken of claims she has upon you, of earlier ties which bind you to her. Has she spoken the truth, Bruno, my entreaty is still the same—Come again, Bruno, to me—to her. “ Attend, Bruno,-—let us become children again, Let us be as we were in those days—those delight- ful davs—when we used to greet the morning sun 1 ¢ fe ne Nt nl A te 1g9 together in the woods of Ramm, and where the evening shades found us together, full of peace and confidence in each other. Do you remember one evening when it grew dusk in the wood, and I asked you: ‘Are you not afraid of losing yourself in the dark?’ you answered, ‘ With you my path. is bright.’ And I rejoined: ‘And with you 1 have no fear in darkness.’ O friend of my child- hood, cannot things be as they were then? Life is the wood ; it, too, may grow dark—O this I have experienced for some time past—let us then tra- verse the obscured way together, Bruno; extend me your hand asa friend, a brother—then perhaps the path we tread may still brighten to both of us. Hear my entreaty—I make it in tears—come again, Bruno, beloved, eternally beloved friend, come again. Your SERENA.” With trembling hand Hagar restored the letter. “ You love him better than I,” said she. A bitter expression shot over her countenance, and she drew the coverlet over her head. Serena despatched the letter. A few hours afterwards, Bruno was at her feet. They did not speak, but they involuntarily wound their arms round each other, and once again their souls mingled involuntarily in an undefinable feeling. From this moment, Bruno often sat beside Hagar’s sick-bed. The bold, wild Hagar, in his presence, was nothing more than a feeble, humble woman, whom mere sight of him swayed. Bruno’s pardon and society, Serena’s kindness and delicacy of feeling, her faithful and indulgent care, wrought a salutary effect upon the patient. Dr. Werner gave hopes of ‘recovery. Francisca would some- times call of an evening to visit her friend. Be- tween Bruno and these two educated and amiable ladies would arise conversations on subjects of a noble and elevated character, which Hagar drank in with eager appetite. The aged Dahls also would come and join the rest, and in the chamber and the circle in which there were elements of the greatest infelicity life possesses, gradually sprang up, through Serena’s influence, peacefulness, in- terest, nay even complacency of feeling,—at least for the moment,—and_ the very occurrence which to all appearance could not but needs sunder the ties of affection and confidence, subserved only to knit them the more firmly. O Kindness, thou fair Power, that desirest nought but to work re- conciliation,— Wisdom, that, like God’s own wis- dom, only opposes harmony the more close, and order and love the more profound, as contention and separation increases and widens. What effect these conversations, and daily inter. course with Serena, wrought upon Hagar’s heart and Bruno’s spirit we shall shortly witness, a ee FOURTH SHADOWING. Dripping slow, the noiseless shower In time pervades the rock’s rude heart. Imitation of ScutiuEr. The storm was raging without; one of those winter nights was approaching, when the ancient Sagas about the wild frolics of witches seemed about to become a reality—when the poor wayfarer so often goes astray. His wife, or aged mother, misses him at the evening fire of their cabin. She K 2 2 ARAN POLAR Means WhO ye mye UNE G5 We Wh pick ome go oe THE NEIGHBOURS. 130 looks with hope to the coming day; but then the tale is told: “ He was found dead in the snow in the wood.” Hagar’s state of health had sustained another change. The strengthening of her powers which for a time caused belief in her recovery to be en- tertained, suddenly abated, and was succeeded by a very feeble condition. “ Not her wound, but her mind, is consuming her life,” said Dr. _ Werner. This evening stillness prevailed in the sick-room, Serena alone was moving there with quiet care for the body and spirit of the sufferer. The latter, too, was quiet, surrendering herself en- tirely to her faithful, gentle nurse. The frozen shower beat against the windows, and the storm shook the branches of the trees without the house. But within, a lamp burnt steady and bright, while a mild, feminine voice read these words: “I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants. And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.” “ Blest, blest words!” at this part cried a faint voice from the bed. ‘And if I went home, like the lost son, should I be received in like manner ? Great is my guilt.” “ But Heaven's grace is greater still,” answered Serena. The lost son had indeed wasted all his inherited substance, but when he came back repentant, he was received with affection.” “Very good,” said the patient with burning heart ; “I, too, will turn back. I could not go to my earthly father. He would no more have a mialediction for me. [I will arise, and go to my Father in heaven.” —_> — FIFTH SHADOWING. ** Love knows nor mean, in Nor limit, nor extinction.”—Sr. Scaurs. It was night, and the moon shone bright. The earth, flooded with her light, appeared so friendly and peaceful. The livery of snow it had worn was now put off, and a rising breeze awoke the slumbering one to the life of spring. Follow we the rays from the celestial lamp into Hagar’s sick-chamber, and contemplate those forms that are illumined by them. They fall with great brightness upon a profile, which was once handsome. Now the features are harsh and sharp-turned, as the keen chisels of passion and pain are wont to cut them. The glance, which usually rolled so wildly, was at this time more quiet. There was a gleam of serenity upon the wasted countenance, and the hands were folded as in prayer. Hagar was sitting erect in bed. Near, and supporting her, stands a young lady. Perhaps to the moonbeams is due her snow-white appearance, as she stands there, like a lily ina stream of light. Perhaps, too, it is sufferings that have chased the rose colour from her cheek. Yet they cannot deprive her character of its unob- trusive grace, or change the delicate, almost childlike roundness of her figure. She. is tender, tender as kindness, and equally captivating with it, Her glance is clear, mild, one might be tempted to say—hallowed. “Support yourself more upon me,” she said softly to Hagar. It is Serena. In the shade, and darker than it, stood Bruno, with his fiery. dark eye riveted immoveably upon them both. His bosom heaved slowly, but strong feelings were struggling within it. At some distance from the bed, amid a mild, dim light, sat two age-stricken forms, moveless, pale, ghastly. Six weeks had elapsed since the evening when Hagar had laid violent hands upon her own life. As an expiring flame that now shoots a fitful light, now sinks, she had long hovered between life and death. But the torments of these latter days were great, and she felt that her end was rapidly approaching. It was night when, awaking from a lengthened state of insensibility, she desired to speak to Serena’s grandparents ; but when they came to her, she was for a long while unable to speak. Supported upon Serena’s faith- ful breast, enfolded by her arms, she by-and-by acquired some amount of strength; at her request the aged people approached her. With brief but emphatic expressions she thanked them for the fostering care they had conferred upon her, and begged them to pardon her for the disquietude she had occasioned them. ‘ Now,” she added, “ now I shall no longer trouble any one on earth; now Iam approaching my last judgment. But ere I depart, let me lay an oblation on the altar of truth ; let me make some amends for my transgression. Listen to the confession of one dying, and give credence to my last words. J have nothing where- with to reproach Bruno. I myself have been the author of my own misfortunes. In the home of my father we loved each other, and mutually plighted a marriage vow, It was I who broke faith ; my excesses and crimes excited his detes- tation. I determined to draw him down to my level; he fled me; I pursued him, and it was fated that, though rejected and despised by him, IT should yet love him ; that I should not be able to breathe but in the fire which consumed me. My passion for him was my punishment. It has bent my spirit, but improved it also. Bruno endured my being about him ; endured the blast that blew around him with never-resting rage. This gave me strength to live, nay, to hope again to win the heart I had lost. Hence the reason of my accompanying him into that country, in whose earth I shall shortly rest. Bruno bound himself to Serena, and then wished to separate me from him. ‘He offered me costly gifts, and solicited me to return to my native country. There was not only desire, but command in his fatal words. I feigned to acquiesce, but resolved to die. My feelings were wild. It was a cold winter evening when I was about to put an end to my iife.— Bruno was with his bride, I alone in the dark wood ; it was a cold winter evening, and hence my blood was so sluggish, my hand so paralysed, it would not obey my will. I then resolved to see him and her; I ran; I saw him and her ; and jealousy bewildered my brain ; the rest you know. Once more pardon me; once more mark these words: I have nothing wherewith to reproach Bruno ; but to entreat his forgiveness for a great deal. He is worthy of your granddaughter; and in the unknown regions whither my spirit is going, nr rr er ce en A renee ert ere nee 132 SN A A NEN I Sr Rn ory Be a ne NE Re eee SR A a EL A TR Aa OIE ag LPIA rade AL 3 DNL SE) RSPAS re BE OnTPe OM Rae AU ROMEU ERE NaE Eee nen OF UNDE 7st Bone Her te THE NEIGHBOURS. a a a Ne I will bless him and her. If you pardon me, give me your hands, that I may press them to my lips. If you pardon me, tell me that you will not impede that union which my crime threatened to dissolve. Grant the repentant dying one this last conso- lation.” Hagar was silent. The two old people extended their hands, and spoke words of comfort to her. Then, seeing that Hagar began to appear very faint, they withdrew softly. Hagar sank into a momentary swoon, but shortly awoke from it eens turned her darkening eye to Serena, and said :— “ And now let me thank thee, thou pure clear stream in which heaven is mirrored. For my bitter words thou gavest me kind ones in return ; in return for that suffering I occasioned thee, thou hast alleviated mine, and taken away its bitterness. Thou hast presented refreshing draughts to my lips, and poured the balm of compassion into the wounds of my heart. Thou hast taught me the sacred doctrine of love; caused gentle feelings now to prevail in my heart, and inspired me with hope even at the entrance to death. ...... Serena, Bruno, give me your hands, that I may now unite those I would have separated ; that I may pronounce a blessing upon them ere my lips are silenced for ever.” Weeping in silence, Serena held out her hand, but Bruno stood motionless. “He will not do so,” cried Hagar with pain, “he fears the blessing which my lips would pro- nounce, he abhors me even to death.” “Tt is not so, Hagar,’ said Bruno, kindly placing his hand upon her breast, which heaved vehemently, “be at peace with me, as I am with you You were once dear to me, and are still so at this moment.” «“ Eternal thanks for those words,” exclaimed Hagar with ardour. “O repeat them once more ; say that you forgive me.” “ Who am I, that should forgive you?” said Bruno gloomily ; “ what reason indeed have I to appear better than you? We have both erred ; we both stand before the eye of the Eternal, equally in need of forgiveness and grace.” ‘No, not equally,” Hagar broke forth. Was it not I that misled your fiery, thoughtless youth to deeds in which your heart had no share? Was it not I who serpent-like wound myself round your tree of life, and poured poison into its sap? It was you who awoke in me a spark of humanity ; that which bound me eternally to you was not your beauty, not your boldness—it was the gleam of a more elevated nature, that again and again flashed from out the storm-clouds of your cha- racter. Ineffectual was the attempt to consume your strength to dust ; like the phoenix you rose from the pile, shook the ashes from your pinions, and soared up to the light. Thus, you flew from me, and I remained in dust ; but now—it grows so dark—now I die content ; for I know that my death is good for you. Listen to one more en- treaty :—In the park at Ramm there is a, grotto— in it I have often rested ; it is cool and silent—let me be buried there.—And attend: my coffin is in your house ; the air of the home you breathe in has breathed around it—lay me init. Ah, your hand soothes me ; let it rest there till my heart ceases to move, Farewell, Bruno, .I am sinking 131 into dark, silent night,—and with me sinks the past. Be happy with your young partner. With mie all is at an end.” Hagar was silent. Her hands dropped from those of Bruno ; her breast swelled no longer, and life’s great shadow—death—flung upon her countenance that veil which no mortal hand re- moveth. She breathed no more. The Moon’s light paled. The earliest dawn of Easter-day dif- fused its wavering light through the chamber, and its ruddy gleams flitted upon the pale face. Solemn silence long prevailed about and around her. ‘Dead,’ Bruno at length exclaimed with hol- low voice, as, bending over her, he appeared beset by distressing feelings ; “ dead—owing to her love to me? Who was ever happy in loving me? Who has known joy through me? My mother’s life I have obscured—here lies the plighted one of my youth—and you, unhappy victims, whose life I have been lavish of, you, too, rise to accuse me ! —Right, it should be so! Ye pale sha- dows, come, and place yourselves between me and her who was to be my partner—for I am not worthy of her. J will not deceive, will not insi- nuate myself into her affections with an untruth, and poison them—no, no one shall love me, no one shall follow me—save that spirit of evil which attends me through life. I thought Serena would dispel it—ah, that angelic look oppresses me, and plunges me more deeply into the heaven I take by force would be my curse——no, I will fly, fly—I will. .... ” A convulsive pang thrilled through Bruno, and his frigid look showed that he was no longer possessed of self-command. “ Bruno, Bruno !” exclaimed Serena, with ten- derness and pain, as she approached him. “ Away !” said he wildly, and with harshness. ‘‘ Away! my love brings unhappiness in its train —approach not too near the fiery gulf with your wings—flee, flee!” «“ Bruno,” said Serena, as, notwithstanding his menacing gestures, she drew nearer to him, and flung her arms round his neck: “do not talk so wildly. Be kind—be calm. You are unwell, Bruno ; come, beecalm yourself; sit here at my side,—support yourself upon me—look at me, Bruno. Why, I am your Serena, your bride who loves you so tenderly, who will follow you in pleasure and in need.” Bruno’s excited state relaxed, his glance be- came milder, he breathed with greater facility. “ Speak, angelie voice, speak !” said he. “ You have watched too long, you have wearied yourself,” pursued Serena with tenderness and endearingly ; ‘now you should take a little re- pose. I will watch over you while you sleep,— and then we will go out together, and look at the sun—the beautiful sun of spring, that sends life and joy to all creatures. It is becoming a beau- tiful day, my Bruno.” Serena’s childlike, sweet words, and the proofs she gave of her affection, abjured the demon in Bruno’s breast. He composed himself, and seemed to awake as it were from a dream. He fixed upon her a look of ineffable love and in- effable pain. ‘O,’’ said he with eyes filled with tears, ‘never did the harp of David more sweetly charm the troubled spirit to rest. But, Serena, tell me what did I say? What did I do? —and tell me what did you think of it ?” 133 ‘© You were indisposed, Bruno; but, thank Heaven, you are now well again—all is well.”’ «“ No, all is not well with me, Serena—for know that the frenzy of which you have been witness, is no stranger tome. During the activity of day, in the stillness of night, it will surprise and over- power me, till I am again master of it; see, at that moment when my mother pronounced a curse ‘upon me,—at that moment an internal wound was inflicted which has not been healed since, wild deeds and recollections have pre- vented this. desired to fall at your feet with my fearful secret —but strength failed me, strength, perhaps for Yet the hour has now come. Avert your pure eye, Serena.” Bruno then gave a rapid but strongly marked sketch of his earliest errors. ‘“ My ‘brother’s manly kindness,” he continued, “ withheld me from the perilous and despicable career. Fora while I thought I would begin a new and better life. Perhaps I should have done so, if the con- sequences of my first excesse” had not drawn me on. I hadsecretly become camester at an early age ; I seduced a young man.of my com- panions into the same vice. I was the cause of his misfortune. In order to rescue him it was that I had recourse to means forbidden. My theft was discovered, discovered by my mother, She determined to punish me—severely—too se- verely perhaps—yet no. J deserved it. I would not submit; I opposed violence to violence—I defied my mother—and she cursed me.”’ At these words Bruno’s voice faltered. He drew breath, and continued :— “ T fled that same night, with furies in my heart —-nor have they quitted me since then. I fled from my home and couatry. An ocean inter- posed between it and me. I entered foreign military service, gained honour, and wounds. After the termination of the war I fell into con- nections which captivated my heart, and confused the notions of right and, goodness that were still left me from the training of my maternal home, Burthened with my mother’s curse, and enduring the brunt of unbridled passions in my bosom, I endeavoured to satisfy them, to forget that I had a home, a native country,a parent ; to forget that a malediction was upon me—ah! that was the chilling thought of my life, which continually urged on my downward career to the fiery gulf. Peace I knew not. I wished to be active, to com- mand. ‘Those who were about me at this period, and desire of gain, nay, the very danger which attached to the enterprise, drove me to that which I shall ever repent: I became a dealer in human beings——plied the traffic of human souls. I tore the sons of Africa from their huts, took by force husband from wife, the mother from her children, and conveyed them as slaves to the Por- tuguese colonies. Human beings—my_ brother men—I sold for gold. The people who had then acquired power over my mind, represented these unfortunate creatures to me as devoid of all human worth, nay, inferior to the brute creation. A fearful event opened my dazzled eyes ;—permit me now to pass it over in silence—i could not relate it but with feelings of distress. Enough ; from that hour I relinquished my sanguinary trade, Again I changed my name and country, 134 O, for a long time I have ardently THE NEIGHBOURS. To forget and enjoy were now more than ever the moving springs of my life. I essayed my tor- tune at faro, and it proved auspicious. One evening I won a considerable sum of money of a very young man. Gold gleamed about me, and dazzled my eyes ; but the ashen pale look of de- spair which coloured my antagonist’s face at the ‘moment of his quitting the room, called me back to reflection. Perhaps he hada mother who I ran after him ; I intended to restore all that he had lost. Ivan into the dark street, calling out the name of the unfortunate young man, whom I was acquainted with. A flash, and a loud sound responded to my calling, parts of the unhappy youth’s skull fell at my feet. He had shot himself. He was the only son of a widow who was unprovided for. “T abandoned the faro-table. I endeaveured to repair some of the ill-doing I had been guilty of. I endeavoured to alleviate the burthens of that race of men I had transgressed against. But what is the gamester’s charity? It is like the robber’s alms—blood-money. The heart can derive no peace from it. ‘This I felt. I then tried love ; love, I thought, would make me forget and enjoy all things. I plunged, I sank into love —no sacred flame: not in thy arms, but in those of voluptuousness, was my life wasted. I fancied T loved ; I was deceived ; I in my turn deceived ; revelled from one excess to another. ... But as the water sank from the lips of Tantalus, so did enjoyment and peace pass from me. During the course of fifteen years I have indeed had moments of wild joy, but not an hour to which I would have said, ‘ Continue ;’ nor a day whose return I would have solicited. An indescribable vacuity of mind, which nothing seemed capable of filling up ; a consuming thirst after something— I knew not what—were my predominant feelings. At times—in more peaceful hours, nay, even in those of the wildest enjoyment, would arise before my soul an image whose fascinating and painful impression I cannot describe. All that was beau- tiful and guileless in the years of my childhood ; all that my earliest youth possessed in splendour of life and fortune ; all that I had dreamt about heaven and its tranquillity, seemed to blend into one picture ; and this picture wore thy features, Serena. Then unspeakable longing and despair rose in, my heart. “Once more I tore myself from an effeminate and inebriating mode of life. In a wide-extended and well-ordered sphere of activity I endeavoured to make useful that existence which oppressed me. I tried my hand at commercial speculation to a great amount. I was successful, and grew rich, But ah ! I continued poor, notwithstanding, and my soul hungered in the midst of superfluity. At this period my travels led me to England. I heard Canning as he spoke to the representatives of a generous people, for the abolition of traffic in slaves ; for freedom and the welfare of men. I | beheld on his brow the splendour of a beauty which is immortal. For the first time in my life I understood what was meant by human worth, human dignity, and felt the baseness of my earlier life. O Serena, then I mourned over days and powers lavished. Yet I was still young; 1 had still time for beginning——what ? -One accursed a@ son with his mother’s maledietion upon hin, ht ef | OE EE ELA ROC LANL LL A CTD ‘celestial felicity, I felt no peace of mind. THE NEIGHBOURS, what good work can he commence that has not the blessing from on high upon it? Iwas cursed. This was the brand which was burnt upon my brow ; the stone that pressed upon my life, and doomed it to everlasting obscurity. Who was the angel to remove that stone? O, for a long time my heart struggled in dark despair; for my mother is the only living creature I have feared. From my childhood our spirits had frequently wrestled with each other ; but hers was victorious, triumphed over mine. Bitterness grew in the heart ; but many years passed away, and affection sprang up again, and overtopped acrimony. The thought of reconciliation with her was the only thought of my soul. ‘This reconciliation was the condition of a new, a better life. Without it the whole world was nothing for me. Hope of com- passing it was denied me ; yet I felt constrained to hazard the attempt, if I were to live at all. These feelings had taken such powerful hold of my whole mind, that I became physically enfeebled : at sound of the mere word—‘ Mother’—I could weep like a child. “YT returned. I beheld my paternal home again. You, too, I saw, Serena. The paradise of my childish imagination ; my vision of heaven ; the object of my longing ; the source from whence enlightenment and peace were to shine upon my life ; my being—all this I beheld in you. Wonder not at my stretching forth my arms with longing to you, that I might snatch you to myself ; wonder not that, seeing myself excluded from the maternal bosom, I sought to take by force the happiness of life and love through you ; to gain a ministering angel to my sickly spirit. At that moment a judg- ment was hanging over me. More than life and death was at stake , reconciliation of hearts at enmity, or eternal condemnation, were at stake. There impended a storm-cloud over my heart and intellect—I neither saw nor felt anything dis- tinctly. It was at this moment that..I tempted you, Serena. You resisted, and I fancied T loved you less. In this I deceived myself; you had a deeper place in my heart 5 you were identified with its better nature. But this I did not feel then. My soul was dark. “An instant of wild despair passed away, and I was reeqnciled with my mother ; I let my head rest upon her bosom ; [ heard how she blessed me. Omnipotent, gracious Heaven, shouldst Thou counterbalance that moment with the weight of a hundred years’ affliction, then even would I lift up my hands as I now do, and thank Thee, thank Thee, for that moment. Words cannot express its power ; it wrought my salvation, temporal and eternal. “ What more shall I tell you, Serena? Though reconciled to my mother, and loving you more strongly than ever, yet, after the first moments of I felt the necessity of gaining you—you. It was neces- sary that you should become my partner, if I were to obtain peace on earth. I sought to win you in that way you yourself had pointed out tome. I was rejected. It was not wounded pride, Serena, that made me keep away from your home fora time. No: I examined myself—I essayed to re- nounce you. In vain. An indescribable, irresist- ible power attracted me to you. There was between us a tie which Heaven itself appeared to have ceiaented. You became mine. O moment ——————— of rapture, heavenly bliss. You were mine, and ‘my life was renewed ; all that was past, forgotten ; all reeanciled and cleared up. Ah, only for a moment. Soon the furies within me again raised their fronts—the avenging Goddesses of Memory, —and your devotion, Serena, your glance of purity, these were stinging reproaches to me. I was not worthy of you, Serena—every day I perceived it more and more—and doubly unworthy, inasmuch as I would have drawn you into a career whose darkness you knew not. For vain would be the attempt to beguile myself ; never could I possess peace of mind ; the happiness of the pure in heart could never dwell in my bosom. What has happened never can be recalled. There have been occurrences in my life which I never shall forget ; I have reminiscences which will pursue me to the grave. There are dark spots in my soul—terrible feelings—which even your angelic goodness cannot eradicate. Repentance for past deeds will haunt me even when upon your bosom. O, Serena, your unsullied hand ought not to be placed in one stained by so many crimes ; you, the pure, the blessed, should not be united to him on whom the ban of society secretly rests ; at least you should not devote your youth, your beauty, and feminine virtue to a deceiver. This has latterly become clear to me. It has become clear to me that, should I abuse your confidence and make you unhappy—and ‘happy the partner of my days and nights never will be—then, and not till then, I should be lost for ever. These thoughts disquieted me for a long while, Hagar’s criminality and your virtue, your triumph over me and her, have brought them to maturity. I:now love you, Serena, with as ele- vated and hallowed an affection, as I once loved you wildly and selfishly ; and hence it is that I have laid open my mind to you, as if before the everlasting Creator. Still the altar has not yet made us one; still you can separate from me ; withdraw your hand, You are at this moment free. And even though you reject me, no com- plaint, no upbraiding, from my lips shall pain you. Even though you turn away from me, yet I will honour and love you, and pursue my lonely, deso- late way as well as Iam able. You have spoken of friendship, of brother and sister. Pardon me if I dispel this illusion of an angelically pure heart. No such connection can subsist between us. God created souls of dissimilar natures. In mine ragé fires of which you know not. I must either pos- sess or fly you. But compelled though I be to fly you, yet [ will bear your image in my heart. It will make me a better man. Iam not alone, I have a mother. I will live for her, though it be without pleasure or joy. But let me add one more word. I have hoped, Serena, the only object of my real affection on your bosom, ange- lically pure heart, I hoped to be enabled to com- mence a new life. I thought that the germs of goodness in my soul would open beneath your cherishing —— and who can say what the heart anticipates and who ean measure the capacity of love? Who can set a limit to the grace of the Omnipotent? With you the way to recon- ciliation and an amended life seemed open to me . ss as. Without you but I have said enough. You now know all, Serena ; pass sen- tence upon me. I bow my heart before you, and oe ® © © @ 134 will kiss your beloved hand, whatever it give me —life or death.” When the Seraph Eloa (so says the noble bard of The Messiah) descended into hell at the side of the Saviour, and saw the darkness and misery there, his bright look faded into gloom. A feeling like that of the Seraph had overpowered Serena at Bruno’s confession—and oppression indescrib- able pressed upon her heart and clogged its pulsa- tions. But her heart was disencumbered of its ' burthen, the feeling passed away; as the fresh breeze scatters the cloud, as the star brightens in the darkness of night, as the morning red arises and sheds light and splendour on all things,—that love which is eternal rose in Serena’s heart, strong, powerful, sweet, and triumphant. Her spirit was more lucid, free, and firm, than ever— it was no longer marked by any hesitation, or dis- quietude, and when Bruno had ceased speaking, she inclined towards him with silent tears of affection, and said :— “TI will go with you, Bruno. O my friend, my partner, it cannot be otherwise. ‘Together let us walk on earth, together kneel one day at the throne of the All-gracious One.” In silence Bruno clasped her to his bosom. Light broke into the chamber. Vocal music rose, a beautiful and pacific strain, and the stream of harmony wound round the united pair. It was a hymn from the Church in honour of the Resurrection of the Redeemer. The Shadowings are now brought to a close, and with them my occupation is gone. With the utmost cheerfulness I again transfer the pen to the hand of Madam Werner; but at this very period, namely, immediately subsequent to Hagar’s death,—a considerable gap occurs in her corres- pondence, the real cause of which I cannot assign, and which I am not ina situation to fill up. Thou must therefore submit peacefully, worthy reader, and, if it be thy pleasure, pass to the TWENTY-FOURTH LETTER. Rosenvik, 23rd May. Here again! I am sitting alone, have chased Bear away to Ramm that he may well reconnoitre things there, and first please himself, and then me oy giving me an account of the events of the after- marriage. Lam not well in health, am indolent and dull, look in the direction of the grey walls of Ramm, think of Serena, and long for Bear. Even- ing, is coming on apace, he must indeed soon be here. I have not oeen well ever since the day of Serena’s marriagc. I was too greatly excited there. Bruno’s restlessness on that day; his almost wild inquiries of Serena: ‘Will you be mine in prosperity and in need, time and eternity ?” What, indeed, do they signify? “I will answer you this evening,” said Serena in her sweet, affec- tionate manner. ‘This quieted him. And in the evening, when they were formally united and the blessing pronounced upon them, he became a dif- ferent man. A strong sense of gratitude seemed to elevate and give some calmness to his character. I saw him press Serena to his heart, and his eyes fill with tears. Ah, wherefore this disquietude, this pain, even in good fortune, if his conscience were at peace. ————— 136 Pe eee kane MMM Ce cme a ee ee ee THE NEIGHBOURS. But, am I not wrong in being so troubled and anxious, seeing that I have witnessed so rauch and such real affection in Bruno,—seeing that 1 know Serena to be possessed of a tenderness of heart, a fidelity, and strength of mind that can brighten and ennoble all things? During the performance of the marriage ceremony there was in her a something that seemed to elevate their union above all the power of misfortune, or the accidents that flesh is heir to. There was a halo of celestial brightness spread over her smooth fore- head ; the words—*“ To love thee in sickness and in health”—she pronounced with such beautiful, ele- vated earnestness, that I involuntarily repeated them to Bear, as I stood there reclining upon his shoulder, and embraced by his trusty arm. How the events of that day have at this moment flashed across my mind! ‘They then took strong hold of me; too strong hold. I have been indisposed since. * * * * * How long Bear stays from home! The trees are already casting great shadows, and the birds beginning to warble their vespers. Heaven forbid that any misfortune should have happened at Ramm. The ancient black house positively looks like a biding-place of ill-luck. Why must Serena needs be conveyed thither ? Thank Heaven, I see Bear coming. I will go down to the bridge to meet him. ee FRAGMENT OF OUR CONVERSATION OF YESTERDAY. The 24th. “Very good, Bear, those were fine things you said about Serena,—that she was so amiable, and the patriarchs so gratified. Tell me now, how was ma chére mere 2”? “Superb ; but not sprightly.” “ Didn’t she make a speech ?”’ ‘No. She was uncommonly taciturn, but ap- peared contented, and heartily thankful.’’ “ And how was Bruno towards her ?” “ As the most affectionate of sons. To me he never before appeared to such advantage.” ‘‘ And towards Serena? What did he call her ? Did he look at her a great deal? How did he look ather 2 Was he with her agreat deal? Did he talk much to her? Did he evince a great deal of attention, and a great deal of care for her ?” ‘¢ My dear child, it were quite as well if you had a little less flux de bouche,—in that case one could answer you in order. What now was your first question? In his deportment towards his wife, was Bruno mindful of his marital dignity ?” “ Ah, you are unendurable. Did he lie prostrate at her feet 2”’ ‘Not precisely that. Neither would it indeed have been beseeming in so large a company ; but there appeared upon the whole a very good con- nexion subsisting between them.” “Good connexion! You talk in a most pitiable strain. Perhaps you will shortly have me bless Heaven that they did not quarrel ?’’ “ That is impossible, for they did quarrel.” “‘ Bless me ! From what cause ?’ ‘‘ Heaven knows what the reason was. But he said, ‘ My sweet Serena, my wife, let it be as you wish it.’ And she replied, ‘ No, Bruno, let it be as you said ; so it is best.” * Well, thank heaven! How you can alarm me! And how did Bruno look, when he said, ‘ My wife ?” “ How? like a husband.” “ That adores his wife ?” “ Why, yes. And who feels that in her he pos- sesses the greatest good of life.” ‘Observe, now you talk handsomely, my Bear ! And then, the dinner, Bear. Now, tell me a little about the dinner. Recount to me all the dishes in succession. You don’t remember them. What a sorry affair it is with you! Ah, you do assuredly callsome of them to remembrance. Let us see— the first dish, for instance, which is always the most palatable, what did it consist of ?’’ “T think it was chickens.” “Chickens! Impossible. Serena could not have had them for a first course ; for in that case she must have had ham to her roast meat. That is impossible, quite impossible.’’ Bear smiled at my zeal, and after some other fruitless attempts to get enlightened on the subject of the dinner, I was obliged to forego the inquiry altogether ; but I told Bear that he was an unworthy dinner guest, and that I would tell Serena so. In order to beguile and appease me, Be r con- jured forth, I know not how, a bottle ot bishop and a basket of exquisite preserved fruits, which he had brought me from Ramm, compelled un- willingly, he said, by Serena to do so. I was quite delighted with the little treat, went and got some glasses, and we sat down to drink healths. We drank the young couple’s health, we drank ma chere mere’s health, we drank our own health— we had kindled into real warmth with healths’ drinking. We then sat down at the window. It was a beautiful evening, and the sky rested clear over Ramm. A gleam from the sun, as he stooped below the horizon, illumined the dark wood, and I remembered that I had seen this once before, and had thought of Serena at the same time. I saw the shore of the lake, formerly so gloomy, now so bright ; 1 looked at Bear, who turned not his full- moon countenance away from me—my heart warmed. Tears came into my eyes, and I said, pointing to Ramm :— “ Now, things are bright there, Bear. there are happy hearts there.” “ None more happy than here,” said Bear, drawing me towards him with tenderness, and holding me upon his knee. The sun-gleam at this moment melted slowly away ; the shore was again enveloped in shade, and with a deep sigh I said :— Now, * Ah, who knows how long they will continue | happy there. Heaven knows if Bruno, that rest- less spirit, can ever obtain peace of mind.” A tremulous strain of harmony rose upon the air, and seemed to respond to my sigh. I started, and we listened with open window. The organ at Ramm was pealing, but not sadly, as of old ; tones like those of Handel’s Hallelujah proceeded from it. I leaned my head against Bear’s. Thus we sat a long time in the warm May evening, and listened. And till late in the evening the organ sounded more and more beautiful and peaceful, methought—and I recollected the last words of the legend of Necken :— “Then Necken wept no more; but took his harp again, and played and sang most beautifully till the night was far advanced.’ For he knew that he would be happy. pee re ee ee tk ie I Ue eS a THE NEIGHBOURS. 185 The 25th. Jane Marie was with me yesterday; she was cheerful and sprightly. I learned several things from her, and among them matters which pleased me, Ma chéere mére grows more and more calm and gentle, drives frequently to church, and her pro- verbs become more and more biblical. Her heart seems now to aspire more than before to promote the happiness of men ; she bestows a great deal upon her poor people,—old linen, too, among other things,—-and thus, in the lively language of an amiable young lady, is preparing “her heavenly robe of purple.” Jane Marie related a litile scene between Elsa and ma chére mere, which gave me pleasure. Within these last few days ma chére mére overturned and broke a few porce- lain cups that were standing upon the table. She fell into a passion at this, (at times she will, in small matters, impersonate the part of one who can see,) and in the heat of the moment vented “The deuce take you!” and similar words of re- proof upon Elsa, because she had put the things in an improper place. Ma chére mére was wrong ; but Elsa, who formerly would lustily protest against every act of injustice, in this instance ad- mitted without a murmur that it was her fault. A moment afterwards ma chére mere, while sit- ting at her net employment, dropped her knitting- needle, It fell under the sofa, and Elsa (who is always at hand when she can render any ser- vice) threw herself upon her knees, picked it up, and returned it. At this ma chére mére put her arms gently round the trusty attendant, saying, with emotion: ‘My good Elsa, what should I do if I had you not!” Elsa embraced her mis- tress’s knee, pressed her forehead upon it, and a tear of affection and joy stole softly down the bony cheek. Jean Jacques is busy with fittings-up, and rules uncontrolled at Carlsfors ; abolishes old abuses, and introduces many a useful arrangement. He is an active and well-informed man, and has talked less since he has worked more. He and Jane Marie are continually extending their sphere at Carlsfors, while ma chére mére appears to with- draw more and more from the concerns of the world. Music is now a greater source of pleasure than ever to her, and she said once that she should like to die amid the sound of Bruno’s notes. Ma chére mére proposes giving a grand enter- tainment to the new-married couple, next week. Miss Hellevi Husgafvel, too, will give a select little sowée to them. It is said that nature and art intend compassing a union in the persons of young Robert Staalmark and Adele von P. They mutually discovered their respective excellences at Miss Hellevi Hus- gafvel’s sovrées in the course of the winter, fell in love with each other, and from that very circum- stance have become a great deal more amiable. Lagman Hék, who, during the spring, suffers a good deal from his affection of liver, has long been compelled to keep his room, and friends and neighbours have sedulously visited him during this time. Ma chére mere was with him twice every week. I also spent an occasional hour with the interesting and quiet old man. Yester- day, Jane Marie told me, he was at Carlsfors again for the first time. Ja chére mere and he executed 137 a ee 136 their 7rallen together, during which she held by a cord stretched across the room. It is reported that Cousin Stellan will make a journey to Italy for the sake of his health. (Cer- tainly it is to chase away his ennui ; but I fear this will bear him company.) Peter and Ebba are expected here in autumn. It will be a pleasure to see them again, and I am curious to see whether the sisters-in-law will then agree. Jane Marie is looking forward to visits from some Stockholm friends, and promises her- self a cheerful summer. But while all is brightening around me—while they are loving, dancing, getting up banquets, &c., I am, perhaps, advancing with rapid strides to my last hour, Yet Ino longer think of this with trouble of mind. . I have ordered my little concerns, and prepared myself for all things. To Bear I have written a letter, which, in the event of my dying, is to inform him how strongly I loved him, and how happy he made me during our brief union. My poor, good Bear. He is now so agi- tated, so concerned about me, that I am heartily pained on his account. I perceive that he is ut- terly unfit to be my doctor. I must now have courage for us both. 1 will follow the example once given me by a young friend of mine. She was in the same situation with myself; and, more- over, alone in the country, and surrounded with plains of snow ; but she kept herself in good spi- rits by translating some of the finest scenes of Shakspeare. I have not a Shakspeare at hand ; but I have my mind intent upon the subject of my Ten Daughters. I will sit me down, and write an epistle TO MY TEN DAUGHTERS. First and foremost, my girls, bear in mind that you are human beings. Be good, be true; the rest will follow. . As far as possible be kind to every one, humane towards every brute creature. Be so without sentimentality, and without affectation. Affecta- tion is a wretched artifice, my daughters; contemn it earnestly, as you would wish to rise in point of human worth. Do not deem yourselves of any great importance, whatever gifts and accomplish- ments you may possess. Reflect upon life and nature, and let the contemplation make you humble-minded. Be not faint-hearted, though you have been dealt with in a very step-motherly manner by Nature ; though you be infirm, ill-favoured, &e. You may, in spite of these disadvantages, go forward in your career to the perfection of the Most High. Do not require a great deal of cther people, especially TIE THE NEIGHBOURS. not of one another, sisters. The art of being at fault with yourself and with others is—to make large demands, and grant little. If you are straitened in this nether world, look up to heaven; yet not like turkey-cocks, but as believing children. Should any one of you fall, let her instantly think of rising again ; the erring as well as the unhappy one ever finds an out- stretched hand. Lay hold of it. Ah! my daughters. A fortnight later. What has become of my daughters? They have transformed themselves into a son. And the young gentleman was uncourteous enough to inter- rupt the epistle to his sisters. There he lies in the new wicker cradle, beneath a green taffety canopy ruddy, and plump. And Bear major is down upon his knees before Bear minor. I have a great fancy to bear him company in his idolatry, But Bear, the father, thinks it more appropriate that the son should pay his respects to his mama. I am proud of my little boy ; but we mortals are indeed so I expected a little girl so confi- dently that I am almost disappointed. How- ever “ neglected is not rejected,” as ma chére mere said to me by way of comfort. “ What shall I do with this epistle, Bear? It is not suitable for his gentlemanship there.” “T will preserve it for our girls. Write another for the boy.” ‘itt adi Happy, my Maria, is the wife who—as I—can with heart and soul give this precept to her son :— * Resemble your father.” “ No, Bear, you must not see what I am writing. You ought not to take the paper from me, you tyrant. I promise to conclude shortly ; only a few more words I must add.” These excellent people, my Neighbours! From all parts they have sent me flowers, and jellies, and all sorts of good things. During the entire period Serena has nursed me like a sister. Sheis calm, kind, sympathising—in a word, like herself ; and seems to entertain an affection for Bruno which is too intense to admit of being expressed in words. My Maria, I invite you to be god- mother to my little Bear. Lars Peter shall be his name, Ja chére mere will carry him herself to the font. She was here the day after his birth, and placed a handsome present upon his cradle. She conversed with me about what I had endured, and said cheerfully: “ Well it is with this as with life— All’s well that ends well.’ ”’ “No, Bear, my paper, my pen—O you horrid BEES ea i age ad END, Ao ow pores ame pas narra PA HRA AS il Societe see @Other Wales, BY FREDRIKA BREMER, AUTHORKSS OF ** STRIFE AND PEACE,” THe ‘* NEIGHBOURS,” THE ‘' H~— FAMILY.” gre, > 3 TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH. | | Tare OWENS, me a nt el? Ge, wee i: ‘ate * 4 arate shat et tee vite SAL < a 4 sl nad t 3 ai: Viagaee eben Gah ero agp: ee , Gui ‘ : Rb ae 3 Dn ea “oe tated t PA. ’ a0 Vay if At Seestloney 4 TEEN ues Viele ING: AND @ther Wales, THE TWINS. ———— Two charming rose-buds (the last in my garden) have frozen this October night. I had been delighting myself with the thought of pleasing my aged mother, who is still very fond of flowers, with two beautiful roses; she calls them, at this time of year, her ornaments. ow my promising buds hang upon their stalks without life or colour ; they are gone—and with them my little birth-day pleasure. I Jooked at them a long time, and felt tears coming into my eyes as I did so. They were teacs of recollection—consecrated to the memory of two rose-buds of a nobler kind, who, full of promise as these beautiful flowers, had faded away like them, early nipped by the night-frost of life. Edward and Ellna, my youthful friends—how often do your sweet images come before me in solitary hours! Like mild spring zephyrs, do the recollections of those times breathe upon me, when I was so often with you—heard you, saw you, and in you the most beautiful things which God had ever placed upon the earth. Now when I find some beautiful fruit, fallen from the tree before it is ripe, a flower whose germ has been bitten by a worm, anything beauti- ful and good, that passes away too soon—I think of Edward and Ellna. See there the beautiful country residence, en- closed by extensive parks, where they lived with their mother. They were the last of many to whom she had given birth, and the only ones who still remained to her. ‘* They were her darlings—her all.” She had given up the hope of being a happy mother, when, in her already somewhat advanced age, Edward and Elina gave her as blessed an en- joyment «s the rose-coloured fancy of her earlier years had ever dreamed of. Born at the same time, everything seemed formed by nature in harmony between Edward and Elina. Their features, their manner, their voices had a perfect resemblance to each other, only that everything in Edward, especially in later years, was more strongly expressed, which appeared in Ellna in soft moving feminine attrac- tiveness. They were so beautiful, that no one could look upon them unmoved. ‘The eye, wearied by the many unpleasant and discordant objects perpetually en- countered in life, could rest with delight on these lovely beings, who stood there in the unsullie« splendour of childlike innocence, as promises of a fairer and better creation. Their smile was peculiarly enchanting; in it their souls were reflected ; those depths of inno- cence and joy. Two dew-drops, sent down by Heaven to refresh the earth, give back their image in their transparent purity. “ Happy childhood!” I have heard thousands exclaim, who had already drunk more freely from the cup of life, to whose edge only children have brought their lips to kiss away the sparkling foam. “ Happy childhood!” it is granted to you to drink, in the midst of sports, the pure nectar of joy, while we seek in vain for a refreshing drop from the troubled stream which is offered to us, in the midst of labour and care. And it has seemed to me sometimes that child- hood was not justly esteemed so happy. How many tears are shed by children ! Tears of impa- tience, of regret, of anger, tears forced out by shame and reproaches, tears of envy, of vexation and of despair; in a word, of all the passions which poison for older hearts the draught of life. It is true, there is no need that these tears should be shed, if a wise and merciful hand would always remove the thorns from the road in which the little pilgrims of life are walking. But often— alas! too often—instead of taking them away, others only scatter them in the path. Constraint and unmerited reproaches are placed, like poison- ous nettles, around the poor little creatures. How often have I seen it—how often have I cried out: ‘-You poor children—you poor little children ! why were you brought into a life, whose few spring flowers you are not permitted to gather ?” Da ace yi gaia et den SB GE ae Eimear ah 6 lama as hace M RT reels cca event mene wih ent Soe them ene ere MM rt a ot at omer rey te 9 ahaha te Nea re cen ai men a AP tr heen Bleck tir i esti See ane ott eae he 4 THE TWINS. Freedom—freedom, the west wind of joy, whose pure breath alone can expand every flower of life —give freedom to those innocent little ones, who, born to immortality, must wander through a stormy country! Let the air of liberty, not the simoom of restraint, accompany their first steps, and the world will not then see so many exhausted wanderers sink down powerless, and fall under their burden, by the wayside. The first years of Edward and Ellna passed away in innocent freedom. Their cradle was Nature, in her genial beauty. In the fields, in the forests, in the groves, they either played or rested. While they were lying, entwined in each other’s arms, in the shade of the trees, on the soft grassy bank, they were often heard talking of the angels, whose wings they saw in the clouds, which, driven by light zephyrs, passed through the blue sky above the dark-green summit of the trees. They saw them smile; they even talked with them sometimes, confidingly and childishly ; praised their beauty, which (as they said) was much greater than their own. They often raised their little infantine voices to accompany the notes of heavenly harps, which they heard mingling with the rustling leaves of the forest. Their mother, who was always with them, believed in the reality of these appearances. And after all, what can be said against it ?—that we have not ourselves ex- perienced it. But how seldom are people so like angels, and so happy as Edward and Elina? Every one who knew them, was forced to acknowledge that he had never yet seen their like, and many persons asked themselves in pious transport, whether these children were indeed like other mortals. Around their white foreheads fell their light- brown locks ; their eyes glistened beneath in soft enchanting brightness. The glad smile of infancy ever parted their beautiful lips, and formed in their rosy cheeks the little dimples, which I hardly know why, we like so much to kiss. Their whole figure was so beautiful, the form of their hands in particular so perfect, that I once saw a seulptor shed tears as he looked at them : and an old gardener, who was not particularly noted for politeness and good manners, got a pair of gloves in order to lead the little Ellna about in the garden, whose fairest flowers were soon de- posited in her muslin apron. Accustomed to being admired, without knowing why, Edward and Ellna willingly went to meet any one who wished to see them, and received, gently smiling, their praises and caresses. “We are so handsome,” they said im their simplicity, without knowing what it was to be handsome, or that the world considered the pos- session of beauty an advantage. The pleasant impression which, as they well knew, they pro- duced, seemed however to give them pleasure only because it was delightful to others. “Look at us!” said they to an old man, who was mourning the loss of his only son, “ Look at us, and do not ery any more !” Accustomed to call forth smiles upon every face, they were astonished that one could look at them and yet weep ; and in their uneasiness at finding that they could not comfort him, began themselves to shed tears with him. What their smiles could not do, their tears now effected. The old man ee ay took them in his arms, and felt himself revived as by the sympathy of angels. Afterwards, they were heard to say, when they saw any one in trouble, “ Look at us, we are crying with you.” Thus did these little Christians practise,even in their childhood, the precepts of their master. Children are called tender-hearted. I confess that I have seen but few who were not rough and cruel. Unconscious (and therefore innocent) bar- barians, they often torment in the most frightful manner, creatures who are weak and defenceless enough to become their victims, They observe with curiosity their writhings when suffering, and seldom avoid causing a pain, the expression of which makes a new impression on their excitable . fancies. O! why are so many men (who actually know, who have themselves experienced what pain is) like these cruel little creatures! They are not innocent as these are. I have often exclaimed at the sight of their barbarous enjoyments, and the martyrdoms which their so-called necessary wants, their desire of knowledge, their inhumanity, cause to millions of innocent beings: “O! why was man created—the being who suffers more, and causes more suffering, than all others on the earth ?” Yet, I know that in one day all will be made good—no more tears will be shed—no more pains will be felt. Humbly bowing my head, I will still hope and wait for that higher light, which is here denied to us. There is a God; then let the murmuring of men cease ! Edward and Ellna were not cruel, as the chil- dren of earth commonly are; they did not yet know what pain and suffering were, but it seemed as if they anticipated it, and whenever they saw its sad expression, their most zealous efforts were directed to alleviate and to cure it. If a poor little worm were creeping in the dust, dragged along by ants, it was at once set at liberty by their hands, and placed in safety on the soft grass at a dis- tance from its tormentors. Whenever they saw a little bird which, accustomed to the liberty of the woods, was striking its head in a cage in useless fluttering against the iron wires of its prison, they burst into tears, and entreated its owners to set it at liberty, and if their petitions were ever fruitless they collected all their little spend- ing money and purchased it, Then it went out in the field with the happy children; the prison door was opened, and when the little freed captive described circles in the air with joyful twitterings over their heads, the children clapped their hands, and their hearts beat quick with joy. Not a day passed in which they did not do some good, or prevent some evil. Certainly the sphere of influence of the little ones was yet small; and what they could accomplish inconsiderable. They were young artists who were practising early the beautiful and noble parts which they were to perform afterward on the great theatre of the world. Edward and Ellna brought provisions to the birds’ nests, in the robbing and plundering of which boys often find a pleasure, as in any cruel and presumptuous exercise of their youthful strength. They laid food for the birds at the foot of the trees or hedges where the little aérial families had built their summer dwellings. The mother will not have to fly far now (they said), and the little birds need not wait and suffer online 3 pew ether btny ype mare sete amie feta ASD hunger !” they approached carefully the places where the mother bird had put her eggs in the grass, scattered the grain about silently, and were very careful not to alarm the timid birds, who, accustomed by degrees to the visits of the little angels, only flew away twittering, resting on a neighbouring bush, and awaiting quietly the departure of the children, who slipped away so gently and lightly that the grass rose again under their footsteps, as if it had been only bent down by light zephyrs. That they might not tread on ants, which were always swarming over the paths in travelling parties, or upon frogs which were leaping before their feet, the children would stop a moment, or make a little circuit. They never killed any creature intentionally —not a fiy, nor even a gnat, those Parias of the air who find no mercy from the educated portion of mankind. “ Ah, it is so charming to live,” said the lovely children. Once, indeed, I saw little Ellna give up her white hands and arms to these freebooting blood-suckers. “I am giving them their supper,” said she, smiling, and “it does not hurt me much,” she added on her brother’s account, who manifested now for the first time the somewhat overbearing temper of the mam, and forbade his sister to do so again, if she did not desire that he should extirpate the whole race of gnats; which did not, probably, seem more difficult to him than the conquest of the world to Alexander. Ellna was forced to give up; the gnats were driven away, and then Edward tried to prevent by kisses the swelling of the parts bitten by them. The fresh smiles of childhood illuminated their countenances while they were thus struggling in sport, Edward to give, and Ellna to avoid, the kisses. I said that they never killed an animal inten- tionaily ; I was wrong. If they saw a little crea- ture struggling in the pangs of death—a fly or moth which had burned its wings in the candle, a trodden-upon but still-living worm, Edward, as the least soft-hearted, would hasten, with averted eyes and merciful foot, the moment when torment and suffering should be at an end. “Jt is better to die than to suffer,” they said, and turned away with pale countenances, “These children are too good for this world,” said those who knew them. “ They certainly will not live long.” And yet, O my God, it would do good, amidst so many sorrows, so many evils, if thou wouldst allow these visions to remain here longer, who reveal to us, as it were, the star which we have lost from our brows—who gently and refreshingly remind us from whenee we came and whither we go. Ye good and lovely mortals, if [ wish that you might linger here it is for our sakes, and not for yours. If the All-merciful would call back unto his bosom this spark of ‘his spirit which was to warm and enlighten an unworthy world for an instant, how good is it in Him, how good for you ! The May-day of childhood had passed. for Ed- ward and Elina. Their youth had opened. They counted fifteen years. Their childlike dispositions were not much changed. The first violet which peeped out from under the snow, the first strawberry which red- if THE TWINS. 5 dened in the sunbeam, still called forth upon their cheeks the glow of delight; and the joy or sorrow of their fellow-creatures drew from them now, as before, a smiie or a tear. Now, however, they understood, better than before, that human beings were the worthiest objects of their solicitude. For the circuit of a mile around their home there was not a cottage which they had not visited. The benevolence of their mother gave them con- tinually an opportunity of doing good. “ Tell us what you want,” they said to the poor and sick, “if we can we will help you.” Sometimes it was a softer bed ; sometimes more nourishing food ; sometimes a little assistance in money ; sometimes a word said in their favour, which the destitute received, always accompanied by kind words, which, uttered by two of the sweetest voices, made an impression as profound as it was bene- ficial, Where aid was not wanted, they endea- voured at least to give a little pleasure ; small presents were distributed to fathers and mothers, bonbons to the children, and the latter particu- larly, who of course prize most highly of all kind- nesses those which are shown to their sugar- loving palates ; all these little lovers of noise and sweetmeats accompanied and greeted Edward and Elina wherever they went with loud acclamations of delight. Their mother was warned of the evils which might arise from so much benevolence. She answered to the exhortations of her friends, * Let us not be too cautious. A single opportu- nity of doing good which is lost (as often happens) through distrust, is an irreparable loss. I acknow- ledge that we are often deceived by others from too little foresight, but we deceive ourselves, on the other hand, by too great caution. And then, if you only knew what I feel when I hear my children blessed by every mouth !” If any one wished to thank Edward and Ellna in the way they best liked, he would say to them “JT am better, my pains are less,” or “I am happier and brighter now,” or “ God is good, he does not let us despair.” ‘Then their hearts were filled with the purest joy, and they thanked God. Meanwhile they did not exert themselves merely for the benefit of the poorer and less educated classes ; they did not seek to alleviate merely those cares which are expressed by tears, those sorrows which speak in a loud voice. The silent sorrow, the corroding disquiet, those smali but intolerable vexations, like a thousand pricks of a needle, which we do not willingly acknowledge, but which are so much the worse to bear—all those lesser trials which hang like chains upon the slaves of the fine and polished world, they perceived and endeavoured to make lighter with gentle hand. A glance which betrayed uncon- sciously an oppressed heart ; an expression, a gesture, any embarrassment—generally the con- sequence of an uneasy mind—which manifested uneasiness, seldom escaped their notice, and always made them try to find out some method to give at least a few moments of pleasure to those who seemed to be destitute of peace and contentment of heart. If Ellna perceived a young girl in the com- pany, who was not richly endowed by nature with external charms, and who seemed to have a painful consciousness that she was not agreeable, nn nr er renege nett 6 THE TWINS. | aoe she tried to become acquainted with her ; she a, proached her, talked kindly to her, and endea- voured in every way to make her feel that she was interested in her, and found pleasure in her society. Sometimes Edward came too to assist her, and the consideration with which he would pay the thousand little courtesies which one can never ask for, but which it is so pleasant to receive, his unconstrained cheerful politeness, joined to the enchanting friendliness of his sister, made an irresistible impression, When Edward, on his part, met with young men, who were neglected or solitary in society, he always tried to get into conversation with them. If they danced he introduced his sister to them, who in the goodness of her heart, always gave them the preference to the rich, handsome and fashionable young men who strove with each other for one of her brilliant glances. How often have I seen countenances, which be- trayed oppressed, or dissatisfied, or embittered tempers, clear up under the influence of the twins, and by degrees reflect again their soft and beam- ing smile. The ugliest features were beautified by this, and in their more agreeable expression, one would read long afterwards the happy belief : “ we too can be amiable.” One evening, on occasion of a dance on the green, I perceived that Ellna had parted with a bouquet, which her brother had made for her of the most beautiful flowers of the garden. I asked her if she had lost it. I have given it away !” she answered blushing, leaving me at the same moment to dance. I looked around with curiosity upon all the young and lovely persons at the ball ; not one of them had Ellna’s nosegay. Afterwards I observed on a bank at a distance, a miserable, deformed being, all whose limbs were distorted ; she was holding Ellna’s bouquet in her withered hand, and was repeating softly, with an expression of pious gratitude: “the angel—the angel! she thought, she said, that flowers would do me good —yes, they have done me good—oh, the angel !” How happy were these young and beautiful beings, how lovely and how beloved. In the whole country around, Edward and Elina were extolled, as people boast of the gifts with which nature has peculiarly endowed a place, which they call theiv own, and of which they are proud. They were called the angels; and indeed, when one saw them, or heard their melodious voices unite in a hymn of praise to their Creator, one would forget everything else, and for a few minutes fancy him- self in heaven. The affection which commonly exists between twins, was so deep, so intimate between Edward and Ellna, that I think they had neither of them a conception of the existence of one separately from the other. They thought, they acted together, and seemed to wish to be never separated from each other. They always said we ; only in each other did they feel themselves; that self, which when it finds itself quite alone, is so heavy, so painful a burden. The beautiful life of these twins had passed so far without a cloud. No sickness, no care, no sorrow had yet cast a shadow over their smooth brows. Life, usually so stern a teacher, appeared to respect these children, and for the first time not to wish to be severe. No day passed by with- out adding to their beauty. Their faces became more oval, and acquired more and more the beau- tiful Grecian form, They grew taller, retaining their charming gracefulness, like two young trees whose summits have interwoven themselves together. Their smiles became more expressive, and the goodness of their hearts shone out more clearly from their large blue eyes. These darlings of God and man were approached almost with worship: one wished to make offerings to them, and yet felt that the only way to add to their happiness, was to take something from them. It seemed to me that I saw in them priests at the altar of mercy, humbly distributing the gifts of God. Shed Their mother—so much has been said, all per- haps that can be expressed in words of a mother’s love, and a mother’s happiness—but the love, the blessedness of this mother cannot be described in words—cean perhaps be likened only to that of her, who saw the supreme glory of God encircle the head of her son. At the age of sixteen they stood in the full per- fection of natural and of supernatural beauty. The world opened itself to them full of joy, of love and of felicity. Before them lay a light, flower bestrewn, peaceful path, on which they could walk together, beloved and loving, blessed and blessing ; they would become the benefactors and the examples of mankind ; they would here—and yet it was not to be—at the age of sixteen they were to die. On Edward’s Apollo face, a fever-flush began to show itself at the approach of winter, which soon deepened and coloured his youthful cheeks with a clear purple, but was then extinguished like a feeble flame, leaving behind a deathly paleness. His strength began to diminish, his beautiful slender figure bent forward, like a slight young tree bent down by the storm ; his breath was short, his motions, before so animated and rapid, became slow and feeble, and his eyes had a bright- ness which foretold the approaching transfiguration of his whole being. The sentence of the physician was—consumption, and only a few months more of life. Oh, how was everything now changed ! As he went toward the grave, Edward looked back upon life, which seemed to be fleeing away from his eyes, as the shores of his country vanish from those of the mariner. “T amso young,” said he with deep sighs, “ and must die. Leave thee, Ellna—separate from thee, from our mother. And this beautiful life, this charming earth, these good people, all, all—I must leave—and die! Oh! in the dark grave, where I shall lie alone—how terrible.” - What Elina said, what she did, had no object but consolation or alleviation to her brother. And yet she was so deeply sad, but she never thought of herself. She said to Edward : “ The sun has a wonderful power, my brother, come to the window, and let it shine upon thee ; see, here is a soft seat, see these flowers which I have gathered for you, enjoy their delicious fragrance; in winter especially, they bring the breath of spring to all our feelings’’— or, “rest upon me, my brother, then you will sit com- fortably, and I will be so still ;” and with her brother’s head resting on her breast, she would sit 144 THE quietly for whole hours, endeavouring to draw her breath at the same time as his, and suppressing the anxious beating of her heart. Another time she would say: “See, how the clouds disperse themselves, how the sky clears up ; it opens all at once, and shines over us so mild and blue. It is the answer of the Ali-merciful to my prayer which I just offered up to him so ardently. The sky of our happiness has been overcast, but it will soon be clear again, you will not die.” Sometimes she even tried with sporting and jest to awaken hope, both in his heart and her own. She danced before him, casting gracefully around him the light veil which her hands threw in a thousand pleasing forms around her own ethereal figure. She sang for him those small romances and songs which give such a simple image of life, and which make it easily understood by those who listen to their charming tones. But when only a faint smile, a melancholy reflection of his before happy life, played over Edward’s pale lips, then all the rays of hope were quickly extinguished in Ellna’s eyes, and the twins wept together. She often encouraged him to take the remedies prescribed, which are intended, particularly in consumption, to prevent the too sudden rupture of the delicate threads of life ; she prepared them all with her own hand. Who can enumerate all which her inventive affection discovered to procure alleviation and comfort to the sufferer ? She held her hands, without her brother’s knowledge, in ice-cold water, in order to cool with them after- wards his burning brow. When she watched by his bed through sleepless nights, she read to him, or told him whatever she thought would most please him, in his present state of mind, which was ever changing with Edward, as with other consumptive patients. And in those dark hours, when it seemed dreadful to Edward that he was to die so young, and to be alone—for he could not imagine that he should not miss his sister even in the grave—then Ellna promised to accompany him. “How could I do otherwise,” she added, “ T am only conscious of living in thee.” Yes, she could comfort ; and what woman, what true woman cannot? A woman myself, I should perhaps be more modest—forgive me—but if I believe this, if I express it, itis because I love ; and because, since I cannot avert the stroke of fate from those who are dear to me, I have fixed the hope of my whole life on alleviating it. Yes, I believe only to ws does the mystery of pain manifest itself in its minutest details, and that only to us is it given in the inspiration of feeling and of affection to imagine what are the concealed suffer- ings of the sick. I hope and believe, (and may this faith be ever mine) that, as in the beginning of time, the genius of evil sowed poisonous seeds in the flower-garden of life, the softening balsam was placed in the hands of woman which should make its power less active. Elna had said to Edward, “ I will follow thee,” and she soon followed him. The same symptoms of disease showed themselves in her at the begin- ning of spring, and disease made rapid progress in her delicate frame, weakened by anxiety and -night-watches. To her too was the sentence of death pronounced by an honourable and upright physician, who dreaded, more than anything else, to cause un. Vor. II. 14 TWINS. 7 necessary suffering by the employment of fruitless attempts to cure what was incurable. “We are so young, and yet we must die!” said Edward and Elina now in melancholy accents. But this we, which united them, was already a drop of comfort in their bitter cup. Together they took leave of the spring flowers, which they were never again to see ; every day took away with it unpityingly a drop of the strength of their life. They were often seen in the forest, supporting each other with feeble steps and anxious countenances, in the fields, in the groves, where they had once sported so gaily ; they bade adieu to all: to the earth, to the sky itself, which seemed to them so glorious only because it hung over a land which was to them a paradise. “ Farewell all that we have loved,” said they, “ we must leave all, we must die.” When people talked in their presence of anti- cipated pleasures, or of future good deeds, in order to amuse them, or to extend for them, as it were, the prospect which an approaching night was always making narrower —they said with tearful eyes : “we shall not be there ; we must die.” “ Come to me in the autumn,” said one of their neighbours, “ when my grapes and peaches are ripe, and the true food of angels shall then be given to angels.” “ We cannot come in the autumn,” they an- swered, “in autumn we shall not be here.” “ Next month,” said a pleasant old man, who was their friend, “my grand-children, Alfred and Sigrid, are coming toseeme. They are good and beautiful, not as angels ; but if my spectacles and my heart read aright, nearly so, very nearly. Alfred shall be Ellna’s husband, and little Sigrid, who is the apple of my eye, Edward shall have for his wife. Quickly and pleasantly, as the chain in a quadrille, shall all go together, falling in love, betrothment, marriage. And we shall then find a little kingdom of heaven here upon the earth.” “Alas!” answered the angels, smiling, “we cannot marry, we must soon die !”’ And in every way, and on every side this death came to them harshly and severely, forbidding and destroying all gladness ; transforming everything into gloom and darkness. But this death itself which appeared to them so terrible, they must learn to love. Pain—the condition of life and the frightful side of life—which, till now had not ventured to ap- proach these two angelic beings, struck now its tiger-claws into their breasts. I had heard them say: ‘“ we must soon die !’ with an expression of complaint, as if they hac said, “‘ we must leave the feast.” Soon after, alas ‘ I heard them say the same words, but with a tone which expressed “ we shall soon rest !” Short was the time of suffering, God be praised ' peace came even before the grave ; and only z slow, nearly painless vanishing away, led thew unmarked to the shore of this life, where they might still gather a few flowers. Meanwhile they had suffered, had gained expe- rience ; and the prism disapeared, turning pale before their eyes, which had clothed the world ir purple. They looked around them—and this paradise had vanished—they saw tears, crimes, pain, terror; e v L ——— EE | | | | | peat ns tg pe a 8 THE TWINS, —— ——__—__—_ to relieve which, they stretched out in vain their powerless hands. Human suffering, whose signifi- cation they now first learned, arose like a dark phantom and spread its veil of sorrow over the whole earth. “Men suffer,” said they, “animals suffer, all which breathes suffers, or shall suffer. O! it is not good to be here ; this is the home of sorrow !” and they no longer wished to live—except (they thought) to give a little more comfort and help. ’ But it is so little that we can do now!” and a glance of sorrowful thought included the whole earth in its sadness. At this time a good and enlightened priest began to instruct them in the religion into which they were baptised. In their angelic souls, as in the good ground of which the Gospel speaks, the hea- venly seed sprang up, and bore fruit a hundred fold. Their eyes became clearer by degrees as light dawned in their souls ; they were often cast down to the earth even yet, while they said with sighs, “this world is not good;” but they quickly raised them glistening to the sky, joyfully feeling, “There is a better! ” The darkness which had enveloped them for a time, was constantly giving way, and glorious was the path which opened before them in the splendour of an unearthly light. There were their looks directed, there all their hopes—all their desires. The anticipations of eternity thrilled through them, and while they looked at each other with smiles of blessedness, they whispered, “ we are immortal.” After their first communion, all was peace in their hearts, and the brightness of their eyes was only a feeble reflection of their inward brightness. One sorrow, only one sorrow, remained with them yet, and this often expressed itself gently in sweet tears, when they prayed, kneeling to the eternal source of light. “Oh, our God, (they said) if the power of thy love should hereafter penetrate and illuminate us as its glorious image now, how, oh ! how should we ever thank thee ?” So passed the summer, while these angels resign- edly and cheerfully put down day by day flower after flower from the garland of life. The autumn approached. The wandering on earth of the twins was ended with it. The nights passed sleeplessly away. When it was possible, they were carried out into the fresh air, where their obstructed breathing was made easier, and where the coldness alleviated the fever that was burning in their veins. While the August nights veiled silently and tranquilly all nature in a dark twilight—the bright flambeaux of hope and joy were burning in the souls of the dying twins. T have heard these words, have seen these glances full of immortality, to which there was no more night. And afterwards for a long time every- thing in this life seemed to me pale and colour- less. The autumn had come. The beautiful heads of the twins sank fainting on the cushions of the sofa, from which they could not now raise themselves. Those who loved them were already reckoning up the seconds of their lives. Suffering themselves, Edward and Ellna still tried to comfort and to cheer those whom they were soon to leave. “We will watch over you (said they) when we have become angels ; we will pray to God for you.” When they could no longer talk, they looked affectionately upon all, and when their weary eye- lids were closing, they smiled benignantly. At last one other disturbing anxiety found its way into their hearts. They were afraid that they might not die at the same time, that they might not rise together to that home of light, of peace and joy, for which alone they sighed. Sitting close to one another, ono watched with secret sorrow the progress of disease in the face of the other. “ How bright your eyes look,” said Edward to Elina, “your face has nothing earthly initnow. It seems to me as if you might spread out your wings any morning and fly off into the clear heaven, far, far away from me !” circling her waist with his arms, he pressed her to his heart with all his weakened power. Another time it was Ellna who said with a trembling voice, “my Edward, how thy cheeks are sunk, thine eyes have not their light, oh, look at me, look at me! Thy breathing becomes feebler—it stops ; let me give you mine; I have breath enough for us both!” and taking the head of her brother in her feeble hands, she endeavoured to impart to him by kisses, something of the faint breath of life which was still in her own breast. Thus the dying brother and sister sought as it were to hold each other back, while they felt that they were passing away, as if borne by some powerful though invisible hand. Friends, acquaintances—all whom these angels had known and loved, assembled around them. Everything was brought to their sick-room (as if to an altar) which it was thought could be pleasant or useful to them. ‘Their friends did not give to them—now ; they rather brought to them as in sacrifice, flowers, fruits, the most earnest wishes, honest tears, and these were received by the twins with grateful smiles, with the promise, ‘ we will soon pray for you !”’ Harps were placed in the room adjoining that of the sufferers, and they were often played and sung into quiet sleep. If they were observed at these times, when the soul in the spiritual world of dreams takes a freer flight, no longer measured by time and space, but hovering on light wings over wonderful lands, has a foretaste of its future more expanded and beautiful existence ; then one could see in the indescribable expression of their serene features, that they were far, far from the earth, and that for them the blessedness of eternity had already come. In the evening they sometimes said to one another with quiet smiles, “Shall we awake in heaven in the morning !”’ During a stormy October night they fell asleep uncommonly gently and quietly. Counting each stroke of the clock, mother and friends watched in the still room. “How well they sleep!” those whispered who ventured to speak. Twelve strikes—see how they smile in their delightful dreams! The morning dawns—they still sleep! The storm has ceased, the sky is clearing up, the day breaks gloriously, yet they sleep; hear—they sigh, or was it the wind passing by the window ?” The sun arose, its golden beams shone gently upon the angel-countenances of the twins. They sleep no more—they are awake—but in heaven ! Pure flames, kindled by the same spark which had And en- . a A 146 THE SOLITARY ONE. 9 burned, united, should they not ascend together from the earth ! Oh ! but their mother, their poor mother ? They had been earthly angels, now they were heavenly ones ; and if an unexpected joy retreshed the weary or heavy-laden, he would say, “ they have prayed for me!” Do you see by the wall of the neighbouring church-yard, that female form, sitting on a stone as immovable as itself? Negligently fall her locks of gray hairs over her shoulders, the wind sports with her torn garments. She is cold and stiff—but not with years. Pass not coldly by her, give her your sympathy, she will not be burdensome to you long; see her crutch, her dull eyes, the pain about her silent lips ! Why does she sit here ? why can she be found nowhere else? She is where her heart is _also—at the grave of her children. Grief for them has obscured her eyes and her mind. She marks not how the autumn leaves are falling around her, she feels not when spring breezes melt the snow on their graves; but she goes there every day, and summer’s heat and winter’s cold find her equally still, equally insensible. No one who knows her speaks to her, and she speaks to no one. Yet she has an object, an ‘end—what? death! For many long years has she seen graves opening around her, and receiving earth’s weary wanderers into her silent, peaceful lap ; but still she sits a dead one, among the dead, and waits. April 1. I welcome you, ye mild breezes which are melting away the winter’s snow. I bless you, bright spring sun, which brings life and warmth into the dust of the grave! from the home of death, from the silent church-yard, I have to-day greeted life. I love this peaceful place, where the un- quietly-beating heart, where everything finds peace. I myself, feel in my breast, (which time has not yet been able to harden,) the unquiet prisoner, which beats so tumultuously now in sorrow and now in gladness, and it does me good to think, that mine, too, shall be one day among the quiet ones. The larks sing in the clear air in the tops of the trees, over the graves of the twins. ‘There sat the mother as before, still motionless upon the stone. A rustling wind passed over the church-yard, I saw her whole frame tremble. I approached her, she was leaning her head against one of the lindens which grew by the grave, and she smiled gently. I saw with joy that her time of trial was also at an end—that she would wait no longer ! Ye beautiful flowers of spring, now when the May sun calls you out of the renewed earth, grace- fully cover and adorn the grave which is no longer bedewed with a mother’s bitter tears! Beautiful May flowers! soft spring verdure over the hillock ‘* As years close long-opened wounds,” TEINER. THE SOLITARY ONE. —_-—____. We sometimes see a single beautiful flower springing up in a barren wild place—a noble but solitary product of the earth, surrounded and hemmed in by unfriendly elements, earnestly but vainly seeking the sun, by whose light thousands of its happier sisters are flourishing ; but which it is prevented from enjoying by the bare overhang- ing rocks. Pale and feeble, the flower at length bows its head to the earth, although formed to | aspire to the sky, and buries at last its fleeting existence among the dark rocks which have deter- mined its destiny. Our eye, which has by chance discovered the solitary one, rests upon it with a kind of compas- sion; while our thoughts ask, why and wherefore it stands there so destitute of gladness itself, and so incapable of giving joy to any one? These in- voluntary hermits of the flower-world have their images in a higher sphere of life; and I fancy that I recognise something similar in one whose hand traced the following thoughts and features of a life made cheerful by but few sunbeams. It is not exactly a diary, nor a witty and in- teresting journal that she has written. Ah! such a one is only written in the secret hope that some dear friend shall one day look over the lines which preserve the memory of our sufferings and our thoughts—one who shall sigh over our sorrows, rejoice inour joy, laugh at our pleasantries, love and hate with us—in a word—feel with us ; and thus become more intimately united to us, No; like withered leaves, which the winds of autumn shake from the trees and seatter over the ground, she has cast forth her disarranged thoughts, just as they arose from feelings, which she did not hope to find reciprocated by any loving heart upon the earth. May ith. *¢ Secret, dark, and earnest longing, From the spirit’s deepest centre ; Rising like a morning vapour, Which impell’d by gentle breezes, To the far blue distance hastens. On thou urgest ; on thou urgest, Towards the undiscover’d shores, ‘«* Over life’s fair rosy gardens, Over hope’s bright verdant forests, Still thou go’st ; the whole earth veiling In thy dark funereal mantle ; Like the home-sick soul still pining In the lonely foreign region, Not a blossom seeing there. « Strongly dost thou seize my senses, Causing tears to flow more freely, For a sweet, but unknown sorrow,— And my heart—0, hear its beating ! Ah! the prisoner would have freedom, Would flee forth to light and sunshine, Longing for a home indeed. *‘ There, where from the Eastern dawning Now the sun so beaming rises, There, where in the Western Ocean, He his golden taper plunges ; Thither would I—thither longing; Thither would my journey hasten, Over land and over sea. 147 10 THE SOLITARY ONE. ** Hagle, who so proudly risest To the golden sphere of brightness ; Little cloud, which gentle zephyrs Carry into freer spaces— Tell us 7s all in the distance ? All indeed so clear and glorious ? Rules there freedom, peace, and quiet ? «* To the burning path thou seekest, Might I, Eagle, with thee travel ’ Cloud! O could I with thee vanish, To the evening’s purple regions ? And on the quiet shore, though trembling, Full of joy no words could utter, Whisper my own lullaby. “So Leried ; to rocky fortress Down the Eagle bent his pinion— Into space the cloud was melted. Lonely stood I. With my mourning Sports the wind as with the sighing Of the olian harp it trembles ; In the air my plaints dissolving Bring no echo, bring no answer.” ’'Tis Spring! I see from my window clouds driven along by the fresh breezes, sailing like bright swans in the clear blue ; | see eagles flying above them, ever rising higher and higher, to the yath of light. Ah! could J do as they do! might 1‘ too feel the warm, life-giving breath of Spring ! How confined and oppressive is it here within; how fresh and glorious there without, where gleams the morning dawn! I would—oh, do I indeed know what I would ? I have heard of palaces of ice, and I myself lived in a moral ice-palace. The Count and the Countess, my gracious patrons, are statues of ice ; and I—I am a poor, fluttering, feeble flame, lighted in one of the lamps in the saloon of the castle, which is going out by degrees—extinguished by the frost and the chilling atmosphere, O ! it must be inexpressibly beantiful to feel, to love, to live—in a word—to love ! I have never yet loved anything but my own fugitive ideal. I shall never see it made real upon the earth ! I am twenty years old to-day ; who cares any- thing about that? Who offers me a flower in my own spring-time ? Ah! if no one is glad that we were born, we might wish that we never had been born ! T would gladly have purchased, with my life, a father’s and a mother’s caresses : one, who has never experienced this innocent delight, has been shut out from the paradise of childhood. When I read in romances or plays, of children who find again, in mature life, the parents whom they think they have lost, I sympathise with them with a depth of emotion which makes me quite lose myself. I cry out, Papa! Mamma! stretch out my arms and weep ; and then I know that my parents must sleep for ever. All the people whom I know have something in the world to be interested about, and on which they depend. They have parents, children, bro- thers and sisters, relatives, friends—or, at worst, a dog, a cat, a bird—in’a word, something to live for which requites them, and which repays with affection the care and kindness shown to them. Or, one las an occupation, an object ; something, in a word, that animates the present, and inspires hope for the future. J alone am objectless. JZ have nothing, and no one in the world. I wonder very much sometimes, why and for what end I exist. If I should ask the Countess about it, she would answer :—“ To sew for me; to be at hand when I ring my little silver bell—to assist me at my toilette—to make the fourth at my Boston party in the evening ; besides all this, to exercise my patience.” Gracious Heaven! am I too proud, if I find such an object too low and miserable ? Some people have an interest in life, which I do not envy them—and this is to quarrel with each other. This is the delight of the Count and Countess, as soon as they encounter one another ; indeed, I believe they often seek each other out, to procure for themselves this refreshment. They only agree in this, that they both reprove me with severity for the smallest oversight. Were I placed by fate in a situation to rule over others ; for example, in the place of the Countess, how would I guard myself against severity and sternness in the reproofs and directions I should find it necessary to give to my servants and de- pendents! Their mistakes would be altogether of so little importance to me, comparatively so en- tirely insignificant ; for evenif they should cause me some trifling inconvenience, yet they could neither disturb the peace of my heart, nor cause me bitter tears—nor oppress and burden my con- science—while my severity, on the contrary, might bring upon the offender all these sufferings. The great duty of life is not to give pain ; and the most acute reasoner cannot find an excuse for one who voluntarily wounds the heart of a fellow-creature. Even for their own sakes, people should show kindness and regard to their dependents, One is often better served in trifles, in proportion as they are rather feared than loved ; but how small is this gain compared to the loss sustained in all the weiglitie affairs of life. On these occasions th faithful servant shows himself at once as a friend, while one who serves from fear, shows himself as an enemy. To play cards from seven till ten every evening with three persons, who, like the Count, the Coun- tess, and old President M., quarrel incessantly about the game and the fishes (for we do not play for money), is a fatal way of getting rid of time. The kings and honours in cards are to me real destroyers of'pleasure. This employment for the evening is yet more intolerable to me, because the whole day is for me like the game of Boston. Poor little bird, with clipped wings! In vain dost thou seek to raise thyself ; thou risest not : thou feelest for what thou wert created ; thou wouldst, like thy fellows, bathe in the pure sunny ether ; sing as they do, thy joyful freedom—and thou art chained to the dust. Painful, painful is 148 thy condition! So also is that of human beings, who, with the ideas of perfection and happiness in their breasts, bound by the fetters of mediocrity, go about desiring, striving, seeking ; exert them- selves, hope and despair, and sink at last, under the ever-oppressive hand of fate. With a thou- sand noble powers in their souls, they see every path to improvement, to activity, closed against them. Impatience is an annoying feeling. That we may suffer less, let us suffer patiently. If I could only do a little good, I would not complain. But I can do nothing—nothing. In order to be perfectly imprisoned, while yet with- out the prison walls, one must be a woman ; and besides, as I am, poor and dependent. I know that in this my fate, I have many sisters in the world. Oh, my poor friends ! how gladly would I comfort you. Ah! Itooam a gasping wanderer in the desert. 1 wish to offer you a refreshing draught, and I have not one drop of fresh water for myself. When one feels deeply a single sorrow, he un- derstands all other sorrows. i see two pictures—two sides of life—as unlike each other as day to night. On the first, what animation! what splendour of colours! The altars of love and of household joys are there, garlanded with ever-fresh flowers. Under the shadow of laurels and of palm-trees, the fine arts unfold their delightful recreations, and draw the fresh nectar of inspiration from the glorious ever- changing world around them. On the sunny heights the sciences go on their serene and de- lightful way. Everything moves, aspires, goes forward ; becomes brighter, clearer, more full of meaning. From the order, beauty, and riches of the greater whole, all the smaller details unfold themselves in the fulness of life, of grace and free- dom. Nothing is low, powerless, heavy. On the contrary, all is great, rich, and all points to im- mortality. Even misfortune has splendour: it has its glory, its songs of victory. The flashes of lightning and the mild splendour of a cloudless sun illuminate the scene alternately, and give it # constant majesty. The other—see a cloudy, misty day in autumn; see weary travellers, who are seeking ona wild stony path some place of rest. They attempt to kindle a fire to warm them- selves ; but a slowly-falling, frosty, penetrating mist-rain extinguishes the flame, and at last even the sparks which were glimmering in the ashes. Behold misery become so miserable that it loses at last all compassion for itself ; see how the un- happy being is hardened against the misfortunes of’ those who are unhappy as he is. Behold ex- haustion, weariness of life, of everything : behold —oh no! rather see it not! shut your eyes, if possible, ye whose scene of life resembles this picture. Mists and clouds which overshadow us —ah ! sink down still deeper, and hide from us the terrors which surround us and our deserted, mysterious path. Year after year goes slowly by. are all like dark autumnal days. _ For us they THE SOLITARY ONE. ll I do not complain. No expression of dissatisfac- tion, no murmuring escapes my lips. I am thank- ful for the support which they give me (from com- passion, as they say.) I am obedient, assiduous ; I endeavour to fulfil in every particular what they require of me. But I am not happy they say; I am not lively; I always go about with my head hanging down. Ah! how should I look glad with no gladness at my heart? I have ever sought, in order to please them to whom my services are due, to study out in the glass the expression which would give to my countenance the most happy and contented aspect. At last, I could not help weep- ing bitterly over this forced, gloomy, unnatural smile. I read lately in a book, a kind of moral medical book, full of good advice to meet the merits of the sick soul : “ If thy condition is too oppressive, and thou findest thyself too unhappy in it, then change thy condition.” Would one be really unhappy, could he do this ? Ah, I am of rank, and the proud distant rela- tions who, after the death of my parents, took charge of the poor orphan, have the rights of parents over me, although they have never treated me with parental affection ; but they have given me protection. I must be devoted to them, or be ungrateful. I have no alternative. Besides, where could I go ? To marry—and to marry M.? Never! I am not romantic ; but I must be able to feel regard and friendship for my husband, if I am to find a shadow of happiness in marriage. M. is ava- ricious, has a hard heart and a bad temper ; qualities which no wife, who has a heart, can endure. Besides, he seeks in me not a friend, not a faithful companion in joy and sorrow, not an affectionate wife—only a housekeeper, and one who will hear without complaining his whims and caprices. And shall I take such a man, merely for the sake of being married? Never, never! I am too good for this ; I feel too highly my value as a woman, and I cannot (whatever others may do) regard myself as an article of merchandise. I heartily pity those who, in a situation like mine, accept, merely for the sake of changing it, offers which, although called good by the world, want in reality the most essential requisite for a happy marriage—all that can ennoble the heart or make it happy. Sooner or later the deceived ones dis- cover that they have only exchanged a lesser for a greater sorrow. Warm, ardent souls like mine, must find in mar- riage the highest happiness or misery. I cannot but detest everything mean and con- temptible. I feel that I should detest M. ; and, as his wife, I know not how mean and contemptible I should myself become at last. I remember having read some verses of Haug, which, with a slight alteration, precisely suit my ideas, HE. Oh, women, angels—yes—as mistresses are ye, But after marriage nought but demons shall we see. SHE. This to explain, my friend, not difficult can be, Since where we looked for heaven, a hell we surely see. In the original she is the accuser, and he gives mae a oe a 149 ad 12 THE SOLITARY ONE. a the answer. But we see every day that an ill- | would go to the sufferer and say: “ Rest upon tempered or immora! man ruins the character and | me, we will weep together!” temper of his wife. Many women are accused of cunning and falsehood ; oppressed nations are accused of the same faults. The replies of both contain at once the explanation and excuse— «“ We have had tyrants for our masters.” Rather than be obliged to give such an answer, | I will go on with my joyless, uniform, but innocent life, without any change till its end. Life, after all, is not so long. A year has passed since I wrote the words: Life, after all, is not so very long! Ah! life is long! Its minutes seem to stretch to eternity, when one suffers, when one is oppressed by weari- ness of life. And can one help being so, when everything is like an everlasting no to all our wishes and our most heartfelt desires ? I feel it deeply. In order to endure life, a loving heart requires the affection and tenderness of its fellow-creatures—requires them just as much as the body requires meat and drink. Oh, the heart which is condemned to live for ever without an answer—mercifully, oh, thou mysterious Being who gave it motion—let its beatings cease ! Never should one dispute about the misfortune, the pain which another feels. We suffer in so many different ways, and from so many dissimilar causes ; we are so variously organised, and the relation of internal circumstances to our moral feelings is so unlike—our emotions, our capacities are so various and unequal, that it is almost im- possible for one to judge of the circumstances of another. Whenever we see sorrow let us respect it, if we are not happy enough to be able to alle- viate it ! T heard a short time ago an intelligent woman admonishing another who was less reasonable than herself, and much less fortunate: “You have committed no crime—you cannot have any re- morse—you have no anxieties either—you have clothes and food enough—what in all the world then have you to lament about ? You only imagine yourself unhappy ; drive away your sickly thoughts, and you will be as cheerful as lam! Everybody has his burden. Perfection has not been promised to us on the earth. One must understand how to use one’s reason, and drive away such whimsies, as others do.”” The friend who was thus consoled was silent; but looked, nevertheless, more cast down than ever. In her place I would have an- swered : “ That is true ; of ail the evils which you have enumerated, I feel not one ; but my unhap- piness is not the less real. It is here in this sick and weak heart, which I have not given to myself, and from which sad endowment heaven has spared you. But for this very reason you cannot pass judgment upon me ; and it would be equally reason- able to deny the possibility of my headache, because you do not feel it; as the sorrow of my heart, because you do not understand it. You”—but why prolong an answer, at which my intelligent friend would only shrug her shoulders. I will rather in part assume her office of a comforter, but conduct it in rather a different manner. I M. has been married for some time. His wife is very unhappy ; but I hope that her rapidly in- creasing illness will free her from the frightful life, which must be hers in an unhappy marriage. I cannot devote an instant of the day to reading. The Countess will not suffer me to read in her presence. On this account I pass. one or more hours of the night in reading ; and this is the only time which affords my spirit any refreshment. Many mild and comforting words are spoken at these times to the solitary, the forsaken one, by | pure spirits, who have understood all the sorrows P P > of feeble humanity in the depths of their own hearts. specially consoling are these words to the unhappy : “ I understand thee!” It is as if one, who had lost his way in a frightful desert, should hear all at once the cheering sound of a friend’s voice. At these times, I often stretch out my hands toward the home of the noble spirits who have passed away, and exclaim : “ Oh, friend, who hast felt and suffered with me, send down for my refreshment a breath of that eternal peace which thou now enjoyest.” But ah, no tran- quillising breath comes to us from the world of spirits, and perhaps no eye there looks upon us. I believe that it is right it should be so. In order to be perfectly happy in another world, the blessed spirits must be wholly removed from the sight of misery. But, ah ! ifthese same voices which, while losing themselves in death, still call out so piercingly, “ We suffer !” could once whisper to us from the parting clouds, “ We are consoled!” how many bitter tears of doubt and anxiety should we not be spared ! Oh, ye departed! it must be your business to comfort those who are to die. Why are there not in our country any religious societies, who furnish sacred and peaceful asylums for the unhappy, who need them so much? They might easily be so arranged, as in no way to oppose the laws of our religion and of sound reason, Let.them be what they should be, secure asylums. for the unhappy, for the deserted, for the faulty, who repent and desire to return to the paths of peace ; for all those who from whatever cause live isolated in the world, without a de- terminate object, without activity and without pleasure, and thus become every day more un- happy and less innocent. Then could those who are without relatives and friends, knit among themselves the sacred and loving bands of the heart, and find mother, sister, and friends—could at their side in noble emula- tion clothe and instruct the deserted child, take care of the sick, comfort the afflicted ; in a word, live each day in such a manner, that they could say to themselves in the evening: “It has not been lost!” Here should those who have gone astray return to God and to virtue, begin a new life, and experience a new happiness, the peace of innocence and. virtue’s strengthening gladness. Here should the unhappy one, embittered against 150 how happy. should I be! THE SOLITARY ONE. 13 ee eer ee ae - an oar ! the world and mankind, find a home, full of kind- ness and affection ; good spirits, whose harmonious voices, would soon shed peace and tranquillity upon the wounded heart. Here should the noble being, who in a brilliant circle felt her heart contracted by the emptiness and wretchedness of the great world, grow truly great in the silent shadows of a quiet but useful life. The fiery, the passionate, to whom nature has given the soul of Alexander— and fortune only fetters, whose eccentric powers astonish themselves and injure others—might here let their flames burn on the altars of piety and benevolence, and feel in the enjoyment of volun- tary sacrifices, that the thorny crown of a saint is a more beautiful object to strive for than worldly greatness, than the praises of the world, and that fame which yet does not reach the stars. Here would all who have been treated as by a step- mother by nature, fortune, or the world, be em- braced as by a heavenly mother, who, full of gentle seriousness and pure affection, would lead her children through a quiet, happy, and virtuous life, to the eternal home, where love, truth, and felicity, first find their originals. Oh, beautiful and blessed life, noble institutions, innocent and sweet dreams ! may you one day become realities ! I feel sometimes an emotion of bitterness, which I endeavour to subdue ; of envy, which I seek to stifle in its germ. But ah, how much does it not cost to preserve one’s self good and mild, when daily and hourly a thousand indescribable trifles, like sharp stings, excite uneasiness and discomfort. I should not have strength to do it, if an inward prayer for strength and patience did not some- times procure them for me ; if the reading of a good book did not call up reflections in my soul which raise it above the nothingness of this world. But, alas! itis sure to sink again ! Tf I eould but inhale a breath of fresh air! The sun shines so brilliantly—the air is so pure—the snow so white! O! if f could be in the country for a moment ; see the dark-green forests, and hear the rustling of their branches ; hasten over the snow-covered fields ; breathe in the pure elastic air; feel it upon my cheeks ;—if I could see, in a word, free nature and feel my freedom, If illusions, those enchanting, deceitful sirens, had not filled the glowing fancy of my ardent youth—if I had not asked so much from fate,—I should know better how to bear this cold life which is allotted to me. That early romance-reading, how much poison does it not infuse into young heads! What girl of sixteen years old, who has been endowed by nature with common charms— who has a warm heart (and whose heart is cold at sixteen?) and who reads remances, plays, and poems—does not see in herself with perfect ecer- tainty the future heroine of a novel, a poem, or even of atragedy. The death of a tragedy-heroine is so frightfully beautiful, so elegant, so full of love, so admired and lamented, that it seems quite enviable ; and sometimes the youthful reader laments over herself, with inexpressibly sweet tears, in the character of a beautiful girl put to death by the hand of her lover, regarding this with sublime emotion as her own future fate, Now the young creature enters into life, and awaits with extreme impatience to see it arrange itself around her, full of love, of great and heroic deeds, rich in emotions and wonderful events ; and finds often only what I have found—poverty, alas ! in all things ; and she is almost ready to believe that an unfriendly fairy has transformed the charming enchanted palace into a dark and fright- ful prison. Her splendid fleeting morning dreams have embittered for her all her days. If I were an instructress, I would endeavour above all things to preserve my young pupils from whatever might too early excite and heat the imagination. I would endeavour in every way to hinder them from seeking to adorn life with flowers which it did not possess, so that they may gather in their proper season the few which are really to be found, On this account, my young friends should early endeavour to exercise their youthful powers on whatever of good or of useful lies near and within their sphere ; as they grow older they must labour, and with more earnestness and assiduity ; never dream over life, but always use and at the same time enjoy it. Many grown people resemble the child who wept because he could not get the moon ; there are many persons who have early begun to seek their happiness in the clouds. Many times when I have heard of people whe in one way or another have met with a happy change in their fortune—an unexpected enjoy- ment—when I see the spring follow winter and cause it to be forgotten, sunshine follow rain, tranquillity succeed to tempests,—a joyful feeling springs up within me, and I think everything changes upon the earth, even the earth itself ; for me, too, shall there be a change one time or other! Hope is a spring whose secret and hidden sources are ever bursting forth in the heart of man. But when I hear of disappointed hopes, of un- fulfilled wishes, of prisoners for life, then my courage fails, and I ask myself—Why then should it be better with me than with so many others ? Sleep, then, feelings, wishes, hopes ! sleep, and leave me in peace ! Good-night to ye all, too dear enemies ! To lose all interest in one’s self, and in all that surrounds one, is certainly a mournful repose, but yet a repose. You say the country is beautiful, that life there is pleasant, that you are happy, that you are beloved. I believe it, I believe it ; so much the better for you. But how does it help me? No! and should I feel my deprivations a thou- sand times more deeply, yet I should not, I will not be cold or indifferent to the happiness of others. O love, enjoy and gladden each other ! May, everything, even the smallest worm, spring for joy, and only I, only I possess nothing ; yet will I praise thee, O God of mercy ! And he, who seems to me so good ; he, the true ee rT OP id image of the Divinity upon earth, may he be happy! Might my whole life, full of sacrifices, purchase for him one full of riches and of heavenly joy. And how? Should I then be truly unhappy ? Since I see him, hear him, a certain change has taken place with me. The air is clear, more elastic. Why does my heart beat when I hear, even from a distance, his step, Mis voice? Wherefore am I so painfully embarrassed when he approaches me? Why do I feel my cheeks burn? His features are noble, but mild; his whole manner expressive of a dignified self-respect—this shows itself in his bearing, his gait, his free and graceful movements—one sees, one feels, that he is conscious of making, even by his exterior, an agreeable, an imposing impression, and for this very reason he thinks nothing at all about it; and therefore he does it the more certainly. His fore- head is high and expanded; his eyes beam with fire and brilliancy ; his nose is high and well formed: all his features and his whole being re- veal a free, a strong and beautiful nature, which, in its outward form, has only sought an expression, a model of the inward. Freshness and life are in his words, as in his countenance; and when he speaks one feels that the fire of truth and of good- ness, which radiates from his eyes, dwells also in his soul. His voice is strong, perhaps at times too strong and high for the tone of conversation ; but it rises on the eagle wings of thought and feeling, and it would be lower and weaker if these were slower or feebler in their flight. It comes from a breast in which not a single feeling has been stifled or fettered. It is the voice of liberty, and seems to have been formed to speak for it. So nobly, so bountifully endowed by nature and fortune, should he not be goud also? Ah, yes ! he is good—good as I imagine the angels to be. The same eye which looks so coldly and ealmly upon danger and death, with such defiance and con- tempt upon voluntary slaves—this eye has tears of tenderness for the suffering child, for the silent grief of woman. And should he not be good when he is so gifted, so admired, so beloved? Chosen for a king, should he then forget his crown? Near this glorious image I have placed another for the sake of the contrast, and I look from one to the other. This image, which bears the same relation to the first as shadow to light, is my own. My person is beat down, it betrays the condition of my mind. My movements (particularly in his presence) are often constrained and childish; this proceeds in part from the consciousness of my want of attraction, partly from an awkward bash- fulness, caused by a foolish vanity that I cannot overcome, and which makes me ashamed of my dress, which is quite inferior to that commonly worn by persons in my rank of life. I do not venture to say much, and when I speak my voice is feeble, and my words are often indistinctly uttered, on which account I often condemn myself to silence; perhaps, also, because his eagle-glance rests upon me so searchingly, and because he bends over to listen to me. My eyes—formerly nL THE SOLITARY ONE. hep ence > en i tie Scars end A er i tt a tn eset nga areas SS blue and clear as the sky—now they are dull, without colour and expression—they are like ex- tinguished flames. Once my countenance had life and ‘freshness, now it has that sallow colour which characterises my past life, which has spread over it by degrees, and banished all agreeableness. I could-once smile—now I have forgotten how. My smile is a troubled one. It is a pale autumnal sun-gleam, which is soon obscured by dark clouds. Wearied with the effort of constantly struggling against ever-springing desires for a freer and a more friendly life, a certain coldness and indiffer- ence have got possession of my spirit. I have lost all interest in myself and my own fate. I have buried my hopes one by one, and each one has taken something of my life to the grave with it. He and I seem to me to represent intellectual life and death. He is good—too good! Like the sun, which rejoices with its light even the smallest flower, he would animate even me with his warmth, his fresh courage, his animation. But ah, the most beautiful sun cannot again give life to the flower which, already withered, has bowed its head to the earth. He has read and travelled, seen, heard, felt, an thought—it is not strange that his conversation is full of meaning. When I listen to him with delight for whole hours, it seems to me I am hearing beautiful music, whose pure and ever-changing melody opens to me an inner world full of rich and infinite thought and feeling. All things become for me, under its influence, whether actions or ideas, more clear and defined 3 as if in a picture gallery still in midmght darkness, the light should at once enter and illuminate the pictures, whose designs I had before only obscurely guessed at. And if he, while pouring out his rich and noble thoughts, turn toward me with a look which kindly asks, “ Is it not so? Do you not find it so, too?” Then he reads in my eyes my silently admiring answer. He spoke yesterday of his childhood. He was caressed by a father and mother. He was cherished in their arms—in their hearts; and I! when I was a child, a young person, and even now, ever has my caressing hand, my loving heart been rejected. Well, then, rejected and still proud heart! seek them no longer—offer thyself no more—and if, nevertheless, thou canst not but love, break then with thine own heating before thou betrayest thy- self, before thou exposest thyself to the danger of being again rejected, despised. Silent nights, why do you no longer bring me quiet refreshing sleep? and then my heart, why dost thou beat thus ? A certain pleasant self-consciousness awakens in me at times. I am not then so poor—not so absolutely insignificant in the eyes of others! He shows me regard, attention—he expresses some value for my opinion—he encourages me to culti- vate my talents! but this is merely from goodness, pote heavenly compassionate kindness. God bless im! THE SOLITARY ONE. 15 we It is too late, too late—compassionate wanderer who art passing by, dost thou not see that the frost of many nights has rested on the plant. Never will it raise its head again. My daily prayer—that which gives me the greatest satisfaction is, “O God give to him all that thou hast seen fit to take from me !” — What joy to pray for him whom one loves! How delightful it is to think that my feelings for him may take the form of a guardian angel; may protect him from some danger, may call down upon him some blessing ! But never—never shall he suspect how much I have loved him! never shall he direct toward me a pitying glance! That would be a dagger-thrust for me! I will burn this paper, my only confidant; and my heart shall be the silent grave of my feelings. O death! pitying death! why dost thou not come! How delightful to me would be the rush- ing of thy healing wings! I have had to-night a strange but beautiful | dream. I fancied myself in a fruit garden, full of trees. It was spring, the birds were singing, the sky was clear, the air mild and pure. All was beautiful around me, but I did not feel myself happy. I was walking slowly about, and looking at Alfred, who was walking in the same direction that I was, but on another path, separated from me by a small stream, whose silver waves danced over one another, whispering, “ How sweet it is, how sweet it is to move on the cool waves!” And I was forced to repeat to myself, how sweet, how sweet! Alfred, too, looked steadily upon me, and it seemed to me that our glances began to be illuminated. All at once he went up to the shore, and got into a little boat which was dancing on the waves, and then stood still at my feet. Alfred extended his hands for me to get in. I would not; and I wept, searcely knowing why I did so. Then he took my hand, and drew me with gentle force into the boat by his side. 1 wept again, but did not feel unhappy. Then the boat began, as if guided by invisible hands, to move itself over the water, while the silver waves danced around it, melodiously singing, “ How sweet it is to go together over the cool waves!” JT wept no more. Alfred and I talked with each other, and what we said was delightful to us. We were fioating gently along between banks fragrant with roses and violets. The flowers separated themselves from their stalks, and fell down upon us, while voices, proceeding from them, whispered, “ How blessed it is to love one another, and be united !” and we repeated, with joyful emotion, ‘ How blessed!” Then came night, but a night without darkness, for the flowers continued to shine in their various colours, and each wave shone out, with a small, clear sparkling diamond on its sum- mit. Over our heads hovered a light cloud, out of which millions of stars were glittering. All at once, Alfred said, “See there the grave!” and I saw before us something dark, formless ,mysterious, toward which we were rapidly hastening. I felt, however, no fear. Then something like the waving of a wing touched our eyelids, and we fell asleep. But our sleep had beautiful dreams, and we still saw each other. Then it seemed to me that a soft kiss was imprinted on my lips—a kiss like that with which a mother awakens a sleeping child—and we awoke. A brilliant morning dawn surrounded us. We held each other by the hand, and soared higher and higher into a rose-perfumed atmosphere. I felt myself light and ethereal ; all heaviness, all dejection, all awkwardness was gone, and I felt that it was gone for ever. In a crystal- clear lake, which lay beneath us, our figures were reflected, and I saw myself so beautiful that it » enchanted me. Now first, [ thought, am I worthy of him! In the midst of the absorbing sentiment of a pure and increasing blessedness, the thought suddenly entered my mind, “ Should this all be only a dream, and I should awake no more in the dream, but to reality?” And, in truth, it was but a dream! I heard, all at once, the cry of the night-watches—the clock, which struck one! and the Countess’s little bell, which was calling me. The Countess thought that she heard a rat in her sleeping-room, and wanted me to play the part of a cat, which I performed very awkwardly. Great misfortunes raise the powers of the mind; from the flames of the combat they rise toward heaven. It is an apotheosis, as it were, on the wings of the tempest. But these horribly oppres- sive, corroding cares and trials—this weariness, this ennui, destructive of life and joy, Oh, how do they not oppress us, children of the dust! I had just now a moment of silent enjoyment. What was the cause of it? I do not exactly know. I was solitary; the sun shone into my little room; I felt the warmth with joy ; the shadows of a blos- soming fruit tree played in the sunshine on the green wall, I thought of him—of his goodness. I observed a little cloud which was sailing slowly by at a short distance from the sun, and I said to myself, so shall my life pass by! Yes, ephemeral being, soon shalt thou pass away, and thy sorrow, thy love, shall leave no more trace upon the earth than that cloud leaves on the blue expanse of sky. I shall be no more—I shall suffer no more. Peaceful thought ! TI am in the country! for the first time for many years; and this through his kind mediation. I find myself in a family of good, happy, and, in every point. of view, amiable people. Here ac- quaintances are constantly coming from the neigh- bouring country seats. They play, sing, dance, talk and laugh the whole day through. I am dazzled, like one who comes out from a dark place, and visits suddenly a strong sun-light. As the eye then feels pain, so does my heart now: I am not ungrateful, but I am alone: I am not, and never —never shall be happy ! I am a discarded note, in the glad harmony which reigns here, and I feel it most myself. nn I have known a few beings so lovely and inter- esting as Camilla. She and her timid sisters endeavour, in every way, to animate and encourage me; but they are—ah, they are too joyous, too happy—they are innocent children of light, who have not yet felt the mysteries of sorrow. I have tried to meet their kind wishes; but my smile cannot be truly mirthful, and of the tears which I often feel coming into my eyes, some have invo- luntarily forced their wey down my cheeks, and been seen by them: my manner, which has be- come reserved through habit, repulses them ; in short, I see that they do not feel themselves at home in my presence, and that I restrain their innocent vivacity ; and they would certainly leave me to my troubled self, if their kindness and politeness did not prevent them from doing so. Ah ! what should the ow! do among the larks ? ¥righten them, and silence their innocent songs ; no—it is better that she should return to her dark nest. My name-day. I had forgotten it. Camilla and her sisters surprised me with flowers and songs: they enwreathed me, they embraced me— begged me to be happy—said they loved me. Affectionate, tender-hearted Samaritans, if your kind efforts cannot heal the wounds of the un- happy one, yet she will never cease to bless your goodness. He reproved me gently for my reserve. He wishes that I could be cheerful ; I try to be so. Yesterday evening Camilla sang. He stood behind her chair. When she had finished, she turned half round, looked at him, modestly blush- ing, and asked, “was not that the piece you wished to hear?” I did not hear his half-uttered answer, but saw his beaming eye meet hers which fell at his glance. Why did it fall? beautiful and charming Camilla ! look up gratefully to heaven, if thou sawest in his eyes the same expression which I then read in thine. His eyes follow her. This isnot strange. She is a rose in its full bloom, beautiful, good and happy. He gave her the other day a bouquet of heliotrope and pansies: a bee hidden among the flowers flew to meas I sat at some distance and stung me on the hands. I suppressed with diffi- culty a ery of pain, but I did suppress it. I would not have disturbed for any consideration, he who gave or she who took the bouquet ; they both looked so affectionate and so happy. I cannot give pleasure, but I certainly will not disturb that of others. And, therefore, I must soon, very soon, go back to my dark home. That suits me better now. I have tried to procure him a pleasure. I have smoothed and arranged Camilla’s brown hair, which, among her various charms, is that which she regards the least. I have succeeded. He is ill ! and I cannot approach him—cannot watch over him ! He is better. Tears of anxious distress, tears of joy—which I eannot restrain—you have be- THE SOLITARY ONE. trayed me! but then, Camilla, dost thou think thy paleness, thy red eyes are unobserved ? He came in—we had not expected it ; he took our hands, thanked us for our care—for our sym- pathy. I do not know what I did, but I saw. Camilla tremble. Yes, I will go away—away. I will hide myself . from him—from the whole world—from myself ! I am again in. my former house. I am better here, and I believe I am stronger. He must know—he has seen what he is to me— and then— ? but I am willing he should know it. He will not vainly prattle of it: he is too great, too noble for that ! he will pity me ; his ecompas- sion will not, like that of the world, be difficult for me to bear. I shall regard it rather as the pity of a higher spirit, who looks down upon a feebler one. ' Why does he continue to visit our joyless house, to animate it with his presence? is it from com- passion to me, who he thinks cannot live without seeing him? ah! he is mistaken! life can as it were subsist on sacrifices. Or perhaps he foresees, that when he shall se- parate from me, I shall find myself doubly solitary : and he endeavours to strengthen my spirit to bear it. Therefore he still comes ; therefore he. talks in order to raise me to the strength of mind, to the serenity which he himelf possesses. For this reason he exereises my voice, excites me to improve my mind, to acquire knowledge. But this is impossible in my situation, and be- sides, how would it profit me—would it make me happier ? Yes, I understand him and his angelic kindness. He has seen that he too was commissioned by heaven to give my heart a wound ; he mows it, and he tries to protect me against it ; he wishes it possible to make it less severe, to make it unfelt ; he wishes to amuse me—wishes to: pro- cure pleasure for me! ah, he does not know me ! It is too much! it seems to me asif he only intended to plunge the dagger deeper; but he knows what is best. for me—and, I kiss the hand which gives me death. Ah, wherefore so much goodness to-day, if he means harm to me to-morrow ? He has asked for my hand ! heavenly powers ! he and—I ! I have refused him: gratefully but decidedly have I refused his hand! my heart beats with anguish and with proud joy! I have refused him, because I love him more than myself: prefer a thousand times his happiness to my own, and [ could not give him a higher proof of this, than by preserving him from a wife who could never make him happy. Ah! ¥ must weep! 104 ‘Would not death thus at the side of life, throw over it its dark shadow? I will be just to myself. I am not wholly unworthy of his choice. My acts, my heart are pure; and this heart loves him—my spirit longs for truth and virtue. I do not recog- nise in myself a single low or mean feeling ; but ah ! how little am I in other respects formed to embellish his. noble, beautiful life! my outward youth has fled, my inward youth still more—that spring-time of the soul, which can sometimes recall the too early faded flowers. Chilled and dead are all my lively feelings. I feel constantly as if a heavy and stiff icy hand were resting on my breast. I have felt too deeply the desolate emptiness, the dark mystery of life, The bitterness of certain hours will never pass away from my memory. Never shall I feel again that courage that freedom from care which enables me to laugh so heartily—to be so gay, in a word, which in the enjoyment of the present makes one forget the coming hour. At his side, worshipping him as I do now, how bitterly should I feel my incapacity to. give or to receive gladness. I should feel like Abaddon, my inward darkness, and become by that means still worse. My health is impaired, and I am much mistaken if my lungs are not diseased. What should I do, besides, in that cirele to which his rank, his genius and talents, and even his own inclination call him, with my inferior cultivation, my absolute mental poverty, my ab- sence of agreeable qualities,—a despised cipher— and still worse, a being whose small pretensions to the place in which she appears render her justly an object of scorn. A wife without attrac- tions, dull, sickly—and who, because she feels all this, is so much the more cast down. Behold in this the sweet reward which fortune has given him for all his noble generosity ! behold-in her, the consoler of his sorrows, the joy and gladness of his life | ah ! a hundred times would he in his heart repent his choice! and the more kind, the more considerate, the more angelic he should be toward me, the more unhappy should I become. Yes, I feel it; pressed to his heart | would destroy myself from despair that I could not make him happy. O thou, whom I love so deeply, so infinitely—if thou couldst but look into my heart ! may my constant, my ardent prayers call down upon thee the blessedness which I cannot give thee ! He has never loved me—it was no faint glim- mering of love which led him to me: I could make to myself on this point but a momentary illusion : it vanished as the sky opened over my path of life—all became clear—I saw what I had to do—and God and my love gave me strength to act accordingly. It was only noble, heavenly compassion that guided him to me—only goodness—which deserved to be rewarded! something soothing and proud takes possession of my heart when I think: the noblest being has wished to raise me to himself, and I have acted worthily toward him! yes, he has elevated me. I cherish in myself the belief that the charming Camilla shall be for him, one day, all which I could not be. Pale and trembling Camilla! very a $$. 17 soon, perhaps, shall the flowers of affection and of joy colour thy soft cheeks. Thou shalt not know that my hand has prepared for thee this beautiful ornament. And thou, Alfred ! when the heavenly emotions of joy and love swell in thy noble breast, thou wilt think no more of me: but I—I will think of thee. And when I have finished my difficult course, may I then say to myself—“I have made two human beings happy !” I see him no more—how dark js all around me! but I have willed it so—and I am content with it. My thoughts follow him with blessings—and night and day, morning and evening, they follow him. My anticipationsare fulfilled. Camilla is Alfred’s happy bride. O beautiful and spiritual eyes ! how will you now beam and sparkle with new bright- ness! O may you be happy—O hear me, thou Giver of all happiness! no prayer for myself shall henceforth weary thy goodness—but make them happy—ah ! take my spirit—and give all to them ! Give to Camilla a love for him equal to mine. The bells ring, the bells ring? the great day has come—Alfred leads Camilla to the altar. See, how noble, how beautiful he is, how lovely and enchanting she—how happy they both appear— a noble pair, the people whisper—did I hear it ?— or have I not read it somewhere? I do not know. The @ay is beautiful—the spring sun warm and clear—all is clear and bright, even my feelings—I am happy and serene. No, it is not-a fever which colours my cheeks so brightly—it is joy; this makes my pulsations so quick ; this causes my heart to beat a hundred times: in a minute—hear, the bells ring. Now it is done; the priest has blessed them—and even I— ere t. Now at least I am peaceful and alone, and in the silence of the night, which rests over all things, I pray in my heart for the happiness of those T love so infinitely. All is good which Providence directs, all is wise—pain has its rest, its end—and mine shall find it in his happiness, whose founda- tion I have laid in a strong hour—O my heart's beloved! I believe, 1 know it—I can and shall be happy through thy happiness. When the sun of thy joy shall shine in its full glorious midsummer splendour, its warmth shall penetrate even to me, as I sit in the shadow. I shall be the distant echo of thy song of bliss! Feel and call thyself happy ! and—even I shall be happy—be glad ; and I am glad: I smile; and 7 thank God! and thank him from my inmost heart. (Poor enthusiast ! thy wings seem to bear thee up no longer. At a later date, I find written by the same hand which wrote the above in joy and gladness, the following words expressive of a quiet, but dejected state of mind.) The 2nd January. My life isa feverish dream! 155 Se) See a 18 THE SOLITARY ONE. A better world—my most delightful, my only hope! Fall, feathery snow-flake fall! Cover the cold earth all, The breast so burning here Longs for the coolness there. And when I sink below Fall swifter, pale cold snow ! ‘That safe within thy breast The lonely one may rest. For thee no mother asks— For thee her memory tasks,— For thee no father dear Shall ever question, where ? Adown no sister’s cheek The silent tear shall break, Counsel and love from thine No brother’s heart resign. Not e’en a loving friend, Her thoughtful steps shall bend Upon thy grave’s pure snow Some chosen flowers to throw. And he thine only love Will coldly thence remove, His fond and happy bride So blissful at his side. Ah! freezing snow-flake fall, Make colder the dark pall, That the chilled heart within May not then beat again. (Years seem now to have passed by, in which nothing was written down ; but in which we may conclude from the epoch next described in the life of the solitaire, the angel of peace—whose psalms sooner or later wave around the head of this good but innocent sufferer—came ever nearer to her heart.) Now as a silent quiet rest, Come down to bless my weary heart ; The hours pass by serenely blessed, And only peace and hope impart. From whence can come this beauty strange Amidst my many sufferings here, Which lets my wearied senses range Among thy lilies bright and fair ? Com’st thou as dreams in silent night To cheat, to flatter my despair, To bid me seek the shadow’s flight Which soon shall melt in empty air ? Wilt thou but as a northern light Just stream before my dazzied eye, Then like an ignis fatuus bright Evanish in the darkened sky ? Like cloud on the horizon’s verge Which weary sailor greets as land. With hope he steers o’er swelling surge, But ah! finds not the wished-for strand ! No! let me trust thou com’st indeed, As spring’s sweet breath: to the cold North, Which quickly bursts the swelling seed, And calls fresh flow’rets from the earth. Yes, I will trust thou comest down To greet me from the home of peace : Ah yes! I trust ;—and pray alone To God who bids my sorrow cease. I trust—the olive-bearing dove Js sent to show that land is near; A pledge thus given by heavenly love That there is peace—how prized—how dear! a a ace ea There—where no tear of sorrow flows, Where neither toil nor woe shall be; There, where the Father’s arms enclose His children from Earth’s tempest free. Something infinitely sweet has penetrated my heart. I know not what feeling of peace, often of gladness, accompanies me in my quiet journey through the valley. And yet all around me is unchanged, cold, without affection or animation, as before. The change is within me. I once looked for my happiness, my felicity from the world, and from others: I was deceived, wounded and re- jected ; I have turned to God alone, and begin to feel that his peace is more, is greater, than all the joys of the world. A beautiful hyacinth, which is blooming at my window, inspires me with happy thoughts and feelings. I see how it slowly turns toward the sun, worshipping unconsciously its heat and light. The sun shining brightly upon it, opens, silently working, flower after flower, gives them colour, beauty, and sweet fragrance. This is to me a clear image of man and of God. Eternal sun of love ! I will bow myself as the fower—humbly turn myself to thy light, in order to receive from thee, who alone can give them, life and goodness. I have just come from the church. I have wept much, and now I am truly happy. The sentiment of devotion is perhaps one of the most delightful, the most beautiful, which we can ex- perience on earth. It is not joy, nor sorrow ; but something which raises us above them both : it is a momentary return of the soul to its true home ; a feeling which, more than any profound demon- stration, convinces us that we are heirs of im- mortality. The text was from the story of the woman of Canaan. ‘The preacher took occasion from it to represent to us that the bread was often denied to us, that we might learn to be content with the crumbs ; and that a resigned and humble spirit was a blessing to its possessor and pleasing to God. This seemed to be said on purpose for me, and I felt the truth of it in my heart. Ah! this unquiet heart, which has desired so much and so impa- tiently from the world and from others ; which wished so earnestly for all the blessings of life ; how has it been obliged to bring down its desires. Jt has taught itself, by degrees, to be content with the crumbs ; but it has become humble, patient— I hope better ; and now, first, it enjoys the peace and gladness for which it has so long been striving, but in the wrong way. A flower, a bright day, an unexpectedly kind word, a pleasant dream, a feeling of comfort—yes, a thousand small and formerly neglected pleasures, which even the most joyless life is not wholly without, are now infinitely precious tome. I have by degrees taught myself to understand that the true wisdom of human life consists in drawing, like the bee, a particle drop of honey from the smallest flower. And if Thou, High Ruler of my destiny, hast left me upon the earth so solitary, so friendless, in order that I might turn wholly and entirely to thee, and find in thee my all—have I then any cause to complain? If Thou, All-merciful One, wilt be my father and mother, sister and brother, must I not count myself blessed ? Why, ah why, did I not earlier seek peace where alone I could find it? How many years of pain, and oppressive heaviness, should I now have been spared, if I had known earlier how foolish it was to turn to the world and to other means, for comfort or joy ! Give—give then, thou solitary, forsaken one, thy heart to God, but with that deep earnest will which suffers no change, no lingering backward glances! Learn to say, Thy will, O Father, be done! not merely with resignation, but with love, with joy—and all despair and distrust, all heavy and hopeless grief, have fled from thee for ever. Many, who in regard to earthly pleasures have been more favourably regarded by fate than 1 have, will seek and find consolation in these, and refreshment to meet the trials of life ; but, alas! these never comfort ; are often mere diversions, which hinder us from seeking the right path. A thousand things may soften our griefs, a thousand ways may cause them to return—may touch what is most dear to us upon the earth—and the most loving and most beloved mortal may die in despair, if, amid the delights of earthly blessedness and affection, he has forgotten to place his trust in Heaven. When I lie down to rest at night, and find my heart oppressed by the troubles of the day, and the unfriendly conduct of those for whose sake I bear them, I begin to pray, “ My Father ”—but hardly have I uttered the words, hardly has the thought of their meaning penetrated my soul, than I shed the sweetest tears, and an infinite blessedness pervades my whole being, so that I could believe myself suddenly carried nearer to Him, the thought of whom so excites and elevates me. My whole prayer consists often only in repeating many times the same words, “ My Father!” for they contain, as I understand them, all that I can express of filial love, of heartfelt trust, of resigned hope, of the joy of devotion. In the midst of such thoughts i fall asleep: is it wonderful if I faney myself sung to sleep by angels’ songs ? Yes, I believe it: I must believe, there is con- solation for every sorrow. There are beings more unhappy than I have been, although the suscep- tibility of my heart has increased a thousand fold the bitterness of my sorrows. There are for example, the deserted, pain-tormented invalids, and prisoners without hope of release, whose only pleasure—a spider—an inhuman hand has taken from them, But could not even these look up to God, and say, “Our Father!” And the criminal, who deserves to suffer, because he has made others suffer—-who is more unhappy than he? But, if he fee) remorse, he too may be forgiven; the lost son may arise and go to his Father. The child of a Father infinitely good, can he ever know despair? Ah! He who taught us to call God our Father--he only truly understood the human heart, and knew how to procure for it a néver-failing support. THE SOLITARY ONE. 19 ‘The dead haye comforted the dying 3 and the voices which cried—“ We suffer,” have exclaimed —‘‘ We are comforted!” ‘he Gospel has been opened for the human race, and that has opened Heaven—but a murmuring and discontented heart does not know this. But the sinful—those degraded to a brutal con- dition—the millions who live and die in darkness, in the night of misery and ignorance? Friendly stars, which shine so brightly—mysterious lamps of heaven—I look up to you full of hope! You are worlds for hope—higher places of education for the unfortunate children of earth. I imagine myself in ye! Oh! yes, I can surely hope. God is indeed too good. When our faith is firm, and our hope rests on a sure anchor, much is gained for our peace, and especially does the sky shine clearly upon us for the future ; nevertheless our hearts may yet suffer much, and the burden of the day may still seem to us intolerable, when human wisdom may aid us. Let us guard ourselves against de- jection, against the phantasmagoria of the imagina- tion, and let us seek, each for himself, innocent amusements, all possible small comforts and pleasures, which often lie near us, if we would only take notice of them. The great task is, to keep ourselves good and pure, and next to suffer as little as possible. The means for this are at once like and unlike for all—but no one shall miss them, who has his eyes open to see them. Compassionately to open them for the blind, should be the business of those whose lot it is, so to speak, to be eyes for the human race, to see for them, and to teach them to see. Oh, ye sages, ye noble and enlightened ones of the earth! be less our schoolmasters and more our comforters ! show us the mysteries of consolation, give light to the suffering, teach each one how he can find in his outward condition, according to the consti- tution of his inward being, alleviation for his sorrows. Noble physicians of the soul! be not wrong in seeking remedies for all these sick ones —how many blessings will then follow your foot- steps, your godlike efforts ! The years, which 1 used to find so long, fly by me now as swiftly as swallows. This is because the days no longer seem heavy to me, because no hour of the day passes by me, which does not bring me some happy, some elevating feeling. This hourly, this my most excellent consolation I have found in prayer, in a constant remembrance of the presence of the highest Being. I move and act steadily under a Father’s eyes, andas I feel that I live, so I feel and know that his eye follows me, that his Spirit is near me, encircling me with peace, and infusing into me joy and glad- ness, which can indeed he felt, but which cannot be expressed. I regarded myself formerly, on account of my position, as wholly useless in the world. Expe- rience, and to me a dearly-bought experience, has taught me, that if we only work faithfuily and carefully in the small sphere which belongs to us, we work and Jabour according to the Divine order, the foundation of everything good, and sooner o1 20 later pleasant consequences for ourselves will be the result, Life passes slowly, my health is diminishing. The fulfilment of my duties in the family which has adopted me, becomes every day more difficult, but I endeavour faithfully to fulfil them. My heart is at peace, is secure and quiet. “Do not sit idle there, looking so much at your ase, while I go about looking for my snuff-box !” said the angry Countess to me. I remember a time when I was reproved for my dejected appear- ance. Now my heart is full of joy, and my coun- tenance often expresses it. The dissatisfaction of the Countess was not wholly unfounded at this time ; for if one should be careful not to disturb the peace of another by the expression of his own ueasiness ; one must no less avoid showing a sa- tisfaction which might make a painful impression on those in a different frame of mind. T have seen again him—her—have pressed their children to my heart! This family is an image of happiness. The fortunate husband and wife searcely recognised me, This was not extraordi- nary, I am so much changed. I cherish in myself a wish, an enthusiastic hope, which I will not banish—that I shall soon invisibly hover around them, and watch over their happiness ! How beautiful is the aspect of a man, who ex- ercises all his faculties in a sphere in which his powers can move freely, and even be improved by labour ; who is conscious to himself that he lives usefully for his country, that he is esteemed by his fellow-citizens, affectionately loved by his wife and friends, venerated by his children; that is the aspect of Alfred! How lovely and affecting is the expression in the face of a woman, whose whole heart’s desire for affection is satisfied, who lives im and for him, whom she loves—such is Camilla’s! And ye happy little ones, their chil- dren, their darlings—in your eyes full of inno- cence and of joy we 8ee—how clearly shines—the heaven ef your infancy ! * In autumn, when the leaves fall,” said a me- dical man to-day in a whisper to the Countess, after observing me carefully, and asking me par- ticularly about my health. This termination of my life had quite a romantic sound ; but my life itself has as little resemblance as possible to a romance, Well, then, in autumn—in autumn shall an aspen leaf which has long been the sport of the winds, tremble no more ! I require a remedy for the pain in my chest—it inay help me or not—I am easy in either case. I once wished much to die; I desire it less now, since I have learned better how to bear and to use life. Ihave learned to adore God in all his works. There is nothing ever so little, which may not be associated with some great thought— and which may not become by this means im- portant and interesting to me. The autumn leaves are falling, and I still live, and still raise my eyes gladly to the clouded sky. RR (o 2) THE SOLITARY ONE, « Autumn twilight, evening dimmer Sinking from the skies ye meet ; Ah! no friendly planets glimmer, Ah! no kindly voices greet ! Well! let gathering vapours cover— All the earth in darkness shroud, If the spirit freely hover, Piercing hopefully the cloud ! For not now shall earthly sorrow Trouble or confuse me more ; Hope, beyond earth’s sands I borrow, Greeting Eden’s spring-clad shore. Rise, low cloud, the storm portending, All the stars of heaven conceal ; To my home my course I’m wending, And its cheering warmth J feel.” I have severe bodily pain, and yet I suffer so little ; my spirit is so peaceful ! “In the spring, when the leaves are bursting out,” says the physician now. And I should be inclined to believe it, if I should listen to the se- cret intuitions which dwell within me, and which whisper to me, that in spring, when everything awakens to life and gladness, when the flowers send to heaven the fragrant odours from their opening buds ; then shall my freed spirit also arise, and breathe the air of an eternal spring ; then shall my earnest desires obtain their darkly- imagined good. He has come with his wife, to see me once again ; this was noble and good in him. I found him changed. In his eyes there isa deep glow, and his forehead, before so smooth and clear, shows wrinkles at times, that seem to indicate discontent. Ah! ambition has found its way to his heart. This, joined to his talents, has raised him on eagle’s wings to the height of earthly great- ness. He has become a great man, but. he has ceased to be happy. His lovely wife looks de- jected, and the most elegant toilette cannot hide the sad change in her charming countenance. It gives me pain to see them ; ah! were they but as happy and tranquil as Iam! I have lived nearly forty years. As solitary as I Jay in my cradle, do [approach my grave. As a shadow have I passed through life, and my life has been like ashadow. Itis vanishing more and more from my eyes; but the Eternal Father, whose will I have obeyed, opens tome anew, a more glorious life, toward which I go with inex- pressible delight! The earnest prayers which 1 offer up, and which I feel are heard—the hours of anticipation of heaven, feelings of angelic peace, which are with me; a peace which no painful thoughts disturb—the sweet emotions of joy—de- licious tears, which I often shed: O ye dear, ye sacred messengers ! what do you say to me, if not that I shall soon perceive the original of all love— of all perfection ; that the rising spark shali be soon united to the holy flame from whence it sprung ! Here has the feeble hand ceased to guide the pen—the heart that beat so long with love and with sorrow, rests now. The Solitary One has gone to her Father's house. She is happy now ! hc gh a gS tg a a THE CONSOLER. Who has ever suffered—has felt in moments of deep and gloomy sorrow, a world of misery in his heart, and not at the same time felt the want, the inward desire, to be comforted by some being of a higher world ? Has not even hoped in enthu- siastic excitement, to see an angel descend who should solve the dark mysteries of life and of suf- fering, touching with a pitying and healing hand the wounded heart ? Oh ! when Nature smiles around us in her glo- rious summer-garments, when, like an enchant- ing mistress, radiant, charming, loving, she em- braces man as her betrothed lover with pure affection, if even then the heart of man remains cold, reserved, and shut up as the grave, if he alone cannot unite his voice to the rejoicing chorus ascending from the earth, if he, her noblest child, seems the only rejected one ; how consoling would it then be, if a voice from heaven should whisper to the unhappy one the assurance, “ Thou, too, art beloved ! Son of sorrow, suffer patiently, thou, too, shalt one day drink from the cup of blessedness !” Bitter sorrow, distrust, despair—I have known yeall! Heavenly voice, full of grace and conso- lation, I have heard thee ! and I shall never for- get thee. Even now thou speakest to me from the world of spirits. My spirit hears thee, my heart understands thee. Yes ; at this moment when the breath of memory is turning over the leaves of my life’s. history, and my pen is about to recall the events of long past times, while the silent night has quieted everything around me—I alone am awake, and with me are pains which prevent me from enjoying rest. The pale light of my lamp shows me upon the opposite wall, the shadow of a frightful spectre, reminding me of the description of gnomes—those children of dust and darkness. This frightful figure is mine—it is my own person. And this body, full of suffer- ing and deformity, is united to a soul which wor- ships beauty as well in its inward being as in its outward form. Alone with myself and with my shadow, sur- rounded with darkness and silence, I still feel a smile playing about my pale lips; I listen with silent gladness to the harmonious voice, which, from the depths of my soul, raises itself in humble thanksgiving to Heaven, and I can compare the bright serene peace in which my heart rests, only to the mild light of the moon, which is spread at this moment over the moss-roses at my window. There was a time when all within me was very different ; then I hated the world and myself ; then I wished that I had never been born. In the May of life, during those spring days when a few drops of gladness are dispensed to every created being throughout the whole organ- - ised nature ; when gentle wings fan every one, and the sky bends over us so high and clear, even then I learned to know misfortune, and bitter were my complaints, | It was in my fainting soul, as in the outer world, when in our northern climates the days, towards winter, are rapidly becoming shorter, the nights longer, and the sun seems, like a dying man, only to arise for the purpose of say- ing farewell, and then to sink again. I did not indulge a hope that a new year would alter the course of things for me; 1 saw, on the other hand, behind the decreasing light, only a still darker shadow, a gloomy night spreading over all things. Happy are the dead; they suffer no more! Happier yet are the unborn, who have never suf- fered! Happy also are ye, pitied fools, who laugh over your misery, who weave crowns upon your straw beds, who dream yourselves great and happy. Itis not reasonable to pity you. Ah! you do not feel it ; and your misery is veiled by the flowers of your wandering fancies. Happy are ye! Thus did I think, thus did I lament, while I was walking slowly backward and forward in one of the darkest alleys of the park on my father’s estate. I was young and I was unhappy; and never, no never, can unhappiness be so bitterly felt as in youth! In riper years the feelings are blunted, the blood flows more languidly; one is already accustomed to suffer ; the way to the end of all suffering is shorter. If, however, a deep and hopeless sorrow overtakes us in our youth ; this frightful novelty is heightened by the yet undi- minished power of feeling, and there arises in the heart that wild fruitless struggle with fate, whose consequence is faithlessness and despair. They are fetters which for the first time bind the free hands, and the young unexperienced slave of sorrow sees hastily vanishing into the abyss of his disappointed hopes, beauty, health, joy, affec- tion; he stands alone and comfortless, indifferent to others, to himself a horror. He feels the earth sinking under his feet, he eries to heaven for deliverance, or at least for consolation, and in this frightful hour he is forsaken, if he looks for miracles as his only hope. Sick and crippled at nineteen years of age, I re- turned to life, shy and gloomy as an unblessed shadow. I had been happy ; therefore I suffered now the more. Until my seventeenth year I was full of life and health ; so loving, and ah! so happy ! Then I felt myself good, the world seemed beautiful. I regarded men as angels, and God as the father of all. A wearisome illness threw me at this time on the si¢k-bed, from whence [ arose suffering and disfigured in the most frightful manner. At first those who were about me re- garded me with pity, but they soon turned away from me; even my mother, my brothers and sisters. My heart became embittered, and I felt my inward decline, and began to believe myself forsaken by God and man. 159 22 The eareful education, the more refined cultiva- | tion which had been bestowed on my earlier years, served only to sharpen the sense of my misery. Never did a heart beat within the breast of man with a more burning love for liberty, active oecu- pation, and the heroic deeds whose brilliant ex- amples are recorded by history. Never did a more enthusiastic emulation burn in the soul of youth. Cato, Brutus, Scipio, Regulus—these were my models. 1 would equal if not surpass them alls by an illustrious posterity. Honour and pleasure in a rich, virtuous and useful life, such was the quickly-fleeting dream of my early youth. Wretched pity, contempt, forgetfulness, in a use- ess, sickly and joyless life, were the frightful realities which, on my awaking, inclosed me in their iron arms, which drew me down from my heaven, and darkened the whole world to me, and God, and his beautiful sun, and his mercy toward the beings of his own creation. Scepticism, with its perplexing, its never-to-be- and my name, like theirs, should be venerated 4 answered questions, arose in my mind, and mid- | night darkness enveloped my unquietly beating | heart. cruelly, so frightfully punished ? why should I be so deeply punished?” I asked, loudly murmuring, while I looked around blooming Nature with tearful eyes, as she stood before me so beautiful and rich. It was a glorious June evening. THE CONSOLER. IT bent over to touch the cool water with my burning lips, but hastily started back at the sight of my own frightful image, which, like my evil genius, rose up to meet me from the deep water, more terrible in aspect than ever. I felt as it stung by a serpent. It seemed to me as if the pure wave had understood the secret thoughts of my breast, and that it had sent a threatening spirit to warn me against choosing for the grave of a suicide, what had before been the cradle of his innocence. With confused and painful feelings, I now fixed my staring eyes upon the opposite shore. Gay voices resounded from there, and I soon saw a brilliant party engaged in the midsummer. dance. Laughing and singing were echoed by the sur- rounding rocks. I arose, turned away, and plunged more deeply into the woods. Through an opening in a garden-walk, the rays from the brilliantly lighted windows of my father’s castle met my eyes. They were giving a féte there this evening, to celebrate the return of my eldest sister. Absent from it since her childhood, to be educated by some of our near relatives in | the capital city, she had returned now as a lovely “And how have I sinned that I should beso | bride in the bloom of life, and was received with festivities from which I fled, with an eagerness equal to that with which I had formerly sought them. “ No one will miss me, no one will think of me,” | I thought with bitter feelings, as I walked away The sun was | setting. All was still—only, oceasionally, a light | rustling, like some whispered declaration of love, | seemed to pass through the grove between the | leaves and flowers. Everything seemed to rejoice —TI alone suffered ! I wished that I were a bird, when I heard one carelessly twittering among the branches ; or a flower, in its splendid beauty, and with its delicious fragrance—or the butter- fly, which rested on its bosom—ah, even the moss-grown, fortunate, because lifeless rock, against which I was leaning—anything but a man—only not the suffering, wretched being that I was ! I was reclining on the shore of a lake which terminated the park, and which was inclosed by the most beautiful banks. O how often in earlier days had I guided my light bark upon its aan waves, with the gaiety and joy of youth ! How often had I divided with streng arm its yielding waters, kissed them with glowing lips, and in their clear depths seen the image of my pure heart, of my fresh life! In earlier times how smilingly did the verdant banks inclose the peaceful lake—how was the deep blue of the sky reflected in its depths—my boat was on the shore—all was then so alike, so harmoniously one! But now J was unlike myself—I was no longer the same—I found all the rest here, only not myself. “Silent wave !” these were my dark thoughts, “thou canst no longer invite me to gladness, no longer caressingly allay the fire which is con- suming my heart ; yeta precious treasure beckons to me out of thy depths ; in thy lap, which bore me in the joy of my youth, fi might find my last consolation ; forgetfulness, unconsciousness ! Death, rest, sleep, once forever, eternally, to cease to feel, to cease to suffer, O what j joy't?? to seek darkness and silence ; “ parents, sisters, enjoy yourselves, dance, sing. I shall never sing, dance, nor laugh any more.” Now the music of the dance came from the castle, and I heard the notes/of my favourite waltz, the glad voices from the shore became louder ; I went on, on, on—still they pursued me. ,“Oh, all ye unhappy fellow sufferers, who have found yourselves like me without hope in the world, say at what time you have most deeply felt your misery? Was it not when, at the innocent joy of others, envy and discontent found their way into your hearts ?.If it be painful to suffer innocently, it is doubly painful to be obliged to say to ourselves that it is deserved, when we feel for the first time | assailed by a mean and unworthy sentiment. I cannot describe the feeling of infinite misery which for a few moments took possession of my whole being : still my powers were concentrated in a single point—the perception of suffering. It was intolerable tome. “O my God, comfort me! O my God, comfort me!” I repeated with a hollow voice, whose sound terrified me. “ Ifthou art the God of mercy, pity thy suffering child. Give me again what thou hast taken from me ; or open thy heaven, send me an angel—an angel who shall tell me why I suffer, why I still live ; or annihi- late me. I am a grain of dust before thee ; mix me with the dust; disperse me with the winds; only jet me cease to feel—to suffer.” | . ° * ca | This wild incoherent prayer—ah! I know it— was but a bitter, presumptuous murmuring. If all earthly comforts could have been restored to me at that moment, I should not have accepted them. Only the voice of an angel, an immediate revelation, I thought would restore my peace ; could give me back my extinguished hope, my faith in that which was before so holy, so cer- | tain, so clear: and which, vanishing before my 16” THE CONSOLER, eyes, and lost in darkness, left me without support. Every one, like me, suddenly and unexpectedly plunged into the depths of misery, will feel as I did. We should not be so wretched if we did not lose, at the same time, our trust in a wise and merciful God. That voice, that gracious voice, which tells us that not a sparrow falls unnoticed to the ground, much less one of us; that the hairs of our heads are all numbered ; that voice is not heard in the storm of passion; and even if it do reach us, it has not always power to quiet the disturbed waves; for the wild impatient heart re- quires then, as a testimony to the truth, to per- ceive an instantaneous effect; and if no comforting thought descends into our excited minds, if our fate is not changed, if our suffering remains the same, then we despair; then—ah, how unhappy are we then ! With my eyes fixed on vacancy, I went on, and seemed to myself like a child of night and darkness. All at once the thought fell heavily upon my heart, that what I suffered, what I felt, was only what others had felt and suffered before me, and with me. The blood of millions, the tears of millions, have moistened before, and should moisten after me, the path of sorrow in which I was walk- ing; and I saw in imagination the same ugly spectre, darker than the night which enveloped me; I saw passing by all the sufferings and torments of the human race; the pains of the body, of the heart, of the imagination ; these never-wearied harpies, which do not leave the unhappy until he, as a skeleton, extends his fraternal hand to death ; and in my name, and in that of all the sufferers upon earth, I uttered a ery of distress, and raised my eyes complainingly to the stars. In silent undisturbed majesty they passed brightly shining over my head, and this immovable order, this eternal uninterrupted serenity of the heavenly bodies, so untouched by the sorrows of the human heart, awakened in me the chill of despair. ‘“ Let us die!” I exclaimed in thought to my wretched brethren; “let us die! then all will be at an end; we have no merciful Father in Heaven.” Forgive, O highest goodness, Supreme mercy. the weakly blind one, who, in the tempest of sorrow, believed that no sun was shining behind the clouds of distress ; who, burning in the furnace of affliction, doubted whether Thou in thy eternal mercy would shed balsam to heal those wounds which close not before death. Forgive him his impatience, his murmuring ! Forgive him! Ah, he suffered ; and his hour of suffering was near to his eternity of happiness. I had seated myself on the turf, and felt with a secret satisfaction the dampness of night pene- trating my clothes. I hoped that my diminished health could not sustain this ; and my only hope was in death. Whether it should lead me to a more friendly fate, or only annihilate my suffering existence, it would be welcome to me, dear and earnestly desired. No one would weep for me; all my relations would, like myself, regard my death as a deliverance. I knew that, knew it only too well ! Toward midnight the music ceased, and I heard those who had been dancing on the shore going Vous iie a a ee ee ee eee ae eS ee ee ad 23 away in parties with laughing and pleasant talk. All was still at last. It had become dark, and the stars, whose brilliant splendour had seemed to deride my misery, were now veiled in clouds. The whole region was shrouded in deep darkness, and thunder was heard faintly rolling at a distance. All this harmonised more with my feelings, and was inexpressibly soothing to me. I threw myself down upon the earth, and wept bitterly. I wept a long time, and found in it a sensible relief. Gentler feelings came into my heart, and struggled against harsher ones. Again and again came the thoughts, which were so dear to me, of a reward beyond this world for patiently-borne sufferings ; of a wise, all merciful Father. To him I was able, after awhile, to pray with a more resigned heart. I prayed—prayed for consolatien; for light and strength, with that earnest, indescribable devotion, whose power seems to open heaven, and which rises, with the deep sigh of the heart, to the throne of the Eternal. I had risen up while I was praying, but soon sank down again upon the earth, exhausted by pain and by my emotions, bereft alike of thought and of strength, and only heavy notes of sorrow forced their way from my panting breast. The night was warm, and so quiet that no breath of air was breathing ; yet it seemed to me at times as if I heard a whispering sound among the pop- lars, under which I lay with my face to the ground, and every time an involuntary shuddering passed through me. Three times it seemed to me as if a gentle and caressing hand passed over my head, and with the pleasant sensation that accompanied it, there awoke within me, with great distinctness, the dear remembrance of my childhood. Thus was it that Maria, the little friend of my infancy, caressed me when, weary with playing and skip- ping about, we rested near each other on the soft grass. Thus did I feel when the little angel raised her feeble hand from her dying bed, and moved it (when she could not speak any more) over my head, as if blessing me. Who was near me at this time? Was it the bright angel of the earth, sent by the All-Merciful to comfort me? O how did my heart beat, when these thoughts arose in my mind ! I believed firmly that something supernatural was near; but although the hair stood upright on my head, my heart felt no fear. What indeed does one fear who is profoundly unhappy? Ah, even the darkest revelations of the world of spirits terrify them no longer. The terrors which they inspire are welcome-—they excite—they raise us above earthly sorrows—and seem less terrible than these. Is it, on the other hand, a consoler, which we feel approaching to us in a beloved form from that unknown country, at whose gates all the torches of the human mind are extinguished —then all remains still in the stormy breast, and all the pulses beat in dumb expectation. This was the influence on my spirit of Maria’s presence. I called her gently by name—begged her to lay her head upon my heart ; and, with a feeling of peace and joyful rest which I had never felt be- fore, I fell into a sort of dreaming amazement. All this time it seemed as if I saw Maria dressed in white, and indescribably beautiful, sitting at my side, holding in her hands a palm branch, which she waved over my head ; whilst I, not in a con- Aa! M 24 dition to think or speak clearly, was occupied for a few moments only with the consciousness of my well being. All at once I felt as if Maria took me by the hand, and with feelings of indescribable enjoy- ment, I imagined myself rising at her side from earth to heaven. I thought myself dead, and an inexpressible feeling of gladness pervaded my whole soul. I attempted to turn around, that I might once again see this world where I had suffered so much ; but mists confused my sight. The clouds grew thicker around me; I felt their frosty dampness cooling my breast, and allaying the fire which had impelled the unquiet beating of my heart. “It is well!” I thought, “that is the envelope of the grave ; the embrace of death ; how delightfully it cools me! soon— soon shall I be transformed.” Then it seemed to me, though obscurely, as if I were not dead, but dying. My perceptions became every moment more blunted—it grew darker every moment be- fore my eyes—a rushing sound like the wind from distant forests came to my ears. Clearly and peacefully did the idea of the guiding hand remain with me even at the moment, when I seemed to lose entirely the consciousness of my own existence. A sudden thrill of pain, which went through my heart like the thrust of a dagger, brought me again to consciousness and to my senses. I found myself lying on the earth as before, and should have taken the whole for a mere dream, if I had not felt the soft warm hand which inclosed mine. I was faint and powerless. Without raising my head, I eried out with difficulty, “Oh, Maria, why dost thou not take me up to thy bright home! Why am I yet upon the earth, where we suffer so much and so helplessly—why, ah, why must I yet live 2” “God wills it!” answered a voice sweet and melodious as we imagine that of the angels, Impatiently murmuring, I asked, “ And why should I still live and suffer?” ‘To grow better yourself, and to be useful to others !” * Miserable worm that I am, how can I do good to others ?” f By thy patience—by the example of thy resig- nation.” “ Alas! I have strength to feel, but not to bear my sufferings!” “Pray!” “God’s image is obscured in my heart—I cannot pray! I have seen the abyss of misery—understood the wretch- edness of humanity—but I no longer see—I no longer comprehend God! Oh, be not displeased, pure holy angel! Thou who hast seen what is concealed from us—thou who livest in light—look in pity upon the child of darkness—raise me— comfort me!” “ Yes, I will comfort thee?” “ Tell me, pitying angel! Did the Eternal One send thee tome?” “Hedid send me.” “ His eye sees the poor worm creeping on the earth? LEarth’s suf- fering inhabitants are not then overlooked by him?” He sees, he numbers them all.” ‘Oh, Maria, tell me, if God is all gracious and merciful, why then all the suffering, the misery of mankind ° ” “ It is enough to know that He will console for all, and that one day they shall all cease.” “TI cannot comprehend this consolation; I do not understand how any blessedness can outweigh misery ! Happ angel, thou who wast already in childhood taken 192 THE CONSOLER, =e from the earth—alas! thou hast not known its evils—thou understandest them not! Hear now their extent from my lips—hear ! and if thy in- corporeal essence can yet have human feelings— if the heart made acquainted with the felicity of heaven does not remain unmoved by the suffer- ings of others, thou wilt shudder!” And now, from the depths of my agitated heart, I exclaimed, “ We suffer—we suffer! We cry out for help, and earth opens her abyss, and heaven looks coldly down, and scorns us! The night of despair envelopes us—the bird of prey sits at our heart, and tears away piece after piece, and gnaws and gnaws—we call on death, but death comes not— we curse our life—we blaspheme——” I sie! speaking, penetrated by horror. All remained still a few moments, and I endea- voured by a convulsive effort to kill all my per- ceptions ; for I was fearful of hearing that laugh of scorn, of seeing the abyss, of feeling this martyrdom. “Hear!” said the angelic voice, clear and strong as the music of dus? harp, “ hear from my lips the triumphant song of Earth’s suffering children, in the bright heaven where they shall all one day be collected !” And I heard the song of the angel, which souaded like voices from the clouds, and yet very near me. “ O sufferings of earth ! How transient and brief ! Thou poor trembling heart! What transporting relief When ended all pain With God we remain! To the heavenly sky From sorrow’s deep vale Lift brother thine eye! Forget thy sad wail. See the mansions above All glorious with love! See thy home! Ah, sad earth, Thou strange foreign land, A passage art thou To the heavenly strand, Where the Father’s pure light Shines glorious and bright. In loud raging tempests, With eyes fixed above, O’er the wave’s trembling summit, Impelled by our love, We sail toward our home, Whence no more will we roam. No more through tears falling, The clear skies we view ; In spring’s steady brightness Our path we pursue, Pure affection our life, Without sadness or strife. Cruel doubt makes no longer Our firm faith less sure ; Mists never o’ershadow, Nor errors obscure. Truth illumines our way With her glorious ray. Now fled is dark midnight, After winter comes spring ; From the waters of life Refreshment we bring. Strife and terror now cease, Giving way to swect peace" Soot eeed nae aniadameaieieatadinedentitettod gL ce te wnt THE CONSOLER, —_—— ee eee The song ceased, but I seemed stiil to hear it. The anguish of my soul ceased too. I felt all my embittered feelings by degrees vanishing away, and giving place to wild and consoling ones. Sweet tears ran down my cheeks, and something like the peace just celebrated took possession of my being for the moment. But soon the pain returned, and doubt arose again from the depth of my spirit, I clasped my hands and prayed: “ Oh, mild, com- passionate angel, forgive my weakness—forsake me not—continue to give light to my spirit ! That life, for which we here struggle and suffer, Oh, say, what is it truly worth? It is the right, the true life, of which this earthly one is but a shadow.” A perpetual progress, a perpetual approach to God, the source of truth and blessed- ness. That light, that peace, that blessed and pure joy, which we seek here in vain, behold! we find them there!” “Alas!” I answered sadly, “darkness surrounds me—I eannot seize the light.” “See, the dawn is breaking,” cried the voice ; * see, how the light spreads around us, how brightness, beauty, and truth shine out, while the shadows of night flee away. Thus on the morning of eternity shall its sun shed light over all the mysteries of life. Then shalt thou know why thou hast suffered; only be good, be resigned, and all shall be cleared up. Child of sorrow! thou, too, shalt drink one day of the cup of blessed- ness |” * And the poor misled ones, whom misery has made criminals, whom misery has degraded— what fate awaits them ?”—“ God is merciful and just ; worship him!”——“ And the bad—those whom a cruel fate seems to have destined from their cradles to be the torments of their brethren ?” -—The angel was silent for an instant, but said at last with a mild but elevated seriousness : * Where- fore these questions, this solicitude, child of the dust? Godis! Worship God!” My spirit be- came clearer. Oh,” I said in a low voice, “ I understand thee ; God is good, everything declares it; then he is my God, too,” I added with deep and joyful emotion; “and thy Father!” said the angelic voice. © Yes, my Father, and a Father who pardons! Oh, Maria, tell me if I, too weak to hear my burden, should voluntarily lay down a life which I feel to be intolerable, will not this Father extend his forgiving arms to his wretched child ?”-- Do not deceive yourself,” answered the voice, “ he who shrinks from the trial must not expect the reward. Oh, suffer with patience, hope with confidence. Do not deprive thyself of the glorious reward which awaits thee—the favour of God, the testimony of thy own conscience, the blessings of those to whom thou canst be a support and comfort on the earth !” ‘* But if I find myself a burden to others as well as to myself 5 if—” * Do right, and adore God!” answered the voice with severe earnestness. Iwas pained. At last I said, dejectedly, “ Life is long, infinitely long for the miserable, who await no other and no better fate upon the earth, and to whom the mortal goal of life seems too distant to serve as a constant alleviation to ever-recurring sufferings. Thou who, in the enjoyment of ever-increasing felicity, measurest not the passage of years—thou canst not imagine what an immeasurable length, days, hours, even minutes seem to have for the eR Ss Rae OL ae ee eT TU SRE ET ONS EO FEE ee CN EE 163 20 unhappy being who suffers with every pulsation ! f thou, Heavenly Consoler, couldst be ever with me, I would not complain ;*but when thou art away in thy bright home, from which thou hast mercifully descended, what will then become of me? How shall I then be able to bear the long, long hours, which the united evils of body and spirit make so intolerable ?” “J will not leave thee,” answered the angel, whose voice was again inexpressibly sweet and mild ; “ I will help thee to endure these hours, and to feel these torments less. . God has scat- tered everywhere the seeds of joy and consola- tion ; we will seek them out together. We will be resigned, and all will be well, and peace shall spring up in our hearts. Together we will pray to God, seek together the alleviation of thy suffer- ings, and then, if thou must weep, we will weep together.” At these words the voice of the angel seemed stifled by emotion. Do the immortals shed tears, too? I thought ; and astonished beyond description, as well by the words as by the emotion which succeeded them, I arose, and ventured for the first time to look at the white fignre which was seated at my side. Tremblingly I sought to find Maria’s dear and well-remembered features. I found them not. A beautiful countenance, but unknown to me, ob- scured my tears of pity, and lighted by the morn- ing dawn, was bending over me, and soft rosy lips imprinted upon my forehead an affectionate kiss. “ Oh, my brother, my beloved brother ! ” whis- pered the same angelic voice which had so pene- trated my heart, “recognise thy sister, whom God has sent to love and comfort thee—who will never leave thee again!” and she threw her arms around me. My surprise was so great for an instant, that I thought I must have lost my senses. My sister endeavoured in the tenderest and most affectionate manner to quiet the distress of my mind. She embraced me, let me rest my head on her bosom, and with gentle, soothing words, lulled to sleep as it were my agitated feelings, I became gradually more tranquil, but could not, however, convince myself for a long time that it was only my highly excited fancy which had caused me to believe that an angel—yet what do I say? was she not an angel, although in an earthly form, whom God had sent to console me ? Oh, she was so, in the most beautiful signification of the words, and I felt this more deeply every moment. In erder to make all clear in my mind, she told me in a few words what accident had led her to find me. Informed of my illness, of. its consequences, and of my unhappy state of mind, which my gay and happy brothers had described as bordering on insanity, she had inquired for me immediately after her arrival at home, and had learned that, melancholy and wretched as usual, I had gone into the Park. She asked for me again somewhat later, and finding that I had not yet come back, this affectionate sister stole away from the ball-room under pretence of going to bed, and went into the Park to look for her suffer- ing brother. She was about to call me by name, when my mournful accents met her ear, and guided her steps to the place where I had sunk down exhausted, overcome by my distress. She mM Y ne eee ee Ane plane nan a pee mene eer ein menace ae enn 26 THE CONSOLER. approached me softly, remained silently at my side, heard me call out the name of Maria and entreat her to comfort me; and her wisdom and kindness inspired her with the idea of making use fo the illusion which my heated fancy and im- patient spirit had caused, to bring me consolation in a manner suited to make the greatest im- pression on my excited feelings. Toward the end of our conversation, deeply moved by my suffer- ings, she thought that the affectionate sister still upon earth could do more for my comfort than the friend in the world of spirits; and she then made herself known to me. “ My brother”— thus did she finish the explanation—® be not dis- pleased that I was thy angel ! Maria would have been forced to leave thee ; .and I will never, never forsake you !” I could not recover from my astonishment. “ And these words, as from an oracle, with which you replied to me ?” «“ You will find them in the Gospel; there is the souree of comfort and of wisdom; we will learn to draw from it together.” “ And that charming, consoling hymn,” I said with tearful eyes—* was that, then, only a de- lusion ?” “It was truth, which, although feebly com- prehended by me, was put into the form in which thou couldst receive it. When we shall hear the song of victory of the suffering children of earth in a better world, and even join in with our own voices, O my brother ! how different, how entirely unlike will these eternal harmonies appear from our feeble earthly tones! Ye heavenly joys, which no human eye has seen, no ear heard, no human understanding is capable of conceiving, O how shall a mortal voice worthily sing your praise ? Ye patient sufferers, these are reserved for you in future |” “ Yes,” I answered, deeply moved, “I shall perhaps venture one day to unite my voice with these ; but thou, my sister, shalt sing yet more glorious hymns among the blessed spirits of the resurrection—blessed here and blessed there, thou angel of God!” My sister did not reply, but looked up to heaven with a glance expressive of such perfect resigna- tion, as if she anticipated that sorrow would come to her also, and she would make the sacrifice of her own will beforehand. She had taken my arm under hers, and was slowly leading me home. The increasing light of day was dispersing the shadows around us, morn- ing zephyrs were sporting in the wood, and the sweetest singing of birds arose in the fresh, fragrant air. All this seemed to me a reflection of what was ‘passing in my own spirit. Light had arisen also in my darkened mind ; I felt the gentle breath of consolation ; I heard the song of hope. My sister and I walked on together in silence, but her beaming eye affectionately resting on me, and then looking at the beautiful objects around us, or lifted to heaven, seemed to call upon my feelings to accompany hers in their silent elevation. The sun’s earliest rays were gilding the windows of the castle as we approached it—the same windows whose brilliant illumination a few hours before had caused me such painful sensations. Now I looked at them with feelings entirely different, and turn- ing to the ascending lamp of day, I repeated in a low voice, but with deep and joyful emotion, Thomson’s sublime prayer— s¢ Father of light and life! thou Good supreme! Oh teach me what is good! teach me Thysel/ ! Save me from folly, vanity, and vice, From every low pursuit! and feed my soul With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure $ Solid, substantial, never-fading bliss ! ” I felt with delight the change in my heart. The nocturnal scene had made a deep impression upon me, and, as was natural, I could not help ascribing all that had taken place to some supernatural guidance. In the moment of sorrow and despair T had called upon an angel, and an angel had come down to me with the friendly, long unheard words of consolation and hope. The voice of my sainted Maria itself could hardly have made a deeper impression upon me than did that of my gentle sister. She was one of those beings who seem to be placed on the earth merely to alleviate its suffer- ings, and to reflect, as it were, in their pure souls an image of heaven. Gentle, amiable, intelligent, she went through the world like a superior spirit, who has her portion in this life only to make it more pleasurable for others. She found her own happiness only in that of others; and if she did not find their sufferings bitter, it was because she kept her eye so steadily fixed through life on the journey’s end, that she never allowed the clearness of her vision to be disturbed by the difficulties in the way. And it was this very tranquillity of spirit that enabled her to select and to apply the means of refreshment to other weary travellers. I soon experienced the salutary influence of her wise and gentle guidance. She did not allow the momentary elevation of my spirit to subside, but held it upright, and sought to furnish it with quiet, reflective, and independent strength. She soon saw that ambition was my ruling passion, and that the loss of all which could pro- vide the means of gratifying this passion, was one of the principal causes of my deep dejection. She judged wisely that this affection, like all the strong feelings of the soul, could not easily be subdued at once, and she exerted herself only to give it another direction—to set before it a better, nobler, less selfish, and more attainable end. “ You cannot,” said she, in one of our con- fidential conversations, * be a Scipio, a Camillus, a Leonidas ; but you can be a Socrates, a Plato, or what is better, like one of those apostles of Christianity, whose name and heroic virtues have procured for them an earthly immortality. Believe me, my brother, the world requires for its happi- ness rather sages than heroes ; and the noble and happy being who shall bring some comfort, some refreshment to humanity, can die with a more beautiful consciousness than that which sweetened the last hours of Epaminondas. “ You have received from nature distinguished talents, memory, and imagination ; cultivate and exercise these. You have knowledge ; strive to increase and methodise it. The field of progress is boundless, and the flowers which it produces are noble, everlasting ones. The richer your narvest is, the more (to keep up the comparison) ripe and perfect fruit you gather—the more can you enrich with the products of your labour the immense needy, starving crowd, and the more blessings you LL LLL LE A 164 7 THE CONSOLER. 27 will earn from present and future generations. Let us never forget that all which we undertake and accomplish, if it shall prove truly good and useful, must all serve to promote the kingdom of God.” Thus spoke my excellent sister, less, as I believe, from a conviction of my ability to reach these glorious models, than to animate and encourage my dejected mind. In the same proportion as my earthly future thus opened before me, did my strength and courage revive. The horizon ex- panded, as it were, before my eyes. I extended my arms hopefully towards the rising sun, in which I now, as before, saw the image of the light which was to shine on my earthly life. I began to labour for my new object with all the zeal which my feeble health permitted, and might have gone beyond my strength if my wise and gentle sister had not been at my side watching and warning. She persuaded me to seek recreations, and, by means of pleasant, light occupations or amusements, to find cheerfulness and acquire strength. I had some talent for drawing. She encouraged me to exercise this beautiful but serious art, which gives us the power to perpetuate sweet recollections, and at the same time helps us to forget severer and more painful thoughts. How many times, when I was trying to fix upon the paper her sweet coun- tenance, have I forgot myself, the whole world, the present time, and everything which was un- pleasant and oppressive, while my whole soul lived joyfully in the precious occupation. How often, when engaged in representing the charming and fresh objects in the country, the rich foliage of the trees, the peaceful lake, the bold elevations, the shaded valleys, the flocks grazing, the neat thatch-covered cottages, and the sky covered with transparent clouds, how often have the feelings of peace and of quiet contentment penetrated my heart. The great condition of all pure enjoyment is to have the heart free from every root of bitterness, every feeling of envy or discontent; and from mine these destroyers of peace were wholly ba- nished in a short time. I had formerly read history with the same state of mind with which children look at some grand show—with admiration for the brilliant and great, without any idea of the connection and relations of the whole. I read it again when years, and still more, sorrow, had matured and developed my understanding, and I received entirely different impressions from my reading. In observing the destiny of the world, my own vanished from my eyes. When my thoughts traversed centuries, the period of my own life seemed lost like a drop in the ocean ; and when the unhappiness of millions was spread out before my eyes, | wasashamed to consider my own. I learned, in a word, to forget myself. And when my feeble vision could discover in the images of history only a confused crowd—when I lost the traces of a wise and gracious Providence—when I saw upon the earth only an irregular alternation of errors, confusion, and, misery, then my sister ~ would direct my views to heaven. I looked up to Heaven, and listening to the voices of the good and holy upon the earth who— through effort, suffering, and death—have an- 16 Ore nounced with confidence, joy, and preternatural strength, a higher end than earthly happiness, another home, a more splendid light. I listened to the promises of immortality, and the longing for it in my own breast, and seemed to fix in the depths of my heart the consoling belief, which even here below spreads a clear light over its darkest hours. I looked up to the sky. Light came from above. It shone down into my soul. I under- stood that here all is only beginning, and hopefully and cheerfully I again took up my traveller’s staff. From this time my heart was always at rest, and it was not difficult for me to find materials of joy and gladness with which to build upon the earth my cottage of content. Among these I have mentioned pleasant and amusing occupations, and I must add—society ; not that of the great world, which was always unpleasant to me, and in which, on account of my exterior, J could have awakened only painful feelings ; but that of my own family and friends, who not merely suffered my presence, but who kindly sought me out, so that I learned by degrees to find enjoyment in their pleasures, and even to contribute to them, often, to be sure, as a blind musician may play for others to dance. My sister and I lent our efforts to soften and ameliorate my naturally rather impetuous temper. She by adventitious, friendly counsel, but particu- larly by her tenderness, her care to furnish me with small pleasures, which no one better under- stood how to procure or to give a zest to; I, by watchfulness over myself, by the suppression of all excitableness and susceptibility, and especially by giving myself up entirely to her guidance. ** Whoever,” said she, “is destitute of outward attractions, and requires constantly the care and protection of others, must labour more than they to acquire that mild, affectionate, amiable disposition and deportment, which is alone enough to gain the devotion of others, and which makes all the little attentions they can render so pleasant—all the great ones so easy.” I followed her advice. I exerted myself to be amiable. I was loved, and I deeply felt the happi- ness of being so. The first great sorrow which seized me after my return to life and joy, came to me through her who had before so affectionately consoled me. Ah, my angelic sister was obliged to suffer, as she too well foresaw, even on the earth the bitterness of sorrow. Her husband, who was worthy of her in every point of view, and with whom she lived an angelic life—died suddenly, and he was soon fol- lowed by her young and only child. Gently and mildly, as she had said to me before: “Let us be resigned !” did she now repeat to herself the same words, and she was perfectly resigned. Kind and thoughtful as before, she kept her clear, peaceful eye steadily attentive to the wants and wishes of others ; but we felt that something wag changed within—her happiness had gone—she was in Heaven. Her life upon the earth was now only a gradual sinking away, not that of an extinguished candle, but that of a setting sun, which, while it bids farewell to this world, with clear though fading beams, is ready to rise in another with renewed power and splendour. She was no more! and solitary—forsaken by her—I feared, for a time, that I should lose myself THE CONSOLER. truly valuable both for myself and others. I am active according to my capacity, in outward life ; and never do I alleviate the bodily or mental From the eternal home, where she now lives | sufferings of one of my fellow-creatures, without happily, reunited to those whom she had loved, | feeling my own happiness increased by it. When she sometimes perhaps casts a look upon her , the feebleness of my body compels me to inaction, grateful brother, whose good angel she was upon | I am quiet, employ my thoughts more exclusively theearth. O may this look never find me unworthy! ; with the beautiful future, which religion discloses may this glance never look down without satisfac- | to us beyond this world of sorrow; I endeavour by but I soon felt that she and her consolations still lived in my heart as tutelary angels. I collected my strength and submitted to the will of Heaven. CALE ERATE RONG YOON POE SABE OILY LEO EE CA LSE PALA ALLELE tion upon a healed and purified heart! My life has not answered to the brilliant image which we formed of it in anticipation. I have not become either a Socrates or a Plato, but yet wise enough not to lament over it. We—I, especially—had thought quite too highly of my genius and intel- lectual power. I soon found that my powers of comprehension and thought were limited. Some- thing—I know not what—it seemed to me as if it were my own brain—formed for my thoughts, hay- ing reached a certain point, a wall equally impass- able for them as was the partition of my room for my feet, and my genius was unfortunately of that east that its flight rather carried me into the clouds, than enabled me to make my way out of them. I was obliged, therefore, here also to bring down my ambitious hopes, and found myself—when, after some fruitless struggles and efforts, I,reconciled my- self to the disappointment—much the better for it. My sister had, above all things, turned my mind to religion, and this composer of human passions shed her tranquillizing oil upon the waves of my ambition and worldly vanity. And in truth, if we acknowledge ourselves sincerely to be only instru- mental in the hand of Providence, who created us, how foolish is it to wish to be anything but what he has made us! Acknowledging my incapacity to raise myself above mediocrity in the paths of science, I have ceased to sttive for it ; and tranquilly relinquish a glory not destined for me, and which a worthier than I shall enjoy. I direct, therefore, the more earnest attention to the improvement of that part of my nature, against whose perfection no wall, no “here shalt thou to, and no farther,” is placed, but which, on the contrary, opens out into immortality. Whoever shall have seriously formed this resolu- tion will find that he has secured his own happiness. Within the circle which my inward eye can overlook, I endeavour to comprehend, to employ, and to direct everything in such a way as to he ee > nr | my patience in suffering, and my—if not always gay, yet always affectionate—manners, to make the attention and care which my kind family take of me, pleaSant to them, and to manifest, especiall to my brothers and sisters, for their own good, how easily outward difficulties can be borne by a cheerful disposition, and resignation to the will of © God. They are good and amiable, and I am so happy as to feel that I am dear to them. I know, and I say it with tears of joy, that there is not one of them who would not willingly sacrifice a few days of his life to prolong mine. And yet I can give them nothing but my sincere afiection, can do little more for them than sometimes to think for them, and always to feel for them. My sick-room is sometimes a confessional for them, sometimes their council-chamber, and often even their temple of joy—for when they are happy, they are as ready to make me happy with the sight of their joy as I am to witness and to share it, The love of my parents is again restored to me, since I no longer embitter their days with impa- tient murmuring over my own fate. Ah! have I now indeed cause to complain of my fate! my future heaven stands brightly before me, and my present life is pleasant. I love many virtuous and amiable people, interest myself in their concerns, and am loved by them in return. I can do some good—my heart is at rest—but all which I now am, which I now enjoy, O my good sister, it is all from thee. It was thou who roused me from the depths of despair, pressed me to thy loving heart, gave comfort to my spirit, life to my courage, a new object for my powers, gentleness to my tem- per ! when I called upon heaven to send me an angel, how mercifully was my prayer answered ! you came, my sister. O sweet consoler, gentle guide ! although my eyes are closing, thou livest for ever in my heart, and every blessing which I receive from thee will I bring to thee again with humble gratitude. — te STOCKHOLM SUPPERS. Stockholm, 19th November, 1828. _ My sesr Ameria: You ask what I am doing im the great city of Stockholm, while the strife- announcing banners of the Diet are floating in the air—while the wise and foolish heads of the capital city are striking against each other, and all the uninitiated are expecting to see a new- created Minerva spring out from the rude shock —you ask what I am doing when all this is going on? ah, my friend, I sigh and yawn! I was at 2 supper the day before yesterday, at a supper yesterday, to-day, too, I am to go toa supper, and if I live till to-morrow, alas! I must sup then, too. “A supper?” I hear you ask ; “and what is there so frightful in that ?” My Amelia, happy child of the country, stay with thy sewing and thy flowers ; let the pure air caress thy cheeks; sing thy simple songs; let thy spinning-wheel hum on ; finish thy days in peace and joy; eat thy frugal supper; go to bed at nine o’clock ; thank God, and pray to him to pre- serve you from city life and suppers. Do you wish to acquire at a distance some knowledge of the pleasures of the great and fashionable world, follow me in spirit for a few moments, and you shall be initiated into the mysteries of suppers. We must adorn our heads with flowers ! invited a week beforehand to take our share in this party of pleasure, we must, in order to welcome it, call forth our brightest smiles. The clock strikes eight, and we leave the mirror with a farewell glance, in order to get into the carriage which is in waiting to convey us rattling through the streets of the city, to where a long row of lighted windows invites us to stop. Not a word of the uncurled locks, the torn dresses, and the thousand other small misad- ventures—one must always forget something. In all haste one puts one’s dress in order again, and resumes the agreeable smile which was put aside on getting into the carriage. The doors of the saloon are opened and we enter gracefully. Is it a simoom or a sirocco, which breathes towards us from that mass of people and lights? one or the other it must be, and you feel already a universal feebleness and Janguor spreading over your intellectual faculties. We are greeted, and we seat ourselves. God be thanked for quiet rest! if no earthquake should come we will not soon get up. Sitting down close together, the ladies examine each other’s dresses, compliment and joke a little together. We draw in our lips as if sucking sugar candy, while the compliments fall grace- fully from them. Eyes wink, heads nod, hither and thither, plumes wave, silk garments rustle, greetings, questions and answers are heard ; there is murmuring and buzzing, constantly growing weaker, like a lulling storm. It stops—it begins again-—it dies away—and all is still. The card-tables are arranged; tea is brought in; prints are spread out. We play and keep silence; we eat and drink ; we look on and yawn. It is warm and oppressive. The time passes slowly. The heat of the room increases, curls become straight, noses grow red, ears burn, eyes are tearful ; we grow uneasy, we turn hither and thither, we pant and suffer. We attempt to begin a conversation. A flow of thought would refresh our fainting spirits like a fresh spring of water ; but, alas! the ideas have, as it were, passed away from our heads, as the pomade from our hair, and we find ourselves scarcely sharp and bright enough to talk reason- ably about the weather. And if you exert your- self to say something striking, you are answered by yes! or no! or indeed! as if one should say, “ My dear friend, don’t give yourself the trouble.” See, there is a gentleman approaching with his hat in his hand, in order to make a diversion in the conversation. What did he say to you? you smiled so gloriously. Was it a compliment ? no. Anything witty? no. Anything flat, then? no. Something, however, sweet ? yes, something that amounted to nothing at all. The poor fellow was rather sleepy ; he had been losing at cards, and, was, besides, suffering under the influence of the supper-siroceo ; what else, then, conld he say but, “ It is terribly warm here !” In order to awaken your involuntarily slumber- ing senses, you look about among the numerous assemblage, to see if you can find some amuse. ment in observing their peculiarities ; in vain— allare so alike. A good tone and fine cultivation have so cut away and trimmed off in this circle— have put so far off all marked distinctions, all originality—that one becomes aware of no other difference in these individuals than the small one made by dress, and that which compassionate Nature, an enemy to tiresome uniformity, always maintains between noses, eyes, and lips ; which are here large, there small, here turned up, there drawn down, &c., &c. This is, after all, the whole difference. Ices and cake are handed round. These give some refreshment to the room and to the senses. We put the spoons to our lips, and enjoy ourselves in silence, From the ante-rooms is heard the call of trumps, as they are thrown upon the table by the card- players. The company in the saloon are now in motion; we turn round, we stand up, we put down our little plates—we breathe. The piano is opened. Good! may the enchant- ment of music put to flight the demons of ennui. A half-timid, half-presumptuous amateur is pressed into the service. He asserts that he can do nothing—but he sits down to the instrument. He reddens, he turns pale, he trembles, but he strikes vigorously the patient instrument, and begins a song. Now, God be praised that it is done, and that it was no worse. 167 30 After this, a real talent is manifested by an- other, who is unpretending, but quiet and secure in conscious power. He is singing the songs of Frithiof. The music, the poetry are beautiful. The voice of the singer is firm and agreeable, although the heat and the crowd of people in the small room take from its clearness. The last accord is ended, the last note of the song dies on the ear—whence this silence in the company, this immobility ? is it transport, delight, enthusiasm ? Suppressed yawns and sleepy eyes give the an- swer. The singer has sung to the walls. The supper-sirocco has blunted all the finer emotions. The candles are continually burning more dimly, the heat becoming more oppressive, the air always heavier. We feel ourselves sinking into a lethargy ; we arouse ourselves, feeling ashamed of our con- dition, and talk of fashions, of dinners, of the Diet, &e., &e. We force ourselves ; we exagge- rate, we fib, we scandalize, forced by necessity and our distress to say something—and wish our- selves anywhere else. | But the hours pass slowly along—the minutes stretch themselves out, as it were. We feel the want of doing so likewise. We look over the engravings again; but we take them in our hands wrong side up. We talk again, but we say no for yes, and yes for no! we suppress our yawns with the danger of stifling in the act ; we find owrselves wearisome, and others intolerable ; but we smile and nod at each other in the most friendly manner. From eight to nine, from nine to ten, from ten to eleven, from eleven to twelve—we have sat still, and patiently, in this little Tophet of heat and ceremony. Our strength is exhausted; midnight has struck, and now we should certainly faint or die—but the doors of the dinner-hall are thrown open—the perfume of the viands operates on the nerves like eau de Cologne—a call is heard, “Supper is ready” —and we are saved. The company rise hastily, and en masse. We go out, two by two, or singly, into the supper- room, where an immense table—another land of Canaan—invites the weary, thirsty travellers in the desert, to the savory viands of superfluity and luxury. We arrange ourselves around the table, we crowd each other, we look out for a place ; we wish to get by such a one, we are not willing to sit by another—at last we are seated. And now we begin eating with the greatest and most serious earnestness ; all intercourse ceases, except that which is kept up by the continual motion of knives and forks, Dish after dish goes the round of the table. We eat, and eat, and eat. We experience a despe- rate want of indemnifying ourselves by some action, for the long inactivity and ennui to which we have been subjected, and we seize the first which offers itself. We eat till we are satisfied—more than satis- fied, oppressed ; but still we eat on with undi- minished eagerness. At last the dessert is brought on; the mothers, satisfied themselves, snatch bon- bons quickly from the plates and deposit them in their reticules and handkerchiefs—probably for the children who have stayed at home—while the daughters observe with much interest the devices of the sugar ornaments and mottoes, which are always at the same level of inimitable stupidity ; a tne tl Ny In Tc yh Ae De ae ily ety int beh Ey (idly hate So a ae Nal aba RO STOCKHOLM SUPPERS. or look at charades, and exercise their ingenuity in finding them out. The meal has an end, luckily, like all others. The money of the hosts, in the shape of calves- foot-jelly, toasts, and wine, remains in our stomachs. With this burden we return to the saloon, stay a little while longer there, powr Vhonneur, and talk of nothing ; take leave at last, and go home wearied out in soul and body, to go to bed at one or two o’clock with an overloaded stomach, a heavy head and heart ; retaining no other remem- brance of the hours which have just passed away, than such as bring for their consequences, the next day, yawning and headache. Meanwhile the amiable host and hostess go about amidst the dying lights, congratulating each — other that the day is at an end; comforting them- selves for the expense of the supper by saying it has been really splendid, and that people have en- joyed themselves much at their house. Deceived, short-sighted mortals! wait a little—soon will your grateful guests reward you by other suppers, and will fully acquit themselves of the debt of ennui which they owe you. There, my Amelia, you have a little sketch of a Stockholm supper ; and with few exceptions, of all Stockholm suppers. They are a crowd of sleepy sisters, whose mother is named Idleness, and whose foster-mother, Vanity, carries them on with low courtesies from house to house. They have been called intolerable a thousand times, but yet we delay to banish them, because— Idleness and Vanity are stiff ladies, who have placed themselves in a situation demanding re- spect, and who cannot be roughly handled with impunity. If one laughs at their hoop petticoats, he is in danger of being called foolish and impertinent. If you think that a blast of November spleen has thrown too dark a shadow over this descrip- tion of suppers—I cannot exactly deny it—but in its principal features it is true, and not carica- tured. It is inconceivable to me, how so many intelli- gent people can come together in order to weary each other so cruelly. If the Genius of Pleasure should makeé a pro- clamation to his worshippers in Stockholm, to call them all out to enjoy themselves, I imagine its contents would run something in this way :— “ Friends of pleasure, of life, and gladness—ye old and young who would enjoy life; its short hours of repose, its flying minutes, flee, flee from suppers !” Would you drive away, on long winter evenings, the dark spirits of ennui, see here my “ prescrip- tion.” Collect relations, acquaintances, and friends, but not too many. The supper-sirocco arises from heat and crowd. Be few in number, and be happy! light the lamps in your rooms, but kindle yet earlier the light of understanding and of fine wit in your heads ! Kindle, for each other, the bright flame of enjoyment ! yet again, be gay, be kind, and if you can, be witty ! dance, play, sing, but do it all spontaneously! let nothing begin heavily, let nothing end heavily ! weave with light hands the garland of innocent pleasure—and let each one add to it in simplicity his own little flower. 168 4 you. Let the fire of ideas circulate among you ; throw to each other the sparks of mirth, which shine but do not burn. Let thought answer to thought, feeling to feeling, like melodious echoes ; or rather like those gentle and harmonious tones which the slightest stroke draws out of the well- tuned harp. The well-cared-for spirit must not forget the physique—the soul, the body. Give to it some re- freshment, but let it be light, and taken in passing, like a pleasure. If one sits down to the table with an entirely serious countenance, with knife, fork, and napkin, for the purpose of eating, then it is a labour. “ We eat in order to live; we do not live in order to eat,” said a wise man. Do you wish to make a pleasure of it—eat and drink only that you may laugh afterwards the more heartily. As the all-wise Creator has ordered that night and day shall reign alternately upon our little ball of earth for twelve hours,.it was certainly his ob- ject that man, his noble but feeble child, should rest in the bosom of the latter, so that he may HOPES. 31 Let the pleasure of conversation be precious to | really labour and enjoy the beams of the former. Therefore, let the conclusion of the evening be also the conclusion of your day and of your plea- sures! May midnight find you still and quiet ! And in order to finish the day at the right time, and in peace, sing with the noble and amiable poet :* After an eve of social pleasure . In moderate measure, We quietly sleep and waken with joy. O heavens! the hour strikes eight—the fright- ful supper hour! The carriage is already at the door, my husband is ready, and I have not yet a single flower in my hair. Good night, fortunate Amelia ! you are soon going to bed, and I must prepare for a campaign. To-morrow, when I am fit to do so, I will sing : After a supper, Where pleasure was eating, We yawn in retreating— Badly we sleep, and we waken in fear. * Franzen. HOPES. —e—— I wap a method, peculiar to myself, of walking without much difficulty in the stony path of life ; although I was obliged, both physically and morally speaking, to do it nearly bare-footed. I hoped and hoped, from day to day, from morning te evening, from autumn to spring, from spring to autumn, from this year to next year; and thus had I got over, with mere hope, nearly thirty years of my journey through life, without suffering much from any of my numerous privations, ex- cepting the want of whole boots. I consoled my- self easily even for this, when I was out in the open air; but, in company, it always gave me an uneasy sensation to turn my heels forward, as the least torn part. It was much harder for me, how- ever, to have nothing to take with me into hovels of misery, but words of consolation. I comforted myself, as a thousand others have done, with casting a hopeful glance at Fortune’s rolling wheel, and with the philosophical remark, “ With time, comes counsel.” In the situation of curate to a parish in the country, with a poor salary and meagre diet, ex- periencing a moral famine in the society of the scolding mistress of ‘the house, of the indolent, self-indulgent pastor, of the strutting son, and of the daughter of the family, who, with high shoulders and feet, turned in, was going in and out, and paying visits from morning till night, I was sensible of a quite peculiar emotion of pleasure and hope, when I received a letter from one of my acquaintances, informing me that an uncle who was personally unknown to me, a merchant in Stockholm, was lying at his last extremity, and had inquired, in a sudden fit of death-bed affec- tion, for his good-for-nothing nephew. Seated in an uncommonly hard and jolting farmer’s cart, the grateful nephew soon set out. With a very thin, small bundle, and a million of rich hopes, he rattled up and down the hills, and reached at last, without broken bones, the capital city. At the inn where I alighted, I ordered a small!, only a very small breakfast—a trifle—a bit of bread and butter—a couple of eggs. The host and a stout man were walking up and down the room, busily talking. ‘ No, I must say,” said the stout gentleman, “this great merchant, Mr. P., who died the day before yesterday, was an odd fellow enough !” “ Yes, yes,” thought I, “aha! aha! an odd fellow, who had plenty of money! Here, my friend,” said I, to the servant, ‘‘ could you get me a bit of beef-steak, or a little something solid ? Do you hear? a bowl of hot soup would not be entirely out of place. Get it, if you can, but be quick.” “ Yes,” said mine host, “ he was pretty strong. Thirty thousand rix dollars, and more in the bank! Nobody in the whole city had dreamed of such a thing—thirty thousand !” “Thirty thousand!” I repeated, in my triumph- ant soul, “thirty thousand! Here, young man— waiter ! give me thirty thou—no, give me bank st—no, give me a bottle of wine, I say!” and from my head to my heart, the alternate echoes were ringing within me at every pulsation—thirty thousand ! thirty thousand !” “Yes,” proceeded the stout gentleman, “and can you really believe it, that, among the mass of debts, there are nine hundred rix dollars due for cutlets, and five thousand dollars for champagne ! 169 er HOPES. How the creditors are all standing round, gaping! All the things zm the house are scarcely worth twopence, and without it, to make up for this deficiency, there stands a single miserable— caleche !” “Aha! that is a little different. Here, young man—waiter ! take away again the meat, and the soup, and the wine! and, do you hear ? take par- ticular notice that I have not tasted a morsel of these things ; indeed, how should I? for I have done nothing but eat and drink since I opened my eyes this morning, (a horrible falsehood,) and it just struck me that it was not worth while, there- fore, to pay anything for such a superfluous meal.” “ But you have ordered it, sir,” answered the waiter, exceedingly provoked. “My friend,” I replied, putting my hand behind my ear,a place from which persons who are in perplexity are accustomed to seek necessary aid, “my friend, it was a mistake, for which I am not bound to pay; it was not my fault, that a rich heir, for whom I ordered the breakfast, has be- come poor all at once—indeed, poorer than before, since he has not more than half of his credit for the future. If, then, in such a change of circum- stances as you can well understand, he cannot pay for an expensive breakfast, yet that does not hinder me from paying for the eggs which I have eaten, and giving you, at the same time, a penny for a doucewr, since my affairs oblige me to go away from here at once.” By means of my excellent logic and good drink money, I was able, with a bleeding heart and thirsting lips, to get rid of my costly breakfast, and to set off with my little bundle under my arm, to walk round the city looking for a room, which I could hire for a small sum ; thinking, in the mean time, by what means I could procure even this small sum. I had got a bad headache by the sudden shock caused me by the difference between the reality and my hopes. But when, during my perambu- lations, I saw an elegantly-dressed gentleman, adorned with stars and ribbons, alighting from a splendid coach, and observed his tawny, yellow complexion, and the deep wrinkles on his forehead and over his eyebrows—the characteristic lines of ill-humour ; when I saw, also,a young count, whom T had known at the University at Upsala, walking as if he could scarcely hold himself up from pre- mature old age and weariness of life—then I raised my head, drew in a long breath of air, which hap- pened (unluckily) just in this place to be strongly impregnated with the smell of sausages, and cele- brated poverty and a good conscience ! In an obseure street in the outskirts of the city, { found at last a little room, better suited to my darkened circumstances, than to the bright hopes I had cherished a few hours before. I obtained permission to pass the winter in Stockholm, and expected to spend my time there quite differently from what I had now reason to anticipate. But what was to be done? The worst of all would be, to lose courage: to cross one’s arms, and look to Heaven for help, not much better. The sun breaks forth when it is least expected,” JT thought, while dark autumn clouds were hovering heavily over the city. I determined to exert all my energies to the obtaining, for the present, a decent support, with something 1-0 18 RY en better in prospect than was opened to me under the miserable patronage of the pastor G., and meanwhile to earn my daily bread by copying papers—a wretched means of escape from a wretched condition. And thus I passed my days in fruitless attempts to find ears which were not deaf, in the weari- some occupation of transcribing fairly the empty ideas of empty heads, with food constantly dimin- ishing, and hopes as constantly rising, until the evening against which I afterwards made a cross inmy calendar. . My host had just left me with the friendly warning, to pay my first quarter’s rent the next day, unless I should prefer (the politeness was quite & la frangaise) to make another voyage of discovery with pack and stick through the streets of the town. Tt was on an intensely cold November evening, which had worked its eighth hour, that, on my return from a visit to a poor sick person where I had—perhaps rather imprudently—emptied my purse, I was greeted in this affectionate manner. I snuffed my dim and sleep-inspiring candle with my fingers, and looked around the little dark room, for whose further use it was absolutely necessary I should obtain some money. * Diogenes had a worse one,” I said ina resigned mood, while I drew a ricketty table from the window, on the outside of which the wind and rain were not civil enough to remain. My eyes fell at the same moment upon a brilliantly-burning fire in the chimney of a kitchen, tantalizingly situated just opposite to my small room, in which the chimney was exactly the darkest thing. “Men and women cooks have a happy fate among erring mortals!” thought I, as I looked with secret envy at the jolly well-fed dame, who was standing amid gridirons and stew-pans, in the full splendour of the fire, like a queen, brandishing majestically the sceptre of the fire-tongs, in the midst of her glowing empire. A story higher up, I had a view through a window veiled by an envious curtain, of a brightly- lighted room, where a numerous family had assembled around a well-spread table. I was thoroughly stiffened with cold and wet— how empty in that part of the body sometimes called the store-house, I will not mention: but, oh heaven, (1 thought to myself,) if that pretty girl who is offering a cup of tea-nectar, and such delicious cakes, to that stout gentleman on the sofa, who can scarcely rise from over-eating, could but stretch out her beautiful hand somewhat further, and would, she should be greeted with a thousand kisses. In vain—ah! the lazy man takes the cup—he dips and dips in his biscuits so slowly and lazily—it is enough to make one weep to see him. How the sweet girl caresses him ! I am curious to know whether it is the dear Papa himself or an uncle—or perhaps—Ah, the enviable mortal ! but no, it is quite impossible—he is at least forty years older than she is. See, that must be his wife—an elderly lady who sits by him on the sofa, and to whom the young lady offers biscuits— the old lady has a very matronly appearance. But to whom is she going now, I cannot see the person ; an ear and a part of the shoulder is all that I can discern on account of the window-frame —TI cannot complain that the honourable lady an ny a aad LI er ney en ANF FLOPES. ——— should sit with her back to me, but that she should let the young lady stand before her a quarter of an hour, bowing and offering her refreshments—that vexes me greatly—it must be a woman, a man could not be so uncivil to that angel—but—or—now she takes the cup— and now, oh misery, the hand of a large man is thrust into the cake-basket; the brute! and how he grasps, the awkward creature—I should really like to know whether he is her brother ! he was probably hungry, poor fellow. Now two little children come into the circle—like their sister. I cannot but wonder whether the man with the ear has left them anything. How that lovely creature caresses and kisses the little ones, and gives them all the biscuits and cakes which the long fingers of Mr. Devour-all have left! And now the sweet angel herself has nothing of the whole provision any more than I—except the perfume. What an uproar suddenly takes place in the room! the old gentleman geis up from the sofa ; the person with an ear rushes forward, and in doing so gives the girl a push, (the dromedary !) so that she strikes against the tea-table, throwing back upon the sofa the poor old lady who was just getting up; the children skip and clap their hands —the doors fly open! a young officer steps in— the young lady throws her arms around him. Ah so! Aha! There we have it! I shut my win- dow-shutter with a violence which makes it crack, and sit down quite wet through, and shivering on my chair, What had I to do at the window ? one gets for his curiosity. A week ago this family came from the country and took possession of the fine house just opposite, and it never came into my head to ask who they were, or where they came from. What occasion had I this evening to make myself acquainted with their household affairs? How should this interest me? I was out of humour; my heart too was rather heavy, perhaps—but nevertheless—true to my principles, never to give myself up to anxious thoughts, unless they could lead to some useful end—I seized the pen with stiffened fingers, and in order to divert my thoughts, I determined to attempt to draw a picture of domestic happiness— of a happiness which I had never enjoyed. For the rest I philosophized while I breathed upon my frozen hands: “Am I then the first who has sought in the hot-house of fancy a warmth which the hard world of reality has denied him? Six dollars for a cord of birchwood ; but it will not last till December! I write !” “Happy, thrice happy the families in whose narrow circle no heart can grieve or rejoice alone —no glance, no smile can be unreturned, and where friends say to each other daily with actions rather than words— thy joys, thy happiness, are mine too !? “ Beautiful is the peaceful, the quiet home, which protectingly incloses the weary pilgrim of earth, which collects around the friendly blazing hearth—the old man leaning on the staff—the strong middle-aged man, the loving wife and happy children, who dance and sport around in their blessed earthly heaven, and who finish a day passed in innocence with grateful prayers upon their smiling lips; falling asleep on the breast of This is what 33 | their parents, while the soft voice of the mother tells them in whispering lullaby tones, how around their couch The angels are awake, Forming a circle, Surrounding the beds Where innocence sleeps.” There I was obliged to leave off, for I felt something like a drop of rain coming from my eyes, which prevented my seeing how to write fairly. “ How many,” thought I, my reflections taking involuntarily a melancholy turn—“ how many are obliged, to their sorrow, to go without this highest bliss of earthly life—domestic happiness!” I looked at myself for a moment in the only whole mirror which I had in my room—that of truth, and then wrote again with sad feelings: “ He may entirely be called unfortunate who, in the chill and anxious hours of life, (which occur so often,) is pressed to no faithful heart, whose sighs no one answers, whose silent sorrow no one softens, by saying—I understand you! I suffer with you ! “He is cast down, no one raises him up; he weeps, no one sees it, no one will see it; he goes out, no one follows him ; he rests, no one watches over him—he is solitary: O, how unhappy he is ! Why does he not die? Ah, who would weep for him? How cold is a grave, bedewed by no warm tears of affection ! “He is solitary in the winter-nights: for him the earth has no flowers, and the lights of heaven burn dimly. Why should he walk forth, the solitary One—why should he stay in the house, why does he not flee away, a shadow among shadows? Ah, he still hopes—he is a poor wretch, begging for joy, who still, in the eleventh hour, waits for the benevolent hand that shall give him alms. “He would gather one little flower on earth, and wear it in his bosom, that he need not after- wards go to rest so solitarily, so entirely alone.” I was describing my own situation—I was lamenting over myself. Deprived of my parents in early life, without brothers and sisters, friends or relations, I still remained so solitary and deserted in the world, that I might often have wished to quit it, if I had not had an inward trust in Heaven, and a naturally cheerful temperament. Until now, however, had almost constantly hoped in the future—and at the same time with an instinctive feeling that this was best, rather than from philosophy, I had suppressed all too earnest desires for present comfort, when it was entirely out of my power. But for some time, this had been unfortunately not the case with me ; I felt, and more than ever this evening, an inexpressible desire to have some one to love—to have a friend with me—one who should be mine—in short, for the highest happiness of life, a wife,a beloved and adored wife! QO! she would console me, she would make me happy! her tenderness would make me a king, though in the poorest cottage ! ' That the fire of love in my heart would not secure the faithful friend at my side from freezing, was made but too certain, by the involuntary shivering from which I was then suffering. I stood up more oppressed than cver, and walked round my room a few times—that is, I took two steps forward, and then turned directly a ane eeiniednecn ence despa esaicnmenne avn esa secsiopanepnninnuens ops 34 HOPES. | about. The consciousness of my condition followed me as the shadow on the wall, and for the first time in my life, I felt dejected, and threw a dark look into my obscure futurity. I had no patron, and could not therefore for a long time expect any income, by which to procure even my own bread —ergo, nothing for a friend—nothing for a wife. * But of what use in the world,” said I again quite seriously to myself, “is complaining?” I tried once again to dismiss all my anxious thoughts. “ Ah ! if but one christian soul would come to’me this evening! Whoever it might be, friend or foe —anything is better than this solitude. Yes, even if an inhabitant of the invisible world should open the door, he should be welcome tome! Who is this?” Three knocks at the door? I cannot believe—three more! I went to the door and opened it! there was no one there. Blasts of wind alone were howling through the passage. I shut the door again hastily, thrust my hands into my pockets, and walked about humming to myself a little while. A few minutes afterwards, I thought I heard a sigh! I was silent, and listened —again I distinctly heard a sigh, and yet again, so deep and so melancholy, that I cried out with inward distress: “ Who is there?” No answer, I stood still an instant, considering what this might portend, when a frightful noise on the stairs, as if a legion of cats were caterwauling on the landing-place, and finishing by a violent knock at my door, put an end to my uncertainty. I took up the candle and a stick, and went out. At the instant that I opened the door, the candle was blown out. A gigantic figure in white approached me, and I felt myself suddenly seized by two strong arms. I shrieked for help, and struggled so manfully to get free, that I fell to the ground with my antagonist, but in such a manner that I was the uppermost. I sprang up again swift as an arrow, and was going away to get a light, when I stumbled over something—God knows what it was ; (I firmly believe that some one took me hy the heels,) be that as it may, I fell a second tirae, struck my head against the table and lost my consciousness, hearing at the same time a pro- voking noise, which much resembled laughter. When I opened my eyes, they were met by a dazzling brightness. I closed them again, and listened to a confused murmuring around me— opened them again a little, and endeavoured to distinguish the objects about me, which seemed so extraordinary and wonderful, that I was almost afraid that my senses were disturbed. I was lying on a sofa, and—no, I certainly was not mistaken—the charming girl who had been con- stantly hovering before my fancy this evening, stood actually at my side, and with a heavenly expression of sympathy, was washing my head with vinegar. A young man whose countenance seemed familiar to me, was holding my hand in both of his. I perceived also the stout gentleman, another thin one, the lady, the children, and in a more remote twilight I saw glimmering the para- dise of the tea-table ; I found myself by an inconceivable whim of fate, in the midst of the family I had just been observing with so lively an interest. Afterwards, when I had fully recovered my senses, the young man embraced me several times with military impetuosity. “ Do you not recognise me then?” he cried out, astonished to see me like a statue in soul and body. “Have you then so entirely forgotten Augustus D., whose life you preserved so lately at the risk of your own? whom you so bravely fished out of the water, ex- posing yourself to the danger of remaining for ever in the uninteresting society of fishes? See here! my father, my* mother, my sister Wilhel- mina!” I pressed his hand, and now the parents also embraced me. With a loud stroke of his fist on the table, the father of Augustus now ex- claimed : “And because you have saved my son’s life, and because you are so good and honourable a fellow, and suffer hunger yourself, while you give bread to others, therefore you shall have the curacy at Halle—yes, you shall be shepherd of the flock I say! I have jus patronatus, you must know !” I was not for a long time able to understand, think or speak, and not until by a thousand explanations all was explained, could I understand anything clearly, but that Wilhelmina was not— that Wilhelmina was the sister of Augustus. He had arrived that evening from service with his regiment, when with which, during the preced- ing summer, an accident had given me an oppor- tunity of rescuing him from a danger into which he had thrown himself, by youthful ardour and presumption. I had not seen him after this circumstance; had accidentally made his acquaint- ance at an earlier period—taken with him the cup of brotherhood at the University, and afterwards forgotten my dear brother. He had now, with the easily-kindled enthusiasm of youth, been telling these circumstances to his family, and what else he knew or did not know about me. The father, who had a living at his disposal, and who (as I afterwards learned) had made from his window some compassionate observations upon my meagre dinner-table, deter- mined, at his son’s earnest entreaties, to raise , me from the lap of poverty to the height of felicity. Augustus in his transport, wishing to make me immediately acquainted with my good fortune, and at the same time to indulge his fancy for droll tricks, announced himself on my stairs in a manner, whose consequences for me were a considerable, though not dangerous contusion upon my head, and the unexpected transition to the opposite side of the street—from the deepest darkness to the brightest light. The good young man begged my pardon a thousand times for his heedlessness ; I assured him a thousand times, that it was not worth while to speak of so trifling a circumstance. And certainly the curacy was a balsam which would have made a deeper wound unfelt. With surprise and some embarrassment, I now perceived that the ear and shoulder, whose pos- sessor made such a frightful grasp in the cake- basket, and at which my wrath was so much kindled, belonged to the father of Augustus, and my patron. The stout gentleman who sat on the sofa, was Wilhelmina’s uncle. The kindness and cheerfulness of my new friends soon made me feel happy and at home. The old people treated me as one of their children, the young man as a brother, and the two little ones seemed to regard me as a future companion for their sports and frolics. HOPES. —. After I had received two cups of tea from Wil- helmina’s beautiful hand, to which I almost feared that in my absence of mind, I should add more biscuits than did my worthy patron, I rose to take leave. They entreated me to pass the night at their house, but I remained fixed in my determi- nation to pass the first night of happiness in my old habitation, in giving thanks to the high Ruler of my destiny. They all embraced me anew, and I embraced them also very heartily, even Wilhelmina, yet not till a gracious permission was granted. ‘ I might as well have let that alone,’ I thought to myself afterwards, “if it is to be the first and last time.’ Augustus went back with me. In my room we found mine host in the midst of overturned tables and chairs, with an expression of countenance hovering between rain and sunshine ; on one side of his face his mouth was stretched open as far as the ear, with a horrible smile ; on the other side it was drawn down to the chin with vexation ; his eyes followed the same direction, and the whole had the appearance of a cramp, until the manner in which Augustus ordered him to leave us alone, changed its whole aspect into that of the most friendly grin: while the man himself vanished from the door with the most humble bows. Augustus was in despair about my table, my chair, my bed, &c. I had much difficulty in re- straining him from beating the host, who insisted on being paid for such a hole. I could only satisfy him by making a solemn promise that I would go somewhere else the very next day. “ Bat be sure to tell him,’ Augustus insisted, “before you pay him, that he is a rogue, a rascal, a——, or if you will, I will tell him so.” No, no, beware,” I said, interrupting him, “let me alone, I will make all right.” After my young friend had left me, I passed a few happy hours in thinking of the change in my prospects, and in blessing God for it. Then my thoughts fixed on my parsonage ; and heaven knows what fat oxen and cows, what parks adorned with flowers, fruits and vegetables, I saw in spirit surrounding my beautiful paradise, in which my Eve was walking by my side, and sup- ported by my arm ; and, especially, what countless numbers of happy and improved human beings I saw streaming out of the church in which I had been preaching. I christened, I confirmed, I married the dear children of my flock’; in the joy of my heart I forgot only the burying. Every hungry priest who has obtained a living, every mortal, especially one who sees a long- cherished hope unexpectedly fulfilled, may imagine my feelings. Later in the night, a veil seemed to fall before my eyes, and my thoughts fell, by degrees, into a state of confusion which created all sorts of extra- ordinary images. I was preaching with a loud voice in my church, and the whole congregation were sleeping. After the service, the people, as they came from church, were transformed into oxen and cows, who came lowing to meet me, when [ was about to admonish them. I attempted to embrace my wife, but could not separate her from a large cow, which was continually increasing in size, and finally grew over the heads of us both. I tried to climb up to heaven upon a ladder—the stars shining down upon me clearly and invitingly 35 —but potatoes, grass, pea-vines, and straw, were unmercifully twisted about my feet, and prevented every step. At last I found myself going heels over head in the midst of my possessions, and while I was wondering quietly at myself in my sleepy soul, I fell soundly asleep while thinking about my dreams. Still, I carried on unconsciously the chain of my pastoral thoughts, and went on preach- ing in my sleep during the whole of the night, for, in the morning, I was awakened by the sound of my own voice, uttering a loud “ Amen.” That the events of the evening before were real truths, and not wholly dreams, I could not easily persuade myself, until Augustus came in and in- vited me to dine with his parents. The parsonage, Wilhelmina, the dinner, the new succession of hopes for the future, which were illuminated by the clear sun of the present, all sur- prised me anew, with a joy which may indeed be felt, but which can never be described. I welcomed from the depths of a thankful heart this new life which was opening upon me, with the fixed determination, that, whatever might come of it, yet that I would always endeavour to do right and to hope for the best. Two years afterwards, I was sitting one autumn afternoon at my dear parsonage, before a cheerful fire. Near me was sitting my dear little wife, my sweet Wilhelmina, at her spinning-wheel. I was just about te read to her a little sermon which I intended to deliver the next Sunday, and from which I promised myself much edification both for her and the whole congregation. While I was turning it over, a loose leaf fell out; it was the very paper on which, the same day two years be- fore, under totally different circumstances, I had written down my sad and unhappy thoughts, I showed it to my wife. She read it, smiied with a tear in her eye, and with rather a roguish look, which is, I believe, peculiar to herself, she took her pen and wrote on the other side of the paper : “The author can now, God be praised, make a sketch of himself, which shall be exactly opposite to this, which he drew in an unhappy hour of a wretched solitary mortal. “‘ He is now no longer solitary, no longer forlorn. The silent sigh is answered, his secret sorrow is shared by a tenderly attached wife. He goes out, her heart follows him ; he comes back, she goes smiling to meet him; his tears do not flow unmarked, they are dried by her hand, and his smile is again re- flected in hers ; she gathers flowers to adorn his brow, or to strew in his path. He has a family, attached friends, and counts among his own rela- tives all those who have none.” My Wilhelmina had described truly the happy present, and kindled by feelings which are bright and joyful as the rays of the spring sun, | will now, as before, let my little troop of light hopes dance on into the future. I hope then, that my next Sunday’s sermon will not be without benefit to my hearers ; and should the tired ones sleep, I hope that I shall not let that, or any of the greater or smaller inconve- niences of life, go to my heart, or disturb my tranquillity. 1 know my Wilhelmina, and | think I know myself too, well enough to hope with cer: tainty that I shall always make her happy. The 173 en Rl RN Ee em Tae nl eS Lhe ase Se TU a a ee sweet angel has given mea hope that she will soon add another to the number of our truly happy 316 HOPES. We hope, that is, my Wilhelmina and I, to dry up during this time a great many tears, and to little household. I hope there will be more in ; shed as few ourselves, as may be consistent with future. For my child I have all sorts of hopes in ; our lot as children of the earth. petto. Should I have a son, I hope that he will | "We hope not to outlive each other. be my successor ; should I have a daughter, so— In fine, we hope to be always able to hope, and if Augustus should wait,— but I believe that he is | when the hour comes, in which the hopes of the now about to marry. green earth shall vanish before the light of eternal I hope, in time, to find a- publisher for my | certainty, we still hope, that the All Gracious sermons, Father will pass a mild judgment over his grateful, I hope to live with my wife at least a hundred | humbly hoping children. years, | THE END, oe eee nee aha ones pinmonsapec op eeeeglater nn penn niece ne ltd Anns theese hietantnea npn tanith apd inpghtned nt aim treet Rana rh tei SNF, 174 Ta a Ee OT Te a (of Tiga tee : Br ORS Se i tae Br URBANA UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS- Hil AM i Mh | | 3 0112 126