Falkland; The pilgrims of the Rhine; Pausanias, the Spartan

Falkland

The Pilgrims of the Rhine
Pausanias, the Spartan

FRONTISPIECE.

Falkland

The Pilgrims of the Rhine
Pausanias, the Spartan

BY

THE RIGHT HON. LORD LYTTON

LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS

BROADWAY, LUDGATK HILL

GLASGOW AND NEW YORK
1888

PR

THE POCKET VOLUME EDITION

OF

LORD LYTTON'S NOVELS

JSSUED IN MONTHLY yOLUMkf,

Stulrs nC JJintitmj.

A Paper Cover, Cut Edges.

B ,, ,, Uncut Kdges.

C Cloth Cover, Cut Edges.

D ,, ,, Uncut Edges.

E Half-bound Gilt Tops. Cut Edges.

F ,, „ ,, Uncut Edges.

PREFATORY NOTE TO THE KNEBWORTH
EDITION.

"FALKLAND" is the earliest of Lord Lytton's prose fictions.
Published before "Pelham," it was written in the boyhood of its
illustrious author. In the maturity of his manhood and the fulness
of his literary popularity he withdrew it from print. This is the
first English edition of his collected works in which the tale re-
appears. It is because the morality of it was condemned by his
experienced judgment, that the author of "Falkland" deliberately
omitted it from each of the numerous reprints of his novels and
romances which were published in England during his lifetime.

Messrs. Routledge therefore desire to state the motives which
have induced them, with the consent of the author's son, to include
"Falkland" in the present edition of his collected works.

In the first place, this work has been for many years, and still is,
accessible to English readers in every country except England. The
continental edition of it, published by Baron Taucimitz, has a wide
circulation ; and, since for this reason the book cannot practically
be withheld from the public, it is thought desirable that the publi-
cation of it should at least be accompanied by some record of the
above-mentioned fact.

In the next place, the considerations which would naturally guide
an author of established reputation in the selection of early compo-
sitions for subsequent republication, are obviously inapplicable to
the preparation of a posthumous standard edition of his collected
works. Those who read the tale of "Falkland" eight-and-forty
years ago l have long survived the age when character is influenced
by the literature of sentiment. The readers to whom it is now
presented are not Lord Lytton's contemporaries ; they are his
posterity. To them his works have already become classical. It
is only upon the minds of the young that the works of sentiment
have any appreciable moral influence. But the sentiment of each
1 It was published in 1827.

viii PREFATORY NOTE TO THE KNEBWORTH EDITION.

age is peculiar to itself ; and the purely moral influence of senti-
mental fiction seldom survives the age to which it was first addressed.
The youngest and most impressionable reader of such works as the
"Nouvelle Helbise," " Werthe," "The Robbers," "Corinne," or
" Rene," is not now likely to be morally influenced, for good or ill,
by the perusal of those masterpieces of genius. Had Byron attained
the age at which great authors most realize the responsibilities of
fame and genius, he might possibly have regretted, and endeavoured
to suppress, the publication of "Don Juan" ; but the possession of
that immortal poem is an unmixed benefit to posterity, and the loss
of it would have been an irreparable misfortune.

" Falkland," although the earliest, is one of the most carefully
finished of its author's compositions. All that was once turbid,
heating, unwholesome in the current of sentiment which flows
through this history of a guilty passion, " Death's immortalizing
winter " has chilled and purified. The book is now a harmless, and
it may be hoped, a not uninteresting, evidence of the precocity of
its author's genius. As such, it is here reprinted.

FALKLAND.

BOOK I.

FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO THE HON.
FREDERICK MONKTON.

L , May — , 1822.

|OU are mistaken, my dear Monkton ! Your description cf
the gaiety of " the season " gives me no emotion. You
speak of pleasure ; I remember no labour so wearisome :
you enlarge upon its changes ; no sameness appears to me
so monotonous. Keep, then, your pity for those who require it.
From the height of my philosophy I compassionate you. No one is
so vain as a recluse ; and your jests at my hermitship and hermitage
cannot penetrate the folds of a self-conceit, which does not envy you

in your suppers at D House, nor even in your waltzes with

Eleanor .

It is a ruin rather than a house which I inhabit. I have not been

nt L since my return from abroad, and during those years the

place has gone rapidly to decay ; perhaps, for that reason, it suits
me better, tel maitre telle maison.

Of all my possessions this is the least valuable in itself, and derives
the least interest from the associations of childhood, for it was not at

L that any part of that period was spent. I have, however,

chosen it for my present retreat, because here only I am personally
'unknown, and therefore little likely to. be disturbed. I do not,
indeed, wish for the interruptions designed as civilities ; I rather
gather around myself, link after link, the chains that connected me
with the world ; I find among my own thoughts that variety and
occupation which you only experience in- your intercourse with others ;
and Imake, like the Chinese, my map of the universe consist of a
circle in a square — the circle is my own empire of thought and self ;
and it is to the scanty corners which it leaves without, that I banish
whatever belongs to the remainder of mankind.

2 FALKLAND.

About a mile from L is Mr. Mancleville's beautiful villa of

E , in the midst of grounds which form a delightful contrast to

the savage and wild scenery by which they are surrounded. As the
house is at present quite deserted, I have obtained, through the
gardener, a free admittance into his domains, and I pass there whole
hours, indulging, like the hero of the Lulrin, " une sainte oisivete"
listening to a little noisy brook, and letting my thoughts be almost
as vague and idle as the birds which wander among the trees that
surround me. I could wish, indeed, that this simile were in all
things correct — that those thoughts, if as free, were also as happy
as the objects of my comparison ; and could, like them, after the
rovings of the day, turn at evening to a resting-place, and be still.
We are the dupes and the victims of our senses : while we use them
to gather from external things the hoards that we store within, we
cannot foresee the punishments we prepare for ourselves ; the re-
membrance which stings, and the hope which deceives, the passions
which promise us rapture, which reward us with despair, and the
thoughts which if they constitute the healthful action, make also the
feverish excitement of our minds. What sick man has not dreamt
in his delirium everything that our philosophers have said?1 But I
am growing into my old habit of gloomy reflection, and it is time
that I should conclude. I meant to have written you a letter as
light as your own ; if I have failed, it is no wonder. — " Notre coeur
est un instrument incomplet — une lyre oil il manque des cordes, et
oil nous sommes forces de rendre les accens de la joie, sur le ton
consacre aux soupirs."

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

You ask me to give you some sketch of my life, and of that bel
mondo which wearied me so soon. Men seldom reject an oppor-
tunity to talk of themselves ; and I am not unwilling to re-examine
the past, to re-connect it with the present, and to gather from a con-
sideration of each what hopes and expectations are still left to me for
the future.

But my detail must be rather of thought than of action : most of
those whose fate has been connected with mine are now living, and
I would not, even to you, break that tacit confidence which much of
ray history would require. After all, you will have no loss. The
actions of another may interest — but, for the most part, it is only his

1 Quid aegrolus unqnam somniavit quod philosophorum aliqviis non dixerit ?
— LACTAHTII-S.

FALKLAND. 3

reflections which come home to us ; for few have acted, nearly all of
us have thought.

My own vanity too would be unwilling to enter upon incidents
which had their origin either in folly or in error. It is true that
those follies and errors have ceased, but their effects remain. With
years our faults diminish, but our vices increase.

You know that my mother was Spanish, and that my father was
one of that old race of which so few scions remain, who, living in a
distant country, have been little influenced by the changes of fashion,
and, priding themselves on the antiquity of their names, have looked
with contempt upon the modern distinctions and the mushroom
nobles which have sprung up to discountenance and eclipse the
plainness of more venerable and solid respectability. In his youth
my father had served in the army. He. had known much of men
and more of books ; but his knowledge, instead of rooting out, had
rather been engrafted on l.is prejudices. He was one of that class
{and I say it with a private reverence, though a public regret), who,
with the best intentions, have made the worst citizens, and who
think it a duty to perpetuate whatever is pernicious by having learnt
to consider it as sacred. He was a great country gentleman, a great
sportsman, and a great Tory ; perhaps the three worst enemies
which a country can have. Though beneficent to the poor, he gave
but a cold reception to the rich ; for he was too refined to associate
with his inferiors, and too proud to like the competition of his equals.
One ball and two dinners a-year constituted all the aristocratic
portion of our hospitality, and at the age of twelve, the noblest and
youngest companions that I possessed, were a large Danish dog and
a wild mountain pony, as unbroken and as lawless as myself. It is
only in later years that we can perceive the immeasurable importance
of the early scenes and circumstances which surrounded us. It was
in the loneliness of my unchecked wanderings that my early affection
for my own thoughts was conceived. In the seclusion of Nature —
in whatever court she presided — the education of my mind was begun ;
and, even at that early age, I rejoiced (like the wild hart the Grecian
poet ' had described) in the stillness of the great woods, and the
solitudes unbroken by human footstep.

The first change in my life was under melancholy auspices ; my
father fell suddenly ill, and died ; and my mother, whose very exist-
ence seemed only held in his presence, followed him in three months.
I remember that, a few hours before her death, she called me to
her: she reminded me that, through her, I was of Spanish extrac-
tion ; that in her country I received my birth, and that, not the less
1 Eurip. Bacchae, i. 874.

4 FALKLAND.

for its degradation and distress, I might hereafter find in the rela-
tions which I held to it a remembrance to value, or even a duty to
fulfil. On her tenderness to me at that hour, on the impression it
made upon my mind, and on the keen and enduring sorrow which
I felt for months after her death, it would be useless to dwell.

My uncle became my guardian. He is, you know, a member of
parliament of some reputation ; very sensible and very dull ; very
much respected by men, very much disliked by women ; and inspiring
all children, of either sex, with the same unmitigated aversion which
he feels for them himself.

I did not remain long under his immediate care. I was soon sent to
school — that preparatory world, where the great primal principles of
human nature, in the aggression of the strong and the meanness of the
weak, constitute the earliest lesson of importance that we are taught ;
and where the forced frintitice of that less universal knowledge which
is useless to the many who, in after life, neglect, and bitter to the few
who improve it, are the first motives for which our minds are to be
broken to terror, and our hearts initiated into tears.

Bold and resolute by temper, I soon carved myself a sort of career
among my associates. A hatred to all oppression, and a haughty
and unyielding character, made me at once the fear and aversion of
the greater powers and principalities of the school ; while my agility
at all boyish games, and my ready assistance or protection to every
one who required it, made me proportionally popular with, and
courted by, the humbler multitude of the subordinate classes. I was
constantly surrounded by the most lawless and mischievous followers
whom the school could afford ; all eager for my commands, and all
pledged to their execution.

In good truth, I was a worthy Rowland of such a gang : though I
excelled in, I cared little for, the ordinary amusements of the school :
I was fonder of engaging in marauding expeditions contrary to our
legislative restrictions, and I valued myself equally upon my boldness
in planning our exploits, and my dexterity in eluding their discovery.
But exactly in proportion as our school terms connected me with
those of my own years, did our vacations unfit me for any intimate
companionship but that which I already began to discover in myself.

Twice in the year, when I went home, it was to that wild and
romantic part of the country where my former childhood had been
spent. There, alone and unchecked, I was thrown utterly upon my
own resources. I wandered by day over the rude scenes which
surrounded us ; and at evening I pored, with -an unwearied delight,
over the ancient legends which made those scenes sacred to my
imagination. I grew by degrees of a more thoughtful and visionary

FALKLAND. 5

nature. My temper imbibed the romance of my studies ; and
whether, in winter, basking by the large hearth of our old hall, or
stretched, in the indolent voluptuousness of summer, by the rushing
streams which formed the chief characteristic of the country around
us, my hours were equally wasted in those dim and luxurious dreams,
which constituted, perhaps, the essence of that poetry I had not the
genius to embody. It was then, by that alternate restlessness of action
and idleness of reflection, into which my young years were divided,
that the impress of my character was stamped r that fitfulness of
temper, that affection for extremes has accompanied me through life.
Hence, not only all intermediums of emotion appear to me as tame,
but even the most overwrought excitation can briftg neither novelty
nor zest. I have, as it were, feasted upon the passions ; I have made
that my daily food, which, in its strength and excess, would have
been poison to others ; I have rendered my mind unable to enjoy
the ordinary aliments of nature ; and I have wasted, by a premature
indulgence, my resources and my powers, till I have left my heart,
without a remedy or a hope, to whatever disorders its own intemperance
has engendered.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

When I left Dr. 's, I was sent to a private tutor in D e.

Here I continued for about two years. It was during that time that — •
but what then befel me is for no living ear ! The characters of that
history are engraven on my heart in letters of fire ; but it is a lan-
guage that none but myself have the authority to read. It is enough
for the purpose of my confessions that the events of that period were
connected with the first awakening of the most powerful of human
passions, and that, whatever their commencement, their end was
despair ! and she — the object of that love — the only being in the
world who ever possessed the secret and the spell of my nature — her
life was the bitterness and the fever of a troubled heart, — her rest is
the grave —

Non la conobbe il mondo mentre 1'ebbe

Con ibill 'io, ch 'a pianger qui rimasi.

That attachment was not so much a single event, as the first link
in a long chain which was coiled around my heart. It were a
tedious and bitter history, even were it permitted, to tell you of all
the sins and misfortunes to which in after-life that passion was
connected. I will only speak of the more hidden but general effect
it had upon my mind ; though, indeed, naturally inclined to a morbid
and melancholy philosophy, k is more than probable, but for that

6 FALKLAND.

occurrence, that it would never have found matter for excitement.
Thrown early among mankind, I should early have imbibed their feel-
ings, and grown like them by the influence of custom. I should not
have carried within me one unceasing remembrance, which was to
teach me, like Faustus, to find nothing in knowledge but its inutility,
or in hope but its deceit ; and to bear like him, through the blessings
of youth and the allurements of pleasure, the curse and the presence
of a fiend.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

It was after the first violent grief produced by that train of cir-
cumstances to which I must necessarily so darkly allude, that I
began to apply with earnestness to books. Night and day I devoted
myself unceasingly to study, and from this fit I was only recovered by
the long and dangerous illness it produced. Alas ! there is no fool
like him who wishes for knowledge ! It is only through woe that we
are taught to reflect, and we gather the honey of worldly wisdom,
not from flowers, but thorns.

" Une grande passion malheureuse est un grand moyen de sagesse."
From the moment in which the buoyancy of my spirit was first
broken by real anguish, the losses of the heart were repaired by the
experience of the mind. I passed at once, like Melmoth, from youth
to age. What were any longer to me the ordinary avocations of my
contemporaries ? I had exhausted years in moments — I had wasted,
like the Eastern Queen, my richest jewel in a draught. I ceased to
hope, to feel, to act, to burn : such are the impulses of the young !
I learned to doubt, to reason, to analyze : such are the habits of the
old ! From that time, if I have not avoided the pleasures of life, I
have not enjoyed them. Women, wine, the society of the gay, the
commune of the wise, the lonely pursuit of knowledge, the daring
visions of ambition, all have occupied me in turn, and all alike have
deceived me ; but, like the Widow in the story of Voltaire, I have
built at last a temple to "Time, the Comforter: " I have grown
calm and unrepining with years ; and, if I am now shrinking from
men, I have derived at least this advantage from the loneliness first
made habitual by regret ; — that while I feel increased benevolence to
others, I have learned to look for happiness only in myself.

They alone are independent of Fortune who have made themselves
a separate existence from the world.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

I went to the University with a great fund of general reading, and
habits of constant application. My uncle, who having no children

FALKLAND. 7

of his own, began to be ambitious for me, formed great expectations
of my career at Oxford. I stayed there three years, and did nothing !
I did not gain a single prize, nor did I attempt anything above the
ordinary degree. The fact is, that nothing seemed to me worth the
labour of success. I conversed with those who had obtained the
highest academical reputation, and I smiled with a consciousness
of superiority at the boundlessness of their vanity, and the narrow-
ness of their views. The limits of the distinction they had gained
seemed to them as wide as the most extended renown ; and the little
knowledge their youth had acquired only appeared to them an excuse
for the ignorance and the indolence of maturer years. Was it to
equal these that I was to labour? I felt that I already surpassed
them ! Was it to gain their good opinion, or, still worse, that of
their admirers ? Alas ! I had too long learned to live for myself to
find any happiness in the respect of the idlers I despised.

I left Oxford at the age of twenty-one. I succeeded to the large
estates of my inheritance, and for the first time I felt the vanity so
natural to youth when I went up to London to enjoy the resources
of the Capital, and to display the powers I possessed to revel in
whatever those resources could yield. I found society like the
Jewish temple: any one is admitted into its threshold; none but
the chiefs of the institution into its recesses.

Young, rich, of an ancient and honourable name, pursuing pleasure
rather as a necessary excitement than an occasional occupation, and
agreeable to the associates I drew around me because my profusion
contributed to their enjoyment, and my temper to their amusement —
I found myself courted by many, and avoided by none. I soon dis-
covered that all civility is but the mask of design. I smiled at the
kindness of the fathers who, hearing that I was talented, and know-
ing that I was rich, looked to my support in whatever political side
they had espoused. I saw in the notes of the mothers their anxiety
for the establishment of their daughters, and their respect for my
acres ; and in the cordiality of the sons who had horses to sell and
rouge-et-noir debts to pay, I detected all that veneration for my
money which implied such contempt for its possessor. By nature
observant, and by misfortune sarcastic, I looked upon the various
colourings of society with a searching and philosophic eye : I un-
ravelled the intricacies which knit servility with arrogance, and
meanness with ostentation ; and I traced to its sources that universal
•vulgarity of inward sentiment and external manner, which, in all
classes, appears to me to constitute the only unvarying characteristic
of our countrymen. In proportion as I increased my knowledge of
others, I shrunk with a deeper disappointment and dejection into

8 FALKLAND.

my own resources. The first moment of real happiness which I
experienced for a whole year was when I found myself about to
seek, beneath the influence of other skies, that more extended
acquaintance with my species which might either draw me to them
with a closer connection, or at least reconcile me to the ties which
already existed.

I will not dwell upon my adventures abroad : there is little to
interest others in a recital which awakens no interest in one's self.
I sought for wisdom, and I acquired but knowledge. I thirsted for
the truth, the tenderness of love, and I found but its fever and its
falsehood. Like the two Florimels of Spenser, I mistook, in my
delirium, the delusive fabrication of the senses for the divine
reality of the heart ; and I only awoke from my deceit when the
phantom I had worshipped melted into snow. Whatever I pursued
partook of the energy, yet fitfulness of my nature ; mingling to-day
in the tumults of the city, and to-morrow alone with my own heart
in the solitude of unpeopled nature; now revelling in the wildest
excesses, and now tracing, with a painful and unwearied search, the
intricacies of science ; alternately governing others, and subdued by
the tyranny which my own passions imposed — I passed through the
ordeal unshrinking yet unscathed. "The education of life," says
De Stael, "perfects the thinking mind, but depraves the frivolous."
I do not inquire, Monkton, to which of these classes I belong ; but
T feel too well, that though my mind has not been depraved, it has
found no perfection but in misfortune ; and that whatever be the
acquirements of later years, they have nothing which can compensate
for the losses of our youth.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

I returned to England. I entered again upon the theatre of its
world ; but I mixed now more in its greater than its lesser pur-
suits. I looked rather at the mass than the leaven of mankind ;
and while I feit aversion for the few whom I knew, I glowed with
philanthropy for the crowd which I know not.

It is in contemplating men at a distance that we become benevolent.
When we mix with them, we suffer by the contact, and grow, if not
malicious from the injury, at least selfish from the circumspection
which our safety imposes : but when, while we feel our relationship,
we are not galled by the tie ; when neither jealousy, nor envy, nor
resentment are excited, we have nothing to interfere with those more
complacent and kindliest sentiments which our earliest impressions
have rendered natural to our hearts. We may fly men in hatred

FALKLAND. 9

"because they have galled us, but the feeling ceases with the cause :
none will willingly feed long upon bitter thoughts. It is thus that,
while in the narrow circle in which we move we suffer daily from
those who approach us, we can, in spite of our resentment to them,
glow with a general benevolence to the wider relations from which
we are remote ; that while smarting beneath the treachery of friend-
ship, the sting of ingratitude, the faithlessness of love, we would
almost sacrifice our lives to realize some idolized theory of legislation ;
and that, distrustful, calculating, selfish in private, there are thousands
who would, with a credulous fanaticism, fling themselves as victims
before that unrecompensing Moloch which they term the Public.

Living, then, much by myself, but reflecting much upon the world,
I learned to love mankind. Philanthropy brought ambition ; for I
was ambitious, not for my own aggrandizement, but for the service
of others — for the poor — the toiling — the degraded ; these constituted
that part of my fellow beings which I the most loved, for these were
bound to me by the most engaging of all human ties— misfortune !
I began to enter into the intrigues of the state ; I extended my
observation and inquiry from individuals to nations ; I examined
into the mysteries ot the science which has arisen in these later da;, s
to give the lie to the wisdom of the past, to reduce into the simplicity
of problems the intricacies of political knowledge, to teach us the
fallacy of the system which had governed by restriction, and imagined
that the happiness of nations depended upon the perpetual interfer-
ence of its rulers, and to prove to us that the only unerring policy of
art is to leave a free and unobstructed progress to the hidden energies
and providence of Nature. But it was not only the theoretical in-
vestigation of the state which employed me. I mixed, though in
secret, with the agents of its springs. While I seemed only intent
upon pleasure, I locked in my heart the consciousness and vanity of
power. In the levity of the lip I disguised the workings and the
Icnowledge of the brain ; and I looked, as with a gifted eye, upon
the mysteries of the hidden depths, while I seemed to float an idler,
with the herd, only on the surface of the stream.

Why was I disgusted, when I had but to put forth my hand and
grasp whatever object my ambition might desire ? Alas ! there was
in my heart always something too soil for the aims and cravings
of my mind. I felt that I was wasting the young years of my life in
a barren and wearisome pursuit. What to me, who had outlived
vanity, would have been the admiration of the crowd ! I sighed for
the sympathy of the one! and I shrunk in sadness from the prospect
of renown to ask my heart for the reality of love ! For what pur-
pose, too, had I devoted myself to the service of men ? As I grew

15 2

io FALKLAND.

more sensible of the labour of pursuing, I saw more of the inutility
of accomplishing, individual measures. There is one great and
moving order of events which we may retard, but we cannot arrest,
and to which, if we endeavour to hasten them, we only give a
dangerous and unnatural impetus. Often, when in the fever of the
midnight, I have paused from my Unshared and unsoftened studies,
to listen to the deadly pulsation of my heart,1 when I have felt in
its painful and tumultuous beating the very life waning and wasting
within me, I have sickened to my inmost soul to remember that,
amongst all those whom I was exhausting the health and enjoyment
of youth to benefit, there was not one for whom my life had an
interest, or by whom my death would be honoured by a tear. There
is a beautiful passage in Chalmers on the want of sympathy we
experience in the world, From my earliest childhood I had one
deep, engrossing, yearning desire, — and that was to love and to be
loved. I found, too young, the realization of that dream — it passed !
and I have never known it again. The experience of long and
bitter years teaches me to look with suspicion on that far recollection
of the past, and to doubt if this earth could indeed produce a living
form to satisfy the visions of one who has dwelt among the boyish
creations of fancy — who has shaped out in his heart an imaginary
idol, arrayed it in whatever is most beautiful in nature, and breathed
into the image the pure but burning spirit of that innate love from
•which it sprung ! It is true that my manhood has been the un-
deceiver of my youth, and that the meditation upon facts has dis-
cn;hralled me from the visionary broodings over fiction ; but what
remuneration have I found in reality? If the line of the satirist be
not true,

" Souvent de tous nos maux la raison est le pire,"-

at least, like the madman of whom he speaks, I owe but little
gratitude to the act which, "in drawing me from my error, has
robbed me also of a paradise."

I am approaching the conclusion of my confessions. Men who
have no ties in the world, and who have been accustomed to solitude,
find, with every disappointment in the former, a greater yearning
for the enjoyments which the latter can afford. Day by day I
relapsed more into myself; "man delighted me not, nor woman
either." In my ambition, it was not in the means, but the end,
that I was disappointed. In my friends, I complained not of
treachery, but insipidity ; and it was not because I was deserted,

1 Falkland suffered much, from very early youth, from a complaint in his heart.

2 Uoileau.

FALKLAND. i r

but wearied by more tender connections, that I ceased to find cither
excitement in seeking, or triumph in obtaining, their love. It was
not, then, in a momentary disgust, but rather in the calm of satiety,
that I formed that resolution of retirement which I have adopted
now.

Shrinking from my kind, but too young to live wholly for myself,
I have made a new tie with nature ; I have come to cement it here.
I am like a bird which has wandered afar, but has returned home to
its nest at last. But there is one feeling which had its origin in
the world, and which accompanies me still ; which consecrates my
recollections of the past ; which contributes to take its gloom from
the solitude of the present : — Do you ask me its nature, Monkton ?
It is my friendship for you.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

I wish that I could convey to you, dear Monkton, the faintest
idea of the pleasures of indolence. You belong to that class which
is of all the most busy, though the least active. Men of pleasure
never have time for anything. No lawyer, no statesman, no
bustling, hurrying, restless underling of the counter or the Exchange,
is so eternally occupied as a lounger "about town." He is linked
to labour by a series of undefinable nothings. His independence
and idleness only serve to fetter and engross him, and his leisure
seems held upon the condition of never having a moment to himself.
Would that you could see me at this instant in the luxury of my
summer retreat, surrounded by the trees, the waters, the wild birds,
and the hum, the glow, the exultation which teem visibly and
audibly through creation in the noon of a summer's day ! I am
undisturbed by a single intruder. I am unoccupied by a single
pursuit. I suffer one moment to glide into another, without the
remembrance that the next must be filled up by some laborious
pleasure, or some wearisome enjoyment. It is here that I feel all
the powers, and gather together all the resources of my mind. I
recall my recollections of men ; and, unbiassed by the passions and
prejudices which we do not experience alone, because their very
existence depends upon others, I endeavour to perfect my knowledge
of the human heart. He who would acquire that better science
must arrange and analyze in private the experience he has collected
in the crowd. Alas, Monkton, when you have expressed surprise
at the gloom which is so habitual to my temper, did it never occur
to you that my acquaintance with the world would alone be sufficient
to account for it? — lhat knowledge is neither for the good nor the

1 2 FALKLAND.

happy. Who can touch pitch, and not be defiled ? Who can look
upon the workings of grief and rejoice, or associate with guilt and
be pure?

It has been by mingling with men, not only in their haunts but
their emotions, that I have learned to know them. I have descended
into the receptacles of vice ; I have taken lessons from the brothel
and the hell ; I have watched feeling in its unguarded sallies, and
drawn from the impulse of the moment conclusions which gave the
lie to the previous conduct of years. But all knowledge brings us
disappointment, and this knowledge the most — the satiety of good,
the suspicion of evil, the decay of our young dreams, the premature
iciness of age, the reckless, aimless, joyless indifference which
follows an overwrought and feverish excitation — These constitute
the lot of men who have renounced hope in the acquisition of thought,
and who, in learning the motives of human actions, learn only to
despise the persons and the things which enchanted them like
divinities before.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

I told you, dear Monkton, in my first letter, of my favourite
retreat in Mr. Mrmdeville's grounds. I have grown so attached to
it, that I spend the greater part of the day there. I am not one of
those persons who always perambulate with a book in their hands,
as if neither nature nor their own reflections could afford them any
rational amusement. I go there more frequently en paressenx than
en savant : a small brooklet which runs through the grounds broadens
at last into a deep, clear, transparent lake. Here fir and elm and oak
fling their branches over the margin ; and beneath their shade I pass
all the hours of noon-day in the luxuries of a dreamer's reverie. It
is true, however, that I am never less idle than when I appear the
most so. I am like Prospero in his desert island, and surround
myself with spirits. A spell trembles upon the leaves ;• every wave
comes fraught to me with its peculiar music : and an Ariel seems to
whisper the secrets of every breeze, which comes to my forehead
laden with the perfumes of the West. But do not think, Monkton,
that it is only good spirits which haunt the recesses of my solitude.
To push the metaphor to exaggeration — Memory is my Sycorax, and
Gloom is the Caliban she conceives. But let me digress from myself
to my less idle occupations ; — I have of late diverted my thoughts in
some measure by a recurrence to a study to which I once was par-
ticularly devoted — history. Have you ever remarked, that people
who live the most by themselves reflect the most upon others ; and

FALKLAND. 13

that he who lives surrounded by the million never thinks of any but
the one individual — himself? Philosophers — moralists — historians,
whose thoughts, labours, lives, have been devoted to the consider-
ation of mankind, or the analysis of public events, have usually been
remarkably attached to solitude and seclusion. We are indeed so
linked to our fellow-beings, that, where we are not chained to them
by action, we are carried to and connected with them by thought.

I have just quitted the observations of my favourite Bolingbroke
upon history. I cannot agree with him as to its utility. The more
I consider, the more I am convinced that its study has been upon
the whole pernicious to mankind. It is by those details, which are
always as unfair in their inference as they must evidently be doubtful
in their facts, that party animosity and general prejudice are sup-
ported and sustained. There is not one abuse — one intolerance —
one remnant of ancient barbarity and ignorance existing at the
present day, which is not advocated, and actually confirmed by some
vague deduction from the bigotry of an illiterate chronicler, or the
obscurity of an uncertain legend. It is through the constant appeal
to our ancestors that we transmit wretchedness and wrong to our
posterity : we should require, to corroborate an evil originating in
the present day, the clearest and most satisfactory proof ; but the
minutest defence is sufficient for an evil handed down to us by the
barbarism of antiquity. We reason from what even in old times was
dubious, as if we were adducing what was certain in those in which
we live. And thus we have made no sanction to abuses so powerful
as history, and no enemy to the present like the past.

FROM THE LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE TO MRS. ST. JOHN.

At last, my dear Julia, I am settled in my beautiful retreat. Mrs.
Dalton and Lady Margaret Leslie are all whom I could prevail upon
to accompany me. Mr. Mandeville is full of the corn-laws. He is
chosen chairman to a select committee in the House. He is mur-
muring agricultural distresses in his sleep ; and when I asked him
occasionally to come down here to see me, he started from a reverie,
and exclaimed — " Never, Mr. Speaker, as a landed proprietor ; never
will I consent to my own ruin."

My boy, my own, my beautiful companion, is with me. I wish
you could see how fast he can run, and how sensibly he can talk.
" What a fine figure he has for his age ! " said I to Mr. Mandeville
the other day. " Figure ! age ! " said his father ; "in the House of
Commons he shall make a figure to every age." I know that in
writing to you, you will not be contented if I do not say a great deal

14 FALKLAND.

about myself. I shall therefore proceed to tell you, that I feel already
much better from the air and exercise of the journey, from the con-
versation of my two guests, and, above all, from the constant society
of my dear boy. He was three last birthday. I think that at the
age of twenty-one, I am the least childish of the two. Pray re-
member me to all in town who have not quite forgotten me. Beg

Lady to send Elizabeth a subscription ticket for Ahnack's, and

— oh, talking of Almack's, I think my boy's eyes are even more blue

and beautiful than Lady C 's.

Adieu, my dear Julia,

Ever, &c.,

E. M.

Lady Emily Mandeville was the daughter of the Duke of Lind-
vale. She married, at the age of sixteen, a man of large fortune,
and some parliamentary reputation. Neither in person nor in
character was he much beneath or above the ordinary standard of
men. He was one of Nature's Macadamized achievements. His
great fault was his equality ; and you longed for a hill though it were
to climb, or a stone though it were in your way. Love attaches itself
to something prominent, even if that something be what others
would hate. One can scarcely feel extremes for mediocrity. The
few years Lady Emily had been married had but little altered her
character. Quick in feeling, though regulated in temper ; gay, less
from levity, than from that first spring-tide of a heart which has
never yet known occasion to be sad ; beautiful and pure, as an
enthusiast's dream of heaven, yet bearing within the latent and
powerful passion and tenderness of earth : she mixed with all a
simplicity and innocence which the extreme earliness of her marriage,
and the ascetic temper of her husband, had tended less to diminish
than increase. She had much of what is termed genius — its warmth
of emotion — its vividness of conception — its admiration for the grand
— its affection for the good, and that dangerous contempt for what-
ever is mean and worthless, the very indulgence of which is an
offence against the habits of the world. Her tastes were, however,
too feminine and chaste ever to render her eccentric : they were
rather calculated to conceal than to publish the deeper recesses of
her nature ; and it was beneath that polished surface of manner
common to those with whom she mixed, that she hid the treasures
of a mine which no human eye had beheld.

Her health, naturally delicate, had lately suffered much from the
dissipation of London, and it was by the advice of her physicians
that she had now come to spend the summer at E . Lady

FALKLAND. 15

Margaret Leslie, who was old enough to be tired with the caprice?
of society, and Mrs. Dalton, who having just lost her husband, was
forbidden at present to partake of its amusements, had agreed if
accompany her to her retreat. Neither of them was peihaps muck
suited to Emily's temper, but youth and spirits make almost any ont
congenial to us : it is from the years which confirm our habits, and
the reflections which refine our taste, that it becomes easy to revolt
us, and difficult to please.

On the third day after Emily's arrival at E , she was sitting

after breakfast with Lady Margaret and Mrs. Dalton. "Pray,"
said the former, "did you ever meet my relation, Mr. Falkland? he
is in your immediate neighbourhood." " Never ; though I have a
great curiosity : that fine old ruin beyond the village belongs to him,
I believe." " It does. You ought to know him : you would like
him so !" "Like him !" repeated Mrs. Dalton, who was one of
those persons of ton who, though everything collectively, are nothing
individually: "Like him? impossible!" "Why?" said Lady
Margaret, indignantly — "he has every requisite to please — youth,
talent, fascination of manner, and great knowledge of the world."
" Well," said Mrs. Dalton, " I cannot say I discovered his per-
fections. He seemed to me conceited and satirical, and — and — in
short, very disagreeable ; but then, to be sure, 1 have only seen him
once." "I have heard many accounts of him," said Emily, "all
differing from each other : I think, however, that the generality of
people rather incline to Mrs. Dalton's opinion than to yours, Lady
Margaret." " I can easily believe it. It is very seldom that he
takes the trouble to please ; but when he does, he is irresistible.
Very little, however, is generally known respecting him. Since he
came of age, he has been much abroad ; and when in England, he
never entered with eagerness into society. He is supposed to possess
very extraordinary powers, which, added to his large fortune and
ancient name, have procured him a consideration and rank rarely
enjoyed by one so young. He had refused repeated ofifeis to enter
into public life ; but he is very intimate with one of the ministers,
who, it is said, has had the address to profit much by his abilities.
All other particulars concerning him are extremely uncertain. Of
his person and manners you had better judge yourself; for I am
sure, Emily, that my petition for inviting him here is already granted."
" By all means," said Emily : "you cannot be more anxious to see
him than I am." And so the conversation dropped. Lady Margaret
went to the library ; Mrs. Dalton seated herself on .the ottoman,
dividing her attention between the last novel and her Italian grey-
hound ; and Emily left the room in order to revisit her former and

1 6 FALKLAND.

favourite haunts. Her young son was her companion, and she was
not sorry that he was her only one. To be the instruciress of an infant,
a mother should be its playmate ; and Emily was, perhaps, wiser than
she imagined, when she ran with a laughing eye and a light foot over
the grass, occupying herself almost with the same earnestness as her
child in the same infantine amusements. As they passed the wood
which led to the lake at the bottom of the grounds, the boy, who
was before Emily, suddenly stopped. She came hastily up to him ;
and scarcely two paces before, though half hid by the steep bank of
the lake»beneath which he reclined, she saw a man apparently asleep.
A volume of Shakespeare lay beside him : the child had seized it.
As she took it from him in order to replace it, her eye rested upon
the passage the boy had accidentally opened. How often in after days
was that passage recalled as an omen ! It was the following : —

Ah me ! for aught that ever I could read,

Could ever hear by tale or history —

The course of true love never diJ run smooth !

Midsummer Nights Dream.

As she laid the book gently down she caught a glimpse of the
countenance of the sleeper: never did she lorget the expression
•which it wore, — stern, proud, mournful even in repose !

She did not wait for him to awake. She hurried home through
the trees. All that day she was silent and abstracted ; the face
haunted her like a dream. Strange as it may seem, she spoke neither
to Lady Margaret nor to Mrs. Dalton of her adventure. Why? Is
there in our hearts any prescience of their misfortunes?

On the next <lay, Falkland, who had received and accepted Lady
Margaret's invitation, was expected to dinner. Emily felt a strong
yet excusable curiosity to see one of whom she had heard so many
and such contradictory reports. She was alone in the saloon when
he entered. At the first glance she recognized the person she had
met by the lake on the day before, and she blushed deeply as she
replied to his salutation. To her great relief Lady Margaret and
Mrs. Dalton entered in a few minutes, and the conversation grew
general.

Falkland had but little of what is called animation in manner ;
but his wit, though it rarely led to mirth, was sarcastic, yet refined,
and the vividness of his imagination threw a brilliancy and origin-
ality over remaiks which in others might have been commonplace
and tame.

The conversation turned chiefly upon society ; and though Lady
Margaret had told her he had entered but little into its ordinary
routine, Emily was struck alike by his accurate acquaintance with

FALKLAND. 17

men, and the justice of his reflections upon manners. There also
mingled with his satire an occasional melancholy of feeling, which
appeared to Emily the more touching because it was always unex-
pected and unassumecl. It was after one of these remarks, that for
the first time she ventured to examine into the charm and peculi-
arity of the countenance of the speaker. There was spread over it
that expression of mingled energy and languor, which betokens that
much, whether of thought, sorrow, passion, or action, has been under-
gone, but resisted : lias weaned, but not subdued. In the broad and
noble brow, in the chiselled lip, and the melancholy depths of the
calm and thoughtful eye, there sat a resolution and a power, which,
though mournful, were not without their pride ; which, if they had
borne the worst, had also defied it. Notwithstanding his mother's
country, his complexion was fair and pale ; and his hair, of a light
chestnut, fell in large antique curls over his forehead. That fore-
head, indeed, constituted the principal feature of his countenance.
It was neither in its height nor expansion alone that its remarkable
beauty consisted ; but if ever thought to conceive and courage to
execute high designs were embodied and visible, they were imprinted
there.

Falkland did not stay long after dinner ; but to Lady Margaret
he promised all that she required of future length and frequency in
his visits. When he left the room, Lady Emily went instinctively
to the window to watch him depart ; and all that night his low soft
voice rung in her ear, like the music of an indistinct and half-
remembered dream.

FROM MR. MANDEVILLE TO LADY EMILY.

DEAR EMILY, — Business of great importance to the country has
prevented my writing to you before. I hope you have continued
well since I heard from you last, and that you do all you can to
preserve that retrenchment of unnecessary expenses, and observe that
attention to a prudent economy, which is no less incumbent upon
individuals than nations.

Thinking that you must be dull at E , and ever anxious both

to entertain and to improve you, I send you an excellent publication
by Mr. Tooke,1 together with my own two last speeches, corrected
by myself.

Trusting to hear from you soon, I am, with best love to Henry,
Very affectionately yours,

JOHN MANDEVILLE.

1 The Political Economist.

i8 FALKLAND.

FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO THE HON.
FREDERICK MONKTON.1

Well, Monkton, I have been to E ; that important event in

my monastic life has been concluded. Lady Margaret was as
talkative as usual ; and a Mrs. Dalton, who, I find, is an acquaint-
ance of yours, asked very tenderly after your poodle and yourself.
But Lady Emily ! Ay, Monkton, I know not well how to describe
her to you. Her beauty interests not less than it dazzles. There is
that deep and eloquent softness in her every word and action, which,
of all charms, is the most dangerous. Yet she is rather of a playful
than of the melancholy and pensive nature which generally accom-
panies such gentleness of manner ; but there is no levity in her
character ; nor is that playfulness of spirit ever carried into the
exhilaration of what we call "mirth." She seems, if I may use the
antithesis, at once too feeling to be gay, and too innocent to be sad.
I remember having frequently met her husband. Cold and pompous,
without anything to interest the imagination, or engage the affec-
tions, I am not able to conceive a person less congenial to his
beautiful and romantic wife. But she must have been exceedingly
young when she married him ; and she, probably, knows not yet
that she is to be pitied, because she lias not yet learned that she
can love.

Le veggio in fronte amor come in suo seggio

Sul crin, negli occhi — su le labra amore

Sol d'intorno al suo cuore amor non veggio.

I have been twice to her house since my first admission there. I
love to listen to that soft and enchanting voice, and to escape from
the gloom of my own reflections to the brightness, yet simplicity, of
hers. In my earlier days this comfort would have been attended
with danger ; but we grow callous from the excess of feeling. We
cannot re-illumine ashes ! I can gaze upon her dream-like beauty,
and not experience a single desire which can sully the purity of my
worship. I listen to her voice when it melts in endearment over
her birds, her flowers, or, in a deeper devotion, over her child ; but
my heart does not thrill at the tenderness of the sound. I touch
her hand, and the pulses of my own are as calm as before. Satiety
of the past is our best safeguard from the temptations of the future ;
and the perils of youth are over when it has acquired ihat dulness
and apathy of affection which should belong only to the insensibility
of age.

1 A letter from Falkland, mentioning Lady Margaret's invitation, has been
omitted.

FALKLAND. 19

Such were Falkland's opinions at the time he wrote. Ah ! what
is so delusive as our affections ? Our security is our danger — our

defiance our defeat ! Day after day he went to E . He passed

the mornings in making excursions with Emily over that wild and
romantic country by which they were surrounded ; and in the
dangerous but delicious stillness of the summer twilights, they
listened to the first whispers of their hearts.

In his relationship to Lady Margaret, Falkland found his excuse
for the frequency of his visits ; and even Mrs. Dalton was so charmed
with the fascination of his manner, that (in spite of her previous
dislike) she forgot to inquire how far his intimacy at E — — was at
variance with the proprieties of the world she worshipped, or in
what proportion it was connected with herself.

It is needless for me to trace through all its windings the formation
of that affection, the subsequent records of which I am about to
relate. What is so unearthly, so beautiful, as the first birth of a
woman's love ? The air of heaven is not purer in its wanderings —
its sunshine not more holy in its warmth. Oh ! why should it
deteriorate in its nature, even while it increases in its degree? Why
should the step which prints, stilly ajso the snow ? How often,
when Falkland met that guiltless yet thrilling eye, which revealed
to him those internal secrets that Emily was yet awhile too happy
to discover ; when, like a fountain among flowers, the goodness of
her heart flowed over the softness of her manner to those around
her, and the benevolence of her actions to those beneath ; how often
he turned away with a veneration too deep for the selfishness of
human passion, and a tenderness too sacred for its desires ! It was
in this temper (the earliest and the most fruitless prognostic of real
love) that the following letter was written : —

FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO THE HON.
FREDERICK MONKTON.

I have had two or three admonitory letters from my uncle. " The
summer (he says) is advancing, yet you remain stationary in your
indolence. There is still a great part of Europe whicli you have
not seen ; and since you will neither enter society for a wife, nor
the House of Commons for fame, spend your life, at least while it is
yet free and unshackled, in those active pursuits which will render
idleness hereafter more sweet ; or in that observation and enjoyment
among others, which will increase your resources in yourself." All
this sounds well ; but I have already acquired more knowledge than
will be of use either to others or myself, and I am not willing to

20 FALKLAND.

lose tranquillity here for the chance of obtaining pleasure elsewhere.
Pleasure is indeed a holiday sensation which does not occur in
ordinary life. We lose the peace of years when we hunt after the
rapture of moments.

I do not know if you ever felt that existence was ebbing away
without being put to its full value : as for me, I am never conscious
of life without being also conscious that it is not enjoyed to the
utmost. This is a bitter feeling, and its worst bitterness is our
ignorance how to remove it. My indolence I neither seek nor wish
to defend, yet it is rather from necessity than choice : it seems to
me that there is nothing in the world to arouse me. I only ask for
action, but I can find no motive sufficient to excite it : let me then,
in my indolence, not, like the world, be idle, yet dependent on
others ; but at least dignify the failing by some appearance of that
freedom which retirement only can bestow.

My seclusion is no longer solitude ; yet I do not value it the less.
I spend a great portion of my time at E . Loneliness is attract-
ive to men of reflection, not so much because they like their own
thoughts, as because they dislike the thoughts of others. Solitude
ceases to charm the moment ^ye can find a single being whose ideas
are more agreeable to us than our own. I have not, I think, yet
described to you the person of Lady Emily. She is tall, and slightly,
yet beautifully, formed. The ill health which obliged her to leave

London for E , in the height of the season, has given her cheek

a more delicate hue than I should think it naturally wore. Her
eyes are light, but their lashes are long and dark ; her hair is black
and luxuriant, and worn in a fashion peculiar to herself; but her
manners, Monkton ! how can I convey to you their fascination? so
simple, and therefore so faultless — so modest, and yet so tender —
she seems, in acquiring the intelligence of the woman, to have only
perfected the purity of the child ; and now, after all that I have
said, I am only more deeply sensible of the truth of Bacon's observ-
ation, that "the best part of beauty is that which no picture can
express." I am loth to finish this description, because it seems to
me scarcely begun ; I am unwilling to continue it, because every
word seems to show me more clearly those recesses of my heart,
which I would have hidden even from myself. I do not yet love, it
is true, for the time is past when I was lightly moved to passion ;
but I will not incur that danger, the probability of which I am seer
enough to foresee. Never shall that pure and innocent heart be
sullied by one who would die to shield it from the lightest misfor-
tune. I find in myself a powerful seconder to my uncle's wishes.
1 shall be in London next week ; till then, farewell. E. F.

FALKLAND. 2 1

When the proverb said, that "Jove laughs at lovers' vows," it
meant not (as in the ordinary construction) a sarcasm on their in-
sincerity, but inconsistency. We deceive others far less than we
deceive ourselves. What to Falkland were resolutions which a
word, a glance, could overthrow ? In the world he might have
dissipated his thoughts : in loneliness he concentred them ; for the
passions are like the sounds of Nature, only heard in her solitude !
He lulled his soul to the reproaches of his conscience ; he sur-
rendered himself to the intoxication of so golden a dream ; and
amidst those beautiful scenes there arose, as an offering to the
summer heaven, the incense of two hearts whicli had, through those
very fires so guilty in themselves, purified and ennobled every other
emotion they had conceived.

God made the country, and man made the town,

says the hackneyed quotation ; and the feelings awakened in each,
differ with the genius of the place. Who can compare the frittered
and divided affections formed in cities with that which crowds
cannot distract by opposing temptations, or dissipation infect with
its frivolities ?

I have often thought that had the execution of Atala equalled iis
design, no human work could have surpassed it in its grandeur.
What picture is more simple, though more sublime, than the vast
solitude of an unpeopled wilderness, the woods, the mountains, the
face of nature, cast in the fresh yet giant mould of a new and un-
polluted world ; and, amidst those most silent and mighty temples
of THE GREAT GOD, the lone spirit of Love reigning and
brightening over all?

BOOK II.

ST is dangerous for women, however wise it be for men, " to
commune with their own hearts, and to be still ! " Con-
tinuing to pursue the follies of the world had been to
Emily more prudent than to fly them ; to pause, to separ-
ate herself from the herd, was to discover, to feel, to murmur at the
vacuum of her being ; and to occupy it with the feelings which it
craved, could in her be but the hoarding a provision for despair.

Married, before she had begun the bitter knowledge of herself, to
a man whom it was impossible to love, yet deriving from nature a
tenderness of soul, which shed itself over every thing around, her
only escape from misery had been in the dormancy of feeling. The
birth of her son had opened to her a new field of sensations, and she
drew the best charm of her own existence from the life she had given
to another. Had she not met Falkland, all the deeper sources of
affection would have flowed into one only and legitimate channel ;
but those whom & wished to fascinate had never resisted his power,
and the attachment he inspired was in proportion to the strength
and ardour of his own nature.

It was not for Emily Mandeville to love such as Falkland without
feeling that from that moment a separate and selfish existence had
ceased to be. Our senses may captivate us with beauty ; but in
absence we forget, or by reason we can conquer, so superficial an
impression. Our vanity may enamour us with rank ; but the affec-
tions of vanity are traced in sand ; but who can love Genius, and
not feel that the sentiments it excites partake of its own intenseness
and its own immortality? It arouses, concentrates, engrosses all
our emotions, even to the most subtle and concealed. Love what
is common, and ordinary objects can replace or destroy a sentiment
which an ordinary object has awakened. Love what we shall not
meet again amidst the littleness and insipidity which surround us,
and where can we turn for a new object to replace that which has
no parallel upon earth? The recovery from such a delirium is like
return from a fairy land ; and still fresh in the recollections of a
bright and immortal clime, how can we endure the dulness of that
human existence to which for the future we are condemned ?

FALKLAND. 23

Tt was some weeks since Emily had written to Mrs. St. John ;
and her last letter, in mentioning Falkland, had spoken of him with
a reserve which rather alarmed than deceived her friend. Mrs. St.
John had indeed a strong and secret reason for fear. Falkland had
been the object of her own and her earliest attachment, and she
knew well the singular and mysterious power which he exercised at
will over the mind. He had, it is true, never returned, nor even
known of, her feelings towards him ; and during the years which
had elapsed since she last saw him, and in the new scenes which her
marriage with Mr. St. John had opened, she had almost forgotten
her early attachment, when Lady Emily's letter renewed its remem-
brance. She wrote in answer an impassioned and affectionate
caution to her friend. She spoke much (after complaining of Emily's
late silence) in condemnation of the character of Falkland, and in
warning of its fascinations ; and she attempted to arouse alike the
virtue and the pride which so often triumph in alliance, when separ-
ately they would so easily fail. In this Mrs. St. John probably
imagined she was actuated solely by friendship ; but in the best
actions there is always some latent evil in the motive ; and the
selfishness of a jealousy, though hopeless not conquered, perhaps
predominated over the less interested feelings which were all that
she acknowledged to herself.

In this work it has been my object to portray the progress of the
passions ; to chronicle a history rather by thoughts and feelings than
by incidents and events ; and to lay open those minuter and more
subtle mazes and secrets of the human heart, which in modern writ-
ings have been so sparingly exposed. It is with this view that I
have from time to time broken the thread of narration, in order to
bring forward more vividly the characters it contains ; and in laying
no claim to the ordinary ambition of tale-writers, I have dee.ned
myself at liberty to deviate from the ordinary courses they pursue.
Hence the motive and the excuse for the insertion of the following
extracts, and of occasional letters. They portray the interior struggle
when Narration would look only to the external event, and trace
the lightning "home to its cloud," when History would only mark
the spot where it scorched or destroyed.

EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE.

T\iesday. — More than seven years have passed since I began this
journal ! I have just been looking over it from the commencement.
Many and various are the feelings which it attempts to describe —
anger, pique, joy, sorrow, hope, pleasure, weariness, ennui ; but

24 FALKLAND.

never, never once, humiliation or remorse I — these were not doomed
to be my portion in the bright years of my earliest youth. How
shall I describe them now? I have received — I have read, as well
as my tears would let me, a long letter from Julia. It is true that I
have not dared to write to her : when shall I answer this ? She has
shown me the state of my heart ; I more than suspected it before.
Could I have dreamed two months — six weeks since — that I should
have a single feeling of which I could be ashamed ? He has just
been here — He — the only one in the world, for all the world seems
concentred in him. He observed my distress, for I looked on him ;
and my lips quivered and my eyes were full of tears. He came to
me — he sat next to me — he whispered his interest, his anxiety — and
was this all ? Have I loved before I even knew that I was beloved ?
No, no ; the tongue was silent, but the eye, the cheek, the manner
— alas ! these have been but too eloquent !

Wednesday. — It was so sweet to listen to his low and tender voice ;
to watch the expression of his countenance — even to breathe the air
that he inhaled. But now that I know its cause, I feel that this
pleasure is a crime, and I am miserable even when he is with me.
He has not been here to-day. It is past three. Will he come ? I
rise from my seat — I go to the window for breath — I am restless,
agitated, disturbed. Lady Margaret speaks to me — I scarcely
answer her. My boy — yes, my dear, dear Henry comes, and I feel
that I am again a mother. Never will I betray that duty, though
I have forgotten one as sacred, though less dear ! Never shall my
son have cause to blush for his parent ! I will fly hence — I will see
him no more !

FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO THE HON.
FREDERICK MONKTON.

Write to me, Monkton — exhort me, admonish me, or forsake me
for ever. I am happy, yet wretched : I wander in the delirium of
a fatal fever, in which I see dreams of a brighter life, but every one
of them only brings me nearer to death. Day after day I have
lingered here, until weeks have flown — and for what ? Emily is not
like the women of the world — virtue, honour, faith, are not to her
the mere convenances of society. "There is no crime," said Lady
A., "where there is concealment." Such can never be the creed of
Emily Mandeville. She will not disguise guilt either in the levity
of the world, or in the affectations of sentiment. She will be wretched,
and for ever. / hold the destinies of her future life, and yet I am
base enough to hesitate whether to save or destroy her. Oh, how
fearful, how selfish, how degrading;, is unlawful love ! .

FALKLAND. 2 5

You know my theoretical benevolence for everything that lives ;
you have often smiled at its vanity. I see now that you were right ;
for it seems to me almost superhuman virtue not to destroy the
person who is dearest to me on earth.

I remember writing to you some weeks since that I would come to
London. Little did I know of the weakness of my own mind. I
told her that I intended to depart. She turned pale — she trembled —
but she did not speak. Those signs which should have hastened my
departure have taken away the strength even to think of it.

I am here still ! I go to E every day. Sometimes we sit in

silence ; I dare not trust myself to speak. How dangerous are such
moments ! Ammuliscon lingtte parlen /'a/me.

Yesterday they left us alone. We had been conversing with Lady
Margaret on indifferent subjects. There was a pause for some
minutes. I looked up ; Lady Margaret had left the room. The
blood rushed into my cheek — my eyes met Emily's ; I would have
"iven worlds to have repeated with my lips what those eyes expressed.
I could not even speak — I felt choked with contending emotions.
There was not a breath stirring ; I heard my very heart beat. A
thunderbolt would have been a relief. Oh God ! if there be a curse,
it is to burn, swell, madden with feelings which you are doomed to
conceal ! This is, indeed, to be "a cannibal of one's own heart." '

It was sunset. Emily was alone upon the lawn which sloped
towards the lake, and the blue still waters beneath broke, at bright
intervals, through the scattered and illuminated trees. She stood
watching the sun sink with wistful and tearful eyes. Her soul was
sad within her. The ivy which love first wreathes around his work
had already faded away, and she now only saw the desolation of
the ruin it concealed. Never more for her was that freshness of un-
wakened feeling which invests all things with a perpetual daybreak
of sunshine, and incense, and dew. The heart may survive the
decay or rupture of an innocent and lawful affection — " la marque
reste, mais la blessure guerit " — but the love of darkness and guilt
is branded in a character ineffaceable — eternal ! The one is, like
lightning, more likely to dazzle than to destroy, and, divine even
in its danger, it makes holy ivhat it sears ; 2 but the other is like
that sure and deadly fire which fell upon the cities of old, graving in
the barrenness of the desert it had wrought the record and perpetua-
tion of a curse. A low and thrilling voice stole upon Emily's ear.
She turned — Falkland stood beside her. "I felt restless and

1 Bacon.
• ' According to the ancient superstition.

25 FALKLAND.

unhappy," he said, " and I came to seek you. If (writes one of the
fathers) a guilty and wretched man could behold, though only for a
few minutes, the countenance of an angel, the calm and glory which
it wears would so sink into his heart, that he would pass at once over
the gulf of gone years into his first unsullied state of purity and hope ;
perhaps I thought of that sentence when I came to you." " I know
not," said Emily, with a deep blush at this address, which formed
her only answer to the compliment it conveyed ; " I know not why it is,
but to me there is always something melancholy in this hour — some-
thing mournful in seeing the beautiful day die with all its pomp and
musL-, its sunshine, and songs of birds."

"And yet," replied Falkland, " if I remember the time when my
feelings were more in unison with yours (for at present external
objects have lost for me much of their influence and attraction), the
melancholy you perceive has in it a vague and ineffable sweetness
not to be exchanged for more exhilarated spirits. The melancholy
which arises from no cause within ourselves is like music — it enchants
us in proportion to its effect upon our feelings. Perhaps its chief
charm (though this it requires the contamination of after years before
we can fathom and define) is in the purity of the sources it springs
from. Our feelings can be but little sullied and worn while they can
yet respond to the passionless and primal sympathies of nature ; and
the sadness you speak of is so void of bitterness, so allied to the best
and most delicious sensations we enjoy, that I should imagine the
very happiness of Heaven partook rather of melancholy than mirth."

There was a pause of some moments. It was rarely that Falkland
alluded even so slightly to the futurity of another world ; and when he
did, it was never in a careless and commonplace manner, but in a
tone which sank deep into Emily's heart. "Look," she said, at
length, " at that beautiful star ! the first and brightest ! I have often
thought it was like the promise of life beyond the tomb — a pledge to
us that, even in the depths of midnight, the earth shall have a light,
unquenched and unquenchable, from Heaven ! "

Emily turned to Falkland as she said this, and her countenance
sparkled with the enthusiasm she felt. But his face was deadly pale.
There went over it, like a cloud, an expression of changeful and
unutterable thought ; and then, passing suddenly away, it left his
features calm and bright in all their noble and intellectual beauty.
Her soul yearned to him, as she looked, with the tenderness of a
sister.

They walked slowly towards the house. " I have frequently,"
said Emily, with some hesitation,, "been surprised at the little
enthusiasm you appear to possess even upon subjects where your

FALKLAND. 27

conviction must be strong. " "/ have thought enthusiasm away!"
replied Falkland; "it was the loss of hope which brought me
reflection, and in reflection I forgot to feel. Would that I had not
found it so easy to recall what I thought I had lost for ever ! "

Falkland's cheek changed as he said this, and Emily sighed
faintly, for she felt his meaning. In him that allusion to his love
had aroused a whole train of dangerous recollections ; for Passion is
the avalanche of the human heart — a single breath can dissolve it
from its repose.

They remained silent ; for Falkland would not trust himself to
speak, till, when they reached the house, he faltered out his excuses
for not entering, and departed. He turned towards his solitary

home. The grounds at E had been laid out in a classical and

costly manner, which contrasted forcibly with the wild and pimple
nature of the surrounding scenery. Even the short distance between

Mr. Mandeville's house and L wrought as distinct a change in

the character of the country as any length of space could have
effected. Falkland's ancient and ruinous abode, with its shattered
arches and moss-grown parapets, was situated on a gentle declivity,
and surrounded by dark elm and larch trees. It still retained some
traces both of its former consequence, and of the perils to which that
consequence had exposed it. A broad ditch, overgrown with weeds,
indicated the remains of what once had been a moat ; and huge
rough stones, scattered around it, spoke of the outworks the
fortification had anciently possessed, and the stout resistance they
had made in "the Parliament Wars" to the sturdy followers of
Ireton and Fairfax. The moon, that Hatterer of decay, shed its
rich and softening beauty over a spot which else had, indeed, been
desolate and cheerless, and kissed into light the long and unwaving
herbage which rose at intervals from the ruins, like the false parasites
of fallen greatness. But for Falkland the scene had no interest or
charm, and he turned with a careless and unheeding eye to his
customary apartment. It was the only one in the house furnished
with luxury, or even comfort. Large book-cases, inlaid with curious
carvings in ivory ; busts of the few public characters the world had
ever produced worthy, in Falkland's estimation, of the homage of
posterity ; elaborately wrought hangings from Flemish looms ; and
French fauteuils and sofas of rich damask, and massy gilding (relics
of the magnificent days of Louis Quatorze) bespoke a costliness of
design suited rather to Falkland's wealth than to the ordinary
simplicity of his tastes.

A large writing-table was overspread with books in various
languages, and upon the most opposite subjects. Letters and papers

28 FALKLAND.

were scattered amongst them ; Falkland turned carelessly over the

latter. One of the epistolary communications was from Lord ,

the . He smiled bitterly, as he read the exaggerated com-
pliments it contained, and saw to the bottom of the shallow artifice
they were meant to conceal. He tossed the letter from him, and
opened the scattered volumes, one after another, with that languid
and sated feeling common to all men who have read deeply enough
to feel how much they have learned, and how little they know.
" We pass our lives," thought he, " in sowing what we are never to
reap ! We endeavour to erect a tower which shall reach the heavens,
in order to escape one curse, and lo ! we are smitten by another!
We would soar from a common evil, and from that moment we are
divided by a separate language from our rate ! Learning, science,
philosophy, the world of men and of imagination, I ransacked — and
for what ? I centred my happiness in wisdom. I looked upon the
aims of others with a scornful and loathing eye. I held commune
with those who have gone before me ; I dwelt among the monuments
of their minds, and made their records familiar to me as friends :
I penetrated the womb of nature, and went with the secret elements
to their home : I arraigned the stars before me, and learned the
method and the mystery of their courses : I asked the tempest its
bourn, and questioned the winds of their path. This was not
sufficient to satisfy my thirst for knowledge, and I searched in this
lower world for new sources to content it. Unseen and unsuspected, I
saw and agitated the springs of the automaton that we call "the Mind."
I found a clue for the labyrinth of human motives, and I surveyed
the hearts of those around me as through a glass. Vanity of vanities !
What have I acquired? I have separated myself from my kind, but
not from those worst enemies, my passions ! I have made a solitude
of my soul, but I have not mocked it with the appellation of Peace.1
In flying- the herd, I have not escaped from myself; like the wounded
deer, the barb was within me, and that I could not fly ! " With
these thoughts he turned from his reverie, and once more endeavoured
to charm his own reflections by those which ought to speak to
us of quiet, for they are graven on the pages of the dead ; but his
attempts were as idle as before. His thoughts were still wan-
dering and confused, and could neither be quieted nor collected ;
he read, but lie scarcely distinguished one page from another : he
wrote — the ideas refused to flow at his call ; and the only effort at
connecting his feelings which even partially succeeded, was in the
verses which I am about to place before the reader. It is a common

1 " Solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant." — TACITUS.
"They make a solitude, and call it peace." — BYRON.

FALKLAND. 29

property of poetry, however imperfectly the gift be possessed, to
speak to the hearts of others in proportion as the sentiments it would
express are felt in our own ; and I subjoin the lines which bear the
date of that evening, in the hope that, more than many pages, they
will show the morbid yet original character of the writer, and the
particular sources of feeling from which they took the bitterness that
pervades them : —

KNOWLEDGE.

Ergo hominum genus incassum frustraque laborat
Semper, et in curis consumit inanibus aevum. — LUCRET.

"Pis midnight ! Round the lamp which o'er

My chamber sheds its lonely beam,
Is wisely spread the varied lore

Which feeds in youth our feverish dream —

The dream — the thirst — the wild desire,

Delirious yet divine — to know;
Around to roam — above aspire —

And drink the breath of Heaven below !

From Ocean— Earth— the Stars— the Sky

To lift mysterious Nature's pall ;
And bare before the kindling eye

In MAN the darkest mist of all !

Alas ! what boots the midnight oil ?

The madness of the struggling mind ?
Oh, vague the hope, and vain the toil,

Which only leave us doubly blind !

What learn we from the Past ? — the same

Dull course of glory, guilt, and gloom :
I ask'd the Future, and there came

No voice from its unfathom' d womb.
The Sun was silent, and the wave ;

The air but answer'd with its breath ;
But Earth was kind ; and from the grave

Arose the eternal answer — Death !

And this was all ! We need no sage

To teach us Nature's only truth !
O fools ! o'er Wisdom's idle page

To waste the hours of golden, youth !
In Science wildly do we seek

What only withering years should bring —
The languid pulse— the feverish cheek—

The spirits drooping on their wing !

To think— is but to learn to groan — •

To scorn what all beside adore—
To feel amid the world alone,

An alien on a de«ert shore ; —

30 FALKLAND.

To lose the only ties which seem
To idler gaze in mercy given ! —

To find love, faith, and hope, a dream,
And turn to dark despair from heaven !

I pass on to a wilder period of my history. The passion, as yet
only revealed by the eye, was now to be recorded by the lip ; and
the scene which witnessed the first confession of the lovers was
worthy of the last conclusion of their loves !

E was about twelve miles from a celebrated cliff on the sea-
shore, and Lady Margaret had long proposed an excursion to a spot,
curious alike for its natural scenery and the legends attached to it.
A day was at length fixed for accomplishing this plan. Falkland
was of the party. In searching for something in the pockets of the
carriage, his hand met Emily's, and involuntarily pressed it. She
withdrew it hastily, but he felt it tremble. He did not dare to look
up : that single contact had given him a new life : intoxicated with
the most delicious sensations, he leaned back in silence. A fever
had entered his veins — the thrill of the touch had gone like fire into
his system — all his frame seemed one nerve.

Lady Margaret talked of the weather and the prospect, wondered
how far they had got, and animadverted on the roads, till at last,
like a child, she talked herself to rest. Mrs. Dalton read "Guy
Mannering;" but neither Emily nor her lover had any occupation
or thought in common with their companions : silent and absorbed,
they were only alive to the vivid existence of the present. Con-
stantly engaged, as we are, in looking behind us or before, if there
be one hour in which we feel only the time being-^-in which we feel
sensibly that we live, and that those moments of the present are full
of the enjoyment, the rapture of existence — it is when we are wiih
the one person whose life and spirits have become the great part and
principle of our own. They reached their destination — a small inn
close by the shore. They rested there a short time, and then strolled
along the sands towards the cliff. Since Falkland had known Emily,
her character was much altered. Six weeks before the time I write
of, and in playfulness and lightness of spirits she was almost a child :
now those indications of an unawakened heart had mellowed into a
tenderness fall of that melancholy so touching and holy, even amid
the voluptuous softness which it breathes and inspires. But this day,
whether from that coquetry so common to all women, or from some
cause more natural to her, she seemed gayer than Falkland ever
remembered to have seen her. She ran over the sands, picking up
shells, and tempting the waves with her small and fairy feet, not

FALKLAND. 31

daring to look at him, and yet speaking to him at times with a quick
tone of levity which hurt and offended him, even though he knew the
depth of those feelings she could not disguise either from him or from
herself. By degrees his answers and remarks grew cold and sarcastic.
Emily affected pique ; and when it was discovered that the cliff was
still nearly two miles off, she refused to proceed any farther. Lady
Margaret talked her at last into consent, and they walked on as
sullenly as an English party of pleasure possibly could do, till they
were within three quarters of a mile of the place, when Emily
declared she was so tired that she really could not go on. Falkland
looked at her, perhaps, with no very amiable expression of coun-
tenance, when he perceived that she seemed really pale and fatigued ;
and when she caught his eyes, tears rushed into her own.

"Indeed, indeed, Mr. Falkland," said she, eagerly, "this is not
affectation. I am very tired ; but rather than prevent your amuse-
ment, I will endeavour to go on." "Nonsense, child," said Lady
Margaret, " you do seem tired. Mrs. Dalton and Falkland shall go
to the rock, and I will stay here with you." This proposition, how-
ever, Lady Emily (who knew Lady Margaret's wish to see the rock)
would not hear of; she insisted upon staying by herself. " Nobody
will run away with me ; and I can very easily amuse myself with
picking up shells till you come back." After a long remonstrance,
which produced no effect, this plan was at last acceded to. With
great reluctance Falkland set off with his two companions ; but after
the first step, he turned to look back. He caught her eye, and felt
from that moment that their reconciliation was sealed. They arrived,
at last, at the cliff. Its height, its excavations, the romantic interest
which the traditions respecting it had inspired, fully repaid the two
women for the fatigue of their walk. As for Falkland, he was uncon-
scious of everything around him ; he was full of "sweet and bitter
thoughts." In vain the man whom they found loitering there, in
order to serve as a guide, kept dinning in his ear stories of the mar-
vellous, and exclamations of the sublime. The first words which
aroused him were these — " It's lucky, please your Honour, that you
have just saved the tide. It is but last week that three poor people
were drowned in attempting to come here ; as it is, you will have to
go home round the cliff. Falkland started : he felt his heart stand
still. "Good God ! " cried Lady Margaret, "what will become of
Emily?"

They were at that instant in one of the caverns, where they had
already been loitering too long. Falkland rushed out to the sands.
The tide was hurrying in with a deep sound, which came on his soul
like a knell. He looked back towards the way they had come : not

32 FALKLAND.

one hundred yards distant, and the waters had already covered the
path ! An eternity would scarcely atone for the horror of that
moment ! One great characteristic of Falkland was his presence of
mind. He turned to the man who stood beside him — he gave him
a cool and exact description of the spot where he had left Emily.
He told him to repair with all possible speed to his home — to launch
his boat — to row it to the place he had described. " Be quick," he
added, "and you must be in time : if you are, you shall never know
poverty again." The next moment he was already several yards
from the spot. He ran or rather flew, till he was stopped by the
waters. He rushed in ; they were over a hollow between two rocks
— they were already up to his chest. " There is yet hope," thought
he, when he had passed the spot, and saw the smooth sand before
him. For some minutes he was scarcely sensible of existence ; and
then he found himself breathless at her feet. Beyond, towards

T • (the small inn I spoke of), the waves had already reached the

foot of the rocks, and precluded all hope of return. Their only
chance was the possibility that the waters had not yet rendered
impassable the hollow through which Falkland had just waded.
He scarcely spoke ; at least he was totally unconscious of what he
said. He hurried her on breathless and trembling, with the sound
of the booming waters ringing in his ear, and their billows advancing
to his very feet. They arrived at the hollow : a single glance sufficed
to show him that their solitary hope was past ! The waters, before
up to his chest, had swelled considerably : he could not swim. He
saw in that instant that they were girt with a hastening and terrible
death. Can it be believed that with that certainty ceased his fear ?
He looked in the pale but calm countenance of her who clung to
him, and a strange tranquillity, even mingled with joy, possessed him.
Her breath was on his cheek — her form was reclining on his own —
his hand clasped hers ; if they were to die, it was thus. What could
life afford to him more dear ? " It is in this moment," said he, and he
knelt as he spoke, "that I dare tell you what otherwise my lips
never should have revealed. I love — I adore you ! Turn not away
from me thus. In life our persons were severed ; if our hearts are
united in- death, then death will be sweet." She turned — her cheek
was no longer pale ! He rose — he clasped her to his bosom : his
lips pressed hers. Oh ! that long, deep, burning pressure ! — youth,
love, life, soul, all concentrated in that one kiss ! Yet the same
cause which occasioned the avowal hallowed also the madness of
his heart. What had the passion, declared only at the approach of
death, with the more earthly desires of life ? They looked to heaven
— it was calm and unclouded : the evening lay there in its balm and

FALKLAND. 33

perfume, and the air was less agitated than their sighs. They turned
towards the beautiful sea which was to be their grave : the wild
birds flew over it exultingly : the far vessels seemed "rejoicing to
run their course." All was full of the breath, the glory, the life of
nature ; and in how many minutes was all to be as nothing! Their
existence would resemble the ships that have gone down at sea in the
very smile of the element that destroyed them. They looked into
each other's eyes, and they drew still nearer together. Their hearts,
in safety apart, mingled in peril and became one. Minutes rolled
on, and the great waves came dashing round them. They stood on
the loftiest eminence they could reach. The spray broke over their
feet ; the billows rose — rose — they were speechless. He thought he
heard her heart beat, but her lip trembled not. A speck — a boat !
"Look up, Emily ! look up ! See how it cuts the waters. Nearer
— nearer ! but a little longer, and we are safe. It is but a few yards
off— it approaches — it touches the rock ! " Ah ! what to them hence-
forth was the value of life, when the moment of discovering its
charm became also the date of its misfortunes, and when the death
they had escaped was the only method of cementing their union
without consummating their guilt ?

FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO THE HON.
FREDERICK MONKTON.

I will write to you at length to-morrow. Events have occurred to
alter, perhaps, the whole complexion of the future. I am now going
to Emily to propose to her to fly. We are not les gens du monde,
who are ruined by the loss of public opinion. She has felt that I
can be to her far more than the world ; and as for me, what would
I not forfeit for one touch of her hand ?

EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE.

Friday. — Since I wrote yesterday in these pages the narrative of
our escape, I have done nothing but think over those moments, too
dangerous because too dear ; but at last I have steeled my heart — I
have yielded to my own weakness too long — I shudder at the abyss
from which I have escaped. I can yet fly. He will come here to-
day— he shall receive my farewell.

Saturday morning, four o'clock. — I have sat in this room alone
since eleven o'clock. I cannot give vent to my feelings ; they seem
as if crushed by some load from which it is impossible to rise. " He
is gone, and for ever ! " I sit repeating those words to myself, scarcely

c

34 FALKLAND.

conscious of their meaning. Alas ! when to-morrow comes, and the
next day, and the next, and yet I see him not, I shall awaken, indeed,
to all the agony of my loss ! He came here — he saw me alone — he
implored me to fly. I did not dare to meet his eyes ; I hardened
my heart against his voice. I knew the part I was to take — I have
adopted it ; but what struggles, what misery, has it not occasioned
me ! Who could have thought it had been so hard to be virtuous !
His eloquence drove me from one defence to another, and then I had
none but his mercy. I opened my heart — I showed him its weakness
— I implored his forbearance. My tears, my anguish, convinced him
of my sincerity. We have parted in bitterness, but, thank Heaven,
not in guilt ! He has entreated permission to write to me. How
could I refuse him ? Yet I may not — cannot — write to him again !
How could I, indeed, suffer my heart to pour forth one of its feeelings
in reply ? for would there be one word of regret, or one term of
endearment, which my inmost soul would not echo ?

Sunday. — Yes, that day — but I must not think of this ; my very
religion I dare not indulge. Oh God ! how wretched I am ! His
visit was always the great sera in the day ; it employed all my hopes
till he came, and all my memory when he was gone. I sit now and
look at the place he used to fill, till I feel the tears rolling silently
down my cheek : they come without an effort— they depart without
relief.

Monday. — Henry asked me where Mr. Falkland was gone ; I
stooped down to hide my confusion. When shall I hear from him ?
To-morrow ? Oh that it were come ! I have placed the clock
before me, and I actually count the minutes. He left a book here ;
it is a volume of "Melmoth." I have read over every word of it,
and whenever I have come to a pencil-mark by him, I have paused
to dream over that varying and eloquent countenance, the low soft
tone of that tender voice, till the book has fallen from my hands,
and I have started to find the utterness of my desolation !

FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO LADY EMILY MANDEV1LLE.

— Hotel, London.

For the first time in my life I write to you ! How my hand
trembles — how my cheek flushes ! a thousand, thousand thoughts
rush upon me, and almost suffocate me with the variety and con-
fusion of the emotions they awaken ! I am agitated alike with the
rapture of writing to you, and with the impossibility of expressing
the feelings which I cannot distinctly unravel even to myself. You
love me, Emily, and yet I have fled from you, and at your command ;

FALKLAND. 35

but the thought that, though absent, I am not forgotten, supports me
through all.

It was with a feverish sense of weariness and pain that I found
myself entering this vast reservoir of human vices. I became at
once sensible of the sterility of that polluted soil so incapable of
nurturing affection, and I clasped your image the closer to my heart.
It is you, who, when I was most weary of existence, gifted me with a
new life. You breathed into me a part of your own spirit ; my soul
feels that influence, and becomes more sacred. I have shut myself
from the idlers who would molest me : I have built a temple in my
heart : I have set within it a divinity ; and the vanities of the world
shall not profane the spot which has been consecrated to you. Our
parting, Emily, — do you recall it? Your hand clasped in mine;
your cheek resting, though but for an instant, on my bosom ; and
the tears which love called forth, but which virtue purified even at
their source. Never were hearts so near, yet so divided ; never was,
there an hour so tender yet so unaccompanied with danger. Passion*
grief, madness, all sank beneath your voice, and lay hushed like a.
deep sea within my soul ! "Tu abbia veduto il leone ammansarsi
alia sola tua voce." l

I tore myself from you ; I hurried through the wood ; I stood by
the lake, on whose banks I had so often wandered with you : I bared
my breast to the winds ; I bathed my temples with the waters. Fool1
that I was ! the fever, the fever was within ! But it is not thus, my
adored and beautiful friend, that I should console and support you..
Even as I wr'te, passion melts into tenderness, and pours itself in,
softness over your remembrance. The virtue so gentle, yet so strong ;
the feelings so kind, yet so holy, the tears which wept over the
decision your lips proclaimed — these are the recollections which
come over me like dew. Let your own heart, my Emily, be your
reward ; and know that your lover only forgets that he adores ; to.
remember that he respects you \

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

~ Park.

I could not bear the tumult and noise of London. I sighed for
solitude, that I might muse over your remembrance undisturbed. I
came here yesterday. It is the home of my childhood. 1 am sur-
rounded on all sides by the scenes and images consecrated by the
fresh recollections of my unsullied years. They are not changed.
The seasons which come and depart renew in them the havoc which

1 Ultime Icttere di Jacopo Ortis.

36 FALKLAND.

they make. If the December destroys, the April revives ; but malt-
has but one spring, and the desolation of the heart but one winter !
In this very room have I sat and brooded over dreams and hopes
which— but no matter — those dreams could never show me a vision
to equal you, or those hopes hold out to me a blessing so precious as
your love.

Do you remember, or rather can you ever forget, that moment in
which the great depths of our souls were revealed ? Ah I not in the
scene in which such vows should have been whispered to your ear,
and your tenderness have blushed its reply. The passion concealed
in darkness was revealed in danger ; and the love, which in life was
forbidden, was our comfort amidst the terrors of death ! And that
long and holy kiss, the first, the only moment in which our lips
shared the union of our souls ! — do not tell me that it is wrong to
recall it ! — do not tell me that I sin, when I own to you the hours I
sit alone, and nurse the delirium of that voluptuous remembrance.
The feelings you have excited may render me wretched, but not
guilty ; for the love of you can only hallow the heart — it is a fire
which consecrates the altar on which it burns. I feel, even from the
hour that I loved, that my soul has become more pure. I could not
have believed that / was capable of so unearthly an affection, or
that the love of woman could possess that divinity of virtue which I
worship in yours. The world is no fosterer of our young visions of
purity and passion : embarked in its pursuits, and acquainted with
its pleasures, while the latter sated me with what is evil, the former
made me incredulous to what is pure. I considered your sex as a •
problem which my experience had already solved. Like the French
philosopher?, who lose truth by endeavouring to condense it, and
who forfeit the moral from their regard to the maxim, I concentrated
my knosvledge of women into aphorisms and antitheses ; and I did
not dream of the exceptions, if I did not find myself deceived in
the general conclusion. I confess that I erred ; I renounce from
this moment the colder reflections of my manhood, — the fruits of a
bitter experience, — the wisdom of an inquiring yet agitated life. I
return' with transport to my earliest visions of beauty and love ; and
I dedicate them upon the altar of my soul to you, who have embodied,
and concentrated, and breathed them into life !

EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF LADY EMILY MAXDEVILLE.

Monday. — -This is the most joyless day in the whole week ; for it
can bring me no letter from him. I rise listlessly, and read over
again and again the last letter I received from him — useless task ! it

FALKLAND. 37

is graven on my heart ! I long only for the clay to he over, because
to-morrow I may, perhaps, hear from him again. "When I wake at
night from my disturbed and broken sleep, I look if the morning is
near ; not because it gives light and life, but because it may bring
tidings of him. When his letter is brought to me, I keep it for
minutes unopened — I feed my eyes on the handwriting — I examine
the seal — I press it with my kisses, before I indulge myself in the
luxury of reading it. I then place it in my bosom, and take it thence
only to read it again and again, — to moisten it with my tears of
gratitude and love, and, -alas ! of penitence and remorse I What can
be the end of this affection ? I dare neither to hope that it may
continue or that it may cease; in either case I am wretched for ever !

Monday night, twelve o'clock. — They observe my paleness ; the
tears which tremble in my eyes ; the listlessness and dejection of my
manner. I think Mrs. Dalton guesses the cause. Humbled and
debased in my own mind, I fly, Falkland, for refuge to you ! Your
affection cannot raise me to my former state, but it can reconcile —
no — not reconcile, but support me in my present. This dear letter,
I kiss it again — oh ! that to-morrow were come !

Tuesday. — Another letter, so kind, so tender, so encouraging:
would that I deserved his praises ! alas ! I sin even in reading
them. I know that I ought to struggle more against my feelings —
once I attempted it ; I prayed to Heaven to support me ; I put away
from me everything that could recall him to my mind — for three
clays I would not open his letters. I could then resist no longer ;
and my weakness became the more confirmed from the feebleness of
the struggle. I remember one day that he told us of a beautiful
passage in one of the ancients, in which the bitterest curse against
the wicked is, that they may see virtue, but not be able to obtain
it ; 1 — that punishment is mine 1

Wednesday. — My boy has been with me: I see him now from the
windows gathering the field-flowers, and running after every butterfly
which comes across him. Formerly he made all my delight and
occupation ; now he is even dearer to me than ever ; but he no
longer engrosses all my thoughts, I turn over the leaves of this
journal ; once it noted down the little occurrences of the day ; it
marks nothing now but the monotony of sadness. He is not here —
he cannot come. What event then could I notice ?

1 Fersius.

38 FALKLAND.

FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE.1

— Park.

If you knew how I long, how I thirst, for one word from you —
one word to say you are well, and have not forgotten me ! — but I
will not distress you. You will guess my feelings, and do justice to
the restraint I impose on them, when I make no effort to alter your
resolution not to write. I know that it is just, and I bow to my
sentence ; but can you blame me if I am restless, and if I repine?
It is past twelve ; I always write to you at night. It is then, my
own love, that my imagination can the more readily transport me to
you : it is then that my spirit holds with you a more tender and un-
divided commune. In the day the world can force itself upon my
thoughts, and its trifles usurp the place which "I love to keep for
only thee and Heaven ;" but in the night all things recall you the
more vividly : the stillness of the gentle skies, — the blandness of the
unbroken air, — the stars, so holy in their loveliness, all speak and
breathe to me of you. I think your hand is clasped in mine ; and I
again drink the low music of your voice, and imbibe again in the air
the breath which has been perfumed by your lips. You seem to
stand in my lonely chamber in the light and stillness of a spirit, who
has wandered on earth to teach us the love which is felt in Heaven.

I cannot, believe me, I cannot endure this separation long ; it
must be more or less. You must be mine for ever, or our parting
must be without a mitigation, which is rather a cruelty than a relief.
If you will not accompany me, I will leave this country alone. I
must not wean myself from your image by degrees, but break from
the enchantment at once. And when, Emily, I am once more upon
the world, when no tidings of my fate shall reach your ear, and all
its power of alienation be left to the progress of time — then, when
you will at last have forgotten me, when your peace of mind will be
restored, and, having no struggles of conscience to undergo, you
will have no remorse to endure ; then, Emily, when we are indeed
divided, let the scene which has witnessed our passion, the letters
which have recorded my vow, the evil we have suffered, and the
temptation we have overcome ; let these in our old age be re-
membered, and in declaring to Heaven that we were innocent, add
also — that we loved.

1 Most of the letters from Falkland to Lady E. Mandeville I have thought it
expedient to suppress.

FALKLAND. 39

FROM DON ALPHONSO D AGUILA TO DON — .

London.

Our cause gains ground daily. The great, indeed the only
ostensible object of my mission is nearly fulfilled ; but I have
another charge and attraction which I am now about to explain to
you. You know that my acquaintance with the English language
and country arose from my sister's marriage with Mr. Falkland.
After the birth of their only child I accompanied them to England :
I remained with them for three years, and I still consider those days
among the whitest in my restless and agitated career. I returned to
Spain ; I became engaged in the troubles and dissensions which
distracted my unhappy country. Years rolled on, how I need not
mention \.Q you. One night they put a letter into my hands ; it was
from my sister ; it was written on her death-bed. Her husband had
died suddenly. She loved him as a Spanish woman loves, and she
could not survive his loss. Her letter to me spoke of her country
and her son. Amid the new ties she had formed in England, she
had never forgotten the land of her fathers. " I have already," she
said, "taught my boy to remember that he has two countries ; that
the one, prosperous and free, may afford him his pleasures ; that the
other, struggling and debased, demands from him his duties. If,
when he has attained the age in which you can judge of his character,
he is respectable only from his rank, and valuable only from his
wealth ; if neither his head nor his heart will make him useful to our
cause, suffer him to remain undisturbed in his prosperity here: but
if, as I presage, he becomes worthy of the blood which he bears in
his veins, then I conjure you, my brother, to remind him that he has
been sworn by me on my death-bed to the most sacred of earthly
altars."

Some months since, when I arrived in England, before I ventured
to find him out in person, I resolved to inquire into his character.
Had he been as the young and the rich generally are — had dissipa-
tion become habitual to him, and frivolity grown around him as a
second nature, then I should have acquiesced in the former injunc-
tion of my sister much more willingly than I shall now obey the
latter. I find that he is perfectly acquainted with our language, that
he has placed a large sum in our funds, and that from the general
liberality of his sentiments he is as likely to espouse, as (in that case)
lie would be certain, from his high reputation for talent, to serve, our
cause. I am, therefore, upon the eve of seeking him out. I under-
stand that he is living in perfect retirement in the county of — , in

40 FALKLAND. i

the immediate neighbourhood of Mr. Mandeville, an Englishman of
considerable fortune, and warmly attached to our cause.

Mr. Mandeville has invited me to accompany him down to his
estate for some days, and I am too anxious to see my nephew not to
accept eagerly of the invitation. If I can persuade Falkland to aid
us, it will be by the influence of his name, his talents, and his
\vealth. It is not of him that we can ask the stern and laborious
devotion to which we have consacrated ourselves. The perfidy of
friends, the vigilance of foes, the rashness of the bold, the cowardice
of the wavering ; strife in the closet, treachery in the senate, death
in the field ; these constitute the fate we have pledged ourselves to
bear. Little can any, who do not endure it, imagine of the life to
which those who share the contests of an agitated and distracted
country are doomed ; but if they know not our griefs, neither can
they dream of our consolation. We move like the delineation of
Faith, over a barren and desert soil : the rock, and the thorn, and
the stings of the adder, are round our feet ; but we clasp a crucifix
to our hearts for our comfort, and we fix our eyes upon the heavens
for our hope !

EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE.

Wednesday. — His letters have taken a different tone: instead of
soothing, they add to my distress ; but I deserve all — all that can
be inflicted upon me. I have had a letter from Mr. Mandeville.
He is coming down here for a few days, and intends bringing some
friends with him : he mentions particularly a Spaniard — the uncle of
Mr. Falkland, whom he asks if I have seen. The Spaniard is
particularly anxious to meet his nephew — he does not then know
that Falkland is gone. It will be some relief to see Mr. Mandeville
alone ; but even then how shall I meet him ? What shall I say
when he observes my paleness and alteration ? I feel bowed to the
very dust.

Thursday evening. — Mr. Mandeville has arrived : fortunately, it
was late in the evening before he came, and the darkness prevented
his observing my confusion and alteration. He was kinder than
usual. Oh ! how bitterly my heart avenged him ! He brought
with him the Spaniard, Don Alphonso d'Aguila ; I think there is
a faint family likeness between him and Falkland. Mr. Mandeville
brought also a letter from Julia. She will be here the day after to-
morrow. The letter is short, but kind : she does not allude to
him ; it is some days since I heard from him.

FALKLAND. 41

FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO THE HON.

FREDERICK MONKTON.

I have resolved, Monkton, to go to her again ! I am sure that
it will be better for both of us to meet once more ; perhaps, to unite
for ever ! None who have once loved me can easily forget me. I
do not say this from vanity, because I owe it not to my being
superior to, but different from, others. I am sure that the remorse and
affliction she feels now are far greater than she would experience,
even were she more guilty, and with me. Then, at least, she would
have some one to soothe and sympathize in whatever she might
endure. To one so pure as Emily, the full crime is already incurred.
It is not the innocent who insist upon that nice line of morality
between the thought and the action : such distinctions require
reflection, experience, deliberation, prudence of head, or coldness
of heart ; these are the traits, not of the guileless, but of the worldly.
It is the affections, not the person, of a virtuous woman, which it is
difficult to obtain : that difficulty is the safeguard to her chastity ;
that difficulty I have, in this instance, overcome. I have endeavoured
to live without Emily, but in vain. Every moment of absence only
taught me the impossibility. In twenty-four hours I shall see her
again. I feel my pulse rise into fever at the very thought.

Farewell, Monkton. My next letter, I hope, will record my
triumph.

BOOK III.

EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF LADY EMILY MANDEVJLLE.

FRIDAY. — Julia is here, and so kind ! She has not men-
tioned his name, but she sighed so deeply when she saw
my pale and sunken countenance, that I threw myself
into her arms and cried like a child. We had no need of
other explanation : those tears spoke at once my confession and my
repentance. No letter from him for several days ! Surely he is not
ill ! how miserable that thought 'makes me !

Saturday.— A note has just been brought me from him. He is
come back— here ! Good heavens ! how very imprudent ! I am so
agitated that I can write no more.

Sunday. — I have seen him ! Let me repeat that sentence — /
have seen him. Oh that moment ! did it not atone for all that I
have suffered ? I dare not write everything he said, but he wished
me to fly with him — —him — what happiness, yet what guilt, in the
very thought ! Oh ! this foolish heart — would that it might break !
I feel too well the sophistry of his arguments, and yet I cannot
resist them. He seems to have thrown a spell over me, which
precludes even the effort to escape.

Monday. — Mr. Mandeville lias asked several people in the country
to dine here to-morrow, and there is to be a ball in the evening.
Falkland is of course invited. We shall meet then, and how? I
have been so little accustomed to disguise my feelings, that I quite
tremble to meet him with so many witnesses around. Mr. Mandeville
has been so harsh to me to-day ; if Falkland ever looked at me so,
or ever said one such word, my heart would indeed break. What
is it Alfieri says about the two demons to whom he is for ever a
prey ? "La mente e il cor in perp, tua lite. " Alas ! at times I start
from my reveries with such a keen sense of agony and shame !
How, how am I fallen i

7'uesday. — He is to come here to-day, and I shall see him !

Wednesday morning. — The night is over, thank Heaven ! Falk-

FALKLAND. 43

land came late to dinner : every one else was assembled. How
gracefully he entered ! how superior he seemed to all the crowd
that stood around him ! He appeared as if he were resolved to
exert powers which he had disdained before. He entered into the
conversation, not only with such brilliancy, but with such a bland-
ness and courtesy of manner ! There was no scorn on his lip, no
haughtiness on his forehead — nothing which showed him for a
moment conscious of his immeasurable superiority over every one
present. After dinner, as we retired, I caught his eyes. What
volumes they told ! — and then I had to listen to his praises, and say
nothing. I felt angry even in my pleasure. Who but I had a
right to speak of him so well !

The ball came on : I felt languid and dispirited. Falkland did
not dance. He sat himself by me — he urged me to — O God ! O
God ! would that I were dead !

FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE.

How are you this morning, my adored friend ? You seemed pale
and ill when we parted last night, and I shall be so unhappy till I
hear something of you. Oh Emily, when you listened to me with
those tearful and downcast looks : when I saw your bosom heave
at every word which I whispered in your ear ; when, as I accident-
ally touched your hand, I felt it tremble beneath my own ; oh ! was
there nothing in those moments at your heart which pleaded for me
more eloquently than words ? Pure and holy as you are, you know
not, it is true, the feelings which burn and madden in me. When
you are beside me, your hand, if it trembles, is not on fire : your
voice, if it is more subdued, does not falter with the emotions it
dares not express : your heart is not, like mine, devoured by a
parching and wasting flame : your sleep is not turned by re-itless and
turbulent dreams from the healthful renewal, into the very consumer,
of life. No, Emily ! God forbid that you should feel the guilt, the
agony which preys upon me ; but, at least, in the fond and gentle
tenderness of your heart, there must be a voice you find it difficult
to silence. Amidst all the fictitious ties and fascinations of art, you
cannot dismiss from your bosom the unconquerable impulses of
nature. What is it you fear? — you will answer, disgrace! But can
you feel it, Emily, when you share it with me? Believe me that
ihe love which is nursed through shame and sorrow is of a deeper
and holier nature than that which is reared in pride, and fostered
in joy. But, if not shame, it is guilt, perhaps, which you dread ?
Are you then so innocent now ? The adultery of the heart is no

44 FALKLAND.

less a crime than that of the deed ; and — yet I will not deceive you
— it is guilt to which I tempt you ! — it is a fall from the proud
eminence you hold now. I grant this, and I offer you nothing in
recompense but my love. If you loved like me, you would feel that
it was something of pride — of triumph — to dare all things, even
crime, for the one to whom all things are as nought ! As for me, I
know that if a voice from Heaven told me to desert you, I would
only clasp you the closer to my heart !

I tell you, my own love, that when your hand is in mine, when
your head rests upon my bosom, when those soft and thrilling eyes
shall be fixed upon my own, when every sigh shall be mingled with
my breath, and every tear be kissed away at the very instant it rises
from its source — I tell you that then you shall only feel that every
pang of the past, and every fear for the future, shall be but a new
link to bind us the firmer to each other. Emily, my life, my love,
you cannot, if you would, desert me, Who can separate the waters,
which are once united, or divide the hearts which have met and
mingled into one?

Since they had once more met, it will be perceived that Falkland
had adopted a new tone in expressing his passion to Emily. In
the book of guilt another page, branded in a deeper and more
burning character, had been turned. He lost no opportunity of
summoning the earthlier emotions to the support of his cause. He
wooed her fancy with the golden language of poetry, and strove to
arouse the latent feelings of her sex by the soft magic of his voice,
and the passionate meaning it conveyed. But at times there came
over him a deep and keen sentiment of remorse ; and even, as his
experienced and practised eye saw the moment of his triumph
approach, he felt that »he success he was hazarding his own soul
and hers to obtain, might bring him a momentary transport, but
not a permanent happiness. There is always this difference in the
love of women and of men ; that in the former, when once admitted,
it engrosses all the sources of thought, and excludes every object
but itself; but in the latter, it is shared with all the former reflections
and feelings which the past yet bequeaths us, and can neither (how-
ever powerful be its nature) constitute the whole of our happiness
or woe. The love of man in his maturer years is not indeed so
inueh a new emotion, as a revival and concentration of all his
departed affections to others ; and the deep and intense nature of
Falkland's passion for Emily was linked with the recollections of
whatever he had formerly cherished as tender or dear ; it touched —
it awoke a long chain of young and enthusiastic feelings, which

FALKLAND. 45

arose, perhaps, the fresher from their slumber. Who, when he
turns to recall his first and fondest associations ; when he throws
off, one by one, the layers of earth and stone which have grown and
hardened over the records of the past : who has not been surprised
to discover how fresh and unimpaired those buried treasures rise
again upon his heart ? They have been laid up in the store-house
of Time ; they have not perished ; their very concealment has pre-
served them ! We remove the lava, and the world of a gone day is
before us !

The evening of the day on which Falkland had written the above
letter was rude and stormy. The various streams with which the
country abounded were swelled by late rains into an unwonted
rapidity and breadth ; and their voices blended with the rushing
sound of the winds, and the distant roll of the thunder, which began

at last sullenly to subside. The whole of the scene around L

was of that savage yet sublime character, which suited well with the
wrath of the aroused elements. Dark woods, large tracts of unen-
closed heath, abrupt variations of hill and vale, and a dim and
broken outline beyond of uninterrupted mountains, formed the great
features of that romantic country.

It was filled with the recollections of his youth, and of the wild
delight which he took then in the convulsions and varieties of nature,
that Falkland roamed abroad that evening. The dim shadows of
years, crowded with concealed events and corroding reflections, all
gathered around his mind, and the gloom and tempest of the night
came over him like the sympathy of a friend.

He passed a group of terrified peasants ; they were cowering
under a tree. The oldest hid his head and shuddered ; but the
youngest looked steadily at the lightning which played at fitful
intervals over the mountain stream that rushed rapidly by their feet.
Falkland stood beside them unnoticed and silent, with folded arms
and a scornful lip. To him, nature, heaven, earth, had nothing for
fear, and everything for reflection. In youth, thought he (as he
contrasted the fear felt at one period of life with the indifference at
another), there are so many objects to divide and distract life, that
we are scarcely sensible of the collected conviction that we live.
We lose the sense of what is by thinking rather of what is to be.
But the old, who have no future to expect, are more vividly alive to
the present, and they feel death more, because they have a more
settled and perfect impression of existence.

He left the group, and went on alone by the margin of the winding
and swelling stream. " It is (said a certain philosopher) in the
conflicts of Nature that man most feels his littleness." Like all

46 FALKLAND.

general maxims, this is only partially true. The mind, which takes
its first ideas from perception, must take also its tone from the
character of the objects perceived. In mingling our spirits with the
great elements, we partake of their sublimity ; we awaken thought
from the secret depths where it had lain concealed ; our feelings are
too excited to remain riveted to ourselves ; they blend with the
mighty powers which are abroad ; and, as in the agitations of men,
the individual arouses from himself to become a part of the crowd,
so in the convulsions of nature we are equally awakened from the
littleness of self, to be lost in the grandeur of the conflict by which
we are surrounded.

Falkland still continued to track the stream : it wound its way
through Mandeville's grounds, and broadened at last into the lake
which was so consecrated to his recollections. He paused at that
spot for some moments, looking carelessly over the wide expanse of
waters, now dark as night, and now flashing into one mighty plain
of fire beneath the coruscations of the lightning. The clouds swept
on in massy columns, dark and aspiring — veiling, while they rolled
up to, the great heavens, like the shadows of human doubt. Oh !
weak, weak was that dogma of the philosopher ! There is a pride
in the storm which, according to his doctrine, would debase us; a
stirring music in its roar ; even a savage joy in its destruction : for
\ve can exult in a defiance of its power, even while we share in its
triumphs, in a consciousness of a superior spirit within us to that
which is around. We can mock at the fury of the elements, for they
are less terrible than the passions of the heart ; at the devastations
of the awful skies, for they are less desolating than the wrath of man ;
at the convulsions of that surrounding nature which has no peril, no
terror to the soul, which is more indestructible and eternal than
itself. Falkland turned towards the house which contained his
world ; and as the lightning revealed at intervals the white columns
of the porch, and wrapped in sheets of fire, like a spectral throng, the
tall and waving trees by which it was encircled, and then as sud-
denly ceased, and "the jaws of darkness " devoured up the scene ;
lie compared, with that bitter alchymy of feeling which resolves all
into one crucible of thought, those alternations of light and shadow
to the history of his own guilty love — that passion whose birth was
the womb of Night : shrouded in darkness, surrounded by storms,
and receiving only from the angry heavens a momentary brilliance,
more terrible than its customary gloom.

As he entered the saloon, Lady Margaret advanced towards him.
"My dear Falkland," said she, "how good it is in you to come in
such a night. We have been watching the skies till Emily grew

FALKLAND. 47

terrified at the lightning ; formerly it did not alarm her." And
Lady Margaret turned, utterly unconscious of the reproach she had
conveyed, towards Emily.

Did not Falkland's look turn also to that spot ? Lady Emily was
sitting by the harp which Mrs. St. John appeared to he most
seriously employed in tuning : her countenance was bent downwards,
and burning beneath the blushes called forth by the gaze which she
felt was upon her.

There was in Falkland's character a peculiar dislike to all outward
display of less worldly emotions. He had none of the vanity most
men have in conquest ; he would not have had any human being
know that he was loved. He was right ! No altar should be so
unseen and inviolable as the human heart ! He saw at once and
relieved the embarrassment he had caused. With the remarkable
fascination and grace of manner so peculiarly his own, he made his
excuses to Lady Margaret for his disordered dress ; he charmed his
uncle, Don Alphonso, with a quotation from Lopez de Vega ; he
inquired tenderly of Mrs. Dalton touching the health of her Italian
greyhound ; and then — nor till then — he ventured to approach
Emily, and speak to her in that soft tone, which, like a fairy
language, is understood only by the person it addresses. Mrs. St.
John rose and left the harp ; Falkland took her seat. He bent
down to whisper to Emily. His long hair touched her cheek ! it was
still wet with the night dew. She looked up as she felt it, and met
his gaze : better had it been to have lost earth than to have drunk
the soul's poison from that eye when it tempted to sin.

Mrs. St. John stood at some distance : Don Alphonso was speak-
ing to her of his nephew, and of his hopes of ultimately gaining him
to the cause of his mother's country. " See you not," said Mrs. St.
John, and her colour went and came, "that while he has such
attractions to detain him, your hopes are in vain?" " What mean
you?" replied the Spaniard ; but his eye had followed the direction
she had given it, and the question came only from his lips. Mrs.
St. John drew him to a still remoter corner of the room, and it was
in the conversation that then ensued between them, that they agreed
to uni;e for the purpose of separating Emily from her lover — "I to
save my frie::d," said Mrs. St. John, "and you your kinsman."
Thus it is with human virtue : — the fair show and the good deed
without — the one eternal motive of selfishness within. During the
Spaniard's visit at E , he had seen enough of Falkland to per-
ceive the great consequence he might, from his perfect knowledge
of the Spanish language, from his singular powers, and, above all,
from his command of wealth, be to the cause of that party he himself

48 FALKLAND.

had adopted. His aim, therefore, was now no longer confined
to procuring Falkland's good will and aim at home : he hoped to
secure his personal assistance in Spain : and he willingly coincided
with Mrs. St. John in detaching his nephew from a tie so likely to
detain him from that service to which Alphonso wished he should be
pledged.

Mandeville had left E that morning : he suspected nothing of

Emily's attachment. This, on his part, was less confidence than
indifference. He was one of those persons who have no existence
separate from their own : his senses all turned inwards ; they repro-
duced selfishness. Even the House of Commons was only an object
of interest because he imagined it a part of him, not he of it. He
said, with the insect on the wheel, "Admire our rapidity." But did
the defects of his character remove Lady Emily's guilt ? No ! and
this, at times, was her bitterest conviction. Whoever turns to these
pages for an apology for sin will be mistaken. They contain the
burning records of its sufferings, its repentance, and its doom. If
there be one crime in the history of woman worse than another, it
is adultery. It is, in fact, the only crime to which, in ordinary life,
she is exposed. Man has a thousand temptations to sin — woman has
but one ; if she cannot resist it, she has no claim upon our mercy. The
heavens are just ! her own guilt is her punishment ! Should these
pages, at this moment, meet the eyes of one who has become the
centre of a circle of disgrace — the contaminator of her house — the
dishonour of her children, — no matter what the excuse for her crime
— no matter what the exchange of her station — in the very arms of
her lover, in the very cincture of the new ties which she has chosen —
I call upon her to answer me if the fondest moments of rapture are
free from humiliation, though they have forgotten remorse j and if
the passion itself of her lover has not become no less the penalty than
the recompense of her guilt ? But at that hour of which I now write,
there was neither in Emily's heart, nor in that of her seducer, any
recollection of their sin. Those hearts were too full for thought —
they had forgotten everything but each other. Their love was their
creation : beyond, all was night — chaos — nothing !

Lady Margaret approached them. "You will sing to us, Emily,
to-night ? it is so long since we have heard you ! " It was in vain that
Emily tried — her voice failed. She looked at Falkland, and could
scarcely restrain her tears. She had not yet learned the latest art which
sin teaches us — its concealment ! " I will supply Lady Emily's
place," said Falkland. His voice was calm, and his brow serene :
the world had left nothing for him to learn. "Will you play the
air," he said to Mrs. St. John, "that you gave us some nights ago?

FALKLAND. 49

I will furnish the words." Mrs. St. John's hand trembled as she
obeyed.

SONG.

i.
Ah, let us love while yet we may,

Our summer is decaying ;
And woe to hearts which, in their gray
December, go a-maying.

2.

Ah, let us love, while of the fire

Time hath not yet bereft us :
With years our warmer thoughts expire,

Till only ice is left us !

3-
We'll fly the bleak world's bitter air —

A brighter home shall win us ;,
And if our hearts grow weary there,

We'll find a world within us.

They preach that passion fades each hour.

That nought will pall like pleasure ;
My bee, if Love's so frail a flower,

Oh, haste to hive its treasure.

5-
Wait not the hour, when all the mind

Shall to the crowd be given ;
For links, which to the million bind,

Shall from the one be riven.

6.

But let us love while yet we may :

Our summer is decaying ;
And woe to hearts which, in their gray

December, go a-maying.

The next day Emily rose ill and feverish. In the absence of
Falkland, her mind always awoke to the full sense of the guilt she
had incurred. She had been brought up in the strictest, even the
most fastidious, principles ; and her nature was so pure, that merely
to err appeared like a change in existence — like an entrance into
some new and unknown world, from which she shrank back, in
terror, to herself.

Judge, then, if she easily habituated her mind to its present
degradation. She sat, that morning, pale and listless ; her book
lay unopened before her ; her eyes were fixed upon the ground,
heavy with suppressed tears. Mrs. St. John entered : no one else

50 FALKLAND.

was in the room. She sat by her, and took her hand. Her
countenance was scarcely less colourless than Emily's, but its ex-
pression was more calm and composed. " It is not too late, Emily,"
she said ; "you have done much that you should repent — nothing
to render repentance unavailing. Forgive me, if I speak to you on
this subject. It is time — in a few days your fate will be decided. I
have louked on, though hitherto I have been silent : I have witnessed
that eye when it dwelt upon you ; I have heard that voice when it
spoke to your heart. None ever resisted their influence long : do
you imagine that you are the first who have found the power?
Pardon me, pardon me, I beseech you, my dearest friend, if I pain
you. I have known you from your childhood, and I only wish to
preserve you spotless to your old age."

Emily wept, without replying. " Mrs. St. John continued to
argue and expostulate. What is so wavering as passion ? When,
at last, Mrs. St. John ceased, and Emily shed upon her bosom the
hot tears of her anguish and repentance, she imagined that her
resolution was taken, and that she could almost have vowed an
eternal separation from her lover ; Falkland came that evening, and
she loved him more madly than before.

Mrs. St. John was not in the saloon when Falkland entered.

Lady Margaret was reading the well-known story of Lady T

and the Duchess of M , in which an agreement had been made

and kept, that the one who died first should return once more to
the survivor. As Lady Margaret spoke laughingly of the anecdote,
Emily, who was watching Falkland's countenance, was struck with
the dark and sudden shade which fell over it. He moved in silence
towards the window where Emily was sitting. "Do you believe,"
she said, with a faint sraile, "in the possibility of such an event?"
" I believe — though I- reject — nothing !" replied Falkland, "but!
would give worlds for such a proof that death does not destroy."
"Surely," said Emily, "you do not deny that evidence of our
immortality which we gather from the Scriptures ? — are they not all
that a voice from the dead could be?" Falkland was silent for a
few moments : he did not seem to hear the question ; his eyes dwelt
upon vacancy; and when he at last spoke, it was rather in commune
with himself than in answer to her. " I have watched," said he, in
a low internal tone, "over the tomb: I have called, in the agony of
my heart, unto her who slept beneath ; I would have dissolved my
very soul into a spell, could it have summoned before me for one,
one moment, the being who had once been the spirit of my life ! I
have been, as it were, entranced with the intensity of my own adjura-
tion ; I have gazed upon the empty air, and worked upon my mind

FALKLAND. 5 1

to fill it with imaginings ; I have called aloud unto the winds, and
tasked my soul to waken their silence to reply. All was a waste —
a stillness — an infinity — without a wanderer or a voice ! The dead
answered me not, when I invoked them ; and in the vigils of the
still night I looked from the rank grass and the mouldering stones
to the Eternal Heavens, as man looks from decay to immortality !
Oh ! that awful magnificence of repose — that living sleep — that
breathing yet unrevealing divinity, spread over those still worlds !
To them also I poured my thoughts — but in a -whisper. I did not
dare to breathe aloud the unhallowed anguish of my mind to the
majesty of the unsympathizing stars ! In the vast order of creation
— in the midst of the stupendous system of universal life, my doubt
and inquiry were murmured forth — a voice crying in the •wilderness,
and returning without an echo, unanswered unto myself! "

The deep light of the summer moon shone over Falkland's coun-
tenance, which Emily gazed on, as she listened, almost tremblingly,
to his words. His brow was knit and hueless, and the large drops
gathered slowly over it, as if wrung from the strained yet impotent
tension of the thoughts within. Emily drew nearer to him — she
laid her hand upon his own. "Listen to me," she said: "if a
herald from the grave could satisfy your doubt, I would gladly die
that I might return to you!" "Beware," said Falkland, with an
agitated but solemn voice ; ' ' the word's, now so lightly spoken, may
be registered on high." " JBe it so!" replied Emily firmly, and she
felt what she said. Her love penetrated beyond the tomb, and she
would have forfeited all here for their union hereafter.

" In my earliest youth," said Falkland, more calmly than he had
yet spoken, "I found in the present and the past of this world
enough to direct my attention to the futurity of another : if I did
not credit all with the enthusiast, I had no sympathies with the
scorner : I sat myself down to examine and reflect : I pored alike
over the pages of the philosopher and the theologian ; I was neither
baffled by the subtleties, nor deterred by the contradictions of either.
As men first ascertained the geography of the earth by observing the
signs of the heavens, I did homage to the Unknown God, and sought
from that worship to inquire into the reasonings of mankind. I did
not confine myself to books — all things breathing or inanimate con-
stituted my study. From death itself I endeavoured to extract ils
secret ; and whole nights I have sat in the crowded asylums of the
dying, watching the last spark flutter and decay. Men die away as
in sleep, without effort, or struggle, or emotion. I have looked on
their countenances a moment before death, and the serenity of repose
was upon them, waxing only more deep as it approached that slumber

52 FALKLAND.

which is never broken : the breath grew gentler and gentler, till the
lips it came from fell from each other, and all was hushed ; the light
had departed from the cloud, but the cloud itself, gray, cold, altered
as it seemed, was as before. They died and made no sign. They
had left the labyrinth without bequeathing us its clew. It is in vain
that I have sent my spirit into the land of shadows — it has borne
back no witness of its inquiry. As Newton said of himself, ' I
picked up a few shells by the sea-shore, but the great ocean of truth
lay undiscovered before me.' "

There was a long pause. Lady Margaret had sat down to chess
with the Spaniard. No look was upon the lovers : their eyes met,
and with that one glance the whole current of their thoughts was
changed. The blood, which a moment before had left Falkland's
cheek so colourless, rushed back to it again. The love which had so
penetrated and pervaded his whole system, and which abstruser and
colder reflection had just calmed, thrilled through his frame with
redoubled power. As if by an involuntary and mutual impulse,
their lips met : he threw his arm round her ; he strained her to his
bosom. "Dark as my thoughts are," he whispered, "evil as has
been my life, will you not yet soothe the one, and guide the other ? My
Emily ! my love ! the Heaven to the tumultuous ocean of my heart —
will you not be mine — mine only — wholly — and for ever ? " She
did not answer — she did not turn from his embrace. Her cheek
flushed as his breath stole over it, and her bosom heaved beneath the
arm which encircled that empire so devoted to him. " Speak one
word, only one word," he continued to whisper : "will you not be
mine? Are you not mine at heart even at this moment?" Her
head sank upon his bosom. Those deep and eloquent eyes looked
up to his through their dark fashes. "I will be yours," she mur-
mured : "I am at your mercy ; I have no longer any existence but in
you. My only fear is, that I shall cease to be worthy of your love ! "

Falkland pressed his lips once more to her own : it was his only
answer, and the last seal to their compact. As they stood before
the open lattice, the still and unconscious moon looked down upon
that record of guilt. There was not a cloud in the heavens to dim
her purity : the very winds of night had hushed themselves to do
her homage : all was silent but their hearts. They stood beneath
the calm and holy skies, a guilty and devoted pair — a fearful contrast
of the sin and turbulence of this unquiet earth to the passionless
serenity of the eternal heaven. The same stars, that for thousands
of unfathomed years had looked upon the changes of this nether
world, gleamed pale, and pure, and steadfast upon their burning but
transitory vow. In a few years what of the condemnation or the

FALKLAND. 53

recorders of that vow would remain ? From other lips, on that spot,
other oaths might be plighted ; new pledges of unchangeable fidelity
exchanged : and, year after year, in each succession of scene and
time, the same stars will look from the mystery of their untracked
and impenetrable home, to mock, as now, with their immutability,
the variations and shadows of mankind !

FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO LADY EMILY MANDEVlLLE.

At length, then, you are to be mine— you have consented to fly
with me. In three days we shall leave this country, and have no
home — no world but in each other. We will go, my Emily, to
those golden lands where Nature, the only companion we will suffer,
woos us, like a mother, to find our asylum in her breast ; where the
breezes are languid beneath the passion of the voluptuous skies ; and
where the purple light that invests all things with its glory is only less
tender and consecrating than the spirit which we bring. Is there
not, my Emily, in the external nature which reigns over creation,
and that human nature centred in ourselves, some secret and undefin-
able intelligence and attraction? Are not the impressions of the
former as spells over the passions of the latter? and in gazing upon
the loveliness around us, do we not gather, as it were, and store
within our hearts, an increase of the yearning and desire of love ?
What can we demand from earth but its solitudes — what from heaven
but its unpolluted air? All that others would ask from either, we
can find in ourselves. Wealth — honour — -happiness — every object
of ambition or desire, exist not for us without the circle of our arms !
But the bower that surrounds us shall not be unworthy of your beauty
or our love. Amidst the myrtle and the vine, and the valleys where
the summer sleeps, and the rivers that murmur the memories and
the legends of old ; amidst the hills and the glossy glades, and the
silver fountains, still as beautiful as if the Nymph and Spirit yet held
and decorated an earthly home ; — amidst these we will make the
couch of our bridals, and the moon of Italian skies shall keep watch
on our repose.

Emily ! — Emily ! — how I love to repeat and to linger over that
beautiful name ! If to see, to address, and, more than all, to touch
you, has been a rapture, what word can I find in the vocabulary of
happiness to express the realization of that hope which now burns
within me — to mingle our youth together into one stream, wheresoever
it flows ; to respire the same breath ; to be almost blent in the same
existence ; to grow, as it were, on one stem, and knit into a single
life the feelings, the wishes, the being of both !

5 4 FALKLAND.

To-night I shall see you again : let one day more intervene, and —
I cannot conclude the sentence ! As I have written, the tumultuous
happiness of hope has come over me to confuse and overwhelm every-
thing else. At this moment my pulse riots with fever ; the room
swims before my eyes ; everything is indistinct and jarring — a chaos
of emotions. Oh ! that happiness should ever have such excess !

When Emily received and laid this letter to her heart, she felt
nothing in common with the spirit which it breathed. With that quick
transition and inconstancy of feeling common in women, and which
is as frequently their safety as their peril, her mind had already
repented of the weakness of the last evening, and relapsed into the
irresolution and bitterness of her former remorse. Never had there
been in the human breast a stronger contest between conscience
and passion ; — if, indeed, the extreme softness (notwithstanding its
power) of Emily's attachment could be called passion : it was rather
a love that had refined by the increase of its own strength ; it
contained nothing but the primary guilt of conceiving it, which that
order of angels, whose nature is love, would have sought to purify
away. To see him, to live with him, to count the variations of his
countenance and voice, to touch his hand at moments when wakinsr,
and watch over his slumbers when he slept — this was the essence of
her wishes, and constituted the limit to her desires. Against the
temptations of the present was opposed the whole history of the past.
Her mind wandered from each to each, wavering and wretched, as
the impulse of the moment impelled it. Hers was not, indeed, a
strong character ; her education and habits had weakened, while
they rendered more feminine and delicate a nature originally too soft.
Every recollection of former purity called to her with the loud voice
of duty, as a warning from the great guilt she was about to incur ;
and whenever she thought of her child — that centre of fond and
sinless sensations, where once she had so wholly garnered up her
heart — her feelings melted at once from the object which had so
wildly held them riveted as by a spell, to dissolve and lose them-
selves in the great and sacred fountain of a mother's love.

When Falkland came that evening, she was sitting at a corner of
the saloon, apparently occupied in reading, but her eyes were fixed
upon her boy, whom Mrs. St. John was endeavouring at the opposite
end of the room to amuse. The child, who was fond of Falkland,
came up to him as he entered ; Falkland stooped to kiss him ; and
Mrs. St. John said, in a low voice which just reached his ear,
"Judas, too, kissed before he betrayed." Falkland's colour changed :
he felt the sting the words were intended to convey. On that child,

FALKLAND. 55

now so innocently caressing him, he was indeed about to inflict a.
disgrace and injury the most sensible and irremediable in his power.
But who ever indulges reflection in passion ? He banished the
remorse from his miad as instantaneously as it arose ; and, seating
himself by Emily, endeavoured to inspire her with a portion of the
joy and hope which animated himself. Mrs. St. John watched them
with a jealous and anxious eye : she had already seen how useless
had been her former attempt to arm Emily's conscience effectually
against her lover ; but she resolved at least to renew the impression-
she had then made. The danger was imminent, and any remedy
must be prompt ; and it was something to protract, even if she
could not finally break off, an union against which were arrayed all
the angry feelings of jealousy, as well as the better affections of the
friend. Emily's eye was already brightening beneath the words that
Falkland whispered in her ear, when Mrs. St. John approached her.
She placed herself on a chair beside them, and unmindful of Falk-
land's bent and angry brow, attempted to create a general and
commonplace conversation. Lady Margaret had invited two or
three people in the neighbourhood ; and when these came in, music
and cards were resorted to immediately, with that English politesse,
which takes the earliest opportunity to show that the conversation
of our friends is the last thing for which, we have invited them. But
Mrs. St. John never left the lovers ; and at last, when Falkland, in
despair at her obstinacy, arose to join the card-table, she said, " Pray
Mr. Falkland, were you not intimate at one time with * * * * ,
who eloped with Lady ****?" "I knew him but slightly,1'
said Falkland; and then added, with a sneer, "the only times I
ever met him were at your house." Mrs. St. John, without noticing
the sarcasm, continued : — " What an unfortunate affair that proved !
They were very much attached to one another in early life — the only
excuse, perhaps, for a woman's breaking her subsequent vows.
They eloped. The remainder of their history is briefly told : it is
that of all who forfeit everything for passion, and forget that of
everything it is the briefest in duration. He who had sacrificed his
honour for her, sacrificed her also as lightly for another. She could
not bear his infidelity ; and how could she reproach him ? In the
very act of yielding to, she had become unworthy of, his love. She
did not reproach him — she died of a broken heart ! I saw her just
before her death, for I was distantly related to her, and I could not
forsake her utterly even in her sin. She then spoke to me only of
the child by her former marriage, whom she had left in the years
when it most needed her care : she questioned me of its health — its
education — its very growth : the minutest thing was not beneath her

56 FALKLAND.

inquiry. His tidings were all that brought back to her mind ' the
redolence of joy and spring.' I brought that child to her one day :
he at least had never forgotten her. How bitterly both wept when
they were separated I and she— poor, poor Ellen — an hour after
their separation was no more ! " There was a pause for a few
minutes. Emily was deeply affected. Mrs. St. John had anticipated
the effect she had produced, and concerted the method to increase
it. "It is singular," she resumed, "that, the evening before her
elopement, some verses were sent to her anonymously — I do not
think, Emily, that you have ever seen them. Shall I sing them to
you now ? " and, without waiting for a reply, she placed herself at the
piano ; and with a low but sweet voice, greatly aided in effect by the
extreme feeling of her manner, she sang the following verses : —

TO * * »
i.

And wilt thou leave that happy home,

Where once it was so sweet to live?
Ah ! think, before thou seek'st to roam,

What safer shelter Guilt can give !

2.

The Bird may rove, and still regain

With spotljss wings her wonted rest :
But home, once lost, is ne'er again

Restored to Woman's erring breast !

3-
If wandering o'er a world of flowers,

The heart at times would ask repose ;
But tkou wouldst lose the only bowers

Of rest amid a world of woes.

4-
Recall thy youth's unsullied vow —

The past which on thee smiled so fair ;
Then turn from thence to picture now

The frowns thy future fate must wear !

5-
No hour, no hope, can bring relief

To her who hides a blighted name :
For hearts unbow'd by stormiest^/*/

Will break beneath one breeze of sluintt }

6.
And when thy child's deserted years

Amid life's early woes are thrown,
Shall menial bosoms soothe the tears

That should be shed on thine alone ?

FALKLAND. 57

7-
When on thy name his lips shall call,

(That tender name, the earliest taught !)
Thou wouldst not Shame and Sin were all

The memories link'd around its thought 1

8.

If Sickness haunt his infant bed,
Ah ! what could then replace thy care ?

Could hireling steps as gently tread
As if a Mother's soul was there?

9-
Enough ! 'tis not too late to shun

The bitter draught thyself wouldst fill ;
The latest link is not undone —

Thy bark is in the haven still.

10.

If doom'd to grief through life thou art,

'Tis thine at least unstain'd to die !
Oh'! better break at once thy heart

Than rend it from its holiest tie !

It were vain to attempt describing Emily's feelings when the song
ceased. The scene .floated before her eyes indistinct and dark.
The violence of the emotions she attempted to conceal pressed upon
her almost to choking. She rose, looked at Falkland with one
look of such anguish and despair that it froze his very heart, and
left the room without uttering a word. A moment more — they
heard a noise — a fall. They rushed out — Emily was stretched on
the ground, apparently -lifeless. She had broken a blood-vessel !

BOOK IV.

FROM MRS. ST. JOHN TO ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ.

last I can give a more favourable answer to your letters.
Emily is now quite out of danger. Since the day you
forced yourself, with such a disinterested regard for her
health and reputation, into her room, she grew (no thanks
to your forbearance) gradually better. I trust that she will be able
to see you in a few days. I hope this the more, because she now
feels and decides that it will be for the last time. You have, it is
true, injured her happiness for life : her virtue, thank Heaven, is yet
spared ; and though you have made her wretched, you will never, I
trust, succeed in making her despised.

You ask me, with some menacing and more complaint, why I am
so bitter against you. I will tell you. I not only know Emily, and
feel confident, from that knowledge, that nothing can recompense
her for the reproaches of conscience, but I know you, and am con-
vinced that you are the last man to render her happy. I set aside,
for the moment, all rules of religion and morality in general, and
speak to you (to use the cant and abused phrase) " without prejudice "
as to the particular instance. Emily's nature is soft and susceptible,
yours fickle and wayward in the extreme. The smallest change or
caprice in you, which would not be noticed by a mind less delicate,
would wound her to the heart. You know that the very softness of
her character arises from its want of strength. Consider, for a
moment, if she could bear the humiliation and disgrace which visit
so heavily the offences of an English wife? She has been brought
up in the strictest notions of morality ; and, in a mind not naturally
strong, nothing can efface the first impressions of education. She is
not — indeed she is not — fit for a life of sorrow or degradation. In
another character, another line of conduct might be desirable ; but
with regard to her, pause, Falkland, I beseech you, before you
attempt again to destroy her for ever. I have said all. Farewell.
Your, and above all, Emily's friend.

FALKLAND.

59

FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE.

You will see me, Emily, now that you are recovered sufficiently to
do so without danger. I do not ask this as a favour. If my love
has deserved anything from yours, if past recollections give me any
claim over you, if my nature has not forfeited the spell which it
formerly possessed upon your own, I demand it as a right.

The bearer waits for your answer.

FROM 'LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE TO ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ.

See you, Falkland ! Can you doubt it ? Can you think for a
moment that your commands can ever cease to become a law to me ?
Come here whenever you please. If, during my illness, they have
prevented it, it was without my knowledge. 1 await you ; but I own
that this interview will be the last, if I can claim anything from
your mercy.

FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE.

I have seen you, Emily, and for the List time ! My eyes are dry
— my hand does not tremble. I live, move, breathe, as before — and
yet I have ssen you for the last time ! You told me — even while you
leaned on my bosom, even while your lip pressed mine — you told me
(and I saw your sincerity) to spare you, and to see you no more.
You told me you had no longer any will, any fate of your own ; that
you would, if I still continued to desire it, leave friends, home,
honour, for me ; but you did not disguise from me that you would,
in so doing, leave happiness also. You did not conceal from me
that I was not sufficient to constitute all your world : you threw
yourself, as you had done once before, upon what you called my
generosity : you did not deceive yourself then ; you have not deceived
yourself now. In two weeks I shall leave England, probably for
ever. I have another country still more dear to me, from its
afflictions and humiliation. Public ties differ but little in their
nature from private ; and this confession of preference of what is
debased to what is exalted, will be an answer to Mrs. St. John's
assertion, that we cannot love in disgrace as we can in honour.
Enough of this. In the choice, my poor Emily, that you have
made, I cannot reproach you. You have done wisely, rightly, vir-
tuously. You said that this separation must rest rather with me than
with yourself; that you would be mine the moment I demanded it.
I will not now or ever accept this promise. No one, much less one
whom I love so intensely, so truly as I do you, shall ever receive

6o FALKLAND.

disgrace at my hands, unless she can feel that that disgrace would
be dearer to her than glory elsewhere ; that the simple fate of being
mine was not so much a recompense as a reward ; and that, in spite
of worldly depreciation and shame, it would constitute and con-
centrate all her visions of happiness and pride. I am now going to
bid you farewell. May you — I say this disinterestedly, and from my
very heart — may you soon forget how much you have loved and yet
love me ! For this purpose, you cannot have a better companion
than Mrs. St. John. Her opinion of me is loudly expressed, and
probably true ; at all events, you will do wisely to believe it. You
will hear me attacked and reproached by many. I do not deny the
charges ; you know best what I have deserved from^w. God bless
you, Emily. Wherever I go, I shall never cease to love you as I do
now. May you be happy in your child and in .your conscience !
Once more, God bless you, and farewell !

FROM LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE TO ERASMUS
FALKLAND, ESQ.

0 Falkland ! you have conquered ! — I am yours — yours only —
Wholly and for cz'er. When your letter came, my hand trembled
so, that I could not open it for several minutes ; and when I did, I
felt as if the very earth had passed from my feet. You were going
from your country ; yon were about to be lost to me for ever. I
could restrain -myself no longer ; all my virtue, my pride, forsook
me at once. Yes, yes, you are indeed my world. I will fly with
you anywhere — everywhere. Nothing can be dreadful, but not
seeing you ; I would be .a servant — a slave — a dog, as long as I
could be with you ; hear one tone of your voice, catch one glance of
your eye. I scarcely see the paper before me, my thoughts are
so straggling and confused. Write to me one word, Falkland ; one
word, and I will lay it to my heart, and be happy.

FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND TO LADY F.MILY MANDEVILLE.

Hotel, London.

1 hasten to you, Emily — my own and only love. Your letter has
restored me to life. To-morrow we shall meet.

It was with mingled feelings, alloyed and embittered, in spite of
the burning hope which predominated over all, that Falkland

returned to E . He knew that he was near the completion of

his most ardent wishes ; that he was within the grasp of a prize

FALKLAND. 61

which included all the thousand objects of ambition, into which,
among other men, the desires are divided : the only dreams he had
ventured to form for years were about to kindle into life. He had
every reason to be happy ; — -such is the inconsistency of human
nature, that he was almost wretched. The morbid melancholy,
habitual to him, threw its colourings over every emotion and idea.
He knew the character of the woman whose affections he had
seduced ; and he trembled to think of the doom to which he was
about to condemn her. With this, there came over his mind a long
train of dark and remorseful recollections. Emily was not the only
one whose destruction he had prepared. AH who had loved him,
he hal repaid with ruin ; and one — the first — the fairest — and the
most loved, with death.

That last remembrance, more bitterly than all, possessed him. It
will be recollected that Falkland, in the letters which begin this
work, speaking of the ties he had formed after the loss of his first
love, says, that it was the senses, not the affections, that were
engaged. Never, indeed, since her death, till he met Emily, had
his heart been unfaithful to her memory. Alas ! none but those
who have cherished in their souls an image of the death ; who have
watched over it for long and bitter years in secrecy and gloom ; who
have felt that it was to them as a holy and fairy spot which no eye
but theirs could profane ; who have filled all things with recollections
as with a spell, and made the universe one wide mausoleum of the
lost ;— none but those can understand the mysteries of that regret
which is shed over every after passion, though it be more burning
and intense ; — that sense of sacrilege with which we fill up the
haunted recesses of the spirit with a new and living idol, and
perpetrate the last act of infidelity to that buried love, which the
heavens that now receive her, the earth where we beheld her, tell
u=, with the unnumbered voices of Nature, to worship with the
incense of our faith.

His carriage stopped at the lodge. The woman who opened the
gates gave him the following note : —

" Mr. 'Mandeville is returned ; I almost fear that he suspects our

attachment. Julia says, that if you come again to E -, she will

inform him. I dare not, deirest Falkland, sea you here. What is
to be done ? I am very ill and feverish : my brain burns so, that I
ean think, feel, remember nothing, but the one thought, feeling, and
remembrance — that through shame, and despite of guilt, in life, and
till death, I am yours.

"E. M."

62 FALKLAND.

As Falkland read this note, his extreme and engrossing love for
Emily doubled with each word : an instant before, and the certainty
of seeing her had suffered his mind to be divided into a thousand
objects ; now, doubt united them once more into one.

He altered his route to L -, and despatched from thence a

short note to Emily, imploring her to meet him that evening by the
lake, in order to arrange their ultimate flight. Her answer was
brief, and blotted with her tears ; but it was assent.

During the whole of that day, at least from the moment she
received Falkland's letter, Emily was -scarcely sensible of a single
idea : she sat still and motionless, gazing on vacancy, and seeing
nothing within her mind, or in the objects which surrounded her, but
one dreary blank. Sense, thought, feeling, even remorse, were con-
gealed and frozen ; and the tides of emotion were still, but they
•were ice !

As Falkland's servant had waited without to deliver the note to
Emily, Mrs. St. John had observed him : her alarm and surprise
only served to quicken her presence of mind. She intercepted
Emily's answer under pretence of giving it herself to Falkland's
servant. She read it, and her resolution was formed. After care-
fully resealing and delivering it to the servant, she went at once to
Mr. Mandeville, and revealed Lady Emily's attachment to Falkland.
In this act of treachery, she was solely instigated by her passions ;
and when Mandeville, roused from his wonted apathy to a paroxysm
of indignation, thanked her again and again for the generosity of
friendship which he imagined was all that actuated her communi-
cation, he dreamed not of the fierce and ungovernable jealousy
which envied the very disgrace that her confession was intended to
award. Well said the French enthusiast, " that the heart, the most
serene to appearance, resembles that calm and glassy fountain which
cherishes the monster of the Nile in the bosom of its waters."
Whatever reward Mrs. St. John proposed to herself in this action,
verily she has had the recompense that was her due. Those con-
sequences of her treachery, which I hasten to relate, have ceased to
others — to her they remain. Amidst the pleasures of dissipation,
one reflection has rankled at her mind ; one dark cloud has rested
between the sunshine and her soul : like the murderer in Shak-
speare, the revel where she fled for forgetfulness has teemed to her
with the spectres of remembrance. O thou untameable conscience !
thou that never flatterest — thou that watchest over the human heart
never to slumber or to sleep — it is thou that takest from us the
present, barrest to us the future, and knittest the eternal chain that
binds us to the rock and the vulture of the past !

FALKLAND. 63

The evening came on still and dark ; a breathless and heavy
apprehension seemed gathered over the air : the full large clouds
lay without motion in the dull sky, from between which, at long
and scattered intervals, the wan stars looked out ; a double shadow
seemed to invest the grouped and gloomy trees that stood Unwaving
in the melancholy horizon. The waters of the lake lay heavy and
unagitated, as the sleep of death ; and the broken reflections of the
abrupt and winding banks rested upon their bosoms, like the dream-
like remembrance of a former existence.

The hour of the appointment was arrived : Falkland stcod by the
spot, gazing upon the lake before him ; his cheek was flushed, his
hand was parched and dry with the consuming fire within him. His
pulse beat thick and rapidly; the demon of evil passions was upon
his soul. He stood so lost in his own reflections, that he did not
for some moments perceive the fond and tearful eye which was fixed
upon him : on that brow and lip, thought seemed always so beauti-
ful, so divine, that to disturb its repose was like a profanation of
something holy ; and though Emily came towards him with a light
and hurried step, she paused involuntarily to gaze upon that noble
countenance which realized her earliest visions of the beauly and
majesty of love. He turned slowly, and perceived her ; he came
to her with his own peculiar smile j he drew her to his bosom in
silence ; he pressed his lips to her forehead : she leaned upon his
bosom, and forgot all but him. Oh ! if there be one feeling which
makes Love, even guilty Love, a god, it is the knowledge that in
the midst of this breathing world he reigns aloof and alone ; and
that those who are occupied with his worship know nothing of the
pettiness, the strife, the bustle, which pollute and agitate the ordinary
inhabitants of earth ! What was now to them, as they stood alone
in the deep stillness of nature, everything that had engrossed them
before they had met and loved ? Even in her, the recollections of
guilt and grief subsided : she was only sensible of one thought — the
presence of the being who stood beside her,

That ocean to the rivers of her soul.

They sat down beneath an oak : Falkland stooped to kiss the cold
and pale cheek that still rested upon his breast. His kisses were
like lava : the turbulent and stormy elements of sin and desire were
aroused even to madness within him. He clasped her still nearer
to his bosom : her lips answered to his own : they caught perhaps
something of the spirit which they received : her eyes were half-
closed ; the bosom heaved wildly that was pressed to his beating
and burning heart. The skies grew darker and darker, as the night

64 FALKLAND.

stole over them : one low roll of thunder broke upon the curtained
and heavy air — they did not hear it ; and yet it was the knell of peace
— virtue — hope — lost, lost for ever to their souls !

They separated as they had never done before. In Emily's bosom
there was a dreary void — a vast blank — over which there went a
low deep voice like a Spirit's — a sound indistinct and strange, that
spoke a language she knew not ; but felt that it told of woe— guilt
—doom. Her senses were stunned : the vitality of her feelings was
numbed and torpid : the first herald of despair is insensibility.
"To-morrow, then," said Falkland — and his voice for the first time
seemed strange and harsh to her — "we will fly hence for ever:
meet me at daybreak — the carriage shall be in attendance — we
cannot now unite too soon — would that at this very moment we
were prepared ! " — "To-morrow! " repeated Emily, " at day-break ! "
and as she clung to him, he felt her shudder: "to-morrow — ay —
to-morrow ! — " one kiss — one embrace — one word — -farewell — and
they parted.

Falkland returned to L : a gloomy, foreboding rested upon

his mind : that dim and indescribable fear, which no earthly or
human cause can explain — that shrinking within self — that vague
terror of the future — that grappling, as it were, with some unknown
shade — that wandering of the spirit — whither? — that cold, cold
creeping dread — of what ? As he entered the house, he met his
confidential servant. He gave him orders respecting the flight of
the morrow, and then retired into the chamber where he slept. It
was an antique and large room : the wainscot was of oak ; and one
broad and high window looked over the expanse of country which
stretched beneath. He sat himself by the casement in silence — he
opened it : the dull air came over his forehead, not with a sense of
freshness, but, like the parching atmosphere of the east, charged
with a weight and fever that sank heavy into his soul. He turned : —
he threw himself upon the bed, and placed his hands over his face.
His thoughts were scattered into a thousand indistinct forms, but
over all, there was one rapturous remembrance ; and that was, that
the morrow was to unite him for ever to her whose possession had
only rendered her more dear. Meanwhile, the hours rolled on ; and
as he lay thus silent and still, the clock of the distant church struck
with a distinct .and solemn sound upon his ear. It was the half-hour
after midnight. At that moment an icy thrill ran, slow and curd-
ling, through his veins. His heart, as if with a presentiment of

F/.LKLAND. 65

what was to follow, beat violently, and then stopped ; life itself
seemed ebbing away ; cold drops stood upon his forehead ; his eye-
lids trembled, and the balls reeled and glazed, like those of a dying
man ; a deadly fear gathered over him, so that his flesh quivered,
and every hair in his head seemed instinct with a separate life, the
very marrow of his bones crept, and his blood waxed thick and
thick, as if stagnating into an ebbless and frozen substance. He
started in a wild and unutterable terror. There stood, at the far
end of the room, a dim and thin shape like moonlight, without out-
line or form ; still, and indistinct, and shadowy. He gazed on,
speechless and motionless ; his faculties and senses seemed locked
in an unnatural trance. By degrees the shape became clearer and
clearer to his fixed and dilating eye. He saw, as through a floating
and mist-like veil, the features of Emily ; but how changed ! — sunken,
and hueless, and set in death. The dropping lip, from which there
seemed to trickle a deep red stain like blood ; the lead-like and life-
less eye ; the calm, awful, mysterious repose which broods over the
aspect of the dead ; — all grew, as it were, from the hazy cloud that
encircled them for one, one brief, agonizing moment, and then as
suddenly faded away. The spell passed from his senses. He sprang
from the bed with a loud cry. All was quiet. There was not a
trace of what he had witnessed. The feeble light of the skies rested
upon the spot where the apparition had stood ; upon that spot he
stood also. He stamped upon the floor — it was firm beneath his
footing. He passed his hands over his body — he was awake — he
was unchanged : earth, air, heaven, were around him as before.
What had thus gone over his soul to awe and overcome it to such
weakness ? To these questions his reason could return no answer.
Bold by nature, and sceptical by philosophy, his mind gradually
recovered its original tone : he did not give way to conjecture : he
endeavoured to discard it : he sought by natural causes to account
for the apparition he had seen or imagined ; and, as he felt the
blood again circulating in its accustomed courses, and the night air
coming chill over his feverish frame, he smiled with a stern and
scornful bitterness at the terror which had so shaken, and the fancy
which had so deluded, his mind.

Are there not "more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed
of in our philosophy?" A Spirit may hover in the air that we
breathe : the depth of our most secret solitudes may be peopled by
the invisible : our uprisings and our downsittings may be marked by a.
witness from the grave. In our walks the dead may be behind us ;
in our banquets they may sit at the board ; and the chill breath of
the night wind that stirs the curtains of our bed may bear a message

D

66 FALKLAND.

our senses receive not, from lips that once have pressed kisses on our
own ! Why is it that at moments there creeps over us an awe, a
terror, overpowering, but undefined? Why is it that we shudder
without a cause, and feel the warm life-blood stand still in its
courses ? Are the dead too near ? Do unearthly wings touch us as
they flit around ? Has our soul any intercourse which the body
shares not, though it feels, with the supernatural world — mysterious
revealings — unimaginable communion — a language of dread and
power, shaking to its centre the fleshly barrier that divides the spirit
from its race ?

How fearful is the very life which we hold ! We have our being
beneath a cloud, and are a marvel even to ourselves. There is not a
single thought which has its affixed limits. Like circles in the
water, our researches weaken as they extend, and vanish at last into
the immeasurable and unfathomable space of the vast unkown. We
are like children in the dark ; we tremble in a shadowy and terrible
void, peopled with our fancies ! Life is our real night, and the first
gleam of the morning, which brings us certainty, is death.

Falkland sat the remainder of that night by the window, watching
the clouds become gray as the dawn rose, and its earliest breeze
awoke. He heard the trampling of the horses beneath : he drew
his cloak round him, and descended. It was on a turning of the
road beyond the lodge that he directed the carriage to wait, and he
then proceeded to the place appointed. Emily was not yet there.
He walked to and fro with an agitated and hurried step. The im-
pression of the night had in a great measure been effaced from his
mind, and he gave himself up without reserve to the warm and
sanguine hopes which he had so much reason to conceive. He
thought too, at moments, of those bright climates beneath which he
designed their asylum, where the very air is music, and the light is
like the colourings of love ; and he associated the sighs of a mutual
rapture with the fragrance of myrtles, and the breath of a Tuscan
heaven. Time glided on. The hour was long past, yet Emily came
not ! The sun rose, and Falkland turned in dark and angry dis-
content from its beams. With every moment his impatience in-
creased, and at last he could restrain himself no longer. He
proceeded towards the house. He stood for some time at a distance ;
but as all seemed still hushed in repose, he drew nearer and nearer
till he reached the door : to his astonishment it was open. He saw
forms passing rapidly through the hall. He heard a confused and
indistinct murmur. At length he caught a glimpse of Mrs. St.
John. He could command himself no more. He sprang forwards
— entered the door — the hall — and caught her by a part of her dress.

FALKLAND. 67

He could not speak, but his countenance said all which his lips
refused. Mrs. St. John burst into tears when she saw him. "Good
God !" she said, "why are you here? Is it possible you have yet
learned — • — " Her voice failed her. Falkland had by this time
recovered himself. He turned to the servants who gathered around
him. " Speak," he said calmly. " What has occurred ?" "My
lady — my lady !" burst at once from several tongues. "What of
her ? " said Falkland, with a blanched cheek, but unchanging voice.
There was a pause. At that instant a man, whom Falkland recog-
nized as the physician of the neighbourhood, passed at the opposite
end of the hall. A light, a scorching and intolerable light, broke
upon him. " She is dying — she is dead, perhaps," he said, in a low
sepulchral tone, turning his eye around till it had rested upon every
one present. Not one answered. He paused a moment, as if
stunned by a sudden shock, and then sprang up the stairs. He
passed the boudoir, and entered the room where Emily slept. The
shutters were only partially closed : a faint light broke through, and
rested on the bed ; beside it bent two women. Them he neither
heeded nor saw. He drew aside the curtains. He beheld — the
same as he had seen it in his vision of the night before — the changed
and lifeless countenance of Emily Mancleville ! That face, still so
tenderly beautiful, was partially turned towards him. Some dark
stains upon the lip and neck told how she had died — the blood-
vessel she had broken before had burst again. The bland and soft
eyes, which for him never had but one expression, were closed ; and
the long and dishevelled tresses half hid, while they contrasted that
bosom, which had but the night before first learned to thrill beneath
his own. Happier in her fate than she deserved, she passed from
this bitter life ere the punishment of her guilt had begun. She was
not doomed to wither beneath the blight of shame, nor the coldness
of estranged affection. From him whom she had so worshipped,
she was not condemned to bear wrong nor change. She died while
his passion was yet in its spring — before a blossom, a leaf, had
faded ; and she sank to repose while his kiss was yet warm upon her
lip, and her last breath almost mingled with his sigh. For the
woman who has erred, life has no exchange for such a death. Falk-
land stood mute and motionless : not one word of grief or horror
escaped his lips. At length he bent down. He took the hand
which lay outside the bed ; he pressed it ; it replied not to the
pressure, but fell cold and heavy from his own. He put his cheek
to her lips ; not the faintest breath came from them ; and then for
the first time a change passed over his countenance : he pressed
upon those lips one long and last kiss, and, without word, or sign,

68 FALKLAND.

or tear, he turned from the chamber. Two hours afterwards he was
found senseless upon the ground : it was upon the spot where he had
met Emily the night before.

For weeks he knew nothing of this earth — he was encompassed
with the spectres of a terrible dream. All was confusion, darkness,
horror — a series and a change of torture ! At one time he was
hurried through the heavens in the womb of a fiery star, girt above
and below and around with unextinguishable but unconsuming
flames. Wherever he trod, as he wandered through his vast and
blazing prison, the molten fire was his footing, and the breath of fire
was his air. Flowers, and trees, and hills were in that world as
in ours, but wrought from one lurid and in'.olerable light ; and,
scattered around, rose gigantic palaces and domes of the living
flame, like the mansions of the city of Hell. With every moment
there passed to and fro shadowy forms, on whose countenances was
engraven unutterable anguish ; but not a shriek, not a groan, rung
through the red air ; for the doomed i who fed and inhabited the flames,
were forbidden the conso.ation of voice. Above there sat, fixed and
black, a solid and impenetrable cloud — Night frozen into substance ;
and from the midst there hung a banner of a pale and sickly flame,
on which was written " For Ever. " A river rushed rapidly beside
him. He stooped to slake the agony of his thirst — the waves were
waves of fire ; and, as he started from the burning draught, he
longed to shriek aloud, and could not. Then he cast his despairing
eyes above for mercy ; and saw on the livid and motionless banner
"For Ever."

A change came o'er the spirit of his dream :

•He was suddenly borne upon the winds and storms to the oceans
of an eternal winter. He fell stunned and unstruggling upon the
ebbless and sluggish waves. Slowly and heavily they rose over him
as he sank : then came the lengthened and suffocating torture of that
drowning death — the impotent and convulsive contest with the
closing waters — the gurgle, the choking, the bursting of the pent
breath, — the flutter of the heart, its agony, and its stillness. He
recovered. He was a thousand fathoms beneath the sea, chained to
a rock round which the heavy waters rose as a wall. He felt his
own flesh rot and decay, perishing from his limbs piece by piece ;
and he saw the coral banks, which it requires a thousand ages to
form, rise slowly from their slimy bed : and spread atom by atom,
till they became a shelter for the leviathan : their growth was his
only record of eternity ; and ever and ever, around and above him,
came vast and misshapen things — the wonders of the secret deeps ;

FALKLAND. 69

and the sea serpent, the huge chimaera of the north, made its resting-
place by his side, glaring upon him with a livid and death-like eye,
wan, yet burning as an expiring sun. But over all, in every change,
in every moment of that immortality, there was present one pale and
motionless countenance, never turning from his own. The fiends of
hell, the monsters of the hidden ocean, had no horror so awful as
the human face of the dead whom he had loved.

The word of his sentence was gone forth. Alike through
that delirium and its more fearful awakening, through the past,
through the future, through the vigils of the joyless day, and
the broken dreams of night, there was a charm upon his soul — a
hell within himself ; and the curse of his sentence was — never to
forget !

When Lady Emily returned home on that guilty and eventful
night, she stole at once to her room : she dismissed her servant, and
threw herself upon the ground in that deep despair which on this
earth can never again know hope. She lay there without the power
to weep, or the courage to pray — how long, she knew not.
Like the period before creation, her mind was a chaos of jarring
elements, and knew neither the method of reflection, nor the division
of time.

As she rose, she heard a slight knock at the door, and her husband
entered. Her heart misgave her ; and when she saw him close the
door carefully before he approached her, she felt as if she could have
sunk into the earth, alike from her internal shame, and her fear of
its detection.

Mr. Mandeville was a weak, commonplace character ; indifferent
in ordinary matters, but, like most imbecile minds, violent and furious
when aroused. "Is this, Madam, addressed to you?" he cried, in
a voice of thunder, as he placed a letter before her (it was one of
Falkland's) ; "and this, and this, Madam ?" said he, in a still louder
tone, as he flung them out one after another from her own escritoire,
which he had broken open.

Emily sank back, and gasped for breath. Mandeville rose, and,
laughing fiercely, seized her by the arm. He grasped it with all his
force. She uttered a faint scream of terror : he did not heed it ; he
flung her from him, and, as she fell upon the ground, the blood
gushed in torrents from her lips. In the sudden change of feeling
which alarm created, he raised her in his arms. She was a corpse!
At that instant the clock struck upon his ear with a startling and
solemn sound : it ^vas the half-hour after midnight!

The grave is now closed upon that soft and erring heart, with its
guiltiest secret unrevealed. She went to that last home with a blest

70 FALKLAND.

and unblighted name ; for her guilt was unknown, and her virtues
are yet recorded in the memories of the Poor.

They laid her in the stately vaults of her ancient line, and her bier
was honoured with tears from hearts not less stricken, because their
sorrow, if violent, was brief. For the dead there are many mourners,
but only one monument — the bosom which loved them best. The
spot where the hearse rested, the green turf beneath, the surrounding
trees, the gray tower of the village church, and the proud halls
rising beyond, — all had witnessed the childhood, the youth, the
bridal-day of the being whose last rites and solemnities they were to
witness now. The very bell which rang for her birth had rung also
for the marriage peal ; it now tolled for her death. But a little
while, and she had gone forth from that home of her young and
unclouded years, amidst the acclamations and blessings of all, a
bride with the insignia of bridal pomp — in the first bloom of her
girlish beauty — in the first innocence of her unawakened heart,
weeping, not for the future she was entering, but for the past she
was about to leave, and smiling through her tears, as if innocence
had no business with grief. On the same spot, where he had then
waved his farewell, stood the father now. On the grass which they
had then covered, flocked the peasants whose wants her childhood
had relieved ; by the same priest who had blessed her bridals, bent
the bridegroom who had plighted his vow. There was not a tree,
not a blade of grass withered. The day itself was bright and glorious ;
such was it when it smiled upon her nuptials. And she — she — but four
little years, and all youth's innocence darkened, and earth's beauty
come to dust ! Alas ! not for her, but the mourner whom she left !
In death even love is forgotten ; but in life there is no bitterness
so utter as to feel everything is unchanged, except the One Being
who was the soul of all — to know the world is the same, but that its
sunshine is departed.

The noon was still and sultry. Along the narrow street of the
small village of Lodar poured the wearied but yet unconquered band,
which embodied in that district of Spain the last hope and energy
of freedom. The countenances of the soldiers were haggard and
dejected ; they displayed even less of the vanity, than their accou-
trements exhibited of the pomp and circumstances of war. Yet
their garments were such as even the peasants had disdained :

FALKLAND. 71

covered with blood and dust, and tattered into a thousand rags, they
betokened nothing of chivalry but its endurance of hardship ; even
the rent and sullied banners drooped sullenly along their staves, as
if the winds themselves had become the minions of fortune, and dis-
dained to swell the insignia of those whom she had deserted. The
glorious music of battle was still. An air of dispirited and defeated
enterprise hung over the whole array. " Thank Heaven," said the
chief, who closed the last file as it marched on to its scanty refreshment
and brief repose ; " thank Heaven, we are at least out of the reach
of pursuit ; and the mountains, those last retreats of liberty, are before
us ! " "True, Don Rafael," replied the youngest of two officers who
rode by the side of the commander ; " and if we can cut our passage
to Mina, we may yet plant the standard of the Constitution in
Madrid." "Ay," added the elder officer, "and sing Riego's hymn
in the place of the Escurial ! " "Our sons may ! " said the chief,
who was indeed Riego himself, ' ' but for us — all hope is over ! Were
we united, we could scarcely make head against the armies of France ;
and divided as we are, the wonder is that we have escaped so long.
Hemmed in by invasion, our great enemy has been ourselves. Such
has been the hostility faction has created between Spaniard and
Spaniard, that we seem to have none left to waste upon Frenchmen.
We cannot establish freedom if men are willing to be slaves. We
have no hope, Don Alphonso — no hope — but that of death ! " As
Riego concluded this desponding answer, so contrary to his general
enthusiasm, the younger officer rode on among the soldiers, cheering
them with words of congratulation and comfort ; ordering their
several divisions ; cautioning them to be prepared at a moment's
notice ; and impressing on their remembrance those small but essen-
tial points of discipline, which a Spanish troop might well be sup-
posed to disregard. When Riego and his companion entered the
small and miserable hovel which constituted the head-quarters of the
place, this man still remained without ; and it was not till he had
slackened the girths of his Andalusian horse, and placed before it
the undainty provender which the hurie afforded, that he thought of
rebinding more firmly the bandages wound around a deep and
painful sabre cut in the left arm, which for several hours had been
wholly neglected. The officer, whom Riego had addressed by the
name of Alphonso, came out of the hut just as his comrade was
vainly endeavouring, with his teeth and one hand, to replace the
ligature. As he assisted him, he said, " You know not, my dear
Falkland, how bitterly I reproach myself for having ever persuaded
you to a cause where contest seems to have no hope, and danger no
glory." Falkland smiled bitterly. "Do not deceive yourself, my

72 FALKLAND.

dear uncle,1' said he ; " your persuasions would have been unavailing
but for the suggestions of my own wishes. I am not one of those
enthusiasts who entered on your cause with high hopes and chival-
rous designs : I asked but forgetfulness and excitement — I have
found them ! I would not exchange a single pain I have endured
for what would have constituted the pleasures of other men : — but
enough of this. What time, think you, have we for repose ? "
"Till the evening," answered Alphonso ; "our route will then
most probably be directed to the Sierra Morena. The General is
extremely weak and exhausted, and needs a longer rest than we
shall gain. It is singular that with such weak health he should
endure so great an excess of hardship and fatigue." During this
conversation they entered the hut. Riego was already asleep. As
they seated themselves to the wretched provision of the place, a
distant and indistinct noise was heard. It came first on their ears
like the birth of the mountain wind — low, and hoarse, and deep :
gradually it grew loud and louder, and mingled with other sounds
which they defined too well — the hum, the murmur, the trampling
of steeds, the ringing echoes of the rapid march of armed men !
They heard and knew the foe was upon them ! — a moment more,
and the drum beat to arms. "By St. Pelagio," cried Riego, who
had sprung from his light sleep at the first sound of the approaching
danger, unwilling to believe his fears, "it cannot be : the French
are far behind : " and then, as the drum beat, his voice suddenly
changed, — "the enemy! the enemy! D'Aguilar, to horse!" and
with those words he rushed out of the hut. The soldiers, who had
scarcely begun to disperse, were soon re-collected. In the mean
while the French commander, D'Argout, taking advantage of the
surprise he had occasioned, poured on his troops, which consisted
solely of cavalry, undaunted and undelayed by the fire of the posts.
On, on they drove like a swift cloud charged with thunder, and
gathering wrath as it hurried by, before it burst in tempest on the
beholders. They did not pause till they reached the farther extremity
of the village : there the Spanish infantry were already formed into
two squares. "Halt!" cried the French commander: the troop
suddenly stopped, confronting the nearer square. There was one
brief pause — the moment before the storm. " Charge ! " said D'Ar-
gout, and the word rang throughout the line up to the clear and
placid sky. Up flashed the steel like lightning ; on went the troop
like the dash of a thousand waves when the sun is upon them ; and
before the breath of the riders was thrice drawn, came the crash — the
shock — the slaughter of battle. The Spaniards made but a faint
resistance to the impetuosity of the onset : they broke on every side

FALKLAND. 73

beneath the force of the charge, like the weak barriers of a rapid
and swollen stream ; and the French troops after a brief but bloody
victory (joined by a second squadron from the rear), advanced
immediately upon the Spanish cavalry. Falkland was by the side
of Riego. As the troop advanced, it would have been curious to
notice the contrast of expression in the face of each ; the Spaniard's
features lighted up with the daring enthusiasm of his nature ; every
trace of their usual languor and exhaustion vanished beneath the
unconquerable soul that blazed out the brighter for the debility of
the frame ; the brow knit ; the eye flashing ; the lip quivering ; —
and close beside, the calm, stern, passionless repose that brooded
over the severe yet noble beauty of Falkland's countenance. To
him danger brought scorn, not enthusiasm : he rather despised than
defied it. " The dastards ! they waver," said Riego, in an accent
of despair, as his troop faltered beneath the charge of the French :
and so saying, he spurred his steed on to the foremost line. The
contest was longer, but not less decisive, than the one just con-
cluded. The Spaniards, thrown into confusion by the first shock,
never recovered themselves. Falkland, who, in his anxiety to
rally and inspirit the soldiers, had advanced with two other officers
beyond the ranks, was soon surrounded by a detachment of dragoons :
the wound in his left arm scarcely suffered him to guide his horse :
he was in the most imminent danger. At that moment D'Aguilar,
at the head of his own immediate followers, cut his way into the
circle, and covered Falkland's retreat ; another detachment of the
enemy came up, and they were a second time surrounded. In the
mean while, the main body of the Spanish cavalry were flying in all
directions, and Riego' s deep voice was heard at intervals, through
the columns of smoke and dust, calling and exhorting them in vain.
D'Aguilar and his scanty troop, after a desperate skirmish, broke
again through the enemy's line drawn up against their retreat. The
rank closed after them, like waters when the object that pierced
them has sunk : Falkland and his two companions were again envi-
roned : he saw his comrades cut to the earth before him. He pulled
up his horse for one moment, clove down with one desperate blow
the dragoon with whom he was engaged, and then setting his spurs
to the very rowels into his horse, dashed at once through the circle
of his foes. His remarkable presence of mind, and the strength and
sagacity of his horse, befriended him. Three sabres flashed before
him, and glanced harmless from his raised sword, like lightning on
the water. The circle was passed ! As he galloped towards Riego,
his horse started from a dead body that lay across his path. He
reined up for one instant, for the countenance, which looked upwards,

D 2

74 FALKLAND.

struck him as familiar. What was his horror, when in that livid
and distorted face, he recognized his uncle ! The thin grizzled hairs
were besprent with gore and brains, and the blood yet oozed from
the spot where the ball had passed through his temple. Falkland
had but a brief interval for grief ; the pursuers were close behind :
he heard the snort of the foremost horse before he again put spurs
into his own. Riego was holding a hasty consultation with his prin-
cipal officers. As Falkland rode breathless up to them, they had
decided on the conduct expedient to adopt. They led the remaining
square of infantry towards the chain of mountains against which
the village, as it were, leaned ; and there the men dispersed in all
directions. "For us," said Riego to the followers on horseback
who gathered around him, "for us the mountains still promise a
shelter. We must ride, gentlemen, for our lives — Spain will want
them yet."

Wearied and exhausted as they were, that small and devoted
troop fled on into the recesses of the mountains for the remainder of
that day — twenty men out of the two thousand who had halted at
Lodar. As the evening stole over them, they entered into a narrow
defile : the tall hills rose on every side, covered with the glory of
the setting son, as if Nature rejoiced to grant her bulwarks as a
protection to liberty. A small clear stream ran through the valley,
sparkling with the last smile of the departing dny ; and ever and
anon, from the scattered shrubs and the fragrant herbage, came the
vesper music of the birds, and the hum of the wild bee.

Parched with thirst, and drooping with fatigue, the wanderers
sprung forward with one simultaneous cry of joy to the glassy and
refreshing wave which burst so unexpectedly upon them : and it was
resolved that they should remain for some hours in a spot where all
things invited them to the repose they so imperiously required.
They flung themselves at once upon the grass ; and such was their
exhaustion, that rest was almost synonymous with sleep. Falkland
alone could not immediately forget himself in repose : the face of
his uncle, ghastly and disfigured, glared upon his eyes whenever he
closed them. Just, however, as he was sinking into an unquiet and
fitful doze, he heard steps approaching : he started up, and per-
ceived two men, one a peasant, the other in the dress of a hermit.
They were the first human beings the wanderers had met ; and when
Falkland gave the alarm to Riego, who slept beside him, it was
immediately proposed to detain them as guides to the town of
Carolina, where Riego had hopes of finding effectual assistance, or
the means of ultimate escape. The hermit and his companion
refused, with much vehemence, the office imposed upon them ; but

FALKLAND. 75

Riego ordered them to be forcibly detained. He had afterwards
reason bitterly to regret this compulsion.

Midnight came on in all the gorgeous beauty of a southern heaven,
and beneath its stars they renewed their march.

As Falkland rode by the side of Riego, the latter said to him in a
low voice, " There is yet escape for you and my followers ; none for
me : they have set a price on my head, and the moment I leave these
mountains, I enter upon my own destruction." "No, Rafael!"
replied Falkland ; " you can yet fly to England, that asylum of the
free, though ally of the despotic ; the abettor of tyranny, but the
shelter of its victims ! " Riego answered, with the same faint and
dejected tone, " I care not now what becomes of me ! I have lived
solely for Freedom ; I have made her my mistress, my hope, my
dream : I have no existence but in her. With the last effort of my
country let me perish also ! I have lived to view liberty not only
defeated, but derided : I have seen its efforts not aided, but mocked.
In my own country, those only, who wore it, have been respected
who used it as a covering to ambition. In other nations, the free
stood aloof when the charter of their own rights was violated in the
invasion of ours. I cannot forget that the senate of that England,
where you promise me a home, rang with insulting plaudits when
her statesman breathed his ridicule on our weakness, not his sympathy
for our cause ; and I — / — fanatic — dreamer — enthusiast, as I may be
called, whose whole life has been one unremitting struggle for the
opinion I have adopted, am at least not so blinded by my infatuation,
but I can see the mockery it incurs. If I die on the scaffold to-
morrow, I shall have nothing of martyrdom but its doom ; not the
triumph — the incense — the immortality of popular applause : I
should have no hope to support me at such a moment, gleaned from
the glories of the future — nothing but one stern and prophetic con-
viction of the vanity ot that tyranny by which my .sentence will be
pronounced." Riego paused fora moment before he resumed, and
his pale and death-like countenance received an awful and unnatural
light from the intensity of the feeling that swelled and burned within
him. His figure was drawn up to its full height, and his voice rang
through the lonely hills with a deep and hollow sound, that had in it
a tone of prophecy, as he resumed : "It is in vain that they oppose
OPINION ; anything else they may subdue. They may conquer
wind, water, nature itself; but to the progress of that secret, subtle,
pervading spirit, their imagination can devise, their strength can
accomplish, no bar : its votaries they may seize, they may destroy ;
itsdf they cannot touch. If they check it in one place, it invades
them in another. They cannot build a wall across the whole earth ;

76 FALKLAND.

and, even if they could, it would pass over its summit ! Chains
cannot bind it, for it is immaterial — dungeons enclose it, for it is
universal. Over the faggot and the scaffold — over the bleeding
bodies of its defenders which they pile against its path, it sweeps on
with a noiseless but unceasing march. Do they levy armies against
it, it presents to them no palpable object to oppose. Its camp is the
universe; its asylum is the bosoms of their own soldiers. Let them
depopulate, destroy as they please, to each extremity of the earth ;
but as long as they have a single supporter themselves — as long as
they leave a single individual into whom that spirit can enter — so
long they will have the same labours to encounter, and the same
enemy to subdue."

As Riego's voice ceased, Falkland gazed upon him with a mingled
pity and admiration. Sour and ascetic as was the mind of that
hopeless and disappointed man, he felt somewhat of a kindred glow
at the pervading and holy enthusiasm of the patriot to whom he
had listened ; and though it was the character of his own philosophy
to question the purity of human motives, and to smile at the more
vivid emotions he had ceased to feel, he bowed his soul in homage
to those principles whose sanctity he acknowledged, and to that
devotion of zeal and fervour with which their defender cherished
and enforced them. Falkland had joined the constitutionalists with
respect, but not ardour, for their cause. He demanded excitation ;
he cared little where he found it. He stood in this world a being
who mixed in all its changes, performed all its offices, took, as if by
the force of superior mechanical power, a leading share in its events ;
but whose thoughts and soul were as offsprings of another planet,
imprisoned in a human form, and longing for their home !

As they rode on, Riego continued to converse with that imprudent
unreserve which the openness and warmth of his nature made natural
to him : not one word escaped the hermit and the peasant (whose
name was Lopez Lara) as they rode on two mules behind Falkland
and Riego. " Remember," whispered the hermit to his comrade,
" the reward ! " "I do," muttered the peasant.

Throughout the whole of that long and dreary night, the wanderers
rode on incessantly, and found themselves at daybreak near a farm-
house : this was Lara's own home. They made the peasant Lara
knock ; his own brother opened the door. Fearful as they were of
the detection to which so numerous a party might conduce, only
Riego, another officer (Don Luis de Sylva), and Falkland entered
the house. The latter, whom nothing ever seemed to render weary
or forgetful, fixed his cold stern eye upon the two brothers, and,
seeing some signs pass between them, locked the door, and so

FALKLAND. 77

prevented their escape. For a few hours they reposed in the stables
with their horses, their drawn swords by their sides. On waking,
Riego found it absolutely necessary that his horse should be shod.
Lopez started up, and offered to lead it to Arguillas for that purpose.
"No," said Riego, who, though naturally imprudent, partook in
this instance of Falkland s habitual caution: "your brother shall
go and bring hither the farrier." Accordingly the brother went :
he soon returned. " The farrier," he said, "was already on the
road.'' Riego and his companions, who were absolutely fainting
with hunger, sat down to breakfast ; but Falkland, who had finished
first, and who had eyed the man since his return with the most
scrutinizing attention, withdrew towards the window, looking out
from time to time with a telescope which they had carried about
them, and urging them impatiently to finish. "Why?" said Riego,
"famished men are good for nothing, either to fight or fly — and we

mustvta.it for the farrier." " True," said Falkland, "but "he

stopped abruptly. Sylva had his eyes on his face at that moment.
Falkland's colour suddenly changed : he turned round with a loud
cry. " Up ! up ! Riego ! Sylva ! We are undone — the soldiers are
upon us ! " " Arm ! " cried Riego, starting up. At that moment
Lopez and his brother seized their own carbines, and levelled them
at the betrayed constitutionalists. " The first who moves," cried
the former, " is a dead man ! " " Fools ! " said Falkland, with a
calm bitterness, advancing deliberately towards them. He moved
only three steps — Lopez fired. Falkland staggered a few paces,
recovered himself, sprang towards Lara, clove him at one blow from
the skull to the jaw, and fell, with his victim, lifeless upon the floor.
" Enough !" said Riego to the remaining peasant; "we are your
prisoners ; bind us ! " In two minutes more the soldiers entered,
and they were conducted to Carolina. Fortunately Falkland was
known, when at Paris, to a French officer of high rank then at
Carolina. He was removed to the Frenchman's quarters. Medical
aid was instantly procured. The first examination of his wound was
decisive ; recovery was hopeless !

Night came on again, with her pomp of light and shade — the
night that for Falkland had no morrow. One solitary lamp burned
in the chamber where he lay alone with God and his own heart.
He had desired his couch to be placed by the window, and requested
his attendants to withdraw. The gentle and balmy air stole over
him, as free and bland as if it were to breathe for him for ever ; and

7 8 FALKLAND.

the silver moonlight came gleaming through the lattice, and played
upon his wan brow, like the tenderness of a bride that sought to
kiss him to repose. " In a few hours," thought he, as he lay gazing
on the high stars which seemed such silent witnesses of an eternal
and unfathomed mystery, "in a few hours either this feverish and
wayward spirit will be at rest for ever, or it will have commenced a
new career in an untried and unimaginable existence ! In a very
few hours I may be amongst the very heavens that I survey — a part
of their own glory — a new link in a new order of beings — breathing
amidst the elements of a more gorgeous world — arrayed myself in
the attributes of a purer and diviner nature — a wanderer among the
planets — an associate of angels — the beholder of the arcana of the
great God — redeemed, regenerate, immortal, or — dust!

"There is no CEdipus to solve the enigma of life. We are —
whence came we ? We are not — whither do we go ? All things in
our existence have their object ; existence has none. We live, move,
beget our species, perish — and for -what t We ask the past its
moral ; we question the gone years of the reason of our being, and
from the clouds of a thousand ages there goes forth no answer. Is
it merely to pant beneath this weary load ; to sicken of the sun ; to
grow old ; to drop like leaves into the grave ; and to bequeath to
our heirs the worn garments of toil and labour that we leave behind ?
Is it to sail for ever on the same sea, ploughing the ocean of time
with new furrows, and feeding its billows with new wrecks, or — ; — "
and his thoughts paused, blinded and bewildered.

No man, in whom the mind has not been broken by the decay of
the body, has approached death in full consciousness, as Falkland
did that moment, and not thought intensely on the change he was
about to undergo ; and yet what new discoveries upon that subject
has any one bequeathed us ? There the wildest imaginations are
driven from originality into triteness : there all minds, the frivolous
and the strong, the busy and the idle, are compelled into the same
path and limit of reflection. Upon that unknown and voiceless
gulf of inquiry broods an eternal and impenetrable gloom ; no wind
breathes over it — no wave agitates its stillness : over the dead and
solemn calm there is no change propitious to adventure — there goes
forth no vessel of research, which is not driven, baffled and broken,
again upon the shore.

The moon waxed high in her career. Midnight was gathering
slowly over the earth : the beautiful, the mystic hour, blent with a
thousand memories, hallowed by a thousand dreams, made tender
to remembrance by the vows our youth breathed beneath its star,
and solemn by the old legends which are linked to its majesty and

FALKLAND. 79

peace — the k»nr m ve&ick mat sAtmUiKe; the isthmus between two
worlds ; the climax of the past day ; the wage of that which is to
come ; wrapping us in sleep after a weary travail, and promising us
a morrow wtek amte tktj^ Irtk e/CncU^ tas mmrful*L As
the minutes glided on, Falkland felt himself grow gradually weaker
and weaker. The pain of his wound had ceased, but a deadly sick-
ness gathered over his heart : the room reeled before his eyes, and
the damp chill mounted from his feet up — up to the breast in which
the life-blood waxed dull and thick.

As the hand of the clock pointed to the half-hour after midnight,
the attendants who waited in the adjoining room heard a faint cry.
They rushed hastily into Falkland's chamber ; they found him
stretched half out of the bed. His hand was raised towards the
opposite wall ; it dropped gradually as they approached him ; and
his brow, which was at first stern and bent, softened shade by shade,
into his usual serenity. But the dim film gathered fast over his eye,
and the last coldness upon his limbs. He strove to raise himself as
if to speak; the effort failed, and he fell motionless on his face.
They stood by the bed for some moments in silence : at length they
raised him. Placed against his heart was an open locket of dark
hair, which one hand still pressed convulsively. They looked upon
his countenance — (a single glance was sufficient) — it was hushed —
proud — passionless — the seal of Death was upon it !

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

TO

HENRY LYTTON BULWER.

ALLOW me, my dear Brother, to dedicate this Work to you.
The greater part of it (viz., the tales which vary and relieve the
voyages of Gertrude and Trevylyan) was written in the pleasant
excursion we made together some years ago. Among the associ-
ations— some sad, and some pleasing — connected with the general
design, none are so agreeable to me as those that remind me of the
friendship subsisting between us, and which, unlike that of near
relations in general, has grown stronger and more intimate as our
footsteps have receded farther from the fields where we played
together in our childhood. I dedicate this Work to you with the
more pleasure, not only when I remember that it has always been a
favourite with yourself, but when I think that it is one of my writings
most liked in foreign countries ; and I may possibly, therefore, have
found a record destined to endure the affectionate esteem which this
Dedication is intended to convey.

Yours, &c.

E. L. B.
LONDON, April IT,, 1840.

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION.

COULD I prescribe to the critic and to the public, I would wish
that this work might be tried by the rules rather of poetry than
prose, for according to those rules have been both its conception
and its execution ; — and I feel that something of sympathy with
the author's design is requisite to win indulgence for the super-
stitions he has incorporated with his tale ; for the floridity of his
style and the redundance of his descriptions. Perhaps, indeed, it
would be impossible, in attempting to paint the scenery and embody
some of the Legends of the Rhine, not to give (it may be, too
loosely) the reins to the imagination, or to escape the influence, of
that wild German spirit which I have sought to transfer to a colder
tongue.

I have made the experiment of selecting for the main interest of
my work the simplest materials, and weaving upon them the orna-
ments given chiefly to subjects of a more fanciful nature. I know
not how far I have succeeded, but various reasons have conspired to
make this the work, above all others that I have written, which has
given me the most delight (though not unmixed with melancholy) in
producing, and in which my mind, for the time, has been the most
completely absorbed. But the ardour of composition is often dis-
proportioned to the merit of the work ; and the public sometimes,
nor unjustly, avenges itself for that forgetfulness of its existence,
which makes the chief charm of an author's solitude — and the
happiest, if not the wisest, inspiration of his dreams.

PREFACE

TO

PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

WITH the younger class of my readers, this work has had the good
fortune to find especial favour ; perhaps because it is in itself a
collection of the thoughts and sentiments that constitute the Romance
of youth. It has little to do with the positive truths of our actual
life, and does not pretend to deal with the larger passions and more
stirring interests of our kind. It is but an episode out of the
graven epic of human destinies. It requires no explanation of its
purpose, and no analysis of its story ; the one is evident, the other
simple : — the first seeks but to illustrate visible nature through the
poetry of the affections ; the other is but the narrative of the most
real of mortal sorrows which the Author attempts to take out of the
region of pain, by various accessories from the Ideal. The connect-
ing tale itself is but the string that binds into a garland the wild
flowers cast upon a grave.

The descriptions of the Rhine have been considered by Germans
sufficiently faithful to render this tribute to their land and their
legends one of the popular guide-books along the course it illustrates
— especially to such tourists as wish not only to take in with the eye
the inventory of the river, but to seize the peculiar spirit which
invests the wave and the bank with a beauty that can only be made
visible by reflexion. He little comprehends the true charm of the
Rhine, who gazes on the vines on the hill-tops without a thought of
the imaginary world with which their recesses have been peopled by
the graceful credulity of old ; who surveys the steep ruins that over-
shadow the water, untouched by one lesson from the pensive morality
of Time. Everywhere around us is the evidence of perished opinions
and departed races — everywhere around us, also, the rejoicing

86 PREFACE.

fertility of unconquerable Nature, and the calm progress of Man
himself through the infinite cycles of decay. He who would judge
adequately of a landscape, must regard it not only with the painter's
eye, but with the poet's. The feelings which the sight of any scene
in nature conveys to the mind— more especially of any scene on
which history or fiction has left its trace — must depend upon our
sympathy witli those associations which make up what maybe called
the spiritual character of the spot. If indifferent to those associations,
we should see only hedge-rows and ploughed land in the battle-field
of Bannockburn ; and the traveller would but look on a dreary
waste, whether he stood amidst the piles of the Druid on Salisbury
plain, or trod his bewildered way over the broad expanse on which
the Chaldean first learned to number the stars.

To the former editions of this tale was prefixed a poem on " The
Ideal," which had all the worst faults of the author's earliest compo-
sitions in verse. The present poem (with the exception of a very few
lines) has been entirely re-written, and has at least the comparative
merit of being less vague in the thought, and less unpolished in the
diction, than that which it replaces.

EMS, 1840.

THE IDEAL WORLD,
i.

THE IDEAL WORLD — ITS REALM IS EVERYWHERE AROUND US —
ITS INHABITANTS ARE THE IMMORTAL PERSONIFICATIONS
OF ALL BEAUTIFUL THOUGHTS — TO THAT WORLD WE ATTAIN
BY THE REPOSE OF THE SENSES.

AROUND " this visible diurnal sphere,"

There floats a World that girds us like the space ;
On wandering clouds and gliding beams career

Its ever-moving, murmurous Populace.
There, all the lovelier thoughts conceived below,

Ascending live, and in celestial shapes.
To that bright World, O Mortal, wouldst thou go?—

Bind but thy senses, and thy soul escapes :
To care, to sin, to passion close thine eyes ;
Sleep in the flesh, and see the Dreamland rise !
Hark, to the gush of golden waterfalls,
Or knightly tromps at Archimagian Walls !
In the green hush of Dorian Valleys mark

The River Maid her amber tresses knitting ;-
When glow-worms twinkle under coverts dark,

And silver clouds o'er summer stars are flitting,
With jocund elves invade "the Moone's sphere,
" Or hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear ; " 1
Or, list ! what time the roseate urns of dawn

Scatter fresh dews, and the first skylark weaves
Joy into song — the blithe Arcadian Faun

Piping to wood-nymphs under Bromian leaves,
While slowly gleaming through the purple glade
Come Evian's panther car, and the pale Naxian Maid.

Such, O Ideal World, thy habitants !
All the fair children of creative creeds —

1 Midsummer Night's Dream.

88 THE IDEAL WORLD.

All the lost tribes of Phantasy are thine —
From antique Saturn in Dodonian haunts,

Or Pan's first music waked from shepherd reeds,
To the last sprite when Heaven's pale lamps decline,
' Heard wailing soft along the solemn Rhine.

II.

OUR DREAMS BELONG TO THE IDEAL — THE DIVINER LOVE FOR
WHICH YOUTH SIOHS, NOT ATTAINABLE IN LIFE— BUT THE
PURSUIT OF THAT LOVE, BEYOND THE WORLD OF THE
SENSES, PURIFIES THE SOUL, AND AWAKES THE GENIUS —
PETRARCH — DANTE.

Thine are the Dreams that pass the Ivory Gates,

With prophet shadows haunting poet eyes !
Thine the beloved illusions youth creates

From the dim haze of its own happy skies.
In vain we pine — we yearn on earth to win

The being of the heart, our boyhood's dream.
The Psyche and the Eros ne'er have been,

Save in Olympus, wedded !— As a stream
Glasses a star, so life the ideal love ;
Restless the stream below— serene the orb above !
Ever the soul the senses shall deceive ;
Here custom chill, their kinder fate bereave :
For mortal lips unmeet eternal vows !
And Eden's flowers for Adam's mournful brows 1
We seek to make the moment's angel guest

The household dweller at a human hearth ;
We chase the bird of Paradise whose nest

Was never found amid the bowers of earth. l
Yet loftier joys the vain pursuit may bring,

Than sate the senses with the boons of time ;
The bird of Heaven hath still an upward wing,

The steps it lures are still the steps that climb,
And in the ascent, altho' the soil be bare,
More clear the daylight and more pure the air.
Let Petrarch's heart the human mistress lose,
He mourns the Laura, but to win the Muse.

1 According to a belief in the East, which is associated with one of the loveliest
and most familiar of Oriental superstitions, the bird of Paradise is never seen to
rest upon the earth— and its nest is never to be found.

THE IDEAL WORLD. 89

Could all the charms which Georgian maids combine
Delight the soul of the dark Florentine,
Like one chaste dream of childlike Beatrice
Awaiting Hell's dark pilgrim in the skies,
Snatch'd from below to be the guide above,
And clothe Religion in the form of Love ? 1

III.

GENIUS, LIFTING ITS LIFE TO THE IDEAL, BECOMES ITSELF A
PURE IDEA — IT MUST COMPREHEND ALL EXISTENCE : ALL
HUMAN SINS AND SUFFERINGS — BUT IN COMPREHENDING,
IT TRANSMUTES THEM — THE POET IN HIS TWO-FOLD BEING
— THE ACTUAL AND THE IDEAL — THE INFLUENCE OF GENIUS
OVER THE STERNEST REALITIES OF EARTH — OVER OUR
PASSIONS — WARS AND SUPERSTITIONS — ITS IDENTITY IS
WITH HUMAN PROGRESS — ITS AGEXCY, EVEN WHERE UN-
ACKNOWLEDGED, IS UNIVERSAL.

O, thou true Iris ! sporting on thy bow

Of tears and smiles — Jove's herald, Poetry,
Thou reflex image of all joy and woe —

Both fused in light by thy dear phantasy !
Lo ! from the clay how Genius lifts its life,

And grows one pure Idea — one calm soul !
True, its own clearness must reflect our strife ;

True, its completeness must comprise our whole :
But as the sun transmutes the sullen hues

Of marsh-grown vapours into vermeil dyes,
And melts them later into twilight dews,

Shedding on flowers the baptism of the skies ;
So glows the Ideal in the air we breathe —

So from the fumes of sorrow and of sin,
Doth its warm light in rosy colours wreathe

Its playful cloudland, storing balms within.

Survey the Poet in his mortal mould,

Man, amongst men, descended from his throne !

The moth that chased the star now frets the fold,
Our cares, our faults, our follies are his own.

1 It is supposed by many of the commentators on Dante, that in the form
of his lost Beatrice, who guides him in his Vision of Heaven, he allegorizes
Religious Faith.

90 THE IDEAL WORLD.

Passions as idle, and desires as vain,
Vex the wild heart, and dupe the erring brain.
From Freedom's field the recreant Horace flies
To kiss the hand by which his country dies ;
From Mary's grave the mighty Peasant turns,
And hoarse with orgies rings the laugh of Burns.
While Rousseau's lips a lackey's vices own, —
Lips that could draw the thunder on a throne !
But when from Life the Actual GENIUS springs,

When, self-transform'd by its own magic rod,
It snaps the fetters and expands the wings,

And drops the fleshly garb that veil'd the god,
How the mists vanish as the form ascends ! —
How in its aureole every sunbeam blends !
By the Arch-Brightener of Creation seen,

How dim the crowns on perishable brows !
The snows of Atlas melt beneath the sheen,

Thro' Thebaid caves the rushing splendour flows.
Cimmerian glooms with Asian beams are bright,
And Earth reposes in a belt of light.
Now stern as Vengeance shines the awful form,
Arm'd with the bolt and glowing thro' the storm ;
Sets the great deeps of human passion free,
And whelms the bulwarks that would breast the sea.
Roused by its voice the ghastly Wars arise,
Mars reddens earth, the Valkyrs pale the skies ;
Dim Superstition from her hell escapes,
With all her shadowy brood of monster shapes ;
Here life itself the scowl of Typhon1 takes ;
• There Conscience shudders at Alecto's snakes ;
From Gothic graves at midnight yawning wide,
In gory cerements gibbering spectres glide ;
And where o'er blasted heaths the lightnings flame,
Black secret hags ' ' do deeds without a name ! "
Yet thro' its direst agencies of awe,
Light marks its presence and pervades its law,
And, like Orion when the storms are loud,
It links creation while it gilds a cloud.
By ruthless Thor, free Thought, frank Honour stand,
Fame's grand desire, and zeal for Fatherland.

1 The gloomy Typhon of Egypt assumes many of the mystic attributes of the
Principle of Life which, in the Grecian Apotheosis of the Indian Bacchus, is
represented in so genial a character of exuberant joy and everlasting youth.

THE IDEAL WORLD. 91

The grim Religion of Barbarian Fear,

With some Hereafter still connects the Here,

Lifts the gross sense to some spiritual source,

And thrones some Jove above the Titan Force,

Till, love completing what in awe began,

From the rude savage dawns the thoughtful man.

Then, O behold the glorious Comforter !

Still bright'ning worlds, but gladd'ning now the hearth,
Or like the lustre of our nearest star,

Fused in the common atmosphere of earth.
It sports like hope upon the captive's chain ;
Descends in dreams upon the couch of pain ;
To wonder's realm allures the earnest child ;
To the chaste love refines the instinct wild ;
And as in waters the reflected beam,
Still where we turn, glides with us up the stream ;
And while in truth the whole expanse is bright,
Yields to each eye its own fond path of light,
So over life the rays of Genius fall,
Give each his track because illuming all.

IV.
FORGIVENESS TO THE ERRORS OF OUR BENEFACTORS.

Hence is that secret pardon we bestow

In the true instinct of the grateful heart,
Upon the Sons of Song. The good they do

In the clear world of their Uranian art
Endures for ever ; while the evil done

In the poor drama of their mortal scene,
Is but a passing cloud before the sun ;

Space hath no record where the mist hath been.
Boots it to us, if Shakespeare err'd like man ?

Why idly question that most mystic life ?
Eno' the giver in his gilts to scan ;

To bless the sheaves with which thy fields are rife,
Nor, blundering, guess thro' what obstructive clay
The glorious corn-seed struggled up to day.

r>2 THE IDEAL WORLD.

V.

THE IDEAL IS NOT CONFINED TO POETS — ALGERNON SIDNEY
RECOGNIZES HIS IDEAL IN LIBERTY, AND BELIEVES IN ITS
TRIUMPH WHERE THE MERE PRACTICAL MAN COULD BEHOLD
BUT ITS RUINS— YET LIBERTY IN THIS WORLD MUST EVER
BE AN IDEAL, AND THE LAND THAT IT PROMISES CAN BE
FOUND BUT IN DEATH.

But not to you alone, O Sons of Song,
The wings that float the loftier airs along.
Whoever lifts us from the dust we are,

Beyond the sensual to spiritual goals ;
Who from the MOMENT and the SELF afar

By deathless deeds allures reluctant souls,
Gives the warm life to what the Limner draws,
Plato but thought what godlike Cato was.1
Recall the wars of England's giant-born,

Is Elyot's voice — is Hampden's death in vain ?
Have all the meteors of the vernal morn

But wasted light upon a frozen main ?
Where is that child of Carnage, Freedom, flown ?
The Sybarite lolls upon the Martyr's throne.
Lewd, ribald jests succeed to solemn zeal ;
And things of silk to Cromwell's men of steel.
Cold are the hosts the tromps of Ireton thrill'd
And hush'd the senates Vane's large presence fill'd.
In what strong heart doth the old manhood dwell ?
Where art thou, Freedom ? — Look — in Sidney's cell !
There still as stately stands the living Truth,
Smiling on age as it had smiled on youth.
Her forts dismantled, and her shrines o'erthrown,
The headsman's block her last dread altar-stone,
No sanction left to Reason's vulgar hope —
Far from the wrecks expands her prophet's scope.
Millennial morns the tombs of Kedron gild,
The hands of saints the glorious walls rebuild, —
Till each foundation garnish'd with its gem,
High o'er Gehenna flames Jerusalem !
O thou blood-stained Ideal of the free,
Whose breath is heard in clarions — Liberty !

1 " What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was." — POPE.

THE IDEAL WORLD. 93

Sublimer for thy grand illusions past,

Thou spring's! to Heaven — Religion at the last.

Alike below, or commonwealths, or thrones,

Where'er men gather some crush'd victim groans ;

Only in death thy real form we see,

All life is bondage — souls alone are free.

Thus through the waste the wandering Hebrews went,

Fire on the march, but cloud upon the tent.

At last on Pisgah see the prophet stand,

Before his vision spreads the PROMISED LAND ;

But where reveal'd the Canaan to his eye ? —

Upon the mountain he ascends to die.

VI.

YET ALL HAVE TWO ESCAPES INTO THE IDEAL WORLD —
VIZ., MEMORY AND HOPE — EXAMPLE OF HOPE IN YOUTH,
HOWEVER EXCLUDED FROM ACTION AND DESIRE —
NAPOLEON'S SON.

Yet whatsoever be our bondage here,

All have two portals to the Phantom sphere, —

Who hath not glided through those gates that ope '

Beyond the Hour, to MEMORY or to HOPE !

Give Youth the Garden, — still it soars above —

Seeks some far glory — some diviner love.

Place Age amidst the Golgotha — its eyes

Still quit the graves, to rest upon the skies ;

And while the dust, unheeded, moulders there,

Track some lost angel through cerulean air.

Lo ! where the Austrian binds, with formal chain,
The crownless son of earth's last Charlemain —
Him, at whose birth laugh'd all the violet vales

(While yet unfallen stood thy sovereign star,
O Lucifer of Nations) — hark, the gales

Swell with the shout from all the hosts, whose war
Rended the Alps, and crimson'd Memphian Nile —

"Way for the coming of the Conqueror's Son :
Woe to the Merchant-Carthage of the Isle !

Woe to the Scythian Ice-world of the Don !
O Thunder Lord, thy Lemnian bolts prepare,
The Eagle's eyrie hath its eagle heir ! "

94 THE IDEAL WORLD.

Hark, at that shout from north to south, gray Power

Quails on its weak, hereditary thrones ;
And widowed mothers prophesy the hour

Of future carnage to their cradled sons.
What ! shall our race to blood be thus consign'd,
And Ate claim an heirloom in mankind ?
Are these red lots unshaken in the urn ?
Years pass — approach, pale Questioner — and learn.
Chain'd to his rock, with brows that vainly frown,
The fallen Titan sinks in darkness down !
And sadly gazing through his gilded grate,
Behold the child whose birth was as a fate !
Far from the land in which his life began ;
Wall'd from the healthful air of hardy man ;
Rear'd by cold hearts, and watch'd by jealous eyes,
His guardians gaolers, and his comrades spies.
Each trite convention courtly fears inspire
To stint experience and to dwarf desire ;
Narrows the action to a puppet stage,
And trains the eaglet to the starling's cage.
On the dejected brow and smileless cheek,
What weary thought the languid lines bespeak :
Till drop by drop, from jaded day to day,
The sickly life-streams ooze themselves away.

Yet oft in HOPE a boundless realm was thine,
That vaguest Infinite — the Dream of Fame ;

Son of the sword that first made kings divine,

Heir to man's grandest royalty — a Name !
• Then didst thou burst upon the startled world,

And keep the glorious promise of thy birth ;
Then were the wings that bear the bolt unfurl'd,

A monarch's voice cried, "Place upon the Earth"
A new Philippi gain'd a second Rome,
And the Son's sword avenged the greater Cresar's doom.

THE IDEAL WORLD. 95

II.

EXAMPLE OF MEMORY AS LEADING TO THE IDEAL — AMIDST LIFE
HOWEVER HUMBLE, AND IN A MIND HOWEVER IGNORANT —
THE VILLAGE WIDOW.

But turn the eye to life's sequester'd vale,

A nd lowly roofs remote in hamlets green,
Oft in my boyhood where the moss-grown pale

Fenced quiet graves, a female form was seen ;
Each eve she sought the melancholy ground,
And lingering paused, and wistful look'd around
If yet some footstep rustled thro' the grass,
Timorous she shrunk, and watch'd the shadow pass.
Then, when the spot lay lone amidst the gloom,
Crept to one grave too humble for a tomb,
There silent bowed her face above the dead,
For, if in prayer, the prayer was inly said ;
Still as the moonbeam, paused her quiet shade,
Still as the moonbeam, thro' the yews to fade.
Whose dust thus hallowed by so fond a care ?
What the grave saith not — let the heart declare.

On yonder green two orphan children play'd ;
By yonder rill two plighted lovers stray 'd.
In yonder shrine two lives were blent in one,
And joy-bells chimed beneath a summer sun.
Poor was their lot — their bread in labour found ;
No parent bless'd them, and no kindred own'd ;
They smiled to hear the wise their choice condemn ;
They loved — they loved — and love was wealth to them !
Hark — one short week — again the holy bell !
Still shone the sun ; but dirge-like boom'd the knell
The icy hand had severed breast from breast ;
Left life to toil, and summon'd Death to rest.
Full fifty years since then have pass'd away,
Her cheek is furrow'd, and her hair is gray.
Yet, when she speaks of him, (the times are rare,)
Hear in her voice how youth still trembles there.
The very name of that young life that died,
Still heaves the bosom, and recalls the bride.
Lone o'er the widow's hearth those years have fled,
The daily toil still wins the daily bread ;

96 THE IDEAL WORLD.

No books deck sorrow with fantastic dyes :

Her fond romance her woman heart supplies ;

And, haply in the few still moments given,

(Day's taskwork done) — to memory, death, and heaven,

To that unutter'd poem may belong

Thoughts of such pathos as had beggar'd song.

VIII.

HENCE IN HOPE, MEMORY, AND PRAYER, ALL OF US ARE POETS.

Yes, while thou hopest, music fills the air,

While thou rememberest, life reclothes the clod ;
While thou canst feel the electric chain of prayer,

Breathe but a thought, and be a soul with God !
Let not these forms of matter bound thine eye,

He who the vanishing point of Human things
Lifts from the landscape — lost amidst the sky,

Has found the Ideal which the poet sings —
Has pierced the pall around the senses thrown,
And is himself a poet — tho' unknown.

IX.

APPLICATION OF THE POEM TO THE TALE TO WHICH IT IS
PREFIXED — THE RHINE — ITS IDEAL CHARACTER IN ITS
HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY ASSOCIATIONS.

Eno' ! — my song is closing, and to thee,

Land of the North, I dedicate its lay ;
• As I have done the simple tale to be

The drama of this prelude ! —

Far away

Rolls the swift Rhine beneath the starry ray ;
But to my ear its haunted waters sigh ;
Its moonlit mountains glimmer on my eye ;
On wave, on marge, as on a wizard's glass,
Imperial ghosts in dim procession pass ;
Lords of the wild — the first great Father-men,
Their fane the hill-top — and their home the glen ;
Frowning they fade — a bridge of steel appears
With frank-eyed Caesar smiling thro' the spears ;
The march moves onwards, and the mirror brings
The Gothic crowns of Carlovingian kings :

THE IDEAL WORLD. 97

Vanish'd alike ! The Hermit rears his Cross,
And barbs neigh shrill, and plumes in tumult toss,
While (knighthood's sole sweet conquest from the Moor)
Sings to Arabian lutes the Troubadour.

Not yet, not yet — still glide some lingering shades —
Still breathe some murmurs as the starlight lades —
Still from her rock I hear the Siren call,
And see the tender ghost in Roland's mouldering hall !

X.

APPLICATION OF THE POEM CONTINUED— THE IDEAL LENDS ITS
AID TO THE MOST FAMILIAR AND THE MOST ACTUAL SORROW
OF LIFE — FICTION COMPARED TO SLEEP — IT STRENGTHENS
WHILE IT SOOTHES.

TRITE were the tale I tell of love and doom,

(Whose life hath loved not, whose not mourn'd a tomb ?)

But fiction draws a poetry from grief,

As art its healing from the wither'd leaf.

Play thou, sweet Fancy, round the sombre truth,

Crown the sad Genius ere it lower the torch !
When death the altar, and the victim youth,

Flutes fill the air, and garlands deck the porch.
As down the river drifts the Pilgrim sail,
Clothe the rude hill-tops, lull the Northern gale ;
With child-like lore the fatal course beguile,
And brighten death with Love's untiring smile,
Along the banks let fairy forms be seen
" By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen." l
Let sound and shape to which the sense is dull,
Haunt the soul opening on the Beautiful.
And when at length, the symbol voyage done, —
Surviving Grief shrinks lonely from the sun,
By tender types show Grief what memories bloom
From lost delight — what fairies guard the tomb.
Scorn not the dream, O world-worn, — pause awhile,
New strength shall nerve thee as the dreams beguile,
Strung by the rest — less far shall seem the goal !
As sleep to life, so fiction to the soul.

1 Midsummer Night's Dream.

THE

PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

CHAPTER I.

IN WHICH THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO QUEEN NYMPHALIN.

IN one of those green woods which belong so peculiarly to
our island (for the Continent has its forests, but England
its woods), there lived, a short time ago, a charming little
fairy called Nymphalin. I believe she is descended from
a younger branch of the house of Mab, but perhaps that may only
be a genealogical fable, for your fairies are very susceptible to the
pride of ancestry, and it is impossible to deny that they fall some-
what reluctantly into the liberal opinions so much in vogue at the
present day.

However that may be, it is quite certain that all the courtiers in
Nymphalin's domain (for she was a queen fairy) made a point of
asserting her right to this illustrious descent ; and, accordingly, she
quartered the Mab arms with her own — three acorns vert, with a
grasshopper rampant. It was as merry a little court as could possibly
be conceived, and on a fine midsummer night it would have been
worth while attending the queen's balls — that is to say, if you could
have got a ticket; a favour not obtained without great interest.

But, unhappily, until both men and fairies adopt Mr. Owen's pro-
position, and live in parallelograms, they will always be the victims
of ennui. And Nymphalin, who had been disappointed in love, and
was still unmarried, had for the last five or six months been exceed-
ingly tired even of giving balls. She yawned very frequently, and
consequently yawning became a fashion.

"But why don't we have some new dances, my Pipalee?" said
Nymphalin to her favourite maid of honour; "these waltzes are
very old-fashioned."

"Very old-fashioned," said Pipalee.

ioo THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE,

The queen gaped, and Pipalee did the same.

It was a gala night ; the court was held in a lone and beautiful
hollow, with the wild brake closing round it on every side, so that
no human step could easily gain the spot. Wherever the shadows
fell upon the brake, a glow-worm made a point of exhibiting itself,
and the bright August-moon sailed slowly above, pleased to look
down upon so charming a scene of merriment ; for they wrong the
moon who assert that she has an objection to mirth ;— with the mirth
of fairies she lias all possible sympathy. Here and there in the
thicket the scarce honeysuckles — in August) honeysuckles are some*
what out of season— hung their rich festoons, and at that moment
they were crowded with the elderly fairies, who had given up dancing
and taken to scandal. Besides the honeysuckle you might see the
hawkweed and the white convolvulus, varying the soft verdure of the
thicket ; and mushrooms in abundance had sprung up in the circle,
glittering in the silver moonlight, and acceptable beyond measure to
the dancers t every one knows how agreeable a thing tents are in a
file champe'tre! I was mistaken in saying that the brake closed the
circle entirely round ; for there was one gap, scarcely apparent to
mortals, through which a fairy at least might catch a view of a brook
that was close at hand, rippling in the stars, and chequered at inter-
vals by the rich weeds floating on the surface, interspersed with the
delicate arrowhead and the silver Water-lily. Then the trees them-
selves, in their prodigal variety of hues ; the blue, the purple, the
yellowing tint — the tender and silvery verdure, and the deep mass of
shade frowning into black ; the willow, the elm, the ash, the fir, the
lime, "and, best of all, Old England's haunted oak:" these hues
were broken again into a thousand minor and subtler shades, as the
twinkling stars pierced the foliage, or the moon slept with a richer
light upon some favoured glade.

It was a gala night ; the elderly fairies, as I said before, were
chatting among the honeysuckles ; the young were flirting, and
dancing, and making love ; the middle-aged talked politics under
the mushrooms ; and the queen herself, and half-a»Jozen of her
favourites, were yawning their pleasure from a little mound, covered
with the thickest moss.

"It has been very dull, madam, ever since Prince Fayzenheim
left us," said the fairy Nip.

The queen sighed.

" How handsome the prince is ! " said Pipalee.

The queen blushed.

" He wore the prettiest dress in the world ; and what a moustache ! "
cried Pipalee, fanning herself with her left wing.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 101

"He was a coxcomb," said the lord treasurer, sourly. The lord
treasurer was the honestest and most disagreeable fairy at court ; he
was an admirable husband, brother, son, cousin, uncle, and god-
father ; it was these virtues that had made him a lord treasurer.
Unfortunately they had not made him a sensible fairy. He was
like Charles the Second in one respect, for he never did a wise
thing ; but he was not like him in another — for he very often said a
foolish one.

The queen frowned.

" A young prince is not the worse for that," retorted Pipalee.
" Heigho ! does your majesty think his highness likely to return?"

" Don't tease me," said Nymphalin, pettishly.

The lord treasurer, by way of giving the conversation an agreeable
turn, reminded her majesty that there was a prodigious accumulation
of business to see to, especially that difficult affair about the emmet-
wasp loan. Her Majesty rose, and leaning on Pipalee's arm, walked
down to the supper-tent.

" Pray," said the fairy Trip to the fairy Nip, "what is all this
talk about Prince Fayzenheim ? Excuse my ignorance ; I am only
just out, you know."

" Why," answered Nip, a young courtier, not a marrying fairy,
but very seductive, " the story runs thus : Last summer a foreigner
visited us, calling himself Prince Fayzenheim : one of your German
fairies, I fancy ; no great things, but an excellent waltzer. He
wore long spurs, made out of the stings of the horse-flies in the
Black Forest ; his cap sat on one side, and his mustachios curled
like the lip of the dragon-flower. He was on his travels, and amused
himself by making love to the queen. You can't fancy, dear Trip,
how fond she was of hearing him tell stories about the strange
creatures of Germany — about wild huntsmen, water-sprites, and a
pack of such stuff," added Nip, contemptuously, for Nip was a
free thinker.

"In short?" said Trip.

"In short, she loved," cried Nip, with a theatrical air.

"And the prince?"

"Packed up his clothes, and sent on his travelling-carriage, in
order that he might go at his ease on the top of a stage-pigeon ; in
short — as you say — in short, he deserted the queen, and ever since
she has set the fashion of yawning."

" It was very naughty in him," said the gentle Trip.

" Ah, my dear creature," cried Nip, "if it had been you to whom
he had paid his addresses ! "

Trip simpered, and the old fairies from their seats in the honey-

102 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

suckles observed she was "sadly conducted ;" but the Trips had
never been too respectable.

Meanwhile the queen, leaning on Pipalee, said, after a short pause,
" Do you know I have formed a plan ! "

" How delightful ! " cried Pipalee. " Another gala ! "

" Pooh, surely even you must be tired with such levities : the
spirit of the age is no longer frivolous ; and I dare say as the march
of gravity proceeds, we shall get rid of galas altogether.'' The
queen said this with an air of inconceivable wisdom, for the " Society
for the Diffusion of General Stupefaction " had been recently estab-
lished among the fairies, and its tracts had driven all the light reading
out of the market. "The Penny Proser" had contributed greatly
to the increase of knowledge and yawning, so visibly progressive
among the courtiers.

•'No," continued Nymphalin ; "I have thought of something
better than galas. — Let us travel ! "

Pipalee clasped her hands in ecstasy.

" Where shall we travel ? "

" Let us go up the Rhine," said the queen, turning away her head.
" We shall be amazingly welcomed ; there are fairies without
number, all the way by its banks ; and various distant connections
of ours, whose nature and properties will afford interest and instruc-
tion to a philosophical mind."

"Number Nip, for instance," cried the gay Pipalee.

" The Red Man ! " said the graver Nymphalin.

" Oh, my queen, what an excellent scheme ! " and Pipalee was so
lively during the rest of the night, that the old fairies in the honey-
suckle insinuated that the lady of honour had drunk a buttercup loo
much of the Maydew.

CHAPTER II.

THE LOVERS.

WISH only for such readers as give themselves heart and
soul up to me — if they begin to cavil I have done with
them ; their fancy should put itself entirely under my
management ; and, after all, ought they not to be too
glad to get out of this hackneyed and melancholy world, to be run
away with by an author who promises them something new ?

From the heights of Bruges, a Mortal and his betrothed gazed
upon the scene below. They saw the sun set slowly amongst purple

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 103

masses of cloud, and the lover turned to his mistress and sighed
deeply ; for her cheek was delicate in its blended roses, beyond the
beauty that belongs to the hues of health ; and when he saw the
sun sinking from the world, the thought came upon him, that she
was his sun, and the glory that she shed over his life might soon
pass away into the bosom of the "everduring Dark." But against
the clouds rose one of the many spires that characterize the town of
Bruges ; and on that spire, tapering into heaven, rested the eyes of
Gertrude Vane. The different objects that caught the gaze of each
was emblematic both of the different channel of their thoughts, and
the different elements of their nature : he thought of the sorrow,
she of the consolation : his heart prophesied of the passing away
from earth — hers of the ascension into heaven. The lower part of
the landscape was wrapped in shade ; but, just where the bank curved
round in a mimic bay, the waters caught the sun's parting smile, and
rippled against the herbage that clothed the shore, with a scarcely
noticeable wave. There were two of the numerous mills which are
so picturesque a feature of that country, standing at a distance from
each other on the rising banks, their sails perfectly still in the cool
silence of the evening, and adding to the rustic tranquillity which
breathed around. For to me there is something in the stilled sails
of one of those inventions of man's industry peculiarly eloquent of
repose : the rest seems typical of the repose of our own passions —
short and uncertain, contrary to their natural ordination ; and doubly
impressive from the feeling which admonishes us how precarious is
the stillness — how utterly dependent on every wind rising at any
moment and from any quarter of the heavens ! They saw before
them no living forms, save of one or two peasants yet lingering by
the water-side.

Trevylyan drew closer to his Gertrude ; for his love was inex-
pressibly tender, and his vigilant anxiety for her made his stern
frame feel the first coolness of the evening, even before she felt it
herself.

" Dearest, let me draw your mantle closer round you."

Gertrude smiled her thanks.

" I feel better than I have done for weeks," said she ; "and when
once we get into the Rhine, you will see me grow so strong as to
shock all your interest for me."

" Ah, would to Heaven my interest for you may be put to such an
ordeal ! " said Trevylyan ; and they turned slowly to the inn, where
Gertrude's father already awaited them.

Trevylyan was of a wild, a resolute, and an active nature. Thrown
on the world at the age of sixteen, 'he had passed his youth in

104 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

alternate pleasure, travel, and solitary study. At the age in which
manhood is least susceptible to caprice, and most perhaps to passion,
he fell in love with the loveliest person that ever dawned upon a
poet's vision. I say this without exaggeration, for Gertrude Vane's
was indeed the beauty, but the perishable beauty, of a dream. It
happened most singularly to Trevylyan, (but he was a singular man,)
that being naturally one whose affections it was very difficult to excite,
he should have fallen in love at first sight with a person whose
disease, already declared, would have deterred any other heart from
risking its treasures on a bark so utterly unfitted for the voyage of
life. Consumption, but consumption in its most beautiful shape,
had set its seal upon Gertrude Vane, when Trevylyan first saw her,
and at once loved. — He knew the danger of the disease ; he did not,
except at intervals, deceive himself; he wrestled against the new
passion : but, stern as his nature was, he could not conquer it. He
loved, he confessed his love, and Gertrude returned it.

In a love like this, there is something ineffably beautiful — it is
essentially the poetry of passion. Desire grows hallowed by fear,
and, scarce permitted to indulge its vent in the common channel of
the senses, breaks forth into those vague yearnings — those lofty
aspirations, which pine for the Bright, the Far, the Unattained.
It is " the desire of the moth for the star " — it is the love of the
soul !

Gertrude was advised by the Faculty to try a southern climate ;
but Gertrude was the daughter of a German mother, and her young
fancy had been nursed in all the wild legends and the alluring visions
that belong to the children of the Rhine. Her imagination, more
romantic than classic, yearned for the vine-clad hills and haunted
forests, which are so fertile in their spells to those who have oncedrunk,
even sparingly, of the Literature of the North. Her desire strongly
expressed her declared conviction, that if any change of scene could
yet arrest the progress of her malady, it would be the shores of the
river she had so longed to visit, prevailed with her physicians and
her father, and they consented to that pilgrimage along the Rhine on
which Gertrude, her father, and her lover were now bound.

It was by the green curve of the banks which the lovers saw from
the heights of Bruges, that our fairy travellers met. They were
reclining on the water-side, playing at dominoes with eyes bright and
the black spedcs of the trefoil ; — viz. , Pipalee, Nip, Trip, and the
lord treasurer, (for that was all the party selected by the queen for
her travelling cortege,) and waiting for her majesty, who, being a
curious little elf, had gone round the town to reconnoitre..

" Bless me ! " said the lord treasurer ; " what a mad freak is this !

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 105

Crossing that immense pond of water ! And was there ever such
bad grass as this ? — one may see that the fairies thrive ill here."

"You are always discontented, my lord,'' said Pipalee ; "but
then you are somewhat too old to travel — at least unless you go in
your nutshell and four."

The lord treasurer did not like this remark, so he muttered a
peevish pshaw, and took a pinch of honeysuckle dust to console
himself for being forced to put up with so much frivolity.

At this moment, ere the moon was yet at her middest height,
Nymphalin joined her subjects.

"I have just returned," said she, with a melancholy expression
on her countenance, "from a scene that has almost renewed in me
that sympathy with human beings which of late years our race has
well-nigh relinquished.

" I hurried through the town without noticing much food for
adventure. I paused for a moment on a fat citizen's pillow, and
bade him dream of love. He woke in a fright, and ran down to see
that his cheeses were safe. I swept with a light wing over a poli-
tician's eyes, and straightway he dreamed of theatres and music. I
caught an undertaker in his first nap, and I have left him whirled into
a waltz. For what would be sleep if it did not contrast life? Then I
came to a solitary chamber, in which a girl, in her tenderest youth,
knelt by the bed-side in prayer, and I saw that the death-spirit had
passed over her, and the blight was on the leaves of the rose. The
room was still and hushed— the angel of Purity kept watch there.
Her heart was full of love, and yet of holy thoughts, and I bade her
dream of the long life denied to her — of a happy home — of the kisses
of her young lover — of eternal faith, and unwaning tenderness. Let
her at least enjoy in dreams what Fate has refused to Truth ! — And,
passing from the room, I found her lover stretched in his cloak beside
the door ; for he reads witli a feverish and desperate prophecy the
doom that waits her ; and so loves he the very air she breathes, the
very ground she treads, that when she has left his sight he creeps,
silently and unknown to her, to the nearest spot hallowed by her
presence, anxious that while yet she is on earth not an hour, not a
moment, should be wasted upon other thoughts than those that
belong to her ; and feeling a security, a fearful joy, in lessening the
distance that now only momentarily divides them. And that love
seemed to me not as the love of the common world, and I stayed my
wings and looked upon it as a thing that centuries might pass and
bring no parallel to, in its beauty and its melancholy truth. But I
kept away the sleep from the lover's eyes, for well I knew that sleep
was a tyrant, that shortened the brief time of waking tenderness for

io6

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

the living, yet spared him ; and one sad, anxious thought of her was
sweeter, in spite of its sorrow, than the brightest of fairy dreams.
So I left him awake, and watching there through the long night, and
felt that the children of earth have still something that unites them
to the spirits of a finer race, so long as they retain amongst them the
presence of real love ! "

And oh ! Is there not a truth also in our fictions of the Unseen
World. Are there not yet bright lingerers by the forest and the stream?
Do the moon and the soft stars look out on no delicate and winged
forms bathing in their light? Are the fairies, and the invisible hosts,
but the children of our dreams ; and not their inspiration ? Is that
all a delusion which speaks from the golden page ? And is the world
only given to harsh and anxious travellers, that walk to and fro in
pursuit of no gentle shadows ? Are the chimeras of the passions the
sole spirits of the universe ? No ! while my remembrance treasures
in its deepest cel'l the image of one no more — one who was "not of
the earth, earthy " — one in whom love was the essence of thoughts
divine — one whose shape and mould, whose heart and genius, would,
have Poesy never before have dreamed it, have called forth the first
notion of spirits resembling mortals, but not of them ; — no, Gertrude !
while I remember you, the faith, the trust in brighter shapes and
fairer natures than the world knows of, comes clinging to my heart ;
and still will I think that Fairies might have watched over your
sleep, and Spirits have ministered to your dreams.

CHAPTER III.

'ERTRUDE and her companions proceeded by slow, and,
to her, delightful stages, to Rotterdam. Trevylyan sat
by her side, and her hand was ever in his ; and when her
delicate frame became sensible of fatigue, her head
drooped on his shoulder as its natural resting-place. Her father
was a man who had lived long enough to have encountered many
reverses of fortune, and they had left him, as I am apt to believe
long adversity usually does leave its prey, somewhat chilled and
somewhat hardened to affection ; passive and quiet of hope, resigned
to the worst as to the common order of events, and expecting little
from the best, as an unlooked-for incident in the regularity of
human afflictions. He was insensible of his daughter's danger, for

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 107

he was not one whom the fear of love endows with prophetic vision ;
and he lived tranquilly in the present, without asking what new
misfortune awaited him in the future. Yet he loved his child, his
only child, with whatever of affection was left him by the many
shocks his heart had received ; and in her approaching connection
with one rich and noble as Trevylyan, he felt even something bor-
dering upon pleasure. Lapped in the apathetic indifference of his
nature, he leaned back in the carriage, enjoying the bright weather
that attended their journey, and sensible — for he was one of fine
and cultivated taste — of whatever beauties of nature or remains of
art varied their course. A companion of this sort was the most
agreeable that two persons never needing a third could desire ; he
left them undisturbed to the intoxication of their mutual presence ;
he marked not the interchange of glances ; he listened not to the
whisper, the low delicious whisper, with which the heart speaks its
sympathy to heart. He "broke not that charmed silence which falls
over us when the thoughts are full, and words leave nothing to
explain ; that repose of feeling ; that certainty that we are under-
stood without the effort of words, which makes the real luxury of
intercourse and the true enchantment of travel. What a memory
hours like these bequeath, after we have settled down into the calm
occupations of common life ! — how beautiful, through the vista of
years, seems that brief moonlight track upon the waters of our youth !
And Trevylyan's nature, which, as I have said before, was
naturally hard and stern, which was hot, irritable, ambitious, and
prematurely tinctured with the policy and lessons of the world,
seemed utterly changed by the peculiarities of his love ; every hour,
every moment was full of incident to him ; every look of Gertrude's
was entered in the tablets of his heart, so that his love knew no
languor, it required no change : he was absorbed in it — it was him-
self! And he was soft and watchful as the step of a mother by the
couch of her sick child ; the lion within him was tamed by indomit-
able love ; the sadness, the presentiment that was mixed with all his
passion for Gertrude, filled him too with that poetry of feeling which
is the result of thoughts weighing upon us, and not to be expressed
by ordinary language. In this part of their journey, as I find by the
date, were the following lines written ; they are to be judged as the
lines of one in whom emotion and truth were the only inspiration: —

"As leaves left darkling in the flush of day,

When glints the glad sun chequering o'er the tree,
I see the green earth brightening in the ray,
Which only casts a shadow upon me !

io8

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

What are the beams, the flowers, the glory, all
Life's glow and gloss — the music and the bloom,

When every sun but speeds the Eternal Pall,
And Time is Death that dallies with the Tomb?

And yet — oh yet, so young, so pure !— the while

Fresh laugh the rose-hues round youth's morning sky,

That voice, — those eyes, — the deep love of that smik.
Are they not soul — all soul — and can they die ?

Are there the words ' No MORE' for thoughts like ours?

Must the bark sink upon so soft a wave?
Hath the short summer of thy life no flowers

But those which bloom above thine early grave ?

O God ! and what is life, that I should live 1
'Hath not the world enow of common clay '!''

And she — the Rose — whose life a soul could give
To the void desert, sigh its sweets away?

And I that love thee thus, to whom the air,

Blest by thy breath, makes heaven where'er it be,

Watch thy cheek wane, and smile away despair —
Lest it should dim one hour yet left to Thee.

Still let me conquer sell, — oh, still conceal
By the smooth brow the snake that coils belov

Break, break my heart, it comforts yet to feel
That she dreams on, unwaken'd by my wo !

Hush'd, where the Star's soft angel loves to keep
Watch o'er their tide, the mourning waters roll ;

So glides my spirit — darkness in the deep,
But o'er the wave the presence of thy soul ! "

Gertrude had not as yet the presentiments that filled the soul of
Trevylyan. She thought too little of herself to know her danger,
and those hours to her were hours of unmingled sweetness. Some-
times, indeed, the exhaustion of her disease tinged her spirits with
a vague sadness, an abstraction came over her, and a languor she
vainly struggled against. These fits of dejection and gloom touched
Trevylyan to the quick ; his eye never ceased to watch them, nor
his heart to soolhe. Often when he marked them, he sought to

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 109

attract her attention from what he fancied, though erringly, a sym-
pathy with his own forebodings, and to lead her young and romantic
imagination through the temporary beguilements of fiction ; for
Gertrude was yet in the first bloom of youth, and all the dews of
beautiful childhood sparkled freshly from the virgin blossoms of her
mind. And Trevylyan, who had passed some of his early years
among the students of Leipsic, and was deeply versed in the various
world of legendary lore, ransacked his memory for such tales as
seemed to him most likely to win her interest ; and often with false
smiles entered into the playful tale, or oftener, with more faithful
interest, into the graver legend of trials that warned of yet beguiled
them from their own. Of such tales I have selected but a few ; I
know not that they are the least unworthy of repetition ; they are
those which many recollections induce me to repeat the most
willingly. Gertrude loved these stories, for she had not yet lost, by
the coldness of the world, one leaf from that soft and wild romance
which belonged to her beautiful mind. And, more than all, she
loved the sounds of a voice which every day became more and more
musical to her ear. " Shall I tell you," said Trevylyan, one morning,
as he observed her gloomier mood stealing over the face of Gertrude,
"shall I tell you, ere yet we pass into the dull land of Holland, a
story of Malines, whose spires we shall shortly see?" Gertrude's
face brightened at once, and, as she leaned back in the carriage as it
whirled rapidly along, and fixed her deep blue eyes on Trevylyan,
he began the following tale.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MAID OF MALINES.

IT was noonday in the town of Malines, or Mechlin, as the
English usually term it ; the Sabbath bell had summoned
the inhabitants to divine worship ; and the crowd that
had loitered round the Church of St. Rembauld had
gradually emptied itself within the spacious aisles of the sacred
e lifice.

A young man was standing in the street, with his eyes bent on
the ground, and apparently listening for some sound ; for, without
raising his looks from the rude pavement, he turned to every corner
of it with an intent and anxious expression of countenance ; he held
in one hand a staff, in the other a long slender cord, the end of

no THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

which trailed on the ground ; every now and then he called, with a
plaintive voice, "Fido, Fido, come back ! Why hast thou deserted
me?" — Fido returned not; the dog, wearied of confinement, had
slipped from the string, and was at play with his kind in a distant
quarter of the town, leaving the blind man to seek his way as he
might to his solitary inn.

By-and-by a light step passed through the street, and the young
stranger's face brightened.

" Pardon me," said he, turning to the spot where his quick ear
had caught the sound, " and direct me, if you are not much pressed
for a few moments' time, to the hotel Mortier d'Or."

It was a young woman, whose dress betokened that she belonged
to the middling class of life, whom he thus addressed : — "It is some
distance hence, sir," said she; "but if you continue your way
straight on for about a hundred yards, and then take the second turn
to your right hand "

"Alas!" interrupted the stranger, with a melancholy smile,
"your direction will avail me little ; my dog has deserted me, and
I am blind ! "

There was something in these words, and in the stranger's voice,
which went irresistibly to the heart of the young woman. — "Pray
forgive me," she said, almost with tears in her eyes, "I did not
perceive your — " misfortune, she was about to say, but she checked
herself with an instinctive delicacy. — "Lean upon me, I will con-
duct you to the door; nay, sir," observing that he hesitated, "I
have time enough to spare, I assure you. "

The stranger placed his hand on the young woman's arm, and
though Lucille was naturally so bashful that even her mother would
laughingly reproach her for the excess of a maiden virtue, she felt
not the least pang of shame, as she found herself thus suddenly
walking through the streets of Malines alone with a young stranger,
whose dress and air betokened him of rank superior to her own.

" Your voice is very gentle," said he, after a pause ; " and that,"
he added, with a slight sigh, " is the only criterion by which I know
the young and the beautiful ! " Lucille now blushed, and with a
slight mixture of pain in the blush, for she knew well that to
beauty she had no pretension. "Are you a native of this town? "
continued he.

" Yes, sir ; my father holds a small office in the customs, and my
mother and I eke out his salary by making lace. We are called
poor, but we do not feel it, sir."

" You are fortunate ! there is no wealth like the heart's wealth —
content," answered the blind man, mournfully.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. in

" And, monsieur," said Lucille, feeling angry with herself that she
had awakened a natural envy in the stranger's mind, and anxious to
change the subject — " and, monsieur, has he been long at Malines ? "

"But yesterday. I am passing through the Low Countries on
a tour ; perhaps you smile at the tour of a blind man — but it is
wearisome even to the blind to rest always in the same place. I
thought during church-time, when the streets were empty, that I
might, by the help of my dog, enjoy safely at least the air, if not the
sight of the town : but there are some persons, methinks, who
cannot have even a dog for a friend ! "

The blind man spoke bitterly — the desertion of his dog had
touched him to the core. Lucille wiped her eyes. "And does
monsieur travel then alone?" said she; and looking at his face
more attentively than she had yet ventured to do, she saw that he
was scarcely above two-and-twenty. " His father, his mother" she
added, with an emphasis on the last word, "are they not with
him ?"

" I am an orphan ! " answered the stranger ; " and I have neither
brother nor sister. "

The desolate condition of the blind man quite melted Lucille ;
never had she been so strongly affected. She felt a strange flutter
at the heart- — a secret and earnest sympathy, that attracted .her at
once towards him. She wished that Heaven had suffered her to be
his sister.

The contrast between the youth and the form of the stranger, and
the affliction which took hope from the one, and activity from the
other, increased the compassion he excited. His features were
remarkably regular, and had a certain nobleness in their outline ;
and his frame was gracefully and firmly knit, though he moved
cautiously, and with no cheerful step.

They had now passed into a narrow street leading towards the
hotel, when they heard behind them the clatter of hoofs ; and
Lucille, looking hastily back, saw that a troop of the Belgian horse
was passing through the town.

She drew her charge close by the wall, and trembling with fear
for him, she stationed herself by his side. The troop passed at a
full trot through the street ; and at the sound of their clanging arms,
and the ringing hoofs of their heavy chargers, Lucille might have
seen, had she looked at the blind man's face, that its sad features
kindled with enthusiasm, and his head was raised proudly from its
wonted and melancholy bend. " Thank Heaven ! " she said, as the
troop had nearly passed them, "the danger is over!''' Not so.
One of the last two soldiers who rode abreast, was unfortunately

ii2 THE PILGRIMS OP THE RHINE.

mounted on a young and unmanageable horse. The rider's oaths
and digging spur only increased the fire and impatience of the
charger : it plunged from side to side of the narrow street.

"Look to yourselves ! " cried the horseman, as he was borne on
to the place where Lucille and the stranger stood against the wall.
" Are ye mad ? — why do you not run ? "

"For Heaven's sake— for mercy's sake, he is blind!" cried
Lucille, clinging to the stranger's side.

"Save yourself, my kind guide ! " said the stranger. But Lucille
dreamed not of such desertion. The trooper wrested the horse's
head from the spot where they stood ; with a snort, as it felt the
spur, the enraged animal lashed out with its hind-legs ; and Lucille,
unable to save both, threw herself before the blind man, and received
the shock directed against him ; her slight and delicate arm fell
broken by her side — the horseman was borne onward. " Thank
God, you are saved !" was poor Lucille's exclamation ; and she fell,
overcome with pain and terror, into the arms which the stranger
mechanically opened to receive her.

" My guide ! my friend ! " cried he, "you are hurt, you "

"No, sir," interrupted Lucille, faintly, "I am better — 1 am well.
This arm, if you please — we are not far from your hotel now."

But the stranger's ear, tutored to every inflection of voice, told
him at once of the pain she suffered ; he drew from her by degrees
the confession of the injury she had sustained ; but the generous
girl did not tell him it had been incurred solely in his protection.
He now insisted on reversing their duties, and accompanying her
to her home ; and Lucille, almost fainting with pain, and hardly
able to move, was forced to consent. But a few steps down the
next turning stood the humble mansion of her father — they reached
it — and Lucille scarcely crossed the threshold, before she sank down,
and for some minutes was insensible to pain. It was left to the
stranger to explain, and to beseech them immediately to send for a
surgeon, "the most skilful — the most practised in the town," said
lie. " See, I am rich, and this is the least I can do to atone to your
generous daughter, for not forsaking even a stranger in peril."

He held out his purse as he spoke, but the father refused the
offer ; and it saved the blind man some shame, that he could not see
the blush of honest resentment, with which so poor a species of
remuneration was put aside.

The young man stayed till the surgeon arrived, till the arm was
set ; nor did he depart until he had obtained a promise from the
mother that he should learn the next morning how the sufferer had
passed the night.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 113

The next morning, indeed, he had intended to quit a town that
offers but little temptation to the traveller ; but he tarried day after
day, until Lucille herself accompanied her mother, to assure him of
her recovery

You know, or at least I do, dearest Gertrude, that there is such a
thing as love at the first meeting — a secret, an unaccountable affinity
between persons, (strangers before,) which draws them irresistibly
together. As if there were truth in Plato's beautiful phantasy, that
our souls were a portion of the stars, and that spirits, thus attracted
to each other, have drawn their original light from the same orb ;
and yearn for a renewal of their former union. Yet without recur-
ring to such fanciful solutions of a daily mystery, it was but natural
that one in the forlorn and desolate condition of Eugene St. Ainand,
should have felt a certain tenderness for a person who had so
generously suffered for his sake.

The darkness to which he was condemned did not shut from his
mind's eye the haunting images of ideal beauty ; rather, on the
contrary, in his perpetual and unoccupied solitude, he fed the reveries •
of an imagination naturally warm, and a heart eager for sympathy
and commune.

He had said rightly that his only test of beauty was in the melody
of voice ; and never had a softer or a more thrilling tone than that of
the young maiden touched upon his ear. Her exclamation, so
beautifully denying self, so devoted in its charity, "Thank God, you
are saved ! " uttered too in the moment of her own suffering, rang
constantly upon his soul, and he yielded, without precisely defining
their nature, to vague and delicious sentiments, that his youth had
never awakened to till then. And Lucille, — the very accident that
had happened to her on his behalf, only deepened the interest she had
already conceived for one who, in the first flush of youth, was thus
cut off from the g!ad objects of life, and left to a night of years
desolate and alone. There is, to your beautiful and kindly sex, a
natural inclination to protect. This makes them the angels of sick-
ness, the comforters of age, the fosterers of childhood ; and this
feeling, in Lucille peculiarly developed, had already inexpressibly
linked her compassionate nature to the lot of the unfortunate
traveller. With ardent affections, and with thoughts beyond her
station and her years, she was not without that modest vanity which
made her painfully susceptible to her own deficiencies in beauty.
Instinctively conscious of how deeply she herself could love, she
believed it impossible that she could ever be so loved in return.
This stranger, so superior in her eyes to all she had yet seen, was
the first who had ever addressed her in that voice which by tones,

ii4 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

not words, speaks that admiration most dear to a woman's heart.
To him she was beautiful, and her lovely mind spoke out undimmed
by the imperfections of her face. Not, indeed, that Lucille was
wholly without personal attraction ; her light step and graceful form
were elastic with the freshness of youth, and her mouth and smile
had so gentle and tender an expression, that there were moments
when it would not have been the blind only who would have mistaken
her to be beautiful. Her early childhood had indeed given the
promise of attractions, which the smallpox, that then fearful malady,
had inexorably marred. It had not only seared the smooth skin
and the brilliant hues, but utterly changed even the character of the
features. It so happened that Lucille's family were celebrated for
beauty, and vain of that celebrity ; and so bitterly had her parents
deplored the effects of the cruel malady, that poor Lucille had been
early taught to consider them far more grievous than they really
were, and to exaggerate {he advantages of that beauty, the loss of
which was considered by her parents so heavy a misfortune. Lucille
too had a cousin named Julie, who was the wonder of all Malines
for her personal perfections 5 and as the cousins, were much together,
the contrast was too striking not to occasion frequent mortification
to Lucille. But every misfortune has something of a counterpoise ;
and the consciousness of personal inferiority had meekened, without
souring, her temper, had given gentleness to a spirit that otherwise
might have been too high, and humility to a mind that was naturally
strong, impassioned, and energetic.

And yet Lucille had long conquered the one disadvantage she most
dreaded in the want of beauty. Lucille was never known but to be
loved. Wherever came her presence, her bright and soft mind
diffused a certain inexpressible charm ; and where she was not, a
something was absent from the scene which not even Julie's beauty
could replace.

"I propose," said St. Amand to Madame le Tisseur, Lucille's
mother, as he sat in her little salon, — for he had already contracted
that acquaintance with the family which permitted him to be led to
their house, to return the visits Madame le Tisseur had made him,
and his dog, once more returned a penitent to his master, always
conducted his steps to the humble abode, and stopped instinctively
at the door, — "I propose," said St. Amand, after a pause, and
with some embarrassment, "to stay a little while longer at Malines ;
the air agrees with me, and I like the quiet of the place ! but you
are aware, madame, that at a hotel among strangers, I feel my
situation somewhat cheerless. I have been thinking " — St. Amand
paused again — "I have been thinking that if I could persuade some

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 115

agreeable family to receive me as a lodger, — I would fix myself here
for some weeks. I am easily pleased."

"Doubtless there are many in Malines who would be too happy
to receive such a lodger."

" Will you receive me?" asked St. Amand, abruptly. "It was
of your family I thought."

"Of us? Monsieur is too flattering. But we have scarcely a
room good enough for you."

" What difference between one room and another can there be to
me ? That is the best apartment to my choice in which the human
voice sounds most kindly."

The arrangement was made, and St. Amand came now to reside
beneath the same roof as Lucille. And was she not happy that he
wanted so constant an attendance ? was she not happy that she was
ever of use ? St Amand was passionately fond of music ; he played
himself with a skill that was only surpassed by the exquisite melody
of his voice ; and was not Lucille happy when she sat mute and
listening to ruch sounds as in Malines were never heard before?
Was she not happy in gazing on a face to whose melancholy aspect
her voice instantly summoned the smile? Was she not happy when
the music ceased, and St. Amand called "Lucille?" Did not her
own name uttered by that voice seem to her even sweeter than the
music? Was she not happy when they walked out in the still
evenings of summer, and her arm thrilled beneath the light touch of
one to whom she was so necessary? Was she not proud in her
happiness, and was there not something like worship in the gratitude
she felt to him, for raising her humble spirit to the luxury of feeling
herself beloved ?

St. Amand's parents were French. They had resided in the
neighbourhood of Amiens, where they had inherited a competent
property, to which he had succeeded about two years previous to
the date of my story.

He had been blind from the age of three years. " I know not,"
said he, as he related these particulars to Lucille one evening when
they were alone ; " I know not what the earth may be like, or the
heaven, or the rivers whose voice at least I can hear, for I have no
recollection beyond that of a confused, but delicious blending of a
thousand glorious colours — a bright and quick sense of joy — A VISIBLE
MUSIC. But it is only since my childhood closed that I have
mourned, as I now unceasingly mourn, for the light of day. My
boyhood passed in a quiet cheerfulness ; the least trifle then could
please and occupy the vacancies of my mind ; but it was as I took
delight in being read to, — as I listened to the vivid descriptions of

ii 6 THE PILGRIMS OP THE RHINE.

Poetry, as I glowed at the recital of great deeds, as I was made
acquainted by books with the energy, the action, the heat, the
fervour, the pomp, the enthusiasm of life, that 1 gradually opened
to the sense of all I was for ever denied. 1 felt that I existed, not
lived ; and that, in the midst of the Universal Liberty, I was
sentenced to a prison, from whose blank walls there was no escape.
Still, however, while my parents lived, I had something of con-
solation ; at least I was not alone. They died, and a sudden and
dread solitude, a vast and empty dreariness, settled upon my
dungeon. One old servant only, who had attended me from my
childhood, who had known me in my short privilege of light, by
whose recollections my mind could grope back its way through the
dark and narrow passages of memory to faint glimpses of the sun,
was all that remained to me of human sympathies. It did not
suffice, however, to content me with a home where my father and
my mother's kind voice were not. A restless impatience, an anxiety
to move possessed me, and I set out from my home, journeying whither
I cared not, so that at least I could change an air that weighed upon
me like a palpable burthen. I took only this old attendant as my
companion ; he too died three months since at Bruxelles, worn out
with years. Alas ! I had forgotten that he was old, for I saw not
his progress to decay ; and now, save my faithless dog, I was utterly
alone, till I came hither and found thee."

Lucille stooped down to caress the dog ; she blessed the desertion
that had led him to a friend who never could desert.

But however much, and however gratefully, St. Amand loved
Lucille, her power availed not to chase the melancholy from his
brow, and to reconcile him to his forlorn condition.

"Ah ! would that I could see thee! Would that I could look
upon a face that my heart vainly endeavours to delineate ! "

"If thou couldst," sighed Lucille, "thou wouldst cease to love
me."

"Impossible!" cried St. Amand, passionately. "However the
world may find thee, thou wouldst become my standard of beauty ;
and I should judge not of thee by others, but of others by thee."

He loved to hear Lucille read to him, and mostly he loved the
descriptions of war, of travel, of wild adventure, and yet they
occasioned him the most pain. Often she paused from the page as
she heard him sigh, and felt that she would even have renounced
the bliss of being loved by him, if she could have restored to him
that blessing, the desire for which haunted him as a spectre.

Lucille's family were Catholic, and, like most in their station,
they possessed the superstitions, as well as the devotion of the faith.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 117

Sometimes they amused themselves of an evening by the various
legends and imaginary miracles of their calendar : and once, as they
were thus conversing with two or three of their neighbours, "The
Tomb of the Three Kings of Cologne " became the main topic of
their wondering recitals. However strong was the sense of Lucille,
she was, as you will readily conceive, naturally influenced by the
belief of those with whom she had been brought up from her cradle,
and she listened to tale after tale of the miracles wrought at the
consecrated tomb, as earnestly and undoubtingly as the rest.

And the Kings of the East were no ordinary saints ; to the relics
of the Three Magi, who followed the Star of Bethlehem, and were
the first potentates of the earth who adored its Saviour, well might
the pious Catholic suppose that a peculiar power, and a healing
sanctity, would belong. Each of the circle (St. Amand, who had
been more than usually silent, and even gloomy during the day, had
retired to his own apartment, for there were some moments when,
in the sadness of his thoughts, he sought that solitude \\hich he so
impatiently fled from at others) — each of the circle had some story
to relate equally veracious and indisputable, of an infirmity cured,
or a prayer accorded, or a sin atoned for at the foot of the holy
tomb. One story peculiarly affected Lucille ; the narrator, a vener-
able old man with gray locks, solemnly declared himself a witness of
its truth.

A woman at Anvers had given birth to a son, the offspring of an
illicit connection, who came into the world deaf and dumb. The
unfortunate mother believed the calamity a punishment for her own
sin. "Ah! would," said she, "that the affliction had fallen only
upon me ! Wretch that I am, my innocent child is punished for my
offence ! " This idea haunted her night and day : she pined and
could not be comforted. As the child grew up, and wound himself
more and more round her heart, his caresses added new pangs to her
remorse ; and at length (continued the narrator) hearing perpetually
of the holy fame of the Tomb of Cologne, she resolved upon a
pilgrimage barefoot to the shrine. "God is merciful," said she,
"and he who called Magdalene his sister, may take the mother's
curse from the child." She then went to Cologne ; she poured her
tears, her penitence, and her prayers, at the sacred tomb. When
she returned to her native town, what was her dismay as she ap-
proached her cottage to behold it a heap of ruins ! — its blackened
rafters and yawning casements betokened the ravages of fire. The
poor woman sunk upon the ground utterly overpowered. Had her
son perished? At that moment she heard the cry of a child's voice,
and, lo ! her child rushed to her arms, and called her " mother ! "

u8 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

He had been saved from the fire,-which had broken out seven
days before ; but in the terror he had suffered, the string that tied
his tongue had been loosened ; he had uttered articulate sounds of
distress ; the curse was removed, and one word at least the kind
neighbours had already taught him, to welcome his mother's return.
What cared she now that her substance was gone, that her roof was
ashes? — she bowed in grateful submission to so mild a stroke ; her
prayer had been heard, and the sin of the mother was visited no
longer on the child.

I have said, dear Gertrude, that this story made a deep impression
upon Lucille. A misfortune so nearly akin to that of St. Amand,
removed by the prayer of another, filled her with devoted thoughts,
and a beautiful hope. "Is not the tomb still standing ?" thought
she. "Is not God still in heaven? — He who heard the guilty, may
He not hear the guiltless? Is He not the God of love? Are not
the affections the offerings that please Him best ? and what though
the child's mediator was his mother, can even a mother love her
child more tenderly than I love Eugene ? But if, Lucille, thy prayer
be granted, if he recover his sight, thy charm is gone, he will love
thee no longer. No matter ! be it so — I shall at least have made
him happy ! "

• Such were the thoughts that filled the mind of Lucille ; she
cherished them till they settled into resolution, and she secretly
vowed to perform her pilgrimage of love. She told neither St.
Amand nor her parents of her intention ; she knew the obstacles
such an announcement would create. Fortunately she had an aunt
settled at Bruxelles, to whom she had been accustomed, once in
every year, to pay a month's visit, and at that time she generally
took with her the work of a twelvemonth's industry, which found a
readier sale at Bruxelles than at Malines. Lucille and St. Amand
were already betrothed ; their wedding was shortly to take place ;
and the custom of the country leading parents, however poor, to
nourish the honourable ambition of giving some dowry with their
daughters, Lucille found it easy to hide the object of her departure,
under the pretence of taking the lace to Bruxelles, which had been
the year's labour of her mother and herself — it would sell for sufficient,
at least, to defray the preparations for the wedding.

"Thou art ever right, child," said Madame le Tisseur ; "the
richer St. Amand is, why the less oughtest thou to go a beggar to
his house."

In fact, the honest ambition of the good people was excited ;
their pride had been hurt by the envy of the town and the current
congratulations on so advantageous a marriage ; and they employed

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 119

themselves in counting up the fortune they should be able to give to
their only child, and flattering their pardonable vanity with the
notion that there would be no such great disproportion in the con-
nection after all. They were right, but not in their own view of the
estimate ; the wealth that Lucille brought was what fate could not
lessen, — reverse could not reach, — the ungracious seasons could not
blight its sweet harvest, — imprudence could not dissipate, fraud
could not steal, one grain from its abundant coffers ! Like the purse
in the Fairy Tale, its use was hourly, its treasure inexhaustible.

St. Amand alone was not to be won to her departure ; he chafed
at the notion of a dowry ; he was not appeased even by Lucille's
representation, that it was only to gratify and not to impoverish her
parents. " And thou, too, canst leave me ! " he said, in that plaintive
voice which had made his first charm to Lucille's heart. " It is a
double blindness ! "

" But for a few days ; a fortnight at most, dearest Eugene."

" A fortnight ! you do not reckon time as the blind do," said St.
Amand, bitterly.

" But listen, listen, dear Eugene," said Lucille, weeping.

The sound of her sobs restored him to a sense of his ingratitude.
Alas, lie knew not how much he had to be grateful for. He held
out his arms to her : " Forgive me," said he. " Those who can see
nature know not how terrible it is to be alone."

" But my mother will not leave you."

" She is not you ! "

" And Julie," said Lucille, hesitatingly.

" What is Julie to me?"

" Ah, you are the only one, save my parents, who could think of
me in her presence."

" And why, Lucille ? "

" Why ! She is more beautiful than a dream."

" Say not so. Would I could see, that I might prove to the
world how much more beautiful thou art. There is no music in her
voice."

The evening before Lucille departed, she sat up late with St.
Amand and her mother. They conversed on the future ; they made
plans ; in the wide sterility of the world they laid out the garden of
household love, and filled it with flowers, forgetful of the wind that
scatters and the frost that kills. And when, leaning on Lucille's
arm, St. Amand sought his chamber, and they parted at his door,
which closed upon her ; she fell down on her knees at the threshold,
and poured out the fulness of her heart in a prayer for his safety, and
the fulfilment of her timid hope.

I2O THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

At daybreak she was consigned to the conveyance that performed
the short journey from Malines to Bruxelles. When she entered the
town, instead of seeking her aunt, she rested at an auberge in the
suburbs, and confiding her little basket of lace to the care of its
hostess, she set out alone, and on foot, upon the errand of htr
heart's lovely superstition. And erring though it was, her faith
redeemed its weakness— her affection made it even sacred. And
well may we believe, that the Eye which reads all secrets, scarce
looked reprovingly on that fanaticism whose only infirmity was
love.

So fearful was she, lest, by rendering the task too easy, she might
impair the effect, that she scarcely allowed herself rest or food.
Sometimes, in the heat of noon, she wandered a little from the
roadside, and under the spreading lime trees surrendered her mind
to its sweet and bitter thoughts ; but ever the restlessness of her
enterprise urged her en, and faint, weary, and with bleeding feet,
she started up and continued her way. At length she reached the
ancient city, where a holier age has scarce worn from the habits and
aspects of men the Roman trace. She prostrated herself at the
tomb of the Magi ; she proffered her ardent but humble prayer to
Him before whose Son those fleshless heads (yet to faith at least
preserved) had, eighteen centuries ago, bowed in adoration. Twice
every day, for a whole week, she sought the same spot, and poured
forth the same prayer. The last day an old priest, who, hovering
in the church, had observed her constantly at devotion, with that
fatherly interest which the better ministers of the Catholic sect (that
sect which has covered the earth with the mansions of charity) feel
for the unhappy, approached her as she was retiring with moist and
downcast eyes, and saluting her, assumed the privilege of his order,
to inquire if there was ought in which his advice or aid could serve.
There was something in the venerable air of the old man which
encouraged Lucille ; she opened her heart to him ; she told him all.
The good priest was much moved by her simplicity and earnestness.
He questioned her minutely as to the peculiar species of blindness
with which St. Amand was afflicted ; and after musing a little while,
he said, " Daughter, God is great and merciful ; we must trust in his
power, but we must not forget that he mostly works by mortal
agents. As you pass through Louvain in your way home, fail not
to see there a certain physician, named Le Kain. He is celebrated
through Flanders for the cures he has wrought among the blind, and
his advice is sought by all classes from far and near. He lives hard
by the Hotel de Ville, but any one will inform you of his residence.
Stay, my child, you shall take him a note from me ; he is a benevo-

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 121

lent and kindly man, and you shall tell him exactly the same story
(and with the same voice) you have told to me."

So saying the priest made Lucille accompany him to his home,
and forcing her to refresh herself less sparingly than she had yet
done since she had left Malines, he gave her his blessing, and a
letter to Le Kain, which he rightly judged would ensure her a
patient hearing from the physician. Well known among all men of
science was the name of the priest, and a word of recommendation
from him went farther, where virtue and wisdom were honoured,
than the longest letter from the haughtiest sieur in Flanders.

With a patient and hopeful spirit, the young pilgrim turned her
back on the Roman Cologne ; and now about to rejoin St. Amand,
she felt neither the heat of the sun nor the weariness of the road.
It was one day at noon that she again passed through Louvain, and
she soon found herself by the noble edifice of the H6tel de Ville.
Proud rose its spires against the sky, and the sun shone bright on
its rich tracery and Gothic casements ; the broad open street was
crowded with persons of all classes, and it was with some modest
alarm that Lucille lowered her veil and mingled with the throng.
It was easy, as the priest had said, to find the house of Le Kain ;
she bade the servant take the priest's letter to his master, and she
was not long kept waiting before she was admitted to the physician's
presence. He was a spare, tall man, with a bald front, and a calm
and friendly countenance. He was not less touched than the priest
had been, by the manner in which she narrated her story, described
the affliction of her betrothed, and the hope that had inspired the
pilgrimage she had just made.

" Well," he said, encouragingly, "we must see our patient. You
can bring him hither to me."

" Ah, sir, I had hoped •" Lucille stopped suddenly.

"What, my young friend?"

" That I might have had the triumph of bringing you to Malines.
I know, sir, what you are about to say ; and I know, sir, your time
must be very valuable ; but I am not so poor as I seem, and
Eugene, that is, Monsieur St. Amand, is very rich, and — and I have
nt Bruxelles, what I am sure is a large sum ; it was to have provided
for the wedding, but it is most heartily at your service, sir.'

Le Kain smiled ; he was one of those men who love to read the
human heart when its leaves are fair and undefiled ; and, in the
benevolence of science, he would have gone a longer journey than
from Louvain to Malines to give sight to the blind, even had St.
Amand been a beggar.

"Well, well," said he; "but you forget that Monsieur St.

122 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

Amand is not the only one in the world who wants me. I must
look at my note-book, and see if I can be spared for a day or
two."

So saying, he glanced at his memoranda ; everything smiled on
Lucille ; he had no engagements that his partner could not fulfil, for
some days ; he consented to accompany Lucille to Malines.

Meanwhile, cheerless and dull had passed the time to St. Amand,
he was perpetually asking Madame le Tisseur what hour it was ; it
was almost his only question. There seemed to him no sun in the
heavens, no freshness in the air, and he even forbore his favourite
music ; the instrument had lost its sweetness since Lucille was not
by to listen.

It was natural that the gossips of Malines should feel some envy
at the marriage Lucille was about to make with one, whose com-
petence report had exaggerated into prodigal wealth, whose birth
had been elevated from the respectable to the noble, and whose
handsome person was clothed, by the interest excited by his mis-
fortune, with the beauty of Antinous. Even that misfortune, which
ought to have levelled all distinctions, was not sufficient to check the
general envy ; perhaps to some of the damsels of Malines, blindness
in a husband would not have seemed an unwelcome infirmity ! But
there was one in whom this envy rankled with a peculiar sting ; it
was the beautiful, the all-conquering Julie. That the humble, the
neglected Lucille should be preferred to her ; that Lucille, whose
existence was well-nigh forgot beside Julie's, should become thus
suddenly of importance ; that there should be one person in the
world, and that person young, rich, handsome, to whom she was
less than nothing, when weighed in the balance with Lucille,
mortified to the quick a vanity that had never till then received a
wound. "It is well," she would say with a bitter jest, "that
Lucille's lover is blind. To be the one it is necessary to be the
other ! "

During Lucille's absence she had been constantly in Madame le
Tisseur's house ; indeed, Lucille had prayed her to be so. She had
sought, with an industry that astonished herself, to supply Lucille's
place, and among the strange contradictions of human nature, she
had learned during her efforts to please, to love the object of those
efforts, — as much at least as she was capable of loving.

She conceived a positive hatred to Lucille ; she persisted in
imagining that nothing but the accident of first acquaintance had
deprived her of a conquest with which she persuaded herself her
happiness had become connected. Had St. Amand never loved
Lucille and proposed to Julie, his misfortune would have made her

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 123

reject him, despite his wealth and his youth ; but to- be Lucille's
lover, and a conquest to be won from Lucille, raised him instantly
to an importance not his own. Safe, however, in his affliction, the
arts and beauty of Julie fell harmless on the fidelity of St. Amand.
Nay, he liked her less than ever, for it seemed an impertinence in
any one to counterfeit the anxiety and watchfulness of Lucille.

"It is time, surely it is time, Madame le Tisseur, that Lucille
should return ! She might have sold all the lace in Malines by
this time," said St. Amand one day peevishly.

"Patience, my' dear friend, patience; perhaps she may return
to-morrow."

" To-morrow ! let me see, it is only six o'clock — only six, you are
sure ? "

"Just five, dear Eugene ; shall I read to you ? this is a new book
from Paris ; it has made a great noise," said Julie.

" You are very kind, but I will not trouble you."

" It is anything but trouble."

" In a word, then, I would rather not."

"Oh ! that he could see," thought Julie; "would I not punish
him for this ! "

" I hear carriage wheels ; who can be passing this way? Surely
it is the voiturier from Bruxelles," said St. Amand, starting up ;
" it is his day — his hour, too. No, no, it is a lighter vehicle," and
he sank down listlessly on his seat.

Nearer and nearer rolled the wheels ; they turned the corner ;
they stopped at the lowly door; and, overcome, overjoyed, Lucille
was clasped to the bosom of St. Amand.

"Stay," said she, blushing, as she recovered her self-possession,
and turned to Le Kain ; "pray pardon me, sir. Dear Eugene, I
have brought with me one who, by God's blessing, may yet restore
you to sight."

" We must not be sanguine, my child," said Le Kain ; "anything
is better than disappointment."

To close this part of my story, dear Gertrude, Le Kain examined
St. Amand, and the result of the examination was a confident belief
in the probability of a cure. St. Amand gladly consented to the
experiment of an operation ; it succeeded — the blind man saw ! Oh !
what were Lucille's feelings, what her emotion, what her joy, when
she found the object of her pilgrimage, — of her prayers — fulfilled !
That joy was so intense, that in the eternal alternations of human
life she might have foretold from its excess how bitter the sorrows
fated to ensue.

124 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

As soon as by degrees the patient's new sense became reconciled
to the light, his first, his only demand, was for Lucille. " No, let
me not see her alone, let me see her in the midst of you all, that I
may convince you that the heart never is mistaken in its instincts."
With a fearful, a sinking presentiment, Lucille yielded to the request,
to which the impetuous St. Amand would hear indeed no denial.
The father, the mother, Julie, Lucille, Julie's younger sisters, assem-
bled in the little parlour ; the door opened, and St. Amand stood
hesitating on the threshold. One look around sufficed to him ; his
face brightened, he uttered a cry of joy. " Lucille ! Lucille ! " he
exclaimed, "it is you, I know it, you only!" He sprang forward
and fell at the feet ofjuli: !

Flushed, elated, triumphant, Julie bent upon him her sparkling
eyes ; she did not undeceive him.

"You are wrong, you mistake," said Madame le Tisseur, in con-
fusion ; " that is her cousin Julie — this is your Lucille."

St. Amand rose, turned, saw Lucille, and at that moment she wished
herself in her grave. Surprise, mortification, disappointment, almosc
dismay, were depicted in his gaze. He had been haunting his
prison-house with dreams, and, now set free, he felt how unlike they
were to the truth. Too new to observation to read the woe, the
despair, the lapse and shrinking of the whole frame, that his look
occasioned Lucille, he yet felt, when the first shock of his surprise
was over, that it was not thus he should thank her who had restored
him to sight. He hastened to redeem his error ; — ah ! how could it
be redeemed ?

From that hour all Lucille's happiness was at an end ; her fairy
palace was shattered in the dust ; the magician's wand was broken
up ; the Ariel was given to the winds ; and the bright enchantment
no longer distinguished the land she lived in from the rest of the
barren world. It was true that St. Amand's words were kind : it is
true that he remembered with the deepest gratitude all she had done
in his behalf; it is true that he forced himself again and again to
say, " She is my betrothed — my benefactress ! " and he cursed him-
self to think that the feelings he had entertained for her were fled.
Where was the passion of his words ? where the ardour of his tone ?
where that play and light of countenance which her step, her voice,
could formerly call forth? When they were alone he was embar-
rassed and constrained, and almost cold ; his hand no longer sought
hers ; his soul no longer missed her if she was absent a moment from
his side. When in their household circle he seemed visibly more at
ease ; but did his eyes fasten upon her who had opened them to the
day? did they not wander at every interval with a too eloquent

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 125

admiration to the blushing and radiant face of the exulting Julie ?
This was not, you will believe, suddenly perceptible in one day or
one week, but every day it was perceptible more and more. Yet
still— bewitched, ensnared, as St. Amand was — he never perhaps
would have been guilty of an infidelity that he strove with the
keenest remorse to wrestle against, had it not been for the fatal con-
trast, at the first moment of his gushing enthusiasm, which Julie had
presented to Lucille ; but for that he would have formed no previous
idea of real and living beauty to aid the disappointment of his
imaginings and his dreams. He would have seen Lucille young and
graceful, and with eyes beaming affection, contrasted only by the
wrinkled countenance and bended frame of her parents, and she
would have completed her conquest over him before he had dis-
covered that she was less beautiful than others ; nay, more — that
infidelity never could have lasted above the first few days, if the vain
and heartless object of it had not exerted every art, all the power
and witchery of her beauty, to cement and continue it. The unfor-
tunate Lucille — so susceptible to the slightest change in those she
loved, so diffident of herself, so proud too in that diffidence — no
longer necessary, no longer missed, no longer loved — could not bear
to endure the galling comparison between the past and the present.
She fled uncomplainingly to her chamber to indulge her tears, and
thus, unhappily, absent as her father generally was during the day,
and busied as her mother was either at work or in household matters,
she left Julie a thousand opportunities to complete the power she
had begun to wield over— no, not the heart ! — the senses of St.
Amand ! Yet, still not suspecting, in the open generosity of her
mind, the whole extent of her affliction, poor Lucille buoyed herself
at times with the hope that when once married, when, once in that
intimacy of friendship, the unspeakable love she felt for him could
disclose itself with less restraint than at present, — she should perhaps
regain a heart which had been so devotedly hers, that she could not
think that without a fault it was irrevocably gone : on that hope she
anchored all the little happiness that remained to her. And still
St. Amand pressed their marriage, but in what different tones ! In
fact, he wished to preclude from himself the possibility of a deeper
ingratitude than that which he had incurred already. He vainly
thought that the broken reed of love might be bound up and strength-
ened by the ties of duty ; and at least he was anxious that his hand,
his fortune, his esteem, his gratitude, should give to Lucille the only
recompense it was now in his power to bestow. Meanwhile left
alone so often with Julie, and Julie bent on achieving the last
triumph over his heart, St. Amand was gradually preparing a far

is6 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

different reward, a far different return for her to whom he owed so
incalculable a debt.

There was a garden, behind the house, in which there was a small
arbour, where often in the summer evenings, Eugene and Lucille
had sat together — hours never to return ! One day she heard from
her own chamber, where she sat mourning, the sound of St. Amand's
flute swelling gently from that beloved and consecrated bower. She
wept as she heard it, and the memories that the music bore, soften-
ing and endearing his image, she began to reproach herself that she
had yielded so often to the impulse of her wounded feelings ; that
chilled by his coldness, she had left him so often to himself, and had
not sufficiently dared to tell him of that affection which, in her
modest self-depreciation, constituted her only pretension to his love.
"Perhaps he is alone now," she thought; "the air too is one
which he knows that I love : " and with her heart in her step, she
stole from the house and sought the arbour. She had scarce turned
from her chamber when the flute ceased ; as she neared the arbour
she heard voices — Julie's voice in grief, St. Amand's in consolation.
A dread foreboding seized her ; her feet clung rooted to the
earth.

"Yes, marry her — forget me," said Julie; "in a few days you
will be another's, and I, I — forgive me, Eugene, forgive me that I
have disturbed your happiness. I am punished sufficiently — my
heart will break, but it will break in loving you : " sobs choked
Julie's voice.

"Oh, speak not thus," said St. Amand. "I, / only am to
blame ; I, false to both, to both ungrateful. Oh, from the hour
that these eyes opened upon you I drank in a new life ; the sun itself
to me was less wonderful than your beauty. But — but — let me forget
that hour. What do I not owe to Lucille ? I shall be wretched —
I shall deserve to be so ; for shall I not think, Julie, that 1 have
embittered your life with our ill-fated love? But all that I can give
— my hand — my home — my plighted faith — must be hers. Nay,
Julie, nay — why that look? could I act otherwise? can I dream
otherwise? Whatever the sacrifice, must I not render it? Ah,
what do I owe to Lucille, were it only for the thought that but for
her I might never have seen thee !"

Lucille stayed to hear no more ; with the same soft step as that
which had borne her within hearing of these fatal words, she turned
back once more to her desolate chamber.

That evening, as St. Amand was sitting alone in his apartment,
he heard a gentle knock at the door. " Come in," he said, and
Lucille entered. He started in some confusion, and would have

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 127

taken her hand, but she gently repulsed him. She took a seat
opposite to him, and looking down, thus addressed him : —

"My dear Eugene, that is, Monsieur St. Amand, I have some-
thing on my mind that I think it better to speak at once ; and if I
do not exactly express what I would wish to say, you must not be
offended with Lucille : it is not an easy matter to put into words
what one feels deeply." Colouring, and suspecting something of
the truth, St. Amand would have broken in upon her here ; but
she with a gentle impatience, motioned him to be silent, and
continued : —

" You know that when you once loved me, I used to tell you that
you would cease to do so, could you see how undeserving I was of
your attachment ? I did not deceive myself, Eugene ; I always felt
assured that such would be the case, that your love for me neces-
sarily rested on your affliction : but for all that, I never at least had
a dream, or a desire, but for your happiness ; and God knows, that
if again, by walking bare-footed, not to Cologne, but to Rome — to
the end of the world, I could save you from a much less misfortune
than that of blindness, I would cheerfully do it ; yes, even though I
might foretell all the while that, on my return, you would speak to
me coldly, think of me lightly, and that the penalty to me would —
would be — what it has been ! " Here Lucille wiped a few natural
tears from her eyes ; St. Amand, struck to the heart, covered his
face with his hands without the courage to interrupt her. Lucille
continued : —

" That which I foresaw has come to pass ; I am no longer to you
what I once was, when you could clothe this poor form and this
homely face, with a beauty they did not possess ; you would wed me
still, it is true ; but I am proud, Eugene, and cannot stoop to grati-
tude where I once had love. I am not so unjust as to blame you ;
the change was natural, was inevitable. I should have steeled
myself more against it ; but I am now resigned : we must part ; you
love Julie — that too is natural — and she loves you ; ah ! what also
more in the probable course of events? Julie loves you, not yet,
perhaps, so much as I did, but then she has not known you as I
have, and she whose whole life has been triumph, cannot feel the
gratitude I felt at fancying myself loved ; but this will come — God
grant it ! Farewell, then, for ever, dear Eugene ; I leave you when
you no longer want me ; you are now independent of Lucille ;
wherever you go, a thousand hereafter can supply my place ; —
farewell ! "

She rose, as she said this, to leave the room ; but St. Amand
seizing her hand, which she in vain endeavoured to withdraw from

128 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

his clasp, poured forth incoherently, passionately, his reproaches en
himself, his eloquent persuasions against her resolution.

" I confess," said he, " that I have been allured for a moment ;
I confess that Julie's beauty made me less sensible to your stronger,
your holier, oh ! far, far holier title to my love ! But forgive me,
dearest Lucille ; already I return to you, to all I once felt for you ;
make me not curse the blessing of sight that I owe to you. You
must not leave me ; never can we two part ; try me, only try me,
and if ever, hereafter, my heart wander from you, then, Lucille,
leave me to my remorse ! "

Even at that moment Lucille did not yield ; she felt that his
prayer was but the enthusiasm of the hour ; she felt that there was
a virtue in her pride ; that to leave him was a duty to herself. In
vain he pleaded ; in vain were his embraces, his prayers ; in vain he
reminded her of their plighted troth, of her aged parents, whose
happiness had become wrapped in her union with him : " How, —
even were it as you wrongly believe, — how, in honour to them,
can I desert you, can I wed another ! "

"Trust that, trust all, to me," answered Lucille ; "your honour
shall be my care, none shall blame yon ; only do not let your mar-
riage with Julie be celebrated here before their eyes : that is all I
ask, all they can expect. God bless you ! do not fancy I shall be
unhappy, for whatever happiness the world gives you, shall I not
have contributed to bestow it ? — and with that thought, I am above
compassion."

She glided from his arms, and left him to a solitude more bitter
even than that of blindness ; that very night Lucille sought her
mother ; to her she confided all. I pass over the reasons she urged,
the arguments she overcame ; she conquered rather than convinced,
and leaving to Madame le Tisseur the painful task of breaking to her
father her unaltered resolution, she quitted Malines the next morn-
ing, and with a heart too honest to be utterly without comfort, paid
that visit to her aunt which had been so long deferred.

The pride of Lucille's parents prevented them from reproaching
St. Amancl. He could not bear, however, their cold and altered
looks ; he left their house ; and though for several days he would
not even see Julie, yet her beauty and her art gradually resumed their
empire over him. They were married at Courtroi, and to the joy of
the vain Julie, departed to the gay metropolis of France. But, before
their departure, before his marriage, St. Amand endeavoured to
appease his conscience by obtaining for Monsieur le Tisseur a much
more lucrative and honourable office than that he now held. Rightly
judging that Malines could no longer be a pleasant residence for them,

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 129

and much less for Lucille, the duties of the post were to be fulfilled
in another town ; and knowing that Monsieur le Tisseur's delicacy
would revolt at receiving such a favour from his hands, he kept the
nature of his negotiation a close secret, and suffered the honest
citizen to believe that his own merits alone had entitled him to so
unexpected a promotion.

Time went on. This quiet and simple history of humble affec-
tions took its date in a stormy epoch of the world — the dawning
Revolution of France. The family of Lucille had been little more
than a year settled in their new residence, when Pumouriez led his
army into the Netherlands. But how meanwhile had that year
passed for Lucille ? I have said that her spirit was naturally high ;
that though so tender, she was not weak ; her very pilgrimage to
Cologne alone, and at the timid age of seventeen, proved that there
was a strength in her nature no less than a devotion in her love.
The sacrifice she had made brought its own reward. She believed
St. Amand was happy, and she would not give way to the selfishness
of grief ; she had still duties to perform ; she could still comfort her
parents and cheer their age ; she could still be all the world to them :
she felt this, and was consoled. Only once during the year had she
heard of Julie ; she had been seen by a mutual friend at Paris, gay,
brilliant, courted, and admired ; of St. Amand she heard nothing.

My tale, dear Gertmde, does not lead me through the harsh scenes
of war. 1 do not tell you of the slaughter and the siege, and the
blood that inundated those fair lands — the great battle-field of
Europe. The people of the Netherlands in general were with the
cause of Dumouriez, but the town in which Le Tisseur dwelt offered
some faint resistance to his arms. Le Tisseur himself, despite his
age, girded on his sword ; the town was carried, and the fierce and
licentious troops of the conqueror poured, flushed with their easy
victory, through its streets. Le Tisseur's house was filled with
drunken and rude troopers ; Lucille herself trembled in the fierce
gripe of one of those dissolute soldiers, more bandit than soldier,
whom the subtle Dumouriez had united to his army, and by whose
blood he so often saved that of his nobler band ; her shrieks, her
cries were vain, when suddenly the troopers gave way ; "the Cap-
tain ! brave Captain ! " was shouted forth ; the insolent soldier felled
by a powerful arm, sunk senseless at the feet of Lucille ; and a
glorious form, towering above its fellows, — even through its glitter-
ing garb, even in that dreadful hour, remembered at a glance by
Lucille, stood at her side ; her protector — her guardian ! — Thus
once more she beheld St. Amand !

The house was cleared in an instant — the door barred. Shouts,

130 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

groans, wild snatches of exulting song, the clang of arms, the tramp
of horses, the hurrying footsteps, the deep music, sounded loud, and
blended terribly without. Lucille heard them not, — she was on that
breast which never should have deserted her.

Effectually to protect his friends, St. Amand took up his quarters
at their house ; and for two days he was once more under the same
- roof as Lucille. He never recurred voluntarily to Julie ; he answered
Lucille's timid inquiry after her health, briefly, and with coldness,
but he spoke with all the enthusiasm of a long-pent and ardent spirit,
of the new profession he had embraced. Glory seemed now to be
his only mistress ; and the vivid delusion of the first bright dreams
of the Revolution filled his mind, broke from his tongue, and lighted
up those dark eyes which Lucille had redeemed to day.

She saw him depart at the head of his troop ; she saw his proud
crest glancing in the sun ; she saw his steed winding through the
narrow street ; she saw that his last glance reverted to her, where
she stood at the door ; and, as he waved his adieu, she fancied that
there was on his face that look of deep and grateful tenderness,
which reminded her of the one bright epoch of her life.

She was right ; St. Amand had long since in bitterness repented
of a transient infatuation, had long since distinguished the true
Florimel from the false, and felt that, in Julie, Lucille's wrongs
were avenged. But in the hurry and heat of war he plunged that
regret — the keenest of all — which embodies- the bitter words, " TOO
LATE ! "

Years passed away, and in the resumed tranquillity of Lucille's
life, the brilliant apparition of St. Amand appeared as something
dreamed of, not seen. The star of Napoleon had risen above the
horizon ; the romance of his early career had commenced ; and the
campaign of Egypt had been the herald of those brilliant and mete-
oric successes which flashed forth from the gloom of the Revolution
of France.

You are aware, dear Gertrude, how many in the French as well
as the English troops, returned home from Egypt, blinded with the
ophthalmia of that arid soil. Some of the young men in Lucille's
town, who had joined Napoleon's army, came back darkened by
that fearful affliction, and Lucille's alms, and Lucille's aid, and
Lucille's sweet voice, were ever at hand for those poor sufferers,
whose common misfortune touched so thrilling a chord of her
heart.

Her father was now dead, and she had only her mother to cheer
amidst the ills of age. As one evening they sat at work together,
..Madame le Tisseur said, after a pause —

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 131

" I wish, dear Lucille, thou couldst be persuaded to marry Justin ;
lie loves thee well, and now that thou art yet young, and hast many
years before thee, thou shouldst remember that when I die thou wilt
be alone."

" Ah cease, dearest mother, I never can marry now ; and as for
love — once taught in the bitter school in which I have learned the
knowledge of myself — I cannot be deceived again."

' ' My Lucille, you do not know yourself : never was a woman
loved, if Justin does not love you ; and never did lover feel with more
real warmth how worthily he loved."

And this was true ; and not of Justin alone, for Lucille's modest
virtues, her kindly temper, and a certain undulating and feminine
grace, which accompanied all her movements, had secured her as
many conquests as if she had been beautiful. She had rejected all
offers of marriage with a shudder ; without even the throb of a
flattered vanity. One memory, sadder, was also dearer, to her than
all things ; and something sacred in its recollections made her deem
it even a crime to think of effacing the past by a new affection.

"I believe," continued Madame le Tisseur, angrily, "that thou
still thinkest fondly of him, from whom only in the world thou
couldst have experienced ingratitude."

"Nay, mother," said Lucille, with a blush and a slight sigh,
" Eugene is married to another."

While thus conversing, they heard a gentle and timid knock at the
door — the latch was lifted. ' ' This, " said the rough voice of a com-
missionaire of the town, "this, monsieur, is the house of Madame le
Tisseur, a.ndv0z7d mademoiselle!" A tall figure, with a shade over
his eyes, and wrapped in a long military cloak, stood in the room.
A thrill shot across Lucille's heart. He stretched out his arms.
" Lucille," said that melancholy voice, which had made the music of
her first youth — "where art thou, Lucille? Alas! she does not
recognize St. Amand."

Thus was it, indeed. By a singular fatality, the burning suns and
the sharp dust of the plains of Egypt had smitten the young soldier,
in the flush of his career, with a second — and this time, with an irre-
mediable— blindness ! He had returned to France to find his hearth
lonely : Julie was no more — a sudden fever had cut her off in the
midst of youth ; and he had sought his way to Lucille's house, to see
if one hope yet remained to him in the world !

And when, days afterwards, humbly and sadly he re-urged a
former suit, did Lucille shut her heart to its prayer ? Did her pride
remember its wound — did she revert to his desertion — did she reply
to the whisper of her yearning love, " than hast been before forsaken ? "

132 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

That voice, and those darkened eyes( pled to her with a pathos not
to be resisted ; " I am once more necessary to him," was all her
thought — "if I reject him, who will tend him?" In that thought
was the motive of her conduct ; in that thought gushed back upon
her soul all the springs of checked, but unconquered> unconquerable
love ! In that thought she stood beside him at the altar, and
pledged, with a yet holier devotion than she might haVe felt of yore,
the vow of her imperishable truth.

And Lvicille found, in the future, a reward which the common
world could never comprehend. With his blindness returned all the
feelings she had first awakened in St. Amand's solitary heart ; again
he yearned for her step — again he missed even a moment's absence
from his side — again her voice chased the shadow from his brow—
and in her presence was a sense of shelter and of sunshine. He no
longer sighed for the blessing he had lost ; he reconciled himself to
fate, and entered into that serenity of mood which mostly character-
izes the blind. Perhaps after we have seen the actual world, and
experienced its hollow pleasures, we can resign ourselves the better
to its exclusion ; and as the cloister, which repels the ardour of our
hope, is sweet to our remembrance, so the darkness loses its terror,
when experience has wearied us with the glare and travail of the
day. It was something) too, as they advanced in life) to feel the
chains that bound him to Lucille strengthening daily, and to cherish
in his overflowing heart the sweetness of increasing gratitude ; it was
something that he could not see years wrinkle that open brow, or
dim the tenderness of that touching smile ; — it was something that to
him she was beyond the reach of time, and preserved to the verge of
a grave (which received them both within a few days of each other)
in all the bloom of her unwithering affection-^in all the freshness of
a heart that never could grow old !

Gertrude, who had broken in upon Trevylyan's story by a thousand
anxious interruptions, and a thousand pretty apologies for interrupt-
ing, was charmed with a tale in which true love was made happy at
last, although she did not forgive St. Amand his ingratitude, and
although she declared, with a critical shake of the head, that "it was
very unnatural that the mere beauty of Julie, or the mere want of it
in Lucille, should have produced such an effect upon him, if he had
ever rsaily loved Lucille in his blindness."

As they passed through Malines, the town assumed an interest in
Gertrude's eyes, to which it scarcely of itself was entitled. She
looked wistfully at the broad market-place ; at a corner of which
was one of those out-of-door groups of quiet and noiseless revellers,
which Dutch art has raised from the Familiar to the Picturesque ;

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 133

and then glancing to the town of St. Rembauld, she fancied, amidst
the silence of noon, that she yet heard the plaintive cry of the blind
orphan^-" Fido, Fido, why hast thou deserted me? "

CHAPTER V.

ROTTERDAM. — THE CHARACTER OF THE DUTCH. ^-THEIR RESEM-
BLANCE TO THE GERMANS. — A DISPUTE BETWEEN VANE
AND TREVYLYAN, AFTER THE MANNER OF THE ANCIENT
NOVELISTS, AS TO WHICH IS PREFERABLE, THE LIFE OF
ACTION OR THE LIFE OF REPOSE.— TREVYLYAN'S CONTRAST
BETWEEN LITERARY AMBITION AND THE AMBITION OP
PUBLIC LIFE.

lUR travellers arrived at Rotterdam on a bright and sunny
day. There is a cheerfulness about the operations of
Commerce — a life — a bustle — an action which always
exhilarate the spirits at the first glance. Afterwards they
fatigue us ; we get too soon behind the scenes, and find the base and
troublous passions which move the puppets and conduct the drama.

But Gertrude, in whom ill health had not destroyed the vividness
of impression that belongs to the inexperienced, was delighted at
the cheeriness of all around her. As she leaned lightly on Trevylyan's
arm, he listened with a forgetful joy to her questions and exclama-
tions at the stir and liveliness of a city, from which was to commence
their pilgrimage along the Rhine. And indeed the scene was rife
with the spirit of that people at once so active and so patient — so
daring on the sea — so cautious on the land. Industry was visible
everywhere ; the vessels in the harbour — the crowded boat, putting
off to land — the throng on the quay, all looked bustling and spoke
of commerce. The city itself, on which the skies shone fairly through
light and fleecy clouds, wore a cheerful aspect. The church of St.
Lawrence rising above the clean, neat houses, and on one side, trees
thickly grouped, gaily contrasted at once the waters and the city.

"I like this place," said Gertrude's father, quietly; "it has an
air of comfort."

"And an absence of Grandeur," said Trevylyan.

"A commercial people are one great middle class in their habits
and train of mind, ' replied Vane j "and grandeur belongs to the
extremes, — an impoverished population, and a wealthy despot."

They went to see the statue of Erasmus, and the house in which

134 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

he was born. Vane had a certain admiration for Erasmus which his
companions did not share ; he liked the quiet irony of the sage, and
his knowledge of the world ; and, besides, Vane was of that time of
life when philosophers become objects of interest. At first they are
teachers ; secondly, friends ; and it is only a few who arrive at the
third stage, and find them deceivers. The Dutch are a singular
people. Their literature is neglected, but it has some of the German
vein in its strata, — the patience, the learning, the homely delinea-
tion, and even some traces of the mixture of the humorous and the
terrible, which form that genius for the grotesque so especially
German, — you find this in their legends and ghost-stories. But in
Holland activity destroys, in Germany indolence nourishes, romance.

They stayed a day or two at Rotterdam, and then proceeded up
the Rhine to Gorcum. The banks were flat and tame, and nothing
could be less impressive of its native majesty than this part of the
course of the great River.

" I never felt before," whispered Gertrude, tenderly, " how much
there was of consolation in your presence ; for here I am at last on
the Rhine — the blue Rhine, and how disappointed I should be if
you were not by my side ! "

" But my Gertrude, you must wait till we have passed Cologne,
before the glories of the Rhine burst upon you."

" It reverses life, my child," said the moralizing Vane ; " and the
stream flows through dulness at first, reserving its poetry for our
perseverance."

" I will not allow your doctrine," said Trevylyan, as the ambitious
ardour of his native disposition stirred within him. "Life has
always action ; it is our own fault if it ever be dull : youth has its
enterprise, manhood its schemes ; and even if infirmity creep upon
age, the mind, the mind still triumphs over the mortal clay, and in
the quiet hermitage, among books, and from thoughts, keeps the
great wheel within everlastingly in motion. No, the better class of
spirits have always an antidote to the insipidity of a common career,
they have ever energy at will "

"And never happiness!" answered Vane, after a pause, as he
gazed on the proud countenance of Trevylyan, with that kind of
calm, half-pitying interest which belonged to a character deeply
imbued with the philosophy of a sad experience, acting upon an
unimpassioned heart. "And in truth, Trevylyan, it would please
me if I could but teach you the folly of preferring the exercise of
that energy, of which you speak, to the golden luxuries of RK^T.
What ambition can ever bring an adequate reward ? Not, surely,
the ambition of letters — the desire of intellectual renown ! "

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 135

"True," said Trevylyan, quietly; "that dream I have long re-
nounced ; there is nothing palpable in literary fame — it scarcely
perhaps soothes the vain, — it assuredly chafes the proud. In my
earlier years I attempted some works, which gained what the world,
perhaps rightly, deemed a sufficient meed of reputation ; yet it was
not sufficient to recompense myself for the fresh hours I had con-
sumed, for the sacrifices of pleasure I had made. The subtle aims
that had inspired me were not perceived ; the thoughts that had
seemed new and beautiful to me, fell flat and lustreless on the soul
of others. If I was approved, it was often for what I condemned
myself ! and I found that the trite commonplace and the false wit
charmed, while the truth fatigued, and the enthusiasm revolted.
For men of that genius to which I make no pretension, who have
dwelt apart in the obscurity of their own thoughts, gazing upon stars
that shine not for the dull sleepers of the world, it must be a keen
sting to find the product of their labour confounded with a class,-
and to be mingled up in men's judgment with the faults or merits of
a tribe. Every great genius must deem himself original and alone
in his conceptions. It is not enough for him that these conceptions
should be approved as good, unless they are admitted as inventive,
if they mix him with the herd he has shunned, not separate him in
fame as he has been separated in soul. Some Frenchman, the
oracle of his circle, said of the poet of the Phedre, ' Racine and the
other imitators of Corneille ; ' and Racine, in his wrath, nearly for-
swore tragedy for ever. It is in vain to tell the author that the
public is the judge of his works. The author believes himself
above the public, or he would never have written, and," continued
Trevylyan, with enthusiasm, "he *> above them; their fiat may
crush his glory, but never his self-esteem. He stands alone and
haughty amidst the wrecks of the temple he imagined he had raised
'TO THE FUTURE,' and retaliates neglect with scorn. But is this,
the life of scorn, a pleasurable state of existence ? Is it one to be
cherished? Does even the moment of fame counterbalance the
years of mortification ? And what is there in literary fame itself
present and palpable to its heir? His work is a pebble thrown into
the deep ; the stir lasts for a moment, and the wave closes up, to
be susceptible no more to the same impression. The circle may
widen to other lands and other ages, but around him it is weak and
faint. The trifles of the day, the low politics, the base intrigues,
occupy the tongue, and fill the thought of his contemporaries ; he is
less known than a mountebank, or a new dancer ; his glory comes
not home to him ; it brings no present, no perpetual reward, like
the applauses that wait the actor, or the actor-like mummer of the

136 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

senate ; and this which vexes, also lowers him ; his noble nature
begins to nourish the base vices of jealousy, and the unwillingness
to admire. Goldsmith is forgotten in the presence of a puppet ; he
feels it, and is mean ; he expresses it, and is ludicrous. It is well
to say that great minds will not stoop to jealousy ; in the greatest
minds, it is most frequent.1 Few authors are ever so aware of the
admiration they excite, as to afford to be generous ; and this melan-
choly truth revolts us with our own ambition. Shall we be demi-
gods in our closet, at the price of sinking below mortality in the
world ? No ! it was from this deep sentiment of the unrealness of
literary fame, of dissatisfaction at the fruits it produced, of fear for
the meanness it engendered, that I resigned betimes all love for its
career ; and if by the restless desire that haunts men who think
much, to write ever, I should be urged hereafter to literature, I
will sternly teach myself to persevere in the indifference to its
fame."

"You say as I would say," answered Vane, with his tranquil
smile; "and your experience corroborates my theory. Ambition,
then, is not the root of happiness. Why more in action than in
letters ? "

"Because," said Trevylyan, "in action we commonly gain in our
life all the honour we deserve : the public judge of men better and
more rapidly than of books. And he who takes to himself in action
a high and pure ambition, associates it with so many objects, that,
unlike literature, the failure of one is balanced by the success of the
other. He, the creator of deeds, not resembling the creator of
books, stands not alone ; he is eminently social ; he has many com-
rades, and without their aid he could not accomplish his designs.
This divides and mitigates the impatient jealousy against others.
He works for a cause, and knows early that he cannot monopolize
its whole glory ; he shares what he is aware it is impossible to en-
gross. Besides, action leaves him no time for brooding over dis-
appointment. The author has consumed his youth in a work, — it
fails in glory. Can he write another work ? Bid him call back
another youth ! But in action, the labour of the mind is from day
to day. A week replaces what a week has lost, and all the aspirant's
fame is of the present. It is lipped by the Babel of the living
world ; he is ever on the stage, and the spectators are ever ready to
applaud. Thus perpetually in the service of others, self ceases to

1 See the long list of names furnished by D'Israeli, in that most exquisite work,
The Literary Character, vol. ii. p. 75. Plato, Xenophon, Chaucer, Corneille,
Voltaire, Dryden, the Caracci, Domenico Venetiano, murdered by his envious
friend, and the gentle Castillo fainting away at the genius of Murillo.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 137

be his world ; he has no leisure to brood over real or imaginary
wrongs, the excitement whirls on the machine till it is worn out "

"And kicked aside," said Vane, ''with the broken lumber of
men's other tools, in the chamber of their son's forgetfulness. Your
man of action lasts but for an hour; the man of letters lasts for
ages."

"We live not for ages," answered Trevylyan ; "our life is on
earth, and not in the grave."

" But even grant," continued Vane, " and I for one will concede
the point, that posthumous fame is not worth the living agonies that
obtain it, how are you better off in your poor and vulgar career of
action ? Would you assist the rulers ? — servility ! The people ?—
folly ! If you take the great philosophical view which the worshippers
of the past rarely take, but which, unknown to them, is their sole
excuse, viz., that the changes which may benefit the future unsettle
the present ; and that it is not the wisdom of practical legislation to
risk the peace of our contemporaries in the hope of obtaining happi-
ness for their posterity^— to what suspicions, to what charges are you
exposed ! You are deemed the foe of all liberal opinion, and you
read your curses in the eyes of a nation. But take the side of the
people. What caprice— what ingratitude ! You have professed so
much in theory, that you can never accomplish sufficient in practice.
Moderation becomes a crime ; to be prudent is to be perfidious.
New demagogues, without temperance, because without principle,
outstrip you in the moment of your greatest services. The public
is the grave of a great man's deeds ; it is never sated ; its maw is
eternally open ; it perpetually craves for more. Where, in the
history of the world, do you find the gratitude of a people? You
find fervour, it is true, but not gratitude ; the fervour that exaggerates
a benefit at one moment, but not the gratitude that remembers it the
next year. Once disappoint them, and all your actions, all your
sacrifices, are swept from their remembrance for ever ; they break
the windows of the very house they have given you, and melt down
their medals into bullets. Who serves man, ruler or peasant, serves
the ungrateful ; and all the ambitious are but types of a Wolsey or
a De Witt."

"And what," said Trevylyan, "consoles a man in the ills that
flesh is heir to, in that state of obscure repose, that serene inactivity
to which you would confine him? Is it not his conscience? Is it
not his self-acquittal, or his self-approval ?:I

"Doubtless," replied Vane.

"Be it so," answered the high-souled Trevylyan ; "the same con-
solation awaits us in action as in repose. We sedulously pursue what

138 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

we deem to be true glory. We are maligned ; but our soul acquits
us. Could it do more in the scandal and the prejudice that assail
us in private life ? You are silent ; but note how much deeper
should be the comfort, how much loftier the self-esteem ; for if
calumny attack us in a wilful obscurity, what have we done to refute
the calumny ? How have we served our species ? Have we ' scorned
delight and loved laborious days ? ' Have we made the utmost of
the ' talent ' confided to our care ? Have we done those good deeds
to our race upon which we can retire, — an ' Estate of Beneficence,'
— from the malice of the world, and feel that our deeds are' our
defenders ? This is the consolation of virtuous actions ; is it so of—
even a virtuous — indolence ? "

"You speak as a preacher," said Vane ; " I merely as a calculator.
You of virtue in affliction, I of a life in ease."

"Well, then, if the consciousness of perpetual endeavour to
advance our race be not alone happier than the life of ease, let us
see what this vaunted ease really is. Tell me, is it not another
name tor ennui? This state of quiescence, this objectless, dreamless
torpor, this transition du lit a la table, de la table au lit ; what more
dreary and monotonous existence can you devise? Is it pleasure in
this inglorious existence to think that you are serving pleasure ? Is
it freedom to be the slave to self? For I hold," continued Trevylyan,
" that this jargon of 'consulting happiness,' this cant of living for
ourselves, is but a mean as well as a false philosophy. Why this
eternal reference to self? Is self alone to be consulted? Is even
our happiness, did it truly consist in repose, really the great end of
life? I doubt if we cannot ascend higher. I doubt if we cannot
say with a great moralist, ' if virtue be not estimable in itself, we
can see nothing estimable in following it for the sake of a bargain.'
But, in fact, repose is the poorest of all delusions ; the very act of
recurring to self, brings about us- all those ills of self from which, in
the turmoil of the world, we can escape. We become hypochon-
driacs. Our very health grows an object of painful possession. We
«are so desirous to be well (for what is retirement without health !)
that we are ever fancying ourselves ill ; and, like the man in the
' Spectator,' we weigh ourselves daily, and live but by grains and
scruples. Retirement is happy only for the poet, for to him it is not
retirement. He secedes from one world but to gain another, and
he finds not ennui in seclusion : why ? — not because seclusion hath
repose, but because it hath occupation. In one word, then, I say of
action and of indolence, grant the same ills to both, and to action
there is the readier escape or the nobler consolation."

Vane shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, my dear friend," said he,

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 139

tapping IMS snuff-box with benevolent superiority, "you are much
younger than I am ! "

But these conversations, which Trevylyan and Vane often held
together, dull as I fear this specimen must seem to the reader, had
an inexpressible charm for Gertrude. She loved the lofty and
generous vein of philosophy which Trevylyan embraced, and which,
while it suited his ardent nature, contrasted a demeanour commonly
hard and cold to all but herself. And young and tender as she was,
his ambition infused its spirit into her fine imagination, and that
passion for enterprise which belongs inseparably to romance. She
loved to muse over his future lot, and in fancy to share its toils and
to exult in its triumphs. And if sometimes she asked herself whether
a career of action might not estrange him from her, she had but to
turn her gaze upon his watchful eye, — and lo, he was by her side or
at her feet !

CHAPTER VI.

GORCUM. — THE TOUR OF THE VIRTUES : A PHILOSOPHER'S TALE.

iT was a bright and cheery morning as they glided by
Gorcum. The boats pulling to the shore full of fishermen
and peasants in their national costume ; the breeze, freshly
rippling the waters ; the lightness of the blue sky ; the
loud and laughing voices from the boats ; — all contributed to raise
the spirit, and fill it with that indescribable gladness which is the
physical sense of life.

The tower of the church, with its long windows and its round dial,
rose against the clear sky ; and on a bench under a green bush facing
the water sat a jolly Hollander, refreshing the breezes with the fumes
of his national weed.

" How little it requires to make a journey pleasant, when the
companions are our friends ! " said Gertrude as they sailed along.
' ' Nothing can be duller than these banks ; nothing more delightful
than this voyage. "

"Yet what tries the affections of people for each other so severely
as a journey together?" said Vane. "That perpetual companion-
ship from which there is no escaping ; that confinement, in all our
moments of ill-humour and listlessness, with persons who want us
to look amused — Ah, it is a severe ordeal for friendship to pass
through ! A post-chaise must have jolted many an intimacy to death. "

140 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

" You speak feelingly, dear father," said Gertrude laughing ;
"and, I suspect, with a slight desire to be sarcastic upon us. Yet,
seriously, I should think that travel must be like life, and that good
persons must be always agreeable companions to each other."

"Good persons, my Gertrude!" answered Vane with a smile.
"Alas ! I fear the good weary each other quite as much as the bad.
What say you, Trevylyan, — would Virtue be a pleasant companion
from Paris to Petersburg? Ah, I see you intend to be on Gertrude's
side of the question. Well now if I tell you a story, since stories
are so much the fashion with you, in which you shall find that the
Virtues themselves actually made the experiment of a tour, will you
promise to attend to the moral ? "

" Oh, dear father, anything for a story," cried Gertrude; "espe-
cially from you who have not told us one all the way. Come, listen,
Albert ; nay, listen to your new rival."

And, pleased to see the vivacity of the invalid, Vane began as
follows : —

THE TOUR OF THE VIRTUES.
A PHILOSOPHER'S TALE.

Once upon a time, several of the Virtues, weary of living for ever
with the Bishop of Norwich, resolved to make a little excursion ;
accordingly, though they knew everything on earth was very ill pre-
pared to receive them, they thought they might safely venture on a
tour from Westminster Bridge to Richmond : the day was fine, the
wind in their favour, and as to entertainment, — why there seemed,
according to Gertrude, to be no possibility of any disagreement
among the Virtues.

They took a boat at Westminster Stairs, and just as they were
about to push off, a poor woman, all in rags, with a child in her
arms, implored their compassion. Charity put her hand into her
reticule, and took out a shilling. Justice, turning round to look
after the luggage, saw the folly which Charity was about to commit.
" Heavens ! " cried Justice, seizing poor Charity by the arm, "what
are you doing? Have you never read Political Economy? Don't
you know that indiscriminate almsgiving is only the encouragement
to Idleness, the mother of Vice? You a Virtue, indeed ! — I'm
ashamed of you. Get along with you, good woman ; — yet stay,
there is a ticket for soup at the Mendicity Society : they'll see if
you're a proper object of compassion." But Charity is quicker than
Justice, and slipping her hand behind her, the poor woman got the
shilling and the ticket for soup too. Economy and Generosity saw

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 141

the double gift. " What waste ! " cried Economy, frowning ; " what,
a ticket and a shilling ! either would have sufficed."

"Either!" said Generosity, "fie! Charity should have given
the poor creature half-a-crown, and Justice a dozen tickets ! " So
the next ten minutes were consumed in a quarrel between the four
Virtues, which would have lasted all the way to Richmond, if
Courage had not advised them to get on shore and fight it out.
Upon this, the Virtues suddenly perceived they had a little forgotten
themselves, and Generosity offering the first apology, they made it
up, and went on very agreeably for the next mile or two.

The day now grew a little overcast, and a shower seemed at han<^.
Prudence, who had on a new bonnet, suggested the propriety of
putting to shore for half an hour ; Courage was for braving the rain,
but, as most of the Virtues are ladies, Prudence carried it. Just as
they were about to land, another boat cut in before them very un-
civilly, and gave theirs such a shake, that Charity was all but over-
board. The company on board the uncivil boat, who evidently
thought the Virtues extremely low persons, for they had nothing
very fashionable about their exterior, burst out laughing at Charity's
discomposure, especially as a large basket full of buns, which
Charity carried with her for any hungry-looking children she might
encounter at Richmond, fell pounce into the water. Courage was
all on fire ; he twisted his moustache, and would have made an onset
on the enemy, if, to his great indignation, Meekness had not fore-
stalled him, by stepping mildly into the hostile boat and offering
both cheeks to the foe. This was too much even for the incivility of
the boatmen ; they made their excuses to the Virtues, and Courage,
who is no bully, thought himself bound discontentedly to accept
them. But oh ! if you had seen how Courage used Meekness after-
wards, you could not have believed it possible that one Virtue could
be so enraged with another. This quarrel between the two threw a
damp on the party ; and they proceeded on their voyage, when the
shower was over, with anything but cordiality. I spare you the little
squabbles that took place in the general conversation — how Economy
found fault with all the villas by the way ; and Temperance expressed
becoming indignation at the luxuries of the City barge. They arrived
at Richmond, and Temperance was appointed to order the dinner ;
meanwhile Hospitality, walking in the garden, fell in with a large
party of Irishmen, and asked them to join the repast.

Imagine the long faces of Economy and Prudence, when they saw
the addition to the company. Hospitality was all spirits, he rubbed
his hands and called for champagne with the tone of a younger
brother. Temperance soon grew scandalized, and Modesty herself

142 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

coloured at some of the jokes ; but Hospitality, who was now half
seas over, called the one a milksop, and swore at the other as a
prude. Away went the hours ; it was time to return, and they made
down to the water-side thoroughly out of temper with one another,
Economy and Generosity quarrelling all the way about the bill and
the waiters. To make up the sum of their mortification, they passed
a boat where all the company were in the best possible spirits,
laughing and whooping like mad ; and discovered these jolly com-
panions to be two or three agreeable Vices, who had put themselves
under the management of Good Temper. So you see, Gertrude,
that even the Virtues may fall at loggerheads with each other,
and pass a very sad time of it, if they happen to be of opposite
dispositions, and have forgotten to take Good Temper along with
them.

"Ah ! " said Gertrude, "but you have overloaded your boat ; too
many Virtues might contradict one another, but not a few."

" Voilh ce queje veux dire," said Vane. "But listen to the sequel
of my tale, which now takes a new moral."

At the end of the voyage, and after a long, sulky silence, Prudence
said, with a thoughtful air, "My dear friends, I have been thinking
that as long as we keep so entirely together, never mixing with the
rest of the world, we shall waste our lives in quarrelling amongst
ourselves, and run the risk of being still less liked and sought after
than we already are. You know that we are none of us popular ;
every one is quite contented to see us represented in a vaudeville, or
described in an essay. Charity, indeed, has her name often taken
in vain at a bazaar, or a subscription ; and the miser as often talks
of the duty he owes to me, when he sends the stranger from his
door, or his grandson to gaol : but still we only resemble so many
wild beasts, whom everybody likes to see, but nobody cares to
possess. Now, I propose, that we should all separate and take up
our abode with some mortal or other for a year, with the power of
changing at the end of that time should we not feel ourselves com-
fortable ; that is, should we not find that we do all the good we
intend : let us try the experiment, and on this day twelvemonths let
us all meet, under the largest oak in Windsor Forest, and recount
what has befallen us." Prudence ceased, as she always does when
she has said enough ; and, delighted at the project, the Virtues
agreed to adopt it on the spot. They were enchanted at the idea of
setting up for themselves, and each not doubting his or her success :
for Economy in her heart thought Generosity no Virtue at all, and
Meekness looked on Courage as little better than a heathen.

Generosity, being the most eager and active of all the Virtues, set

THE PlLGRIiMS OF THE RHINE. 143

off first on his journey. Justice followed, and kept up with him,
though at a more even pace. Charity never heard a sigh, or saw a
squalid face, but she stayed to cheer and console the sufferer ; — a
kindness which somewhat retarded her progress.

Courage espied a travelling carriage, with a man and his wife in
it quarrelling most conjugally, and he civilly begged he might be
permitted to occupy the vacant seat opposite the lady. Economy
still lingered, inquiring for the cheapest inns. Poor Modesty looked
round and sighed, on finding herself so near to London, where she
was almost wholly unknown ; but resolved to bend her course
thither for two reasons : first, for the novelty of the thing ; and,
secondly, not liking to expose herself to any risks by a journey on
the Continent. Prudence, though the first to project, was the last
to execute ; and therefore resolved to remain where she was for that
night, and take daylight for her travels.

The year rolled on, and the Virtues, punctual to the appointment,
met under the oak-tree ; they all came nearly at the same time,
excepting Economy, who had got into a return post-chaise, the
horses to which, having been forty miles in the course of the morn-
ing, had foundered by the way, and retarded her journey till night
set in. The Virtues looked sad and sorrowful, as people are wont
to do after a long and fruitless journey ; and, somehow or other,
such was the wearying effect of their intercourse with the world, that
they appeared wonderfully diminished in size.

"Ah, my dear Generosity," said Prudence with a sigh, " as you
were the first to set out on your travels, pray let us hear your
adventures first."

" You must know, my dear sisters," said Generosity, "that I had
not gone many miles from you before I came to a small country
town, in which a marching regiment was quartered, and at an open
window I beheld, leaning over a gentleman's chair, the most beautiful
creature imagination ever pictured ; her eyes shone out like two suns
of perfect happiness, and she was almost cheerful enough to have
passed for Good Temper herself. The gentleman, over whose chair
she leaned, was her husband ; they had been married six weeks ; he
was a lieutenant with a hundred pounds a-year besides his pay.
Greatly affected by their poverty, I instantly determined, without a
second thought, to ensconce myself in the heart of this charming
girl. During the first hour in my new residence I made many wise
reflections, such as — that Love never was so perfect as when accom-
panied by Poverty ; what a vulgar error it was to call the unmarried
state ' Single Blessedness ; ' how wrong it was of us Virtues never
to have tried the marriage bond ; and what a falsehood it was to

144 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

say that husbands neglected their wives, for never was there any-
thing in nature so devoted as the love of a husband — six weeks
married !

" The next morning, before breakfast/ as the charming Fanny was
waiting for her husband, who had not yet finished his toilette, a
poor, wretched-looking object appeared at the window, tearing her
hair and wringing her hands ; her husband had that morning been
dragged to prison, and her seven children had fought for the last
mouldy crust. Prompted by me, Fanny, without inquiring further
into the matter, drew from her silken purse a five-pound note, and
gave it to the beggar, who departed more amazed than grateful.

Soon after the lieutenant appeared, — ' What the d 1, another

bill ! ' muttered he, as he tore the yellow wafer from a large, square,
folded, bluish piece of paper. ' Oh, ah ! confound the fellow, he
must be paid. I must trouble you, Fanny, for fifteen pounds to pay
this saddler's bill.'

"' Fifteen pounds, love?' stammered Fanny, blushing
" 'Yes, dearest, the fifteen pounds I gaVe you yesterday.'
" ' I have only ten pounds,' said Fanny, hesitatingly, ' fof such a
poor, wretched-looking creature was here just now, that I was
obliged to give her five pounds.'

'"Five pounds? good Heavens!' exclaimed the astonished
husband ; ' I shall have no more money this three weeks.' He
frowned, he bit his lips, nay, he even wrung his hands, and walked
up and down the room ; worse still, he broke forth with — ' Surely,
madam,- you did not suppose, when you married a lieutenant in a
marching regiment, that he could afford to indulge in the whim of
giving five pounds to every mendicant who held out her hand to
you? You did not, I say, madam, imagine — ' but the bridegroom
was interrupted by the convulsive sobs of his wife.: it was their first
quarrel, they were but six weeks married ; lie looked at her for one
moment sternly, the next he was at her feet. ' Forgive me, dearest
Fanny, — forgive me, for I cannot forgive myself. I was too great
a wretch to say what I did ; and do believe, my own Fanny, that
while I may be too poor to indulge you in it, I do from my heart
admire so noble, so disinterested, a generosity.' Not a little protid
did I feel to have been the cause of this exemplary husband's
admiration for liis amiable wife, and sincerely did I rejoice at having
taken up my abode with these poor people. But not to tire you,
my dear sisters, with the minutiae of detail, I shall briefly say that
things did not long remain in this delightful position ; for, before
many months had elapsed, poor Fanny had to bear with her husband's
increased and more frequent storms of passion, unfollowed by any

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 145

halcyon and honeymoon suings for forgiveness : for at my instigation
every shilling went ; and when there were no more to go, her
trinkets, and even her clothes followed. The lieutenant became a
complete brute, and even allowed his unbridled tongue to call me —
me, sisters, me! — 'heartless Extravagance.' His despicable brother-
officers, and their gossiping wives, were no better; for they did
nothing but animadvert upon my Fanny's ostentation and absurdity,
for by such names had they the impertinence to call me. Thus
grieved to the soul to find myself the cause of all poor Fanny's
misfortunes, I resolved at the end of the year to leave her, bsing
thoroughly convinced that, however amiable and praiseworthy I
might be in myself, I was totally unfit to be bosom friend and
adviser to the wife of a lieutenant in a marching regiment, with only
a hundred pounds a-year besides his pay."

The Virtues groaned their sympathy with the unfortunate Fanny ;
and Prudence, turning to Justice, said, " I long to hear what you
have been doing, for I am certain you cannot have occasioned harm
to any one."

Justice shook her head and said, "Alas! I find that there are
times and places when even I do better not to appear, as a short
account of my adventures will prove to you. No sooner had I left
you than I instantly repaired to India, and took up my abode with
a Brahmin. I was much shocked by the dreadful inequalities of
condition that reigned in the several castes, and I longed to relieve
the poor Pariah from his ignominious destiny, — accordingly I set
seriously to work on reform. I insisted upon the iniquity of
abandoning men from their birth to an irremediable state of con-
tempt, from which no virtue could exalt them. The Brahmins
looked upon my Brahmin with ineffable horror. They called me
the most wicked of vices ; they saw no distinction between Justice
and Atheism. I uprooted their society — that was sufficient crime.
But the worst was, that the Pariahs themselves regarded me with
suspicion ; they thought it unnatural in a Brahmin to care for &
Pariah ! And one called me ' Madness ; ' another, ' Ambition ; '
and a third, 'The Desire to innovate.' My poor Brahmin led a
miserable life of it ; when one day, after observing, at my dictation,
that he thought a Pariah's life as much entitled to respect as a
cow's, he was hurried away by the priests and secretly broiled on
the altar, as a fitting reward for his sacrilege. I fled hither in great
tribulation, persuaded that in some countries even Justice may do
harm. "

"As for me," said Charity, not waiting to be asked, "I grieve to
say that I was silly enough to take up my abode with an old lady in

146 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

Dublin, who never knew what discretion was, and always acted from
impulse ; my instigation was irresistible, and the money she gave in
her drives through the suburbs of Dublin was so lavishly spent, that
it kept all the rascals of the city in idleness and whisky. I found,
to my great horror, that I was a main cause of a terrible epidemic,
and that to give alms without discretion was to spread poverty with-
out help. I left the city when my year was out, and, as ill-luck
would have it, just at the time when I was most wanted."

" And oh, " cried Hospitality, " I went to Ireland also. I fixed
my abode with a squireen ; I ruined him in a year, and only left him
because he had no longer a hovel to keep me in."

"As for myself, "said Temperance, "I entered the breast of an
English legislator, and he brought in a bill against ale-houses ; the
consequence was, that the labourers look to gin, and I have been
forced to confess, that Temperance may be too zealous when she
dictates too vehemently to others."

" Well," said Courage, keeping more in the back-ground than he
had eyer done before, and looking rather ashamed of himself, " that
travelling carriage I got into belonged to a German general and his
wife, who were returning to their own country. Growing very cold
as we proceeded, she wrapped me up in a polonaise ; but the cold in-
creasing, I inadvertently crept into her bosom ; once there I could
not get out, and from thenceforward the poor general had considerably
the worst of it. She became so provoking, that I wondered how he
could refrain from an explosion. To do him justice, he did at last
threaten to get out of the carriage ; upon which, roused by me,
she collared him — and conquered. When he got to his own district
things grew worse, for if any aide-de-camp offended her she insisted
that he might be publicly reprimanded ; and should the poor general
refuse, she would with her own hands confer a caning upon the
delinquent. The additional force she had gained in me was too much
odds against the poor general, and he died of a broken heart, six
months after my liaison with his wife. She after this became so
dreaded and detested, that a conspiracy was formed to poison her ;
this daunted even me, so I left her without delay, — et me void!"

" Humph ! " said Meekness, with an air of triumph ; " I, at least,
have been more successful than you. On seeing much in the papers
of the cruelties practised by the Turks on the Greeks, I thought my
presence would enable the poor sufferers to bear their misfortunes
calmly. I went to Greece, then, at a moment when a well-planned
and practicable scheme of emancipating themselves from the Turkish
yoke was arousing their youth. Without confining myself to one
individual, I flitted from breast to breast ; I meekened the whole

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 147

nation ; my remonstrances against the insurrection succeeded,
and I had the satisfaction of leaving a whole people ready to be
killed, or strangled, with the most Christian resignation in the
world."

The Virtues, who had been a little cheered by the opening self-
complacency of Meekness, would not, to her great astonishment,
allow that she had succeeded a whit more happily than her sisters,
and called next upon Modesty for her confession.

"You know," said that amiable young lady, "that I went to
London in search of a situation. I spent three months of the twelve
in going from house to house, but I could not get a single person to
receive me. The ladies declared they never saw so old-fashioned a
gawkey, and civilly recommended me to their abigails ; the abigails
turned me round with a stare, and then pushed me down to the
kitchen and the fat scullion-maids ; who assured me, that ' in the
respectable families they had the honour to live in, they had never
even heard of my name.' One young housemaid just from the
country did indeed receive me with some sort of civility ; but she
very soon lost me in the servants' hall. I now took refuge with the
other sex, as the least uncourteous. I was fortunate enough to find
a young gentleman of remarkable talents, who welcomed me with
open arms. He was full of learning, gentleness, and honesty. 1
had only one rival — Ambition. We both contended for an absolute
empire over him. Whatever Ambition suggested, 1 damped. Did
Ambition urge him to begin a book, I persuaded him it was not
worth publication. Did he get up, full of knowledge, and instigated
by my rival to make a speech (for he was in parliament), I shocked
him with the sense of his assurance — I made his voice droop and
his accents falter. At last, with an indignant sigh, my rival left him ;
he retired into the country, took orders, and renounced a career
he had fondly hoped would be serviceable to others ; but finding
I did not suffice for his happiness, and piqued at his melancholy,
I left him before the end of the year, and he has since taken to
drinking ! "

The eyes of the Virtues were all turned to Prudence. She was
their last hope — "I am just where I set out, "said that discreet
Virtue ; "I have done neither good nor harm. To avoid tempta-
tion, I went and lived with a hermit, to whom I soon found that I
could be of no use beyond warning him not to overboil his peas and
lentils, not to leave his door open when a storm threatened, and not
to fill his pitcher too full at the neighbouring spring. I am thus the
only one of you that never did harm ; but only because I am the
only one of you that never had an opportunity of doing it ! In a

148 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

word," continued Prudence, thoughtfully, — "in a word, my friends,
circumstances are necessary to the Virtues themselves. Had, for
instance, Economy changed with Generosity, and gone to the poor
lieutenant's wife, and had I lodged with the Irish squireen instead of
Hospitality, what misfortunes would have been saved to both !
Alas ! I perceive we lose all our efficacy when we are misplaced ;
and then, though in reality Virtues, we operate as Vices. Circum-
stances must be favourable to our exertions, and harmonious with
our nature ; and we lose our very divinity unless Wisdom direct our
footsteps to the home we should inhabit, and the dispositions we
should govern."

The story was ended, and the travellers- began to dispute about its
moral. Here let us leave them.

CHAPTER VII.

COLOGNE. — THE TRACES OF THE ROMAN YOKE. — THE CHURCft
OF ST. MARIA. — TREVYLYAN'S REFLECTIONS ON THE MONAS-
TIC LIFE. — THE TOMB OF THE THREE KINGS. — AN EVENING
EXCURSION ON THE RHINE.

kOME — magnificent Rome ! wherever the pilgrim wends,
the traces of thy dominion greet his eyes. Still, in the
heart of the bold German race, is graven the print of the
eagle's claws ; and amidst the haunted regions of the
Rhine we pause to wonder at the great monuments of the Italian
yoke.

At Cologne our travellers rested for some days. They were in fhe
city to which the camp of Marcus Agrippa had given birth : that
spot had resounded with the armed tread of the legions of Trajan.
In that city, Vitellius, Sylvanus, were proclaimed emperors. By
that church, did the latter receive his death.

As they passed round the door, they saw some peasants loitering
on the sacred ground ; and when they noted the delicate cheek of
Gertrude, they uttered their salutations with more than common
respect. .Where they then were, the building swept round in a
circular form ; and at its base it is supposed, by tradition, to retain
something of the ancient Roman masonry. Just before them rose the
spire of a plain and unadorned church — singularly contrasting the
pomp of the old, with the simplicity of the innovating, creed.

The Church of St. Maria occupies the site of the Roman Capitol ;

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 149

and the place retains the Roman name ; and still something in the
aspect of the people betrays the hereditary blood.

Gertrude, whose nature was strongly impressed with the vene-
rating character, was fond of visiting the old Gothic churches, which,
with so eloquent a moral, unite the Jiving with the dead.

"Pause for a moment," said Trevylyan, before they entered the
church of St. Mary. " What recollections crowd upon us ! On
the site of the Roman Capitol, a Christian church and a convent
are erected ! By whom ? The mother of Charles Martel — the
Conqueror of the Saracen — the arch-hero of Christendom itself !
And to these scenes and calm retreats, to the cloisters of the convent
once belonging to this church, fled the bruised spirit of a royal
sufferer — the victim of Richelieu — the unfortunate and ambitious
Mary de Medicis, Alas ! the cell and the convent are but a vain
emblem of that desire to fly to God which belongs to Distress ; the
solitude soothes, but the monotony recalls, regret. And for my own
part, in my frequent tours through Catholic countries, I never saw
the still walls in which monastic vanity hoped to shut out the world,
but a melancholy came over me ! What hearts at war with them-
selves ! — what unceasing regrets! — what pinings after the past! —
what long and beautiful years devoted to a moral grave, by a
momentary rashness — an impulse — a disappointment ! But in these
churches the lesson is more impressive and less sad. The weary
heart has ceased to ache — the burning pulses are still — the troubled
spirit has flown to the only rest which is not a deceit. Power and
love — hope and fear — avarice — ambition, they are quenched at last !
Death is the only monastery — the tomb is the only cell."

"Your passion is ever for active life," said Gertrude. "You
allow no charm to solitude, and contemplation to you seems torture.
If any great sorrow ever come upon you, you will never retire to
seclusion as its balm. You will plunge into the world, and lose your
individual existence in the universal rush of life."

"Ah, talk not of sorrow!" said Trevylyan, wildly, — "let us
enter the church."

They went afterwards to the celebrated cathedral, which is con-
sidered one of the noblest of the architectural triumphs of Germany ;
but it is yet more worthy of notice from the Pilgrim of Romance
than the searcher after antiquity, for here, behind the grand altar, is
the Tomb of the Three Kings of Cologne — the three worshippers,
whom tradition humbled to our Saviour. Legend is rife with a
thousand tales of the relics of this tomb. The Three Kings of
Cologne are the tutelary names of that golden superstition, which
has often more votaries than the religion itself from which it springs:

150 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

and to Gertrude the simple story of Lucille sufficed to make her for
the moment credulous of the sanctity of the spot. Behind the tomb
three Gothic windows cast their " dim, religious light " over the
tesselated pavement and along the Ionic pillars. They found some
of the more credulous believers in the authenticity of the relics
kneeling before the tomb, and they arrested their steps, fearful to
disturb the superstition which is never without something of sanctity
when contented with prayer, and forgetful of persecution. The
bones of the Magi are still supposed to consecrate the tomb, and on
the higher part of the monument the artist has delineated their
adoration to the infant Saviour.

That evening came on with a still and tranquil beauty, and as the
sun hastened to its close they launched their boat for an hour or
two's excursion upon the Rhine. Gertrude was in that happy mood
when the quiet of nature is enjoyed like a bath for the soul, and the
presence of him she so idolized deepened that stillness into a more
delicious and subduing calm. Little did she dream as the boat glided
over the water, and the towers of Cologne rose in the blue air of
evening, how few were those hours that divided her from the tomb !
But, in looking back to the life of one we have loved, how dear is
the thought that the latter days were the days of light, that the cloud
never chilled the beauty of the setting sun, and that if the years of
existence were brief, all that existence has most tender, most sacred,
was crowded into that space ! Nothing dark, then, or bitter, rests
with our remembrance of the lost : we are the mourners, but pity is
not for the mourned — our grief is purely selfish ; when we turn to
its object, the hues of happiness are round it, and that very love
which is the parent of our woe was the consolation — the triumph —
of the departed !

The majestic Rhine was calm as a lake ; the splashing of the oar
only broke the stillness, and, after a long pause in their conversation,
Gertrude, putting her hand on Trevylyan's arm, reminded him of a
promised story : for he too had moods of abstraction, from which,
in her turn, she loved to lure him ; and his voice to her had become
a sort of want.

" Let it be," said she, " a tale suited to the hour ; no fierce tradi-
tion— nay, no grotesque fable, but of the tenderer dye of superstition.
Let it be of love, of woman's love— of the love that defies the grave :
for surely even after death it lives ; and heaven would scarcely be
heaven if memory were banished from its blessings."

"I recollect," said Trevylyan, after a slight pause, "a short
German legend, the simplicity of which touched me much when I
heard it ; but," added he with a slight smile, " so much more

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 151

faithful appears in the legend the love of the woman than that of
the man, that I at least ought scarcely to recite it."

" Nay, "said Gertrude tenderly, " the fault of the inconstant only
heightens our gratitude to the faithful."

CHAPTER VIII.

THE SOUL IN PURGATORY ; OR, LOVE STRONGER THAN DEATH.

'HE angels strung their harps in Heaven, and their music
went up like a stream of odours to the pavilions of the
Most High. But the harp of Seralim was sweeter than
that of his fellows, and the Voice of the Invisible One
(for the angels themselves know not the glories of Jehovah — only
far in the depths of Heaven they see one Unsleeping Eye watching
for ever over Creation) was heard saying —

"Ask a gift for the love that burns in thy song, and it shall be
given thee."

And Seralim answered —

"There are in that place which men call Purgatory, and which
is the escape from Hell, but the painful porch of Heaven, many
souls that adore Thee, and yet are punished justly for their sins ;
grant me the boon to visit them at times, and solace their suffering
by the hymns of the harp that is consecrated to Thee ! "

And the Voice answered —

" Thy prayer is heard, O gentlest of the angels ! and it seems
good to Him who chastises but from love. Go ! Thou hast thy
will."

Then the angel sang the praises of God ; and when the song was
done he rose from his azure throne at the right hand of Gabriel,
and, spreading his rainbow wings, he flew to that melancholy orb
which, nearest to earth, echoes with the shrieks of souls that by
torture become pure. There the unhappy ones see from afar the
bright courts they are hereafter to obtain, and the shapes of glorious
beings, who, fresh from the Fountains of Immortality, walk amidst
the gardens of Paradise, and feel that their happiness hath no
morrow ; — and this thought consoles amidst their torments, and
makes the true difference between Purgatory and Hell.

Then the angel folded his wings, and, entering the crystal gates,
sat down upon a blasted rock and struck his divine lyre, and a
peace fell over the wretched ; the demon ceased to torture, and the

152 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

victim to wail. As sleep to the mourners of earth was the song of
the angel to the souls of the purifying star : one only voice amidst
the general stillness seemed not lulled by the angel ; it was the
voice of a woman, and it continued to cry out with a sharp cry —

"Oh, Adenheim, Adenheim ! mourn not for the lost ! '

The angel struck chord after chord, till his most skilful melodies
were exhausted ; but still the solitary voice, unheeding — unconscious
of — the sweetest harp of the angel choir, cried out

" Oh, Adenheim, Adenheim ! mourn not for the lost I "

Then Seralim's interest was aroused, and approaching the spot
whence the voice came, he saw the spirit of a young and beautiful
girl chained to a rock, and the demons lying idly by. And Seralim
said to the demons, " Doth the song lull ye thus to rest ? "

And they answered, " Her care for another is bitterer than all our
torments ; therefore are we idle."

Then the angel approached the spirit, and said in a voice which
stilled her cry — for in what state do we outlive sympathy ? " Where-
fore, O daughter of earth ! wherefore wailest thou with the same
plaintive wail ? and why doth the harp that soothes the most guilty
of thy companions, fail in its melody with thec?"

" Oh, radiant stranger," answered the poor spirit, "thou speak est
to one who on earth loved God's creatures more than God ; there-
fore is she thus justly sentenced. But I know that my poor
Adenheim mourns ceaselessly for me, and the thought of his sorrow
is more intolerable to me than all that the demons can inflict."

"And how knowest thou that he laments thee?" asked the
angel.

"Because I know with what agony I should have mourned for
him," replied the spirit, simply.

The divine nature of the angel was touched ; for love is the nature
of the sons of heaven. "And how," said he, "can I minister to
thy sorrow ? "

A transport seemed to agitate the spirit, and she lifted up her
mistlike and impalpable arms, and cried —

" Give me — oh, give me to return to earth, but for one little hour,
that I may visit my Adenheim ; and that, concealing from him my
present sufferings, I may comfort him in his own."

"Alas!" said the angel, turning away his eyes — for angels may
not weep in the sight of others — " I could, indeed, grant thee tin
boon, but thou knowest not the penalty. For the souls in Purgator>
may return to Earth, but heavy is the sentence that awaits thei:
return. In a word, for one hour on earth thou must add a thousan '.
years to the tortures of thy confinement here ! "

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 153

"Is that all?" cried the spirit; "willingly, then, will I brave
the doom. Ah, surely they love not in heaven, or thou wouldest
know, O Celestial Visitant, that one hour of consolation to the one
we love is worth a thousand ages of torture to ourselves ! Let me
comfort and convince my Adenheim; no matter what becomes of me."

Then the angel looked on high, and he saw in far-distant regions,
which in that orb none else could discern, the rays that parted from
the all-guarding Eye ; and heard the VOICE of the Eternal One
bidding him act as his pity whispered. He looked on the spirit,
and her shadowy arms stretched pleadingly towards him ; he uttered
the word that loosens the bars of the gate of Purgatory ; and lo, the
spirit had re-entered the human world.

It was night in the halls of the Lord of Adenheim, and he sat at
the head of his glittering board ; loud and long was the laugh, and
merry the jest that echoed round ; and the laugh and the jest of the
Lord of Adenheim were louder and merrier than all.

And by his right side sat a beautiful lady ; and ever and anon he
turned from others to whisper soft vows in her ear.

" And oh," said the bright dame of Falkenberg, " thy words what
ladye can believe ? — Didst thou not utter the same oaths, and
promise the same love, to Ida, the fair daughter of Loden, and now
but three little months have closed upon her grave?"

"By my halidom," quoth the young Lord of Adenheim, "thou
dost thy beauty marvellous injustice. Ida ! Nay, thou mockest
me ; / love the daughter of Loden ! why how then should I be
worthy thee ? A few gay words, a few passing smiles — behold all
the love Adenheim ever bore to Ida. Was it my fault if the poor
fool misconstrued such common courtesy ? Nay, dearest lady, this
heart is virgin to thee."

" And what ! " said the lady of Falkenberg, as she suffered the
arm of Adenheim to encircle her slender waist, "didst thou not
grieve for her loss ? "

" Why, verily, yes, for the first week ; but in thy bright eyes I
found ready consolation."

At this moment, the Lord of Adenheim thought he heard a deep
sigh behind him ; he turned, but saw nothing, save a slight mist
that gradually faded away, and vanished in the distance. Where
was the necessity for Ida to reveal herself?

''And thou didst not, then, do thine errand to thy lover?" said
Seralim, as the spirit of the wronged Ida returned to Purgatory.

154 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

"Bid the demons recommence their torture," was poor Ida's
answer.

"And was it for this that thou added a thousand years to thy
doom?"

" Alas !" answered Ida, "after the single hour I have endured
on Earth, there seems to be but little terrible in a thousand fresh
years of Purgatory ! " J

" What ! is the story ended?" asked Gertrude.

"Yes."

"Nay, surely the thousand years were not added to poor Ida's
doom ; and Seralim bore her back with him to heaven ? "

" The legend saith no more. The writer was cpntented to show
us the perpetuity of woman's love ; "

"And its reward," added Vane.

" It was not / who drew that last conclusion, Albert," whispered
Gertrude.

CHAPTER IX.

THE SCENERY OF THE RHINE ANALOGOUS TO THE GERMAN
LITERARY GENIUS. — THE DRACHENFELS.

IN leaving Cologne, the stream winds round among banks
that do not yet fulfil the promise of the Rhine ; but they
increase in interest as you leave Surdt and Godorf. The
peculiar character of the river does not, however, really
appear, until by degrees the Seven Mountains, and "THE CASTLED
CRAG OF DRACHENFELS" above them all, break upon the eye.
Around Neider Cassel and Rheidt, the vines lie thick and cluster-
ing : and, by the shore, you see from place to place the islands
stretching their green length along, and breaking the exulting tide.
Village rises upon village, and viewed from the distance as you sail,
the pastoral errors that enamoured us of the village life, crowd thick
and fast upon us. So still do these hamlets seem, so sheltered from
the passions of the world ; as if the passions were not like winds
— only felt where they breathe, and invisible save by their effects !
Leaping into the broad bosom of the Rhine come many a stream
and rivulet upon either side. Spire upon spire rises and sinks as
you sail on. Mountain and city — the solitary island — the castled

1 This story is principally borrowed from a foreign soil. It seemed to the
author worthy of being transferred to an English one, although he fears that
much of its singular beauty in the original has been lost by the way.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 155

steep — like the dreams of ambition, suddenly appear, proudly swell,
and dimly fade away.

"You begin now," said Trevylyan, "to understand the character
of the German literature. The Rhine is an emblem of its luxuri-
ance, its fertility, its romance. The best commentary to the German
genius is a visit to the German scenery. The mighty gloom of the
Hartz, the feudal towers that look over vines and deep valleys on
the legendary Rhine ; the gigantic remains of antique power, pro-
fusely scattered over plain, mount, and forest ; the thousand mixed
recollections that hallow the ground ; the stately Roman, the
stalwart Goth, the chivalry of the feudal age, and the dim brother-
hood of the ideal world, have here alike their record and their
remembrance. And over such scenes wanders the young German
student. Instead of the pomp and luxury of the English traveller,
the thousand devices to cheat the way, he has but his volume in his
hand, his knapsack at his back. From such scenes he draws and
hives all that various store which after years ripen to invention.
Hence the florid mixture of the German muse — the classic, the
romantic, the contemplative, the philosophic, and the superstitious.
Each the result of actual meditation over different scenes. Each
the produce of separate but confused recollections. As the Rhine
flows, so flows the national genius, by mountain and valley — the
wildest solitude — the sudden spires of ancient cities — the mouldered
castle — the stately monastery — the humble cot. Grandeur and
homeliness, history and superstition, truth and fable, succeeding one
another so as to blend into a whole.

"But," added Trevylyan a moment afterwards, "the Ideal is
passing slowly away from the German mind, a spirit for the more
active and the more material literature is springing up amongst
them. The revolution of mind gathers on, preceding stormy events ;
and the memories that led their grandsires to contemplate, will urge
the youth of the next generation to dare and to act."*

Thus conversing, they continued their voyage, with a fair wave
and beneath a lucid sky.

The vessel now glided beside the Seven Mountains and the
Drachenfels.

The sun slowly setting cast his yellow beams over the smooth
waters. At the foot of the mountains lay a village deeply seques-
tered in shade ; and above, the Ruin of the Drachenfels caught the
richest beams of the sun. Yet thus alone, though lofty, the ray
cheered not the gloom that hung over the giant rock : it stood on

1 Is not this prediction already fulfilled ? — 1849.

156 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

high, like some great name on which the light of glory may shine,
but which is associated with a certain melancholy, from the solitude
to which its very height above the level of the herd condemned its
owner !

CHAPTER X.

THE LEGEND OF ROLAND. — THE ADVENTURES OF NYMPHALIN ON
THE ISLAND OF NONNEWERTH. — HER SONG. — THE DECAY OF
THE FAIRY-FAITH IN ENGLAND.

|N the shore opposite the Drachenfels stand the Ruins of
Rolandseck, — they are the shattered crown of a lofty and
perpendicular mountain, consecrated to the memory of the
brave Roland ; below, the trees of an island to which the
lady of Roland retired, rise thick and verdant from the smooth tide.

Nothing can exceed the eloquent and wild grandeur of the whole
scene. That spot is the pride and beauty of the Rhine.

The legend that consecrates the tower and the island is briefly
told ; it belongs to a class so common to the Romaunts of Germany.
Roland goes to the wars. A false report of his death reaches his
betrothed. She retires to the convent in the isle of Nonnewerth,
and takes the irrevocable veil. Roland returns home, flushed with
glory and hope, to find that the very fidelity of his affianced had
placed an eternal barrier between them. He built the castle that
beafs his name, and which overlooks the monastery, and dwelt there
till his death ; happy in the power at least to gaze, even to the last,
upon those walls which held the treasure he had lost.

The willows droop in mournful luxuriance along the island, and
harmonize with the memory that, through the desert of a thousand
years, love still keeps green and fresh. Nor hath it permitted even
those additions of fiction which, like mosses, gather by time over
the truth that they adorn, yet adorning conceal, to mar the simple
tenderness of the legend.

All was still in the island of Nonnewerth ; the lights shone through
the trees from the house that contained our travellers. On one
smooth spot where the islet shelves into the Rhine, met the wandering
fairies.

"Oh, Pipalee ! how beautiful !" cried Nymphalin, as she stood
enraptured by the wave ; a star-beam shining on her, with her yellow
hair "dancing its ringlets in the whistling wind." "For the first
time since our departure I do not miss the green fields of England."

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 157

"Hist!" said Pipalee under her breath; "I hear fairy steps —
they must be the steps of strangers."

"Let us retreat into this thicket of weeds," said Nymphalin,
somewhat alarmed; "the good lord-treasurer is already asleep
there. They whisked into what to them was a forest, for the reeds
were two feet high, and there, sure enough, they found the lord-
treasurer stretched beneath a bulrush, with his pipe beside him : for
since he had been in Germany he had taken to smoking : and indeed
wild thyme, properly dried, makes very good tobacco for a fairy.
They also found Nip and Trip sitting very c!0se together. Nip
playing with her hair, which was exceedingly beautiful.

"What do you do here?" said Pipalee, shortly; for she was
rather an old maid, and did not like fairies to be too close to each other.

' ' Watching my lord's slumber, " said Nip.

" Pshaw ! " said Pipalee.

" Nay," quoth Trip, blushing like a sea-shell ; "there is no harm
in that, I'm sure."

' ' Hush ! " said the queen, peeping through the reeds.

And now forth from the green bosom of the earth came a tiny
train ; slowly, two by two, hand in hand, they swept from a small
aperture, shadowed with fragrant herbs, and formed themselves into
a ring : then came other fairies, laden with dainties, and presently
two beautiful white mushrooms sprang up, on which their viands
were placed, and lo, there was a banquet ! Oh, how merry they
were ! what gentle peals of laughter, loud as a virgin's sigh ! what
jests ! what songs ! Happy race ! if mortals could see you as often
as I do, in the soft nights of summer, they would never be at a loss
for entertainment. But as our English fairies looked on, they saw
that these foreign elves were of a different, race from themselves ;
they were taller and less handsome, their hair was darker, they wore
mustaches, and had something of a fiercer air. Poor Nymphalin
was a little frightened ; but presently soft music was heard floating
along, something like the sound we suddenly hear of a still night
when a light breeze steals through rushes, or wakes a ripple in some
shallow brook dancing over pebbles. And lo, from the aperture of
fhe earth came forth a fay, superbly dressed, and of a noble presence.
The queen started back, Pipalee rubbed her eyes, Trip looked over
Pipalee's shoulder, and Nip, pinching her arm, cried out amazed,
"By the last new star, that is Prince von Fayzenheim ! "

Poor Nymphalin gazed again, and her little heart beat under her
bee's-wing bodice as if it would break. The prince had a melan-
choly air, and he sat apart from the banquet, gazing abstractedly on
the Rhine.

158 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

" Ah ! " whispered Nymphalin to herself, ' ' does he think of me ? "
Presently the prince drew forth a little flute, hollowed from a
small reed, and began to play a mournful air. Nymphalin listened
with delight ; it was one he had learned in her dominions.

When the air was over, the prince rose, and, approaching the
banqueters, despatched them on different errands ; one to visit the
dwarf of the Drachenfels, another to look after the grave of Musaeus,
and a whole detachment to puzzle the students of Heidelberg. A
few launched themselves upon willow leaves on the Rhine, to cruise
about in the starlight, and another band set out a hunting after the
gray-legged moth. The prince was left alone ; and now Nymphalin,
seeing the coast clear, wrapped herself up in a cloak made out of a
withered leaf; — and only letting her eyes glow out from the hood,
she glided from the reeds, and the prince turning round, saw a dark
fairy figure by his side. He drew back, a little startled, and placed
his hand on his sword, when Nymphalin circling round him, sang
the following words : —

THE FAIRY'S REPROACH.

i.

By the glow-worm's lamp in the dewy brake ;

By the gossamer's airy net ; .
By the shifting skin of the faithless snake ;
Oh, teach me to forget :

For none, ah none,

Can teach so well that human spell

As Thou, false one !

n.
By the fairy dance on the greensward smooth ;

By the winds of the gentle west :
By the loving stars, when their soft looks soothe
The waves on their mother's breast ;

Teach me thy lore !
By which, like withered flowers,
The" leaves of buried Hours
Blossom no more !

in.
By the tent in the violet's bell ;

By the may on the scented bough ;
By the lone green isle where my sisters dwell :
And thine own forgotten vow ;

Teach me to live,
Nor feed on thoughts that pine
For love so false as thine !
— Teach me thy lore,
And one thou lov'st no more
Will bless thee and forgive !

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 159

"Surely," said Fayzenheim, faltering, "surely I know that
voice ! "

And Nymphalin's cloak dropped off her shoulder. " My English
fairy ! " and Fayzenheim knelt beside her.

I wish you had seen the fay kneel, for you would have sworn it
was so like a human lover, that you would never have sneered at
love afterwards. Love is so fairy-like a part of us, that even a fairy
cannot make it differently from us, — that is to say, when we love
truly.

There was great joy in the island that night among the elves.
They conducted Nymphalin to their palace within the earth, and
feasted her sumptuously ; and Nip told their adventures with so
much spirit, that he enchanted the merry foreigners. But Fayzen-
heim talked apart to Nymphalin, and told her how he was lord of
that island, and how he had been obliged to return to his dominions
by the law of his tribe, which allowed him to be absent only a
certain time in every year ; "But, my queen, I always intended to
revisit thee next spring. "

"Thou need'st not have left us so abruptly," said Nymphalin,
blushing.

" But do thou never leave me ! " said the ardent fairy ; " be mine,
and let our nuptials be celebrated on these shores. Wouldst thou
sigh for thy green island ? No ! for there the fairy altars are deserted,
the faith is gone from the land ; thou art among the last of an un-
honoured and expiring race. Thy mortal poets are dumb, and
Fancy, which was thy priestess, sleeps hushed in her last repose.
New and hard creeds have succeeded to the fairy lore. Who steals
through the starlit boughs on the nights of June to watch the
roundels of thy tribe ? The wheels of commerce, the din of trade,
have silenced to mortal ear the music of thy subjects' harps ! And
the noisy habitations of men, harsher than their dreaming sires, are
gathering round the dell and vale where thy co-mates linger : — a few
years, and where will be the green solitudes of England ? "

The queen sighed, and the prince, perceiving that he was listened
to, continued —

" Who, in thy native shores, among the children of men, now
claims the fairy's care? What cradle wouldst thou tend? On what
maid wouldst thou shower thy rosy gifts ? What bard wouldst thou
haunt in his dreams ? Poesy is fled the island, why shouldst thou
linger behind? Time hath brought dull customs, that laugh at thy
gentle being. Puck is buried in the harebell, he has left no offspring,
and none mourn for his loss ; for night, which is the fairy season, is
busy and garish as the day. What hearth is desolate after the

160 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

curfew ? What house bathed in stillness at the hour in which thy
revels commence ? Thine empire among men has passed from thee,
and thy race are vanishing from the crowded soil. For, despite our
diviner nature, our existence is linked with man's. Their neglect is
our disease, their forgetfulness our death. Leave then those dull,
yet troubled scenes, that are closing round the fairy rings of thy
native isle. These mountains, this herbage, these gliding waves,
these mouldering ruins, these starred rivulets, be they, O beautiful
fairy ! thy new domain. Yet in these lands our worship lingers ;
still can we fill the thought of the young bard, and mingle with his
yearnings after the Beautiful, the Unseen. Hither come the pilgrims
of the world, anxious only to gather from these scenes the legends
of Us ; ages will pass away ere the Rhine shall be desecrated of our
haunting presence. Come then, my queen, let this palace be thine
own, and the moon that glances over the shattered towers of the
Dragon Rock witness our nuptials and our vows ! "

In such words the fairy prince courted the young queen, and
•while she sighed at their truth she yielded to their charm. Oh !
still may there be one spot on the earth where the fairy feet may
press the legendary soil — still be there one land where the faith of
The Bright Invisible hallows and inspires ! Still glide thou, O
majestic and solemn Rhine, among shades and valleys, from which
the wisdom of belief can call the creations of the younger world !

CHAPTER XL

WHEREIN THE READER IS MADE SPECTATOR WITH THE ENGLISH
FAIRIES OF THE SCENES AND BEINGS THAT ARE BENEATH THE
EARTH.

CURING the heat of next day's noon, Fayzenheim took the
English visitors through the cool caverns that wind
amidst the mountains of the Rhine. There, a thousand
wonders awaited the eyes of the fairy queen. I speak not
of the Gothic arch and aisle into which the hollow earth forms itself,
or the stream that rushes with a mighty voice through the dark
chasm, or the silver columns that shoot aloft, worked by the
gnomes from the mines of the mountains of Taunus ; but of the
strange inhabitants that from time to time they came upon. They
found in one solitary cell, lined with dried moss, two misshapen
elves, of a larger size than common, with a plebeian working-day

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 161

aspect, who were chatting noisily together, and making a p*ir of
boots : these were the Hausmannen or domestic elves, that dance
into tradesmen's houses of a night, and play all sorts of undignified
tricks. They were very civil to the queen, for they are good-
natured creatures on the whole, and once had many relations in
Scotland. They then* following the course of a noisy rivulet, came
to a hole, from which the sharp head of a fox peeped out. The
queen was frightened. " Oh, come on," said the fox, encouragingly,
" I am one of the fairy race, and many are the gambols we of the
brute-elves play in the German world of romance." " Indeed, Mr.
Fox," said the prince, "you only speak the truth ; and how is Mr.
Bruin?" "Quite well, my prince ; but tired of his seclusion, for
indeed our race can do little or nothing now in the world, and lie
here in our old age, telling stories of the past, and recalling the
exploits we did in our youth ; which, madam, you may see in all the
fairy histories in the prince's library."

"Your own love adventures, for instance, Master Fox," said the
prince.

The fox snarled angrily, and drew in his head.

"You have displeased your friend," said Nymphalin.

" Yes — he likes no allusions to the amorous follies of his youth.
Did you ever hear of his rivalry with the dog for the cat's good
graces ? "

" No — that must be very amusing."

"Well, my queen, when we rest by and by, I will relate to you
the history of the fox's wooing."

The next place they came to was a vast Runic cavern, covered
with dark inscriptions of a forgotten tongue ; and sitting on a huge
stone they found a dwarf with long yellow hair, his head leaning on
his breast, and absorbed in meditntion.

" This is a spirit of a wise and powerful race," whispered Fayzen-
heim, " that has often battled with the fairies ; but he is of the
kindly tribe."

Then the dwarf lifted his head with a mournful air ; and gazed
upon the bright shapes before him, lighted by the pine-torches that
the prince's attendants carried.

" And what dost thou muse upon ? O descendant of the race of
Laurin ! " said the prince.

" Upon TIME ! " answered the dwarf gloomily. " I see a River,
and its waves are black, flowing from the clouds, and none knowetii
its source. It rolls deeply on, aye and evermore, through a green
valley, which it slowly swallows up, washing away tower and town,
and vanquishing all things ; and the name of the River is TIME."

o

162 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

Then the dwarfs head sunk on his bosom, and he spoke no more.

The fairies proceeded : — "Above us," said the prince, "rises one
of the loftiest mountains of the Rhine ; for mountains are the Dwarf's
home. When the Great Spirit of all made earth, he saw that the
hollows of the rocks and hills were tenantless ; and yet, that a
mighty kingdom and great palaces were hid within them ; a dread
and dark solitude : but lighted at times from the starry eyes of many
jewels ; and there, was the treasure of the human world — gold and
silver — and great heaps of gems, and a soil of metals. So God made
a race for this vast empire, and gifted them with the power of
thought, and the soul of exceeding wisdom ; so that they want not
the merriment and enterprise of the outer world : but musing in
these dark caves is their delight. Their existence rolls away in the
luxury of thought ; only from time to time they appear in the world,
and betoken woe or weal to men ; according to their nature — for
they are divided into two tribes, the benevolent and the wrathful."
"While the prince spoke, they saw glaring upon them from a ledge
in the upper rock a grisly face with a long matted beard. The
prince gathered himself up, and frowned at the evil dwarf, for such
it was ; but with a wild laugh the face abruptly disappeared, and
the echo of the laugh rang with a ghastly sound through the long
hollows of the earth.

The queen clung to Fayzenheim's arm. " Fear not, my queen,"
said he; "the evil race have no power over our light and aerial
nature r with men only they war ; and he whom we have seen was,
in the old ages of the world, one of the deadliest visitors to
mankind."

But now they came winding by a passage to a beautiful recess in
the mountain empire ; it was of a circular shape of amazing height,
in the midst of it played a natural fountain of sparkling waters,
and around it were columns of massive granite, rising in countless
vistas, till lost in the distant shade. Jewels were scattered round',
and brightly played the fairy torches on the gem, the fountain, and
'the pa"le si-lver, that gleamed at frequent intervals from the rocks.
" Here let us rest," said the gallant fairy, clapping his hands —
" what, ho ! music and the feast."

So the feast was spread by the fountain's side ; and the courtiers
scattered rose-leaves, which they had brought with them, for the prince
and his visitor ; and amidst the dark kingdom of the dwarfs broke
the delicate sound of fairy lutes. "We have not these evil beings
in England," said the queen, as low as she. could speak; "they
rouse my fear, but my interest also. Tell me, dear prince, of what
nature was the intercourse of the evil dwarf with man ?"

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 163

. "You know," answered the prince, "that to every species of
living thing there is something in common ; the vast chain of
sympathy runs through all creation. By that which they have in
common with the beast of the field or the bird of the air, men
govern the inferior tribes ; they appeal to the common passions of
fear and emulation when they tame the wild steed ; to the common
desire of greed and gain when they snare the fishes of the stream,
or allure the wolves to the pitfall by the bleating of the lamb. In
their turn, in the older ages of the world, it was by the passions
which men had in common with the demon race that the fiends com-
manded or allured them. The dwarf whom you saw, being of that
race which is characterized by the ambition of power and the desire
of hoarding, appealed then in his intercourse with men to the same
characteristics in their own bosoms ; to ambition or to avarice. And
thus were his victims made ! But, not now, dearest Nymphalin,"
continued the prince, with a more lively air — " not now will we speak
of those gloomy beings. Ho, there ! cease the music, and come
hither all of ye — to listen to a faithful and homely history of the
Dog, the Cat, the Griffin, and the Fox."

CHAPTER XII.

THE WOOING OF MASTER FOX.1

|OU are aware, my dear Nymphalin, that in the time of
which I am about to speak there was no particular enmity
between the various species of brutes ; the dog and the
hare chatted very agreeably together, and all the world
knows that the wolf, unacquainted with mutton, had a particular
affection for the lamb. In these happy days, two most respectable
cats, of very old family, had an only daughter : never was kitten more
amiable or more seducing ; as she grew up she manifested so many
charms, that in a little while she became noted as the greatest beauty
in the neighbourhood : need I to you, dearest Nymphalin, describe

1 In the excursions of the fairies, it is the object of the author to bring before
the reader a rapid phantasmagoria of the various beings that belong to the Ger-
man superstitions, so that the work may thus describe the outer and the inner
world of the land of the Rhine. The tale of the Fox's Wooing has been com-
posed to give the English reader an idea of a species of novel not naturalized
amongst us, though frequent among the legends of our Irish neighbours ; in
which the brutes are the only characters drawn — drawn too, with shades of dis-
tinction as nice and subtle as if they were the creatures of the civilized world.

164 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

her perfection? Suffice it to say that her skin was of the most deli-
cate tortoise shell, that her paws were smoother than velvet, that her
whiskers were twelve inches long at the least, and that her eyes had
a gentleness altogether astonishing in a cat. But if the young beauty
had suitors in plenty during the lives of monsieur and madame, you
may suppose the number was not diminished when, at the age of two
years and a half, she was left an orphan, and sole heiress to all the
hereditary property. In fine, she was the richest marriage in the
whole country. Without troubling you, dearest queen, with the
adventures of the rest of her lovers, with their suit, and their rejec-
tion, I come at once to the two rivals most sanguine of success — the
dog and the fox.

Now the dog was a handsome, honest, straightforward, affectionate
fellow. "For my part," said he, "I don't wonder at my cousin's
refusing Bruin the bear, and Gauntgrim the wolf: to be sure they
give themselves great airs, and call themselves ' noble,' but what
then ? Bruin is always in the sulks, and Gauntgrim always in a
passion ; a cat of any sensibility would lead a miserable life with
them : as for me, I am very good-tempered when I'm not put out ;
and I have no fault except that of being angry if disturbed at my
meals. I am young and good-looking, fond of play and amusement,
and altogether as agreeable a husband as a cat could find in a
summer's day. If she marries me, well and good ; she may have
her property settled on herself: — if not, I shall bear her no malice;
and I hope I sha'n't be too much in love to forget that there are
other cats in the world."

With that the dog threw his tail over his back, and set off to his
mistress with a gay face on the matter.

Now the fox heard the dog talking thus to himself — for the fox
was always peeping about, in holes and corners, and he burst out
a-laughing when the dog was out of sight.

" Ho, ho, my fine fellow ! " said he ; " not so fast, if you please :
you've got the fox for a rival, let me tell you."

The fox, as you very well know, is a beast that can never do anything
without a manreuvre ; and as, from his cunning, he was generally
very lucky in anything he undertook, he did not doubt for a moment
that he should put the dog's nose out of joint. Reynard was aware
that in love one should, if possible, be the first in the field, and he
therefore resolved to get the start of the dog and arrive before him
at the cat's residence. But this was no easy matter; for though
Reynard could run faster than the dog for a little way, he was
no match for him in a journey of some distance. " However,"
said Reynard, "those good-natured creatures are never very wise ;

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 165

and I think I know already what will make him bait on his
way."

With that, the fox trotted pretty fast by a short cut in the woods,
and getting before the dog, laid himself down by a hole in the earth,
and began to howl most piteously.

The dog, hearing the noise, was very much alarmed ; " See now,"
said he, "if the poor fox has not got himself into some scrape !
Those cunning creatures are always in mischief; thank Heaven, it
never comes into my head to be cunning ! " And the good-natured
animal ran off as hard as he could to see what was the matter with
the fox.

" Oh dear ! " cried Reynard ; "what shall I do, what shall I do !
my poor little sister has fallen into this hole, and I can't get her out
— she'll certainly be smothered." And the fox burst out a-howling
more piteously than before.

"But, my dear Reynard," quoth the dog very simply, "why don't
you go in after your sister? "

" Ah, you may well ask that," said the fox ; " but, in trying to get
in, don't you perceive that I have sprained my back, and can't stir?
Oh dear ! what shall I do if my poor little sister is smothered ! "

" Pray don't vex yourself," said the dog ; " I'll get her out in an
instant : " and with that he forced himself with great difficulty into
the hole.

Now, no sooner did the fox see that the dog was fairly in, than he
rolled a great stone to the mouth of the hole, and fitted it so tight,
that the dog, not being able to turn round and scratch against it with
his fore-paws, was made a close prisoner.

"Ha, ha," cried Reynard, laughing outside; "amuse yourself
with my poor little sister, while I go and make your compliments to
Mademoiselle the Cat."

With that Reynard set off at an easy pace, never troubling his
head what became of the poor dog. When he arrived in the
neighbourhood of the beautiful cat's mansion, he resolved to pay a
visit to a friend of his, an old magpie that lived in a tree, and was
well acquainted with all the news of the place. " For," thought
Reynard, " I may as well know the blind side of my mistress that is
to be, and get round it at once."

The magpie received the fox with great cordiality^ and inquired
what brought him so great a distance from home.

" Upon my word," said the fox, " nothing so much as the pleasure
of seeing your ladyship, and hearing those agreeable anecdotes you
tell with so charming p. grace : but, to let you into a secret — be sure
it don't go farther "

1 66 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

" On the word of a magpie," interrupted the bird.

"Pardon me for doubting you," continued the fox; "I should
have recollected that a pie was a proverb for discretion. But, as I
was saying, you know her majesty the lioness ? "

" Surely," said the magpie, bridling.

" Well ; she was pleased to fall in — that is to say — to — to — take
n caprice to your humble servant, and the lion grew so jealous that I
thought it prudent to decamp. A jealous lion is no joke, let me
assure your ladyship. But mum's the word."

So great a piece of news delighted the magpie. She could not
but repay it in kind, by all the news in her budget. She told the
fox all the scandal about Bruin and Gauntgrim, and she then fell to
work on the poor young cat. She did not spare her foibles, you
may be quite sure. The fox listened with great attention, and he
learned enough to convince him, that however much the magpie
might exaggerate, the cat was very susceptible to flattery, and had a
great deal of imagination.

When the magpie had finished, she said, "But it must be very
unfortunate for you to be banished from so magnificent a court as
that of the lion ? "

" As to that," answered the fox, " I console myself for my exile
with a present his majesty made me on parting, as a reward for my
anxiety for his honour and domestic tranquillity ; namely, three hairs
from the fifth leg of the amoronthologosphorus. Only think of that,
ma'am ! "

" The what?" cried the pie, cocking down her left ear.

" The amoronthologosphorus."

" La ! " said the magpie ; "and what is that very long word, my
dear Reynard ? "

"The amoronthologosphorus is a beast that lives on the other side
of the river Cylinx ; it has five legs, and on the fifth leg there are
three hairs, and whoever has those three hairs can be young and
beautiful for ever."

"Bless me ! I wish you would let me see them," said the pie,
holding out her claw.

" Would that I could oblige you, ma'am ; but it's as much as my
life's worth to show them to any but the lady I marry. In fact, they
only have an effect on the fair sex, as you may see by myself, whose
poor person they utterly fail to improve : they are, therefore, intended
for a marriage present, and his majesty the lion thus generously
atoned to me for relinquishing the tenderness of his queen. One
must confess that there was a great deal of delicacy in the gift. But
you'll be sure not to mention it."

THE -PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 167

" A magpie gossip, indeed ! " quoth the old blab.

The fox then wished the magpie good night, and retired to a hole
to sleep off the fatigues of the day, before he presented himself to
the beautiful young cat.

The next morning, Heaven knows how ! it was all over the place
that Reynard the fox had been banished from court for the favour
shown him by her majesty, and that the lion had bribed his de-
parture with three hairs that would make any lady whom the fox
married young and beautiful for ever.

The cat was the first to learn the news, and she became all
curiosity to see so interesting a stranger, possessed of "quali-
fications" which, in the language of the day, "would render any
animal happy ! " She was not long without obtaining her wish.
As she was taking a walk in the wood the fox contrived to encounter
her. You may be sure that he made her his best bow ; and he
flattered the poor cat with so courtly an air that she saw nothing
surprising in the love of the lioness.

Meanwhile let us see what became of his rival, the dog.

" Ah, the poor creature ! " said Nymphalin ; " it is easy to guess
that he need not be buried alive to lose all chance of marrying the
heiress."

"Wait till the end," answered Fayzenheim. "When the dog
found that he was thus entrapped, he gave himself up for lost. In
vain he kicked with his hind-legs against the stone — he only suc-
ceeded in bruising his paws ; and at length he was forced to lie
down, with his tongue out of his mouth, and quite exhausted.
" However," said he, after he had taken breath, "it won't do to be
starved here, without doing my best to escape ; and if I can't get
out one way, let me see if there is not a hole at the other end."
Thus saying, his courage, which stood him in lieu of cunning,
returned, and he proceeded on in the same straightforward way in
which he always conducted himself. At first the path was exceed-
ingly narrow, and he hurt his sides very much against the rough
stones that projected from the earth. But by degrees the way
became broader, and he now went on with considerable ease to
himself, till he arrived in a large cavern, where he saw an immense
griffin sitting on his tail, and smoking a huge pipe.

The dog was by no means pleased at meeting so suddenly a
creature that had only to open his mouth to swallow him up at
a morsel ; however he put a bold face on the danger, and walking
respectfully up to the griffin, said, "Sir, I should be very much
obliged to you if you would inform me the way out of these holes
into the upper world."

1 68 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

The griffin took the pipe out of his mouth, and looked at the dog
very sternly.

"Ho, wretch !" said he, "how comest thou hither? I suppose
thou wantest to steal my treasure : but I know how to treat such
vagabonds as you, and I shall certainly eat you up."

" You can do that if you choose," said the dog ; "but it would
be very unhandsome conduct in an animal so much bigger than
myself. For my own part, I never attack any dog that is not of
equal size : I should be ashamed of myself if I did. And as to
your treasure, the character I bear for honesty is too well known to
merit such a suspicion."

41 Upon my word," said the griffin, who could not help smiling
for the life of him, "you have a singularly free mode of expressing
yourself ; — and how, I say, came you hither? "

Then the dog, who did not know what a lie was, told the griffin
his whole history, — how he had set off to pay his court to the cat,
and how Reynard the fox had entrapped him into the hole.

When he had finished, the griffin said to him, " I see, my friend,
that you know how to speak the truth ; I am in want of just such
a servant as you will make me, therefore stay with me and keep
watch over my treasure when I sleep."

" Two words to that," said the dog. " You have hurt my feelings
very much by suspecting my honesty, and I would much sooner go
back into the wood and be avenged on that scoundrel the fox, than
serve a master who has so ill an opinion of me. I pray you,
therefore, to dismiss me, and to put me in the right way to my
cousin the cat."

" I am not a griffin of many words," answered the master of the
cavern, "and I give you your choice — be my servant, or be my
breakfast ; it is just the same to me. I give you time to decide till
I have smoked out my pipe."

The poor dog did not take so long to consider. "It is true,"
thought he, "that it is a great misfortune to live in a cave with a
griffin of so unpleasant a countenance : but, probably, if I serve him
well and faithfully, he'll take pity on me some day, and let me go
back to earth, and prove to my cousin what a rogue the fox is ; and
as to the rest, though I would sell my life as dear as I could, it is
impossible to fight a griffin with a mouth of so monstrous a size." —
In short, he decided to stay with the griffin.

"Shake a paw on it," quoth the grim smoker; and the dog
shook paws.

" And now," said the griffin, " I will tell you what you are to
Jo-look hejx' ;" and moving his tail, he showed the dog a great

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 169

heap of gold and silver, in a hole in the ground, that he had
covered with the folds of his tail ; and also, what the dog thought
more valuable, a great heap of bones of very tempting appearance.

" Now," said the griffin, " during the day, I can take very good
care of these myself; but at night it is very necessary that I should
go to sleep : so when I sleep^ you must watch over them instead
of me. "

"Very well," said the dog. "As to the gold and silver, I have
no objection ; hut I would much rather that you would lock Up the
bones, for I'm often hungry of a night, and "

" Hold your tongue," said the griffin.

"But, sir," said the dog, after a short silence, "surely nobody
ever comes into so retired a situation ! Who are the thieves, if I
may make bold to ask?"

"Know," answered the griffin, "that there are a great many
serpents in this neighbourhood, they are always trying to steal my
treasure ; and if they catch me napping, they, not contented with
theft, would do their best to sting me to death. So that I am
almost worn out for want of sleep."

" Ah ! " quoth the dog, who was fond of a good night's rest, " I
don't envy you your treasure, sir."

At night, the griffin, who had a great deal of penetration, and
saw that he might depend on the dog* lay down to sleep in another
corner of the cave ; and the dog, shaking himself well, so as to be
quite awake, took watch over the treasure. His mouth watered
exceedingly at the bones, and he could not help smelling them now
and then ; but he said to himself,-^-" A bargain's a bargain, and
since I have promised to serve the griffin, I must serve him as an
honest dog ought to serve."

In the middle of the night he saw a great snake creeping in by
the side of the cave, but the dog set up so loud a bark that the
griffin awoke, and the snake crept away as fast as he could. Then
the griffin was very much pleased, and he gave the dog one of the
bones to amuse himself with ; and every night the dog watched the
treasure, and acquitted himself so well that not a snake, at last,
dared to make its appearance ; so the griffin enjoyed an excellent
night's rest.

The dog now found himself much more comfortable than he
expected. The griffin regularly gave him one of the bones for
supper ; and, pleased with his fidelity, made himself as agreeable
a master as a griffin could be. Still, however, the dog war, secretly
very anxious to return to earth ; for having nothing to do during
the day but to doze on the ground, he dreamed perpetually of his

G 2

1 70 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

cousin the cat's charms ; and, in fancy, he gave the rascal Reynard
as hearty a worry as a fox may well have the honour of receiving
from a dog's paws. He awoke panting — alas 1 he could not realize
his dreams.

One night, as he was watching as usual over the treasure, he was
greatly surprised to see a beautiful little black and white dog enter
the cave ; and it came fawning to our honest friend, wagging its
tail with pleasure.

"Ah ! little one," said our dog, whom, to distinguish, I will call
the watch-dog, "you had better make the best of your way back
again. See, there is a great griffin asleep in the other corner of the
cave, and if he wakes, he will either eat you up or make you his
servant, as he has made me."

" I know what you would tell me," says the little dog ; "and I
have come down here to deliver you. The stone is now gone from
the mouth of the cave, and you have nothing to do but to go back
with me. Come, brother, come."

The dog was very much excited by this address. "Don't ask
me, my dear little friend," said he; "you must be aware that I
should be too happy to escape out of this cold cave, and roll on the
soft turf once more : but if I leave my master, the griffin, those
cursed serpents, who are always on the watch, will come in and
steal his treasure — nay, perhaps, sting him to death." Then the
little dog came up to the watch-dog, and remonstrated with him
greatly, and licked him caressingly on both sides of his face ; and,
taking him by the ear, endeavoured to draw him from the treasure :
but the dog would not stir a step, though his heart sorely pressed
him. At length the little dog, finding it all in vain, said, " Well
then, if I must leave, good-bye ; but I have become so hungry in
coming down all this way after you, that I wish you would give me
one of those bones ; they smell very pleasantly, and one out of so
many could never be missed."

"Alas!" said the watch-dog, with tears in his eyes, "how
unlucky I am to have eat up the bone my master gave me, otherwise
you should have had it and welcome. But I can't give you one of
these, because my master has made me promise to watch over them
all, and I have given him my paw on it. I am sure a dog of your
respectable appearance will say nothing farther on the subject."

Then the little dog answered pettishly, "Pooh, what nonsense
you talk ! surely a great griffin can't miss a little bone, fit for me ; "
and nestling his nose under the watch-dog, he tried forthwith to
bring up one of the bones.

On this the watch-dog grew angry, and, though with much

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 171

reluctance, he seized the little dog by the nape of the neck and
threw him off, but without hurting him. Suddenly the little dog
changed into a monstrous serpent, bigger even than the griffin
himself, and the watch-dog barked with all his might. The griffin
rose in a great hurry, and the serpent sprang upon him ere he was
well awake. I wish, dearest Nymphalin, you could have seen the
battle between the griffin and the serpent, how they coiled and
twisted, and bit and darted their fiery tongues at each other. At
length, the serpent got uppermost, and was about to plunge his tongue
into that part of the griffin which is unprotected by his scales, when
the dog, seizing him by the tail, bit him so sharply, that he could
not help turning round to kill his new assailant, and the griffin,
taking advantage of the opportunity, caught the serpent by the
throat with both claws, and fairly strangled him. As soon as the
griffin had recovered from the nervousness of the conflict, he heaped
all manner of caresses on the dog for saving his life. The dog told
him the whole story, and the griffin then explained, that the dead
snake was the king of the serpents, who had the power to change
himself into any shape he pleased. " If he had tempted you," said
he, " to leave the treasure but for one moment, or to have given him
any part of it, ay, but a single bone, he would have crushed you in
an instant, and stung me to death ere I could have waked ; but
none, no not the most venomous thing in creation, has power to
hurt the honest ! "

"That has always been my belief," answered the dog; "and
now, sir, you had better go to sleep again, and leave the rest to
me."

"Nay," answered the griffin, "I have no longer need of a
servant ; for now that the king of the serpents is dead, the rest will
never molest me. It was only to satisfy his avarice that his subjects
dared to brave the den of the griffin."

Upon hearing this the dog was exceedingly delighted ; and raising
himself on his hind-paws, he begged the griffin most movingly to
let him return to earth, to visit his mistress the cat, and worry his
rival the fox.

" You do not serve an ungrateful master," answered the griffin.
"You shall return, and I will teach you all the craft of our race,
which is much craftier than the race of that pettifogger the fox, so
that you may be able to cope with your rival."

"Ah, excuse me," said the dog, hastily, "I am equally obliged
to you ; but I fancy honesty is a match for cunning any day ; and I
think myself a great deal safer in being a dog of honour than if I
knew all the tricks in the world."

172 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

"Well," said the griffin, a little piqued at the dog's bluntness,
"do as you please ; I wish you all possible success."

Then the griffin opened a secret door in the side of the cabin,
and the dog saw a broad path that led at once into the wood.
He thanked the griffin with all his heart, and ran wagging his tail
into the open moonlight. " Ah, ah ! master fox," said he, " there's
no trap for an honest dog that has not two doors to it, cunning as
you think yourself."

With that he curled his tail gallantly over his left leg, and set off
on a long trot to the cat's house. When he was within sight of it,
he stopped to refresh himself by a pool of water, and who should be
there but our friend the mngpie.

" And what do you want, friend?" said she, rather disdainfully,
for the dog looked somewhat out of case after his journey.

" I am going to see my cousin the cat," answered he.

" Your cousin! marry come up," said the magpie ; "don't you
know she is going to be married to Reynard the fox ? This is not a
time for her to receive the visits of a brute like you."

These words put the dog in such a passion, that he very nearly
bit the magpie for her uncivil mode of communicating such bad
news. However he curbed his temper, and, without answering
her, went at once to the cat's residence.

The cat was sitting at the window, and no sooner did the dog see
her than he fairly lost his heart ; never had he seen so charming a
cat before : he advanced, wagging his tail, and with his most
insinuating air ; when the cat, getting up, clapped the window in
his face — and lo ! Reynard the fox appeared in her stead.

"Come out, thou rascal?" said the dog, showing his teeth:
"come out, I challenge thee to single combat ; I have not forgiven
thy malice, and thou seest that I am no longer shut up in the cave,
and unable to punish thee for thy wickedness."

" Go home, silly one ! " answered the fox, sneering ; "thou hast
no business here, and as for fighting thee — bah ! " Then the fox
left the window and disappeared. But the dog, thoroughly enraged,
scratched lustily at the door, and made such a noise, that presently
the cat herself came to the window.

" How now ! " said she, angrily ; " what means all this rudeness?
Who are you, and what do you want at my house ?"

" O, my dear cousin," said the dog, "do not speak so severely.
Know that I have come here on purpose to pay you a visit ; and,
whatever you do, let me beseech you not to listen to that villain
Reynard — you have no conception what a rogue he is ! "

"What!" said the cat, blushing; "do you dare to abuse your

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 173

betters in this fashion ? I see you have a design on me. Go, this
instant, or "

"Enough, madam," said the dog, proudly; "you need not
speak twice to me — farewell."

And he turned away very slowly, and went under a tree, where
he took up his lodgings for the night. But the next morning there
was an amazing commotion in the neighbourhood ; a stranger, of a
very different style of travelling from that of the dog, had arrived at
the dead of the night, and fixed his abode in a large cavern, hollowed
out of a steep rock. The noise he had made in flying through the
air was so great, that it had awakened every bird and beast in the
parish ; and Reynard, whose bad conscience never suffered him to
sleep very soundly, putting his head out of the window, perceived,
to his great alarm, that the stranger was nothing less than a
monstrous griffin.

Now the griffins are the richest beasts in the world ; and that's
the reason they keep so close under ground. Whenever it does
happen that they pay a visit above, it is not a thing to be easily
forgotten.

The "magpie was all agitation — what could the griffin possibly
want there ? She resolved to take a peep at the cavern, and, ac-
cordingly, she hopped timorously up the rock, and pretended to be
picking up sticks for her nest.

"Holla, ma'am!" cried a very rough voice, and she saw the
griffin putting his head out of the cavern. " Holla ! you are the
very lady I want to see ; you know all the people about here — eh ?"

" All the best company, your lordship, 1 certainly do," answered
the magpie, dropping a curtsey.

Upon this the griffin walked out ; and smoking his pipe leisurely
in the open air, in order to set the pie at her ease, continued —

" Are there any respectable beasts of good families settled in this
neighbourhood ? "

"O, most elegant society, I assure your lordship," cried the pie.
"I have lived here myself these ten years, and the great heiress,
the cat yonder, attracts a vast number of strangers. "

1 ' Humph — heiress, indeed ! much you know about heiresses ! "
said the griffin. " There is only one heiress in the world, and that's
my daughter. "'

" Bless me ! has your lordship a family ? I beg you a thousand
pardons. But I only saw your lordship's own equipage last night,
and did not know you brought any one with you."

" My daughter went first, and was safely lodged before I arrived.
She did not disturb you, I dare say, as I did ; for she sails along

174 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

like a swan : but I have the gout in my left claw, and that's the
reason I puff and groan so in taking a journey."

" Shall I drop in upon Miss Griffin, and see how she is after her
journey ? " said the pie, advancing.

"I thank you, no. I don't intend her to be seen while I stay here
— it unsettles her ; and I'm afraid of the young beasts running away
with her if they once heard how handsome she was : she's the living
picture of me, but she's monstrous giddy ! Not that I should care
much if she did go off with a beast of degree, were I not obliged to
pay her portion, which is prodigious ; and I don't like parting with
money, ma'am, when I've once got it. Ho, ho, ho ! "

" You are too witty, my lord. But if you refused your consent ? "
said the pie, anxious to know the whole family history of so grand a
seigneur.

" I should have to pay the dowry all the same. It was left her by
her uncle the dragon. But don't let this go any farther."

" Your lordship may depend on my secrecy. I wish your lordship
a very good morning."

Away flew the pie, and she did not stop till she got to the cat's
house. The cat and the fox were at breakfast, and the fox had his
paw on his heart. "Beautiful scene!" cried the pie; the cat
coloured, and bade the pie take a seat.

Then off went the pie's tongue, glib, glib, glib, chatter, chatter,
chatter. She related to them the whole story of the griffin and his
daughter, and a great deal more besides, that the griffin had never
told her.

The cat listened attentively. Another young heiress in the neigh-
bourhood might be a formidable rival. "But is the griffiness hand-
some?" said she.

" Handsome ! " cried the pie ; " oh ! if you could have seen the
father ! — such a mouth, such eyes, such a complexion ; and he
declares she's the living picture of himself ! But what do you say,
Mr. Reynard? you, who have been so much in the world, have,
perhaps, seen the young lady ! "

"Why, I can't say I have," answered the fox, waking from a
reverie; " but she must be wonderfully rich. I dare say that fool,
the dog, will be making up to her."

" Ah ! by the way," said the pie, "what a fuss he made at yonr
door yesterday ; why would you not admit him, my dear?"

" Oh ! " said the cat, demurely, "Mr. Reynard says that he is a
dog of very bad character, quite a fortune-hunter ; and hiding the
most dangerous disposition to bite under an appearance of good
nature. I hope he won't be quarrelsome with you, dear Reynard ! "

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 175

" With me? O the poor wretch, no ! — he might bluster a little ;
but he knows that if I'm once angry I'm a devil at biting ; — but one
should not boast of oneself."

In the evening Reynard felt a strange desire to go and see the
griffin smoking his pipe; but what could he do? There was the
dog under the opposite tree evidently watching for him, and Reynard
had no wish to prove himself that devil at biting which he declared
he was. At last he resolved to have recourse to stratagem to get rid
of the dog.

A young buck of a rabbit, a sort of provincial fop, had looked in
upon his cousin the cat, to pay her his respects, and Reynard, taking
him aside, said, " You see that shabby-looking dog under the tree ?
He has behaved very ill to your cousin the cat, and you certainly
ought to challenge him — forgive my boldness — nothing but respect
for your character induces me to take so great a liberty ; you know
I would chastise the rascal myself, but what a scandal it would
make ! If I were already married to your cousin, it would be a
different thing. But you know what a story that cursed magpie
would hatch out of it ! "

The rabbit looked very foolish : he assured the fox that he was no
match for the dog ; that he was very fond of his cousin, to be sure ;
but he saw no necessity to interfere with her domestic affairs ; — and,
in short, he tried all he possibly could to get out of the scrape : but
the fox so artfully played on his vanity — so earnestly assured him
that the dog was the biggest coward in the world, and would make
a humble apology, and so eloquently represented to him the glory he
would obtain for manifesting so much spirit, that at length the rabbit
was persuaded to go out and deliver the challenge.

" I'll be your second," said the fox ; " and the great field on the
other side the wood, two miles hence, shall be the place of battle :
there we shall be out of observation. You go first, I'll follow in
half an hour — and I say — hark ! — in case he does accept the challenge,
and you feel the least afraid, I'll be in the field, and take it off your
paws with the utmost pleasure ; rely on me, my dear sir ! "

Away went the rabbit. The dog was a little astonished at the
temerity of the poor creature ; but on hearing that the fox was to be
present, willingly consented to repair to the place of conflict. This
readiness the rabbit did not at all relish ; he went very slowly to the
field, and seeing no fox there, his heart misgave him, and while the
dog was putting his nose to the ground to try if he could track the
coming of the fox, the rabbit slipped into a burrow, and left the dog
to walk back again.

Meanwhile the fox was already at the rock ; he walked very soft-

1 76 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

footedly, and looked about with extreme caution, for he had a vague
notion that a griffin-papa would not be very civil to foxes.

Now there were two holes in the rock — one below, one above, an
upper story and an under ; and while the fox was peering about, he
saw a great claw from the upper rock beckoning to him.

" Ah, ah ! " said the fox, " that's the wanton young griffiness, I'll
swear. "

He approached, and a voice said —

"Charming Mr. Reynard ! Do you not think you could deliver
an unfortunate griffiness from a barbarous confinement in this rock ? "

" Oh heavens ! " cried the fox, tenderly, *' what a beautiful voice !
and, ah, my poor heart, what a lovely claw ! Is it possible that I
hear the daughter of my lord, the great griffin ? "

" Hush, flatterer ! not so loud, if you please. My father is taking
an evening stroll, and is very quick of hearing. He has tied me up
by my poor wings in the cavern, for he is mightily afraid of some
beast running away with me. You know I have all my fortune
settled on myself."

"Talk not of fortune," said the fox; "but how can I deliver
you? Shall I enter and gnaw the cord? "

" Alas ! " answered the griffiness, "it is an immense chain I am
bound with. However, you may come in and talk more at your
ease. "

The fox peeped cautiously all round, and seeing no sign of the
griffin, he entered the lower cave and stole upstairs to the upper
story ; but as he went on, he saw immense piles of jewels and gold,
and all sorts of treasure, so that the old griffin might well have
laughed at the poor cat being called an heiress, The fox was greatly
pleased at such indisputable signs of wealth, and he entered the
upper cave, resolved to be transported with the charms of the
griffiness.

There was, however, a great chasm between the landing-place and
the spot where the young lady was chained, and he found it impos-
sible to pass ; the cavern was very dark, but he saw enough of the
figure of the griffiness to perceive, in spite of her petticoat, that she
was the image of her father, and the most hideous heiress that the
earth ever saw !

However, he swallowed his disgust, and poured forth such a heap
of compliments that the griffiness appeared entirely won. He im-
plored her to fly with him the first moment she was unchained.

" That is impossible," said she; "for my father never unchains
me except in his presence, and then I cannot stir out of his sight. ''

" The wretch ! " cried Reynard, " what is to be done?"

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 177

" Why, there is only one thing I know of," answered the griffiness,
" which is this — I always make his soup for him, and if I could mix
something in it that would put him fast to sleep before he had time
to chain me up again, I might slip down and carry off all the treasure
below on my back."

" Charming ! " exclaimed Reynard ; " what invention ! what wit !
I will go and get some poppies directly."

" Alas ! " said the griffiness, " poppies have no effect upon griffins.
The only thing that can ever put my father fast to sleep is a nice
young cat boiled up in his soup ; it Is astonishing what a charm that
has upon him ! But where to get a cat ? — it must be a maiden cat
too ! "

Reynapd was a little startled at so singular an opiate. "But,"
thought he, " griffins are not like the rest of the world, and so rich
an heiress is not to be won by ordinary means,"

"I dp know a cat — a maiden cat," said he, after a short pause ;
"but I feel a little repugnance at the thought of having her boiled
in the griffin's soup. Would not a dog do as well ? "

"Ah, base thing ! " said the griffiness, appearing to weep, "you
are in love with the cat, I see it ; go and marry her, poor dwarf that
she is, and leave me to die of grief."

In vain the fox protested that he did not care a straw for the cat ;
nothing could now appease the griffiness, but his positive assurance
that, come what would, poor puss should be brought to the cave, and
boiled for the griffin's soup.

" But how will you get her here?" said the griffiness.

"Ah, leave that to me," said Reynard. "Only put a basket out
of the window, and draw it up by a cord ; the moment it arrives at
the window, be sure to clap your claw on the cat at once, for she is
terribly active."

" Tus,h I " answered the heiress ; "a pretty griffiness I should be
if I did not know how to catch a cat ! "

"But this must be when your father is out ? " said Reynard,

" Certainly : he takes a stroll every evening at sunset."

"Let it be to-morrow, then," said Reynard, impatient for the
treasure.

This being arranged, Reynard thought it time to Decamp, He
stole dpwn the stairs again, and tried to filch some of the treasure by
the way : but it was too heavy for him to carry, and he was forced
to acknowledge to himself that it was impossible to get the treasure
without taking the griffiness (whose back seemed prodigiously strong)
into the bargain.

He returned home to the cat, and when he enterecl her house, and

178 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

saw how ordinary everything looked after the jewels in the griffin's
cave, he quite wondered how he had ever thought the cat had the
least pretensions to good looks.

However, he concealed his wicked design, and his mistress thought
he had never appeared so amiable.

" Only guess," said he, " where I have been? — to our new neigh-
bour the griffin ; a most charming person, thoroughly affable, and
quite the air of the court. As for that silly magpie, the griffin saw
her* character at once ; and it was all a hoax about his daughter : he
has no daughter at all. You know, my dear, hoaxing is a fashionable
amusement among the great. He says he has heard of nothing but
your beauty, and on my telling him we were going to be married, he
has insisted upon giving a great ball and supper in honour of the
event. In fact, he is a gallant old fellow and dying to see you. Of
course, I was obliged to accept the invitation."

"You could not do otherwise," said the unsuspecting young
creature, who, as I before said, was very susceptible to flattery.

"And only think how delicate his attentions are," said the fox.
"As he is very badly lodged for a beast of his rank, and his treasure
takes up the whole of the ground floor, he is forced to give the fete
in the upper story, so he hangs out a basket for his guests, and draws
them up with his own claw. How condescending ! But the great
are so amiable ! "''

The cat, brought up in seclusion, was all delight at the idea of
seeing such high life, and the lovers talked of nothing else all the
next day ; — when Reynard, towards evening, putting his head out of
the window, saw his old friend the dog lying as usual and watching
him very grimly. " Ah, that cursed creature ! I had quite forgotten
him ; what is to be done now ? he would make no bones of me if he
once saw me set foot out of doors."

With that, the fox began to cast in his head how he should get rid
of his rival, and at length he resolved on a very notable project : he
desired the cat to set out first, and wait for him at a turn in the road
a little way off. "For," said he, "if we go together we shall cer-
tainly be insulted by the dog ; and he will know that, in the presence
of a lady, the custom of a beast of my fashion will not suffer me to
avenge the affront. But when I am alone, the creature is such a
coward that he would not dare say his soul's his own : leave the
door open and I'll follow immediately."

The cat's mind was so completely poisoned against her cousin that
she implicitly believed this account of his character, and accordingly,
with many recommendations to her lover not to sully his dignity by
getting into any sort of quarrel with the dog, she set off first.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 179

The dog went up to*her very humbly, and begged her to allow
him to say a few words to her ; but she received him so haughtily,
that his spirit was up ; and he walked back to the tree more than
ever enraged against his rival. But what was his joy when he saw
that the cat had left the door open ! " Now, wretch," thought he,
' ' you cannot escape me ! " So he walked briskly in at the back
door. He was greatly surprised to find Reynard lying down in the
straw, panting as if his heart would break, and rolling his eyes in the
pangs of death.

"Ah, friend," said the fox, with a faltering voice, "you are
avenged, my hour is come ; I am just going to give up the ghost :
put your paw upon mine, and say you forgive me."

Despite his anger, the generous dog could not set tooth on a
dying foe.

"You have served me a shabby trick," said he ; "you have left
me to starve in a hole, and you have evidently maligned me with my
cousin : certainly I meant to be avenged on you ; but if you are really
dying, that alters the affair."

"Oh, oh ! " groaned the fox very bitterly ; " I am past help ; the
poor cat is gone for Doctor Ape, but he'll never come in time. What
a thing it is to have a bad conscience on one's death-bed ! But,
wait till the cat returns, and I'll do you full justice with her before
I die."

The good-natured dog was much moved at seeing his mortal
enemy in such a state, and endeavoured as well as he could to
console him.

" Oh, oh ! " said the fox ; " I am so parched in the throat — I am
burning ; " and he hung his tongue out of his mouth, and rolled his
eyes more fearfully than ever.

" Is there no water here ? " said the dog, looking round.

"Alas, no ! — yet stay — yes, now I think of it, there is some in
that little hole in the wall ; but how to get at it ! — it is so high that
I can't, in my poor weak state, climb up to it ; and I dare not ask
such a favour of one I have injured so much."

" Don't talk of it," said the dog : " but the hole's very small, I
could not put my nose through it."

" No ; but if you just climb up on that stone, and thrust your paw
into the hole, you can dip it into the water, and so cool my poor
parched mouth. Oh, what a thing it is to have a bad conscience ! "

The dog sprang upon the stone, and getting on his hind legs,
thrust his front paw into the hole ; when suddenly Reynard pulled a
string that he had concealed under the straw, and the dog found his
paw caught tight to the wall in a running noose.

180 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

" Ah, rascal ! " said he, turning round ; but the fox leaped up gaily
from the straw, and fastening the string with his teeth to a nail in
the other end of the wall, walked out, crying, "Good-bye, my dear
friend ; have a care how you believe hereafter in sudden conver-
sions ! " — So he left the dog on his hind-legs to take care of the house.

Reynard found the cat waiting for him where he had appointed,
and they walked lovingly together till they came to the cave. It was
now dark, and they saw the basket waiting below ; the fox assisted
the poor cat into it. " There is only room for one," said he, " you
must go first ! " — up rose the basket ; the fox heard a piteous mew,
and no more.

" So much for the griffin's soup ! " thought he.

He waited patiently for some time, when the griffiness, waving
her claw from the window, said cheerfully, "All's right, my dear
Reynard ; my papa has finished his soup, and sleeps as sound as a
rock ! All the noise in the world would not wake him now, till he
has slept off the boiled cat — which won't be these twelve hours.
Come and assist me in packing up the treasure ; I should be sorry to
leave a single diamond behind."

" So should I," quoth the fox. " Stay, I'll come round by the
lower hole : why, the door's shut ! pray, beautiful griffiness, open it
to thy impatient adorer."

"Alas, my father has hid the key! I never know where he
places it i you must come up by the basket ; see, I will lower it for
you. "

The fox was a little loth to trust himself in the same conveyance
that had taken his mistress to be boiled ; but the most cautious grow
rash when money's to be gained, and avarice can trap even a fox.
So he put himself as comfortably as he could into the basket, and up
he went in an instant. It rested, however, just before it reached the
window, and the fox felt, with a slight shudder, the claw of the
griffiness stroking his back.

" Oh, what a beautiful coat ! " quoth she, caressingly.

" You are too kind," said the lox ; " but you can feel it more at
your leisure when I am once up. Make haste, I beseech you."

" Oh, what a beautiful bushy tail ! Never did I feel such a
tail ! "

"It is entirely at your service, sweet griffiness," said the fox;
" but pray let me in. Why lose an instant ? "

" No, never did I feel such a tail ! No wonder you are so success-
ful with the ladies."

M Ah, beloved griffiness, my tail is yours to eternity, but you pinch
it a little too hard."

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 181

Scarcely had he said this, when down dropped the basket, but not
with the fox in it ; he found himself caught by the tail, and dangling
halfway down the rock, by the help of the very same sort of pulley
wherewith he had snared the dog. I leave you to guess his conster-
nation ; he yelped out as loud as he could, — for it hurts a fox exceed-
ingly to be hanged by his tail with his head downwards, — when the
door of the rock opened, and out stalked the griffin himself, smoking
his pipe, with a vast crowd of all the fashionable beasts in the
neighbourhood.

" Oho, brother," said the bear, laughing fit to kill himself; " who
ever saw a fox hanged by the tail before ? "

" You'll have need of a physician," quoth Doctor Ape.

" A pretty match, indeed ; a griffiness for such a creature as you ! "
said the goat, strutting by him.

The fox grinned with pain, and said nothing. But that which
hurt him most was the compassion of a dull fool of a donkey, who
assured him with great gravity that he saw nothing at all to laugh
at in his situation !

"At all events," said the fox, at last, "cheated, gulled, betrayed
as I am, I have played the same trick to the dog. Go and laugh at
him, gentlemen ; he deserves it as much as I can, I assure you.

" Pardon me," said the griffin, taking the pipe out of his mouth ;
" one never laughs at the honest."

" And see," said the bear, "here he is."

And indeed the dog had, after much effort, gnawed the string in
two, and extricated his paw : the scent of the fox had enabled him
to track his~footsteps, and here he arrived, burning for vengeance and
finding himself already avenged.

But his first thought was for his dear cousin. " Ah, where is
she?" he cried movingly ; " without doubt that villain Reynard has
served her some scurvy trick."

"I fear so indeed, my old friend," answered the griffin, "but
don't grieve : after all, she was nothing particular. You shall marry
my daughter the griffiness, and succeed to all the treasure ; ay, and
all the bones that you once guarded so faithfully."

" Talk not to me," said the faithful dog. " I want none of your
treasure ; and, though I don't mean to be rude, your griffiness may
go to the devil. I will run over the world but I will find my dear
cousin."'

"See her then," said the griffin; and the beautiful cat, more
beautiful than ever, rushed out of the cavern, and threw herself into
the dog's paws.

A pleasant scene this for the fox ! — he had skill enough in the

182 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

female heart to know that it may excuse many little infidelities, — •
hut to be boiled alive for a griffin's soup ! — no, the offence was
inexpiable !

" You understand me, Mr. Reynard," said the griffin, " I have no
daughter, and it was me you made love to. Knowing what sort of a
creature a magpie is, I amused myself with hoaxing her, — the
fashionable amusement at court, you know."

The fox made a mighty struggle, and leaped on the ground, leaving
his tail behind him. It did not grow again in a hurry.

" See," said the griffin, as the beasts all laughed at the figure
Reynard made running into the wood, "the dog beats the fox, with
the ladies, after all ; and cunning as he is in everything else, the fox
is the last creature that should ever think of making love ! "

" Charming ! " cried Nymphalin, clasping her hands ; " it is just
the sort of story I like."

" And I suppose, sir," said Nip, pertly, " that the dog and the cat
lived very happily ever afterwards ? Indeed the nuptial felicity of a
dog and cat is proverbial ! "

"I dare say they lived much the same as any other married
couple," answered the prince.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE TOMB OF A FATHER OF MANY CHILDREN.

!HE feast being now ended, as well as the story, the fairies
wound their way homeward by a different path, till at
length a red steady light glowed through the long basaltic
arclies upon them, like the Demon Hunters' fires in the
Forest of Pines.

The prince sobered in his pace. "You approach," said he, in a
grave tone, "the greatest of our temples ; you will witness the tomb
of a mighty founder of our race ! " An awe crept over the queen, in
spite of herself. Tracking the fires in silence, they came to a vast
space, in the midst of which was a lone gray block of stone, such as
the traveller finds amidst the dread silence of Egyptian Thebes.

And on this stone lay the gigantic figure of a man — dead, but not
death-like, for invisible spells had preserved the flesh and the long
hair for untold ages ; and beside him lay a rude instrument of music,
and at his feet was a sword and a hunter's spear ; and above, the
rock wound, hollowed and roofless, to the upper air, and daylight

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 183

came through, sickened and pale, beneath red fires that burnt ever-
lastingly around him, on such simple altars as belong to a savage
race. But the place was not solitary, for many motionless, but not
lifeless, shapes sat on large blocks of stone beside the tomb. There
was the wizard, wrapped in his long black mantle, and his face
covered with his hands — there was the uncouth and deformed dwarf,
gibbering to himself — there sat the household elf— there glowed
from a gloomy rent in the wall, with glittering eyes and shining
scale, the enormous dragon of the North. An aged crone in rags,
leaning on a staff, and gazing malignantly on the visitors, with
bleared but fiery eyes, stood opposite the tomb of the gigantic dead.
And now the fairies themselves completed the group ! But all was
dumb and unutterably silent ; the silence that floats over some
antique city of the desert, when, for the first time for a hundred cen-
turies, a living foot enters its desolate remains ; the silence that
belongs to the dust of eld, — deep, solemn, palpable, and sinking into
the heart with a leaden and death-like weight. Even the English
fairy spoke not ; she held her breath, and gazing on the tomb, she
saw, in rude vast characters,

THE TEUTON.

" W-^are all thaf remain of his religion ! " said the prince, as they
turned from the dread temple.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE FAIRY'S CAVE, AND THE FAIRY'S wisir.

iT was evening ; and the fairies were dancing beneath the
twilight star.

"And why art thou sad, my violet?" said the prince,
"for thine eyes seek the ground ! "
"Now that I have found thee," answered the queen, "and now
that I feel what happy love is to a fairy, I sigh over that love which
I have lately witnessed among mortals, but the bud of whose hap-
piness already conceals the worm. For well didst thou say, my
prince, that we are linked with a mysterious affinity to mankind,
and whatever is pure and gentle amongst them speaks at once to our
sympathy, and commands our vigils."

"And most of all," said the German fairy, "are they who love

184 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

under our watch ; for love is the golden chain that binds all in the
universe : love lights up alike the star and the glow-worm ; and
wherever there is love in men's lot, lies the secret affinity with men,
and with things divine."

"But with the human race," said Nymphalin, "there is no love
that outlasts the hour, for either death ends, or custom alters : when
the blossom comes to fruit, it is plucked and seen no more ; and
therefore, when I behold true love sentenced to an early grave, I
comfort myself that I shall not at least behold the beauty dimmed,
and the softness of the heart hardened into stone. Yet, my prince,
while still the pulse can beat, and the warm blood flow, in that
beautiful form, which I have watched over of late, let me not desert
her ; still let my influence keep the sky fair, and the breezes pure ;
still let me drive the vapour from the moon, and the clouds from the
faces of the stars ; still let me fill her dreams with tender and bril-
liant images, and glass in the mirror of sleep, the happiest visions of
fairy land ; still let me pour over her eyes that magic, which suffers
them to see no fault in one in whom she has garnered up her soul !
And as death comes slowly on, still let me rob the spectre of its
terror, and the grave of its sting ; — so that, all gently and uncon-
scious to herself, life may glide into the Great Ocean where the
shadows lie ; and the spirit without guile, may be severed from its
mansion without pain !

The wish of the fairy was fulfilled.

CHAPTER XV.

THE BANKS OF THE RHINE. — FROM THE DRACHENFELS TO BROHL :
AN INCIDENT THAT SUFFICES IN THIS TALE FOR AN EPOCH.

(ROM the Drachenfels commences the true glory of the
Rhine ; and, once more, Gertrude's eyes conquered the
languor that crept gradually over them as she gazed on
the banks around.
Fair blew the breeze, and freshly curled the waters ; and Gertrude
did not feel the vulture that had fixed its talons within her breast.
The Rhine widens, like a broad lake, between the Drachenfels and
Unkel ; villages are scattered over the extended plain on the left ;
on the right is the Isle of Werth and the houses of Oberwinter ;
the hills are covered with vines ; and still Gertrude turned back with
a lingering gaze to the lofty crest of the Seven Hills.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 185

On, on — and the spires of Unkel rose above a curve in the banks,
and on the opposite shore stretched those wondrous basaltic columns
which extend to the middle of the river, and when the Rhine runs
low, you may see them like an engulfed city beneath the waves.
You then view the ruins of Okkenfels, and hear the voice of the
pastoral Gasbach pouring its waters into the Rhine. From amidst
the clefts of the rocks the vine peeps luxuriantly forth, and gives a
richness and colouring to what Nature, left to herself, intended for
the stern.

"But turn your eye backward to the right," said Trevylyan;
"those banks were formerly the special haunt of the bold, robbers
of the Rhine, and from amidst the entangled brakes that then
covered the ragged cliffs, they rushed upon their prey. In the
gloomy canvas of those feudal days what vigorous and mighty
images were crowded ! A robber's life amidst these mountains, and
beside this mountain stream,- must have been the very poetry of the
spot carried into action."

They rested at Brohl, a small town between two mountains. On
the summit of one you see the gray remains of Rheinech. There is
something weird and preternatural about the aspect of this place ;
its soil betrays signs that, in the former ages (from which even tra-
dition is fast fading away), some volcano here exhausted its fires.
The stratum of the earth is black and pitchy, and the springs beneath
it are of a dark and graveolent water. Hear the stream of the
Brohlbach falls into the Rhine, and in a valley rich with oak and
pine, and full of caverns, which are not without their traditionary
inmates, stands the castle of Schweppenbourg, which our party
failed not to visit.

Gertrude felt fatigued on their return, and Trevylyan sat by her in
the little inn, while Vane went forth, with the curiosity of science,
to examine the strata of the soil.

They conversed in the frankness of their plighted, troth upon those
topics which are only for lovers: Upon the bright chapter in the
history of their love ; their first meeting ; their first impressions ;
the little incidents in their present journey — incidents noticed by
themselves alone ; that life within life which two persons know
together, — which one knows not without the other, — which ceases to
both the instant they are divided.

"I know not what the love of others may be," said Gertrude,
"but ours seems different from all of which I have read. Books
tell us of jealousies and misconstructions, and the necessity of an
absence, the sweetness of a quarrel ; but we, dearest Albert, have
had no experience of these passages in love. IVe have never

1 86 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

misunderstood each other ; avhave no reconciliation to look back to.
When was there ever occasion for me to ask forgiveness from you ?
Our love is made up only of one memory — unceasing kindness ! A
harsh word, a wronging thought, never broke in upon the happiness
we have felt and feel."

"Dearest Gertrude," said Trevylyan, "that character of our love
is caught from you ; you, the soft, the gentle, have been its pervading
genius ; and the well has been smooth and pure, for you were the
spirit that lived within its depths."

And to such talk succeeded silence still more sweet — the silence
of the hushed and overflowing heart. The last voices of the birds
— the sun slowly sinking in the west — the fragrance of descending
dews — filled them with that deep and mysterious sympathy which
exists between Love and Nature.

It was after such a silence — a long silence, that seemed but as a
moment — that Trevylyan spoke, but Gertrude answered not ; and,
yearning once more for her sweet voice, he turned and saw that she
had fainted away.

This was the first indication of the point to which her increasing
debility had arrived. Trevylyan's heart stood still, and then beat
violently ; a thousand fears crept over him, he clasped her in his
arms, and bore her to the open window. The setting sun fell upon
her countenance, from which the play of the young heart and warm
fancy had fled, and in its deep and still repose the ravages of disease
were darkly visible. What were then his emotions ! his heart was
like stone ; but he felt a rush as of a torrent to his temples : his eyes
grew dizzy — he was stunned by the greatness of his despair. For
the last week he had taken hope for his companion ; Gertrude had
seemed so much stronger, for her happiness had given her a false
support ; and though there had been moments when, watching the
bright hectic come and go, and her step linger, and the breath heave
short, he had felt the hope suddenly cease, yet never had he known
till now that fulness of anguish, that dread certainty of the worst,
which the calm, fair face before him struck into his soul : and mixed
with this agony as he gazed was all the passion of the most ardent
love. For there she lay in his arms, the gentle breath rising from
lips where the rose yet lingered, and the long, rich hair, soft and
silken as an infant's, stealing from its confinement : every thing that
belonged to Gertrude's beauty was so inexpressively soft, and pure,
and youthful ! Scarcely seventeen, she seemed much younger than
she was ; her figure had sunken from its roundness, but still how
light, how lovely were its wrecks ! the neck whiter than snow, — the
fair small hand ! Her weight was scarcely felt in the arms of her

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE". 187

lover, — and he — what a contrast ! — was in all the pride and flower
of glorious manhood ! his was the lofty brow, the wreathing hair,
the haughty eye, the elastic form ; and upon this frail, perishable
thing had he fixed all his heart, all the hopes of his youth, the pride
of his manhood, his schemes, his energies, his ambition !

"Oh, Gertrude ! " cried he, "is it — is it thus: — is there indeed no
hope ? "

And Gertrude now slowly recovering, and opening her eyes upon
Trevylyan's face, the revulsion was so great, his emotions so over-
powering, that, clasping her to his bosom, as if even death should
not tear her away from him, he wept over her in an agony of tears ;
not those tears that relieve the heart, but the fiery rain of the internal
storm, a sign of the fierce tumult that shook the very core of his
existence, not a relief.

Awakened to herself, Gertrude, in amazement and alarm, threw
her arms around his neck, and, looking wistfully into his face,
implored him to speak to her.

"Was it my illness, love?" said she ; and the music of her voice
only conveyed to him the thought of how soon it would be dumb to
him for ever. "Nay," she continued, winningly, " it was but the
heat of the day ; I am better now — I am well ; there is no cause to
be alarmed for me ; " and, with all the innocent fondness of extreme
youth, she kissed the burning tears from his eyes.

There was a playfulness, an innocence in this poor girl, so uncon-
scious as yet of her destiny, which rendered her fate doubly touching ;
and which to the stern Trevylyan, hackneyed by the world, made
her irresistible charm ; and now as she put aside her hair, and looked
up gratefully, yet pleadingly, into his face, he could scarce refrain
from pouring out to her the confession of his anguish and despair.
But the necessity of self-control — the necessity of concealing from
her a knowledge which might only, by impressing her imagination,
expedite her doom, while it would embitter to her mind the uncon-
scious enjoyment of the hour, nerved and manned him. He checked
by those violent efforts which only men can make, the evidence of
his emotions ; and endeavoured, by a rapid torrent of words, to
divert her attention from a weakness, the causes of which he could
not explain. Fortunately Vane soon returned, and Trevylyan, con-
signing Gertrude to his care, hastily left the room.

Gertrude sunk into a reverie.

"Ah, dear father ! " said she, suddenly, and after a pause, "if I
indeed were worse than I have thought myself of late — if I were to
die now, what would Trevylyan feel ? Pray God, I may live for his
sake ! "

i88 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

"My child, do not talk thus: you are better, much better than
you were. Ere the autumn ends, Trevylyan's happiness will be
your lawful care. Do not think so despondently of yourself."

"I thought not of myself," sighed Gertrude, "but of him!"

CHAPTER XVI.

GERTRUDE. — THE EXCURSION TO HAMMERSTEIN. — THOUGHTS.

[HE next day they visited the environs of Brohl. Gertrude
was unusually silent ; for her temper, naturally sunny and
enthusiastic, was accustomed to light up everything she
saw. Ah, once how bounding was that step ! how undu-
lating the young graces of that form ! how playfully once danced
the ringlets on that laughing cheek ! But she clung to Trevylyan's
proud form with a yet more endearing tenderness than was her wont,
and hung yet more eagerly on his words ; her hand sought his, and
she often pressed it to her lips, and sighed as she did so. Something
that she would not tell seemed passing within her, and sobered her
playful mood. But there was this noticeable in Gertrude : whatever
took away from her gaiety, increased her tenderness. The infirmities
of her frame never touched her temper. She was kind — gentle —
loving to the last.

They had crossed to the opposite banks, to visit the Castle of
Hammerstein. The evening was transparently serene and clear ;
and the warmth of the sun yet lingered upon the air, even though
the twilight had passed and the moon risen, as their boat returned
by a lengthened passage to the village. Broad and straight flows
the Rhine in this part of its career. On one side lay the wooded
village of Namedy, the hamlet of Fornech, backed by the blue rock
of Kruezborner Ley, the mountains that shield the mysterious Brohl :
and, on the opposite shore, they saw the mighty rock of Hammer-
stein, with the green and livid ruins sleeping in the melancholy
moonlight. Two towers rose haughtily above the more dismantled
wrecks. How changed since the alternate banners of the Spaniard
and the Swede waved from their ramparts, in that great war in
which the gorgeous Wallenstein won his laurels t And in its mighty
calm, flowed on the ancestral Rhine ; the vessel reflected on its
smooth expanse, and above, girded by thin and shadowy clouds,
the moon cast her shadows upon rocks covered with verdure, and

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 189

brought into a dim light the twin spires of Anclernach, tranquil in
the distance.

" Hosv beautiful is this hour ! " said Gertrude, with a low voice :
"surely we do not live enough in the night ; one half the beauty of
the world is slept away. What in the clay can equal the holy calm,
the loveliness, and the stillness which the moon now casts over the
earth? • These," she continued, pressing Trevylyan's hand, "are
hours to remember; and you, — will you ever forget them?"

Something there is in recollections of such times and scenes that
seem not to belong to real life, but are rather an episode in its
history ; they are like some wandering into a more ideal world ;
they refuse to blend with our ruder associations ; they live in us,
apart and alone, to be treasured ever, but not lightly to be recalled.
There are none living to whom we can confide them, — who can
sympathize with what then we felt? It is this that makes poetry,
and that page which we create as a confidant to ourselves, necessary
to the thoughts that weigh upon the breast. We write, for our
writing is our friend, the inanimate paper is our confessional ; we
pour forth on it the thoughts that we could tell to no private ear,
and are relieved — are consoled. And, if genius has one prerogative
dearer than the rest, it is that which enables it to do honour to the
dead — to revive the beauty, the virtue that are no more ; to wreathe
chaplets that outlive the day round the urn which were else forgotten
by the world !

When the poet mourns, in his immortal verse, for the dead, tell
me not that fame is in his mind ! it is filled by thoughts, by emotions
that shut out the living. Pie is breathing to his genius — to that sole
and constant friend, which has grown up with him from his cradle
— the sorrows too delicate for human sympathy ; and when after-
wards he consigns the confession to the crowd, it is indeed from the
hope of honour ;— honour not for himself, but for the being that is

19° THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

CHAPTER XVII.

LETTER FROM TREVYLYAN TO * * * *.

" COBLENTZ.

AM obliged to you, my dear friend, for your letter ;
which, indeed, I have not, in the course of our rapid
journey, had the leisure, perhaps the heart, to answer
before. But we are staying in this town for some days,
and I write now in the early morning, ere any one else in our hotel
is awake. Do not tell me of adventure, of politics, of intrigues ;
my nature is altered. I threw down your letter, animated and
brilliant as it was, with a sick and revolted heart. But I am now
in somewhat less dejected spirits. Gertrude is better — yes, really
better ; there is a physician here who gives me hope ; my care is
perpetually to amuse, and never to fatigue her, — never to permit her
thoughts to rest upon herself. For I have imagined that illness
cannot, at least in the unexhausted vigour of our years, fasten upon
us irremediably unless we feed it with our own belief in its existence.
You see men of the most delicate frames engaged in active and pro-
fessional pursuits, who literally have no time for illness. Let them
become idle — let them take care of themselves — let them think of
their health — and they die ! The rust rots the steel which use pre-
serves ; and, thank Heaven, although Gertrude, once during our
voyage, seemed roused, by an inexcusable imprudence of emotion
on my part, into some suspicion of her state, yet it passed away ; for
she thinks rarely of herself — I am ever in her thoughts and seldom
from her side, and you know, too, the sanguine and credulous nature
of her disease. But, indeed, I now hope more than I have done
since I knew her.

" When, after an excited and adventurous life which had com-
prised so many changes in so few years, I found myself at rest in
the bosom of a retired and remote part of the country, and Gertrude
and her father were my only neighbours, I was in that state of mind
in which the passions, recruited by solitude, are accessible to the
purer and more divine emotions. I was struck by Gertrude's
beauty ; I was charmed by her simplicity. Worn in the usages
and fashions of the world, the inexperience, the trustfulness, the
exceeding youth of her mind, charmed and touched me ; but when
I saw the stamp of our national disease in her bright eye and trans-
parent cheek, I felt my love chilled while my interest was increased.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 191

I fancied myself safe, and I went daily into the danger ; I imagined
so pure a light could not burn, and I was consumed. Not till my
anxiety grew into pain, my interest into terror, did I know the secret
of my own heart ; and at the moment that I discovered this secret,
I discovered also that Gertrude loved me ! What a destiny was
mine ! what happiness, yet what misery ! Gertrude was my own —
but for what period ? I might touch that soft hand — I might listen
to the tenderest confession from that silver voice, — but all the while
my heart spoke of passion, my reason whispered of death. You
know that I am considered of a cold and almost callous nature, that
I am not easily moved into affection, but my very pride bowed me
here into weakness. There was so soft a demand upon my protec-
tion, so constant an appeal to my anxiety. You know that my
father's quick temper burns within me, that I am hot, and stern,
and exactingj but one hasty word, one thought of myself, here
were inexcusable. So brief a time might be left for her earthly
happiness,— could I embitter one moment? All that feeling of
uncertainty which should in prudence have prevented my love, in-
creased it almost to a preternatural excess. That which it is said
mothers feel for an only child in sickness, I feel for Gertrude. My
existence is not ! — I exist in her !

"Her illness increased upon her at home; they have recom-
mended travel. She chose the course we were to pursue, and,
fortunately, it was so familiar to me, that I have been enabled to
brighten the way. I am ever on the watch that she shall not know
a weary hour ; you would almost smile to see how I have roused
myself from my habitual silence ; and to find me — me, the scheming
and worldly actor of real life, plunged back into the early romance
of my boyhood, and charming the childish delight of Gertrude with
the invention of fables and the traditions of the Rhine.

"But I believe I have succeeded in my object ; if not, what is
left tome? Gertrude is better! — In that sentence what visions of
hope dawn upon me ! I wish you could have seen Gertrude before
we left England ; you might then have understood my love for her.
Not that we have not, in the gay capitals of Europe, paid our brief
vows to forms more richly beautiful ; not that we have not been
charmed by a more brilliant genius, — by a more tutored grace. But
there is that in Gertrude which I never saw before ; the union of
the childish and the intellectual, an ethereal simplicity, a temper
that is never dimmed, a tenderness — oh God ! let me not speak of
her virtues, for they only tell me how little she is suited to the
earth.

"You will direct to me at Mayence, whither cur course now lends

i9- THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

us, and your friendship will find indulgence for a letter that is so
little a reply to yours.

" Your sincere friend,

"A. G. TREVYLYAN."

CHAPTER XVIII.

COBLENTZ. — EXCURSION TO THE MOUNTAINS OF TAUNUS ; ROMAN
TOWER IN THE VALLEY OF EHRENRREITSTEIN. — TRAVEL, ITS
PLEASURES ESTIMATED DIFFERENTLY BY THE YOUNG AND
THE OLD. — THE STUDENT OF HEIDELBERG ; HIS CRITICISMS
ON GERMAN LITERATURE.

[ERTRUDE had, indeed, apparently rallied during their
stay at Coblentz ; and a French physician established in
the town (who adopted a peculiar treatment for consump-
tion, which had been attended with no ordinary success),
gave her father and Trevylyan a sanguine assurance of her ultimate
recovery. The time they passed wilhin the white walls of Coblentz
was, therefore, the happiest and most cheerful part of their pilgrim-
age. They visited the various places in its vicinity ; but the excur-
sion which most delighted Gertrude was one to the mountains of
Taunus.

They took advantage of a beautiful September day ; and, crossing
the river, commenced their tour firm the Thai, or valley of Ehren-
breitstein. They stopped on their way to view the remains of a
Roman tower in the valley ; for the whole of that district bears
frequent witness of the ancient conquerors of the world. The
mountains of Taunus are still intersected with the roads which the
Romans cut to the mines that supplied them with silver. Roman
urns, and inscribed stones, are often found in these ancient places.
The stones, inscribed with names utterly unknown — a type of the
uncertainty of fame ! — the urns, from which the dust is gone — a very
satire upon life !

Lone, gray, and mouldering, this tower stands aloft in the valley ;
and the quiet Vane smiled to see the uniform of a modern Prussian,
with his white belt and lifted bayonet, by the spot which had onci
echoed to the clang of the Roman arms. The soldier was paying P
momentary court to a country damsel, whose straw hat and rustic
dress did not stifle the vanity of the sex ; and this rude and humble
gallantry, in that spot, was another moral in the history of humnn

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 193

passions. Above, the ramparts of a modern rule frowned down
upon the solitary tower, as if in the vain insolence with which present
power looks upon past decay ; the living race upon ancestral great-
ness. And indeed, in this respect, rightly ! — for modern times have
no parallel to that degradation of human dignity stamped upon the
ancient world by the long sway of the Imperial Harlot, all slavery
herself, yet all tyranny to earth ; — and, like her own Messalina, at
once a prostitute and an empress !

They continued their course by the ancient baths of Ems, and
keeping by the banks of the romantic Lahn, arrived at Holzapfel.

"Ah," said Gertrude, one day, as they proceeded to the springs
of the Carlovingian Wiesbaden, "surely perpetual travel with those
we love must be the happiest state of existence. If home has its
comforts, it also has its cares ; but here we are at home with Nature,
and the minor evils vanish almost before they are felt."

"True," said Trevylyan, "we escape from 'THE LITTLE,' which
is the curse of life ; the small cares that devour us up, the grievances
of the day. We are feeding the divinest part of our nature, — the
appetite to admire."

"But of all things wearisome," said Vane, "a succession of
changes is the most. There can be a monotony in variety itself.
As the eye aches in gazing long at the new shapes of the kaleido-
scope, the mind aches at the fatigue of a constant alternation of
objects; and we delightedly return to REST, which is to life what
green is to the earth."

In the course of their sojourn among the various baths of Taunus,
they fell in, by accident, with a German student of Heidelberg, who
was pursuing the pedestrian excursions so peculiarly favoured by his
tribe. He was tamer and gentler than the general herd of those
young wanderers, and our parly were much pleased with his enthu-
siasm, because it was unaffected. He had been in England, and
spoke its language almost as a native.

"Our literature," said he, one day, conversing with Vane, "has
two faults — we are too subtle and too homely. We do not speak
enough to the broad comprehension of mankind ; we are for ever
making abstract qualities of flesh and blood. Our critics have
turned your Hamlet into an allegory ; they will not even allow
Shakspeare to paint mankind, but insist on his embodying qualities.
They turn poetry into metaphysics, and truth seems to them shallow,
unless an allegory, which is false, can be seen at the bottom. Again,
too, with our most imaginative works we mix a homeliness that we
fancy touching, but which in reality is ludicrous. We eternally step
from the sublime to the ridiculous — we want taste."

ip4 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

"But not, I hope, French taste. Do not govern a Goethe, or
even a Richter, by a Boileau ! " said Trevylyan.

"No, but Boileau's taste was false. Men, who have the reputa-
tion for good taste, often acquire it solely because of the want of
genius. By taste, I mean a quick tact into the harmony of com-
position, the art of making the whole consistent with its parts, the
concinnitas — Schiller alone of our authors has it ; — but we are fast
mending ; and, by following shadows so long we have been led at
last to the substance. Our past literature is to us what astrology
was to science, — false but ennobling, and conducting us to the true
language of the intellectual heaven."

Another time the scenes they passed, interspersed with the ruins
of frequent monasteries, leading them to converse on the monastic
life, and the various additions time makes to religion, the German
said : "Perhaps one of the works most wanted in the world, is the
history of Religion. We have several books, it is true, on the
subject, but none that supply the want I allude to. A German ought
to write it ; for it is, probably, only a German that would have the
requisite learning. A German only, too, is likely to treat the mighty
subject with boldness, and yet with veneration ; without the shallow
flippancy of the Frenchman, without the timid sectarianism of the
English. It would be a noble ta-k, to trace the winding mazes of
antique falsehood ; to clear up the first glimmerings of divine truth ;
to separate Jehovah's word from man's invention ; to vindicate the
All-merciful from the dread creeds of bloodshed and of fear : and,
watching in the great Heaven of Truth the dawning of the True Star,
follow it — like the Magi of the East — till it rested above the real
God. Not indeed presuming to such a task," continued the German,
with a slight blush, " I have about me an humble essay, which treats
only of one part of that august subject ; which, leaving to a loftier
genius the history of the true religion, may be considered as the
history of a false one ; — of such a creed as Christianity supplanted in
the north ; or such as may perhaps be found among the fiercest of
the savage tribes. It is a fiction — as you may conceive ; but yet, by
a constant reference to the early records of human learning, I have
studied to weave it up from truths. If you would like to hear it —
it is very short "

" Above all things," said Vane ; and the German drew a manu-
script neatly bound, from his pocket.

" After having myself criticised so insolently the faults of our
national literature," said he, smiling, " you will have aright to criti-
cise the faults that belong to so humble a disciple of it. But you
will see that, though I have coinmenced with the allegorical or the

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 195

supernatural, I have endeavoured to avoid the subtlety of conceit,
and the obscurity of design, which I blame in the wilder of our
authors. As to the style, I wished to suit it to the subject; it ought
to be, unless I err, rugged and massive ; hewn, as it were, out of
the rock of primeval language. But you, madam ; — doubtless you
do not understand German ?"

• " Her mother was an Austrian," said Vane ; " and she knows at
least enough of the tongue to understand you ; so pray begin."

Without further preface, the German then commenced the story,
which the reader will find translated 1 in the next chapter.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE FALLEN STAR ; OR, THE HISTORY OF A FALSE RELIGION.

JND the STARS sat, each on his ruby throne, and watched
with sleepless eyes upon the world. It was the night
ushering in the new year, a night on which every star
receives from the archangel that then visits the universal
galaxy, its peculiar charge. The destinies of men and empires are
then portioned forth for the coming year, and, unconsciously to our-
selves, our fates become minioned to the stars. A hushed and
solemn night is that in which the dark Gates of Time open to receive
the ghost of the Dead Year, and the young and radiant Stranger
rushes forth from the clouded chasms of Eternity. On that night,
it is said, that there are given to the spirits that we see not, a privi-
lege and a power ; the dead are troubled in their forgotten graves,
and men feast and laugh, while demon and angel are contending for
their doom.

It was night in heaven ; all was unutterably silent, the music of
the spheres had paused, and not a sound came from the angels of the
stars ; and they who sat upon those shining thrones were three
thousand and ten, each resembling each. Eternal youth clothed
their radiant limbs with celestial beauty, and on their faces was
written the dread of calm, that fearful stillness which feels not, sym-
pathizes not with the dooms over which it broods. War, tempest,
pestilence, the rise of empires, and their fall, they ordain, they com-
pass, ynexultant and uncompassionate. The fell and thrilling crimes

1 Nevertheless I beg to state seriously, that the German student is an im-
postor ; and that he has no right to wrest the parentage of the fiction from the
true author.

196 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

that stalk abroad when the world sleeps, the paricide with his stealthy
step, and horrent brow, and lifted knife ; the unwifed mother that
glides out and looks behind, and behind, and shudders, and casts
her babe upon the river, and hears the wail, and pities not — the
splash, and does not tremble ; — these the starred kings behold — to
these they lead the unconscious step ; but the guilt blanches not
their lustre, neither doth remorse wither their unwrinkled youth.
Each star wore a kingly diadem ; round the loins of each was a
graven belt, graven with many and mighty signs ; and the foot of
each was on a burning ball, and the right arm drooped over the
knee as they bent down from their thrones ; they moved not a limb
or feature, save the finger of the right hand, which ever and anon
moved slowly pointing, and regulated the fates of men as the hand
of the dial speaks the career of time.

One only of the three thousand and ten wore not the same aspect
as his crowned brethren ; a star, smaller than the rest, and less
luminous ; the countenance of this star was not impressed with the
awful calmness of the others ; but there were sullenness and dis-
content upon his mighty brow.

And this star said to himself, — " Behold ! I am created less glori-
ous than my fellows, and the archangel apportions not to me the
same lordly destinies. Not for me are the dooms of kin^s and bards,
the rulers of empires, or, yet nobler, the swayers and harmonists of
souls. Sluggish are the spirits and base the lot of the men I am
ordained to lead through a dull life to a fameless grave. And
wherefore? — is it mine own fault, or is it the fault which is not mine,
that I was woven of beams less glorious than my brethren ? Lo !
when the archangel comes, I will bow not my crowned head to his
decrees. I will speak, as the ancestral Lucifer before me : he re-
belled because of his glory, / because of my obscurity ; he from the
ambition of pride, and /from its discontent."

And while the star was thus communing with himself, the upward
heavens were parted as by a long river of light, and adown that
stream swiftly, and without sound, sped the archangel visitor of the
stars ; his vast limbs floated in the liquid lustre, and his outspread
wings, each plume the glory of a sun, bore him noiselessly along;
but thick clouds veiled his lustre from the eyes of mortals, and while
above all was bathed in the serenity of his splendour, tempest and
storm broke below over the children of the earth : " He bowed the
heavens and came down, and darkness was under his feet."

And the stillness on the faces of the stars became yet more still,
and the awfulness was humbled into awe. Right above their thrones
paused the course of the archangel ; and his wings stretched from

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 197

east to west, overshadowing with the shadow oflight the immensity
of space. Then forth, in the shining stillness, rolled the dread
music of his voice : and, fulfilling the heraldry of God, to each star
he appointed the duty and the charge, and each star bowed his head
yet lower as he heard the fiat, while his throne rocked and trembled
at the Majesty of the Word. But, at last, when each of the brighter
stars had, in succession, received the mandate, and the vice-royalty
over the nations of the earth, the purple and diadems of kings ;
— the archangel addressed the lesser star as he sat apart from his
fellows : —

"Behold," said the archangel, "the rude tribes of the north, the
fishermen of the river that flows beneath, and the hunters of the
forests, that darken the mountain tops with verdure ! these be thy
charge, and their destinies thy care. Nor deem thou, O Star of the
sullen beams, that thy duties are less glorious than the duties of thy
brethren ; for the peasant is not less to thy master and mine than
the monarch ; nor doth the doom of empires rest more upon the
sovereign than on the herd. The passions and the heart are the
dominion of the stars, — a mighty realm ; nor less mighty beneath
the hide that garbs the shepherd, than under the jewelled robes of
the eastern kings."

Then the star lifted his pale front from his breast, and answered
the archangel : —

" Lo ! " he said, "ages have passed, and each year thou hast
appointed me to the same ignoble charge. Release me, I pray theo,
from the duties that I scorn ; or, if thou wilt that the lowlier race of
men be my charge, give unto me the charge not of many, but of one,
and suffer me to breathe into him the desire that spurns the valleys
of life, and ascends its steeps. If the humble are given to me, let
there be amongst them one whom I may lead on the mission that
shall abase the proud ; for, behold, O Appointer of the Stars, as I
have sat for uncounted years upon my solitary throne, brooding over
the things beneath, my spirit hath gathered wisdom from the changes
that shift below. Looking upon the tribes of earth, I have seen
how the multitude are swayed, and tracked the steps that lead weak-
ness into power; and fain would I be the ruler of one who, if
abased, shall aspire to rule."

As a sudden cloud over the face of noon was the change on the
brow of the archangel.

"Proud and melancholy star," said the herald, "thy wish would
war with the courses of the invisible DESTINY, that, throned far
above, sways and hr.rmonizes all ; the source from which the lesser
rivers of fate are eternally gushing through the heart of the universe

198 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

of tilings. Thinkest thou that thy wisdom, of itself, can lead the
peasant to become a king?"

And the crowned star gazed undauntedly on the face of the arch-
angel, and answered,

" Yea ! — grant me but one trial ! "

Ere the archangel could reply, the farthest centre of the heaven
was rent as by a thunderbolt ; and the divine herald covered his face
with his hands, and a voice low and sweet, and mild with the con-
sciousness of unquestionable power, spoke forth to the repining star.

"The time has arrived when thou mayest have thy wish. Below
thee, upon yon solitary plain, sits a mortal, gloomy as thyself, who,
born under thy influence, may be moulded to thy will."

The voice ceased as the voice of a dream. Silence was over the
seas of space, and the archangel, once more borne aloft, slowly
soared away into the farther heaven, to promulgate the divine
bidding to the stars of far-distant worlds. But the soul of the dis-
contented star exulted within itself ; and it said, 4< I will call forth a
king from the valley of the herdsman, that shall trample on the
kings subject to my fellows, and render the charge of the contemned
star more glorious than the minions of its favoured brethren ; thus
shall I revenge neglect— thus shall I prove my claim hereafter to the
heritage of the great of earth ! "

At that time, though the world had rolled on for ages, and the
pilgrimage of man had passed through various states of existence,
which our dim traditionary knowledge has not preserved, yet the
condition of our race in the northern hemisphere was then what we,
in our imperfect lore, have conceived to be among the earliest.

By a rude and vast pile of stones, the masonry of arts forgotten, a
lonely man sat at midnight, gazing upon the heavens ; a storm had
just passed from the earth — the clouds had rolled away, and the high
stars looked down upon the rapid waters of the Rhine ; and no sound
save the roar of the waves, and the dripping of the rain from the
mighty trees, was heard around the ruined pile : the white sheep lay
scattered on the plain, and slumber with them. He sat watching
over the herd, lest the foes of a neighbouring tribe seized them
unawares, and thus he communed with himself: " The king sits
upon his throne, and is honoured by a warrior race, and the warrior

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 199

exults in the trophies he has won ; the step of the huntsman is bold
upon the mountain-top, and his name is sung at night round the
pine-fires, by the lips of the bard ; and the bard himself hath honour
in the hall. But I, who belong not to the race of kings, and whose
limbs can bound not to the rapture of war, nor scale the eyries of
the eagle and the haunts of the swift stag ; whose hand cannot
string the harp, and whose voice is harsh in the song ; /have neither
honour nor command, and men bow not the head as I pass along;
yet do I feel within me the consciousness of a great power that
should rule my specie? — not obey. My eye pierces the secret hearts
of men — I see their thoughts ere their lips proclaim them; and I
scorn, while I see, the weakness and the vices which I never shared
— I laugh at the madness of the warrior — I mock within my soul at
the tyranny of kings. Surely there is something in man's nature
more fitted to command — more worthy of renown, than the sinews
of the arm, or the swiftness of the feet, or the accident of birth ! "

As Morven, the son of Osslah, thus mused within himself, still
looking at the heavens, the solitary man beheld a star suddenly
shooting from its place, and speeding through the silent air, till it
suddenly paused right over the midnight river, and facing the inmate
of the pile of stones.

As he gazed upon the star, strange thoughts grew slowly over
him. He drank, as it were, from its solemn aspect, the spirit of a
great design. A dark cloud rapidly passing over the earth, snatched
the star from his sight ; but left to his awakened mind the thoughts
and the dim scheme that had come to him as he gazed.

When the sun arose, one of his brethren relieved him of his charge
over the herd, and l:e went away, but not to his father's home.
Musingly he plunged into the dark and leafless recesses of the winter
foi est ; and shaped out of his wi'd thoughts, more palpably and clearly,
the outline of his daring hope. While thus absorbed he heard a
great noise in the forest, and, fearful lest the hostile tribe of the
Alrich might pierce that way, he ascended one of the loftiest pine-
trees, to whose perpetual verdure the winter had not denied the
shelter he sought, and, concealed by its branches, he looked
anxiously forth in the direction whence the noi?e had proceeded.
And IT came — it came with a tramp and a crash, and a crushing
tread upon the crunched boughs and matted leaves that strewed the
soil — it came — it came, the monster that the world now holds no
more — the mighty Mammoth of the North ! Slowly it moved in its
huge strength along, and its burning eyes glittered through the
gloomy shade ; its jaws, falling apart, showed the grinders with
which it snapped asunder the young oaks of the forest ; and the

200 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

vast tusks, which, curved downward to the midst of ils massive
limbs, glistened white and ghastly, curdling the blood of one
destined hereafter to be the dreadest ruler of the men of that distant
age.

The livid eyes of the monster fastened on the form of the herds-
man, even amidst the thick darkness of the pine. It paused — it
glared upon him — its jaws opened, and a low deep sound, as of
gathering thunder, seemed to the son of Osslah as the knell of a
dreadful grave. But after glaring on him for some moments, it
again, and calmly, pursued its terrible way, crashing the boughs as
it marched along, lill the last sound of its heavy tread died away
upon his ear.1

Ere yet, however, Morven summoned the courage to descend the
tree, he saw the shining of arms through the bare branches of the
wood, and presently a small band of the hostile Alrich came into
sight. He was perfectly hidden from them ; and listening as they
passed him, he heard one say to another, —

" The night covers all things ; why attack them by day?"

And he who seemed the chief of the band, answered,

" Right. To-night, when they sleep in their city, we will upon
them. Lo ! they will be drenched in wine, and fall like sheep into
our hands."

"But where, O chief," said a third of the band, "shall our men
hide during the day ? for there are many hunters among the youth of
the Oestrich tribe, and they might see us in the forest unawares, and
arm their race against our coming."

"I have prepared for that," answered the chief. "Is not the
dark cavern of Oderlin at hand ? Will it not shelter us from the
eyes of the victims ? "

Then the men laughed, and, shouting, they went their way adown
the forest.

When they were gone, Morven cautiously descended, and, striking
into a broad path, hastened to a vale that lay between the forest and
the river in which was the city where the chief of his country dwelt.
As he passed by the warlike men, giants in that day, who thronged
the streets (if streets they might be called), their half garments part-
ing from their huge limbs, the quiver at their backs, and the hunting
spear in their hands, they laughed and shouted out, and, pointing to
him, cried, "Morven, the woman! Morven, the cripple! what dost
thou among men ? "

l The critic will perceive that this sketch of the beast, whose race has perished
is mainly intended to designate the remote period of the world in which the tale
is cast.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE KHINE. 201

For the son of Osslah was small in stature and of slender strength,
and his step had halted from his birth ; but he passed through the
warriors unheedingly. At the outskirts of the city he came upon a
tall pile in which some old men dwelt by themselves, and counselled
the king when times of danger, or when the failure of the season,
the famine or the drought, perplexed the ruler, and clouded the
savage fronts of his warrior tribe.

They gave the counsels of experience, and when experience failed,
they drew in their believing ignorance, assurances, and omens from
the winds of heaven, the changes of the moon, and the nights of the
wandering birds. Filled (by the voices of the elements, and the
variety of mysteries which ever shift along the face of things, un-
solved by the wonder which pauses not, the fear which believes, and
that eternal reasoning of all experience, which assigns causes to
effect) with the notion of superior powers, they assisted their
ignorance by the conjectures of their superstition. But as yet they
knew no craft and practised no voluntary delusion ; they trembled
too much at the mysteries which had created their faith to seek to
belie them. They counselled as they believed, and the bold dream
of governing their warriors and their kings by the wisdom of deceit
had never dared to cross men thus worn and gray with age.

The son of Osslah entered the vast pile with a fearless step, and
approached the place at the upper end of the hall where the old
men sat in conclave.

" How, base-born and craven limbed ! " cried the eldest, who had
been a noted warrior in his day ; " darest thou enter unsummoned
amidst the secret councils of the wise men ? Knowest thou not,
scattering ! that the penalty is death ? "

"Slay me, if thou wilt," answered Morven, "but hear! As I
sat last night in the ruined palace of our ancient kings, tending, as
my father bade me, the sheep that grazed around, lest the fierce
tribe of Alrich should descend unseen from the mountains upon the
herd, a storm came darkly on ; and when the storm had ceased, and
I looked above on the sky, I saw a star descend from its height
towards me, and a voice from the star said, ' Son of Osslah, leave
thy herd and seek the council of the wise men, and say unto them,
that they take thee as one of their number, or that sudden will be
the destruction of them and theirs.' But I had courage to answer
the voice, and I said, ' Mock not the poor son of the herdsman.
Behold they will kill me if I utter so rash a word, for I am poor
and valueless in the eyes of the tribe of Oestrich, and the great in
deeds and the gray of hair alone sit in the council of the wise men. '

"Then the voice said, 'Do my bidding, and I will give thee a

H 2

202 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

token that thou comest from the Powers that sway the seasons and
sail upon the eagles of the winds. Say unto the wise men that this
veiy night, if they refuse to receive thee of their band, evil shall fall
upon them, and the morrow shall dawn in blood.'

"Then the voice ceased, and the cloud passed over the star ; and
I communed with myself, and came, O dread fathers, mournfully
unto you. For I feared that ye would smite me because of my
bold tongue, and that ye would sentence me to the death, in that I
asked what may scarce be given even to the sons of kings."

Then the grim elders looked one at the other, and marvelled
much, nor knew they what answer they should make to the herds-
man's son.

At length one of the wise men said, " Surely there must be truth
in the son of Osslah, for he would not dare to falsify the great lights
of Heaven. If he had given unto men the words of the star, verily
we might doubt the truth. But who would brave the vengeance of
the gods of night ? "

Then the elders shook their heads approvingly ; but one answered
and said —

" Shall we take the herdsman's son as our equal? No ! " The
name of the man who thus answered was Darvan, and his words
were pleasing to the elders.

But Morven spoke out : "Of a truth, O councillors of kings ! I
look not to be an equal with yourselves. Enough if I tend the gates
of your palace, and serve you as the son of Osslah may serve ; " and
he bowed his head humbly as he spoke.

Then said the chief of the elders, for he was wiser than the others,
"But how wilt thou deliver us from the evil that is to come?
Doubtless the star has informed thee of the service thou canst render
to us if we take thee into our palace, as well as the ill that will fall
on us if we refuse."

Morven answered meekly, " Surely, if thou acceptest thy servant,
the star will teach him that which may requite thee ; but as yet he
knows only what he has uttered."

Then the sages bade him withdraw, and they communed with
themselves, and they differed much ; but though fierce men, and
bold at the war-cry of a human foe, they shuddered at the prophecy
of a star. So they resolved to take the son of Osslah, and suffer
him to keep the gate of the council-hall.

He heard their decree and bowed his head, and went to the gate,
and sat down by it in silence.

And the sun we«nt down in the west, and the first stars of the
twilight began to glimmer, when Morven started from his seat, and

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 203

a trembling appeared to seize his limbs. His lips foamed ; an agony
and a fear possessed him ; he writhed as a man whom the spear of
a foeman has pierced with a mortal wound, and suddenly fell upon
his face on the stony earth.

The elders approached him ; wondering, they lifted him up. He
slowly recovered as from a swoon ; his eyes rolled wildly.

" Heard ye not the voice of the star? " he said.

And the chief of the elders answered, "Nay, we heard no sound."

Then Morven sighed heavily.

" To me only the word was given. Summon instantly, O council-
lors of the king ! summon the armed men, and all the youth of the
tribe, and let them take the sword and the spear, and follow thy
servant. For lo ! the star hath announced to him that the foe shall
fall into our hands as the wild beast of the forests."

The son of Osslnh spoke with the voice of command, and the
elders were amazed. " Why pause ye ?" he cried. " Do the gods
of the night lie ? On my head rest the peril if I deceive ye."

Then the elders communed together ; and they went forth and
summoned the men of arms, and all the young of the tribe ; and
each man took the sword and the spear, and Morven also. And
the son of Osslah walked first, still looking up at the star, and he
motioned them to be silent, and move with a stealthy step.

So they went through the thickest of the forest, till they came to
the mouth of a great cave, overgrown with aged and matted trees,
and it was called the Cave of Oderlin ; and he bade the leaders
place the armed men on either side the cave, to the right and to the
left, among the bushes.

So they watched silently till the night deepened, when they
heard a noise in the cave and the sound of feet, and forth came an
armed man ; and the spear of Morven pierced him, and he fall dead
at the mouth of the cave. Another and another, and both fell !
Then loud and long was heard the war-cry of Alrich, and forth
poured, as a stream over a narrow bed, the river of armed men.
And the sons of Oestrich fell upon them, and the foe were sorely
perplexed and terrified by the suddenness of the battle and the
darkness of the night ; and there was a great slaughter.

And when the morning came, the children of Oestrich 'Counted
the slain, and found the leader of Alrich and the chief men of the
tribe amongst them, and great was the joy thereof! So they went
back in triumph to the city, and they carried the brave son of Osslah
on their shoulders, and shouted forth, "Glory to the servant of the
star."

And Morven dwelt in the council of the wise men.

204 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE;

Now the king of the tribe had one daughter, and she was stately
amongst the women of the tribe, and fair to look upon. And Mor-
ven gazed upon her with the eyes of love, but he did not dare to
speak.

Now the son of Osslah laughed secretly at the foolishness of men ;
he loved them not, for they had mocked him ; he honoured them
not, for he had blinded the wisest of their elders. He shunned their
feasts and merriment, and lived apart and solitary. The austerity
of his life increased the mysterious homage which his commune with
the stars had won him, and the boldest of the warriors bowed his
head to the favourite of the gods.

One day he was wandering by the side of the river, and he saw a
large bird of prey rise from the waters, and give chase to a hawk
that had not yet gained the full strength of its wings. From his
youth the solitary Morven had loved to watch, in the great forests
and by the banks of the mighty stream, the habits of the things
which nature has submitted to man ; and looking now on the birds,
he said to himself, "Thus is it ever; by cunning or by strength
each thing wishes to master its kind." While thus moralizing, the
larger bird had stricken down the hawk, and it fell terrified and
panting at his feet. Morven took the hawk in his hands, and the
vulture shrieked above him, wheeling nearer and nearer to its pro-
tected prey ; but Morven scared away the vulture, and placing the
hawk in his bosom he carried it home, and tended it carefully, and
fed it from his hand until it had regained its strength ; and the hawk
knew him, and followed him as a dog. And Morven said, smiling
to himself, "Behold, the credulous fools around me put faith in the
flight and motion of birds. I will teach this poor hawk to minister
to my ends." So he tamed the bird, and tutored it according to its
nature ; but he concealed it carefully from others, and cherished it
in secret.

The king of the country was old and like to die, and the eyes of
the tribe were Itarned to his two sons, nor knew they which was the
worthier to reign. And Morven passing through the forest one
evening, saw ti.e younger of the two, who was a great hunter, sitting
mournfully under an oak, and looking with musing eyes upon the
ground.

" Wherefore musest thou, O swift-footed Siror ? " said the son
of Osslah ; " and wherefore art thou sad ? "

"Thou canst not assist me," answered the prince, sternly;
" take thy way."

"Nay, "answered Morven, "thou knowest not what thou sayest ;
am I not the favourite of the stars ? "

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 205

" Away, I am no graybeard whom the approach of death makes
doting : talk not to me of the stars ; I know only the things that
my eye sees and my ear drinks in."

" Hush," said Morven, solemnly, and covering his face ; "hush !
lest the heavens avenge thy rashness. But, behold, the stars have
given unto me to pierce the secret hearts of others ; and I can tell
thee the thoughts of thine."

" Speak out, base-born ! "

"Thou art the younger of two, and thy name is less known in
war than the name of thy brother : yet wouldst thou desire to be
set over his head, and to sit on the high seat of thy father ? "

The young man turned pale. "Thou hast truth in thy lips,"
said he, with a faltering voice.

" Not from me, but from the stars, descends the truth."

" Can the stars grant my wish ? "

"They can: let us meet to-morrow." Thus saying, Morven
passed into the forest.

The next day, at noon, they met again.

" I have consulted the gods of night, and they have given me the
power that I prayed for, but on one condition."

"Name it."

" That thou sacrifice thy sister on their altars ; thou must build
up a heap of stones, and take thy sister into the wood, and lay her
on the pile, and plunge thy sword into her heart ; so only shall thou
reign."

The prince shuddered, and started to his feet, and shook his spear
at the pale front of Morven.

"Tremble," said the son of Osslah, with a loud voice. " Hark
to the gods who threaten thee with death, that thou hast dared to
lift thine arm against their servant ! "

As he spoke, the thunder rolled above ; for one of the frequent
storms of the early summer was about to break. The spear dropped
from the prince's hand ; he sat down, and cast his eyes on the
ground.

"Wilt thou do the bidding of the stars, and reign?" said
Morven.

" I will ! " cried Siror, with a desperate voice.

"This evening, then, when the sun sets, thou wilt lead her
hither, alone ; I may not attend thee. Now, let us pile the
stones."

Silently the huntsman bent his vast strength to the fragments of
rock that Morven pointed to him, and they built the altar, and
went their way.

206 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

And beautiful is the dying of the great sun, when the last song
of the birds fades into the lap of silence ; when the islands of the
cloud are bathed in light, and the first star springs up over the grave
of day !

"Whither leadest thou my steps, my brother?" said Orna ;
"and why doth thy lip quiver? and why dost thou turn away thy
face ? "

"Is not the forest beautiful; does it not tempt us forth, my
sister?"

' And wherefore are those heaps of stone piled together ? "
' Let others answer ; / piled them not."
'Thou tremblest, brother: we will return."

' Not so ; by those stones is a bird that my shaft pierced to-day ;
a bird of beautiful plumage that I slew for thee."

' We are by the pile : where hast thou laid the bird ? "
1 Here ! " cried Siror ; and he seized the maiden in his arms,
and, casting her on the rude altar, he drew forth his sword to smite
her to the heart.

Right over the stones rose a giant oak, the growth of immemorial
ages ; and from the oak, or from the heavens", broke forth a loud
and solemn voice, " Strike not, son of kings ! the stars forbear their
own : the maiden thou shalt not slay ; yet shalt thou reign over the
race of Oestrich ; and thou shalt give Orna as a bride to the favourite
of the stars. Arise, and go thy way ! "

The voice ceased : the terror of Orna had overpowered for a time
the springs of life ; and Siror bore her home through the wood in
his strong arms.

" Alas ! " said Morven, when, at the next day, he again met the
aspiring prince ; " alas ! the stars have ordained me a lot which my
heart desires not : for I, lonely of life, and crippled of shape, am
insensible to the fires of love ; and ever, as thou and thy tribe know,
I have shunned the eyes of women, for the maidens laughed at my
halting step and my sullen features ; and so in my youth I learned
betimes to banish all thoughts of love. But since they told me (as
they declared to thee), that only through that marriage, thou, O
beloved prince ! canst obtain thy father's plumed crown, I yield me
to their will."

" But," said the prince, " not until I am king can I give thee my
sister in marriage ; for thou knowest that my sire would smite me to
the dust, if I asked him to give the flower of our race to the son of
the herdsman Osslah."

"Thou speakest the words of truth. Go home and fear not :
but, when thou art king, the sacrifice must be made, and Orna

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 207

mine. Alas ! how can I dare to lift my eyes to her ! But so ordain
the dread kings of the night ! — who shall gainsay their word?"

"The day that sees me king, sees Orna thine," answered the
prince.

Morven walked forth, as was his wont, alone ; and he said to
himself, "The king is old, yet may he live long between me
and mine hope ! " and he began to cast in his mind how he might
shorten the time. Thus absorbed, he wandered on so unheedingly,
that night advanced, and he had lost his path among the thick
woods, and knew not how to regain his home : so he lay down
quietly beneath a tree> and rested till day dawned ; then hunger
came upon him, and he searched among the bushes for such simple
roots as those with which, for he was ever careless of food, he was
used to appease the cravings of nature.

He found, among other more familiar herbs and roots, a red
berry of a sweetish taste, which he had never observed before. He
ate of it sparingly, and had not proceeded far in the wood before he
found his eyes swim, and a deadly sickness came over him. For
several hours he lay convulsed on the ground expecting death ; but
the gaunt spareness of his frame, and his unvarying abstinence,
prevailed over the poison, and he recovered slowly, and after great
anguish : but he went with feeble steps back to the spot where the
berries grew, and, plucking several, hid them in his bosom, and by
nightfall regained the city.

The next day he went forth among his father's herds, and seizing
a lamb, forced some of the berries into his stomach, and the lamb,
escaping, ran away,, and fell down dead. Then Morven took some
more of the berries and boiled them down, and mixed the juice with
wine, and he gave the wine in secret to one of his father's servants,
and the servant died.

Then Morven sought the king, and coming into his presence
alone, he said unto him, " How fares my lord?"

The king sat on a couch, made of the skins of wolves, and his
eye was glassy and dim ; but vast were his aged limbs, and huge
was his stature, and he had been taller by a head than the children
of men, and none living could bend the bow he had bent in youth.
Gray, gaunt, and worn, as some mighty bones that are dug at times
from the bosom of the earth, — a relic of the strength of old.

And the 'king said, faintly, and with a ghastly laugh, —

" The men of my years fare ill. What avails my strength ?
Better had I been bom a cripple like thee, so should I have had
nothing to lament in growing old."

The red flush passed over Morven's brow ; but he bent humbly, —

208 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

" O king, what if I could give tbee back thy youth ? what if I
could restore to thee the vigour which distinguished thee above the
sons of men, when the warriors of Alrich fell like grass before thy
sword ? "

Then the king uplifted his dull eyes, and he said, —
" What meanest thou, son of Osslah ? Surely I hear much of
thy great wisdom, and how thou speakest nightly with the stars.
Can the gods of the night give unto thee the secret to make the old
young ? "

"Tempt them not by doubt," said Morven, reverently. "All
things are possible to the rulers of the dark hour ; and, lo ! the star
that loves thy servant spake to him at the dead of night, and said,
' Arise, and go unto the king ; and tell him that the stars honour
the tribe of Oestrich, and remember how the king bent his bow
against the sons of Alrich ; wherefore, look thou under the stone
that lies to the right of thy dwelling — even beside the pine-tree, and
thou shalt see a vessel of clay, and in the vessel thou wilt find a
sweet liquid, that shall make the king thy master forget his age for
ever.' Therefore, my lord, when the morning rose I went forth,
and looked under the stone, and behold the vessel of clay ; and I
have brought it hither to my lord, the king."

" Quick — slave — quick ! that I may drink and regain my youth ! "

" May, listen, O king ! farther said the star to me :

" ' It is only at night, when the stars have power, that this their
gift will avail ; wherefore, the king must wait till the hush of the
midnight, when the moon is high, and then may he mingle the
liquid with his wine. And he must reveal to none that he hath
received the gift from the hand of the servant of the stars. For
THEY do their work in secret, and when men sleep ; therefore they
love not the babble of mouths, and he who reveals their benefits
shall surely die.' "

" Fear not," said the king, grasping the vessel ; " none shall
know ; and, behold, I will rise on the morrow ; and my two sons —
wrangling for my crown, — verily I shall be younger than they ! "

Then the king laughed loud ; and he scarcely thanked the servant
of the stars, neither did he promise him reward : for the kings in
those days had little thought, — save for themselves.

And Morven said to him, " Shall I not attend my lord? for with-
out me, perchance, the drug might fail of its effect."

"Ay," said the king, "rest here."

"Nay," replied Morven; "thy servants will marvel and talk
much, if they see the son of Osslah sojourning in thy palace. So
would the displeasure of the go;ls of night perchance be incurred.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 209

Suffer that the lesser door of the palace be unbarred, so that at the
night hour, when the moon is midway in the heavens, I may sleal
unseen into thy chamber, and mix the liquid with thy wine "

"So be it," said the king. " Thou art wise, though thy limbs
are crooked and curt ; and the stars might have chosen a taller
man." Then the king laughed again ; and Morven laughed too, but
there was danger in the mirth of the son of Osslah.

The night had begun to wane, and the inhabitants of Oestrich
were buried in deep slee;>, when, hark ! a sharp voice was heard
crying out in the streets, " Woe, woe ! Awake, ye sons of Oestrich
— woe ! " Then forth, wild — haggard — alarmed — spear in hand,
rushed the giant sons of the rugged tribe, and they saw a man on a
height in the middle of the city, shrieking " Woe ! " and it was
Morven, the son of Osslah '. And he said unto them, as they
gathered round him, " Men and warriors, tremble as ye hear. The
star of the west hath spoken to me, and thus said the star : — ' Evil
shall fall upon the kingly house of Oestrich, — yea, ere the morning
dawn ; wherefore, go thou mourning into the streets, and wake the
inhabitants to woe ! ' So I rose and did the bidding of the star."
And while Morven was yet speaking, a servant of the king's house
ran up to the crowd, crying loudly — "The king is dead ! " So they
went into the palace and found the king stark upon his couch, and
his huge limbs ail cramped and crippled by the pangs of death, and
his hands clenched as if in menace of a foe — the Foe of all living
flesh ! Then fear came on the gazers, and they looked on Morven
with a deeper awe than the boldest warrior would have called forth ;
and they bore him back to the council-hall of the wise men, wailing
and clashing their arms in woe, and shouting, ever and anon,
" Honour to Morven the prophet!" And that was the first time
the word PROPHET was ever used in those countries.

At noon, on the third day from the king's death, Siror sought
Morven, and he said, "Lo, my father is no more, and the people
meet this evening at sunset to elect his successor, and the warriors
and the young men will surely choose my brother, for he is more
known in war. Fail me not, therefore."

" Peace, boy ! " said Morven, sternly ; "nor dare to question the
truth of the gods of night."

For Morven now began to presume on his power among the
people, and to speak as rulers speak, even to the sons of kings.
And the voice silenced the fiery Siror, nor dared he to reply.

" Behold," i-aid Morven, taking up a chaplet of coloured plumes,
" wear this on thy head, and put on a brave face, for the people like
a hopeful spirit, and go down with thy brother to the place where

210 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

the new king is to be chosen, and leave the rest to the stars. But,
above all things, forget not that chaplet ; it has been blessed by the
gods of night."

The prince took the chaplet and returned home,

It was evening, and the warriors and chiefs of the tribe were
assembled in the place where tiie new king was to be elected. And
the voices of the many favoured Prince Voltoch, the brother of Siror,
for he had slain twelve foemen with his spear; and verily, in those
days, that was a great virtue in a king.

Suddenly there was a shout in the streets, and the people cried
out, " Way for Morven the prophet, the prophet ! " For the people
held the son of Osslah in even greater respect than did the chiefs.
Now, since he had become of note, Morven had assumed a majesty
of air which the son of the herdsman knew not in his earlier days ;
and albeit his stature %vas short, and his limbs halted, yet his counte-
nance was grave and high. He only of the tribe wore a garment that
swept the ground, and his head was bare, and his long black hair
descended to his girdle, and rarely was change or human passion
seen in his calm aspect. He feasted not, nor drank wine, nor was
his presence frequent in the streets. He laughed not, neither did he
smile, save when alone in the forest, — and then he laughed at the
follies of his tribe.

So he walked slowly through the crowd, neither turning to the left
nor to the right, as the crowd gave way ; and he supported his steps
with a staff of the knotted pine.

And when he came to the place where the chiefs were met, and
the two princes stood in the centre, he bade the people around him
proclaim silence ; then mounting on a huge fragment of rock, he
thus spake to the multitude : —

" Princes, Warriors, and Bards ! ye, O council of the wise men !
and ye, O hunters of the forests, and snarers of the fishes of the
streams ! hearken to Morven, the son of Osslah. Ye know that I
am lowly of race, and weak of limb ; but did I not give into your
hands the tribe of A I rich, and did ye not slay them in the dead of
night with a great slaughter? Surely, ye must know this of himself
did not the herdsman's son ; surely he was but the agent of the
bright gods that love the children of Oestrich? three nights since
when slumber was on the earth, was not my voice heard in the
streets ! Did I not proclaim woe to the kingly house of Oestrich !
and verily the dark arm had fallen on the bosom of the mighty, that
is no more. Could I have dreamed this thing merely in a dream,
or was I not as the' voice of the bright gods that watch over the
tribes of Oestrich ? Wherefore, O men and chiefs ! scorn not the

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 211

son of Osslah. but listen to his words ; for are they not the wisdom
of the stars ? Behold, last night, I sat alone in the valley, and the
trees were hushed around and not a breath stirred ; and I looked
upon the star that counsels the son of Osslah ; and I said, ' Dread
conqueror of the cloud ! thou that bathest thy beauty in the streams
and piercest the pine-boughs with thy presence ; behold thy servant
grieved because the mighty one hath passed away, and many foes
surround the houses of my brethren ; and it is well that they should
have a king valiant and prosperous in war, the cherished of the stars.
Wherefore, O star ! as thou gavest into our hands the warriors of
Alrich, and didst warn us of the fall of' the oak of our tribe, where-
fore I pray thee give unto the people a token that they may choose
that king whom the gods of the night prefer ! ' Then a low voice,
sweeter than the music of the bard, stole along the silence. ' Thy
love for thy race is grateful to the stars of night : go, then, son of
Osslah, and seek the meeting of the chiefs and the people to choose
a king, and tell them not to scorn thee because thou art slow to the
chase, and little known in war ; for the stars give thee wisdom as a
recompense for all. Say unto the people that as the wise men of the
council shape their lessons by the flight of birds, so by the flight of
birds shall a token be given unto them, and they shall choose their
kings. For, saith the star of night, the birds are the children of the
winds, they pass to and fro along the ocean of the air, and visit the
clouds that are the war-ships of the gods. And their music is but
broken melodies which they glean from the harps above. Are they
not the messengers of the storm ? Ere the stream chafes against the
bank, and the rain descends, know ye not, by the wail of birds and
their low circles over the earth, that the tempest is at hand ? Where-
fore, wisely do ye deem that the children of the air are the fit
interpreters between the sons of men and the lords of the world
above. Say then to the people and the chiefs, that they shall take,
from among the doves that build their nests in the roof of the palace,
a white dove, and they shall let it loose in the air, and verily the
gods of the night shall deem the dove as a prayer coming from the
people, and they shall send a messenger to grant the prayer and give
to the tribes of Oestrich a king worthy of themselves.'
" With that the star spoke no more."

Then the friends of Voltoch murmured among themselves, and
they said, " Shall this man dictate to us who shall be king?" But
the people and the warriors shouted, " Listen to the star ; do we not
give or deny battle according as the bird flies, — shall we not by the
same token choose him by whom the battle should be led ? " And

212 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

the thing seemed natural to them, for it was after the custom of the
tribe. Then they took one of the doves that built in the roof of the
palace, and they brought it to the spot where Morven stood, and he,
looking up to the stars and muttering to himself, released the bird.

There was a copse of trees' at a little distance from the spot, and
as the dove ascended, a hawk suddenly rose from the copse and
pursued the dove ; and the dove was terrified, and soared circling
high above the crowd, when lo, the hawk, poising itself one moment
on its wings, swooped with a sudden swoop, and, abandoning its
prey, alighted on the plumed head of Siror.

" Behold," cried Morven in a loud voice, "behold your king ! "

"Hail, all hail the king!" shouted the people. "All hail the
chosen of the stars ! "

Then Morven lifted his right hand, and the hawk left the prince,
and alighted on Morven's shoulder. "Bird of the gods ! " said he,
reverently, "hast thou not a secret message for my ear?" Then
the hawk put its beak to Morven's ear, and Morven bowed his head
submissively ; and the hawk rested with Morven from that moment
and would not be scared away. And Morven said, " The stars have
sent me this bird, that, in the day-time when I see them not, we
may never be without a councillor in distress."

So Siror was made king, and Morven the son of Osslah was con-
strained by the king's will to take Orna for his wife ; and the people
and the chiefs honoured Morven the prophet above all the elders of
the tribe.

One day Morven said unto himself, musing, "Am I not already
equal with the king ! nay, is not the king my servant ? did I not
place him over the heads of his brothers? am I not, therefore, more
fit to reign than he is? shall I not push him from his seat? It is a
troublesome and stoimy office to reign over the wild men of Oestrich,
to feast in the crowded hall, and to lead the warriors to the fray.
Surely if I feasted not, neither went out to war, they might say, this
is no king, but the cripple Morven ; and some of the race of Siror
might slay me secretly. But can I not be greater far than kings,
and continue to choose and govern them, living as now at my own
ease? Verily the stars shall give me a new palace, and many
subjects."

Among the wise men was Darvan ; and Morven feared him, for
his eye often sought the movements of the son of Osslah.

And Morven said, " It were better to trust this man than to blind,
for surely I want a helpmate and a friend." So he said to the wise
man as he sat alone watching the setting sun,

"It seemeth tome, O Darvan! that we ought to build a great

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 213

-pile -in honour of the stars, and the pile should be more glorious than
all the palaces of the chiefs and the palace of the king ; for are not
the stars our masters? And thou and I should be the chief dwellers
in this new palace, and we would serve the gods of night and fatten
their altars with the choicest of the herd, and the freshest of the
fruits of the earth."

And Darvan said, " Thou speakest as becomes the servant of the
•stars. But will the people help to build the pile, for they are a
warlike race and they love not toil ? "

And Morven answered, " Doubtless the stars will ordain the work
to be done. Fear not. "

"In truth thou art a wondrous man, thy words ever come to
pass," answered Darvan; "and I wish thou wouldest teach me,
friend, the language of the stars."

"Assuredly if thou servest me, thou shall know," answered the
proud Morven ; and Darvan was secretly wroth that the son of the
herdsman should command the service of an elder and a chief.

And when Morven returned to his wife he found her weeping
much. Now she loved the son of Osslah with an exceeding love,
for he was not savage and fierce as the men she had known, and she
was proud of his fame among the tribe ; and he took her in his arms
and kissed her, and asked her why she wept. Then she told him
that her brother the king had visited her and had spoken bitter
words of Morven : " He taketh from me the affection of my people,"
said Siror, "and blindeth them with lies. And since he hath made
me king, what if he take my kingdom from me ? Verily a new tale
of the stars might undo the old." And the king had ordered her to
keep watch on Morven's secrecy, and to see whether truth was in
him when he boasted of his commune with the Powers of night.

But Orna loved Morven better than Siror, therefore she told her
husband all.

And Morven resented the king's ingratitude, and was troubled
much, for a king is a powerful foe ; but he comforted Orna, and
bade her dissemble, and complain also of him to her brother, so that
he might confide to her unsuspectingly whatsoever he n.ight design
against Morven.

There was a cave by Morven's house in which he kept the sacred
hawk, and wherein he secretly trained and nurtured other birds
against future need, and the door of the cave was always barred.
And one day he was thus engaged when he beheld a chink in the
wall, that he had never noted before, and the sun came playfully in ;
and while he looked he perceived the sunbeam was darkened, and
presently he saw a human face peering in through the chink. And

214 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

Morven trembled, for he knew he had been watched. He ran
hastily from the cave, but the spy had disappeared amongst the
trees, and Morven went straight to the chamber of Darvan and sat
himself down. And Darvan did not return home till late, and he
started and turned pale when he saw Morven. But Morven greeted
him as a brother, and bade him to a feast, which, for the first time,
he purposed giving at the full of the moon, in honour of the stars.
And going out of Darvan's chamber he returned to his wife, and bade
her rend her hair, and go at the dawn of day to the king her brother,
and complain bitterly of Morven's treatment, and pluck the black
plans from the breast of the king. " For surely," said he, "Darvan
hath lied to thy brother, and some evil waits me that I would fain
know."

So the next morning Orna sought the king, and she said, " The
herdsman's son hath reviled me, and spoken harsh words to me ;
shall I not be avenged?"

Then the king stamped his feet and shook his mighty sword.
" Surely thou shall be avenged, for I have learned from one of the
elders that which convinceth me that the man hath lied to the people,
and the base-born shall surely die. Yea, the first time that he goeth
alone into the forest my brother and I will fall upon him, and
smite him to the death." And with this comfort Siror dismissed
Orna.

And Orna flung herself at the feet of her husband. " Fly now, O
my beloved ! — fly into the forests afar from my brethren, or surely
the sword of Siror will end thy days."

Then the son of Osslah folded his arms, and seemed buried in
black thoughts ; nor did he heed the voice of Orna, until again and
again she had implored him to fly.

" Fly ! " he said at length. " Nay, I was doubting what punish-
ment the stars should pour down upon our foe. Let warriors fly.
Morven the prophet conquers by arms mightier than the sword."

Nevertheless Morven was perplexed in his mind, and knew not
how to save himself from the vengeance of the king. Now, while
he was musing hopelessly, he heard a roar of waters ; and behold
the river, for it was now the end of autumn, had burst its bounds,
and was rushing along the valley to the houses of the city. And
now the men of the tribe, and the women, and the children, came
running, and with shrieks to Morven's house, crying, "Behold the
river has burst upon us ! — Save us, O ruler of the stars ! "

Then the sudden thought broke upon Morven, and he resolved to
risk his fate upon one desperate scheme.

And he came out from the house calm and sad, and he said, " Ye

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 215

know not what ye ask ; I cannot save ye from this peril : ye have
brought it on yourselves."

And they cried, "How? O son of Osslah ! — we are ignorant of
our crime."

And he answered, " Go down to the king's palace and wait before
it, and surely I will follow ye, and ye shall learn wherefore ye have
incurred this punishment from the gods." Then the crowd rolled
murmuring back, as a receding sea ; and when it was gone from the
place, Morven went alone to the house of Darvan, which was next
his own : and Darvan was greatly terrified, for he was of a great agCj
and had no children, neither friends, and he feared that he could not
of himself escape the waters.

And Morven said to him, soothingly, " Lo, the people love me,
and I will see that thou art saved ; for verily thou hast been friendly
to me, and done me much service with the king."

And as he thus spake, Morven opened the door of the house and
looked forth, and saw that they were quite alone ; then he seized the
old man by the throat, and ceased not his gripe till he was quite
dead. And leaving the body of the elder on the floor, Morven stole
from the house and shut the gate. And as he was going to his cave
he mused a little while, when, hearing the mighty roar of the waves
advancing, and far off the shrieks of women, he lifted up his head,
and said, proudly, "No! in this hour terror alone shall be my
slave ; I will use no art save the power of my soul." So, leaning
on his pine-staff, he strode down to the palace. And it was now
evening, and many of the men held torches, that they might see each
other's faces in the universal fear. Red flashed the quivering flames
on the dark robes and pale front of Morven ; and he seemed mightier
than the rest, because his face alone was calm amidst the tumult.
And louder and hoarser came the roar of the waters ; and swift
rushed the shades of night over the hastening tide.

And Morven said in a stern voice, " Where is the king ; and
wherefore is he absent from his people in the hour of dread ? " Then
the gate of the palace opened, and, behold, Siror was sitting in the
hail by the vast pine-fire, and his brother by his side, and his chiefs
around him : for they would not deign to come amongst the crowd
at the bidding of the herdsman's son.

Then Morven, standing upon a rock above the heads of the people
(the same rock whereon he had proclaimed the king), thus
spake : —

"Ye desired to know, O sons of Oestrich ! wherefore the river
hath burst its bounds, and the peril hath come upon you. Learn,
then, that the stars resent as the foulest of human crimes an insult

216 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

to their se vants and delegates below. Ye are all aware of the
manner of life of Morven, whom ye have surnamed the Prophet !
He harms not man nor beast ; he lives alone ; and, far from the
wild joys of the warrior tribe, he worships in awe and fear the
Powers of Night. So is he able to advise ye of the coming danger,
• — so is he able to save ye from the foe. Thus are your huntsmen
swift and your warriors bold ; and thus do your cattle bring forth
their young, and the earth its fruits. What think ye, and what <lo
ye ask to hear ? Listen, men of Oestrich ! — they have laid snares
for my life ; and there are amongst you those who have whetted the
sword against the bosom that is only filled with love for you ail.
Therefore have the stern lords of heaven loosened the chains of the
river — therefore doth this evil menace ye. Neither will it pass away
until they who dug the pit for the servant of the stars are buried in
the same."

Then, by the red torches, the faces of the men looked fierce and
threatening ; and ten thousand voices shouted forth, " Name them
who conspired against thy life, O holy prophet ! and surely they
shall be torn limb from limb."

And Morven turned aside, and they saw that he wept bitterly ;
and he said,

"Ye have asked me, and I have answered : but now scarce will
ye believe the foe that I have provoked against me ; and by the
heavens themselves I swear, that if my death would satisfy their
fury, nor bring down upon yourselves and your children's children,
the anger of the throned stars, gladly would I give my bosom to the
knife. Yes," he cried, lifting up his voice, and pointing his shadowy
arm towards the hall where the king sat by the pine-fire — "yes,
thou whom by my voice the stars chose above thy brother — yes,
Siror, the guilty one ! take thy sword, and come hither — strike, if
thou hast the heart to strike, the Prophet of the Gods ! "

The king started to his feet, and the crowd were hushed in a
shuddering silence.
Morven resumed :

" Know then, O men of Oestrich ! that Siror, and Voltoch his
brother, and Darvan the elder of the wise men, have purposed to
slay your prophet, even at such hour as when alone he seeks the
shade of the forest to devise new benefits for you. Let the king
deny it, if he can ! "

Then Voltoch, of the giant limbs, strode forth from the hall, and
•his spear quivered in his hand.

" Rightly hast thou spoken, base son of my father's herdsman
and for thy sins shalt thou surely die; for thou liest when thou

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 217

speakest of thy power with the stars, and thou laughest at the folly
of them who hear thee : wherefore put him to death."

Then the chiefs in the hall clashed their arms, and rushed forth to
slay the son of Osslah.

But he, stretching his unarmed hands on high, exclaimed, " Hear
him, O dread ones of the night ! — hark how he blasphemeth ! "

Then the crowd took up the word, and cried, " He blasphemeth
— he blasphemeth against the prophet ! "

But the king and the chiefs who hated Morven, because of his
power with the people, rushed into the crowd ; and the crowd were
irresolute, nor knew they how to act, for never yet had they rebelled
against their chiefs, and they feared alike the prophet and the
king.

And Siror cried, "Summon Darvan to us, for he hath watched
the steps of Morven, and he shall lift the veil from my people's
eyes." Then three of the swift of foot started forth to the house of
Darvan.

And Morven cried out with a loud voice, " Hark ! thus saith the
star who, now riding through yonder cloud, breaks forth upon my
eyes — 'For the lie that the elder hath uttered against my servant,
the curse of the stars shall fall upon him.' Seek, and as ye find him
so may ye find ever the foes of Morven and the gods ! "

A chill and an icy fear fell over the crowd, and even the cheek of
Siror grew pale ; and Morven, erect and dark above the waving
torches, stood motionless with folded arms. And hark — far and fast
came on the war-steeds of the wave — the people heard them marching
to the land, and tossing their white manes in the roaring wind.

" Lo, as ye listen," said Morven, calmly, "the river sweeps on.
Haste, for the gods will have a victim, be it your prophet or your
king."

" Slave ! " shouted Siror, and his spear left his hand, and far
above the heads of the crowd sped hissing beside the dark form of
Morven, and rent the trunk of the oak behind. Then the people,
wroth at the danger of their beloved seer, uttered a wild yell, and
gathered round him with brandished swords, facing their chieftains
and their king. But at that instant, ere the war had broken forth
among the tribe, the three warriors returned, and they bore Darvan
on their shoulders, and laid him at the feet of the king, and they
said tremblingly, " Thus found we the elder in the centre of his own
hall." And the people saw that Darvan was a corpse, and that the
prediction of Morven was thus verified. " So perish the enemies of
Morven and the stars ! " cried the son of Osslah. And the people
echoed the cry. Then the fury of Siror was at its height, and

218 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

waving his sword above his head lie plunged into the crowd, "Thy
blood, baseborn, or mine ! "

"So be it!" answered Morven, quailing not. "People, smite
the blasphemer ! Hark how the river pours down upon your children
and your hearths ! On, on. or ye perish ! "

And Siror fell, pierced by five hundred spears.

"Smite ! smite ! " cried Morven, as the chiefs of the royal house
gathered round the king. And the clash of swords, and the gleam
of spears, and the cries of the dying, and the yell of the trampling
people, mingled with the roar of the elements, and the voices of the
rushing wave.

Three hundred of the chiefs perished that night by the swords of
their own tribe. And the last cry of the victors was, " Morven the
prophet, — Morven the king! "

And the son of Osslah, seeing the waves now spreading over the
valley, led Orna his wife, and the men of Oestrich, their women,
and their children, to a high mount, where they waited the dawning
sun. But Orna sat apart and wept bitterly, for her brothers were no
more, and her race had perished from the earth. And Morven sought
to comfort her in vain.

When the morning rose, they saw that the river had overspread
the greater part of the city, and now stayed its course among the
hollows of the vale. Then Morven said to the people, "The star-
kings are avenged, and their wrath appeased. Tarry only here until
the waters have melted into the crevices of the soil." And on the
fourth day they returned to the city, and no man dared to name
another, save Morven, as the king.

But Morven retired into his cave and mused deeply ; and then
assembling the people, he gave them new laws ; and he made them
build a mighty temple in honour of the stars, and made them heap
within it all that the tribe held most precious. And he took unto
him fifty children from the most famous of the tribe ; and he took
also ten from among the men who had served him best, and he
ordained that they should serve the stars in the great temple : and
Morven was their chief. And he put away the crown they pressed
upon him, and he chose from among the elders a new king. And
he ordained that henceforth the servants only of the stars in the
great temple should elect the king and the rulers, and hold council,
and proclaim war : but he suffered the king to feast, and to hunt,
and to make merry in the banquet-halls. And Morven built altars
in the temple, and was the first who, in the North, sacrificed the
beast and the bird, and afterwards human flesh, upon the altars.
And lie drew auguries from the entrails of the victim, and made

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 219

schools for the science of the prophet ; and Morven's piety was the
wonder of the tribe, in that he refused to he a king. And Morven
the high priest was ten thousand times mightier than the king. He
taught the people to till the ground, and to sow the herb ; and by
his wisdom, and the valour that his prophecies instilled into men,
he conquered all the neighbouring tribes. And the sons of Oestrich
spread themselves over a mighty empire, and with them spread the
name and the laws of Morven. And in every province which he
conquered, he ordered them to build a temple to the stars.

But a heavy sorrow fell upon the fears of Morven. The sister of
Siror bowed down her head, and survived not long the slaughter of
her race. And she left Morven childless. And he mourned bitterly
and as one distraught, for her only in the world had his heart the
power to love. And he sat down and covered his face, saying : —

" Lo ! I have toiled and travailed ; and never before in the world
did man conquer what I have conquered. Verily the empire of the
iron thews and the giant limbs is no more ! I have founded a new
power, that henceforth shall sway the lands ; — the empire of a plot-
ting brain and a commanding mind. But, behold ! my fate is barren,
and I feel already that it will grow neither fruit nor tree as a shelter
to mine old age. Desolate and lonely shall I pass unto my grave.
O Orna ! my beautiful ! my loved I none were like unto thee, and
to thy love do I owe my glory and my life ! Would for thy sake, O
sweet bird ! that nestled in the dark cavern of my heart,- — would for
thy sake that thy brethren had been spared, for verily with my life
would I have purchased thine. Alas ! only when I lost ihee did I
find that thy love was dearer to me than the fear of others ! " And
Morven mourned night and day, and none might comfort him.

But from that time forth he gave himself solely up to the cares of
his calling ; and his nature and his affections, and whatever there
was yet left soft in him, grew hard like stone ; and he was a man
without love, and he forbade love and marriage to the priest.

Now, in his latter years, there arose other prophets ; for the world
had grown wiser even by Morven's wisdom, and some did say unto
themselves, "Behold Morven, the herdsman's son, is a king of
kings: this did the stars for their servant; shall we not also be
servants to the star ? "

And they wore black garments like Morven, and went about
prophesying of what the stars foretold them. And Morven was
exceeding wroth ; for he, more than other men, knew that the
prophets lied ; wherefore he went forth against them with the
minis' ers of the temple, and he took them, and burned them by a
slow fire : for thus said Morven to the people: — " A true prophet

220 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

hath honour, but / only am a true prophet ; — to all false prophets
there shall be surely death."

And the people applauded the piety of the son of Osslah.

And Morven educated the wisest of the children in the mysteries
of the temple, so that they grew up to succeed him worthily.

And lie died full of years and honour ; and they carved his effigy
on a mighty stone before the temple, and the effigy endured for a
thousand ages, and whoso looked on it trembled ; for the face was
calm with the calmness of unspeakable awe !

And Morven was the first mortal of the North that made Religion
the stepping-stone to Power. Of a surety Morven was a great man !

It was the last night of the old year, and the stars sat, each upon
his ruby throne, and watched with sleepless eyes upon the world.
The night was dark and troubled, the dread winds were abroad, and
fast and frequent hurried the clouds beneath the thrones of the king*
of night. And ever and anon fiery meteors flashed along the depths
of heaven, and were again swallowed up in the grave of darkness.
But far below his brethren, and with a lurid haze around his orb, sat
the discontented star that had watched over the hunters of the North.

And on the lowest abyss of space there was spread a thick and
mighty gloom, from which, as from a caldron, rose columns of
wreathing smoke ; and still, When the great winds rested for an
instant on iheir paths, voices of woe and laughter, mingled with
shrieks, were heard booming from the abyss to the upper air.

And now, in the middest night, a vast figure rose slowly from the
abyss, and its wings threw blackness over the world. High upward
to the throne of the discontented star sailed the fearful shape, and
the star trembled on his throne when the form stood before him face
to face.

And the shape said, " Hail, brother ! — all hail ! "

" I know thee not," answered the star ; " thou art not the arch-
angel that visitest the kings of night."

And the shape laughed loud. " I am the fallen star of the
morning ! — I am Lucifer, thy brother ! Hast thou not, O sullen
king ! served me and mine ? and hast thou not wrested the earth
from thy Lord who sittest above, and given it to me, by darkening
the souls of men with the religion of fear? Wherefore come,
brother, come ; — thou hast a throne prepared beside my own in the
fiery gloom — Come ! The heavens are no more for thee ? "

Then the star rose from his throne, and descended to the side of
Lucifer. For ever hath the spirit of discontent had sympathy with
the soul of pride. And they sank slowly down to the gulf of gloom.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 221

It was the first night of the new year, and the stars sat each on
his ruby throne, and watched with sleepless eyes upon the world.
Hut sorrow dimmed the bright faces of the kings of night, for they
mourned in silence and in fear for a fallen brother.

And the gates of the heaven of heavens flew open with a golden
sound, and the swift archangel fled down on his silent wings ; and
the archangel gave to each of the stars, as before, the message of
his Lord ; and to each star was his appointed charge. And when
the heraldry seemed done there came a laugh from the abyss of
gloom, and half-way from the gulf rose the lurid shape of Lucifer
the fiend !

" Thou countest thy flock ill, O radiant shepherd ! Behold ! one
star is missing from the three thousand and ten ! "

" Back to thy gulf, false Lucifer ! — the throne of thy brother hath
been filled."

And, lo ! as the archangel spake, the stars beheld a young and
all-lustrous stranger on the throne of the erring star ; and his face
was so soft to look upon, that the dimmest of human eyes might
h.ave gazed upon its splendour unabashed : but the dark fiend alone
was dazzled by its lustre, and, with a yell that shook the flaming
pillars of the universe, he plunged backward into the gloom.

Then, far and sweet from the arch unseen, came forth the voice
of God, —

"Behold ! on the throne of the discontented star sits the star of
Hope ; and he that breathed into mankind the religion of Fear hath
a successor in him who shall teach earth the religion of Love ! "

And evermore the star of Fear dwells with Lucifer, and the star
of Love keeps vigil in heaven !

CHAPTER XX.

GELNHAUSEN. — THE POWER OF LOVE IN SANCTIFIED PLACES. —
A PORTRAIT OF FREDERICK BARBAROSSA. — THE AMBITION
OF MEN FINDS NO ADEQUATE SYMPATHY IN WOMEN.

[OU made me tremble for you more than once," said
Gertrude to the student ; "I feared you were about
to touch upon ground really sacred, but your end
redeemed all."

" The false religion always tries to counterfeit the garb, the
language, the aspect of the true," answered the German: "for that

222 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

reason, I purposely suffered my tale to occasion that very fear and
anxiety you speak of, conscious that the most scrupulous would be
contented when the whole was finished."

This German was one of a new school, of which England as yet
knows nothing. We shall see, hereafter, what it will produce.

The student left them at Friedberg, and our travellers proceeded
to Gelnhausen, — a spot interesting to lovers ; for here Frederick
the First was won by the beauty of Gela, and, in the midst of an
island vale, he built the Imperial Palace, in honour to the lady of
his love. The spot is, indeed, well chosen of itself: the mountains
of the Rhinegebiirg close it in with the green gloom of woods, and
the glancing waters of the Kinz.

"Still, wherever we go," said Trevylyan, "we find all tradition
is connected with love ; and history, for that reason, hallows less
than romance."

"It is singular," said Vane, moralizing, "that love makes but a
small part of our actual lives, but is yet the master-key to our
sympathies. The hardest of us, who laugh at the passion when
they see it palpably before them, are arrested by some dim tradition
of its existence in the past. It is as if life had few opportunities
of bringing out certain qualities within us, so that they always
remain untold and dormant, susceptible to thought, but deaf to
action."

~"You refine and mystify too much," said Trevylyan, smiling ;
1 ' none of us have any faculty, any passion, uncalled forth, if we
have really loved, though but for a day."

Gertrude smiled, and drawing her arm within his, Trevylyan left
Vane to philosophize on passion j — a fit occupation for one who had
never felt it/

'•'Here let us pause," said Trevylyan, afterwards, as they visited
the remains of the ancient palace, and the sun glittered on the scene,
"to recall the old chivalric day of the gallant Barbarossa ; — let us
suppose him commencing the last great action of his life ; let us
picture him as setting out for the Holy Land. Imagine him issuing
from those walls on his white charger ; his fiery eye somewhat
dimmed by years, and his hair blanched ; but nobler from the
impress of time itself; — the clang of arms; the tramp of steeds;
banners on high ; music pealing from hill to hill ; the red cross and
the nodding plume ; the sun, as now glancing on yonder trees ; and
thence reflected from the burnished anus of the Crusaders;— but,
Gela "

"Ah, "said Gertrude, "she must be no more ; for she would have
outlived her beauty, and have found that glory had now no rival in

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 223

his breast. Glory consoles men for the death of the loved ; but
glory is infidelity to the living."

" Nay, not so, dearest Gertrude," said Trevylyan, quickly ; "for
my darling dream of Fame is the hope of laying its honours at your
feet ! And if ever, in future years, 1 should rise above the herd, I
should only ask it your step were proud, and your heart elated."

" I was wrong," said Gertrude, with tears in her eyes ; "and, for
your sake, I can be ambitious."

Perhaps there, too, she was mistaken ; for one of the common
disappointments of the heart is, that women have so rarely a sym-
pathy in our better and higher aspirings. Their ambition is not for
great things; they cannot understand that desire "which scorns
delight, and loves laborious days." If they love us, they usually
exact too much. They are jealous of the ambition to which we
sacrifice so largely, and which divides us from them ; and they leave
the stern passion of great minds to the only solitude which affection
cannot share. To aspire is to be alone !

CHAPTER XXI.

VIEW OF EHRENBREITSTEIN. — A NEW ALARM IN GERTRUDE'S
HEALTH. — TRARBACH.

iNOTHER time our travellers proceeded from Coblentz !o
Treves, following the course of the Moselle. They
stopped on the opposite bank below the bridge that
unites Coblentz with the Petersberg, to linger over the
superb view of Ehrenbreitstein which you may there behold.

it was one of those calm noonday scenes which impress upon us
their own bright and voluptuous tranquillity. There, stood the old
herdsman leaning on his staff, and the quiet cattle knee-deep in the
gliding waters. Never did stream more smooth and sheen, than
was at that hour the surface of the Moselle, mirror the images of
the pastoral life. Beyond, the darker shadows of the bridge and of
the walls of Coblentz fell deep over the waves, chequered by the
tall sails of the craft that were moored around the harbour. 13*t
clear against the sun rose the spires and roofs of Coblentz, backed
by many a hill sloping away to the horizon. High, dark, and
massive, on the opposite bank, swelled the towers and rock of
Ehrenbrietstein ; a type of that great chivalric spirit — the HONOUR
that the rock arrogates for its name, — which demands so many

224 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

sacrifices of blood and tears, but which ever creates in the restless
heart of man a far deeper interest than the more peaceful scenes of
life by which it is contrasted. There, still — from the calm waters,
and the abodes of common toil and ordinary pleasure — turns the
aspiring mind ! Still as we gaze on that lofty and immemorial rock
\ve recall the famine and the siege ; and own that the more daring
crimes of men have a strange privilege in hallowing the very spot
which they devastate.

Below, in green curves and mimic bays covered with herbage,
the gradual banks mingled with the water ; and just where the
bridge closed, a solitary group of trees, standing dark in the thickest
shadow, gave that melancholy feature to the scene which resembles
the one dark thought that often forces itself into our sunniest hours.
Their boughs stirred not ; no voice of birds broke the stillness of
their gloomy verdure ; the eye turned from them, as from the sad
moral that belongs to existence.

In proceeding to Trarbach, Gertrude was seized with another of
those fainting fits which had so terrified Trevylyan before ; they
stopped an hour or two at a little village, but Gertrude rallied with
such apparent rapidity, and so strongly insisted upon proceeding,
that they reluctantly continued their way. This event would have
thrown a gloom over their journey, if Gertrude had not exerted
herself to dispel the impression she had occasioned ; and so
light, so cheerful, were her spirits, that for the time at least, she
succeeded.

They arrived at Trarbach late at noon. This now small and
humble town is said to have been the Thronus Bacchi of the
ancients. From the spot where the travellers halted to take, as it
were, their impression of the town, they saw before them the little
hostelry, a poor pretender to the Thronus Bacchi, with the rude sign
of -the Holy Mother over the door. The peaked roof, the sunk
window, the gray walls, chequered with the rude beams of wood so
common to the meaner houses on the Continent, bore something of
a melancholy and unprepossessing aspect. Right above, with its
Gothic windows and venerable spire, rose the church of the town ;
and, cro%vning the summit of a green and almost perpendicular
mountain, scowled the remains of one of those mighty castles which
mike the never-failing frown on a German landscape.

The scene was one of quiet and of gloom : the exceeding serenity
of the day contrasted, with an almost unpleasing brightness, the
poverty of the town, the thinness of the population, and the dreary
grandeur of the ruins that overhung the capital of the perished race
of the bold Counts of Spanheim.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 225

They passed the night at Trarbach, and continued their journey
next day. At Treves, Gertrude was for some days seriously ill ;
and when they returned to Coblentz, her disease had evidently
received a rapid and alarming increase.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE DOUBLE LIFE. — TREVYLYAN's FATE. — SORROW THE PARENT
OF FAME. — NIEDERLAHNSTEIN. — DREAMS.

! HERE are two lives to each of us, gliding on at the same
time, scarcely connected with each other ! — the life of our
actions, the life of our minds ; the external and the inward
history ; the movements of the frame, the deep and ever-
restless workings of the heart ! They who have loved know that
there is a diary of the affections, which we might keep for years
without having occasion even to touch upon the exterior surface of
life, our busy occupations — the mechanical progress of our existence ;
yet by the last are we judged, the first is never known. History
reveals men's deeds, men's outward characters, but not themselves.
There is a secret self that hath its own life "rounded by a dream,"
unpenetrated, unguessed. What passed within Trevylyan, hour after
hour, as he watched over the declining health of the only being in
the world whom his proud heart had been ever destined to love !
His real record of the time was marked by every cloud upon
Gertrude's brow, every smile of her countenance, every — the faintest
— alteration in her disease : yet, to the outward seeming, all this
vast current of varying eventful emotion lay dark and unconjectured.
He filled up, with wonted regularity, the colourings of existence, and
smiled and moved as other men. For still, in the heroism with which
devotion conquers self, he sought only to cheer and gladden the
young heart on which he had embarked his all ; and he kept the dark
tempest of his anguish for the solitude of night.

That was a peculiar doom which Fate had reserved for him ; and
casting him, in after years, on the great sea of public strife, it seemed
as if she were resolved to tear from his heart all yearnings for the
land. For him there was to be no green or sequestered spot in the
valley of household peace. His bark was to know no haven, and
his soul not even the desire of rest. For action is that Lethe in which
alone we forget our former dreams, and the mind that, too stern not
to wrestle with its emotions, seeks to conquer regret, must leave itself

I

226 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

no leisure to look behind. Who knows what benefits to the world
may have sprung from the sorrows of the benefactor? As the harvest
that gladdens mankind in the suns of autumn was called forth by the
rains of spring, so the griefs of youth may make the fame of maturity.

Gertrude, charmed by the beauties of the river, desired to continue
the voyage to Mayence. The rich Trevylyan persuaded the physician
who had attended her to accompany them, and they once more
pursued their way along the banks of the feudal Rhine. For what '
the Tiber is to the classic, the Rhine is to the chivalric, age. The
steep rock and the gray dismantled tower, the massive and rude
picturesque of the feudal days, constitute the great features of the
scene ; and you might almost fancy, as you glide along, that you are
sailing back adown the river of Time, and the monuments of the
pomp and power of old, rising, one after one, upon its shores !

Vane and Du e, the physician, at the farther end of the vessel,

conversed upon stones and strata, in that singular pedantry of science
which strips nature to a skeleton, and prowls among the dead bones
of the world, unconscious of its living beauty.

They left Gertrude and Trevylyan to themselves, and, "bending
o'er the vessel's laving side," they indulged in silence the melancholy
with which each was imbued. For Gertrude began to waken, though
doubtingly and at intervals, to a sense of the short span that was
granted to her life ; and over the loveliness around her there floated
that sad and ineffable interest which springs from the presentiment
of our own death. They passed the rich island of Oberwerth, and
Hochheim, famous for its ruby grape, and saw, from his mountain
bed, the Lahn bear his tribute of fruits and corn into the treasury of
the Rhine. Proudly rose the tower of Niederlahnstein, and deeply
lay its shadow along the stream. It was late noon ; the cattle had
sought the shade from the slanting sun, and, far beyond, the holy
castle of Marksburg raised its battlements above mountains covered
with the vine. On the water two boats had been drawn alongside
each other ; and from one, now moving to the land, the splash of
oars broke the general stillness of the tide. Fast by an old tower
the fishermen were busied in their craft, but the sound of their voices
did not reach'the ear. It was life, but a silent life ; suited to the
tranquillity of noon.

"There is something in travel," said Gertrude, "which constantly,
even amidst the most retired spots, impresses us with the exuberance
of life. We come to those quiet nooks and find a race whose
existence we never dreamed of. In their humble path they know
the same passions and tread the same career as ourselves. The
mountains shut them out from the great world, but their village is a

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 227

world in itself. And they know and heed no more of the turbulent
scenes of remote cities, than our own planet of the inhabitants of the
distant stars. What then is death, but the forgetfulness of some few
hearts added to the general unconsciousness of our existence that
pervades the universe ? The bubble breaks in the vast desert of the
air without a sound."

• "Why talk of death?" said Trevylyan, with a writhing smile;
"these sunny scenes should not call forth such melancholy images."

"Melancholy," repeated Gertrude, mechanically. "Yes, death is
indeed melancholy when we are loved ! "

They stayed a short time at Niederlahnstein, for Vane was anxious
to examine the minerals that the Lahn brings into the Rhine ; and
the sun was waning towards its close as they renewed their voyage.
As they sailed slowly on, Gertrude said, " How like a dream is this
sentiment of existence, when, without labour or motion, every change
of scene is brought before us ; and if I am with you, dearest, I do
not feel it less resembling a dream, for I have dreamed of you lately
more than ever. And dreams have become a part of my life itself.

"Speaking of dreams," said Trevylyan, as they pursued that
mysterious subject ; " I once during my former residence in Germany
fell in with a singular enthusiast, who had taught himself what he
termed 'A System of Dreaming.' When he first spoke to me upon
it I asked him to explain what he meant, which he did somewhat in
the following words. '

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE LIFE OF DREAMS.

WAS born," said he, "with many of the sentiments of
the poet, but without the language to express them ; my
feelings were constantly chilled by the intercourse of the
actual world — my family, mere Germans, dull and unim-
passioned — had nothing in common with me ; nor did I out of my
family find those with whom I could better sympathize. I was
revolted by friendships — for they were susceptible to every change ;
I was disappointed in love — for the truth never approached to my
ideal. Nursed early in the lap of Romance, enamoured of the wild
and the adventurous, the commonplaces of life were to me inexpres-
sibly tame and joyless. And yet indolence, which belongs to the
poetical character, was more inviting than that eager and uncontem-
plative action which can alone wring enterprise from life. Meditation

228 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

was my natural element. I loved to spend the noon reclined by
some shady stream, and in a half sleep to shape images from the
glancing sunbeams ; a dim and unreal order of philosophy, that
belongs to our nation, was my favourite intellectual pursuit. And I
sought amongst the Obscure and the Recondite the variety and
emotion I could not find in the Familiar. Thus constantly watching
the operations of the inner-mind, it occurred to me at last that sleep
having its own world, but as yet a rude and fragmentary one, it
might be possible to shape from its chaos all those combinations of
beauty, of power, of glory, and of love, which were denied to me in
the world in which my frame walked and had its being. So soon as
this idea came upon me, I nursed and cherished, and mused over it,
till I found that the imagination began to effect the miracle I desired.
By brooding ardently, intensely, before I retired to rest, over any
especial train of thought, over any ideal creations ; by keeping the
body utterly still and quiescent during the whole day ; by shutting
out all living adventure, the memory of which might perplex and
interfere with the stream of events that I desired to pour forth into
the wilds of sleep, I discovered at last that I could lead in dreams a
life solely their own, and utterly distinct from the life of day. Towers
and palaces, all my heritage and seigneury, rose before me from the
depths of night ; I quaffed from jewelled cups the Falernian of
imperial vaults ; music from harps of celestial tone filled up the
crevices of air ; and the smiles of immortal beauty flushed like sun-
light over all. Thus the adventure and the glory that I could not
for my waking life obtain, was obtained for me in sleep. I wandered
with the gryphon and the gnome ; I sounded the horn at enchanted
portals ; I conquered in the nightly lists ; I planted my standard over
battlements huge as the painter's birth of Babylon itself.

" But I was afraid to call forth one shape on whose loveliness to
pour all the hidden passion of my soul. I trembled lest my sleep
should present me some image which it could never restore, and,
waking from which, even the new world I had created might be left
desolate for ever. I shuddered lest I should adore a vision which
the first ray of morning could smite to the grave.

" In this train of mind I began to ponder whether it might not be
possible to connect dreams together ; to supply the thread that was
wanting ; to make one night continue the history of the other, so as
to bring together the same shapes and the same scenes, and thus
lead a connected and harmonious life, not only in the one half of
existence, but in the other, the richer and more glorious, half. No
sooner did this idea present itself to me, than I burned to accom-
plish it. I had before taught myself that Faith is the great creator ;

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 229

that to believe fervently is to make belief true. So I would not
suffer my mind to doubt the practicability of its scheme. I shut
myself up then entirely by day, refused books, and hated the very sun,
and compelled all my thoughts (and sleep is the mirror of thought)
to glide in one direction, the direction of my dreams, so that from
night to night the imagination might keep up the thread of action,
and I might thus lie down full of the past dream and confident of
the sequel. Not for one day only, or for one month, did I pursue
this system, but I continued it zealously and sternly till at length it
began to succeed. Who shall tell," cried the enthusiast, — I see him
now with his deep, bright, sunken eyes, and his wild hair thrown
backward from his brow, "the rapture I experienced, when first,
faintly and half distinct, I perceived the harmony I had invoked
dawn upon my dreams ? At first there was only a partial and desul-
tory connection between them ; my eye recognized certain shapes,
my ear certain tones common to each ; by degrees these augmented
in number, and were more defined in outline. At length one fair
face broke forth from among the ruder forms, and night after night
appeared mixing with them for a moment and then vanishing, just
as the mariner watches, in a clouded sky, the moon shining through
the drifting rack, and quickly gone. My curiosity was now vividly
excited, the face, with its lustrous eyes, and seraph features, roused
all the emotions that no living shape had called forth. I became
enamoured of a dream, and as the statue to the Cyprian was my
creation to me ; so from this intent and unceasing passion, I at
length worked out my reward. My dream became more palpable ;
I spoke with it ; I knelt to it ; my lips were pressed to its own ; we
exchanged the vows of love, and morning only separated us with the
certainty that at night we should meet again. Thus then," continued
my visionary, "I commenced a history utterly separate from the
history of the world, and it went on alternately with my harsh and
chilling history of the day, equally regular and equally continuous.
And what, you ask, was that history ? Methought I was a prince in
some Eastern island, that had no features in common with the colder
north of my native home. By day I looked upon the dull walls of
a German town, and saw homely or squalid forms passing before
me ; the sky was dim and the sun cheerless. Night came on with
her thousand stars, and brought me the dews of sleep. Then sud-
denly there was a new world ; the richest fruits hung from the trees
in clusters of gold and purple. Palaces of the quaint fashion ot
the sunnier climes, with spiral minarets and glittering cupolas, were
mirrored upon vast lakes sheltered by the palm-tree and banana.
The sun seemed a different orb, so mellow and gorgeous were his

230 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

beams ; birds and winged things of all hues fluttered in the shining
air ; the faces and garments of men were not of the northern regions
of the world, and their voices spoke a tongue which, strange at first,
by degrees I interpreted. Sometimes I made war upon neighbouring
kings ; sometimes I chased the spotted pard through the vast gloom
of immemorial forests ; my life was at once a life of enterprise and
pomp. But above all there was the history of my love ! 1 thought
there were a thousand difficulties in the way of attaining its pos-
session. Many were the rocks I had to scale, and the battles to
wage, and the fortresses to storm, in order to win her as my bride.
But at last " (continued the enthusiast) " she is won, she is my own !
Time in that wild world, which I visit nightly, passes not so slowly
as in this, and yet an hour may be the same as a year. This con-
tinuity of existence, this successive series of dreams, so different
from the broken incoherence of other men's sleep, at times bewilders
me with strange and suspicious thoughts. What if this glorious
sleep be a real life, and this dull waking the true repose ? Why
not ? What is there more faithful in the one than in the other ?
And there have I garnered and collected all of pleasure that I am
capable of feeling. I seek no joy in this world — I form no ties,. I
feast not, nor love, nor make merry — I am only impatient till the
hour when I may re-enter my royal realms and pour my renewed
delight into the bosom of my bright Ideal. There then have I
found all that the world denied me ; there have I realized the yearn-
ing and the aspiration within me ; there have I coined the untold
poetry into the Felt — the Seen ! "

I found, continued Trevylyan, that this tale was corroborated by
inquiry into the visionary's habits. He shunned society ; avoided
all unnecessary movement or excitement. He fared with rigid
abstemiousness, and only appeared to feel pleasure as the day
departed, and the hour of return to his imaginary kingdom ap-
proached. He always retired to rest punctually at a certain hour,
and would sleep so soundly, that a cannon fired under his window
would not arouse him. He never, which may seem singular, spoke
or moved much in his sleep, but was peculiarly calm, almost to the
appearance of lifelessness ; but, discovering once that he had been
watched in sleep, he was wont afterwards carefully to secure the
chamber from intrusion. His victory over the natural incoherence
of sleep had, when I first knew him, lasted for some years ; possibly
what imagination first produced was afterwards continued by habit.'

I saw him again a few months subsequent to this confession, and
he seemed to be much changed. His health was broken, and his
abstraction had deepened into gloom.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 231

I questioned him of the cause of the alteration, and he answered
me with great reluctance —

"She is dead," said he; "my realms are desolate! A serpent
stung her, and she died in these very arms. Vainly, when I started
from my sleep in horror and despair, vainly did I say to myself, —
This is but a dream. I shall see her again. A vision cannot die !
Hath it flesh that decays ? is it not a spirit — bodiless — indissoluble ?
With what terrible anxiety I awaited the night ! Again I slept, and
the DREAM lay again before me — dead and withered. Even the
ideal can vanish. I assisted in the burial ; I laid her in the earth ;
I heaped the monumental mockery over her form. And never since
hath she, or aught like her, revisited my dreams. I see her only
when I wake ; thus to wake is indeed to dream ! But," continued
the visionary in a solemn voice, " I feel myself departing from this
world, and with a fearful joy ; for I think there may be a land
beyond even the land of sleep, where I shall see her again, — a land
in which a vision itself may be restored."

And in truth, concluded Trevylyan, the dreamer died shortly
afterwards, suddenly, and in his sleep. And never before, perhaps,
had Fate so literally made of a living man (with his passions and
his powers, his ambition and his love) the plaything and puppet of
a dream !

"Ah," said Vane, who had heard the latter part of Trevylyan's
story ; " could the German have bequeathed to us his secret, what a
refuge should we possess from the ills of earth ! The dungeon and
disease, poverty, affliction, shame, would cease to be the tyrants of
our lot ; and to Sleep we should confine our history and transfer
our emotions."

" Gertrude, " whispered the lover, "what his kingdom and his
bride were to the Dreamer, art thou to me ! "

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE BROTHERS.

'HE banks of the Rhine now shelved away into sweeping
plains, and on their right rose the once imperial city of
Boppart. In no journey of similar length do you meet
with such striking instances of the mutability and shifts
of power. To find, as in the Memphian Egypt, a city sunk into a
heap of desolate ruins ; the hum, the roar, the mart of nations,

232 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

hushed into the silence of ancestral tombs, is less humbling to our
human vanity than to mark, as along the Rhine, the kingly city
dwindled into the humble town or the dreary village ; decay without
its grandeur, change without the awe of its solitude ! On the site
on which Drusus raised his Roman tower, and the kings of the
Franks their palaces, trade now dribbles in tobacco-pipes, and
transforms into an excellent cotton factory the antique nunnery of
Koningsberg ! So be it ; it is the progressive order of things — the
world itself will soon be one excellent cotton factory !

" Look ! " said Trevylyan, as they sailed on, " at yonder mountain,
with its two traditionary Castles of Liebenstein and Sternfels."

Massive and huge the ruins swelled above the green rock, at the
foot of which lay, in happier security from time and change, the
clustered cottages of the peasant, with a single spire rising above the
quiet village.

" Is there not, Albert, a celebrated legend attached to those
castles?" said Gertrude. " I think I remember to have heard their
names in connection with your profession of tale-teller."

" Yes," said Trevylyan, " the story relates to the last lords of those
shattered towers, and "

"You will sit here, nearer to me, and begin, "interrupted Gertrude,
"ti her tone of childlike command — " Come."

THE BROTHERS.

A TALE.1

You must imagine, then, dear Gertrude (said Trevylyan), a
beautiful summer day, and by the same faculty that none possess
so richly as yourself, for it is you who can kindle something of
that divine spark even in me, you must rebuild those shattered
towers in the pomp of old ; raise the gallery and the hall ; man the
battlement with warders, and give the proud banners of ancestral
chivalry to wave upon the walls. But above, sloping half down the
rock, you must fancy the hanging gardens of Liebenstein, fragrant
with flowers, and basking in the noonday sun.

On the greenest turf, underneath an oak, there sat three persons,
in the bloom of youth. Two of the three were brothers ; the third
was an orphan girl, whom the lord of the opposite tower of Sternfels
had bequeathed to the protection of his brother, the chief of Lieben-
stein. The castle itself and the demesne that belonged to it passed

1 This tale is. in reality, founded on the beautiful tradition which belongs to
Liebenstein and Sternfels.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 233

away from the female line, and became the heritage of Otho, the
orphan's cousin, and the younger of the two brothers now seated on
the turf.

" And oh," said the elder, whose name was Warbeck, " you have
twined a chaplet for my brother ; have you not, dearest Leoline, a
simple flower or me ? "

The beautiful orphan — (for beautiful she was, Gertrude, as the
heroine of the tale you bid me tell ought to be, — should she nut
have to the dreams of my fancy your lustrous hair, and your sweet
smile, and your eyes of blue, that are never, never silent ? Ah,
pardon me, that in a former tale, I denied the heroine the beauty of
your face, and remember that to atone for it, I endowed her with
the beauty of your mind) — the beautiful orphan blushed to her
temples, and culling from the flowers in her lap the freshest of the
roses, began weaving them into a wreath for Warbeck.

" It would be better," said the gay Otho, " to make my sober
brother a chaplet of the rue and cypress ; the rose is much too bright
a flower for so serious a knight."

Leoline held up her hand reprovingly.

"Let him laugh, dearest cousin," said Warbeck, gazing passion-
ately on her changing cheek : " and thou, Leoline, believe that the
silent stream runs the deepest."

At this moment, they heard the voice of the old chief, their father,
calling aloud for Leoline ; for, ever when he returned from the chase,
he wanted her gentle presence ; and the hall was solitary to him if
the light sound of her step, and the music of her voice, were not
heard in welcome.

Leoline hastened to her guardian, and the brothers were left
alone.

Nothing could be more dissimilar than the features and the re-
spective characters of Otho and Warbeck. Otho's countenance was
flushed with the brown hues of health ; his eyes were of the brightest
hazel : his dark hair wreathed in short curls round his open and
fearless brow ; the jest ever echoed on his lips, and his step was
bounding as the foot of the hunter of the Alps. Bold and light was
his spirit ; if at times he betrayed the haughty insolence of youth,
he felt generously, and though not ever ready to confess sorrow for
a fault, he was at least ready to brave peril for a friend.

But Warbeck's frame, though of equal strength, was more slender
in its proportions than that of his brother ; the fair long hair, that
characterized his northern race, hung on either side of a countenance
calm and pale, and deeply impressed with thought, even to sadness.
His features, more majestic and regular than Otho's, rartly varied

I 2

234 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

in their expression. More resolute even than Otho, he was less
impetuous ; more impassioned, he was also less capricious.

The brothers remained silent after Leoline had left them. Otho
carelessly braced on his sword, that he had laid aside on the grass ;
but Warbeck gathered up the flowers that had been touched by the
soft hand of Leoline, and placed them in his bosom.

The action disturbed Otho ; he bit his lip, and changed colour ;
at length he said, with a forced laugh,

" It must be confessed, brother, that you carry your affection for
our fair cousin to a degree that even relationship seems scarcely to
warrant"

"It is true," said Warbeck, calmly: "I love her with a love
surpassing that of blood. "

" How ! " said Otho, fiercely : "do you dare to think of Leoline
as a bride ? "

" Dare ! " repeated Warbeck, turning yet paler than his wonted
hue.

" Yes, I have said the word ! Know, Warbeck, that I, too, love
Leoline ; I, too, claim her as my bride ; and never, while I can
wield a sword, — never, while I wear the spurs of knighthood, will I
render my claim to a living rival. Even," he added (sinking his
voice), " though that rival be my brother ! "

Warbeck answered not ; his very soul seemed stunned ; he gazed
long and wistfully on his brother, and then, turning his face away,
ascended the rock without uttering a single word.

This silence startled Otho. Accustomed to vent every emotion
of his own, he could not comprehend the forbearance of his brother ;
he knew his high and brave nature too well to imagine that it arose
from fear. Might it not lie contempt, or might he not, at this
moment, intend to seek their father ; and, the first to proclaim his
love' for the orphan, advance, also, the privilege of the elder born ?
As these suspicions flashed across him, the haughty Otho strode to
his brother's side, and laying his hand on his arm, said,

"Whither goest thou? and dost thou consent to surrender
Leoline ?"

"Does she love thee, Otho?" answered Warbeck, breaking
silence at last ; and his voice spoke so deep an anguish, that it
arrested the passions of Otho, even at their height.

" It is thou who art now silent," continued Warbeck ; "speak,
doth she love thee, and has her lip confessed it ? "

"I have believed that she loved me," faltered Otho ; "but she is
of maiden bearing, and her lip, at least, has never told it."
Enough " said Warbeck, "release your hold."

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 235

"Stay," said Otho, his suspicions returning; "stay — yet one
word ; dost thou seek my father ? He ever honoured thee more
than me : wilt thou own to him thy love, and insist on thy right of
birth ? By my soul and my hope of heaven, do it, and one of us
two must fall ! "

"Poor boy!" answered Warbeck, bitterly ; "how little thou
canst read the heart of one who loves truly. Thinkest thou, I would
wed her if she loved thee? Thinkest thou I could, even to be
blessed myself, give her one moment's pain ? Out on the thought
— away ! "

" Then wilt not thou seek our father? " said Otho, abashed.

" Our father ! — has our father the keeping of Leoline's affection ? "
answered Warbeck ; and shaking off his brother's grasp, he sought
the way to the castle.

As he entered the hall, he heard the voice of Leoline ; she was
singing to the old chief one of the simple ballads of the time, that
the warrior and the hunter loved to hear. He paused lest he should
break the spell (a spell stronger than a sorcerer's to him), and gazing
upon Leoline's beautiful form, his heart sank within him. His
brother and himself had each that day, as they sat in the gardens,
given her a flower ; his flower was the fresher and the rarer ; his he
saw not, but she wore his brother's in her bosom !

The chief, lulled by the music and wearied with the toils of the
chase, sank into sleep as the song ended, and Warbeck, coming
forward, motioned to Leoline to follow him. He passed into a
retired and solitary walk, and when they were a little distance from

tthe castle, Warbeck turned round, and taking Leoline's hand gently,
said—
' ' Let us rest here for one moment, dearest cousin ; I have much
on my heart to say to thee."

" And what is there," answered Leoline, as they sat on a mossy
bank, with the broad Rhine glancing below, " what is there that
my kind Warbeck would ask of me ? Ah ! would it might be some
favour, something in poor Leoline's power to grant ; for ever from
my birth you have been to me most tender, most kind. You, I have
often heard them say, taught my first steps to walk ; you formed my
infant lips into language, and, in after years, when my wild cousin
was far away in the forests at the chase, you would brave his gay
jest and remain at home, lest Leoline should be weary in the solitude.
Ah, would I could repay you ! "

Warbeck turned away his cheek ; his heart was very full, and it
was some moments before he summoned courage to reply.

"My fair cousin," said he, " those were happy days; but they

236 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

were the days of childhood. New cares and new thoughts have
now come on us. But I am still thy friend, Leoline, and still thou
wilt confide in me thy young sorrows and thy young hopes, as thou
ever didst. Wilt thou not, Leoline ? "

" Canst thou ask me ? " said Leoline ; and Warbeck, gazing on
her face, saw that though her eyes were full of tears, they yet
looked steadily upon his ; and he knew that she loved him only as
a sister.

He sighed, and paused again ere he resumed. "Enough," said
he. "Now to my task. Once on a time, dear cousin, there lived
among these mountains a certain chief who had two sons, and an
orphan like thyself dwelt also in his halls. And the elder son — but
no matter, let us not waste words on him ! — the younger son, then,
loved the orphan dearly— more dearly than cousins love ; and, fear-
ful of refusal, he prayed the elder one to urge his suit to the orphan.
Leoline, my tale is done. Canst thou not love Otho as he lores
thee ? "

And now lifting his eyes to Leoline, he saw that she trembled
violently, and her cheek was covered with blushes.

"Say," continued he, mastering himself ; "is not that flower (his
present) a token that he is chiefly in thy thoughts? "

" Ah, Warbeck ! do not deem me ungrateful, that I wear not

yours also : but "

" Hush ! " said Warbeck, hastily ; "I am but as thy brother, is
not Otho more? He is young, brave, and beautiful. God grant
that he may deserve thee, if thou givest him so rich a gift as thy
affections."

"I saw less of Otho in my childhood," said Leoline, evasively;
" therefore, his kindness of late years seemed stranger to me than
thine."

" And thou wilt not then reject him ? Thou wilt be his bride?"
" And thy sister," answered Leoline.

" Bless thee, mine own dear cousin ! one brother's kiss then, and
farewell ! Otho shall thank thee for himself."

He kissed her forehead calmly, and, turning away, plunged into
the thicket ; then, nor till then he gave vent to such emotions, as,
had Leoline seen them, Otho's suit had been lost for ever ; for pas-
sionately, deeply as in her fond and innocent heart she loved Otho,
the happiness of Warbeck was not less dear to her.

When the young knight had recovered his self-possession he went
in search of Otho. He found him alone in the wood, leaning with
folded arms against a tree, and gazing moodily on the ground.
Warbeck's noble heart was touched at his brother's ikjection.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 237

"Cheer tliee, Otho," said he ; "I bring thee no bad tidings ; I
have seen Leoline — I have conversed with her — nay, start not — she
loves thee ! she is thine ! "

"Generous — generous Warbeck ! " exclaimed Otho; and he
threw himself on his brother's neck. "No, no," said he, "this
must not be ; thou hast the elder claim. — I resign her to thee.
Forgive me my waywardness, brother, forgive me ! "

" Think of the past no more," said Warbeck ; " the love of Leo-
line is an excuse for greater offences than thine : and now, be kind
to her ; her nature is soft and keen. / know her well ; for 1 have
studied her faintest wish. Thou art hasty and quick of ire ; but
remember, that a word wounds where love is deep. For my sake,
as for hers, think more of her happiness than thine own ; now seek
her — she waits to hear from thy lips the tale that sounded cold upon
mine."

With that he left his brother, and, once more re-entering the
castle, he went into the hall of his ancestors. His father still slept ;
he put his hand on his gray hair, and blessed him ; then stealing up
to his chamber, he braced on his helm and armour, and thrice kissing
the hilt of his sword, said, with a flushed cheek —

" Henceforth be thou my bride ! " Then passing from the castle,
he sped by the most solitary paths down the rock, gained the Rhine,
nnd hailing one of the numerous fishermen of the river, won the
opposite shore ; and alone, but not sad, for his high heart supported
him, and Leoline at least was happy, he hastened to Frankfort.

The town was all gaiety and life, arms clanged at every corner,
the sounds of martial music, the wave of banners, the glittering of
plumed casques, the neighing of war-steeds, all united to stir the
blood and inflame the sense. St. Bertrand had lifted the sacred
cross along the shores of the Rhine, and the streets of Frankfort
witnessed with what success !

On that same day Warbeck assumed the sacred badge, and was
enlisted among the knights of the Emperor Conrad.

We must suppose some time to have elapsed, and Otho and Leo-
line were not yet wedded ; for, in the first fervour of his gratitude
to his brother, Otho had proclaimed to his father and to Leoline,
the conquest Warbeck had obtained over himself; and Leoline,
touched to the heart, would not consent that the wedding should,
take place immediately. "Let him, at least," said she, "not be
insulted by a premature festivity ; and give him time, amongst the
lofty beauties he will gaze upon in a far country, to forget, Otho,
that he once loved her who is the beloved of thee."

The old chief applauded this delicacy ; and even Otho, in the first

238 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

flush of his feelings towards his brother, did not venture to oppose
it. They settled, then, that the marriage should take place at the
end of a year.

Months rolled away, and an absent and moody gloom settled
upon Otho's brow. In his excursions with his gay companions
among the neighbouring towns, he heard of nothing but the glory of
the Crusaders, of the homage paid to the heroes of the Cross at the
courts they visited, of the adventures of their life, and the exciting
spirit that animated their war. In fact, neither minstrel nor priest
suffered the theme to grow cold ; and the fame of those who had
gone forth to the holy strife, gave at once emulation and discontent
to the youths who remained behind.

"And my brother enjoys this ardent and glorious life," said the
impatient Otho ; "while I, whose arm is as strong, and whose
heart is as bold, languish here listening to the dull tales of a hoary
sire and the silly songs of an orphan girl." His heart smote him at
the last sentence, but he had already begun to weary of the gentle
love of Leoline. Perhaps when he had no longer to gain a triumph
over a rival, the excitement palled ; or perhaps his proud spirit
secretly chafed at being conquered by his brother in generosity, even
when outshining him in the success of love.

But poor Leoline, once taught that she was to consider Otho her
betrothed, surrendered her heart entirely to his control. His wild
spirit, his dark beauty, his daring valour, won while they awed her ;
and in the fitfulness of his nature were those perpetual springs of
hope and fear that are the fountains of ever-agitated love. She saw
with increasing grief the change that was growing over Otho's mind ;
nor did she divine the cause. " Surely I have not offended him,"
thought she.

Among the companions of Otho was one who possessed a singular
sway over him. He was a knight of that mysterious order of the
Temple, which exercised at one time so great a command over the
minds of men.

A severe and dangerous wound in a brawl with an English knight
had confined the Templar at Frankfort, and prevented his joining
the Crusade. During his slow recovery he had formed an intimacy
with Otho, and, taking up his residence at the castle of Liebenstein,
had been struck with the beauty of Leoline. Prevented by his oath
from marriage, he allowed himself a double license in love, and
•doubted not, could he disengage the young knight from his betrothed,
that she would add a new conquest to the many he had already
achieved. Artfully therefore he painted to Otho the various attrac-
tions of the Holy Cause ; and, above all, he failed not to describe,

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 239

with glowing colours, the beauties who, in the gorgeous East, dis-
tinguished with a prodigal favour the warriors of the Cross. Dowries,
unknown in the more sterile mountains of the Rhine, accompanied
the hand of these beauteous maidens ; and even a prince's daughter
was not deemed, he said, too lofty a marriage for the heroes who
might win kingdoms for themselves.

"Tome," said the Templar, "such hopes are eternally denied.
But you, were you not already betrothed, what fortunes might await
you ! "

By such discourses the ambition of Otho was perpetually aroused ;
they served to deepen his discontent at his present obscurity, and to
convert to distaste the only solace it afforded in the innocence and
affection of Leoline.

One night, a minstrel sought shelter from the storm in the halls of
Liebenstein. His visit was welcomed by the chief, and he repaid the
hospitality he had received by the exercise of his art. He sung of
the chase, and the gaunt hound started from the hearth. He sung
of love, and Otho, forgetting his restless dreams, npproached to
Lecline, and laid himself at her feet. Louder then and louder rose
the strain. The minstrel sung of war ; he painted the feats of the
Crusaders^ he plunged into the thickest of the battle; the steed
neighed ; the trump sounded ; and you might have heard the ringing
of the steel. But when he came to signalize the names of the boldest
knights, high among the loftiest sounded the name of Sir Warbeck
of Liebenstein. Thrice had he saved the imperial banner ; two-
chargers slain beneath him, he had covered their bodies with the
fiercest of the foe. Gentle in the tent and terrible in the fray, the
minstrel should forget his craft ere the Rhine should forget its hero.
The chief started from his seat. Leoline clasped the minstrel's hand.

"Speak, — you have seen him — he lives — he is honoured?"

" I, myself, am but just from Palestine, brave chief and noble
maiden. I saw the gallant knight of Liebenstein at the right hand of
the imperial Conrad. And he, ladye, was the only knight whom
admiration shone upon without envy, its shadow. Who then" (con-
tinued the minstrel, once more striking his harp), " who then would
remain inglorious in the hall? Shall not the banners of his sires
reproach him as they wave ? and shall not every voice from Palestine
strike shame into his soul ? "

" Right," cried Otho, suddenly, and flinging himself at the feet of
his father. "Thou hearest what my brother has done, and thine
aged eyes weep tears of joy. Shall / only dishonour thine old age
with a rusted sword? No ! grant me, like my brother, to go forth,
with the heroes of the Cross ! "

240 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

"Noble youth," cried the harper, " therein speaks the soul of Sir
Warbeck ; hear him, Sir knight, — hear the noble youth."

" Heaven cries aloud in his voice," said the Templar, solemnly.

" My son, I cannot chide thine ardour," said the old chief, raising
him with trembling hands ; "but Leoline, thy betrothed?"

Pale as a statue, with ears that doubted their sense as they drank
in the cruel words of her lover, stood the orphan. She did no!
speak, she scarcely breathed ; she sank into her seal, and gazed upon
the ground, till, at the speech of the chief, both maiden pride and
maiden tenderness restored her consciousness, and she said, —

" /, uncle! — Shall / bid Otho stay when his wishes bid h;m
depart ? "

" He will return to thee, noble lad ye, covered with glory," slid
the harper : but Otho said no more. The touching voice of Leoline
went to his soul ; he resumed his seat in silence ; and Leoline, going
up to him, whispered gently, " Act as though I were not ; " and left
the hall to commune with her heart and to weep alone.

" I can wed her before I go," said Otho, suddenly, as he sat that
night in the Templar's chamber.

" Why, that is true ! and leave thy bride in the first week — a hard
trial ! "

"Better than incur the chance of never calling her mine. Dear,
kind, beloved Leoline ! "

"Assuredly, she deserves all from thee; and, indeed, it is no
small sacrifice, at thy years and with thy mien, to renounce for ever
all interest among the noble maidens thou wilt visit. Ah, from the
galleries of Constantinople what eyes will look down on thee, and
what ears, learning that thou art Otho the bridegroom, will turn
away, caring for thee no more ! A bridegroom without a bride !
Nay, man, much as the Cross wants warriors, I am enough thy friend
to tell'thee, if thou \\eddest, to stay peaceably at home, and forget
in the chase the labours of war, from which thou would strip the
ambition of love."

" I would I knew what were best," said Otho, irresolutely. " My
brother — ha, shall he forever excel me ? — But Leoline, how will she
grieve — she who left him for me ! "

" Was that thy fault?" said the Templar, gaily. "It may many
times chance to thee again to be preferred to another. Troth, it is a
sin under which the conscience may walk lightly enough. But sleep
on it, Otho ; my eyes grow heavy."

The next day Otho sought Leoline, and proposed to her that their
wedding should precede his parting ; but so embarrassed was he, so
divided between two wishes, that Leoline, offended, hurt, stung by

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 241

his coldness, refused the proposal at once. She left him lest he should
see her weep, and then — then she repented even of her just pride !

But Otho, striving to appease his conscience with the belief that
hers now was the sole fault, busied himself in preparations for his
departure. Anxious to outshine his brother, he departed not as
Warbeck, alone and unattended, but levying all the horse, men, and
money that his domain of Sternfels — which he had not yet tenanted
— would afford, he repaired to Frankfort at the head of a glittering
troop.

The Templar, affecting a relapse, tarried behind, and promised to
join him at that Constantinople of which he had so loudly boasted.
Meanwhile he devoted his whole powers of pleasing to console the
unhappy orphan. The force of her simple love was, however, stronger
than all his arts. In vain he insinuated doubts of Otho ; she refused
to hear them : in vain he poured with the softest accents into her ear
the witchery of flattery and song : she turned heedlessly away ; and
only pained by the courtesies that had so little resemblance to Otho,
she shut herself up in her chamber, and pined in solitude for her
forsaker.

The Templar now resolved to attempt darker arts to obtain power
over her, when, fortunately, he was summoned suddenly away by a
mission from the Grand Master, of so high import, that it could not
be resisted by a passion stronger in his breast than love — the passion
of ambition. He left the castle to its solitude ; and Otho peopling
it no more with his gay companions, no solitude could be more
imfrequently disturbed.

Meanwhile, though, ever and anon, the fame of Warbeck reached
their ears, it came unaccompanied with that of Otho, — of him they
heard no tidings : and thus the love of the tender orphan was kept
alive by the perpetual restlessness of fear. At length the old chief
died, and Leoline was left utterly alone.

One evening as she sat with her maidens in the hall, the ringing
of a steed's hoofs was heard in the outer court ; a horn sounded, the
heavy gates were unbarred, and a knight of a stately mien and
covered with the mantle of the Cross, entered the hall ; he stopped
for one moment at the entrance, as if overpowered by his emotion ;
in the next he had clasped Leoline to his breast.

" Dost thou not recognize thy cousin Warbeck ?" He doffed his
casque, and she saw that majestic brow which, unlike Otho's, had
never changed or been clouded in its aspect to her.

"The war is suspended for the present," said he. "I learned
my father's death, and I have returned home to hang up my banner
in the hall, and spend my days in peace."

242 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

Time and the life of camps had worked their change upon War-
beck's face ; the fair hair, deepened in its shade, was worn from the
temples, and disclosed one scar that rather aided the beauty of a
countenance that had always something high and martial in its
character : but the calm it once wore had settled down into sadness ;
he conversed more rarely than before, and though he smiled not less
often, nor less kindly, the smile had more of thought, and the kind-
ness had forgot its passion. He had apparently conquered a love
that was so early crossed, but not that fidelity of remembrance which
made Leoline dearer to him than all others, and forbade him to
replace the images he had graven upon his soul.

The orphan's lips trembled with the name of Otho, but a certain
recollection stifled even her anxiety. Warbeck hastened to forestall
her questions.

"Otho was well," he said, "and sojourning at Constantinople;
he had lingered there so long that the crusade had terminated with-
out his aid -. doubtless now he would speedily return ; — a month, a
week, nay, a day, might restore him to her side. "

Leoline was inexpressibly consoled, yet something remained
untold. Why, so eager for the strife of the sacred tomb, had he
thus tarried at Constantinople ? She wondered, she wearied con-
jecture, but she did not dare to search farther.

The generous Warbeck concealed from her that Otho led a life of
the most reckless and indolent dissipation ; — wasting his wealth in
the pleasures of the Greek court, and only occupying his ambuion
with the wild schemes of founding a principality in those foreign
climes, which the enterprises of the Norman adventurers had
rendered so alluring to the knightly bandits of the age.

The cousins resumed their old friendship, and Warbeck believed
that it was friendship alone. They walked again among the gardens
in which their childhood had strayed ; they sat again on the green
turf whereon they had woven flowers ; they looked down on the
eternal mirror of the Rhine ; — ah ! could it have reflected the same
unawakened freshness of their life's early spring !

The grave and contemplative mind of Warbeck had not been so
contented with the honours of war, but that it had sought also those
calmer sources of emotion which were yet found among the sages of
the East. He had drunk at the fountain of the wisdom of those
distant climes, and had acquired the habits of meditation which were
indulged by those wiser tribes from which the Crusaders brought
back to the North the knowledge that was destined to enlighten
their posterity. Warbeck, therefore, had little in common with the
ruder chiefs around : he did not summon them to his board, nor

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 243

attend at their noisy wassails. Often late at night, in yon shattered
tower, his lonely lamp shone still over the mighty stream, and his
only relief to loneliness was in the presence and the song of his soft
cousin.

Months rolled on, when suddenly a vague and fearful rumour
reached the castle of Liebenstein. Otho was returning home to the
neighbouring tower of Sternfels ; but not alone. He brought back
with him a Greek bride of surprising beauty, and dowered with
almost regal wealth. Leoline was the first to discredit the rumour ;
Leoline was soon the only one who disbelieved.

Bright in the summer noon flashed the array of horsemen ; far up
the steep ascent wound the gorgeous cavalcade ; the lonely towers
of Liebenstien heard the echo of many a laugh and peal of merri-
ment. Otho bore home his bride to the hall of Sternfels.

That night there was a great banquet in Otho's castle ; the lights
shone from every casement, and music swelled loud and ceaselessly
within.

By the side of Otho, glittering with the prodigal jewels of the
East, sat the Greek. Her dark locks, her flashing eye, the false
colours of her complexion, dazzkd the eyes of her guests. On her
left hand sat the Templar.

"By the holy rood," quoth the Templar, gaily, though he crossed
himself as he spoke, "we shall scare the owls to-nighl on those grim
towers of Liebenstein. Thy grave brother, Sir Otho, will have
much to do to 'comfort his cousin when she sees what a gallant life
she would have led with thee."

" Poor damsel !" said the Greek, with affected pity, "doubtless
she will now be reconciled to the rejected one. I hear he is a
knight of a comely mien."

" Peace ! " said Otho, sternly, and quaffing a large goblet of wine.

The Greek bit her lip, and glanced meaningly at the Templar,
who returned the glance.

"Nought but a beauty such as thine can win my pardon," said
Otho, turning to his bride, and gazing passionately in her face.

The Greek smiled.

Well sped the feast, the laugh deepened, the wine circled, when
Otho's eye rested on a guest at the bottom of the board, whose
figure was mantled from head to foot, and whose face was covered
by a dark veil.

" Beshrew me ! " said he, aloud ; " but this is scarce courteous at
our revel : will the stranger vouchsafe to unmask ? "

These words turned all eyes to the figure, and they who sat next
it perceived that it trembled violently ; at length it rose, and

244 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

walking slowly, but with grace, to the fair Greek, it laid beside her
a wreath of flowers.

" It is a simple gift, ladye," said the stranger, in a voice of such
sweetness, that the rudest guest was touched by it. " But it is all I
can offer, and the bride of Otho should not be without a gift at my
hands. May ye both be happy ! ''

With these words, the stranger turned and passed from the hall
silent as a shadow.

" Bring back the stranger ! " cried the Greek, recovering her
surprise. Twenty guests sprang up to obey her mandate.

"No, no!" said Otho, waving his hand impatiently. "Touch
her not, heed her not, at your peril."

The Greek bent over the flowers to conceal her anger, and from
amongst them dropped the broken half of a ring. Otho recognized
it at once ; it was the half of that ring which he had broken with his
betrothed. Alas, he required not such a sign to convince him that
that figure, so full of ineffable grace, that touching voice, that simple
action so tender in its sentiment, that gift, that blessing, came only
from the forsaken and forgiving Leoline !

But Warbeck, alone in his solitary tower, paced to and fro with
agitated steps. Deep, undying wrath at his brother's falsehood,
mingled with one burning, one delicious hope. He confessed now
that he had deceived himself when he thought his passion was no
more ; was there any longer a bar to his union with Leoline ?

In that delicacy which was breathed into him by his love, he had
forborne to seek, or to offer her the insult of consolation. He felt
that the shock should be borne alone, and yet he pined, he thirsted,
to throw himself at her feet.

Nursing these contending thoughts, he was aroused by a knock at
his door ; he opened it — the passage was thronged by Leoline's
maidens ; pale, anxious, weeping. Leoline had leit the castle, with
but one female attendant ; none knew whither ; — they knew too
soon. P'rom the hall of Sternfels she had passed over in the dark
and inclement night, to the valley in which the convent of Bornhofen
offered to the weaiy of spirit and the broken of heart a refuge at the
shrine of God.

At daybreak, the next morning, Warbeck was at the convent's
gate. He saw Leoline : what a change one night of suffering had
made in that face, which was the fountain of all loveliness to him !
He clasped her in his arms ; he wept ; he urged all that love could
urge : he besought her to accept that heart, which had never
wronged her memory by a thought. "Oh, Leoline! didst thou
not say once that these arms nursed thy childhood ; that this voice

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 245

soothed thine early sorrows ! Ah, trust to them again and for ever.
From a love that forsook thee turn to the love that never swerved."

"No," said Leoline ; "No. What would the chivalry of which
thou art the boast— what would they say of thee, wert thou to wed
one affianced and deserted, who tarried years for another, and
brought to thine arms only that heart which he had abandoned?
No ; and even if thou, as I know thou wouldst be, wert callous to
such wrong of thy high name, shall I bring to thee a broken heart
and bruised spirit? shall thou wed sorrow and not joy? and shall
sighs that will not cease, and tears that may not be dried, be the
only dowry of thy bride? Thou, too, for whom all blessings should
be ordained ? No, forget me ; forget thy poor Leoline ! She hath
nothing but prayers for thee."

In vain Warbeck pleaded ; in vain he urged all that passion and
truth could urge ; the springs of earthly love were for ever dried up
in the orphan's heart, and her resolution was immovable — she tore
herself from his arms, and the gate of the convent creaked harshly
on his ear.

A new and stern emotion now wholly possessed him ; though
naturally mild and gentle, he cherished anger, when once it was
aroused, with the strength of a calm mind. Leoline's tears, her
sufferings, her wrongs, her uncomplaining spirit, the change already
stamped upon her face, all cried aloud to him for vengeance. " She
is an orphan," said he, bitterly; "she hath none to protect, to
redress her, save me alone. My father's charge over her forlorn
youth descends of right to me. What matters it whether her for-
saker be my brother? — he is her foe. Hath he not crushed her
heart ? Hath he not consigned her to sorrow till the grave ? And with
what insult ; no warning, no excuse ; with lewd wassailers keeping
revel for his new bridals in the hearing — before the sight — of his
betrothed ! Enough ! the time hath come, when, to use his own
words, ' One of us two must fall ! ' " He half drew his sword as he
spoke, and thrusting it back violently into the sheath, strode home
to his solitary castle. The sound of steeds and of the hunting-horn
met him at his portal ; the bridal train of Sternfels, all mirth and
gladness, were parting for the chase.

That evening a knight in complete armour entered the banquet-
hall of Sternfels, and defied Otho, on the part of Warbeck of
Liebenstein, to mortal combat.

Even the Templar was startled by so unnatural a challenge ; but
Otho, reddening, took up the gage, and the day and spot were
fixed. Discontented, wroth with himself, a savage gladness seized
him ; — he longed to wreak his desperate feelings even on his brother.

246 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

Nor had he ever in his jealous heart forgiven that brother his virtues
and his renown.

At the appointed hour the brothers met as foes. Warbeck's visor
was up, and all the settled sternness of his soul was stamped upon
his brow. But Otho, more willing to brave the arm than to face
the front of his brother, kept his visor down ; the Templar stood by
him with folded arms. It was a study in human passions to his
mocking mind. Scarce had the first trump sounded to this dread
conflict, when a new actor entered on the scene. The rumour of
so unprecedented an event had not failed to reach the convent of
Bornhofen ; — and now, two by two, came the sisters of the holy
shrine, and the armed men made way, as with trailing garments and
veiled faces they swept along into the very lists. At that moment
one from amongst them left her sisters with a slow majestic pace,
and paused not till she stood right between the brother foes.

" Warbeck," she said in a hollow voice, that curdled up his dark
spirit as it spoke, "is it thus thou wouldst prove thy love, and
maintain thy trust over the fatherless orphan whom thy sire be-
queathed to thy care ? Shall I have murder on my soul ? " At that
question she paused, and those who heard it were struck dumb and
shuddered. " The murder of one man by the hand of his own
brother! — Away, Warbeck! I command."

" Shall I forget thy wrongs, Leoline?" said Warbeck.

" Wrongs ! they united me to God ! they are forgiven, they are
no more. Earth has deserted me, but heaven hath taken me to its
arms ; — shall I murmur at the change? And thou, Otho — (here her
voice faltered) — thou, does thy conscience smite thee not ? — wouldst
thou atone for robbing me of hope by barring against me the future ?
Wretch that I should be, could I dream of mercy — could I dream
of comfort, if thy brother fell by thy sword in my cause ? Otho, I
have pardoned thee, and blessed thee and thine. Once, perhaps,
thou didst love me ; remember how I loved thee — cast down thine
arms."

Otho gazed at the veiled form before him. Where had the soft
Leoline learned to command? — He turned to his brother; he felt
all that he had inflicted upon both ; and casting his sword upon the
ground, he knelt at the feet of Leoline, and kissed her garment with
a devotion that votary never lavished on a holier saint.

The spell that lay over the warriors around was broken ; there
was one loud cry of congratulation and joy. "And thou, Warbeck!"
said Leoline, turning to the spot where, still motionless and haughty,
Warbeck stood.

"Have I ever rebelled against thy will?" said he, softly; and

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 247

buried the point of his sword in the earth. — "Yet, Leoline, yet,"
added he, looking at his kneeling brother, "yet art thou already
better avenged than by this steel ! "

"Thou art! thou art!" cried Otho, smiting his breast; and
slowly, and scarce noting the crowd that fell back from his path,
Warbeck left the lists.

Leoline said no more ; her divine errand was fulfilled. She
looked long and wistfully after the stately form of the knight of
Liebenstein, and then, with a slight sign, she turned to Otho,
" This is the last time we shall meet on earth. Peace be with
us all."

She then, with the same majestic and collected bearing, passed
on towards the sisterhood ; and as, in the same solemn procession,
they glided back towards the convent, there was not a man present
— no, not even the hardened Templar — who would not, like Otho,
have bent his knee to Leoline.

Once more Otho plunged into the wild revelry of the age ; his
castle was thronged with guests, and night after night the lighted
halls shone down athwart the tranquil Rhine. The beauty of the
Greek, the wealth of Otho, the fame of the Templar, attracted all
the chivalry from far and near. Never had the banks of the Rhine
known so hospitable a lord as the knight of Sternfels. Yet gloom
seized him in the midst of gladness, and the revel was welcome only
as the escape from remorse. The voice of scandal, however, soon
began to mingle with that of envy at the pomp of Otho. The fair
Greek, it was said, weary of her lord, lavished her smiles on others :
the young and the fair were always most acceptable at the castle ;
and, above all, her guilty love for the Templar scarcely affected
disguise. Otho alone appeared unconscious of the rumour ; and
though he had begun to neglect his bride, he relaxed not in his
intimacy with the Templar.

It was noon, and the Greek was sitting in her bower alone with
her suspected lover ; the rich perfumes of the East mingled with
the fragrance of flowers, and various luxuries, unknown till then in
those northern shores, gave a soft and effeminate character to the
room.

"I tell thee," said the Greek, petulantly, "that he begins to
suspect ; that I have seen him watch thee, and mutter as he watched,
and play with the hilt of his dagger. Better let us fly ere it is too
late, for his vengeance would be terrible were it once roused against
us. Ah, why did I ever forsake my own sweet land for these
barbarous shores ! There, love is not considered eternal, nor
inconstancy a crime worthy death."

248 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

" Peace, pretty one !" said the Templar, carelessly ; " them knowest
not the laws of our foolish chivalry. Thinkest thou I could fly
from a knight's hnlls like a thief in the night? Why, verily, even
the red cross would not cover such dishonour. If thou fearest that
thy dull lord suspects, let us part. The emperor hath sent to me
from Frankfort. Ere evening I might he on my way thither."

" And I left to brave the barbarian's revenge alone? Is this thy
chivalry?"

"Nay, prate not so wildly," answered the Templar. "Surely,
when the object of his suspicion is gone, thy woman's art and thy
Greek wiles can easily allay the jealous fiend. Do I not know thee,
Glycera? Why thou wouh'st fool all men — save a Templar."

"And thou, cruel, wouklst thou leave me?" said the Greek,
weeping. " How shall I live without thee?"

The Templar laughed slightly. " Can such eyes ever weep
without a comforter ? But farewell ; I must not be found with
thee. To-morrow I depart for P>ankfort ; we shall meet again."

As soon as the door closed on the Templar, the Greek rose, and
pacing the room, said, "Selfish, selfish! how could I ever trust
him? Yet I dare not brave Otho alone. Surely it was his step
that disturbed us in our yesterday's interview. Nay, I will fly. I
cm never want a companion."

She clapped her hands ; a young page appeared ; she threw her-
self on her seat and wept bitterly.

The page approached, and love was mingled with his compassion.

"Why weepest thou, dearest lady?" said he; "is there aught
in which Conrad's services — services ! — ah, thou hast read his heart
— his devotion may avail ?"

Otho had wandered out the whole day alone ; his vassals had
observed that his brow was more gloomy than its wont, for he
usually concealed whatever might prey within. Some of the most
confidential of his servitors he had conferred with, and the conference
had deepened the shadow on his countenance. He returned at
twilight ; the Greek did not honour the repast with her presence.
She was unwell, and nut to be disturbed. The gay Templar was
tl.e life of the board.

" Thou earnest a sad brow to-day, Sir Otho," said he; "good
faith, thou hast caught it from the air of Liebenstein."

" I have something troubles me," answered Otho, forcing a smile,
"which I would fain impart to thy friendly bosom. The night is
clear and the moon is up, let us forth alone into the garden."

The Templar rose, and he forgot not to gird on his sword as he
followed the knight.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 249

Otho led the way to one of the most distant terraces that over-
hung the Rhine.

"Sir Templar," said he, pausing, "answer me one question on
thy knightly honour. Was it thy step that left my lady's bower
yester-eve at vesper ? "

Startled by so sudden a query, the wily Templar faltered in his
reply.

The red blood mounted to Otho's brow. " Nay, lie not, sir
knight ; these eyes, thanks to God ! have not witnessed, but these
ears have heard from others of my dishonour."

As Otho spoke, the Templar's eye, resting on the water, perceived
a boat rowing fast over the Rhine ; the distance forbade him to see
more than the outline of two figures within it. " She was right,"
thought he ; " perhaps that boat already bears her from the
danger."

Drawing himself up to the full height of his tall stature, the
Templar replied haughtily —

"Sir Otho of Sternfels, if thou has deigned to question thy
vassals, obtain from them only an answer. It is not to contradict
such minions that the knights of the Temple pledge their word ! "

" Enough," cried Otho, losing patience, and striking the Templar
with his clenched hand. "Draw, traitor, draw ! "

Alone in his lofty tower Warbeck watched the night deepen over
the heavens, and communed mournfully with himself. " To what
end," thought he, "have these strong affections, these capacities of
love, this yearning after sympathy, been given me ? Unloved and
unknown I walk to my grave, and all the nobler mysteries of my
heart are for ever to be untold."

Thus musing, he heard not the challenge of the warder on the
wall, or the unbarring of the gate below, or the tread of footsteps
along the winding stair ; the door was thrown suddenly open, and
Otho stood before him. " Come," he said, in a low voice trembling
with passion ; "come, I will show thee that which shall glad thine
heart. Twofold is Leoline avenged."

Warbeck looked in amazement on a brother he had not met since
they stood in arms each against the other's life, and he now saw
that the arm that Otho extended to him dripped with blood, trickling
drop by drop upon the floor.

"Come," said Otho, "follow me; it is my last prayer. Come,
for Leoline's sake, come."

At that name Warbeck hesitated no longer ; he girded on his
sword, and followed his brother down the stairs and through the
castle gate. The porter scarcely believed his eyes when he saw the

250 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

two brothers, so long divided, go forth at that hour alone, and
seemingly in friendship.

Warbeck, arrived at that epoch in the feelings when nothing
stuns, followed with silent steps the rapid strides of his brother.
The two castles, as you are aware, are scarce a stone's throw from
each other. In a few minutes Otho paused at an open space in one
of the terraces of Sternfels, on which the moon shone bright and
steady. "Behold!" he said, in a ghastly voice, "behold!" and
Warbeck saw on the sward the corpse of the Templar, bathed with
the blood that even still poured fast and warm from his heart.

" Hark ! " said Otho. " He it was who first made me waver in
my vows to Leoline ; he persuaded me to wed yon whited false-
hood. Hark ! he, who had thus wronged my real love, dishonoured
me with my faithless bride, and thus — thus — thus" — as grinding his
teeth, he spurned again and again the dead body of the Templar —
" thus Leoline and myself are avenged ! "

" And thy wife?" said Warbeck, pityingly.

" Fled — fled with a hireling page. It is well ! she was not worth
the sword that was once belted on — by Leoline."

The tradition, dear Gertrude, proceeds to tell us that Otho,
though often menaced by the rude justice of the day for the death
of the Templar, defied and escaped the menace. On the very night
of his revenge a long delirious illness seized him ; the generous
Warbeck forgave, forgot all, save that he had been once consecrated
by Leoline's love. He tended him through his sickness, and when
he recovered, Otho was an altered man. He forswore the comrades
he had once courted, the revels he had once led. The halls of
Sternfels were desolate as those of Liebenstein. The only com-
panion Otho sought was Warbeck, and Warbeck bore with him.
They had no topic in common, for on one subject Warbeck at least
felt too deeply ever to trust himself to speak ; yet did a strange and
secret sympathy re-unite them. They had at least a common
sorrow ; often they were seen wandering together by the solitary
banks of the river, or amidst the woods, without apparently inter-
changing word or sign. Otho died first, and still in the prime of
youth ; and Warbeck was now left companionless. In vain the
imperial court wooed him to its pleasures ; in vain the camp proffered
him the oblivion of renown. Ah ! could he tear himself from a spot
where morning and night he could see afar, amidst the valley, the
roof that sheltered Leoline, and on which every copse, every turf,
reminded him of former days? His solitary life, his midnight vigils,
strange scrolls about his chamber, obtained him by degrees the
repute of cultivating the darker arts ; and shunning, he became

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 251

shunned by, all. But still it was sweet to hear from time to time of
the increasing sanctity of her in whom he had treasured up his last
thoughts of earth. She it was who healed the sick ; she it was \vho
relieved the poor ; and the superstition of that age brought pilgrims
from afar to the altars that she served.

Many years afterwards, a band of lawless robbers, who, ever and
anon, broke from their mountain fastnesses to pillage and to desolate
the valleys of the Rhine ; who spared neither sex nor age ; neither
tower r.or hut ; nor even the houses of God himself; laid waste tLe
territories round Bornhofen, and demanded treasure from the con-
vent. The abbess, of the bold lineage of Rudesheim, refused the
sacrilegious demand ; the convent was stormed ; its vassals resisted ;
the robbers, enured to slaughter, won the day ; already the gates
were forced, when a knight at the head of a small but hardy troop,
rushed down from the mountain side, and turned the tide of the
fray. Wherever his sword flashed, fell a foe. Wherever his war-
cry sounded, was a space of dead men in the thick of the battle.
The fight was won ; the convent saved ; the abbess and the sister-
hood came forth to bless their deliverer. Laid under an aged oak,
he was bleeding fast to death ; his head was bare and his locks
were gray, but scarcely yet with years,. One only of the sisterhood
recognized that majestic face ; one bathed his parched lips ; one
held his dying hand ; and in Leoline's presence passed away the
faithful spirit of the last lord of Liebensteln !

" Oh!" said Gertrude, through her tears; "surely you must
have altered the facts, — surely — surely— it must have been impossible
for Leoline, with a woman's heart, to have loved Otho more than
Warbeck ? "

"My child," said Vane, " so think women when they read a tale
of love, and see the whole heart bared before them ; but not so act
they in real life — when they see only the surface of character, and
pierce not its depths — until it is too late ! "

252 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. — A COMMON INCIDENT NOT
BEFORE DESCRIBED. — TREVYLYAN AND GERTRUDE.

'HE day now grew cool as it waned to its decline, and the
breeze came sharp upon the delicate frame of the sufferer.
They resolved to proceed no further ; and as they carried
with them attendants and baggage, which rendered their
route almost independent of the ordinary accommodation, they steered
for the opposite shore, and landed at a village beautifully sequestered
in a valley, and where they fortunately obtained a lodging not often
met with in the regions of the picturesque.

When Gertrude, at an early hour, retired to bed, Vane and

Du e fell into speculative conversation upon the nature of man.

Vane's philosophy was of a quiet and passive scepticism ; the
physician dared more boldly, and rushed from doubt to negation.
The attention of Trevylyan, as he sat apart and musing, was arrested
in despite of himself. He listened to an argument in which he took
no share ; but which suddenly inspired him with an interest in that
awful subject which, in the heat of youth and the occupations of the
world, had never been so prominently called forth before.

"What!" thought he, with unutterable anguish, as he listened
to the earnest vehemence of the Frenchman and the tranquil assent
of Vane ; "if this creed were indeed true, — if there be no other
world — Gertrude is lost to me eternally, — through the dread gloom
of death there would break forth no star ! "

That is a peculiar incident that perhaps occurs to us all at times,
but which I have never found expressed in books ; — viz. to hear a
doubt of futurity at the very moment in which the present is most
overcast ; and to rind at once this world stripped of its delusion,
and the next of its consolation. It is perhaps for others, rather
than ourselves, that the fond heart requires an Hereafter. The
tranquil rest, the shadow, and the silence, the mere pause of the
wheel of life, have no terror for the wise, who know the due value
of the world —

"After the billows of a stormy sea,
Sweet is at last the haven of repose ! "

But not so when that stillness is to divide us eternally from others ;
when those we have loved with all the passion, the devotion, the
watchful sanctity of the weak human heart, are to exist to us no

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 253

more ! — when, after long years of desertion and widowhood on
earth, there is to be no hope of re-union in that INVISIBLE beyond
the stars ; when the torch, not of life only, but of love, is to be
quenched in the Dark Fountain ; and the grave, that we would fain
hope is the great restorer of broken ties, is but the dumb seal of
hopeless — utter — inexorable separation ! And it is this thought —
this sentiment, which makes religion out of woe, and teaches belief
to the mourning heart, that in the gladness of united affections felt
not the necessity of a heaven ! To how many is the death of the
beloved, the parent of faith !

Stung by his thoughts, Trevylyan rose abruptly, and stealing
from the lowly hostelry, walked forth amidst the serene and deepen-
ing night ; from the window of Gertrude's room the light streamed
calm on the purple air.

With uneven steps and many a pause, he paced to and fro
beneath the window, and gave the rein to his thoughts. How
intensely he felt the ALL that Gertrude was to him ! how bitterly he
foresaw the change in his lot and character that her death would
work out ! For who that met him in later years ever dreamed that
emotions so soft, and yet so ardent, had visited one so stern ? Who
could have believed that time was, when the polished and cold
Trevylyan had kept the vigils he now held below the chamber of
one so little like himself as Gertrude, in that remote and solitary
hamlet ; shut in by the haunted mountains of the Rhine, and
beneath the moonlight of the romantic North ?

While thus engaged, the light in Gertrude's room was suddenly
extinguished ; it is impossible to express how much that trivial
incident affected him ! It was like an emblem of what was to
come ; the light had been the only evidence of life that broke" upon
that hour, and he was now left alone with the shades of night.
Was not this like the herald of Gertrude's own death ; the ex-
tinction of the only living ray that broke upon the darkness of the
world ?

His anguish, his presentiment of utter desolation, increased. He
groaned aloud ; he dashed his clenched hand to his breast — large
and cold drops of agony stole down his brow. " Father," he
exclaimed with a struggling voice, "let this cup pass from me!
Smite my ambition to the root ; curse me with poverty, shame, and
bodily disease ; but leave me this one solace, this one companion of
my fate ! "

At this moment Gertrude's window opened gently, and he heard
her accents steal soothingly upon his ear.

" Is not that your voice, Albert ? " said she, softly. " I heard it

254 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

just as I laid down to rest, and could not sleep while you were thus
exposed to the damp night air. You do not answer ; surely it is
your voice : when did I mistake it for another's ? "

Mastering with a violent effort his emotions, Trevylyan answered,
with a sort of convulsive gaiety —

"Why come to these shores, dear Gertrude, unless you are
honoured with the chivalry that belongs to them ? What wind,
what blight, can harm me while within the circle of your presence ;
and what sleep can bring me dreams so dear as the waking thought
of you ? "

" It is cold," said Gertrude, shivering ; " come in, dear Albert, I
beseech you, and I will thank you to-morrow." Gertrude's voice
was choked by the hectic cough, that went like an arrow to
Trevylyan 's heart ; and he felt that in her anxiety for him she was
now exposing her own frame to the unwholesome night.

He spoke no more, but hurried within the house ; and when the
gray light of morn broke upon his gloomy features, haggard from
the want of sleep, it might have seemed, in that dim eye and fast-
sinking cheek, as if the lovers were not to be divided — even by
death itself.

CHAPTER XXVI.

IN WHICH THE READER WILL LEARN HOW THE FAIRIES WERE
RECEIVED BY THE SOVEREIGNS OF THE MINES. — THE COM-
PLAINT OF THE LAST OF THE FAUNS. — THE RED HUNTSMAN. —
THE STORM. — DEATH.

LN the deep valley of Ehrenthal, the metal kings — the Prince
of the Silver Palaces, the Gnome Monarch of the dull
Lead Mine, the President of the Copper United States,
held a court to receive the faiiy wanderers from the
island of Nonnewerth.

The prince was there, in a gallant hunting suit of oak leaves, in
honour to England ; and wore a profusion of fairy orders, which had
been instituted from time to time, in honour of the human poets that
had celebrated the spiritual and ethereal tribes. Chief of these,
sweet Dreamer of the Midsummer Night's Dream, was the badge
crystallized from the dews that rose above the whispering reeds of
Avon, on the night of thy birth — the great epoch of the intellectual
world ! Nor wert thou, O beloved Musaeus ! nor thou, dim-dream-
ing Tieck ! nor were ye, the wild imaginer of the bright -haired

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 255

Undine, and the wayward spirit that invoked for the gloomy Man-
fred the Witch of the breathless Alps, and the spirits of earth and
air ! — nor were ye without the honours of fairy homage ! Your
memory may fade from the heart of man, and the spells of new
enchanters may succeed to the charm you once wove over the face
of the common world ; but still in the green knolls of the haunted
valley and the deep shade of forests, and the starred palaces of air,
ye are honoured by the beings of your dreams, as demigods and
kings ! Your graves are tended by invisible hands, and the places
of your birth are hallowed by no perishable worship.

Even as I write ; 1 far away amidst the hills of Scotland, and by
the forest thou hast clothed with immortal verdure ; thou, the waker
of "the Harp by lone Glenfillan's spring," art passing from the earth
which thou hast " painted with delight." And, such are the chances
of mortal fame, our children's children may raise new idols on the
site of thy holy altar, and cavil where their sires adored ; but for
thee the mermaid of the ocean shall wail in her coral caves ; and the
sprite that lives in the waterfalls shall mourn ! Strange shapes shall
hew thy monument in the recesses of the lonely rocks ; ever by
moonlight shall the fairies pause from their roundel when some wild
note of their minstrelsy reminds them of thine own ; — ceasing from
their revelries, to weep for the silence of that mighty lyre, which
breathed alike a revelation of the mysteries of spirits and of men !

The King of the Silver Mines sat in a cavern in the valley,
through which the moonlight pierced its way and slept in shadow
on the soil shining with metals wrought into unnumbered shapes ;
and below him, on a humbler throne, with a gray beard and down-
cast eye, sat the aged King of the Dwarfs that preside over the dull

realms of lead, and inspire the verse of , and the prose of !

And there too a fantastic household elf, was the President of the
Copper Republic — a spirit that loves economy and the Uses, and
smiles sparely on the Beautiful. But, in the centre of the cave, upon
beds of the softest mosses, the untrodden growth of ages, reclined
the fairy visitors — Nymphalin seated by her betrothed. And round
the walls of the cave were dwarf attendants on the sovereigns of the
metals, of a thousand odd shapes and fantastic garments. On the
abrupt ledges of the rocks the bats, charmed to stillness but not
sleep, clustered thickly, watching the scene with fixed and amazed
eyes ; and one old gray owl, the favourite of the witch of the valley,
sat blinking in a corner, listening with all her might that she might
bring home the scandal to her mistress.

1 It was just at the time the author was finishing this work that the great
master of his art was drawing to the close of his career.

256 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

"And tell me, Prince of the Rhine-Island Fays," said the King
of the Silver Mines, "for thou art a traveller, and a fairy that hath
seen much, how go men's affairs in the upper world ? As to ourself,
we live here in a stupid splendour, and only hear the news of the
day when our brother of lead pays a visit to the English printing-
press, or the President of Copper goes to look at his improvements
in steam-engines."

"Indeed," replied Fayzenheim, preparing to speak, like ^Eneas
in the Carthaginian court; "indeed, your majesty, I know not
much that will interest you in the present aspect of mortal affairs,
except that you are quite as much honoured at this day as when the
Roman conqueror bent his knee to you among the mountains of
Taunus : and a vast number of little round subjects of yours are con-
stantly carried about by the rich, and pined after with hopeless
adoration by the poor. But, begging your majesty's pardon, may I
ask what has become of your cousin, the King of the Golden Mines?
I know very well that he has no dominion in these valleys, and do
not therefore wonder at his absence from your court this night ;
but I see so little of his subjects on earth that I should fear his
empire was well nigh at an end, if I did not recognize everywhere
the most servile homage paid to a power now become almost
.invisible."

The King of the Silver Mines fetched a deep sigh. "Alas,
prince," said he, "too well do you divine the expiration of my
cousin's empire. So many of his subjects have from time to time
gone forth to the world, pressed into military service and never
returning, that his kingdom is nearly depopulated. And he lives
far off in the distant parts of the earth, in a state of melancholy
seclusion ; the age of gold has passed, the age of paper has
commenced. "

"Paper," said Nymphalin, who was still somewhat of &precieuse ;
" paper is a wonderful thing. What pretty books the human people
write upon it ! "

" Ah ! that's what I design to convey," said the silver king. " It
is the age less of paper money than paper government : the press is
the true bank." The lord treasurer of the English fairies pricked up
his ears at the word "bank." For he was the Attwood of the
fairies : he had a favourite plan of making money out of bulrushes,
and had written four large bees'-wings full upon the true nature of
capital.

While they were thus conversing, a sudden sound as of some rustic
and rude music broke along the air, and closing its wild burden, they
heard the following song : —

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

257

THE COMPLAINT OF THE LAST FAUN.

The moon on the Latinos mountain

Her pining vigil keeps ;
And ever the silver fountain

In the Dorian valley weeps.
But gone are Endymicn's dreams ; —

And the crystal lymph

Bewails the nymph
Whose beauty sleeked the streams !

Round Arcady's oak, its green

The Bromian ivy weaves ;
But no more is the satyr seen

Laughing out from the glossy leaves.
Hushed is the Lycian lute,

Still grows the seed

Of the Moenale reed,
But the pipe of Pan is mute !

The leaves in the noon-day quiver ; —

The vines on the mountains wave ; —
And Tiber rolls his river

As fresh by the Sylvan's cave ;
But my brothers are dead and gone ;

And far away

From their graves I stray,
And dream of the Past alone !

And the sun of the north is chill ; —

And keen is the northern gale ; —
Alas for the song on the Argive hill ;

And the dance in the Cretan vale !— *
The youth of the earth is o'er,

And its breast is rife

With the teeming life
Of the golden Tribes no more !

My race are more blest than I,

Asleep in their distant bed ;
'Twere better, be sure, to die

Than to mourn for the buried Dead ;
To rove by the stranger streams,

At dusk and dawn

A lonely faun,
The last of the Grecian's dreams.

.258 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

As the song ended a shadow crossed the moonlight, that lay white
and lustrous before the aperture of the cavern ; and Nymphalin,
looking up, beheld a graceful, yet grotesque figure standing on the
sward without, and gazing on the group in the cave. It was a
shaggy form, with a goat's legs and ears ; but the rest of its body,
and the height of the stature, like a man's. An arch, pleasant, yet
malicious smile, played about its lips ; and in its hand it held the
pastoral pipe of which poets have sung ; — they would find it difficult
to sing to it !

"And who art thou?" said Fayzenheim, with the air of a
hero.

" I am the last lingering wanderer of the race which the Romans
worshipped : hither I followed their victorious steps, and in these
green hollows have I remained. Sometimes in the still noon, when
the leaves of spring bud upon the whispering woods, I peer forth
from my rocky lair, and startle the peasant with my strange voice
and stranger shape. Then goes he home, and puzzles his thick brain
with mopes and fancies, till at length he imagines me, the creature
of the south ! one of his northern demons, and his poets adapt the
apparition to their barbarous lines."

" Ho ! " quoth the silver king, " surely thou art the origin of the
fabled Satan of the cowled men living whilom in yonder ruins, with
its horns and goatish limbs : and the harmless faun has been made
the figuration of the most implacable of fiends. But why, O
wanderer of the south ! lingerest thou in these foreign dells? Why
returnest thou not to the bi-forked hill-top of old Parnassus, or the
wastes around the yellow course of the Tiber? "

" My brethren are no more," said the poor faun ; "and the very
faith that left us sacred and unharmed is departed. But here all the
spirits not of mortality are still honoured ; and I wander, mourning
for Silenus ; though amidst the vines that should console me for his
loss."

"Thou hast known great beings in thy day," said the leaden
king, who loved the philosophy of a truism (and the history of whose
inspirations I shall one day write).

" Ah, yes," said the faun, " my birth was amidst the freshness of
the world when the flush of the universal life coloured all things with
divinity ; when not a tree but had its Dryad — not a fountain that was
without its Nymph. I sat by the gray throne of Saturn, in his old
age, ere yet he was discrowned (for he was no visionary ideal, but
the arch monarch of the pastoral age) : and heard from his lips the
history of the world's birth. But those times are gone for ever — they
have left harsh successors." •

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 259

" It is the age of paper," muttered the lord treasurer, shaking his
head.

" What ho, for a dance ! " cried Fayzenheim, too royal for
moralities, and he whirled the beautiful Nymphalin into a waltz.
Then fdrth issued the fairies, and out went the dwarfs. And the
faun leaning against an aged, elm, ere yet the midnight waned, the
elves danced their charmed round to the antique minstrelsy of his
pipe — the minstrelsy of the Grecian world !

"Hast thou seen yet, my Nymphalin," said Fayzenheim, in the
pauses of the dance, "the recess of the Hartz, and the red form of
its mighty hunter?"

"It is a fearful sight," answered Nymphalin: "but with thee I
should not fear."

" Away then," cried Fayzenheim ; "let us away, at the first cock-
crow, into those shaggy dells, for, there, is no need of night to con-
ceal us, and the unwitnessed blush of morn, or the dreary silence of
noon, is no less than the moon's reign, the season for the sports of
the superhuman tribes. "

Nymphalin, charmed with the proposal, readily assented, and
at the last hour of night, bestriding the star- beams of the many-titled
Friga, away sped the fairy cavalcade to the gloom of the mystic
Hartz.

Fain would I relate the manner of their arrival in the thick
recesses of the forest ; how they found the Red Hunter seated on a
fallen pine beside a wide chasm in the earth, with the arching
boughs of the wizard oak wreathing above his head as a canopy, and
his bow and spear lying idle at his feet. Fain would I tell of the
reception which he deigned to the fairies, and how he told them of
his ancient victories over man ; how he chafed at the gathering
invasions of his realm ; and how joyously he gloated of some great
convulsion 1 in the northern states, which, rapt into moody reveries
in those solitary woods, the fierce demon broodingly foresaw. All
these fain would I narrate, but they are not of the Rhine, and my
story will not brook the delay. While thus conversing with the fiend,
noon had crept on and the sky had become overcast and lowering ;
the giant trees waved gustily to and fro, and the low gatherings of
the thunder announced the approaching storm. Then the hunter
rose and stretched his mighty Jimbs, and seizing his spear, he strode
rapidly into the forest to meet the things of his own tribe that the
tempest wakes from their rugged lair.

A sudden recollection broke upon Nymphalin. "Alas, alas!".

1 Which has come to pass. 1847. ....,

260 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

she cried, wringing her hands; "what have I done! In journey-
ing hither with thee, I have forgotten my office. I have neglected
my watch over the elements, and my human charge is at this hour,
perhaps, exposed to all the fury of the storm."

"Cheer thee, my Nymphalin," said the prince, "we will lay the
tempest ; " and he waved his sword and muttered the charms which
curb the winds and roll back the marching thunder : but for once
the tempest ceased not at his spells ; and now, as the fairies sped
along the troubled air, a pale and beautiful form met them by the
way, and the fairies paused and trembled. For the power of that
Shape could vanquish even them. It was the form of a Female,
with golden hair, crowned with a chaplet of withered leaves ; her
bosoms, of an exceeding beauty, lay bare to the wind, and an infant
was clasped between them, hushed into a sleep so still, that neither
the roar of the thunder, nor the livid lightning flashing from cloud
to cloud, could even ruffle, much less arouse, the slumberer. And
the face of the Female was unutterably calm and sweet (though with
a something of severe), there was no line nor wrinkle in her hueless
brow ; care never wrote its defacing characters upon that everlasting
beauty. It knew no sorrow or change ; ghost-like and shadowy
floated on that Shape through the abyss of Time, governing the
world with an unquestioned and noiseless sway. And the children
of the green solitudes of the earth, the lovely fairies of my tale,
shuddered as they gated and recognized — the form of DEATH !

DEATk VINDICATED.

"And why," said the beautiful Shape, with a voice soft as the
last sighs of a dying babe j "why trouble ye the air with spells?
mine is the hour and the empire, and the storm is the creature of
my power. Far yonder to the west it sweeps over the sea, and the
ship ceases to vex the waves \ it smites the forest, and the destined
tree, torn from its roots, feels the winter strip the gladness from its
l)oughs no more ! The roar of the elements is the herald of eternal
• tillness to their victims ; and they who hear the progress of my
power idly shudder at the coming of peace. And thou, O tender
daughter of the faery kings ! why grievest thou at a mortal's doom ?
Knowest thou not that sorrow cometh with years, and that to live is
to mourn ? Blessed is the flower that, nipped in its early spring,
feels not the blast that one by one scatters its blossoms around it,
and leaves but the barren stem. Blessed are the young whom I
clasp to my breast, and lull into the sleep which the storm cannot
break, nor the morrow arouse to sorrow or to toil. The heart that

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 261

is stilled in the bloom of its first emotions,— that turns with its last
throb to the eye of love, as yet unlearned in the possibility of
change, — has exhausted already the wine of life, and is saved only
from the lees. As the mother soothes to sleep the wail of her
troubled child, I open my arms to the vexed spirit, and my bosom
cradles the unquiet to repose ! "

The fairies answered not, for a chill and a fear lay over them, and
the Shape glided on ; ever as it passed away through the veiling
clouds they heard its low voice singing amidst the roar of the storm,
as the dirge of the water-sprite over the vessel it hath lured into the
whirlpool or the shoals.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THURMBERG. — A STORM UPON THE RHINE. — THE RUINS OF
RHEINFELS. — PERIL UNFELT BY LOVE.— THE ECHO OF THE
LURLEI-BERG. — ST. GOAR. — CAUB, GUTENFELS, AND PFALZ-
GRAFENSTEIN. — A CERTAIN VASTNESS OF MIND IN THE FIRST
HERMITS. — THE SCENERY OF THE RHINE TO BACHARACH.

[UR party continued their voyage the next day, which was
less bright than any they had yet experienced. The
clouds swept on dull and heavy, suffering the sun only to
break forth at scattered intervals ; they wound round the
curving bay which the Rhine forms in that part of its course ;
and gazed upon the ruins of Thurmberg with the rich gardens that
skirt the banks below. The last time Trevylyan had seen those
ruins soaring against the sky, the green foliage at the foot of the
rocks, and the quiet village sequestered beneath, glassing its roofs
and solitary tower upon the wave, it had been with a gay summer
troop of light friends, who had paused on the opposite shore during
the heats of noon, and, over wine and fruits, had mimicked the
groups of Boccaccio, and intermingled the lute, the jest, the
momentary love, and the laughing tale.

What a difference now in his thoughts — in the object of the
voyage — in his present companions ! The feet of years fall noise-
less ; we heed, we note them not, till tracking the same course we
passed long since, we are startled to find how deep the impression
they leave oehind. To revisit the scenes of our youth is to commune
with the ghost of ourselves.

262 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

At this time the clouds gathered rapidly along the heavens, and
they were startled by the first peal of the thunder. Sudden and
swift came on the storm, and Trevylyan trembled as he covered
Gertrude's form with the rude boat-cloaks they had brought with
them ; the small vessel began to rock wildly to and fro upon the
waters. High above them rose the vast dismantled Ruins of
Rheinfels, the lightning darting through its shattered casements and
broken arches, and brightening the gloomy trees that here and there
clothed the rocks, and tossed to the angry wind. Swift wheeled
the water birds over the river, dipping their plumage in the white
foam, and uttering their discordant screams. A storm upon the
Rhine has a grandeur it is in vain to paint. Its rocks, its foliage,
the feudal ruins that everywhere rise from the lofty heights — speak-
ing in characters of stern decay of many a former battle against
time and tempest ; the broad and rapid course of the legendary
river, all harmonize with the elementary strife ; and you feel that to
see the Rhine only in the sunshine is to be unconscious of its most
majestic aspects. What baronial war had those rains witnessed'!
From the rapine of the lordly tyrant of those battlements rose the
first Confederation of the Rhine — the great strife between the new
time and the old — the town and the castle — the citizen and the
chief. Gray and stern those ruins breasted the storm — a type of the
antique opinion which once manned them with armed serfs ; and,
yet in ruins and decay, appeals from the victorious freedom it may
no longer resist !

Clasped in Trevylyan's guardian arms, and her head pillowed on
his breast, Gertrude felt nothing of the storm save its grandeur;
and Trevylyan's voice whispered cheer and courage to her ear.
She answered by a smile, and a sigh, but not of pain. In the con-
vulsions of nature we forget our own separate existence, our schemes,
our projects, our fears ; our dreams vanish back into their cells.
One passion only the storm quells not, and the presence of Love
mingles with the voice of the fiercest storms, as with the whispers
of the southern wind. So she felt, as they were thus drawn close
together, and as she strove to smile away the anxious terror from
Trevylyan's gaze — a security, a delight : for peril is sweet even to
the fears of woman, when it impresses upon her yet more vividly
that she is beloved.

"A moment more and we reach the land," murmured Trevylyan.

"I wish it not," answered Gertrude, softly. But ere they got
into St. Goar the rain descended in torrents, and even the thick
coverings round Gertrude's form were not sufficient protection
against it. Wet and dripping she reached the inn : but not then,

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 263

nor for some days, was she sensible of the shock her decaying health
had received.

The storm lasted but a few hours, and the sun afterwards broke
forth so brightly, and the stream looked so inviting, that they
yielded to Gertrude's earnest wish, and, taking a larger vessel, con-
tinued their course : they passed along the narrow and dangerous
defile of the Gewirre, and the fearful whirlpool of the "Bank;"
and on the shore to the left the enormous rock of Lurlei rose, huge
and shapeless, on their gaze. In this place is a singular echo, and
one of the boatmen wound a horn, which produced an almost
supernatural music — so wild, loud, and oft reverberated was its
sound.

The river now curved along in a narrow and deep channel amongst!
rugged steeps, on which the westering sun cast long and uncouth
shadows : and here the hermit, from whose sacred name the town
of St. Goar derived its own, fixed his abode and preached the
religion of the Cross. "There was a certain vastness of mind,"
said Vane, " in the adoption of utter solitude, in which the first
enthusiasts of our religion indulged. The remote desert, the solitary
rock, the rude dwelling hollowed from the cave, the eternal com-
mune with their own hearts, with nature, and their dreams of God,
all make a picture of severe and preterhuman grandeur. Say what
we will of the necessity and charm of social life, there is a greatness
about man when he dispenses with mankind."

"As to that," said Du e, shrugging his shoulders, "there was

probably very good wine in the neighbourhood, and the females'
eyes about Oberwesel are singularly blue."

They now approached Oberwesel, another of the once imperial
towns, and behind it beheld the remains of the castle of the illus-
trious family of Schomberg : the ancestors of the old hero of the
Boyne. A little further on, from the opposite shore, the castle of
Gutenfels rose above the busy town of Kaub.

" Another of those scenes," said Trevylyan, "celebrated equally
by love and glory, for the castle's name is derived from that of the
beautiful ladye of an emperor's passion ; and below, upon a ridge in
the steep, the great Gustavus issued forth his command to begin
battle with the Spaniards."

"It looks peaceful enough now," said Vane, pointing to the craft
that lay along the stream, and the green trees drooping over a curve
in the bank. Beyond, in the middle of the stream itself, stands the
lonely castle of Pfalzgrafenstein, sadly memorable as a prison to the
more distinguished of criminals. How many pining eyes may have
.turned from those casements to the vine-clad hills of the free shore $

264 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

how many indignant hearts have nursed the deep curses of hate in
the dungeons below, and longed for the wave that dashed against
the gray walls to force its way within and set them free !

Here the Rhine seems utterly bounded, shrunk into one of those
delusive lakes into which it so frequently seems to change its course ;
and as you proceed, it is as if the waters were silently overflowing
their channel and forcing their way into the clefts of the mountain
shore. Passing the Werth Island on one side, and the castle of
Stahleck on the other, our voyagers arrived at Bacharach, which,
associating the feudal recollections with the classic, takes its name

from the god of the vine ; and as Du e declared with peculiar

emphasis, quaffing a large goblet of the peculiar liquor, " richly
deserves the honour ! "

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE VOYAGE TO BINGEN. — THE SIMPLE INCIDENTS IN THIS TALE
EXCUSED. — THE SITUATION AND CHARACTER OF GERTRUDE.
— THE CONVERSATION OF THE LOVERS IN THE TEMPLE. — A
FACT CONTRADICTED. — THOUGHTS OCCASIONED BY A MAD-
HOUSE AMONGST THE MOST BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPES OF THE
RHINE.

|HE next day they again resumed their voyage, and Ger-
trude's spirits were more cheerful than usual : the air
seemed to her lighter, and she breathed with a less
painful effort ; once more hope entered the breast of
Trevylyan ; and, as the vessel bounded on, their conversation was
steeped in no sombre hues. When Gertrude's health permitted, no
temper was so gay, yet so gently gay, as hers ; and now the naive
sportiveness of her remarks called a smile to the placid lip of Vane,
and smoothed the anxious front of Trevylyan himself; as for
Du e, who had much of the boon companion beneath his pro-
fessional gravity, he broke out every now and then into snatches of
French songs and drinking glees, which he declared were the result
of the air of Bacharach. Thus conversing, the ruins of Furstenberg,
and the echoing vale of Rheindeibach, glided past their sail. Then
the old town of Lorch, on the opposite bank (where the red wine is
said first to have been made), with the green island before it in the
water. Winding round, the stream showed castle upon castle alike
in ruins, and built alike upon scarce accessible steeps. Then came

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINK. 2^5

the chapel of St. Clements, and the opposing village of Asmanns-
hausen ; the lofty Rossell, built at the extremest verge of the cliff ;
and now the tower of Hatto, celebrated by Southey's ballad ; and
the ancient town of Bingen. Here they paused awhile from their
voyage, with the intention of visiting more minutely the Rheingau,
or valley of the Rhine.

It must occur to every one of my readers that, in undertaking, as
now, in these passages in the history of Trevylyan, scarcely so much
a tale as an episode in real life, it is very difficult to offer any interest
save of the most simple and unexciting kind. It is true that to
Trevylyan every day, every hour had its incident ; but what are
those incidents to others? A cloud in the sky ; a simile from the lip
of Gertrude ; these were to him far more full of events than had
been the most varied scenes of his former adventurous career ; but
the history of the heart is not easily translated into language ; and
the world will not readily pause from its business to watch the
alternations in the cheek of a dying girl.

In the immense sum of human existence, what is a single unit ?
Every sod on which we tread is the grave of some former being :
yet is there something that softens without enervating the heart, in
tracing in the life of another those emotions that all of us have
known ourselves. For who is there that has not, in his progress
through life, felt all its ordinary business arrested, and the varieties
of fate commuted into one chronicle of the affections? Who has
not watched over the passing away of some being, more to him, at
that epoch, than all the world? And this unit, so trivial to the
calculation of others, of what inestimable value was it not to him ?
Retracing in another such recollections, shadowed and mellowed
down by time, we feel the wonderful sanctity of human life, we feel
what emotions a single being can awake ; what a world of hope
may be buried in a single grave. And thus we keep alive within
ourselves the soft springs of that morality which unites us with our
kind, and sheds over the harsh scenes and turbulent contests of
earth the colouring of a common love.

There is often, too, in the time of year in which such thoughts
are presented to us, a certain harmony with the feelings they awaken.
As I write, I hear the last sighs of the departing summer, and the
sere and yellow leaf is visible in the green of nature. But, when
this book goes forth into the world, the year will have passed
through a deeper cycle of decay ; and the first melancholy signs of
winter have breathed into the Universal Mind that sadness which
associntes itself readily with the memory of friends, of feelings, that
are no more. The seasons, like ourselves, track their course, by

266 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

something of beauty, or of glory, that is left behind. As the
traveller in the land cf Palestine sees tomb after tomb rise before
him, the landmarks of his way, and the only signs of the holiness of
the soil ; thus Memory wanders over the most sacred spots in its
various world, and traces them but by the graves of the Past.

It was now that Gertrude began to feel the shock her frame had
received in the storm upon the Rhine. Cold shiverings frequently
seized her ; her cough became more hollow, and her form trembled
at the slightest breeze.

Vane grew seriously alarmed ; he repented that he had yielded to
Gertrude's wish of substituting the Rhine for the Tiber or the Arno ;
and would even now have hurried across the Alps to a warmer clime,

if Du e had not declared that she could not survive the journey,

and that her sole chance of regaining her strength was rest. Gertrude
herself, however, in the continued delusion of her disease, clung to
the belief of recovery, and still supported the hopes of her father,
and soothed, with secret talk of the future, the anguish of her
betrothed. The reader may remember that, the most touching
passage in the ancient tragedians, the most pathetic part of the most
pathetic of human poets — the pleading speech of Iphigenia, when
imploring for her prolonged life, she impresses you with so soft a
picture of its innocence and its beauty, and in this Gertrude resembled
the Greek's creation — that she felt, on the verge of death, all the
flush, the glow, the loveliness of life. Her youth was filled with
hope, and many-coloured dreams ; she loved, and the hues of morning
slept upon the yet disenchanted earth. The heavens to her were not
as the common sky ; the wave had its peculiar music to her ear, and
the rustling leaves a pleasantness that none, whose heart is not bathed
in the love and sense of beauty, could discern. Therefore it was, in
future years, a thought of deep gratitude to Trevylyan that she was
so little sensible of her danger ; that the landscape caught not the
gloom of the grave ; and that, in the Greek phrase, "death found
her sleeping amongst flowers."

At the end of a few days, another of those sudden turns, common
to her malady, occurred in Gertrude's health ; her youth and her
happiness rallied against the encroaching tyrant, and for the ensuing
fortnight she seemed once more within the bounds of hope. During
this time they made several excursions into the Rheingau, and finished
their tour at the ancient Heidelberg.

One morning, in these excursions, after threading the wood of
Niederwald, they gained that small and fairy temple, which hanging
lightly over the mountain's brow, commands one of the noblest
landscapes of earth. There, seated side by side, the lovers looked

THE PILGRIMS OK THE RHINE. 267

over the beautiful world below ; far to the left lay the happy
islets, in the embrace of the Rhine, as it wound along the low and
curving meadows that stretch away towards Niecler Ingelheim and
Mayence. Glistening in the distance, the opposite Nah swept by
the Manse tower, and the ruins of Klopp, crowning the ancient
Bingen, into the mother tide. There, on either side the town, were
the mountains of St. Roch and Rupert, with some old monastic ruin,
saddening in the sun. But nearer, below the temple, contrasting
all the other features of landscape, yawned a dark and rugged
gulf, girt by cragged elms and mouldering towers, the very proto-
type of the abyss of time — black and fathomless amidst ruin and
desolation.

" I think, sometimes," said Gertrude, " as in scenes like these, we
sit together, and, rapt from the actual world, see only the enchant-
ment that distance lends to our view — I think sometimes, what
pleasure it will be hereafter to recall these hours. If ever you should
love me less, I need only to whisper to you, 'The Rhine,' and will
not all the feelings you have now for me return?"

"Ah! there will never be occasion to recall my love for you, it
can never decay."

"What a strange thing is life!" said Gertrude; "how uncon-
nected, how desultory seem all its links ! Has this sweet pause from
trouble, from the ordinary cares of life — has it anything in common
with your past career — with your future ? You will go into the great
world ; in a few years hence these moments of leisure and musing
will be denied to you ; the action that you love and court is a jealous
sphere ; it allows no wandering, no repose. These moments will then
seem to you but as yonder islands that stud the Rhine — the stream
lingers by them for a moment, and then hurries on in its rapid course ;
they vary, but they do not interrupt the tide."

''You are fanciful, my Gertrude ; but your simile might be
juster. Rather let these banks be as our lives, and this river the
one thought that flows eternally by both, blessing each with undying
freshness."

Gertrude smiled ; and, as Trevylyan's arm encircled her, she sunk
her beautiful face upon his bosom, he covered it with his kisses, and
she thought at the moment, that, even had she passed death, that
embrace could have recalled her to life.

They pursued their course to Mayence, partly by land, partly along
the river. One day, as returning from the vine-clad mountains of
Johannisberg, which commands the whole of the Rheingau, the most
beautiful valley in the world, they proceeded by water to the town of
Ellfeld, Gertrude said,

268 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

"There is a thought in your favourite poet which you have often
repeated, and which I cannot think true,

' In nature there is nothing melancholy.'

To me, it seems as if a certain melancholy were inseparable from
beauty ; in the sunniest noon there is a sense of solitude and stillness
which pervades the landscape, and even in the flush of life inspires
us with a musing and tender sadness. Why is this ? "

"I cannot tell," said Trevylyan, mournfully ; "but I allow that it
is true."

"It is as if," continued the romantic Gertrude, "the spirit of the
world spoke to us in the silence, and filled us with a sense of our
mortality — a whisper from the religion that belongs to nature, and is
ever seeking to unite the earth with the reminiscences of Heaven.
Ah, what without a heaven would be even love ! — a perpetual terror
of the separation that must one day come ! If," she resumed,
solemnly, after a momentary pause, and a shadow settled on her
young face, "if it be true, Albert, that I must leave you soon "

"It cannot — it cannot!" cried Trevylyan, wildly; "be still, be
silent, I beseech you."

" Look yonder," said Du e, breaking seasonably in upon the

conversation of the lovers ; " on that hill to the left, what once was
an abbey is now an asylum for the insane. Does it not seem a quiet
and serene abode for the unstrung and erring minds that tenant it ?
What a mystery is there in our conformation ! — those strange and
bewildered fancies which replace our solid reason, what a moral of
our human weakness do they breathe ! "

It does indeed induce a dark and singular train of thought, when,
in the midst of these lovely scenes, we chance upon this lone retreat
for those on whose eyes Nature, perhaps, smiles in vain ? Or is it in
vain? They look down upon the broad Rhine, with its tranquil
isles ; do their wild illusions endow the river with another name, and
people the valleys with no living shapes ! Does the broken mirror
within reflect back the countenance of real things, or shadows and
shapes, crossed, mingled, and bewildered, — the phantasma of a sick
man's dreams? Yet, perchance, one memory unscathed by the
general ruin of the brain can make even the beautiful Rhine more
beautiful than it is to the common eye; — can calm it with the hues
of departed love, and bid its possessor walk over its vine-clad moun-
tains with the beings that have ceased to be I There, perhaps, the
self-made monarch sits upon his throne and claims the vessels as his
fleet, the waves and the valleys as his own. There, the enthusiast,
blasted by the light of some imaginary creed, beholds the shapes of

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 269

angels, and watches in the clouds round the setting sun, the pavilions
of God. There the victim of forsaken or perished love, mightier
than the sorcerers of old, evokes the dead, or recalls the faithless by
the philtre of undying fancies. Ah, blessed art thou, the winged
power of Imagination that is within us ! — conquering even grief —
brightening even despair. Thou takest us from the world when
reason can no longer bind us to it, and givest to the maniac the
inspiration and the solace of the bard ! Thou, the parent of the
purer love, lingerest like love, when even ourself forsakes us, and
lightest up the shattered chambers of the heart with the glory that
makes a sanctity of decay !

CHAPTER XXIX.

ELLFELD. — MAYENCE. — HEIDELBERG. — A CONVERSATION BETWEEN
VANE AND THE GERMAN STUDENT. — THE RUINS OF THE
CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG AND ITS SOLITARY HABITANT.

ST was now the full noon ; light clouds were bearing up towards
the opposite banks of the Rhine, but over the Gothic
Towers of Ellfeld the sky spread blue and clear ; the river
danced beside the old gray walls with a sunny wave, and
close at hand a vessel crowded with passengers, and loud with eager
voices, gave a merry life to the scene. On the opposite bank the
hills sloped away into the far horizon, and one slight skiff in the midst
of the waters broke the solitary brightness of the noonday calm.

The town of Ellfeld was the gift of Otho the First to the Church ;
not far from thence is the crystal spring that gives its name to the
delicious grape of Markbrunner.

*' Ah ! " quoth Du e, "doubtless the good bishops of Mayence

made the best of the vicinity ! "

They stayed some little time at this town, and visited the ruins of
Scharfenstein ; thence proceeding up the river, they passed Nieder
\Valluf, called the Gate of the Rheingau, and the luxuriant garden
of Schierstein ; thence, sailing by the castle-seat of the Prince Nassau
Usingen, and passing two long and narrow isles they arrived at
Mayence, as the sun shot his last rays upon the waters, gilding the
proud cathedral-spire, and breaking the mists that began to gather
behind, over the rocks of the Rheingau.

Ever- memorable Mayence ! — memorable alike for freedom and for
song — within those walls how often woke the gallant music of the
Troubadour ; and how often beside that river did the heart of the

270

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE,

maiden tremble to the lay ! Within those walls the stout Walpoden
first broached the great scheme of the Hanseatic league ; and, more
than all, O memorable Mayence, thou canst claim the first invention
of the mightiest engine of human intellect, — the great leveller of
power, — the Demiurgus of the moral world, — the Press ! Here too
lived the maligned hero of the greatest drama of modern genius, the
traditionary Faust, illustrating in himself the fate of his successors
in dispensing knowledge — held a monster for his wisdom, and con-
signed to the penalties of hell as a recompense for the benefits he had
conferred on earth !

At Mayence, Gertrude heard so much and so constantly of Heidel-
berg, that she grew impatient to visit that enchanting town, and as

Du e considered the air of Heidelberg more pure and invigorating

than that of Mayence, they resolved to fix within it their temporary
residence. Alas ! it was the place destined to close their brief and
melancholy pilgrimage, and to become to the heart of Trevylyan the
holiest spot which the earth contained ; — the KAABA of the world.
But Gertrude, unconscious of her fate, conversed gaily as their car-
riage rolled rapidly on, and, constantly alive to every new sensation,
she touched with her characteristic vivacity on all they had seen in
their previous route. There is a great charm in the observations of
one new to the world, if we ourselves have become somewhat tired
of "its hack sights and sounds ; " we hear in their freshness a voice
from our own youth.

In the haunted valley of the Neckar, the most crystal of rivers,
stands the town of Heidelberg. The shades of evening gathered
round it as their heavy carriage rattled along the antique streets, and
not till the next day was Gertrude aware of all the unrivalled beauties
that environ the place.

Vane, who was an early riser, went forth alone in the morning to
reconnoitre the town ; and as he was gazing on the tower of St. Peter,
he heard himself suddenly accosted ; he turned round and saw the
German Student, whom they had met among the mountains of Taunus,
at his elbow.

"Monsieur has chosen well in coming hither," said the student :
"and I trust our town will not disappoint his expectations."

Vane answered with courtesy, and the German offering to
accompany him in his walk, their conversation fell naturally on the life
of an university, and the current education of the German people.

"It is surprising," said the student, "that men are eternally
inventing new systems of education, and yet persevering in the old.
How many years ago is it since Fichte predicted, in the system of
Pestalozzi, the regeneration of the German people? What has it

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 2/1

done? \Ve admire — we praise, and we blunder on in the very course
Pestalozzi proves to be erroneous. Certainly," continued the student,
"there must be some radical defect in a system of culture in which
genius is an exception, and dulness the result. Yet here, in our
German universities, everything proves that education without equit-
able institutions avails little in the general formation of character.
Here the young men of the colleges mix on the most equal terms ;
they are daring, romantic, enamoured of freedom even to its madness ;
they leave the university, no political career continues the train of
mind they had acquired ; they plunge into obscurity ; live scattered
and separate, and the student inebriated with Schiller sinks into the
passive priest or the lethargic baron. His college career, so far from
indicating his future life, exactly reverses it : he is brought up in one
course in order to proceed in another. And this I hold to be the
universal error of education in all countries ; they conceive it a certain
something to be finished at a certain age. They do not make it a part
of the continuous history of life, but a wandering from it."

" You have been in England ?" asked Vane.

" Yes ; I have travelled over nearly the whole of it on foot. I was
poor at that time, and imagining there was a sort of masonry between
all men of letters, I inquired at each town for the savans, and asked
money of them as a matter of course."

Vane almost laughed outright at the simplicity and naive uncon-
sciousness of degradation with which the student proclaimed himself
a public beggar.

" And how did you generally succeed ?"

" In most cases I was threatened with the stocks, and twice I was
consigned by the juge de paix to the village police, to be passed to
some mystic Mecca they were pleased to entitle 'a parish.' Ah,"
(continued the German with much bonhommie,) "it was a pity to
see in a great nation so much value attached to such a trifle as
money. But what surprised me greatly was the tone of your poetry.
Madame de Stael, who knew perhaps as much of England as she
did of Germany, tells us that its chief character is the chivalresquc :
and, excepting only Scott, who, by the way, is not English. I did
not find one chivalrous poet among you. Yet," continued the
student, " between ourselves, I fancy that in our present age of
civilization, there is an unexamined mistake in the general mind
as to the value of poetry. It delights still as ever, but it has ceased
to teach. The prose of the heart enlightens, touches, rouses, far
more than poetry. Your most philosophical poets would be com-
monplace if turned into prose. Verse cannot contain the refining
subtle thoughts which a great prose writer embodies ; the rhyme

272 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHIXE.

eternally cripples it ; it properly deals with the common problems
of human nature which are now hackneyed, and not with the nice
and philosophizing corollaries which may be drawn from them.
Thus, though it would seem at first a paradox, commonplace is more
the element of poetry than of prose.

This sentiment charmed Vane, who had nothing of the poet about
him ; and he took the student to share their breakfast at the inn,
with a complacency he rarely experienced at the re-meeting with a
new acquaintance.

After breakfast, our party proceeded through the town towards
the wonderful castle which is its chief attraction, and the noblest
wreck of German grandeur.

And now pausing, the mountain yet unsealed, the stately ruin
frowned upon them, girt by its massive walls and hanging terraces,
round which from place to place clung the dwarfed and various
foliage. High at the rear rose the huge mountain, covered, save at
its extreme summit, with dark trees, and concealing in its mysterious
breast the shadowy beings of the legendary world. But towards
the ruins, and up a steep ascent, you may see a few scattered sheep
thinly studding the broken ground. Aloft, above the ramparts,
rose, desolate and huge, the Palace of the Electors of the Palatinate.
In its broken walls you may trace the tokens of the lightning that
blasted its ancient pomp, but still leaves in the vast extent of pile a
fitting monument of the memory of Charlemagne. Below, in the
distance, spread the plain far and spacious, till the shadowy river,
with one solitary sail upon its breast, united the melancholy scene
of earth with the autumnal sky.

" See," said Vane, pointing to two peasants who were conversing
near them on the matters of their little trade, utterly unconscious of
the associations of the spot, " see, after all that is said and done
about human greatness, it is always the greatness of the few. Ages
pass, and leave the poor herd, the mass of men, eternally the same
— hewers of wood and drawers of water. The pomp of princes has
its ebb and flow, but the peasant sells his fruit as gaily to the stranger
on the ruins, as to the emperor in the palace."

" Will it be always so ? '" said the student.

" Let us hope not, for the sake of permanence in glory," said
Trevylyan ; ' ' had a people built yonder palace, its splendour would
never have passed away."

Vane shrugged his shoulders, and Du e took snuff.

But all the impressions produced by the castle at a distance, are as
nothing when you stand within its vast area, and behold the archi-
tecture of all ages blended into one mighty ruin ! The rich hues of

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 273

the masonry, the sweeping facades — every description of building
which man ever framed for war or for luxury — is here ; all having only
the common character — RUIN. The feudal rampart, the yawning
foss, the rude tower, the splendid arch, — the strength of a fortress,
the magnificence of a palace, — all united, strike upon the soul like
the history of a fallen empire in all its epochs.

" There is one singular habitant of these ruins," said the student ;
" a solitary painter, who has dwelt here some twenty years, com-
panioned only by his Art. No other apartment but that which he
tenants is occupied by a human being."

" What a poetical existence ! " cried Gertrude, enchanted with a
solitude so full of associations.

" Perhaps so," cried the cruel Vane, ever anxious to dispel an
illusion ; "but more probably custom has deadened to him all that
overpowers ourselves with awe ; and he may tread among these ruins
rather seeking to pick up some rude morsel of antiquity, than feeding
his imagination with the dim traditions that invest them with so
august a poetry."

''Monsieur's conjecture has something of the truth in it," said the
German : " but then the painter is a Frenchman."

There is a sense of fatality in the singular mournfulness and
majesty which belong to the ruins of Heidelberg ; contrasting
the vastness of the strength with the utterness of the ruin. It has
been twice struck with lightning, and is the wreck of the elements,
not of man : during the great siege it sustained, the lightning is
supposed to have struck the powder magazine by accident.

What a scene for some great imaginative work ! What a mocking
interference of the wrath of nature in the puny contests of men !
One stroke of " the red right arm " above us, crushing the triumph
of ages, and laughing to scorn the power of the beleaguers and the
valour of the besieged !

They passed the whole day among these stupendous ruins, and felt,
when they descended to their inn, as if they had lelt the caverns of
some mighty tomb.

274 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

CHAPTER XXX.

NO PART OF THE EARTH REALLY SOLITARY. — THE SONG OF
THE FAIRIES. — THE SACRED SPOT. — THE WITCH OF THE
EVIL WINDS. — THE SPELL AND THE DUTY OF THE FAIRIES.

'UT in what spot of the world is there ever utter solitude?
The vanity of man supposes that loneliness is his absence ?
Who shall say what millions of spiritual beings glide in-
visibly among scenes apparently the most deserted? Or
what know we of our own mechanism, that we should deny the
possibility of life and motion to things that we cannot ourselves
recognize ?

At moonlight, in the Great Court of Heidelberg, on the borders
of the shattered basin overgrown with weeds, the following song
was heard by the melancholy shades that roam at night through the
mouldering halls of old, and the gloomy hollows in the mountain of
Heidelberg.

SONG OF THE FAIRIES IN THE RUINS OF HEIDELBERG.

From the woods and the glossy green,

With the wild thyme strewn ;
From the rivers whose crisped sheen

Is kissed by the trembling moon ; —
While the dwarf looks out from his mountain cave,

And the erl king from his lair,
And the water-nymph from her moaning wave, —

We skirr the limber air.

There's a smile on the vine-clad shore,

A smile on the castled heights ;
They dream back the days of yore,

And they smile at our roundel rites !
Our roundel rites !

Lightly we tread these halls around,

Lightly tread we ;

Vet, hark ! we have scared with a single sound
The moping owl on the breathless tree,

And the goblin sprites !

Ha ! ha! we have scared with a single sound
The old gray owl on the breathless tree.
And the goblin sprites !

" They come not," said Pipalee ; "yet the banquet is prepared,
and the poor queen will be glad of some refreshment."

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 275

" What a pity ! all the rose-leaves will be over-broiled," said Nip.

"Let us amuse ourselves with the old painter," quoth Trip,
springing over the ruins.

"Well said," cried Pipalee and Nip: and all three, leaving my
lord-treasurer amazed at their levity, whisked into the painter's
apartment. Permitting them to throw the ink over their victim's
papers, break his pencils, mix his colours, mislay his nightcap, and
go whiz against his face in the shape of a great bat, till the astonished
Frenchman began to think the pensive goblins of the place had
taken a sprightly fit, — we hasten to a small green spot some little
way from the town, in the valley of the Neckar, and by the banks
of its silver stream. It was circled round by dark trees, save on that
side bordered by the river. The wild flowers sprang profusely from
the turf which yet was smooth and singularly green. And there was
the German fairy describing a circle round the spot, and making his
elvish spells. And Nymphalin sat droopingly in the centre, shading
her face, which was bowed down as the head of a water-lily, and
weeping crystal tears.

There came a hollow murmur through the trees, and a rush as
of a mighty wind, and a dark form emerged from the shadow and
approached the spot.

The face was wrinkled and old, and stern with a malevolent and
evil aspect. The frame was lean and gaunt, and supported by a
staff, and a short gray mantle covered its bended shoulders.

" Things of the moonbeam ! " said the form, in a shrill and ghastly
voice ; " what want ye here ? and why charm ye this spot from the
coming of me and mine? "

" Dark witch of the blight and blast," answered the fairy, ' THOU
that nippest the herb in its tender youth, and eatest up the core of
the soft bud ; behold, it is but a small spot that the fairies claim
from thy demesnes, and on which, through frost and heat, they will
keep the herbage green and the air gentle in its sighs ! "

" And, wherefore, O dweller in the crevices of the earth ! where-
fore woulclst thou guard this spot from the curses of the seasons ? "

" We know by our instinct," answered the fairy, "that this spot
will become the grave of one whom the fairies love ; hither, by an
unfelt influence, shall we guide her yet living steps ; and in gazing
upon this spot, shall the desire of quiet and the resignation to death
steal upon her soul. Behold, throughout the universe, all things at
war with one another ; — the lion with the lamb ; the serpent with
the bird ; and even the gentlest bird itself with the moth of the air,
or the worm of the humble earth ! What then to men, and to the
spirits transcending men, is so lovely and so sacred as a being that

276 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

harmeth none ? what so beautiful as Innocence ? what so mournful
as its untimely tomb ? And shall not that tomb be sacred ? shall it
not be our peculiar care ? May we not mourn over it as at the
passing away of some fair miracle in Nature ; too tender to endure,
too rare to be forgotten ? It is for this, O dread waker of the blast !
that the fairies would consecrate this little spot ; for this they would
charm away from its tranquil turf the wandering ghoul and the evil
children of the night. Here, not the ill-omened owl, nor the blind
bat, nor the unclean worm, shall come. And thou shouldst have
neither will nor power to nip the flowers of spring, nor sear the
green herbs of summer. Is it not, dark mother of the evil winds !
is it not our immemorial office to tend the grave of Innocence, and
keep fresh the flowers round the resting-place of Virgin Love ? "

Then the witch drew her cloak round her, and muttered to her-
self, and without further answer turned away among the trees and
vanished, as the breath of the east wind, which goeth with her as her
comrade, scattered the melancholy leaves along her path !

CHAPTER XXXI.

GERTRUDE AND TREVYLYAN, WHEN THE FORMER IS AWAKENED
TO THE APPROACH OF DEATH.

next day, Gertrude and her companions went along the
banks of the haunted Neckar. She had passed a sleepless
and painful night, and her evanescent and child-like spirits
had sobered down into a melancholy and thoughtful mood.
She leaned back in an open carriage with Trevylyan, ever constant
by her side, while Du e and Vane rode slowly in advance. Tre-
vylyan tried in vain to cheer her, even his attempts (usually so
eagerly received) to charm her duller moments by tale or legend,
were, in this instance, fruitless. She shook her head gently —
pressed his hand, and said, " No, dear Trevylyan — no; even your
art fails to-day, but your kindness, never ! " and pressing his hand to
her lips, she burst passionately into tears.

Alarmed and anxious, he clasped her to his breast, and strove to
lift her face, as it drooped on its resting-place, and kiss away its
tears.

" Oh ! " said she, at length, "do not despise my weakness, I am
overcome by my own thoughts : I look upon the world, and see that
it is fair and good ; 1 look upon you, and I see all that I can venerate

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 277

and adore. Life seems to me so sweet, and the earth so lovely ; can
you wonder, then, that I should shrink at the thought of death ?
Nay, interrupt me not, dear Albert ; the thought must be borne and
braved. I have not cherished, I have not yielded to it through my
long- increasing illness, but there have been times when it has forced
itself upon me ; and now, now more palpably than ever. Do not
think me weak and childish, I never feared death till I knew you ;
but to see you no more — never again to touch this dear hand — never
to thank you for your love — never to be sensible of your care — to
lie down and sleep, and never, never, once more to dream of you !
Ah ! that is a bitter thought ! but I will brave it — yes, brave it as
one worthy of your regard.

Trevylyan, choked by his emotions, covered his own face with his
hands, and, leaning back in the carriage, vainly struggled with
his sobs.

" Perhaps," she said, yet ever and anon clinging to the hope that
had utterly abandoned him, "perhaps, I may yet deceive myself;
and my love for you, which seems to me as if it could conquer death,
may bear me up against this fell disease ; — the hope to live with you
— to watch you — to share your high dreams, and oh ! above all, to
soothe you in sorrow and sickness, as you have soothed me — has not
that hope something that may support even this sinking frame? And
who shall love thee as I love ? who see thee as I have seen ? who
pray for thee in gratitude and tears as I have prayed? Oh, Albert,
so little am I jealous of you, so little do I think of myself in com-
parison, that I could close my eyes happily on the world, if I knew
that what I could be to thee, another will be ! "

" Gertrude," said Trevylyan; and lifting up his colourless face,
he gazed upon her with an earnest and calm solemnity. " Gertrude,
let us be united at once ! if Fate must sever us, let her cut the last
tie too ; let us feel at least that on earth we have been all in all to
each other ; let us defy death, even as it frowns upon us. Be mine
to-morrow — this day — oh God ! be mine ! "

Over even that pale countenance, beneath whose hues the lamp of
life so faintly fluttered, a deep, radiant flash passed one moment,
lighting up the beautiful ruin with the glow of maiden youth and
impassioned hope, and then died rapidly away.

"No, Albert," she said, sighing; "No! it must not be: far
easier would come the pang to you, while yet we are not wholly
united ; and for my own part, I am selfish, and feel as if I should
leave a tenderer remembrance on your heart, thus parted ; — tenderer,
but not so sad. I would not wish you to feel yourself widowed to
my memory ; I would not cling "like a blight to your fair prospects

278 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

of the future. Remember me rather as a dream ; as something
never wholly won, and therefore asking no fidelity but that of kind
and forbearing thoughts. Do you remember one evening as we
sailed along the Rhine — ah ! happy, happy hour ! — that we heard
from the banks a strain of music, not so skilfully played as to be
worth listening to for itself, but, suiting as it did the hour and the
scene, we remained silent, that we might hear it the better ; and
when it died insensibly upon the waters, a certain melancholy stole
over us ; we felt that a something that softened the landscape had
gone, and we conversed less lightly than before ? Just so, my own
loved — my own adored Trevylyan, just so is the influence that our
brief love — your poor Gertrude's existence, should bequeath to your
remembrance. A sound — a presence — should haunt you for a little
while, but no more, ere you again become sensible of the glories
that court your way ! "

But as Gertrude said this, she turned to Trevylyan, and seeing his
agony, she could refrain no longer ; she felt that to soothe was to
insult ; and, throwing herself upon his breast, they mingled their
tears together.

CHAPTER XXXII.

A SPOT TO BE BURIED IN.

[N their return homeward, Du e took the third seat in

the carriage, and endeavoured, with his usual vivacity, to
cheer the spirits of his companions ; and such was the
elasticity of Gertrude's nature, that with her, he, to a
certain degree, succeeded in his kindly attempt. Quickly alive to
the charms of scenery, she entered by degrees into the external
beauties which every turn in the road opened to their view ; and the
silvery smoothness of the river, that made the constant attraction of
the landscape ; the serenity of the time, and the clearness of the
heavens, tended to tranquillize a mind that, like a sun-flower, so
instinctively turned from the shadow to the light.

Once Du e stopped the carriage in a spot of herbage, bedded

among the trees, and said to Gertrude, " We are now in one of the
many places along the Neckar, which your favourite traditions
serve to consecrate. Amidst yonder copses, in the early ages of
Christianity, there dwelt a hermit, who, though young in years, was
renowned for the sanctity of his life. None knew whence he came,
nor for what cause he had limited the circle of life to the seclusion

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 279

of his cell. He rarely spoke, save when his ghostly advice, or his
kindly prayer, was needed ; he lived upon herbs, and the wild fruits
which the peasants brought to his cave ; and every morning and
every evening, he came to this spot to fill his pitcher from the water
of the stream. But here he was observed to linger long after his
task was done, and to sit gazing upon the walls of a convent which
then rose upon the opposite side of the bank, though now even its
ruins are gone. Gradually his health gave way beneath the austeri-
ties he practised ; and one evening he was found by some fishermen
insensible on the turf. They bore him for medical aid to the opposite
convent ; and one of the sisterhood, the daughter of a prince, was
summoned to tend the recluse. But when his eyes opened upon
hers, a sudden recognition appeared to seize both. He spoke ; and
the sister threw herself on the couch of the dying man, and shrieked
forth a name, the most famous in the surrounding country, — the
name of a once noted minstrel, who, in those rude times, had mingled
the poet with the lawless chief, and was supposed, years since, to
have fallen in one of the desperate frays between prince and outlaw,
which were then common ; storming the very castle which held her
—now the pious nun, then the beauty and presider over the tourna-
ment and galliard. In her arms the spirit of the hermit passed
away. She survived but a few hours, and left conjecture busy with
a history to which it never obtained further clue. Many a trouba-
dour, in later times, furnished forth in poetry the details which truth
refused to supply ; and the place where the hermit at sunrise and sun-
set ever came to gaze upon the convent became consecrated by song. "

The place invested with this legendary interest was impressed
with a singular aspect of melancholy quiet ; wild flowers yet lingered
on the turf, whose grassy sedges gently overhung the Neckar, that
murmured amidst them with a plaintive music. Not a wind stirred
the trees ; but, at a little distance from the place, the spire of a
church rose amidst the copse ; and, as they paused, they suddenly
heard from the holy building the bell that summons to the burial of
the dead. It came on the ear in such harmony with the spot, with
the hour, with the breathing calm, that it thrilled to the heart of
each with an inexpressible power. It was like the voice of another
world — that amidst the solitude of nature summoned the lulled
spirit from the cares of this ; — it invited, not repulsed, and had in
its tone more of softness than of awe.

Gertrude turned, with tears starting to her eyes, and, laying her
hand on Trevylyan's, whispered: — "In such a spot, so calm, so
sequestered, yet in the neighbourhood of the house of God, would I
wish this broken frame to be consigned to rest ! "

280 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

CHAPTER THE LAST.

THE CONCLUSION OF THIS TALE.

OM that day Gertrude's spirit resumed its wonted cheer-
fulness, and for the ensuing week she never reverted to
her approaching fate ; she seemed once more to* have
grown unconscious of its limit. Perhaps she sought,
anxious for Trevylyan to the last, not to throw additional gloom
over their earthly separation ; or, perhaps, once steadily regarding
the certainty of her doom, its terrors vanished. The chords of
thought, vibrating to the subtlest emotions, may be changed by a
single incident, or in a single hour ; a sound of sacred music, a green
and quiet burial-place, may convert the form of death into the aspect
of an angel. And therefore wisely, and with a beautiful lore, did
the Greeks strip the grave of its unreal gloom ; wisely did they body
forth the great Principle of Rest by solemn and lovely images — un-
conscious of the northern madness that made a Spectre of REPOSE !

But while Gertrude's spirit resumed its healthful tone, her frame
rapidly declined, and a few days now could do the ravage of months
a little while before.

One evening, amidst the desolate ruins of Heidelberg, Trevylyan,
who had gone forth alone to indulge the thoughts which he strove
to stifle in Gertrude's presence, suddenly encountered Vane. That
calm and almost callous pupil of the adversities of the world was
standing alone, and gazing upon the shattered casements and riven
tower, through which the sun now cast its slant and parting ray.

Trevylyan, who had never loved this cold and unsusceptible man,
save for the sake of Gertrude, felt now almost a hatred creep over
him, as he thought in such a time, and with death fastening upon
the flower of her house, he could yet be calm, and smile, and muse,
and moralize, and play the common part of the world. He strode
slowly up to him, and standing full before him, said with a hollow
voice and writhing smile: "You amuse yourself pleasantly, sir:
this is a fine scene ; — and to meditate over griefs a thousand years
hushed to rest is better than watching over a sick girl and eating
away your heart with fear ! "

Vane looked at him quietly, but intently, and made no reply.

"Vane!" continued Trevylyan, with the same preternatural
attempt at calm ; "Vane, in a few days all will be over, and you
and I, the things, the plotters, the false men of the world, will be

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 281

left alone — left by the sole Being that graces our dull life, that
makes by her love, either of us worthy of a thought ! "

Vane started, and turned away his face. " You are cruel," said
he, with a faltering voice.

" What, man ! shouted Trevylyan, seizing him abruptly by the
arm, "can you feel? Is your cold heart touched? Come, then,"
added he, with a wild laugh, " come, let us be friends ! "

Vane drew himself aside, with a certain dignity, that impressed
Trevylyan even at that hour. " Some years hence," said he, "you
will be called cold as I am ; sorrow will teach you the wisdom of
indifference — it is a bitter school, sir, — a bitter school ! But think
you that I do indeed see unmoved my last hope shivered — the last
tie that binds me to my kind? No, no ! I feel it as a man may
feel ; I cloak it as a man grown gray in misfortune should do ! My
child is more to me than your betrothed to you ; for you are young and
wealthy, and life smiles before you ; but I — no more — sir — no more. "

" Forgive me," said Trevylyan, humbly ; "I have wronged you ;
but Gertrude is an excuse for any crime of love ; and now listen to
my last prayer — give her to me — even on the verge of the grave.
Death cannot seize her in the arms — in the vigils — of a love like
mine. '

Vane shuddered. " It were to wed the dead," said he — "No ! "

Trevylyan drew back, and without another word, hurried away ;
he returned to the town ; he sought, with methodical calmness, the
owner of the piece of ground in which Gertrude had wished to be
buried. He purchased it, and that very night he sought the priest
of a neighbouring church, and directed it should be consecrated
according to the due rite and ceremonial.

The priest, an aged and pious man, was struck by the request, and
the air of him who made it.

"Shall it be done forthwith, sir?" said he, hesitating.

"Forthwith," answered Trevylyan, with a calm smile — "a bride-
groom, you know, is naturally impatient."

For the next three days, Gertrude was so ill as to be confined to
her bed. All that time Trevylyan sat outside her door, without
speaking, scarcely lifting his eyes from the ground. The attendants
passed to and fro — he heeded them not ; perhaps as even the foreign
menials turned aside and wiped their eyes, and prayed God to com-
fort him, he required compassion less at that time than any other.
There is a stupefaction in woe, and the heart sleeps without a pang
when exhausted by its afflictions.

But on the fourth day Gertrude rose, and was carried down (how
changed, yet how lovely ever !) to their common apartment. During

282 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE,,

those three days the priest had been with her often, and her spirit,
full of religion from her childhood, had been unspeakably soothed
by his comfort. She took food from the hand of Trevylyan ; she
smiled upon him as sweetly as of old. She conversed with him,-
though with a faint voice, and at broken intervals. But she felt
no pain ; life ebbed away gradually, and without a pang. " My
father," she said to Vane, whose features still bore their usual calm,-
whatever might have passed within, "I know that you will grieve
when I am gone more than the world might guess ; for I alone
know what you were years ago, ere friends left you and fortune
frowned, and ere my poor mother died. But do not — do not
believe that hope and comfort leave you with me. Till the heaven
pass away from the earth, there shall be comfort and hope for all."

They did not lodge in the town, but had fixed their abode on its
outskirts, and within sight of the Neckar : and from the window
they saw a light sail gliding gaily by, till it passed, and solitude once
more rested upon the waters.

"The sail passes from our eyes," said Gertrude, pointing to it,
" but still it glides on as happily though we see it no more ; and 1
feel — yes, father, I feel — I know that it is so with us. We glide
down the river of time from the eyes of men, but we cease not the
less to be!"

And now, as the twilight descended, she expressed a wish, before,
she retired to rest, to be left alone with Trevylyan. He was not
then sitting by her side, for he would not trust himself to do so ;
but with his face averted, at a little distance from her. She called
him by his name ; he answered not nor turned. Weak as she was,
she raised herself from the sofa, and crept gently along the floor till
she came to him, and sank in his arms..

"Ah, unkind!" she said, "unkind for once! Will you turn*
away from me? Come, let us look once more on the river: see!
the night darkens over it. Our pleasant voyage, the type of our
love, is finished ; our sail may be unfurled no more. Never again
can your voice soothe the lassitude of sickness with the legend and
the song — the course is run, the vessel is broken up, night closes
over its fragments ; but now, in this hour, love me, be kind to me
as ever. Still let me be your own Gertrude — still let me close my
eyes this night, as before, with the sweet consciousness that I am
loved."

" Loved ! — O Gertrude ! speak not to me thus ! "

" Come, that is yourself again ! " and she clung with weak arms
caressingly to his breast. "And now," she said more solemnly,
"let us forget that vfe are mortal; let us remember only that life is

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. 283

a part, not the whole, of our career ; let us feel in this soft hour, and
while yet we are unsevered, the presence of The Eternal that is
within us, so that it shall not be as death, but as a short absence ;
and when once the pang of parting is over, you must think only
that we are shortly to meet again. What ! you turn from me still ?
See, I do not weep or grieve, I have conquered the pang of our
absence ; will you be outdone by me ? Do you remember, Albert,
that you once told me how the wisest of the sages of old, in prison,
and before death, consoled his friends with the proof of the immor-
tality of the soul. Is it not a consolation ? — does it not suffice ; or
will you deem it wise from the lips of wisdom, but vain from the
lips of love ? "

"Hush, hush ! " said Trevylyan, wildly; "or I shall think you
an angel already."

But let us close this commune, and leave unrevealed the last sacred
words that ever passed between them upon earth.

When Vane and the physician stole back softly into the room,
Trevylyan motioned to them to be still: "She sleeps," he whis-
pered ; " hush ! " And in truth, wearied out by her own emotions,
and lulled by the belief that she had soothed one with whom her
heart dwelt now, as ever, she had fallen into sleep, or it may be,
insensibility, on his breast. There as she lay, so fair, so frail, so
' delicate, the twilight deepened into shade, and the first star, like
the hope of the future, broke forth upon the darkness of the earth.

Nothing could equal the stillness without, save that which lay
breathlessly within. For not one of the group stirred or spoke ;
and Trevylyan, bending over her, never took his eyes from her face,
watching the parted lips, and fancying that he imbibed the breath.
Alas, the breath was stilled ! from sleep to death she had glided
without a sigh : happy, most happy in that death ! — cradled in the
arms of unchanged love, and brightened in her last thought by the
consciousness of innocence and the assurances of heaven !

Trevylyan, after long sojourn on the Continent, returned to Eng-
land. He plunged into active life, and became what is termed, in
this age of little names, a distinguished and noted man. But what
was mainly remarkable in his future conduct, was his impatience of
rest. He eagerly courted all occupations, even of the most varied
and motley kind. Business, — letters, — ambition, — pleasure. He
suffered no pause in his career ; and leisure to him was as care to
others. He lived in the world, as the worldly do, discharging its

284 THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

duties, fostering its affections, and fulfilling its career. But there
was a deep and wintry change within him — the sunlight of his life
•was gone ; the loveliness of romance had left the earth. The stem
•was proof as heretofore to the blast, but the green leaves were
severed from it for ever, and the bird had forsaken its boughs.
Once he had idolized the beauty that is born of song ; the glory and
the ardour that invest such thoughts as are not of our common clay ;
but the well of enthusiasm was dried up, and the golden bowl was
broken at the fountain. With Gertrude the poetry of existence was
gone. As she herself had described her loss, a music had ceased to
breathe along the face of things ; and though the bark might sail on
as swiftly, and the stream swell with as proud a wave, a something
that had vibrated on the heart was still, and the magic of the voyage
was no more.

And Gertrude sleeps on the spot where she wished her last couch
to be made ; and far — oh, far dearer is that small spot on the distant
banks of the gliding Neckar to Trevylyan's heart, than all the broad
lands and fertile fields of his ancestral domain. The turf too pre-
serves its emerald greenness ; and it would seem to me that the
field flowers spring up by the sides of the simple tomb even more
profusely than of old. A curve in the bank breaks the tide of the
Neckar ; and therefore its stream pauses, as if to linger reluctantly,
by that solitary grave, and to mourn among the rustling sedges ere
it passes on. And I have thought, when I last looked upon that
quiet place, — when I saw the turf so fresh, and the flowers so bright
of hue, that aerial hands might indeed tend the sod ; that it was by
no imaginary spells that I summoned the fairies to my tale ; that in
truth, and with vigils constant though unseen, they yet kept from
all polluting footsteps, and from the harsher influence of the seasons,
the grave of one who so loved their race ; and who, in her gentle
and spotless virtue, claimed kindred with the beautiful Ideal of the
world. Is there one of us who has not known some being for whom
it seemed not too wild a phantasy to indulge such dreams ?

PAUSANI AS

THE SPARTAN
JVn unfiuishtb DistoriczU. Romance

BY

THE LATE LORD LYTTON

EDITED UY
HIS SOX

TO
THE REV. BENJAMIN HALL KENNEDY, D.D.

CANON OF ELY,

AND REGIUS PROFESSOR OF GREEK IN THE UNIVERSITY
OF CAMBRIDGE.

. MY DEAR DR. KENNEDY,

Revised by your helpful hand, and corrected by your accurate
scholarship, to whom may these pages be so. fitly inscribed as to
that one of their author's earliest and most honoured friends,1 whose
generous assistance has enabled me to place them before the public
in their present form ?

It is fully fifteen, if not twenty, years since my father commenced
the composition of an historical romance on the subject of Pausanias,
the Spartan Regent. Circumstances, which need not here be re-
corded, compelled him to lay aside the work thus begun. But the
subject continued to haunt his imagination and occupy his thoughts.
He detected in it singular opportunities for effective exercise of the
gifts most peculiar to his genius ; and repeatedly, in the intervals of
other literary labour, he returned to the task which, though again
and .again interrupted, was never abandoned.. To that rare com-
bination of the imaginative and practical faculties which character-
ized my father's intellect, and received from his life such varied
illustration, the story of Pausanias, indeed, briefly as it is told by
Thucydides and Plutarch, addressed itself with singular force. The
vast conspiracy of the Spartan Regent, had it been successful,
would have changed the whole course of Grecian history. To any
student of political phenomena, but more especially to one who,
during the greater part of his life, had been personally engaged in

1 The late Lord Lytton, in his unpublished autobiographical memoirs, describ-
ing his contemporaries at Cambridge, speaks of Dr. Kennedy as " a young giant
of learning." — L. . -.•'.• • ' • ' ''

288 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

active politics, the story of such a conspiracy could not fail to be
attractive. To the student of human nature the character of
Pausanias himself offers sources of the deepest interest ; and, in the
strange career and tragic fate of the great conspirator, an imagination
fascinated by the supernatural must have recognized remarkable
elements of awe and terror. A few months previous to his death,
I asked my father whether he had abandoned all intention of finish-
ing his romance of " Pausanias." He replied, "On the contrary,
I am finishing it now," and entered, with great animation, into a
discussion of the subject and its capabilities. This reply to my
inquiry surprised and impressed me : for, as you are aware, my
father was then engaged in the simultaneous composition of two
other and very different works, " Kenelm Chillingly " and the " Paris-
ians." It was the last time he ever spoke to me about Pausanias ;
but from what he then said of it I derived an impression that the
book was all but completed, and needing only a few finishing
touches to be ready for publication at no distant date.

This impression was confirmed, subsequent to my father's death,
by a letter of instructions about his posthumous papers which
accompanied his will. In that letter, dated 1856, special allusion
is made to Pausanias as a work already far advanced towards its
conclusion.

You, to whom, in your kind and careful revision of it, this
unfinished work lias suggested many questions which, alas, I
cannot answer, as to the probable conduct and fate of its fictitious
characters, will readily understand my reluctance to surrender an
impression seemingly so well justified. 1 did not indeed cease to
cherish it, until reiterated and exhaustive search had failed to re-
cover from the "wallet" wherein Time "puts alms for oblivion,"
more than those few imperfect fragments which, by your valued help,
are here arranged in such order as to carry on the narrative of
Pausanias, with no solution of continuity, to the middle of the
second volume.

There the manuscript breaks off. Was it ever continued further ?
I know not. Many circumstances induce me to believe that the
conception had long been carefully completed in the mind of its
author ; but he has left behind him only a very meagre and imperfect
indication of the course which, beyond the point where it is broken,
his narrative was intended to follow. In presence of this fact I
have had to choose between the total suppression of the fragment,
and the publication of it in its present form. My choice has not
been made without hesitation ; but I trust that, from many points of
view, the following pages will be found to justify it.

DEDICATION". 289

Judiciously (as I cannot but think) for the purposes of his fiction,
my father has taken up the story of Pausanias at a period subsequent
to the battle of Platsea ; when the Spartan Regent, as Admiral of
the United Greek Fleet in the waters of Byzantium, was at the
summit of his power and reputation. Mr. Grote, in his great work,
expresses the opinion (which certainly cannot be disputed by un-
biassed readers of Thucydides) that the victory of Platsea was not
attributable to any remarkable abilities on the part of Pausanias.
But Mr. Grote fairly recognizes as quite exceptional the fame and
authority accorded to Pausanias, after the battle, by all the Hellenic
States ; the influence which his name commanded, and the awe
which his character inspired. Not to the mere fact of his birth as
an Heracleid, not to the lucky accident (if such it were) of his
success at Platasa, and certainly not to his undisputed (but surely by
no means uncommon) physical courage, is it possible to attribute the
peculiar position which this remarkable man so long occupied in the
estimation of his contemporaries. For the little that we know about
Pausanias we are mainly dependent upon Athenian writers, who
must have been strongly prejudiced against him. Mr. Grote, adopt-
ing (as any modern historian needs must do) the narrative so handed
down to him, never once pauses to question its estimate of the
character of a man who was at one time the glory, and at another
the terror, of all Greece. Yet in comparing the summary proceed-
ings taken against Leotychides with the extreme, and seemingly
pusillanimous, deference paid to Pausanias by the Ephors long after
they possessed the most alarming proofs of his treason, Mr. Grote
observes, without attempting to account for the fact, that Pausanias,
though only Regent, was far more powerful than any Spartan King.
Why so powerful? Obviously, because he possessed uncommon
force of character ; a force of character strikingly attested by every
known incident of his career ; and which, when concentrated upon
the conception and execution of vast designs (even if those designs
be criminal), must be recognized as the special attribute of genius.
Thucydides, Plutarch, Diodorus, Grote, all these writers ascribe
solely to the administrative incapacity of Pausanias that offensive
arrogance which characterized his command at Byzantium, and
apparently cost Sparta the loss of her maritime hegemony. But
here is precisely one of those problems in public policy and personal
conduct which the historian bequeathes to the imaginative writer,
and which needs, for its solution, a profound knowledge rather of
human nature than of books. For dealing with such a problem,
my father, in addition to the intuitive penetration of character and
motive, which is common to every great romance writer, certainly

L

290 PAUSANIAS, THK SPARTAN.

possessed two qualifications special to himself: the habit of dealing
practically with political questions, and experience in the active
management of men. His explanation of the policy of Pausanias at
Byzantium, if it be not (as I think it is) the right one, is at least the
only one yet offered. I venture to think that, historically, it merits
attention ; as, from the imaginative point of view, it is undoubtedly
felicitous. By elevating our estimate of Pausanias as a statesman,
it increases our interest in him as a man.

The Author of " Pausanias " does not merely tell us that his hero,
when in conference with the Spartan commissioners, displayed
"great natural powers which, rightly trained, might have made him
not less renowned in council than in war ;" but he gives us, though
briefly, the arguments used by Pausanias. He presents to us the
image, always interesting, of a man who grasps firmly the clear con-
ception of a definite but difficult policy, for success in which he is
dependent on the conscious or involuntary cooperation of men im-
penetrable to that conception, and possessed of a collective authority
even greater than his own. To retain Sparta temporarily at the
head of Greece was an ambition quite consistent with the more
criminal designs of Pausanias ; and his whole conduct at Byzantium
is rendered more intelligible than it appears in history, when he
points out that "for Sparta to maintain her ascendancy two things
are needful : first, to continue the war by land, secondly, to disgust
the lonians with their sojourn at Byzantium, to send them with their
ships back to their own havens, and so leave Hellas under the sole
guardianship of the Spartans and their Peloponnesian allies." And
who has not learned, in a later school, the wisdom of the Spartan
commissioners? Do not their utterances sound familiar to us?
" Increase of dominion is waste of life and treasure. Sparta is con-
tent to hold her own. What care we, who leads the Greeks into
blows? The fewer blows the better. Brave men fight if they must:
wise men never fight if they can help it." Of this scene and some
others in the first volume of the present fragment (notably the scene
in which the Regent confronts the allied chiefs, and defends himself
against the charge of connivance at the escape of the Persian prison-
ers), I should have been tempted to say that they could not have
been written without personal experience of political life ; if the
interview between Wallenstein and the Swedish ambassadors in
Schiller's great trilogy did not recur to my recollection as I write.
The language of the ambassadors in that interview is a perfect
manual of practical diplomacy ; and yet in practical diplomacy
Schiller had no personal experience. There are, indeed, no limits
to the creative power of genius. But it is perhaps the practical

DEDICATION. 291

politician who will be most interested by the chapters in which
Pausanias explains his policy, or defends his position.

In publishing a romance which its author has left unfinished, I
may perhaps be allowed to indicate briefly what I believe to have
been the general scope of its design, and the probable progress of its
narrative.

The " domestic interest" of that narrative is supplied by the story
of Cleonice : a story which, briefly told by Plutarch, suggests one
of the most tragic situations it is possible to conceive. The pathos
and terror of this dark weird episode in a life which history herself
invests with all the character of romance, long haunted the im-
agination of Byron ; and elicited from Goethe one of the most
whimsical illustrations of the astonishing absurdity into which
criticism sometimes tumbles, when it "o'erleaps itself and falls
o' the other — . "

Writing of Manfred and its author, he says, "There are, properly
speaking, two females whose phantoms for ever haunt him ; and
which, in this piece also, perform principal parts. One under the
name of Astarte, the other without form or actual presence, and
merely a voice. Of the horrid occurrence which took place with
the former, the following is related : — When a bold and enterprising
young man, he won the affections of a Florentine lady. Her hus-
band discovered the amour, and murdered his wife. But the mur-
derer was the same night found dead in the street, and there was no
one to whom any suspicion could be attached. Lord Byron removed
from Florence, and these spirits haunted him all his life after. This
romantic incident is rendered highly probable by innumerable allu-
sions to it in his poems. As, for instance, when turning his sad
contemplations inwards, he applies to himself the fatal history of
the King of Sparta. It is as follows : Pausanias, a Lacedaemonian
General, acquires glory by the important victory at Plataea ; but
afterwards forfeits the confidence of his countrymen by his arrogance,
obstinacy, and secret intrigues with the common enemy. This man
draws upon himself the heavy guilt of innocent blood, which attends
him to his end. For, while commanding the fleet of the allied
Greeks in the Black Sea, he is inflamed with a violent passion for a
Byzantine maiden. After long resistance, he at length obtains her
from her parents ; and she is to be delivered up to him at night.
She modestly desires the servant to put out the lamp, and, while
groping her way in the dark, she overturns it. Pausanias is awak-
ened from his sleep ; apprehensive of an attack from murderers
he seizes his sword, and destroys his mistress. The horrid sight
never leaves him. Her shade pursues him unceasingly ; and in

292 PAUSANIAS, THK SPARTAN.

vain lie implores aid of the gods and the exorcising priests. That
poet must have a lacerated heart who selects such a scene from
antiquity, appropriates it to himself, and burdens his tragic image
with it." '

It is extremely characteristic of Byron, that, instead of resenting
this charge of murder, he was so pleased by the criticism in which
it occurs that he afterwards dedicated " The Deformed Transformed "
to Goethe. Mr. Grote repeats the story above alluded to, with all
t'.ie sanction of his grave authority, and even mentions the name of
the young lady ; apparently for the sake of adding a few black strokes
to his character of Pausanias. But the supernatural part of the
legend was, of course, beneath the notice of a nineteenth-century
critic ; and he passes it by. This part of the story is, however,
essential to the psychological interest of it. For whether it be that
Pausanias supposed himself, or that contemporary gossips supposed
him, to be haunted by the phantom of the woman he had loved and
slain, the fact, in either case, affords a lurid glimpse into the inner
life of the man ;— just as, although Goethe's murder-story about
Byron is ludicrously untrue, yet the fact that such a story was cir-
culated, and could be seriously repeated by such a man as Goethe
without being resented by Byron himself, offers significant illustra-
tion both of what Byron was, and of what he appeared to his con-
temporaries. Grote also assigns the death of Cleonice to that period
in the life of Pausanias when he was in the command of the allies
at Byzantium ; and refers to it as one of the numerous outrages
whereby Pausanias abused and disgraced the authority confided to
him. Plutarch, however, who tells the story in greater detail, dis-
tinctly fixes the date of its catastrophe subsequent to the return of
the Regent to Byzantium, as a solitary volunteer, in the trireme of
Hermione. The following is his account of the affair :

"It is related that Pausanias, when at Byzantium, sought, with
criminal purpose, the love of a young lady of good family, named
Cleonice. The parents yielding to fear, or necessity, suffered him
to carry away their daughter. Before entering his chamber, she
requested that the light might be extinguished ; and in darkness
and silence she approached the couch of Pausanias, who was already
asleep. In so doing she accidentally upset the lamp. Pausanias,
suddenly aroused from slumber, and supposing that some enemy
was about to assassinate him, seized his sword, which lay by his
bedside, and with it struck the maiden to the ground. She died of
her wound ; and from that moment repose was banished from the
life of Pausanias. A spectre appeared to him every night in his
1 Moore's " Life and Letters of Lord Byron," p. 723.

DEDICATION. 293

sleep ; and repeated to him in reproachful tones this hexameter
verse,

* Whither I -wait thee march, find receive the doom thou deseruest.
Sooner or later, tut ever, to man crime tringeth disaster.'

The allies, scandalized by this misdeed, concerted with Cimon, and
besieged Pausanias in Byzantium. But he succeeded in escaping.
Continually troubled by the phantom, he took refuge, it is said, at
Heraclea, in that temple where the souls of the dead are evoked.
He appealed to Cleonice and conjured her to mitigate his torment.
She appeared to him, and told him that on his return to Sparta lie-
would attain the end of his sufferings ; indicating, as it would
seem, by these enigmatic words, the death which there awaited
him. This" (adds Plutarch) "is a story told by most of the
historians." J

I feel no doubt that this version of the story, or at least the general
outline of it, would have been followed by the romance had my
father lived to complete it. Some modification of its details would
doubtless have been necessary for the purposes of fiction. But that
the Cleonice of the novel is destined to die by the hand of her lover,
is clearly indicated. To me it seems that considerable skill and
judgment are shown in the pains taken, at the very opening of the
book, to prepare the mind of the reader for an incident which would
have been intolerably painful, and must have prematurely ended the
whole narrative interest, had the character of Cleonice been drawn
otherwise than as we find it in this first portion of the book. From
the outset she appears before us under the shadow of a tragic fatality.
Of that fatality she is herself intuitively conscious : and with it her
whole being is in harmony. No sooner do we recognize her real
character than we perceive that, for such a character, there can be
no fit or satisfactory issue from the difficulties of her position, in any
conceivable combination of earthly circumstances. But she is not
of the earth earthly. Her thoughts already habitually hover on the
dim frontier of some vague spiritual region in which her love seeks
refuge from the hopeless realities of her life ; and, recognizing this
betimes, we are prepared to see above the hand of her ill-fated lover,
when it strikes her down in the dark, the merciful and releasing
hand of her natural destiny.

But, assuming the author to have adopted Plutarch's chronology,
and deferred the death of Cleonice till the return of Pausanias to
Byzantium (the latest date to which he could possibly have deferred
it), this catastrophe must still have occurred somewhere in the
course, or at the close, of his second volume. There would, in that

1 Plutarch, " Life of Cimon."

294 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

case, have still remained about nine years (and those the most
eventful) of his hero's career to be narrated. The premature removal
of the heroine from the narrative, so early in the course of it, would
therefore, at first sight, appear to be a serious defect in the con-
ception of this romance. Here it is, however, that the credulous
gossip of the old biographer comes to the rescue of the modern
artist. I apprehend that the Cleonice of the novel would, after her
death, have been still sensibly present to the reader's imagination
throughout the rest of the romance. She would then have moved
through it like a fate, reappearing in the most solemn moments of
the story, and at all times apparent, even when unseen, in her
visible influence upon the fierce and passionate character, the sombre
and turbulent career, of her guilty lover. In short, we may fairly
suppose that, in all the closing scenes of the tragedy, Cleonice
would have still figured and acted as one of those supernatural
agencies which my father, following the example of his great prede-
cessor, Scott, did not scruple to introduce into the composition of
historical romance.1 •

Without the explanation here suggested, those metaphysical con-
versations between Cleonice, Alcman, and Pausanias, which occupy
the opening chapters of Book II., might be deemed superfluous.
But, in fact, they are essential to the preparation of the catastrophe ;
and that catastrophe, if reached, would undoubtedly have revealed
to any reflective reader their important connection with the narrative
which they now appear to retard somewhat unduly.

Quite apart from the unfinished manuscript of this story of
Pausanias, and in another portion of my father's papers which have
no reference to this story, I have discovered the following, undated,
memorandum of the destined contents of the second and third
volumes of the work.

PAUSANIAS.

VOL. II.

Lysander — Sparta — Ephors— Decision to recall Pausanias. 60.

Pausanias with Pharnabazes — On the point of success — Xerxes's
daughter — Interview with Cleonice — Recalled. 60.

Sparta — Alcman with his family. 60.

Cleonice — Antagoras — Yields to suit of marriage. 60.

Pausanias suddenly reappears as a volunteer — Scenes. oo.
l "Harold."

DEDICATION. 295

VOL. III.

Pausanias removes Cleonice, £c. — Conspiracy against him — Up
to Cleonice's death, too.

His expulsion from Byzantium — His despair — His journey into
Thrace — Scythians, &c. ?

Heraclea — Ghost. 60.
His return — to Colons. ?

Antagoras resolved on revenge — Communicates with Sparta.

The * * * — Conference with Alcman — Pausanias depends on
Helots, and money. 40.

His return — to death. 120.

This is the only indication I can find of the intended conclusion
of the story. Meagre though it be, however, it sufficiently suggests
the manner in which the author of the romance intended to deal
with the circumstances of Cleonice's death as related by Plutarch.
With her forcible removal by Pausanias, or her willing flight with
him from the house of her father, it would probably have been
difficult to reconcile the general sentiment of the romance in con-
nection with any circumstances less conceivable than those which are
indicated in the memorandum. But in such circumstances the step
taken by Pausanias might have had no worse motive than the rescue
of the woman who loved him from forced union with another ; and
Cleonice's assent to that step might have been quite compatible with
the purity and heroism of her character. In this manner, moreover,
a strong motive is prepared for that sentiment of revenge on the
part of Antagoras whereby the dramatic interest of the story might
be greatly heightened in the subsequent chapters. The intended
introduction of the supernatural element is also clearly indicated.
But apart from this, fine opportunities for psychological analysis
would doubtless have occurred in tracing the gradual deterioration
of such a character as that of Pausanias when, deprived of the
guardian influence of a hope passionate but not impure, its craving
for fierce excitement must have been stimulated by remorseful
memories and impotent despairs. Indeed, the imperfect manuscript
now printed, contains only the exposition of a tragedy. All the
most striking effects, all the strongest dramatic situations, have been

296 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

reserved for the pages of the manuscript which, alas, are either lost
or unwritten.

Who can doubt, for instance, how effectually in the closing scenes
of this tragedy the grim image of Alithea might have assumed the
place assigned to it by history? All that we now see is the prepar-
ation made for its effective presentation in the foreground of such
later scenes, by the chapter in the second volume describing the
meeting between Lysander and the stern mother of his Spartan
chief. In Lysander himself, moreover, we have the germ of a
singularly dramatic situation. How would Lysander act in the
final struggle which his character and fate are already preparing for
him, between patriotism and friendship, his fidelity to Pausanias,
and his devotion to Sparta? Is Lysander's father intended for that
Ephor, who, in the last moment, made the sign that warned
Pausanias to take refuge in the temple which became his living
tomb? Probably. Would Themistocles, who was so seriously
compromised in the conspiracy of Pausanias, have appeared and
played a part in those scenes on which the curtain must remain un-
lifted ? Possibly. Is Alcman the helot who revealed, to the Ephors,
the gigantic plots of his master just when those plots were on the
eve of execution ? There is much in the relations between Pausanias
and the Mothon, as they are described in the opening chapters of
the romance, which favours, and indeed renders almost irresistible,
such a supposition. But then, on the other hand, what genius on
the part of the author could reconcile us to the perpetration by his
hero of a crime so mean, so cowardly, as that personal perfidy to
which history ascribes the revelation of the Regent's far more
excusable treasons, and their terrible punishment ?

These questions must remain unanswered. The magician can
wave his wand no more. The circle is broken, the spells are scattered,
the secret lost. The images which he evoked, and which he alone
could animate, remain before us incomplete, semi-articulate, unable
to satisfy the curiosity they inspire. A group of fragments, in many
places broken, you have helped me to restore. With what reverent
and kindly care, with what disciplined judgment and felicitous
suggestion, you have accomplished the difficult task so generously
undertaken, let me here most gratefully attest. Beneath the
sculptor's name, allow me to inscribe upon the pedestal your own ;
and accept this sincere assurance of the inherited esteem and
personal regard with which I am,

My dear Dr. Kennedy,

Your obliged and faithful

LTTTOM.

CINTRA, 5 Ji'ly, 1875.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I.

IN one of the quays which bordered the unrivalled harbour
of Byzantium, more than twenty-three centuries before
the date at which this narrative is begun, stood two
Athenians. In the waters of the haven rode the vessels
of the Grecian Fleet. So deep Was the basin, in which the tides
arc scarcely felt,1 that the prows of some of the ships touched the
quays, and the setting sun glittered upon the smooth and waxen
surfaces of the prows rich with diversified colours and wrought
gilding. To the extreme right of the fleet, and nearly opposite the
place upon which the Athenians stood, was a vessel still more pro-
fusely ornamented than the rest. On the prow Were elaborately
carved the heads of the twin deities of the Laconian mariner, Castor
and Pollux ; in the centre of the deck was a wooden edifice or
pavilion having a gilded roof and shaded by purple awnings, an
imitation of the luxurious galleys of the Barbarian ; while the para-
semon, or flag, as it idly waved in the faint breeze of the gentle
evening, exhibited the terrible serpent, which, if it was the fabulous
type of demigods and heroes, might also be regarded as an emblem
of the wily but stern policy of the Spartan State. Such was the
galley of the commander of the armament, which (after the reduction
of Cyprus) had but lately wrested from the yoke of Persia that link
between her European and Asiatic domains, that key of the Bosporus
— "the Golden Horn" of Byzantium.2

1 Gibbon, ch. 17.

2 "The harbour of Constantinople, which may be considered as an arm of the
Bosphorus, obtained in a. very remote period the denomination of the Golden
Horn. The curve which it describes might be compared to the horn of a stag, or,
as it should seem, with more propriety to that of an ox." — Gib. c. 17 ; Strab. I. x.

L 2

298 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

High above all other Greeks (Themistocles alone excepted) soared
the fame of that renowned chief, Pausanias, Regent of Sparta and
General of the allied troops at the victorious battle-field of Platsea.
The spot on which the Athenians stood was lonely and now unoccu-
pied, save by themselves and the sentries stationed at some distance
on either hand. The larger proportion of the crews in the various
vessels were on shore ; but on the decks idly reclined small groups
of sailors, and the murmur of their voices stole, indistinguishably
blended, upon the translucent air. Behind rose, one above the
other, the Seven Hills, on which long afterwards the Emperor
Constantine built a second Rome ; and over these heights, even
then, buildings were scattered of various forms and dates, here the
pillared temples of the Greek colonists, to whom Byzantium owed
its origin, there the light roofs and painted domes which the Eastern
conquerors had introduced.

One of the Athenians was a man in the meridian of manhood, of
a calm, sedate, but somewhat haughty aspect ; the other was in the
full bloom of youth, of lofty stature, and with a, certain majesty of
bearing ; down his shoulders flowed a profusion of long curled hair,1
divided in the centre of the forehead, and connected with golden
clasps, in which was wrought the emblem of the Athenian nobles —
the Grasshopper — a fashion not yet obsolete, as it had become in
the days of Thucydides. Still, to an observer, there was something
heavy in the ordinaiy expression of the handsome countenance.
His dress differed from the earlier fashion of the lonians ; it dis-
pensed with those loose linen garments which had something of
effeminacy in their folds, and was confined to the simple and statue-
like grace that characterized the Dorian garb. Yet the clasp that
fastened the chlamys upon the right shoulder, leaving the arm free,
was of pure gold and exquisite workmanship, and the materials of
the simple vesture were of a quality that betokened wealth and rank
in the wearer.

"Yes, Cimon," said the elder of the Athenians, "yonder galley
itself affords sufficient testimony of the change that has come over
the haughty Spartan. It is difficult, indeed, to recognize in this
luxurious satrap, who affects the dress, the manners, the very inso-
lence of the Barbarian, that Pausanias who, after the glorious day of
Platsea, ordered the slaves to prepare in the tent of Mardonius such
a banquet as would have been served to the Persian, while his own
Spartan broth and bread were set beside it, in order that he might
utter to the chiefs of Greece that noble pleasantry, ' Behold the

i Ion apud Plut.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 299

folly of the Persians, who forsook such splendour to plunder such
poverty.' "x

' ' Shame upon his degeneracy, and thrice shame ! " said the
young Cimon, sternly. " I love the Spartans so well, that I blush
for whatever degrades them. And all Sparta is dwarfed by the
effeminacy of her chief."

" Softly, Cimon," said Aristides, with a sober smile. " \Vhatever
surprise we may feel at the corruption of Pausanias, he is not one
who will allow us to feel contempt. Througli all the voluptuous
softness acquired by intercourse with these Barbarians, the strong
nature of the descendant of the demigod still breaks forth. Even
at the distaff I recognize Alcides, whether for evil or for good.
Pausanias is one on whom our most anxious gaze must be duly
bent. But in this change of his I rejoice ; the gods are at work for
Athens. See you not that, day after day, while Pausanias disgusts
the allies with the Spartans themselves, he throws them more and
more into the arms of Athens? Let his madness go on, and ere
long the violet-crowned city will become the queen of the seas."

" Such was my own hope," said Cimon, his face assuming a new
expression, brightened with all the intelligence of ambition and
pride ; "but I did not dare own it to myself till you spoke. Several
officers of Ionia and the Isles have already openly and loudly
proclaimed to me their wish to exchange the Spartan ascendancy
for the Athenian."

" And with all your love for Sparta," said Aristides, looking
steadfastly and searchingly at his comrade, "you would not then
hesitate to rob her of a glory which you might bestow on your own
Athens ? "

"Ah, am I not Athenian?" answered Cimon, with a deep
passion in his voice. " Though my great father perished a victim
to the injustice of a faction — though he who had saved Athens from
the Mede died in the Athenian dungeon — still, fatherless, I see in
Athens but a mother, and if her voice sounded harshly in my boyish
years, in manhood I have feasted on her smiles. Yes, I honour
Sparta, but I love Athens. You have my answer."

"You speak well, "said Aristides, with warmth ; "you are worthy
of the destinies for which I foresee that the son of Miltiades is
reserved. Be wary, be cautious ; above all, be smooth, and blend
with men of every state and grade. I would wish that the allies
themselves should draw the contrast between the insolence of the
Spartan chief and the courtesy of the Athenians. What said you to
the Ionian officers?"

1 Herod, ix. 82.

300 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

"I said that Athens held there was no difference between to
command and to obey, except so far as was best for the interests of
Greece ; that — as on the field of Plataea, when the Tegeans asserted
precedence over the Athenians, we, the Athenian army, at once
exclaimed, through your voice, Aristides, ' We come here to fight
the Barbarian, not to dispute amongst ourselves ; place us where
you will ' : l — even so now, while the allies give the command to
Sparta, Sparta we will obey. But if we were thought by the
Grecian States the fittest leaders, our answer would be the same
that we gave at Platsea, ' Not we, but Greece be consulted : place
us where you will ! ' "

"O wise Cimon!" exclaimed Aristides, "I have no caution to
bestow on you. You do by intuition that which I attempt by
experience. But hark ! What music sounds in the distance ? the
airs that Lydia borrowed from the East ? "

"And for which," said Cimon, sarcastically, " Pausanias hath
abandoned the Dorian flute."

Soft, airy, and voluptuous were indeed the sounds which now,
from the streets leading upwards from the quay, floated along the
delicious air. The sailors rose, listening and eager, from the decks ;
there was once more bustle, life, and animation on board the fleet.
From several of the vessels the trumpets woke a sonorous signal-
note. In a few minutes the quays, before so deserted, swarmed
with the Grecian mariners, who emerged hastily, whether from
various houses in the haven, or from the encampment which
stretched along it, and hurried to their respective ships. On board
the galley of Pausanias there was more especial animation ; not
only mariners, but slaves, evidently from the Eastern markets, were
seen, jostling each other, and heard talking, quick and loud, in
foreign tongues. Rich carpets were unfurled and laid across the
deck, while trembling and hasty hands smoothed into yet more
graceful folds the curtains that shaded the gay pavilion in the centre.
The Athenians looked on, the one with thoughtful composure, the
other with a bitter smile, while these preparations announced the
unexpected, and not undreaded, approach of the great Pausanias.

" Ho, noble Cimon ! " cried a young man who, hurrying towards
one of the vessels, caught sight of the Athenians and paused. " You
are the very person whom I most desired to see. Aristides too ! —
we are fortunate."

The speaker was a young man of slighter make and lower stature
than the Athenians, but well shaped., and with features the partial

1 Plut. in Vit. Arist.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 301

effeminacy of which was elevated by an expression of great vivacity
and intelligence. The steed trained for Elis never bore in its
proportions the evidence of blood and rare breeding more visibly
than the dark brilliant eye of this young man, his broad low trans-
parent brow, expanded nostril and sensitive lip, revealed the passion-
ate and somewhat arrogant character of the vivacious Greek of the
JEgean Isles.

"Antagoras," replied Cimon, laying his hand with frank and
somewhat blunt cordiality on the Greek's shoulder, " like the grape
of your own Chios, you cannot fail to be welcome at all times. But
why would you seek us now ? "

" Because I will no longer endure the insolence of this rude
Spartan. Will you believe it, Cimon — will you believe it, Aristides?
Pausanias has actually dared to sentence to blows, to stripes, one of
my own men — a free Chian — nay, a Decadarchus.1 I have but this
instant heard it. And the offence — Gods ! the offence ! — was that
he ventured to contest with a Laconian, an underling in the Spartan
army, which one of the two had the fair right to a wine cask ! Shall
this be borne, Cimon ? "

"Stripes to a Greek ! " said Cimon, and the colour mounted to
his brow. " Thinks Pausanias that the Ionian race are already his
Helots?"

"Be calm," said Aristides; "Pausanias approaches. I will
accost him."

"But listen still !" exclaimed Antagoras eagerly, plucking the
gown of the Athenian as the latter turned away. " When Pausanias
heard of the contest between my soldier and his Laconian, what
said he, think you ? ' Prior claim ; learn henceforth that, where
the Spartans are to be found, the Spartans in all matters have the
prior claim.'"

" We will see to it," returned Aristides, calmly ; " but keep by
my side."

And now the music sounded loud and near, and suddenly, as the
procession approached, the character of that music altered. The
Lydian measures ceased, those who had attuned them gave way to
musicians of loftier aspect and simpler garb ; in whom might be
recognized, not indeed the genuine Spartans, but their free, if
subordinate, countrymen of Laconia ; and a minstrel, who walked
beside them, broke out into a song, partially adapted from the bold
and lively strain of Alcaeus, the first two lines in each stanza ringing
much to that chime, the two latter reduced into briefer compass, as,

1 Leader of ten men.

3°2 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

with allowance for the differing laws of national rhythm, we thus
seek to render the verse :

SONG.

Multitudes, backward ! Way for the Dorian ;
Way for the Lord of rocky Laconia ;
Heaven to Hercules opened
Way on the earth for his son.

Steel and fate, blunted, break on his fortitude ;
Two evils only never endureth he —
Death by a wound in retreating,
Life with a blot on his name.

Rocky his birthplace ; rocks are immutable ;
So are his laws, and so shall his glory be.
Time is the Victor of Nations,
Sparta the Victor of Time.

Watch o'er him heedful on the wide ocean.
Brothers of Helen, luminous guiding stars ;
Dangerous to Truth are the fickle,
Dangerous to Sparta the seas.

Multitudes, backward ! Way for the Conqueror;
Wayfor the footstep half the world fled before ;
Nothing that Phoebus can shine on
Needs so much space as Renown.

Behind the musicians came ten Spartans, selected from the cele-
brated three hundred who claimed the right to be stationed around
the king in battle. Tall, stalwart, sheathed in armour, their shields
slung at their backs, their crests of plumage or horsehair waving over
their strong and stern features, these hardy warriors betrayed to the
keen eye of Aristides their sullen discontent at the part assigned to
them in the luxurious procession ; iheir brows were knit, their lips
contracted, and each of them who caught the glance of the Athenians,
turned his eyes, as half in shame, half in anger, to the ground.

Coming now upon the quay, opposite to the galley of Pausanias,
from which was suspended a ladder of silken cords, the procession
halted, and opening on either side, left space in the midst for the
commander.

" He comes," whispered Antagoras to Cimon. "By Hercules !
I pray you survey him well. Is it the conqueror of Mardonius, or
the ghost of Mardonius himself? "

The question of the Chian seemed not extravagant to the blunt
son of Miltiades, as his eyes now rested on Pausanias.

The pure Spartan race boasted, perhaps, the most superb models
of masculine beauty which the land blessed by Apollo could afford.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 303

The laws that regulate marriage ensured a healthful and vigorous
progeny. Gymnastic discipline from early boyhood gave ease to
the limbs, iron to the muscle, grace to the whole frame. Every
Spartan, being born to command, being noble by his birth, lord of
the Laconians, Master of the Helots, superior in the eyes of Greece
to all other Greeks, was at once a Republican and an Aristocrat.
Schooled in the arts that compose the presence, and give calmness
and majesty to the bearing, he combined with the mere physical
advantages of activity and strength a conscious and yet natural
dignity of mien. Amidst the Greeks assembled at the Olympian
contests, others showed richer garments, more sumptuous chariots,
rarer steeds, bnt no state could vie with Sparta in the thews and
sinews, the aspect and the majesty of the men. Nor were the royal
race, the descendants of Hercules, in external appearance unworthy
of their countrymen and of their fabled origin.

Sculptor and painter would have vainly tasked their imaginative
minds to invent a nobler ideal for the effigies of a hero, than that
which the Victor of Platoea offered to their inspiration. As he now
paused amidst the group, he towered high above them all, even
above Cimon himself. But in his stature there was nothing of the
cumbrous bulk and stolid heaviness, which often destroy the beauty
of vast strength. Severe and early training, long habits of rigid
abstemiousness, the toils of war, and, more than all, perhaps, the
constant play of a restless, anxious, aspiring temper, had left,
undisfigured by superfluous flesh, the grand proportions of a frame,
the very spareness of which had at once the strength and the beauty
of one of those hardy victors in the wrestling or boxing match,
whose agility and force are modelled by discipline to the purest
forms of grace. Without that exact and chiselled harmony of
countenance which characterized perhaps the Ionic rather than the
Doric race, the features of the royal Spartan were noble and
commanding. His complexion was sunburnt, almost to Oriental
swarthiness, and the raven's plume had no darker gloss than that
of his long hair, which (contrary to the Spartan custom), flowing on
either side, mingled with the closer curls of the beard. To a
scrutinizing gaze, the more dignified and prepossessing effect of this
exterior would perhaps have been counterbalanced by an eye, bright
indeed and penetrating, but restless and suspicious, by a certain
ineffable mixture of arrogant pride and profound melancholy in the
general expression of the countenance, ill according with that frank
and serene aspect which best becomes the face of one who would
lead mankind. About him altogether — -the countenance, the form,
the bearing — there was that which woke a vague, profound, and

304 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

singular interest, an interest somewhat mingled with awe, but not
altogether uncalculated to produce that affection which belongs to
admiration, save when the sudden frown or disdainful lip repelled
the gentler impulse and tended rather to excite fear, or to irritate
pride, or to wound self-love.

But if the form and features of Pausanias were eminently those of
the purest race of Greece, the dress which he assumed was no less
characteristic of the Barbarian. He wore, not the garb of the noble
Persian race, which, close and simple, was but a little less manly
than that of the Greeks, but the flowing and gorgeous garments of
the Mede. His long gown, which swept the earth, was covered
with flowers wrought in golden tissue. Instead of the Spartan hat,
the high Median cap or tiara crowned his perfumed and lustrous
hair, while (what of all was most hateful to Grecian eyes) he wore,
though otherwise unarmed, the curved scimitar and short dirk that
were the national weapons of the Barbarian. And as it was not
customary, nor indeed legitimate, for the Greeks to wear weapons
on peaceful occasions and with their ordinary costume, so this
departure from the common practice had not only in itself something
offensive to the jealous eyes of his comrades, but was rendered yet
more obnoxious by the adoption of the very arms of the East.

By the side of Pausanias was a man whose dark beard was already
sown with gray. This man, named Gongylus, though a Greek — a
native of Eretria, in Eubrea — was in high command under the great
Persian king. At the time of the barbarian invasion under Datis
and Artaphernes, he had deserted the cause of Greece and had been
rewarded with the lordship of four towns in ^Eolis. Few among the
apostate Greeks were more deeply instructed in the language and
manners of the Persians ; and the intimate and sudden friendship
that had grown up between him and the Spartan was regarded by
the Greeks with the most bitter and angry suspicion. As if to show
his contempt for the natural jealousy of his countrymen, Pausanias,
however, had just given to the Eretrian the government of Byzantium
itself, and with the command of the citadel had entrusted to him the
custody of the Persian prisoners captured in that port. Among these
were men of the highest rank and influence at the court of Xerxes ;
and it was more than rumoured that of late Pausanias had visited
and conferred with them, through the interpretation of Gongylus, far
more frequently than became the General of the Greeks. Gongylus
had one of those countenances which are observed when many of
more striking semblance are overlooked. But the features were
sharp and the visage lean, the eyes vivid and sparkling as those of
the lynx, and the dark pupil seemed yet more dark from the extreme

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 305

whiteness of the ball, from which it lessened or dilated with the
impulse of the spirit which gave it fire. There was in that eye all
the subtle craft, the plotting and restless malignity, which usually
characterized those Greek renegades who prostituted their native
energies to the rich service of the Barbarian ; and the lips, narrow
and thin, wore that everlasting smile which to the credulous disguises
wile, and to the experienced betrays it. Small, spare, and pre-
maturely bent, the Eretrian supported himself by a staff, upon which
now leaning, he glanced, quickly and pryingly, around, till his eyes
rested upon the Athenians, with the young Chian standing in their rear.

"The Athenian Captains are here to do you homage, Pausanias,"
said he in a whisper, as he touched with his small lean fingers the
arm of the Spartan.

Pausanias turned and muttered to himself, and at that instant
Aristides approached.

" If it please you, Pausanias, Cimon and myself, the leaders of the
Athenians, would crave a hearing upon certain matters."

" Son of Lysimachus, say on."

"Your pardon, Pausanias," returned the Athenian, lowering his
voice, and with a smile — "This is too crowded a council-hall ; may
we attend you on board your galley ? "

"Not so," answered the Spartan haughtily; "the morning to
affairs, the evening to recreation. We shall sail in the bay to see
the moon rise, and if we indulge in consultations, it will be over our
wine-cups. It is a good custom."

" It is a Persian one," said Cimon bluntly.

"It is permitted to us," returned the Spartan coldly, "to borrow
from those we conquer. But enough of this. I have no secrets with
the Athenians. No matter if the whole city hear what you would
address to Pausanias."

" It is to complain," said Aristides with calm emphasis, but still
in an undertone.

"Ay, I doubt it not : the Athenians are eloquent in grumbling."

" It was not found so at Platsea," returned Cimon.

"Son of Miltiacles," said Pausanias loftily, "your wit outruns
your experience. But my time is short. To the matter ! "

"If you will have it so, I will speak," said Aristides, raising his
voice. " Before your own Spartans, our comrades in arms, I pro-
claim our causes of complaint. Firstly, then, I demand release and
compensation to seven Athenians, free-born and citizens, whom your
orders have condemned to the unworthy punishment of standing all
day in the open sun with the weight of iron anchors on their
shoulders. "

306 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN'.

"The mutinous knaves ! " exclaimed the Spartan. " They intro-
duced into the camp the insolence of their own agora, and were
publicly heard in the streets inveighing against myself as a favourer
of the Persians. "

" It was easy to confute the charge ; it was tyrannical to punish
words in men whose deeds had raised you to the command of
Greece."

" Their deeds ! Ye Gods, give me patience ! By the help of

Juno the protectress it was this brain and this arm that But I

will not justify myself by imitating the Athenian fashion of wordy
boasting. Pass on to your next complaint."

"You have placed slaves — yes, Helots — around the springs, to
drive away with scourges the soldiers that come for water."

" Not so, but merely to prevent others from rilling their vases until
the Spartans are supplied."

"And by what right ?" began Cimon, but Aristides checked

him with a gesture, and proceeded.

"That precedence is not warranted by custom, nor by the terms
of our alliance ; and the springs, O Pausanias, are bounteous enough
to provide for all. I proceed. You have formally sentenced citizens
and soldiers to the scourge. Nay, this very day you have extended
the sentence to one in actual command amongst the Chians. Is it
not so, Antagoras ? "

"It is," said the young Chian, coming forward boldly ; "and in
the name of my countrymen I demand justice."

" And I also, Uliades of Samos," said a thick-set and burly Greek
who had joined the group unobserved, "/ demand justice. What,
by the Gods ! Are we to be all equals in the day of battle? ' My
good sir, march here ;' and, ' My dear sir, just run into that breach ;'
and yet when we have won the victory and should share the glory, is
one state, nay, one man to seize the whole, and deal out iron anchors
and tough cowhides to his companions ? No, Spartans, this is not
your view of the case ; you suffer in the eyes of Greece by this
misconduct. To Sparta itself I appeal."

" And what, most patient sir," said Pausanias, with calm sarcasm,
though his eye shot fire, and the upper lip, on which no Spartan
suffered the beard to grow, slightly quivered — "what is your con-
tribution to the catalogue of complaints?"

"Jest not, Pausanias; you will find me in earnest," answered
Uliades, doggedly, and encouraged by the evident effect that his
eloquence had produced upon the Spartans themselves. "I have
met with a grievous wrong, and all Greece shall hear of it, if it be
not redressed. My own brother, who at Mycale slew four Persians

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 307

with his own hand, headed a detachment for forage. He and his
men were met by a company of mixed Laconians and Helots, their
forage taken from them, they themselves assaulted, and my brother,
a man who has monies and maintains forty slaves of his own, struck
thrice across the face by a rascally Helot. Now, Pausanias, your
answer ! "

"You have prepared a notable scene for the commander of your
forces, son of Lysimachus," said the Spartan, addressing himself to
Aristides. "Far be it from me to affect the Agamemnon, but your
friends are less modest in imitating the venerable model of Thersites.
Enough" (and changing the tone of his voice, the chief stamped
his foot vehemently to the ground): "we owe no account to our
inferiors ; we render no explanation save to Sparta and her Ephors. "

" So be it, then," said Aristides, gravely ; "we have our answer,
and you will hear of our appeal."

Pausanias changed colour. " How?" said he, with a slight hesi-
tation in his tone. "Mean you to threaten me — Me — with carrying
the busy tales of your disaffection to the Spartan government?"

" Time will show. Farewell, Pausanias. We will detain you no
longer from your pastime."

"But," began Uliades.

" Hush," said the Athenian, laying his hand on the Samian's
shoulder. "We will confer anon."

Pausanias paused a moment, irresolute and in thought. His eyes
glanced towards his own countrymen, who, true to their rigid disci-
pline, neither spake nor moved, but whose countenances were sullen
and overcast, and at that moment his pride was shaken, and his heart
misgave him. Gongylus watched his countenance, and once more
laying his hand on his arm, said in a whisper —

" He who seeks to rule never goes back."

"Tush, you know not the Spartans."

"But I know Human Nature ; it is the same everywhere. You
cannot yield to this insolence ; to-morrow, of your own accord, send
for these men separately and pacify them."

" You are right. Now to the vessel ! "

With this, leaning on the shoulder of the Persian, and with a
slight wave of his hand towards the Athenians — he did not deign
even that gesture to the island officers — Pausanias advanced to the
vessel, and slowly ascending, disappeared within his pavilion. The
Spartans and the musicians followed ; then, spare and swarthy, some
half score of Egyptian sailors ; last came a small party of Laconians
and Helots, who, standing some distance behind Pausanias, had not
hitherto been observed. The former were but slightly armed ;' the

308 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

latter had forsaken their customary rude and savage garb, and wore
long gowns and gay tunics, somewhat in the fashion of the Lydians.
With these last there was one of a mien and aspect that strongly
differed from the lowering and ferocious cast of countenance common
to the Helot race. He was of the ordinary stature, and his frame
was not characterized by any appearance of unusual strength ; but
he trod the earth with a firm step and an erect crest, as if the curse
of the slave had not yet destroyed the inborn dignity of the human
being. There was a certain delicacy and refinement, rather of
thought than beauty, in his clear, sharp, and singularly intelligent
features. In contradistinction from the free-born Spartans, his hair
was short, and curled close above a broad and manly forehead ; and
his large eyes of dark blue looked full and bold upon the Athenians
with something, if not of defiance, at least of pride in their gaze, as
he stalked by them to the vessel.

" A sturdy fellow for a Helot," muttered Cimon.

"And merits well his freedom," said the son of Lysimachus. " I
remember him well. He is Alcman, the foster-brother of Pausanias,
whom he attended at Plataea. Not a Spartan that day bore himself
more bravely."

"No doubt they will put him to death when he goes back to
Sparta," said Antagoras: "When a Helot is brave, the Ephors
clap the black mark against his name, and at the next crypteia he
suddenly disappears."

"Pausanias may share the same fate as his Helot, for all I care,"
quoth Uliades. " Well, Athenians, what say you to the answer we
have received ?"

"That Sparta shall hear of it," answered Aristides.

"Ah, but is that all ? Recollect the lonians have the majority in
the fleet ; let us not wait for the slow Ephors. Let us at once throw
off this insufferable yoke, and proclaim Athens the Mistress of the
Seas. What say you, Cirnon ? '

" Let Aristides answer."

" Yonder lie the Athenian vessels," said Aristides. " Those who
put themselves voluntarily under our protection we will not reject.
But remember we assert no claim ; we yield but to the general
wish."

" Enough ; I understand you," said Antagoras.

" Not quite," returned the Athenian with a smile, " The breach
between you and Pausanias is begun, but it is not yet wide enough.
You yourselves must do that which will annul all power in the
Spartan, and then if ye come to Athens ye will find her as bold
against the Doric despot as against the Barbarian foe."

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 309

" But speak more plainly. What would you have us do ?" asked
Uliades, rubbing his chin in great perplexity.

" Nay, nay, I have already said enough. Fare ye well, fellow-
countrymen," and leaning lightly on the shoulder of Cimon, the
Athenian passed on.

Meanwhile, the splendid galley of Pausanias slowly put forth into
the farther waters of the bay. The oars of the rowers broke the
surface into countless phosphoric sparkles, and the sound they made,
as they dashed amidst the gentle waters, seemed to keep time with
the song and the instruments on the deck. The lonians gazed in
silence as the stately vessel, now shooting far ahead of the rest,
swept into the centre of the bay. And the moon, just rising, shone
full upon the glittering prow, and streaked the rippling billows over
which it had bounded, with a light, as it were, of glory.

Antagoras sighed.

" What think you of?" asked the rough Samian.

" Peace," replied Antagoras. "In this hour, when the fair face
of Artemis recalls the old legends of Endymion, is it not permitted
to man to remember that before the iron age came the golden, before
war reigned love ? "

"Tush, "said Uliades. "Time enough to think of love when
we have satisfied vengeance. Let us summon our friends, and hold
council on the Spartan's insults."

"Whither goes now the Spartan?" murmured Antagoras ab-
stractedly, as he suffered his companion to lead him away. Then
halting abruptly, he struck his clenched hand on his breast.

"O Aphrodite !" he cried; "this night — this night I will seek
thy temple. Hear my vows— soothe my jealousy ! "

"Ah," grunted Uliades, "if, as men say, thou lovest a fair By-
zantine, Aphrodite will have sharp work to cure thee of jealousy,
unless she first makes thee blind."

Antagoras smiled faintly, and the two lonians moved on slowly
and in silence. In a few minutes more the quays were deserted,
and nothing but the blended murmur, spreading wide and indistinct
throughout the camp, and a noisier but occasional burst of merri-
ment from those resorts of obscener pleasure which were profusely
scattered along the haven, mingled with the whispers of " the far
resounding sea."

3io PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

CHAPTER II.

a couch, beneath his voluptuous awning, reclined Pau-
sanias. The curtains, drawn aside, gave to view the
moonlit ocean, and the dim shadows of the shore, with
the dark woods beyond, relieved by the distant lights of
the city. On one side of the Spartan was a small table, that sup-
ported goblets and vases of that exquisite wine which Maronea
proffered to the thirst of the Byzantine, and those cooling and de-
licious fruits which the orchards around the city supplied as amply
as the fabled gardens of the Hesperides, were heaped on the other
side. Towards the foot of the couch, propped upon cushions piled
on the floor, sat Gongylus, conversing in a low, earnest voice, and
fixing his eyes steadfastly on the Spartan. The habits of the Ere-
trian s life, which had brought him in constant contact with the
Persians, had infected his very language with the luxuriant extrava-
gance of the East. And the thoughts he uttered made his language
but too musical to the ears of the listening Spartan.

"And fair as these climes may seem to you, and rich as are the
gardens and granaries of Byzantium, yet to me who have stood on
the terraces of Babylon and looked upon groves covering with blossom
and fruit the very fortresses and walls of that queen of nations, — to
me, who have roved amidst the vast delights of Susa, through
palaces whose very porticoes might enclose the limits of a Grecian
city, — who have stood, awed and dazzled, in the courts of that
wonder of the world, that crown of the East, the marble magnifi-
cence of Persepolis — to me, Pausanias, who have been thus admitted
into the very heart of Persian glories, this city of Byzantium appears
but a village of artisans and fishermen. The very foliage of its
forests, pale and sickly, the very moonlight upon these waters, cold
and smileless, ah, if thou couldst but see ! But pardon me, I weary
thee?"

" Not so," said the Spartan, who, raised upon his elbow, listened
to the words of Gongylus with deep attention. " Proceed."

"Ah, if thou couldst but see the fair regions which the great
king has apportioned to thy countryman Demaratus. And if a
domain, that would satiate the ambition of the most craving of
your earlier tyrants, fall to Demaratus, what would be the splendid
satrapy in which the conqueror of Platsea might plant his
throne?"

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 311

" In truth, my renown and my power are greater than those ever
possessed by Demaratus," said the Spartan musingly.

"Yet," pursued Gongylus, "it is not so much the mere extent of
the territories which the grateful Xerxes could proffer to the brave
Pausanias — it is not their extent so much that might tempt desire,
neither is it their stately forests, nor the fertile meadows, nor the
ocean-like rivers, which the gods of the East have given to the race
of Cyrus. There, free from the strange constraints which our austere
customs and solemn Deities impose upon the Greeks, the beneficent
Ormuzd scatters ever-varying delights upon the paths of men. All
that art can invent, all that the marts of the universe can afford of
the rare and voluptuous, are lavished upon abodes the splendour of
which even our idle dreams of Olympus never shadowed forth.
There, instead of the harsh and imperious helpmate to whom the
joyless Spartan confines his reluctant love, all the beauties of every
clime contend for the smile of their lord. And wherever are turned
the change-loving eyes of Passion, the Aphrodite of our poets, such
as the Cytherean and the Cyprian fable her, seems to recline on the
lotus leaf or to rise from the unruffled ocean of delight. Instead
of the gloomy brows and the harsh tones of rivals envious of your
fame, hosts of friends aspiring only to be followers will catch glad-
ness from your smile or sorrow from your frown. There, no jarring
contests with little men, who deem themselves the equals of the
great, no jealous Ephor is found, to load the commonest acts of life
with fetters of iron custom. Talk of liberty ! Liberty in Sparta is
but one eternal servitude ; you cannot move, or eat, or sleep, save as
the law directs. Your very children are wrested from you just in
the age when their voices sound most sweet. Ye are not men ; ye
are machines. Call you this liberty, Pausanias ? I, a Greek, have
known both Grecian liberty and Persian royalty. Better be chieftain
to a king than servant to a mob ! But in Eretria, at least, pleasure
was not denied. In Sparta the very Graces preside over discipline
and war only."

"Your fire falls upon flax," said Pausanias, rising, and with
passionate emotion. " And if you, the Greek of a happier state,
you who know but by report the unnatural bondage to which the
Spartans are subjected, can weary of the very name of Greek, what
must be the feelings of one who from the cradle upward has been
starved out of the genial desires of life ? Even in earliest youth,
while yet all other lands and customs were unknown, when it was
duly poured into my ears that to be born a Spartan constituted the
glory and the bliss of earth, my soul sickened at the lesson, and my
reason revolted against the lie. Often when my whole body was

312 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

lacerated with stripes, disdaining to groan, I yet yearned to strike,
and I cursed my savage tutors who denied pleasure even to child-
hood with all the madness of impotent revenge. My mother herself
(sweet name elsewhere) had no kindness in her face. She was the
pride of the matronage of Sparta, because of all our women Alithea
was the most unsexed. When I went forth to my first crypteia, to
watch, amidst the wintry dreariness of the mountains, upon the
movements of the wretched Helots, to spy upon their sufferings, to
take account of their groans, and if one more manly than the rest
dared to mingle curses with his groans, to mark him for slaughter,
as a wolf that threatened danger to the fold ; to lurk, an assassin,
about his home, to dog his walks, to fall on him unawares, to strike
him from behind, to filch away his life, to bury him in the ravines,
so that murder might leave no trace ; when upon this initiating cam-
paign, the virgin trials of our youth, I first set forth, my mother
drew near, and girding me herself with my grandsire's sword, ' Go
forth,' she said, 'as the young hound to the chase, to wind, to
double, to leap on the prey, and to taste of blood. See, the sword
is bright ; show me the stains at thy return." "

" Is it then true, as the Greeks generally declare," interrupted
Gongylus, " that in these campaigns, or crypteias, the sole aim and
object is the massacre of Helots ? "

"Not so," replied Pausanias ; "savage though the custom, it
smells not so foully of the shambles. The avowed object is to
harden the nerves of our youth. Barefooted, unattended, through
cold and storm, performing ourselves the most menial offices neces-
sary to life, we wander for a certain season daily and nightly through
the rugged territories of Laconia.1 We go as boys — we come back
as men.2 The avowed object, I say, is inurement to hardship, but
with this is connected the secret end of keeping watch on these half-
tamed and bull-like herds of men whom we call the Helots. If any
be dangerous, we mark him for the knife. One of them had thrice
been a ringleader in revolt. He was wary as well as fierce. He
had escaped in three succeeding crypteias. To me, as one of the
Heraclidse, was assigned the honour of tracking and destroying him.
For three days and three nights I dogged his footsteps, (for he had
caught the scent of the pursuers ar.d fled,) through forest and defile,
through valley and crag, stealthily and relentlessly. I followed him
close. At last, one evening, having lost sight of all my comrades,
I came suddenly upon him as I emerged from a wood. It was a

1 Plat. Leg. i. p. 633. See also Mailer's Dorians, vol. ii. p. 41.

2 Pueros puberes — ncque prius in urbem reditc quam viri fncli essent. — Justin
iii. 3.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 313

broad patch of waste land, through which rushed a stream swollen
by the rains, and plunging with a sullen roar down a deep and
gloomy precipice, that to the right and left bounded the waste, the
stream in front, the wood in the rear. He was reclining by the
stream, at which, with the hollow of his hand, he quenched his
thirst. I paused to gaze upon him, and as I did so he turned and
saw me. He rose, and fixed his eyes on mine, and we examined
each other in silence. The Helots are rarely of tall stature, but this
was a giant. His dress, that of his tribe, of rude sheep-skins, and
his cap made from the hide of a dog increased the savage rudene.-s
of his appearance. I rejoiced that he saw me, and that, as we were
alone, I might fight him fairly. It would have been terrible to slay
the wretch if I had caught him in his sleep.1'

" Proceed," said Gongylus, with interest, for so little was known
of Sparta by the rest of the Greeks, especially outside the Pelopon-
nesus, that these details gratified his natural spirit of gossiping
inquisitiveness.

" ' Stand ! ' said I, and he moved not. I approached him slowly.
4 Thou art a Spartan,' said he, in a deep and harsh voice, 'and thou
comest for my blood. Go, boy, go, thou art not mellowed to thy
prime, and thy comrades are far away. The shears of the Fatal
deities hover over the thread not of my life but of thine.' I was struck,
Gongylus, by this address, for it was neither desperate nor dastardly,
as I had anticipated ; nevertheless, it beseemed not a Spartan to fly
from a Helot, and I drew the sword which my mother had girded on.
The Helot watched my movements, and seized a rude and knotted
club that lay on the ground beside him.

" ' Wretch,' said I, 'darest thou attack face to face a descendant
of the Heraclidse ? In me behold Pausanias, the son of Cleombrotus.'

" ' Be it so ; in the city one is the god-born, the other the man-
enslaved. On the mountains we are equals.'

" ' Knowest thou not,' said I, ' that if the Gods condemned me to
die by thy hand, not only thou, but thy whole house, thy wife and
thy children, would be sacrificed to my ghost ?'

"'The earth can hide the Spartan's bones as secretly as the
Helot's,' answered my strange foe. ' Begone, young and unfleshed
in slaughter as you are ; why make war upon me ? My death can
give you neither gold nor glory. I have never harmed thee or thine.
How much of the air and sun does this form take from the descendant
of the Heraclidas?'

" 'Thrice hast thou raised revolt among the Helots, thrice at thy
voice have they risen in bloody, though fruitless, strife against their
masters.'

314 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

" 'Not at my voice, but at that of the two deities who are the
war-gods of slaves — Persecution and Despair.'1

"Impatient of this parley, I tarried no longer. I sprang upon
the Helot. He evaded my sword, and I soon found that all my
agility and skill were requisite to save me from the massive weapon,
one blow of which would have sufficed to crush me. But the Helot
seemed to stand on the defensive, and continued to back towards the
wood from which I had emerged. Fearful lest he would escape
me, I pressed hard on his footsteps. My blood grew warm ; my
fury got the better of my prudence. My foot stumbled ; I recovered
in an instant, and, looking up, beheld the terrible club suspended
over my head ; it might have fallen, but the stroke of death was
withheld. I misinterpreted the merciful delay ; the lifted arm left
the body of my enemy exposed. I struck him on the side ; the
thick hide blunted the stroke, but it drew blood. Afraid to draw
back within the reach of his weapon, I threw myself on him, and
grappled to his throat. We rolled on the earth together ; it was
but a moment's struggle. Strong as I was even in boyhood, the
Helot would have been a match for Alcides. A shade passed over
my eyes ; my breath heaved short. The slave was kneeling on my
breast, and, dropping the club, he drew a short knife from his girdle.
I gazed upon him grim and mute. I was conquered, and I cared
not for the rest.

" The blood from his side, as he bent over me, trickled down
upon my face.

" 'And this blood, 'said the Helot, 'you shed in the very moment
when I spared your life ; such is the honour of a Spartan. Do you
not deserve to die ? '

" ' Yes, for I am subdued, and by a slave. Strike ! '

" ' There,' said the Helot in a melancholy and altered tone, ' there
speaks the soul of the Dorian, the fatal spirit to which the Gods
have rendered up our wretched race. We are doomed — doomed —
and one victim will not expiate our curse. Rise, return to Sparta,
and forget that thou art innocent of murder.'

" He lifted his knee from my breast, and I rose, ashamed and
humbled.

" At that instant I heaid the crashing of the leaves in the wood,
for the air was exceedingly still. I knew that my companions were
at hand. ' Fly,' I cried ; 'fly. If they come I cannot save thee,
royal though I be. Fly. '

1 When Themistocles sought to extort tribute from the Andrians, he said, " I_
bring with me two powerful gods — Persuasion and Force." " And on our ^ide,"
was the answer, " are two deities not less powerful — Poverty and Despair! "

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 315

" 'And wouldest thou save me ! ' said the Helot in surprise.

"'Ay, with my own life. Canst thou doubt it? Lose not a
moment. Fly. Yet stay ; ' and I tore off a part of the woollen
vest that I wore. ' Place this at thy side ; staunch the blood, that
it may not track thee. Now begone ! '

" The Helot looked hard at me, and I thought there were tears in
his rude eyes ; then catching up the club with as much ease as I this
staff, he sped with inconceivable rapidity, despite his wound, towards
the precipice on the right, and disappeared amidst the thick brambles
that clothed the gorge. In a few moments three of my companions
approached. They found me exhausted, and panting rather with
excitement than fatigue. Their quick eyes detected the blood upon
the ground. I gave them no time to pause and examine. ' He has
escaped me — he has fled,' I cried ; ' follow,' and I led them to the
opposite part of the precipice from that which the Helot had taken.
Heading the search, I pretended to catch a glimpse of the goatskin
ever and anon through the trees, and I stayed not the pursuit till
night grew dark, and I judged the victim was far away."

" And he escaped ? "

" He did. The crypteia ended. Three other Helots were slain,
but not by me. We returned to Sparta, and my mother was com-
forted for my misfortune in not having slain my foe by seeing the
stains on my grandsire's sword. I will tell thee a secret, Gongylus "
— (and here Pausanias lowered his voice, and looked anxiously
towards him) — "since that day I have not hated the Helot race.
Nay, it may be that I have loved them better than the Dorian."

" I do not wonder at it ; but has not your wounded giant yet met
with his death ? "

"No, I never related what had passed between us to any one save
my father. He was gentle for a Spartan, and he rested not till
Gylippus — so was the Helot named — obtained exemption from the
black list. He dared not, however, attribute his intercession to the
true cause. It happened, fortunately, that Gylippus was related to
my own foster-brother, Alcman, brother to my nurse ; and Alcman
is celebrated in Sparta, not only for courage in war, but for arts in
peace. He is a poet, and his strains please the Dorian ear, for
they are stern and simple, and they breathe of war. Alcman's
merits won forgiveness for the offences of Gylippus. May the Gods
be kind to his race ! "

" Your Alcman seems one of no common intelligence, and your
gentleness to him does not astonish me, though it seems often to
raise a frown on the brows of your Spartans."

" We have lain on the same bosom." said Pausanias touchingly,

316 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

" and his mother was kinder to me than my own. You must know
that to those Helots who have been our foster-brothers, and whom
we distinguish by the name of Mothons, our stern law relaxes.
They have no rights of citizenship, it is true, but they cease to be
slaves ; 1 nay, sometimes they attain not only to entire emancipation,
but to distinction. Alcman has bound his fate to mine. But to
return, Gongylus. I tell thee that it is not thy descriptions of pomp
and dominion that allure me, though I am not above the love of
power, neither is it thy glowing promises, though blood too wild
for a Dorian runs riot in my veins ; but it is my deep loathing, my
inexpressible disgust for Sparta and her laws, my horror at the
thought of wearing away life in those sullen customs, amid that
joyless round of tyrannic duties, in my rapture at the hope of escape,
of life in a land which the eye of the Ephor never pierces ; this it
is, and this alone, O Persian, that makes me (the words must out) a
traitor to my country, one who dreams of becoming a dependent on
her foe."

"Nay," said Gongylus eagerly; for here Pausanias moved un-
easily, and the colour mounted to his brow. " Nay, speak not of
dependence. Consider the proposals that you can alone condescend
to offer to the great king. Can the conqueror of Platsea, with millions
for his subjects, hold himself dependent, even on the sovereign of
the East ? How, hereafter, will the memories of our sterile Greece
and your rocky Sparta fade from your mind ; or be remembered only
as a state of thraldom and bondage, which your riper manhood has
outgrown ! "

" I will try to think so, at least," said Pausanias gloomily. " And,
come what may, I am not one to recede. I have thrown my shield
into a fearful peril ; but I will win it back or perish. Enough of
this, Gongylus. Night advances. I will attend the appointment
you have made. Take the boat, and within an hour I will meet you
wilh the prisoners at the spot agreed on, near the Temple of
Aphrodite. All things are prepared?"

" All," said Gongylus, rising, with a gleam of malignant joy on
his dark face. "I leave thee, kingly slave of the rocky Sparta, to
prepare the way for thee, as Satrap of half the East."

So saying he quitted the awning, and motioned three Egyptian
sailors who lay on the deck without. A boat was lowered, and the
sound of its oars woke Pausanias from the reverie into which the
parting words of the Eretrian had plunged his mind.

1 The appellation of Mothons was not confined to the Helots who claimed the
connection of foster-brothers, but was given also to household slaves.

THK SPARTAN. 317

CHAPTER III.

JITH a slow and thoughtful step, Pausanias passed on to
the outer deck. The moon was up, and the vessel scarcely
seemed to stir, so gently did it glide along the sparkling
waters. They were still within the bay, and the shores
rose, white and distinct, to his view. A group of Spartans, reclining
by the side of the ship, were gazing listlessly on the waters. The
Regent paused beside them.

" Ye weary of the ocean, methinks," said he. " We Dorians
have not the merchant tastes of the lonians." l

"Son of Cleombrotus," said one of the group, a Spartan whose
rank and services entitled him to more than ordinary familiarity
with the chief, "it is not the ocean itself that we should dread, it is
the contagion of those who, living on the element, seem to share in
its ebb and flow. The lonians are never three hours in the same
mind."

"For that reason," said Pausanias, fixing his eyes steadfastly on
the Spartan, " for that reason I have judged it advisable to adopt a
rough manner with these innovators, to draw with a broad chalk the
line between them and the Spartans, and to teach those who never
knew discipline the stern duties of obedience. Think you I have
done wisely?"

The Spartan, who had risen when Pausanias addressed him, drew
his chief a little aside from the rest.

" Pausanias," said he, "the hard Naxian stone best tames and
tempers the fine steel ; 2 but the steel may break if the workman be
not skilful. These Athenians are grown insolent since Marathon,
and their soft kindred of Asia have relighted the fires they took of
old from the Cecropian Prytaneum. Their sail is more numerous
than ours ; on the sea they find the courage they lose on land.
Better be gentle with those wayward allies, for the Spartan greyhound
shows not his teeth but to bite."

" Perhaps you are right. I will consider these things, and appease
the mutineers. But it goes hard with my pride, Thrasyllus, to make
equals of this soft-tongued race. Why, these lonians, do they not
enjoy themselves in perpetual holidays ? — spend days at the banquet ?
— ransack earth and sea for dainties and for perfumes ? — and shall
they be the equals of us men, who, from the age of seven to that of

1 No Spartan served as a sailor, or indeed condescended to any trade or calling,
but that of war.

* Find. Isth. v. (vi.) 73.

3i 8 PAUSANIAS, THK SPARTAN".

sixty, are wisely taught to make life so barren and toilsome, that we
may well have no Tear of death ? I hate these sleek and merry
feast-givers ; they are a perpetual insult to our solemn existence."

There was a strange mixture of irony and passion in the Spartan's
voice as he thus spoke, and Thrasyllus looked at him in grave
surprise.

" There is nothing to envy in the womanlike debaucheries of the
Ionian," said he, after a pause.

"Envy ! no ; we only hate them, Thrasyllus. Yon Eretrian tells
me rare things of the East. Time may come when we shall sup on
the black broth in Susa."

"The Gods forbid ! Sparta never invades. Life with us is too
precious, for we are few. Pausanias, I would we were well quit of
Byzantium. I do not suspect you, not I ; but there are those who
look with vexed eyes on those garments, and I, who love you, fear
the sharp jealousies of the Ephors, to whose ears the birds carry all
tidings."

"My poor Thrasyllus," said Pausanias, laughing scornfully, "think
you that I wear these robes, or mimic the Median manners, for love
of the Mede ? No, no ! But there are arts which save countries as
well as those of war. This Gongylus is in the confidence of Xerxes.
I desire to establish a peace for Greece upon everlasting foundations.
Reflect ; Persia hath millions yet left. Another invasion may find a
different fortune ; and even at the best, Sparta gains nothing by these
wars. Athens triumphs, not Lacedaemon. I would, I say, establish
a peace with Persia. I would that Sparta, not Athens, should have
that honour. Hence these flatteries to the Persian — trivial to us who
render them, sweet and powerful to those who receive. Remember
these words hereafter, if the Ephors make question of my discretion.
And now, Thrasyllus, return to our friends, and satisfy them as to
the conduct of Pausanias."

Quitting Thrasyllus, the Regent now joined a young Spartan
who stood alone by the prow in a musing attitude.

" Lysander, my friend, my only friend, my best-loved Lysander,"
said Pausanias, placing his hand on the Spartan's shoalder. "And
why so sad ? "

" How many leagues are we from Sparta ? " answered Lysander
mournfully.

" And canst thou sigh for the black broth, my friend ? Come,
how often hast thou said, ' Where Pausanias is, there is Sparta ! ' "

"Forgive me, I am ungrateful," said Lysander with warmth.
" My benefactor, my guardian, my hero, forgive me if I have added
to your own countless causes of anxiety. \Vherever you are there is

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 319

life, and there glory. When I was just born, sickly and feeble, I
was exposed on Taygetus. You, then a boy, heard my faint cry,
and took on me that compassion which my. parents had forsworn.
You bore me to your father's roof, you interceded for my life. You
prevailed even on your stern mother. I was saved ; and the Gods
smiled upon the infant whom the son of the humane Hercules pro-
tected. I grew up strong and hardy, and belied the signs of my
birth. My parents then owned me ; but still you were my fosterer;
my saviour, my more than father. As I grew up, placed under your
care, I imbibed my first lessons of war. By your side I fought, and
from your example I won glory. Yes, Pausanias, even here, amidst
luxuries which revolt me more than the Parthian bow and the Persian
sword, even amidst the faces of the stranger, I still feel thy presence
my home, thyself my Sparta."

The proud Pausanias was touched, and his voice trembled as he
replied, "Brother in arms and in love, whatever service fate may
have allowed me to render unto thee, thy high nature and thy cheer-
ing affection have more than paid me back. Often in our lonely
rambles amidst the dark oaks of the sacred Scotitas, l or by the way-
ward waters of Tiasa,2 when I have poured into thy faithful breast
my impatient loathing, my ineffable distaste for the iron life, the
countless and wearisome tyrannies of custom which surround the
Spartans, often have I found a consoling refuge in thy divine con-
tentment, thy cheerful wisdom. Thou lovest Sparta ; why is she
not worthier of thy love ? Allowed only to be half men, in war we
are demigods, in peace, slaves. Thou wouldst interrupt me. Be
silent. I am in a wilful mood ; thou canst not comprehend me, and
I often marvel at thee. Still we are friends, such friends as the
Dorian discipline, which makes friendship necessary in order to
endure life, alone can form. Come, take up thy staff and mantle.
Thou shalt be my companion ashore. I seek one whom alone in
the world I love better than thee. To-morrow to stern duties once
more. Alcman shall row us across the bay, and as we glide along,
if thou wilt praise Sparta, I will listen to thee as the lonians listen
to their tale-tellers. Ho ! Alcman, stop the rowers, and lower the
boat. "

The orders were obeyed, and a second boat soon darted towards
the same part of the bay as that to which the one that bore Gongylus
had directed its course. Thrasyllus and his companions watched
the boat that bore Pausanias and his two comrades, as it bounded,
arrow-like, over the glassy sea.

1 Paus. Lac. x. 2 Ib., c. xviii.

320 PAUSANIAS, THK SPARTAN.

' Whither cjoes Pausanias?" asked one of the Spartans.
' Back to Byzantium on business," replied Thrasyllus.
' And we?"

' Are to cruise in the bay till his return."
' Pausanias is changed."

' Sparta will restore him to what he was. Nothing thrives out
of Sparta. Even man spoils."

" True, sleep is the sole constant friend the same in all climates."

CHAPTER IV.

JN the shore to the right of the port of Byzantium were at
that time thickly scattered the villas or suburban retreats
of the wealthier and more luxurious citizens. Byzantium
was originally colonized by the Megarians, a Dorian race
kindred with that of Sparta ; and the old features of the pure and
antique Hellas were still preserved in the dialect,1 as well as in the
forms of the descendants of the colonists ; in their favourite deities,
and rites, and traditions ; even in the names of places, transferred
from the sterile Megara to that fertile coast ; in the rigid and helot-
like slavery to which the native Bithynians were subjected, and in the
attachment of their masters to the oligarchic principles of government.
Nor was it till long after the present date, that democracy in its most
corrupt and licentious form was introduced amongst them. But like
all the Dorian colonies, when once they departed from the severe and
masculine mode of life inherited from their ancestors, the reaction
was rapid, the degeneracy complete. Even then the Byzantines, inter-
mingled with the foreign merchants and traders that thronged their
haven, and womanized by the soft contagion of the East, were voluptu-
ous, timid, and prone to every excess save that of valour. The higher
class were exceedingly wealthy, and gave to their vices or their
pleasures a splendour and refinement of which the elder states of
Greece were as yet unconscious. At a later period, indeed, we are
informed that the Byzantine citizens had their habitual residence in
the public hostels, and let their houses — not even taking the trouble
to remove their wives — to the strangers who crowded their gay
capital. And when their general found it necessary to demai\d

1 " The Byzantine dialect was in the time of Philip, as we know from the
decree in Demosthenes, rich in dorisms." — M filler on the Doric Dialect.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 321

their aid on the ramparts, he could only secure their attendance by
ordering the taverns and cookshops to be removed to the place of
duty. Not yet so far sunk in sloth and debauch, the Byzantines
were nevertheless hosts eminently dangerous to the austerer manners
of their Greek visitors. The people, the women, the delicious wine,
the balm of the subduing climate served to tempt the senses and
relax the mind. Like all the Dorians, when freed from primitive
restraint, the higher class, that is, the descendants of the colonists,
were in themselves an agreeable, jovial race. They had that strong
bias to humour, to jest, to satire, which in their ancestral Megara
gave birth to the Grecian comedy, and which lurked even beneath
the pithy aphorisms and rude merry-makings of the severe Spartan.

Such were the people with whom of late Pausanias had familiarly
mixed, and with whose manners he contrasted, far too favourably
for his honour and his peace, the habits of his countrymen.

It was in one of the villas we have described, the favourite abode
of the rich Diagoras, and in an apartment connected with those
more private recesses of the house appropriated to the females, that
two persons were seated by a window which commanded a wide
view of the glittering sea below. One of these was an old man in
a long robe that reached to his feet, with a bald head and a beard
in which some dark hairs yet withstood the encroachments of the
gray. In his well-cut features and large eyes were remains of the
beauty that characterized his race ; but the mouth was full and
wide, the forehead low though broad, the cheeks swollen, the chin
double, and the whole form corpulent and unwieldy. Still there
was a jolly, sleek good humour about the aspect of the man that
prepossessed you in his favour. This personage, who was no less
than Diagoras himself, was reclining lazily upon a kind of narrow
sofa cunningly inlaid with ivory, and studying new combinations in
that scientific game which Palamedes is said to have invented at the
siege of Troy.

His companion was of a very different appearance. She was a
girl who to the eye of a northern stranger might have seemed about
eighteen, though she was probably much younger, of a countenance
so remarkable for intelligence that it was easy to see that her mind
had outgrown her years. Beautiful she certainly was, yet scarcely
of that beauty from which the Greek sculptor would have drawn his
models. The features were not strictly regular, and yet so harmoni-
'ously did each blend with each, that to have amended one would
have spoilt the whole. There was in the fulness and depth of the
large but genial eye, with its sweeping fringe, and straight, slightly
chiselled brow, more of Asia than of Greece. The lips, of the

M

322 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

freshest red, were somewhat full and pouting, and dimples without
number lay scattered round them — lurking places for the loves.
Her complexion was clear though dark, and the purest and most
virgin bloom mantled, now paler now richer, through the soft sur-
face. At the time we speak of she was leaning against the open
door with her arms crossed on her bosom, and her face turned to-
wards the Byzantine. Her robe, of a deep yellow, so trying to the
fair women of the North, became well the glowing colours of her
beauty — the damask cheek, the purple hair. Like those of the
lonians, the sleeves of the robe, long and loose, descended to her
hands, which were marvellously small and delicate. Long earrings,
which terminated in a kind of berry, studded with precious stones,
then common only with the women of the East ; a broad collar, or
necklace, of the smaragdus or emerald ; and large clasps, medallion-
like, where the swan-like throat joined the graceful shoulder, gave
to her dress an appearance of opulence and splendour that betokened
how much the ladies of Byzantium had borrowed from the fashions
of the Oriental world. Nothing could exceed the lightness of her
form, rounded, it is true, but slight and girlish, and the high instep,
with the slender foot, so well set off by the embroidered sandal,
would have suited such dances as those in which the huntress
nymphs of Delos moved around Diana. The natural expression of
her face, if countenance so mobile and changeful had one expression
more predominant than another, appeared to be irresistibly arch
and joyous, as of one full of youth and conscious of her beauty ;
yet, if a cloud came over the face, nothing could equal the thought-
ful and deep sadness of the dark abstracted eyes, as if some touch of
higher and more animated emotion — such as belongs to pride, or
courage, or intellect — vibrated on the heart. The colour rose, the
form dilated, the lip quivered, the eye flashed light, and the mirth-
ful expression heightened almost into the sublime. Yet, lovely as
Cleonice was deemed at Byzantium, lovelier still as she would have
appeared in modern eyes, she failed in what the Greeks generally,
but especially the Spartans, deemed an essential of beauty — in height
of stature. Accustomed to look upon the virgin but as the future
mother of a race of warriors, the Spartans saw beauty only in those
proportions which promised a robust and stately progeny, and the
reader may remember the well-known story of the opprobrious re-
proaches, even, it is said, accompanied with stripes, which the
Ephors addressed to a Spartan king for presuming to make choice
of a wife below the ordinary stature. Cleonice was small and deli-
cate, rather like the Peri of the Persian than the sturdy Grace of the
Dorian. But her beauty was her least charm. She had all that

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 323

feminine fascination of manner, wayward, varying, inexpressible,
yet irresistible, which seizes hold of the imagination as well as the
senses, and which has so often made willing slaves of the proud
rulers of the world. In fact Cleonice, the daughter of Diagoras,
had enjoyed those advantages of womanly education wholly unknown
at that time to the freeborn ladies of Greece proper, but which gave
to the women of some of the isles and Ionian cities their celebrity in
ancient story. Her mother was of Miletus, famed for the intellectual
cultivation of the sex, no less than for their beauty — of Miletus, the
birthplace of Aspasia — of Miletus, from which those remarkable
women who, under the name of Hetaerse, exercised afterwards so
signal an influence over the mind and manners of Athens, chiefly
derived their origin, and who seem to have inspired an affection,
which in depth, constancy, and fervour, approached to the more
chivalrous passion of the North. Such an education consisted not
only in the feminine and household arts honoured universally
throughout Greece, but in a kind of spontaneous and luxuriant cul-
tivation of all that captivates the fancy and enlivens the leisure. If
there were something pedantic in their affectation of philosophy, it
was so graced and vivified by a brilliancy of conversation, a charm
of manner carried almost to a science, a womanly facility of soften-
ing all that comes within their circle, of suiting yet refining each
complexity and discord of character admitted to their intercourse,
that it had at least nothing masculine or harsh. Wisdom, taken
lightly or easily, seemed but another shape of poetry. The matrons
of Athens, who could often neither read nor write — ignorant, vain,
tawdry, and not always faithful, if we may trust to such scandal as
has reached the modern time — must have seemed insipid beside
these brilliant strangers ; and while certainly wanting their power
to retain love, must have had but a doubtful superiority in the quali-
fications that ensure esteem. But we are not to suppose that the
Hetaerse (that mysterious and important class peculiar to a certain
state of society, and whose appellation we cannot render by any
proper word in modern language) monopolized all the graces of their
countrywomen. In the same cities were many of unblemished virtue
and repute who possessed equal cultivation and attraction, but whom
a more decorous life has concealed from the equivocal admiration
of posterity ; though the numerous female disciples of Pythagoras
throw some light on their capacity and intellect. Among such as
these had been the mother of Cleonice, not long since dead, and
her daughter inherited and equalled her accomplishments, while
her virgin youth, her inborn playfulness of manner, her pure guile-
lessness, which the secluded habits of the unmarried women at

324 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

Byzantium preserved from all contagion, gave to qualities and gifts so
little published abroad, the effect as it were of a happy and wondrous
inspiration rather than of elaborate culture.

Such was the fair creature whom Diagoras, looking up from his
pastime, thus addressed : —

"And so, perverse one, thou canst not love this great hero, a
proper person truly, and a mighty warrior, who will eat you an
army of Persians at a meal. These Spartan fighting-cocks want no
garlic, I warrant you.1 And yet you can't love him, you little
rogue. "

" Why, my father," said Cleonice, with an arch smile, and a
slight blush, " even if I did look kindly on Pausanias, would it not
be to my own sorrow? What Spartan — above all, what royal
Spartan — may marry with a foreigner, and a Byzantine ? "

" I did not precisely talk of marriage — a very happy state, doubt-
less, to those who dislike too quiet a life, and a very honourable one,
for war is honour itself; but I did not speak of that, Cleonice. I
would only say that this man of might loves thee — that he is rich,
rich, rich. Pretty pickings at Plataea ; and we have known losses,
my child, sad losses. And if you -do not love him, why, you can
but smile and talk as if you did, and when the Spartan goes home,
you will lose a tormenter and gain a dowry."

" My father, for shame ! "

" Who talks of shame ? You women are always so sharp at find-
ing oracles in oak leaves, that one don't wonder Apollo makes choice
of your sex for his priests. But listen to me, girl, seriously," and
here Diagoras with a great effort raised himself on his elbow, and
lowering his voice, spoke with evident earnestness. " Pausanias
has life and death, and, what is worse, wealth or poverty in his
harrds ; he can raise or ruin us with a nod of his head, this black-
curled Jupiter. They tell me that he is fierce, irascible, haughty ;
and what slighted lover is not revengeful ? For my sake, Cleonice,
for your poor father's sake, show no scorn, no repugnance ; be
gentle, play with him, draw not down the thunderbolt, even if you
turn from the golden shower."

While Diagoras spoke, the girl listened with downcast eyes and
flushed cheeks, and there was an expression of such shame and
sadness on her countenance, that even the Byzantine, pausing and
looking up for a reply, was startled by it.

" My child," said he, hesitatingly and absorbed, " do not miscon-

1 Fighting-cocks were fed with garlic, to make them more fierce. The learned
reader will remember how Theorus advised Dicaeopolis to keep clear of the
Thracians with garlic in their mouths. — See the Acharnians of Aristoph.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 325

ceive me. Cursed be the hour when the Spartan saw thee ; but
since the Fates have so served us, let us not make bad worse. I
love thee, Cleonice, more dearly than the apple of my eye ; it is for
thee I fear, for thee I speak. Alas ! it is not dishonour I recommend,
it is force I would shun."

"Force!" said the girl, drawing up her form with sudden
animation. "Fear not that. It is not Pausanias I dread, it

"What then?"

" No matter f talk of this no more. Shall I sing to thee ? "

" But Pausanias will visit us this very night.''

" I know it. Hark ! " and with her finger to her lip, her ear bent
downward, her cheek varying from pale to red, from red to pale,
the maiden stole- beyond the window to a kind of platform or terrace
that overhung the sea. There, the faint breeze stirring her long-
hair, and the moonlight full upon her face, she stood, as stood that
immortal priestess who looked along the starry Hellespont for the
young Leander ; and her ear had not deceived her. The oars were
dashing in the waves below, and dark, and rapid the boat bounded
on towards the rocky shore. She gazed long and steadfastly on the
dim and shadowy forms which that slender raft contained, and her
eye detected amongst the three the loftier form of her haughty wooer.
Presently the thick foliage that clothed the descent shut the boat,
nearing the strand, from her view ; but she now heard below, mel-
lowed and softened in the still and fragrant air, the sound of the
cithara and the melodious song of the Mothon, thus imperfectly
rendered from the language of immortal melody.

SONG.

Carry a sword in the myrtle bough,
Ye who would honour the tyrant-slayer ;
I, in the leaves of the myrtle bough,
Carry a tyrant to slay myself.

I pluck'd the branch with a. hasty hand,
But Love was lurking amidst the leaves ;
His bow is bent and his shaft is poised.
And I must perish or pass the bough.

Maiden, I come with a gift to thee,
Maiden, I come with a myrtle wreath ;
Over thy forehead, or round thy breast
Bind, I implore thee, my myrtle wreath.1

1 Garlands were twined round the neck, or placed upon the bosom (viroffvnia.S«;}.
See the quotations from Alcaeus, Sappho, and Anacr;on in Athenaeus, book xiii.
c. 17.

326 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

From hand to hand by the banquet lights
On with the myrtle bough passes song :
From hand to hand by the silent stars
What with the myrtle wreath passes ? Love.

I bear the god in a myrtle wreath,
Under the stars let him pass to thee ;
Empty his quiver and bind his wings,
Then pass the myrtle wreath back to me.

Cleonice listened breathlessly to the words, and sighed heavily as
they ceased. Then, as the foliage rustled below, she turned quickly
into the chamber and seated herself at a little distance from Diagoras ;
to all appearance calm, indifferent and composed. Was it nature,
or the arts of Miletus, that taught the young beauty the hereditaiy
artifices of the sex ?

"So it is he, then?" said Diagoras, with a fidgety and nervous
trepidation. "Well, he chooses strange hours to visit us. But he
is right ; his visits cannot be too private. Cleonice, you look
provokingly at your ease."

Cleonice made no reply, but shifted her position so that the light
from the lamp did not fall upon her face, while her father, hurrying
to the threshold of his hall to receive his illustrious visitor, soon re-
appeared with the Spartan Regent, talking as he entered with the
volubility of one of the parasites of Alciphron and Athenaeus.

"This is most kind, most affable. Cleonice said you would come,
Pausanias, though I began to distrust you. The hours seem long
to those who expect pleasure."

" And, Cleonice, you knew that I should come," said Pausanias,
approaching the fair Byzantine ; but his step was timid, and there
was no pride now in his anxious eye and bended brow.

" You said you would come to-night," said Cleonice, calmly,
"and Spartans, according to proverbs, speak the truth."

"•When it is to their advantage, yes," ' said Pausanias, with a
slight curl of his lips ; and, as if the girl's compliment to his country-
men had roused his spleen and changed his thoughts, he seated
himself moodily by Cleonice, and remained silent.

The Byzantine stole an arch glance at the Spartan, as he thus sat,
from the corner of her eyes, and said, after a pause —

" You Spartans ought to speak the truth more than other people,
for you say much less. We too have our proverb at Byzantium,
and one which implies that it requires some wit to tell fibs. "

1 So said Thucydides of the Spartans, many years afterwards. "They give
evidence of honour among themselves, but with respect to others, they consider
honourable wliatever pleases them, and just whatever is to their advantage." —
See Thucyd. lib. v.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 327

"Child, child!" exclaimed Diagoras, holding up his hand re-
provingly, and directing a terrified look at the Spartan. To his
great relief, Pausanias smiled, and replied —

"Fair maiden, we Dorians are said to have a wit peculiar to
ourselves, but I confess that it is of a nature that is but little attract-
ive to your sex. The Athenians are blander wooers.'"

"Do you ever attempt to woo in Lacedaemon, then? Ah, but
the maidens there, perhaps, are not difficult to please."

"The girl puts me in a cold sweat ! " muttered Diagoras, wiping
his brow. And this time Pausanias did not smile ; he coloured,
and answered gravely —

"And is it, then, a vain hope for a Spartan to please a
Byzantine?"

" You puzzle me. That is an enigma ; put it to the oracle."

The Spartan raised his eyes towards Cleonice, and, as she saw
the inquiring, perplexed look that his features assumed, the ruby
lips broke into so wicked a smile, and the eyes that met his had so
much laughter in them, that Pausanias was fairly bewitched out of
his own displeasure.

"Ah, cruel one ! " said he, lowering his voice, "I am not so proud
of being Spartan that the thought should console me for thy mockery."

" Not proud of being Spartan ! say not so," exclaimed Cleonice.
"Who ever speaks of Greece and places not Sparta at her head?
Who ever speaks of freedom and forgets Thermopylae ? Who ever
burns for glory, and sighs not for the fame of Pausanias and Platsea?
Ah, yes, even in jest say not that you are not proud to be a
Spartan ! "

"The little fool!" cried Diagoras, chuckling, and mightily
delighted ; "she is quite mad about Sparta — no wonder ! "

Pausanias, surprised and moved by the burst of the fair Byzantine,
gazed at her admiringly, and thought within himself how harshly
the same sentiment would have sounded on the lips of a tall Spartan
virgin ; but when Cleonice heard the approving interlocution of
Diagoras, her enthusiasm vanished from her face, and putting out
her lips poutingly, she said, "Nay, father, I repeat only what
others say of the Spartans. They are admirable heroes ; but from
the little I have seen, they are "

" What ? " said Pausanias eagerly, and leaning nearer to Cleonice.

" Proud, dictatorial, and stern as companions."

Pausanias once more drew back.

"There it is again ! " groaned Diagoras. " I feel exactly as if I
were playing at odd and even with a lion ; she does it to vex me.
I shall retaliate and creep away."

328 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

"Cleonice," said Pausanias, with suppressed emotion, "you trifle
with me, and I bear it."

" You are condescending. How would you avenge yourself? "

"How!"

" You would not beat me ; you would not make me bear an
anchor on the shoulders, as they say you do your soldiers. Shame
on you ! you bear with me ! true, what help for you?"

"Maiden," said the Spartan, rising in great anger, "for him who
loves and is slighted there is a revenge you have not mentioned."

" For him who loves ! No, Spartan ; for him who shuns disgrace
and courts the fame dear to gods and men, there is no revenge upon
women. Blush for your threat."

"You madden, but subdue me," said the Spartan as he turned
away. He then first perceived that Diagoras had gone — that they
were alone. His contempt for the father awoke suspicion of the
daughter. Again he approached and said, "Cleonice, I know but
little of the fables of poets, yet is it an old maxim often sung and
ever belied, that love scorned becomes hate. There are moments
when I think I hate thee."

"And yet thou hast never loved me," said Cleonice; and there
was something soft and tender in the tone of her voice, and the
rough Spartan was again subdued.

"I never loved thee ! What, then, is love? Is not thine image
always before me? — amidst schemes, amidst perils of which thy
very dreams have never presented equal perplexity or phantoms so
uncertain, I am occupied but with thee. Surely, as upon the
hyacinth is written the exclamation of woe, so on this heart is
graven thy name. Cleonice, you who know not what it is to love,
you affect to deny or to question mine."

"And what," said Cleonice, blushing deeply, and with tears in
her eyes, "what result can come from such a love? You may not
wed with the stranger. And yet, Pausanias, yet you know that all
other love dishonours the virgin even of Byzantium. You are
silent ; you turn away. Ah, do not let them wrong you. My
father fears your power. If you love me you are powerless ; your
power has passed to me. Is it not so? I, a weak girl, can rule,
command, irritate, mock you, if I will. You may f]y me, but not
control."

"Do not tempt me too far, Cleonice," said the Spartan, with a
faint smile.

"Nay, I will be merciful henceforth, and you, Pausanias, come
here no more. Awake to the true sense of what is due to your
divine ancestry — your great name. Is it not told of you that, after

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 329

the fall of Mardonius, you nobly dismissed to her country, unscathed
and honoured, the captive Coan lady ? : Will you reverse at
Byzantium the fame acquired at Platsea ? Pausanias, spare us ;
appeal not to my father's fear, stUl less to his love of gold."

"I cannot, I cannot fly thee," said the Spartan, with great
emotion. "You know not how stormy, how inexorable are the
passions which burst forth after a whole youth of restraint. When
nature breaks the barriers, she rushes headlong on her course. I
am no gentle wooer ; where in Sparta should I learn the art ? But,
if I love thee not as these mincing lonians, who come with offerings
of flowers and song, I do love thee with all that fervour of which
the old Dorian legends tell. I could brave, like the Thracian, the
dark gates of Hades, were thy embrace my reward. Command me
as thou wilt — make me thy slave in all things, even as Hercules was
to Omphale ; but tell me only that I may win thy love at last.
Fear not. Why fear me ? in my wildest moments a look from thee
can control me. I ask but love for love. Without thy love thy
beauty were valueless. Bid me not despair."

Cleonice turned pale, and the large tears that had gathered in
her eyes fell slowly down her cheeks ; but she did not withdraw her
hand from his clasp, or avert her countenance from his eyes.

" I do not fear thee," said she, in a very low voice. " I told my
father so ; but — but — " (and here she drew back her hand and
averted her face), "I fear myself."

"Ah, no, no," cried the delighted Spartan, detaining her, "do
not fear to trust to thine own heart. Talk not of dishonour. There
are" (and here the Spartan drew himself up, and his voice took a
deeper swell) — "there are those on earth who hold themselves
above the miserable judgments of the vulgar herd — who can eman-
cipate themselves from those galling chains of custom and of country
which helotize affection, genius, nature herself. What is dishonour
here may be glory elsewhere ; and this hand, outstretched towards
a mightier sceptre than Greek ever wielded yet, may dispense,
not shame and sorrow, but glory and golden affluence to those I
love."

"You amaze me, Pausanias. Ncnu I fear you. What mean
these mysterious boasts ? Have you the dark ambition to restore in
your own person that race of tyrants whom your country hath helped
to sweep away? Can you hope to change the laws of Sparta, and
reign there, your will the state?"

"Cleonice, we touch upon matters that should not disturb the
ears of women. Forgive me if I have been roused from myself."
1 Herod, ix.

M 2

33° PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

" At Miletus — so have I heard my mother say — there were women
worthy to be the confidants of men."

" But they were women who loved. Cleonice, I should rejoice
in an hour when I might pour every thought into thy bosom."

At this moment there was heard on the strand below a single
note from the Mothon's instrument, low, but prolonged ; it ceased,
and was again renewed. The royal conspirator started and breathed
hard.

"It is the signal," he muttered; "they wait me. Cleonice,"
he said aloud, and with much earnestness in his voice, "I had
hoped, ere we parted, to have drawn from your lips those assurances
which would give me energy for the present and hope in the future.
Ah, turn not from me because my speech is plain and my manner
rugged. What, Cleonice, what if I could defy the laws of Sparta;
what if, instead of that gloomy soil, I could bear thee to lands where
heaven and man alike smile benignant on love ? Might I not hope
then?"

" Do nothing to sully your fame."

" Is it, then, dear to thee ?"

" It is a part of thee," said Cleonice falteringly ; and as if she
had said too much, she covered her face with her hands.

Emboldened by this emotion, the Spartan gave way to his passion
and his joy. He clasped her in his arms — his first embrace — and
kissed, with wild fervour, the crimsoned forehead, the veiling hands.
Then, as he tore himself away, he cast his right arm aloft.

" O Hercules ! " he cried, in solemn and kindling adjuration,
"my ancestor and my divine guardian, it was not by confining thy
labours to one spot of earth, that thou wert borne from thy throne
of fire to the seats of the Gods. Like thee I will spread the influ-
ence of my arms to nations whose glory shall be my name ; and as
thy sons, my fathers, expelled from Sparta, returned thither with
sword and spear to defeat usurpers and to found the long dynasty
of the Heracleids, even so may it be mine to visit that dread abode
of torturers and spies, and to build up in the halls of the Atridae a
power worthier of the lineage of the demigod. Again the signal !
Fear not, Cleonice, I will not tarnish my fame, but I will exchange
the envy of abhorring rivals for the obedience of a world. One kiss
more ! Farewell ! "

Ere Cleonice recovered herself, Pausanias was gone, his wild and
uncomprehended boasts still ringing in her ear. She sighed heavily,
and turned towards the opening that admitted to the terraces.
There she stood watching for the parting of. her lover's boat. It
was midnight ; the air, laden with the perfumes of a thousand

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 331

fragrant shrubs and flowers that bloom along that coast in the rich
luxuriance of nature, was hushed and breathless. In its stillness
every sound was audible, the rustling of a leaf, the ripple of a wave.
She heard the murmur of whispered voices below, and in a few
moments she recognized, emerging from the foliage, the form of
Pausanias ; but he was not alone. Who were his companions? In
the deep lustre of that shining and splendid atmosphere she could
see sufficient of the outline of their figures to observe that they were
not dressed in the Grecian garb ; their long robes betrayed the
Persian.

They seemed conversing familiarly and eagerly as they passed
along the smooth sands, till a curve in the wooded shore hid them
from her view.

"Why do I love him so," said the girl mechanically, " and yet
wrestle against that love ? Dark forebodings tell me that Aphrodite
smiles not on our vows. Woe is me ! What will be the end?"

CHAPTER V.

quitting Cleonice, Pausanias hastily traversed the long
passage that communicated with a square peristyle or
colonnade, which again led, on the one hand, to the
more public parts of the villa, and, on the other, through
a small door left ajar, conducted by a back entrance, to the garden
and the sea-shore. Pursuing the latter path, the Spartan bounded
down the descent and came upon an opening in the foliage, in which
Lysander was seated beside the boat that had been drawn partially
on the strand.

" Alone ? Where is Alcman ? "

" Yonder ; you heard his signal ? "

" I heard it."

" Pausanias, they who seek you are Persians. Beware ! "

"Of what? murder? I am warned."

"Murder to your good name. There are no arms against
appearances."

"But I may trust thee?" said the Regent, quickly, "and of
Alcman 's faith I am convinced."

"Why trust to any man what it were wisdom to reveal to the
whole Grecian Council ? To parley secretly with the foe is half a
treason to our friends."

332 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

" Lysander," replied Pausanias, coldly, "you have much to learn
before you can be wholly Spartan. Tarry here yet awhile.'"'

" What shall I do with this boy?" muttered the conspirator as
he strode on. " I know that he will not betray me, yet can I hope
for his aid ? I love him so well that I would fain he shared my
fortunes. Perhaps by little and little I may lead him on. Mean-
while, his race and his name are so well accredited in Sparta, his
father himself an Ephor, that his presence allays suspicion. Well,
here are my Persians."

A little apart from the Mothon, who, resting his cithara on a
fragment of rock, appeared to be absorbed in reflection, stood the
men of the East. There were two of them ; one of tall stature and
noble presence, in the prime of life ; the other more advanced in
years, of a coarser make, a yet darker complexion, and of a sullen
and gloomy countenance. They were not dressed alike ; the taller,
a Persian of pure blood, wore a short tunic that reached only to the
keees : and the dress fitted to his shape without a single fold. On his
round cap or bonnet glittered a string of those rare pearls, especially
and immemorially prized in the East, which formed the favourite
and characteristic ornament of the illustrious tribe of the Pasargadae.
The other, who was a Mede, differed scarcely in his dress from
Pausanias himself, except that he was profusely covered with orna-
ments ; his arms were decorated with bracelets, he wore earrings,
and a broad collar of unpolished stones in a kind of filagree \vas
suspended from his throat. Behind the Orientals stood Gongylus,
leaning both hands on his staff, and watching the approach of
Pausanias with the same icy smile and glittering eye with which he
listened to the passionate invectives or flattered the dark ambition
of the Spartan. The Orientals saluted Pausanias with a lofty gravity,
and Gongylus drawing near, said : " Son of Cleombrotus, the illus-
trious Ariamanes, kinsman to Xerxes, and of the House of the
Achaemenids, is so far versed in the Grecian tongue that 1 need not
proffer my offices as interpreter. In Datis, the Mede, brother to the
most renowned of the Magi, you behold a warrior worthy to assist
the arms even of Pausanias."

"I greet ye in our Spartan phrase, ' The beautiful to the good,' "
said Pausanias, regarding the Barbarians with an earnest gaze.
"And I requested Gongylus to lead ye hither in order that I might
confer with ye more at ease, than in the confinement to which I
regret ye are still sentenced. Not in prisons should be held the
conversations of brave men."

"I know," said Ariamanes (the statelier of the Barbarians), in
the Greek tongue, which he spoke intelligibly "indeed, but with

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 333

slowness and hesitation, "I know tnat I am with that hero who
refused to dishonour the corpse of Mardonius, and even though a
captive I converse without shame with my victor."

"Rested it with me alone, your captivity should cease," replied
Pausanias. " War, that has made me acquainted with the valour of
the Persians, has also enlightened me as to their character. Your
king has ever been humane to such of the Greeks as have sought a
refuge near his throne. I would but imitate his clemency."

" Had the great Darius less esteemed the Greeks he would never
have invaded Greece. From the wanderers whom misfortune drove to
his realms, he learned to wonder at the arts, the genius, the energies
of the people of Hellas. He desired less to win their territories than
to gain such subjects. Too vast, alas, was the work he bequeathed
to Xerxes."

"He should not have trusted to force alone," returned Pausanias.
" Greece may be won, but by the arts of her sons, not by the arms of
the stranger. A Greek only can subdue Greece. By such profound
knowledge of the factions, the interests, the envies and the jealousies
of each state as a Greek alone can possess, the mistaken chain that
binds them might be easily severed ; some bought, some intimidated,
and the few that hold out subdued amidst the apathy of the rest."

" You speak wisely, right hand of Hellas," answered the Persian,
who had listened to these remarks with deep attention. "Yet had
we in our armies your countryman, the brave Demaratus."

"But, if I have heard rightly, ye too often disdained his counsel. Had
he been listened to there had been neither a Salamis nor a Plataea.1
Yet Demaratus himself had been too long a stranger to Greece, and
he knew little of any state save that of Sparta. Lives he still?"

"Surely yes, in honour and renown; little less than the son of
Darius himself."

" And what reward would Xerxes bestow on one of greater in-
fluence than Demaratus ; on one who has hitherto conquered every
foe, and now beholds before him the conquest of Greece herself? "

"If such a man were found," answered the Persian, "let his

1 After the action at Thermopylae, Demaratus advised Xerxes to send three
hundred vessels to the Laconian coast, and seize the island of Cythera, which
commanded Spartn. " The profound experience of Demaratus in the selfish and
exclusive policy of his countrymen made him argue that if this were done the fear
of Sparta for herself would prevent her joining the forces of the rest of Greece,
and leave the latter a more easy prey to the invader." — Athens, its Rise and
Fall. This advice was overruled by Achaemenes. So again, had the advice of
Artemisia, the Carian princess, been taken — to delay the naval engagement of
Salamis, and rather to sail to the Peloponnesus — the Greeks, failing of provisions
and divided among themselves, would probably hav« dispersed.

334 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

thought run loose, let his imagination rove, let him seek only how
to find a fitting estimate of the gratitude of the king and the vastness
of the service."

Pausanias shaded his brow with his hand, and mused a few
moments ; then lifting his eyes to the Persian's watchful but
composed countenance, he said, with a slight smile —

" Hard is it, O Persian, when the choice is actually before him,
for a man to renounce his country. There have been hours within
this very day when my desires swept afar from Sparta, from all
Hellas, and rested on the tranquil pomp of Oriental Satrapies. But
now, rude and stern parent though Sparta be to me, I feel still that I
am her son ; and, while we speak, a throne in stormy Hellas seems
the fitting object of a Greek's ambition. In a word, then, I would
rise, and yet raise my country. I would have at my will a force
that may suffice to overthrow in Sparta its grim and unnatural laws,
to found amidst its rocks that single throne which the son of a
demigod should ascend. From that throne I would spread my
empire over the whole of Greece, Corinth and Athens being my
tributaries. So that, though men now, and posterity hereafter, may
say, ' Pausanias overthrew the Spartan government,' they shall add,
' but Pausanias annexed to the Spartan sceptre the realm of Greece.
Pausanias was a tyrant, but not a traitor.' How, O Persian, can
these designs accord with the policy of the Persian king?"

"Not without the authority of my master can I answer thee,"
replied Ai iamanes, " so that my answer may be as the king's signet
to his decree. But so much at least I say : that it is not the custom of
the Persians to interfere with the institutions of those states with
which they are connected. Thou desirest to make a monarchy of
Greece, with Sparta for its head. Be it so ; the king my master
will aid thee so to scheme and so to reign, provided thou dost but
concede to him a vase of the water from thy fountains, a fragment of
earth from thy gardens."

" In other words," said Pausanias thoughtfully, but with a slight
colour on his brow, " if I hold my dominions tributary to the
king?"

" The dominions that by the king's aid thou wilt have conquered.
Is that a hard law?"

"To a Greek and a Spartan the very mimicry of allegiance to
the foreigner is hard."

The Persian smiled. "Yet, if I understand thee aright, O Chief,
even kings in Sparta are but subjects to their people. Slave to a
crowd at home, or tributary to a throne abroad ; slave every hour,
or tributary for earth and water once a year, which is the freer lot ? "

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 335

"Thou canst not understand our Grecian notions," replied
Pausanias, " nor have I leisure to explain them. But though I may
subdue Sparta to myself as to its native sovereign, I will not, even
by a type, subdue the land of the Heracleid to the Barbarian."

Ariamanes looked grave ; the difficulty raised was serious. And
here the craft of Gongylus interposed.

"This may be adjusted, Ariamanes, as befits both parties. Let
Pausanias rule in Sparta as he lists, and Sparta stand free of tribute.
But for all other states and cities that Pausanias, aided by the great
king, shall conquer, let the vase be filled, and the earth be Grecian.
Let him but render tribute for those lands which the Persians
submit to his sceptre. So shall the pride of the Spartan be appeased,
arrd the claims of the king be satisfied."

' ' Shall it be so ? " said Pausanias.

"Instruct me so to propose to my master, and I will do my
best to content him with the exception to the wonted rights of
the Persian diadem. And then," continued Ariamanes, "then,
Pausanias, Conqueror of Mardonius, Captain at Platsea, thou art
indeed a man with whom the lord of Asia may treat as an equal.
Greeks before thee have offered to render Greece to the king my
master ; but they were exiles and fugitives, they had nothing to risk
or lose ; thou hast fame, and command, and power, and riches, and
all "

" But for a throne," interrupted Gongylus.

"It does not matter what may be my motives," returned the
Spartan gloomily, "and were I to tell them, you might not
comprehend. But so much by way of explanation. You too have
held command ? "

"I have."

"If you knew that, when power became to you so sweet that it
was as necessary to life itself as food and drink, it would then be
snatched from you for ever, and you would serve as a soldier in the
very ranks you had commanded as a leader ; if you knew that no
matter what your services, your superiority, your desires, this
shameful fall was inexorably doomed, might you not see humilia-
tion in power itself, obscurity in renown, gloom in the present,
despair in the future ? And would it not seem to you nobler even
to desert the camp than to sink into a subaltern ? "

" Such a prospect has in our country made out of good subjects
fierce rebels," observed the Persian.

"Ay, ay, I doubt it not," said Pausanias, laughing bitterly.
" Well, then, such will be my lot, if I pluck not out a fairer one
from the Fatal Urn. As Regent of Sparta, while my nephew is

336 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAX.

beardless, I am general of her. armies, and I have the sway and
functions of her king. When he arrives at the customary age, I
am a subject, a citizen, a nothing, a miserable fool of memories
gnawing my heart away amidst joyless customs and stern austerities,
with the recollection of the glories of Plataea and the delights of
Byzantium. Persian, I am filled from the crown to the sole with
the desire of power, with the tastes of pleasure. I have that within
me which before my time has made heroes and traitors, raised demi-
gods to Heaven, or chained the lofty Titans to the rocks of Hades.
Something I may yet be ; I know not what. But as the man
never returns to the boy, so never, never, never once more, can I be
again the Spartan subject. Enough ; such as I am, I can fulfil
what I have said to thee. Will thy king accept me as his ally, and
ratify the terms I have proposed?"

"I feel well-nigh assured of it," answered the Persian; "for
since thou hast spoken thus boldly, I will answer thee in the same
strain. Know, then, that we of the pure race of Persia, we the sons
of those who overthrew the Mede, and extended the race of the
mountain tribe, from the Scythian to the Arab, from Egypt to Ind,
we at least feel that no sacrifice were too great to redeem the dis-
grace we have suffered at the hands of thy countrymen ; and the
world itself were too small an empire, too confined a breathing-
place for the son of Darius, if this nook of earth were still left
without the pale of his dominion."

"This nook of earth? Ay, but Sparta itself must own no lord
but me."

" It is agreed."

" If I release thee, wilt thou bear these offers to the king, travel-
ling day and night till thou restest at the foot of his throne?"

" I should carry tidings too grateful to suffer me to loiter by the
road."

"And Datis, he comprehends us not ; but his eyes glitter fiercely
on me. It is easy to see thnt thy comrade loves not the Greek.1'

" For that reason he will aid us well. Though but a Mede, and
not admitted to the privileges of the Pasargadse, his relationship to
the most powerful and learned of our Magi, and his own services in
war, have won him such influence with both priests and soldiers,
that I would fain have him as my companion. I will answer for his
fidelity to our joint object."

" Enough ; ye are both free. Gongylus, you will now conduct
our friends to the place where the steeds await them. You will
then privately return to the citadel, and give to their pretended
escape the probable appearances we devised. Be quick, while it is

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 337

yet night. One word more. Persian, our success depends upon
thy speed. It is while the Greeks are yet at Byzantium, while I yet
am in command, that we should strike the blow. If the king con-
sent, through Gongylus thou wilt have means to advise me. A
Persian army must march at once to the Phrygian confines, instructed
to yield command to me when the hour comes to assume it. Delay
not thnt aid by such vast and profitless recruits as swelled the pomp,
but embarrassed the arms, of Xerxes. Armies too large rot by their
own unwieldiness into decay. A band of 50,000, composed solely
of the Medes and Persians, will more than suffice. With such an
army, if my command be undisputed, I will win a second Plataea,
but against the Greek."

" Your suggestions shall be law. May Ormuzd favour the bold ! "

"Away, Gongylus. You know the rest."

Pausanias followed with thoughtful eyes the receding forms of
Gongylus and the Barbarians. " I have passed for ever," he mut-
tered, " the pillars of Hercules. I must go on or perish. If I fall,
I die execrated and abhorred ; if I succeed, the sound of the choral
flutes will drown the hootings. Be it as it may, I do not and will
not repent. If the wolf gnaw my entmils, none shall hear me
groan." He turned and met the eyes of Alcman, fixed on him so
intently, so 'exultingly, that, wondering at their strange expression,
he drew back and said haughtily, " You imitate Medusa, but I am
stone already. "

" Nay," said the Mothon, in a voice of great humility, "if you
are of stone, it is like the divine one which, when borne before
armies, secures their victory. Blame me not that I gazed on you
with triumph and hope. For, while you conferred with the Persian,
methought the murmurs that reached my ear sounded thus : ' When
Pausanias shall rise, S.parta shall bend low, and the Helot shall
break his chains.' "

' They do not hate me, these Helots ? "
' You are the only Spartan they love."

' Were my life in danger from the Ephors "

' The Helots would rise to a man."

' Did I plant my standard on Taygettis, though all Sparta
encamped against it- •"

"All the slaves would cut their way to thy side. O Pausanias,
think how much nobler it were te reign over tens of thousands who
become freemen at thy word, than to be but the equal of 10,000
tyrants."

" The Helots fight well, when well led," said Pausanias, as if to
himself. "Launch the boat."

338 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

" Pardon me, Pausanias, but is it prudent any longer to trust
Lysander? He is the pattern of the Spartan youth, and Sparta is
his mistress. He loves her too well not to blab to her every
secret. "

" O Sparta, Sparta, wilt thou not leave me one friend ? " exclaimed
Pausanias. " No, Alcman, I will not separate myself from Lysander,
till I despair of his alliance. To your oars ! be quick."

At the sound of the Mothon's tread upon the pebbles, Lysander,
who had hitherto remained motionless, reclining by the boat, rose
and advanced towards Pausanias. There was in his countenance,
as the moon shining on it cast over his statue-like features a pale and
marble hue, so much of anxiety, of affection, of fear, so much of the
evident, unmistakable solicitude of friendship, that Pausanias, who,
like most men, envied and unloved, was susceptible even of the
semblance of attachment, muttered to himself, "No, thou wilt not
desert me, nor I thee."

"My friend, my Pausanias," said Lysander, as he approached,
" I have had fears — I have seen omens. Undertake nothing, I
beseech thee, which thou hast meditated this night."

" And what hast thou seen?" said Pausanias, with a slight change
of countenance.

" I was praying the Gods for thee and Sparta, when a star shot
suddenly from the heavens. Pausanias, this is the eighth year, the
year in which on moonless nights the Ephors watch the heavens."

" And if a star fall they judge their kings," interrupted Pausanias
(with a curl of his haughty lip), "to have offended the Gods, and
suspend them from their office till acquitted by an oracle at Delphi,
or a priest at Olympia. A wise superstition. But, Lysander, the
night is not moonless, and the omen is therefore nought.'1

Lysander shook his head mournfully, and followed his chieftain
to the boat, in gloomy silence.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

noon the next day, not only the vessels in the harbour
presented the same appearance of inactivity and desertion
which had characterized the preceding evening, but the
camp itself seemed forsaken. Pausanias had quitted his
ship for the citadel, in which he took up his lodgment when on
shore : and most of the officers and sailors of the squadron were dis-
persed among the taverns and wine-shops, for which, even at that
day, Byzantium was celebrated.

It was in one of the lowest and most popular of these latter
resorts, and in a large and rude chamber, or rather outhouse,
separated from the rest of the building, that a number of the
Laconian Helots were assembled. Some of these were employed
as sailors, others were the military attendants on the Regent and the
Spartans who accompanied him.

At the time we speak of, these unhappy beings were in the full
excitement of that wild and melancholy gaiety which is almost
peculiar to slaves in their hours of recreation, and in which reaction
of wretchedness modern writers have discovered the indulgence of
a native humour. Some of them were drinking deep, wrangling,
jesting, laughing in loud discord over their cups. At another table
rose the deep voice of a singer, chanting one of those antique airs
known but to these degraded sons of the Homeric Archaean, and
probably in its origin going beyond the date of the Tale of Troy ; a
song of gross and rustic buffoonery, but ever and anon charged with
some image or thought worthy of that language of the universal
Muses. His companions listened with a rude delight to the rough
voice and homely sounds, and now and then interrupted the wassailers
at the other tables by cries for silence, which none regarded. Here
and there, with intense and fierce anxiety on their faces, small groups
were playing at dice ; for gambling is the passion of slaves. And
many of these men, to whom wealth could bring no comfort, had

34° PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

secretly amassed large hoards at the plunder of Plataea, from which
they had sold to the traders of JEgina. gold at the price of brass.
The appearance of the rioters was startling and melancholy. They
were mostly stunted and undersized, as are generally the progeny of
the sons of woe ; lean and gaunt with early hardship, the spine of
the back curved and bowed by habitual degradation ; but with the
hard-knit sinews and prominent muscles which are produced by
labour and the mountain air ; and under shaggy and lowering brows
sparkled many a fierce, perfidious, and malignant eye ; while as
mirth, or gaming, or song, aroused smiles in the various groups, the
rude features spoke of passiDns easily released from the sullen bondage
of servitude, and reveakd the nature of the animals which thraldom
had failed to tame. Here and there however were to be seen forms,
unlike the rest, of stately stature, of fair proportions, wearing the
divine lineaments of Grecian beauty. From some of these a higher
nature spoke out, not in mirth, that last mockery of supreme woe,
bat in an expression of stern, grave, and disdainful melancholy ;
others, on the contrary, surpassed the rest in vehemence, clamour,
and exuberant extravagance of emotion, as if their nobler physical
development only served to entitle them to that .base superiority.
For health and vigour can make1 an aristocracy even among Helots.
The garments of these merrymakers increased the peculiafefTect of
their general appearance. • The Helots in military excursions naturally
relinquished the rough sheep-skin dress that characterized their
countrymen at home, the serfs of the soil. The sailors had thrown
off, for coolness, the leathern jerkins they habitually wore, and, with
their bare arms and breasts, looked as if of a race that yet shivered,
primitive and unredeemed, on the outskirts of civilization.

Strangely contrasted with their rougher comrades, were those who,
placed occasionally about the person of the Regent, were indulged
•\vith the loose and clean robes of gay colours worn by the Asiatic
slaves ; and these ever and anon glanced at their finery with an air
of conscious triumph. Altogether, it was a sight that might well
have appalled, by its solemn lessons of human change, the poet who
would have beheld in that embruted flock the descendants of the
race over whom Pelops and Atreus, and Menelaus, and Agamemnon
the king of men, had held their antique sway, and might still more
have saddened the philosopher who believed, as Menander has
nobly written, ' That Nature knows no slaves.'

Suddenly, in the midst of the confused and uproarious hubbub,
the door opened, and Alcman the Mothon entered the chamber.
At this sight the clamour ceased in an instant. The party rose, as
by a general impulse, and crowded round the new comer.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 341

"My friends," said he, regarding them with the same calm and
frigid indifference which usually characterized his demeanour, "you
do well to make merry while you may, for something tells me it
will not last long. We shall return to Lacedasmon. You look
black. So, then, is there no delight in the thought of home?"

"Home!" muttered one of the Helots, and the word, sounding
drearily on his lips, was echoed by many, so that it circled like a
groan.

"Yet ye have your children as much as if ye were free," said
Alcman.

"And for that reason it pains us to see them play, unaware of
the future," said a Helot of better mien than his comrades.

"But do you know," returned the Mothon, gazing on the last
speaker steadily, " that for your children there may not be a future
fairer than that which your fathers knew?"

"Tush!" exclaimed one of the unhappy men, old before his
time, and of an aspect singularly sullen and ferocious. " Such have
been your half-hints and mystic prophecies for years. What good
comes of them ? Was there ever an oracle for Helots ? "

"There was no repute in the oracles even of Apollo," returned
Alcman, "till the Apollo-serving Dorians became conquerors.
Oracles are the children of victories."

"But there are no victories for us," said the first speaker
mournfully.

"Never, if ye despair," said the Mothon loftily. "What, "he
added after a pause, looking round at the crowd, "what, do ye not
see that hope dawned upon us from the hour when thirty- five
thousand of us were admitted as soldiers, ay, and as conquerors, at
Platsea? From that moment we knew our strength. Listen to me.
At Samos once a thousand slaves- — mark me, but a thousand, —
escaped the yoke — seized on arms, fled to the mountains (we have
mountains even in Laconia), descended from time to time to de-
vastate the fields and to harass their ancient lords. By habit they
learned war, by desperation they grew indomitable. What became
of these slaves? were they cut off? Did they perish by hunger, by
the sword, in the dungeon or field ? No ; those brave men were
the founders of Ephesus." 1

" But the Samians were not Spartans," mumbled the old Helot.

"As ye will, as ye will," said Alcman, relapsing into his usual
coldness. " I wish you never to strike unless ye are prepared to
die or conquer."

" Some of us are," said the younger Helot.
1 Malacus ap. Athen. 6.

342 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

" Sacrifice a cock to the Fates, then."

" But why think you," asked one of the Helots, " that we shall
be so soon summoned back to Laconia ? "

" Because while ye are drinking and idling here — drones that ye
are — there is commotion in the Athenian bee-hive yonder. Know
that Ariamanes the Persian and Datis the Mede have escaped. The
allies, especially the Athenians, are excited and angry ; and many
of them are already come in a body to Pausanias, whom they accuse
of abetting the escape of the fugitives."

"Well?"

" Well, and if Pausanias does not give honey in his words, — and
few flowers grow on his lips — the bees will sting, that is all. A
trireme will be despatched to Sparta with complaints. Pausanias
will be recalled — perhaps his life endangered."

" Endangered ! " echoed several voices.

' ' Yes. What is that to you — what care you for his danger ? He
is a Spartan."

" Ay," cried one ; "but he has been kind to the Helots."

" And we have fought by his side," said another.

"And he dressed my wound with his own hand," murmured a
third.

" And we have got money under him," growled a fourth.

"And more than all, "said Alcman, in a loud voice, "if he lives,
he will break down the Spartan government. Ye will not let this
man die?"

" Never ! " exclaimed the whole assembly. Alcman gazed with
a kind of calm and strange contempt on the flashing eyes, the fiery
gestures of the throng, and then said, coldly,

" So then ye would fight for one man ? "

" Ay, ay, that would we."

"But not for your own liberties, and those of your children
unborn ? "

There was a dead silence ; but the taunt was felt, and its logic
was already at work in many of these rugged breasts.

At this moment, the door was suddenly thrown open ; and a
Helot, in the dress worn by the attendants of the Regent, entered,
breathless and panting.

" Alcman ! the gods be praised you are here. Pausanias com-
mands your presence. Lose not a moment. And you too, com-
rades, by Demeter, do you mean to spend whole days at your cups ?
Come to the citadel ; ye may be wanted."

This was spoken to such of the Helots as belonged to the train of
Pausanias.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 343

" Wanted — what for ? " said one. " Pausanias gives us a holiday
while he employs the sleek Egyptians."

" Who that serves Pausanias ever asks that question, or can fore-
see from one hour to another what he maybe required to do?"
returned the self-important messenger, with great contempt.

Meanwhile the Mothon, all whose movements were peculiarly
silent and rapid, was already on his way to the citadel. The distance
was not inconsiderable, but Alcman was swift of foot. Tightening
the girdle round his waist, he swung himself, as it were, into a kind
of run, which, though not seemingly rapid, cleared the ground with
the speed almost rivalling that of the ostrich, from the length of the
stride and the extreme regularity of the pace. Such was at that
day the method by which messages were despatched from state to
state, especially in mountainous countries ; and the length of way
which was performed, without stopping, by the foot-couriers might
startle the best-trained pedestrians in our times. So swiftly indeed
did the Mothon pursue his course, that just by the citadel he
came up with the Grecian captains who, before he joined the Helots,
had set off for their audience with Pausanias. There were some
fourteen or fifteen of them, and they so filled up the path which,
just there, was not broad, that Alcman was obliged to pause as he
came upon their rear.

" And whither so fast, fellow?" said Uliades the Samian, turning
round as he heard the strides of the Mothon.

" Please you, master, I am bound to the General."

" Oh, his slave ! Is he going to free you ? "

" I am already as free as a man who has no city can be."

" Pithy. The Spartan slaves have the dryness of their masters.
How, sirrah ! do you jostle me ? "

" I crave pardon. I only seek to pass."

" Never ! to take precedence of a Samian. Keep back."

" I dare not."

"Nay, nay, let him pass," said the young Chian, Antagoras ;
" he will get scourged if he is too late. Perhaps, like the Persians,
Pausanias wears false hair, and wishes the slave to dress it in honour
of us."

' ' Hush ! " whispered an Athenian. ' ' Are these taunts prudent ? "

Here there suddenly broke forth a loud oath from Uliades, who,
lingering a little behind the rest, had laid rough hands on the
Mothon, as the latter once more attempted to pass him. With a
dexterous and abrupt agility, Alcman had extricated himself from
the Samian's grasp, but with a force that swung the captain on his
knee. Taking advantage of the position of the foe, the Mothon

344 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

darted onward, and threading the rest of the party, disappeared
through the neighbouring gates of the citadel.

"You slaw the insult?" said Uliades between his ground teeth as
he recovered himself. "The master shall answer for the slave;
and to me, too, who have forty slaves of my own at home ! "

" Pooh ! think no more of it," said Antagoras gaily ; " the poor
fellow meant only to save his own hide."

" As if that were of any consequence ! my slaves are brought up
from the cradle not to know if they have hides or not. You may
pinch them by the hour together and they don't feel you. My little
ones do it, in rainy weather, to strengthen their fingers. The Gods
keep them ! "

" An excellent gymnastic invention. But we are now within the
citadel. Courage ! the Spartan greyhound has lon£ teeth."

Pausanias was striding with hasty steps up and down a long and
narrow peristyle or colonnade that surrounded the apartments appro-
priated to his private use, when Alcman joined him.

"Well, well," cried he, eagerly, as he saw the Mothon, ''you
have mingled with the common gangs of these worshipful seamen,
these new men, these lonians. Think you they have so far over-
come their awe of the Spartan that they would obey the mutinous
commands of their officers ?"

" Pausanias, the truth must be spoken — Yes ! "

"Ye Gods! one would think each of these wranglers imagined
he had a whole Persian army in his boat. Why, I have seen the
day when, if in any assembly of Greeks a Spartan entered, the sight
of his very hat and walking-staff cast a terror through the whole
conclave."

" True, Pausanias ; but they suspect that Sparta herself will dis-
own her General."

" Ah ! say they so?"

" With one voice."

Pausanias paused a moment in deep and perturbed thought.

" Have they dared yet, think you, to send to Sparta?"

" I hear not ; but a trireme is in readiness to sail after your
conference with the captains."

" So, Alcman, it were ruin to my schemes to be recalled — until —
until "

" The hour to join the Persians on the frontier — yes."

" One word more. Have you had occasion to sound the Helots ?"

" But half an hour since. They will be true to you. Lift your
right hand, and the ground where you stand will bristle with men
who fear death even less than the Spartans."

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 345

"Their aid were useless here against the whole Grecian fleet;
but in the denies of Laconia, otherwise. I am prepared then for
the worst, even recall."

Here a slave crossed from a kind of passage that led from the
outer chambers into the peristyle.

"The Grecian captains have arrived to demand audience."

" Bid them wait," cried Pausanias, passionately.

"Hist! Pausanias," whispered the Mothon. "Is it not best to
soothe them — to play with them — to cover the lion with the fox's
hide?"

The Regent turned with a frown to his foster-brother, as if surprised
and irritated by his presumption in advising; and indeed of late, since
Pausanias had admitted the son of the Helot into his guilty intrigues,
Alcman had assumed a bearing and tone of equality which Pausanias,
wrapped in his dark schemes, did not always notice, but at which
from time to time he chafed angrily, yet again permitted it, and the
custom gained ground ; for in guilt conventional distinctions rapidly
vanish, and mind speaks freely out to mind. The presence of the
slave, however, restrained him, and after a momentary silence his
natural acuteness, great when undisturbed by passion or pride, made
him sensible of the wisdom of Alcman's counsel.

" Hold ! " he said to the slave. "Announce to the Grecian Chiefs
that Pausanias will await them forthwith. Begone. Now, Alcman,
I will talk over these gentle monitors. Not in vain have I been
educated in Sparta ; yet if by chance I fail, hold thyself ready to
haste to Sparta at a minute's warning. I must forestall the foe. I
have gold, gold ; and he who employs most of the yellow orators,
will prevail most with the Ephors. Give me my staff; and tarry in
yon chamber to the left."

CHAPTER II.

JN a large hall, with a marble fountain in the middle of it,
the Greek captains awaited the coming of Pausanias. A
low and muttered conversation was carried on amongst
them, in small knots and groups, amidst which the voice
of Uliades was heard the loudest. Suddenly the hum was hushed,
for footsteps were heard without. The thick curtains that at one
extreme screened the doorway were drawn aside, and, attended by
three of the Spartan knights, amongst whom was Lysander, and by
two soothsayers, who were seldom absent, in war or warlike council.

346 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

from the side of the Royal Heracleid, Pausanias slowly entered the
hall. So majestic, grave, and self-collected were the bearing and
aspect of the Spartan general, that the hereditary awe inspired by
his race was once more awakened, and the angry crowd saluted him,
silent and half-abashed. Although the strong passions, and the
daring arrogance of Pausanias, did not allow him the exercise of
that enduring, systematic, unsleeping hypocrisy which, in relations
with the foreigner, often characterized his countrymen, and which,
from its outward dignity and profound craft, exalted the vice into
genius ; yet trained from earliest childhood in the arts that hide
design, that control the countenance, and convey in the fewest words
the most ambiguous meanings, the Spartan general could, for a brief
period, or for a critical purpose, command all the wiles for which the
Greek was nationally famous, and in which Thucydides believed
that, of all Greeks, the Spartan was the most skilful adept. And
now, as, uniting the courtesy of the host with the dignity of the
chief, he returned the salute of the officers, and smiled his gracious
welcome, the unwonted affability of his manner took the discontented
by surprise, and half propitiated the most indignant in his favour.

" I need not ask you, O Greeks," said he, " why ye have sought
me. Ye have learnt the escape of Ariamanes and Datis — a strange
and unaccountable mischance. "

The captains looked round at each other in silence, till at last
every eye rested upon Cimon, whose illustrious birth, as well as his
known respect for Sparta, combined with his equally well-known
dislike of her chief, seemed to mark him, despite his youth, as the
fittest person to be speaker for the rest. Cimon, who understood
the mute appeal, and whose courage never failed his ambition, raised
his head, and, after a moment's hesitation, replied to the Spartan :

' ' Pausanias, you guess rightly the cause which leads us to your
presence. These prisoners were our noblest ; their capture the
reward of our common valour ; they were generals, moreover, of
high skill and repute. They had become experienced in our Grecian
warfare, even by their defeats. Those two men, should Xerxes
again invade Greece, are worth more to his service than half the
nations whose myriads crossed the Hellespont. But this is not all.
The arms of the Barbarians we can encounter undismayed. It is
treason at home which can alone appal us."

There was a low murmur among the lonians at these words.
Pausanias, with well-dissembled surprise on his countenance, turned
his eyes from Cimon to the murmurers, and from them again to
Cimon, and repeated :

"Treason ! son of Miltiades ; and from whom?"

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 347

" Such is the question that we would put to thee, Pausanias — to
thee, whose eyes, as leader of our armies, are doubtless vigilant daily
and nightly over the interests of Greece."

"I am not blind," returned Pausanias, appearing unconscious of
the irony; "but I am not Argus. If them hast discovered aught
that is hidden from me, speak boldly."

"Thou hast made Gongylus, the Eretrian, governor of Byzantium ;
for what great services we know not. But he has lived much in
Persia."

" For that reason, on this the frontier of her domains, he is better
enabled to penetrate her designs and counteract her ambition."

"This Gongylus," continued Cimon, "is well known to have
much frequented the Persian captives in their confinement."

" In order to learn from them what may yet be the strength of the
king. In this he had my commands."

"I question it not. But, Pausanias," continued Cimon, raising
his voice, and with energy, "had he also thy commands to leave thy
galley last night, and to return to the citadel ? "

"He had. What then?"

"And on his return the Persians disappear — a singular chance,
truly. But that is not all. Last night, before he returned to the
citadel, Gongylus was perceived, alone, in a retired spot on the
outskirts of the city."

"Alone?" echoed Pausanias.

"Alone. If he had companions they were not discerned. This
spot was out of the path he should have taken. By this spot, on the
soft soil, are the marks of hoofs, and in the thicket close by were
found these witnesses," and Cimon drew from his vest a handful of
the pearls, only worn by the Eastern captives.

"There is something in this," said Xanthippus, "which requires
at least examination. May it please you, Pausanias, to summon
Gongylus hither ? "

A momentary shade passed over the brow of the conspirator, but
the eyes of the Greeks were on him ; and to refuse were as dangerous
as to comply. He turned to one of his Spartans, and ordered him
to summon the Eretrian.

"You have spoken well, Xanthippus. This matter must be
sifted. "

With that, motioning the captains to the seats that were ranged
round the walls and before a long table, he cast himself into a large
chair at the head of the table, and waited in silent anxiety the
entrance of the Eretrian. His whole trust now was in the craft and
penetration of his friend. If the courage .or the cunning of Gongylus

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

failed him — if but a word betrayed him — Pausanias was lost. He
was girt by men who hated him ; and he read in the dark fierce eyes
of the lonians — whose pride he had so often galled, whose revenge
he had so carelessly provoked — the certainty of ruin. One hand
hidden within the folds of his robe convulsively clinched the flesh,
in the stern agony of his suspense. His calm and composed face
nevertheless exhibited to the captains no trace of fear.

The draperies were again drawn aside, and Gongylus slowly
entered.

Habituated to peril of every kind from his earliest youth, the
Eretrian was quick to detect its presence. The sight of the silent
Greeks, formally seated round the hall, and watching his steps and
countenance with eyes whose jealous and vindictive meaning it
required no CEdipus to read, the grave and half-averted brow of
Pausanias, and the angry excitement that had prevailed amidst the
host at the news of the escape of the Persians — all sufficed to apprise
him of the nature of the council to which he had been summoned.

Supporting himself on his staff, and dragging his limbs tardily
along, he had leisure to examine, though with apparent indifference,
the whole group j and when, with a calm salutation, he arrested his
steps at the foot of the table immediately facing Pausanias, he darted
one glance at the Spartan so fearless, so bright, so cheering, that
Pausanias breathed hard, as if a load were thrown from his breast,
and turning easily towards Cimon, said —

" Behold your witness. Which of us shall be questioner, and
which judge?"

" That matters but little," returned Cimon. "Before this audience
justice must force its way."

"It rests with you, Pausanias," said Xanthippus, "to acquaint
the governor of Byzantium with the suspicions he has excited."

"Qongylus," said Pausanias, "the captive Barbarians, Ariamanes
and Datis, were placed by me especially under thy vigilance and
guard. Thou knowest that, while (for humanity becomes the victor)
I ordered thee to vex them by no undue restraints, I nevertheless com-
manded thee to consider thy life itself answerable for their durance.
They have escaped. The captains of Greece demand of thee, as I
demanded — by what means — by what connivance ? Speak the truth,
and deem that in falsehood as well as in treachery, detection is easy,
and death certain."

The tone of Pausanias, and his severe look, pleased and reassured
all the Greeks, except the wiser Cimon, who, though his suspicions
were a little shaken, continued to fix his eyes rather on Pausanias
than on the Eretriau.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 349

" Pauganias," replied Gongylus, drawing up his lean frame, as
with the dignity of conscious innocence, "that suspicion could fall
upon me, I find it difficult to suppose. Raised by thy favour to the
command of Byzantium, what have I to gain by treason or neglect ?
These Persians — I knew them well. I had known them in Susa —
known them when I served Darius, being then an exile from Eretria.
Ye know, my countrymen, that when Darius invaded Greece I left his
court and armies, and sought my native land, to fall or to conquer in
its cause. Well, then, I knew these Barbarians. I sought them
frequently ; partly, it may be, to return to them in their adversity the
courtesies shown me in mine. Ye are Greeks ; ye will not condemn
me for humanity and gratitude. Partly with another motive. I
knew that Ariamanes had the greatest influence over Xerxes. I
knew that the great king would at any cost seek to regain the liberty
of his friend. I urged upon Ariamanes the wisdom of a peace with
the Greeks even on their own terms. I told him that when Xerxes
sent to offer the ransom, conditions of peace would avail more than
sacks of gold. He listened and approved. Did I wrong in this,
Pausanias? No ; for thou, whose deep sagacity has made thee con-
descend even to appear half Persian, because thou art all Greek —
thou thyself didst sanction my efforts on behalf of Greece."

Pausanias looked with a silent triumph round the conclave, and
Xanthippus nodded approval.

"In order to conciliate them, and with too great confidence in
their faith, I relaxed by degrees the rigour of their confinement ;
that was a fault, I own it. Their apartments communicated with a
court in which I suffered them to walk at will. But I placed there
two sentinels in whom I deemed I could repose all trust — not my
own countrymen — not Eretrians — not thy Spartans or Laconians,
Pausanias. No ; I deemed that if ever the jealousy (a laudable
jealousy) of the Greeks should demand an account of rny faith and
vigilance, my witnesses should be the countrymen of those who
have ever the most suspected me. Those sentinels were, the one a
Samian, the other a Platsean. These men have betrayed me and
Greece. Last night, on returning hither from the vessel, I visited
the Persians. They were about to retire to rest, and I quitted them
soon, suspecting nothing. This morning they had fled, and with
them their abettors, the sentinels. I hastened first to send soldiers
in search of them ; and, secondly, to inform Pausanias in his galley.
If I have erred, I submit me to your punishment. Punish my error,
but acquit my honesty."

" And what," said Cimon, abruptly, " led thee far from thy path,
between the Heracleid's galley and the citadel, to the fields near the

35° PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

temple of Aphrodite, between the citadel and the bay ? Thy colour
changes. Mark him, Greeks. Quick ; thine answer. "

The countenance of Gongylus had indeed lost its colour and
hardihood. The loud tone of Cimon — the effect his confusion pro-
duced on the Greeks, some of whom, the lonians less self-possessed
and dignified than the rest, half rose, with fierce gestures and muttered
exclamations — served still more to embarrass and intimidate him.
He cast a hasty look on Pausanias, who averted his eyes. There
was a pause. The Spartan gave himself up for lost ; but how much
more was his fear increased when Gongylus, casting an imploring
gaze upon the Greeks, said hesitatingly —

" Question me no farther. I dare not speak ; " and as he spoke
he pointed to Pausanias.

"It was the dread of thy resentment, Pausanias," said Cimon
coldly, "that withheld his confession. Vouchsafe to re-assure him."

" Eretrian, " said Pausanias, striking his clenched hand on the
table, " I know not what tale trembles on thy lips ; but, be it what
it may, give it voice, I command thee."

" Thou thyself, thou wert the cause that led me towards the
temple of Aphrodite," said Gongylus, in a low voice.

At these words there went forth a general deep-breathed murmur.
With one accord every Greek rose to his feet. The Spartan attend-
ants in the rear of Pausanias drew closer to his person ; but there
was nothing in their faces — yet more dark and vindictive than those
of the other Greeks — that promised protection. Pausanias alone
remained seated and unmoved. His imminent danger gave him
back all his valour, all his pride, all his passionate and profound
disdain. With unbleached cheek, with haughty eyes, he met the
gaze of the assembly ; and then waving his hand as if that gesture
sufficed to restrain and awe them, he said —

" In the name of all Greece, whose chief I yet am, whose pro-
tector I have once been, I command ye to resume your seats, and
listen to the Eretrian. Spartans, fall back. Governor of Byzantium,
pursue your tale."

" Yes, Pausanias," resumed Gongylus, "you alone were the cause
that drew me from my rest. I would fain be silent, but "

"Say on," cried Pausanias fiercely, and measuring the space
between himself and Gongylus, in doubt whether the Eretrian 's head
were within reach of his scimitar ; so at least Gongylus interpreted
that freezing look of despair and vengeance, and he drew back some
paces. "I place myself, O Greeks, under your protection ; it is
dangerous to reveal the errors of the great. Know that, as Governor
of Byzantium, many things ye wot not of reach my ears. Hence,

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN 351

I guard against dangers while ye sleep. Learn, then, that Pausanias
is not without the weakness of his ancestor, Alcides ; he loves a
maiden — a Byzantine — Cleonice, the daughter of Diagoras."

This unexpected announcement, made in so grave a tone, provoked
a smile amongst the gay lonians ; but an exclamation of jealous
anger broke from Antagoras, and a blush partly of wounded pride,
partly of warlike shame, crimsoned the swarthy cheek of Pausanias.
Cimon, who was by no means free from the joyous infirmities of
youth, relaxed his severe brow, and said, after a short pause —

" Is it, then, among the grave duties of the Governor of Byzantium
to watch over the fair Cleonice, or to aid the suit of her illustrious
lover?"

" Not so," answered Gongylus ; " but the life of the Grecian
general is dear, at least, to the grateful Governor of Byzantium.
Greeks, ye know that amongst you Pausanias has many foes.
Returning last night from his presence, and passing through the
thicket, I overheard voices at hand. I caught the name of Pau-
sanias. 'The Spartan,' said one voice, 'nightly visits the house of
Diagoras. He goes usually alone. From the height near the
temple we can watch well, for the night is clear ; if he goes
alone, we can intercept his way on his return.' 'To the height ! '
cried the other. I thought to distinguish the voices, but the trees
hid the speakers. I followed the footsteps towards the temple, for
it behoved me to learn who thus menaced the chief of Greece.
But ye know that the wood reaches even to the sacred building, and
the steps gained the temple before I could recognize the men. I
concealed myself, as I thought, to watch ; but it seems that I was
perceived, for he who saw me, and now accuses, was doubtless one
of the assassins. Happy I, if the sight of a witness scared him
from the crime. Either fearing detection, or aware that their intent
that night was frustrated — for Pausanias, visiting Cleonice earlier
than his wont, had already resought his galley — the men retreated
as they came, unseen, not unheard. I caught their receding steps
through the brushwood. Greeks, I have said. Who is my accuser?
in him behold the would-be murderer of Pausanias ! "

" Liar," cried an indignant and loud voice amongst the captains,
and Antagoras stood forth from the circle.

" It is I who saw thee. Barest thou accuse Antagoras of Chios?"

' ' What at that hour brought Antagoras of Chios to the temple of
Aphrodite ? " retorted Gongylus.

The eyes of the Greeks turned toward the young captain, and
there was confusion on his face. But recovering himself quickly,
the Chian answered, "Why should I blush to own it? Aphrodite

35 2 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

is no dishonourable deity to the men of the Ionian Isles. I sought
the temple at that hour, as is our wont, to make my offering, and
record my prayer."

" Certainly," said Cimon. "We must own that Aphrodite is
powerful at Byzantium. Who can acquit Pausanias and blame
Antagoras?"

" Pardon me — one question," said Gongylus. " Is not the female
heart which Antagoras would beseech the goddess to soften towards
him that of the Cleonice of whom we spoke? See, he denies it
not. Greeks, the Chians are warm lovers, and warm lovers are
revengeful rivals."

This artful speech had its instantaneous effect amongst the younger
and more unthinking loiterers. Those who at once would have
disbelieved the imputed guilt of Antagoras upon motives merely
political, inclined to a suggestion that ascribed it to the jealousy of a
lover. And his character, ardent and fiery, rendered the suspicion
yet more plausible. Meanwhile the minds of the audience had been
craftily drawn from the grave and main object of the meeting — the
flight of the Persians — and a lighter and livelier curiosity hrd sup-
planted the eager and dark resentment which had hitherto animated
the circle. Pausanias, with the subtle genius that belonged to him,
hastened to seize advantage of this momentary diversion in his
favour, and before the Chian could .recover his consternation, both
at the charge and the evident effect it had produced upon a part of
the assembly, the Spartan stretched his hand, and spake.

"Greeks, Pausanias listens to no tale of danger to himself. Will-
ingly he believes that Gongylus either misinterpreted the intent of
some jealous and heated threats, or that the words he overheard
were not uttered by Antagoras. Possible is it, too, that others
may have sought the temple with less gentle desires than our Chian
ally. Let this pass. Unworthy such matters of the councils of
bearded men ; too much reference has been made to those follies
which our idleness has given birth to. Let no fair Briseis renew
strife amongst chiefs and soldiers. Excuse not thyself, Antagoras ;
we dismiss all charge against thee. On the other hand, Gongylus
will doubtless seem to you to have accounted for his appearance
near the precincts of the temple. And it is but a coincidence,
natural enough, that the Persian prisoners should have chosen, later
in the night, the same spot for the steeds to await them. The
thickness of the wood round the temple, and the direction of the
place towards the east, points out the neighbourhood as the very
one in which the fugitives would appoint the horses. Waste no
further time, but provide at once for the pursuit. To you, Cimon,

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 353

be this care confided. Already have I despatched fifty light-armed
men on fleet Thessalian steeds. You, Cimon, increase the number of
the pursuers. The prisoners may be yet recaptured. Doth aught
else remain worthy of our ears? If so, speak; if not, depart."

" Pausanias," said Antagoras, firmly, "let Gongylus retract, or
not, his charge against me, I retain mine against Gongylus. Wholly
false is it that in word or deed I plotted violence against thee,
though of much — not as Cleonice's lover, but as Grecian captain —
I have good reason to complain. Wholly false is it that I had a
comrade. I was alone. And coming out from the temple, where
I had hung my chaplet, I perceived Gongylus clearly under the
starlit skies. He stood in listening attitude close by the sacred
myrtle grove. I hastened towards him, but methinks he saw me
not ; he turned slowly, penetrated the wood, and vanished. I
gained the spot on the soft sward which the dropping boughs make
ever humid. I saw the print of hoofs. Within the thicket I found
the pearls that Cimon has displayed to you. Clear, then, is it that
this man lies — clear that the Persians must have fled already — al-
though Gongylus declares that on his return to the citadel he visited
them in their prison. Explain this, Eretrian ! "

" He who would speak false witness," answered Gongylus, with
a firmness equal to the Chian's, " can find pearls at whatsoever
hour he pleases. Greeks, this man presses me to renew the charge
which Pausanias generously sought to stifle. I have said. And I,
Governor of Byzantium, call on the Council of the Grecian Leaders
to maintain my authority, and protect their own Chief."

Then arose a vexed and perturbed murmur, most of the lonians
siding with Antagoras, such of the allies as yet clung to the Dorian
ascendancy grouping round Gongylus.

The persistence of Antagoras had made the dilemma of no slight
embarrassment to Pausanias. Something lofty in his original nature
urged him to shrink from supporting Gongylus in an accusation
which he believed untrue. On the other hand, he could not
abandon his accomplice in an effort, as dangerous as it was crafty,
to conceal their common guilt.

"Son of Miltiades," he said after a brief pause, in which his
dexterous resolution was formed, "I invoke your aid to appease a
contest in which I foresee no result but that of schism amongst
ourselves. Antagoras has no witness to support his tale, Gongylus
none to support his own. Who shall decide between conflicting
testimonies which rest but on the lips of accuser and accused ?
Hereafter, if the matter be deemed sufficiently grave, let us refer
the decision to the oracle that never errs. Time and chance mean-

354 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

while may favour us in clearing up the darkness we cannot now
penetrate. For you, Governor of Byzantium, it behoves me to say
that the escape of prisoners entrusted to your charge justifies vigil-
ance if not suspicion. We shall consult at our leisure whether or
not that course suffices to remove you from the government of
Byzantium. Heralds, advance ; our council is dissolved."

With these words Pausanias rose, and the majesty of his bearing,
with the unwonted temper and conciliation of his language, so came
in aid of his high office, that no man ventured a dissentient murmur.

The conclave broke up, and not till its members had gained the
outer air did any signs of suspicion or dissatisfaction evince them-
selves ; but then, gathering in groups, the lonians with especial
jealousy discussed what had passed, and with their native shrewd-
ness ascribed the moderation of Pausanias to his desire to screen
Gongylusand avoid further inquisition into the flight of the prisoners.
The discontented looked round for Cimon, but the young Athenian
had hastily retired from the throng, and, after issuing orders to
pursue the fugitives, sought Aristides in the house near the quay in
which he lodged.

Cimon related to his friend what had passed at the meeting, and
terminating his recital, said :

" Thou shouldst have been with us. With thee we might have
ventured more."

"And if so," returned the wise Athenian with a smile, "ye
would have prospered less. Precisely because I would not commit
our country to the suspicion of fomenting intrigues and mutiny to
her own advantage, did I abstain from the assembly, well aware
that Pausanias would bring his minion harmless from the unsupported
accusation of Antagoras. Thou hast acted with cool judgment,
Cimon. The Spartan is weaving the webs of the Parcae for his own
feet. Leave him to weave on, undisturbed. The hour in which
Athens shall assume the sovereignty of the seas is drawing near.
Let it come, like Jove's thunder, in a calm sky."

CHAPTER III.

'AUSANIAS did not that night quit the city. After the
meeting, he held a private conference with the Spartan
Equals, whom custom and the government assigned, in
appearance as his attendants, in reality as witnesses if not
spies of his conduct. Though every pure Spartan, as compared with
the subject Laconian population, was noble, therepublicacknowledged

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 355

two main distinctions in class, the higher, entitled Equals, a word
which we might not inaptly and more intelligibly render Peers ; the
lower, Inferiors. These distinctions, though hereditary, were not
immutable. The peer could be degraded, the inferior could become
a peer. To the royal person in war three peers were allotted. Those
assigned to Pausanias, of the tribe called the Hylleans, were naturally
of a rank and influence that constrained him to treat them with a
certain deference, which perpetually chafed his pride and confirmed
his discontent ; for these three men were precisely of the mould which
at heart he most despised. Polydorus, the first in rank — for, like
Pausanias, he boasted his descent from Hercules — was the personi-
fication of the rudeness and bigotry of a Spartan who had never
before stirred from his rocky home, and who disdained all that he
could not comprehend. Gelon, the second, passed for a very wise
man, for he seldom spoke but in monosyllables ; yet, probably, his
words were as numerous as his ideas. Cleomenes, the third, was
as distasteful to the Regent from his merits as the others from their
deficiencies. He had risen from the grade of the Inferiors by his
valour ; blunt, homely, frank, sincere, he never disguised his dis-
pleasure at the manner of Pausanias, though, a true Spartan in
discipline, he never transgressed the respect which his chief com-
manded in time of war.

Pausanias knew that these officers were in correspondence with
Sparta, and he now exerted all his powers to remove from their minds
any suspicion which the disappearance of the prisoners might have
left in them.

In this interview he displayed all those great natural powers
which, rightly trained and guided, might have made him not less
great in council than in war. With masterly precision he enlarged
on the growing ambition of Athens, on the disposition in her favour
evinced by all the Ionian confederates. " Hitherto," he said truly,
" Sparta has uniformly held rank as the first state of Greece ; the
leadership of the Greeks belongs to us by birth and renown. But
see you not that the war is now shifting from land to sea ? Sea is
not our element ; it is that of Athens, of all the Ionian race. If
this continue we lose our ascendancy, and Athens becomes the
sovereign of Hellas. Beneath the calm of Aristides I detect his
deep design. In vain Cimon affects the manner of the Spartan ; at
heart he is Athenian. This charge against Gongylus is aimed at
me. Grant that the plot which it conceals succeed; grant that Sparta
share the affected suspicions of the lonians, and recall me from
Byzantium ; deem you that there lives one Spartan who could delay
for a day the supremacy of Athens ? Nought save the respect the

356 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

Dorian Greeks at least attach to the General at Platrea could restrain
the secret ambition of the city of the demagogues. Deem not that
I have been as rash and vain as some hold me for the stern visage I
have shown to the lonians. Trust me that it was necessary to awe
them, with a view to maintain our majesty. For Sparta to preserve
her ascendancy, two things are needful : first, to continue the war
by land ; secondly, to disgust the lonians with their sojourn here,
send them with their ships to their own havens, and so leave Hellas
under the sole guardianship of ourselves and our Peloponnesian
allies. Therefore I say, bear with me in this double design ; chide
me not if my haughty manner disperse these subtle lonians. If I
bore with them to-day it was less from respect than, shall I say it,
my fear lest you should misinterpret me. Beware how you detail
to Sparta whatever might rouse the jealousy of her government.
Trust to me, and I will extend the dominion of Sparta till it grasp
the whole of Greece. We will depose everywhere the revolutionary
Demos, and establish our own oligarchies in every Grecian state.
We will Laconize all Hellas."

Much of what Pausanias said was wise and profound. Such
statesmanship, narrow and congenial, but vigorous and crafty, Sparta
taught in later years to her alert politicians. And we have already
seen that, despite the dazzling prospects of Oriental dominion, he
as yet had separated himself rather from the laws than the interests
of Sparta, and still incorporated his own ambition with the extension
of the sovereignty of his country over the rest of Greece.

But the peers heard him in dull and gloomy silence ; and, not till
he had paused and thrice asked for a reply, did Polydorus speak.

"You would increase the dominion of Sparta, Pausanias. Increase
of dominion is waste of life and treasure. We have few men, little
gold ; Sparta is content to hold her own."

• "Good," said Gclon, with impassive countenance. "What care we
who leads the Greeks into blows? the fewer blows the better. Brave
men fight if they must, wise men never fight if they can help it."

"And such is your counsel, Cleomenes?" asked Pausanias, with
a quivering lip.

"Not from the same reasons," answered the nobler and more
generous Spartan. "I presume not to question your motives, Pau-
sanias. I leave you to explain them to the Ephors and the Gerusia.
But since you press me, this I say. First, all the Greeks, Ionian r,s
well as Dorian, fought equally against the Mecle, and from the com- .
mander of the Greeks all should receive fellowship and courtesy.
Secondly, I say if Athens is better fitted than Sparta for the maritime
ascendancy, let Athens rule, so that Hellas be saved from the Meilc.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 357

Thirdly, O Pausanias, I pray that Sparta may rest satisfied with her
own institutions, and not disturb the peace of Greece by forcing them
upon other States and thereby enslaving Hellas. What more could
the Persian do ? Finally, my advice is to suspend Gongylus from
his office ; to conciliate the lonians ; to remain as a Grecian arma-
ment firm and united, and so procure, on better terms, peace with
Persia. And then let each State retire within itself, and none aspire
to rule the other. A thousand free cities are better guard against
the Barbarian than a single State made up of republics overthrown
and resting its strength upon hearts enslaved."

"Do you too," said Pausanias, gnawing his nether lip, "Do you
too, Polydorus ; you too, Gelon, agree with Cleomenes, that, if
Athens is better fitted than Sparta for the sovereignty of the seas,
we should yield to that restless rival so perilous a power?"

" Ships cost gold," said Polydorus. " Spartans have none to spare.
Mariners require skilful captains ; Spartans know nothing of the sea."

"Moreover," quoth Gelon, "the ocean is a terrible element.
What can valour do against a storm ? We may lose more men by
adverse weather than a century can repair. Let who will have the
seas. Sparta has her rocks and defiles."

"Men'and peers," said Pausanias, ill repressing his scorn, "ye
little dream what arms ye place in the hands of the Athenians. I
have done. Take only this prophecy. You are now the head of
Greece. You surrender your sceptre to Athens, and become a
second-rate power."

"Never second rate when Greece shall demand armed men," said
Cleomenes proudly.

"Armed men, armed men ! " cried the more profound Pausanias.
"Do you suppose that commerce — that trade — that maritime energy
— that fleets which ransack the shores of the world, will not obtain
a power greater than mere brute-like valour? But as ye will, as
ye will."

" As we speak our forefathers thought," said Gelon.

"And, Pausanias," said Cleomenes gravely, "as we speak, so
think the Ephors."

Pausanias fixed his dark eye on Cleomenes, and, after a brief
pause, saluted the Equals and withdrew. " Sparta," he muttered
as he regained his chamber, ' ' Sparta, thou refusest to be great ; but
greatness is necessary to thy son. Ah, their iron laws would
constrain my soul ! but it shall wear them as a warrior wears his
armour and adapts it to his body. Thou shall be queen of all
Hellas despite thyself, thine Ephors, and thy laws. Then only will
I forgive thee."

558 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

CHAPTER IV.

JIAGORAS was sitting outside his door and giving various
instructions to the slaves employed on his farm, when,
tl) rough an arcade thickly covered with the vine, the light
form of Antagoras came slowly in sight.

" Hail to thee, Diagoras," said the Chian, " thou art the only wise
man I meet with. Thou art tranquil while all else are disturbed ;
and, worshipping the great Mother, thou carest nought, methinks,
for the Persian who invades, or the Spartan who professes to
defend."

" Tut," said Diagoras, in a whisper, " thou knowest the contrary :
thou knowest that if the Persian comes I am ruined ; and, by the
gods, I am on a bed of thorns as long as the Spartan stays."

" Dismiss thy slaves," exclaimed Antagoras, in the same under-
tone; "I would speak with thee on grave matters that concern
us both."

After hastily finishing his instructions and dismissing his slaves,
Diagoras turned to the impatient Chian, and said :

" Now, young warrior, I am all ears for thy speech."

"Truly," said Antagoras, "if thou wcrt aware of what I am
about to utter, thou wouldst not have postponed consideration for
thy daughter, to thy care for a few jars of beggarly olives."

"Hem!" said Diagoras, peevishly. "Olives are not to be
despised ; oil to the limbs makes them supple ; to the stomach it
gives gladness. Oil, moreover, bringeth money when sold. But a
daughter is the plague of a man's life. First, one has to keep away
lovers ; and next to find a husband ; and when all is done, one has
to put one's hand in one's chest, and pay a tall fellow like thee
for robbing one of one's own child. That custom of dowries is
abominable. In the good old times a bridegroom, as was meet and
proper, paid for his bride ; now we poor fathers pay him for taking
her. Well, well, never bite thy forefinger, and curl up thy brows.
What thou hast to say, say."

" Diagoras, I know that thy heart is better than thy speech, and
that, much as thou covetest money, thou lovest thy child more.
Know, then, that Pausanias — a curse light on him ! — brings shame
upon Cleonice. Know that already her name hath grown the talk
of the camp. Know that his visit to her the night before last was
proclaimed in the Council of the Captains as a theme for jest and
rude laughter. By the head of Zeus, how thinkest thou to profit by
the stealthy wooings of this black-browed Spartan ? Knowest thou

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 359

not that his laws forbid him to marry Cleonice ? Wouldst thou have
him dishonour her ? Speak out to him as thou speakest to men, and
tell him that the maidens of Byzantium are not in the control of the
General of the Greeks."

"Youth, youth," cried Diagoras, greatly agitated, "wouldst thou
bring my gray hairs to a bloody grave ? wouldst thou see my daughter
reft from me by force — and "

"Howdarest thou speak thus, old man?" interrupted the indignant
Chian. "If Pausanias wronged a virgin, all Hellas would rise
against him."

"Yes, but not till the ill were done, till my throat were cut, and
my child dishonoured. Listen. At first indeed, when, as ill-luck
would have it, Pausanias, lodging a few days under my roof, saw
and admired Cleonice, I did venture to remonstrate, and how think
you he took it? 'Never,' quoth he, with his stern quivering lip,
' never did conquest forego its best right to the smiles of beauty. The
legends of Hercules, my ancestor, tell thee that to him who labours
for men, the gods grant the love of women. Fear not that I should
wrong thy daughter — to woo her is not to wrong. But close thy
door on me ; immure Cleonice from my sight ; and nor armed slaves,
nor bolts, nor bars shall keep love from the loved one.' Therewith
he turned on his heel and left me. But the next day came a Lydian
in his train, with a goodly pannier of rich stuffs and a short Spartan
sword. On the pannier was written ''Friendship,' on the sword
' Wrath,'1 and Alcman gave me a scrap of parchment, whereon, with
the cursed brief wit of a Spartan, was inscribed ' Choose!' Who
could doubt which to take? who, by the Gods, would prefer three
inches of Spartan iron in his stomach to a basketful of rich stuffs for
his shoulders ? Wherefore, from that hour, Pausanias comes as he
lists. But Cleonice humours him not, let tongues wag as they may.
Easier to take three cities than that child's heart."

"Is it so indeed?" exclaimed the Chian, joyfully; "Cleonice
loves him not?"

" Laughs at him to his beard : that is, would laugh if he wore one."

"O Diagoras!" cried Antagoras, "hear me, hear me. I need
not remind thee that our families are united by the hospitable ties ;
that amongst thy treasures thou wilt find the gifts of my ancestors
for five generations ; that when, a year since, my affairs brought me
to Byzantium, I came to thee with the symbols of my right to claim
thy hospitable cares. On leaving thee we broke the sacred die. I
have one half, thou the other. In that visit I saw and loved Cleonice.
Fain would I have told my love, but then my father lived, and I
feared lest he should oppose my suit ; therefore, as became me, I was

360 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

silent. On my return home, my fears were confirmed ; my father
desired that 1, a Chian, should wed a Chian. Since I have been
with the fleet, news has reached me that the urn holds my father's
ashes." Here the young Chian paused. "Alas, alas!" he mur-
mured, smiting his breast, "and I was not at hand to fix over thy
doors the sacred branch, to give thee the parting kiss, and receive
into my lips thy latest breath. May Hermes, O father, have led
thee to pleasant groves ! "

Diagoras, who had listened attentively to the young Chian, was
touched by his grief, and said pityingly :

' ' I know thou art a good son, and thy father was a worthy man,
though harsh. It is a comfort to think that all does not die with the
dead. His money at least survives him."

"But," resumed Antagoras, not heeding this consolation, — "but
now I am free : and ere this, so soon as my mourning garment had
been lain aside, I had asked thee to bless me with Cleonice, but
that I feared her love was gone — gone to the haughty Spartan.
Thou reassurest me ; and in so doing, thou confirmest the fair omens
with which Aphrodite has received my offerings. Therefore, I speak
out. No dowry ask I with Cleonice, save such, more in name than
amount, as may distinguish the wife from the concubine, and assure
her an honoured place amongst my kinsmen. Thou knowest I am
rich ; thou knowest that my birth dates from the oldest citizens of
Chios. Give me thy child, and deliver her thyself at once from the
Spartan's power. Once mine, all the fleets of Hellas are her pro-
tection, and our marriage torches are the swords of a Grecian army.
O Diagoras, I clasp thy knees ; put thy right hand in mine. Give
me thy child as wife ! "

The Byzantine was strongly affected. The suitor was one who, in
birth and possessions, was all that he could desire for his daughter ;
and. at Byzantium there did not exist that feeling against inter-
marriages with the foreigner which prevailed in towns more purely
Greek, though in many of them, too, that antique prejudice had
worn away. On the other hand, by transferring to Antagoras his
anxious charge, he felt that he should take the best course to
preserve it untarnished from the fierce love of Pausanias, and there
was truth in the Chian's suggestion. The daughter of a Byzantine
might be unprotected ; the wife of an Ionian captain was safe, even
from the power of Pausanias. As these reflections occurred to him,
he placed his right hand in the Chian's, and said :

"Be it as thou wilt; I consent to betroth thee to Cleonice.
Follow me ; thou art free to woo her."

So saying, he rose, and, as if in fear of his own second thoughts,

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 361

he traversed the hall with hasty strides to the interior of the mansion.
He ascended a flight of steps, and, drawing aside a curtain sus-
pended between two columns, Antagoras, who followed timidly
behind, beheld Cleonice.

As was the wont in the domestic life of all Grecian states, her
handmaids were around the noble virgin. Two were engaged on
embroidery, one in spinning, a fourth was reading aloud to Cleonice,
and that at least was a rare diversion to women, for few had the
education of the fair Byzantine. Cleonice herself was half reclined
upon a bench inlaid with ivory and covered with cushions ; before
her stood a small tripod table on which she leant tne arm, the hand
of which supported her cheek, and she seemed listening to the
lecture of the slave with earnest and absorbed attention, so earnest,
so absorbed, that she did not for some moments perceive the
entrance of Diagoras and the Chian.

"Child," said the former — and Cleonice started to her feet, and
stood modestly before her father, her eyes downcast, her arms
crossed upon her bosom — "child, I bid thee welcome my guest-
friend, Antagoras of Chios. Slaves, ye may withdraw."

Cleonice bowed her head; and an 'unquiet, anxious change came
over her countenance.

As soon as the slaves were gone, Diagoras resumed —

" Daughter, I present to thee a suitor for thy hand ; receive him
as I have done, and he shall have my leave to carve thy name on
every tree in the garden, with the lover's epithet of ' Beautiful,'
attached to it. Antagoras, look up, then, and speak for thyself."

But Antagoras was silent ; and a fear unknown to his frank hardy
nature came over him. With an arch smile, Diagoras, deeming
his presence no longer necessary or expedient, lifted the curtain, and
lover and maid were left alone.

Then, with an effort, and still with hesitating accents, the Chian
spoke —

"Fair virgin, — not in the groves of Byzantium will thy name be
first written by the hand of Antagoras. In my native Chios the
myrtle trees are already eloquent of thee. Since I first saw thee, I
loved. Maiden, wilt thou be my wife?"

Thrice moved the lips of Cleonice, and thrice her voice seemed
to fail her. At length she said, — "Chian, thou art a stranger, and
the laws of the Grecian cities dishonour the stranger whom the free
citizen stoops to marry."

"Nay," cried Antagoras, "such cruel laws are obsolete in Chios.
Nature and custom, aiid love's almighty goddess, long since have
set them aside. Fear not, the haughtiest matron of my native

N 2

362 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

state will not be more honoured than the Byzantine bride of
Antagoras."

"Is it in Sparta only that such laws exist?" said Cleonice, half
unconsciously, and to the sigh with which she spoke a deep blush
succeeded.

"Sparta! " exclaimed Antagoras, with a fierce and jealous pang
— "Ah, are thy thoughts then upon the son of Sparta? Were
Pausanias a Chian, wouldst thou turn from him scornfully as thou
now dost from me ? "

"Not scornfully, Antagoras," answered Cleonice (who had indeed
averted her face, at his reproachful question ; but now turned it full
upon him, with an expression of sad and pathetic sweetness), "not
scornfully do I turn from thee, though with pain ; for what worthier
homage canst thou render to woman, than honourable love ? Grate-
fully do I hearken to the suit that comes from thee ; but gratitude
is not the return that thou wouldst ask, Antagoras. My hand is
my father's ; my heart, alas, is mine. Thou mayst claim from him
the one ; the other, neither he can give, nor thou receive."

"Say not so, Cleonice," cried the Chian; "say not, that thou
canst not love me, if so I am to interpret thy words. Love brings
love with the young. Plow canst thou yet know thine own heart ?
Tarry till thou hast listened to mine. As the fire on the altar
spreads from offering to offering, so spreads love ; its flame envelops
all that are near to it. Thy heart will catch the heavenly spark
from mine."

"Chian," said Cleonice, gently withdrawing the hand that he
sought to clasp, "when as my father's guest-friend thou wert a
sojourner within these walls, oft have I heard thee speak, and all
thy words spoke the thoughts of a noble soul. Were it otherwise,
not thus would I now address thee. Didst thou love gold, and
wooed in me but the child of the rich Diagoras, or wert thou one of
those'who would treat for a wife, as a trader for a slave, invoking
Here, but disdaining Aphrodite, I should bow my head to my doom.
But thou, Antagoras, askest love for love ; this I cannot give thee.
Spare me, O generous Chian. Let not my father enforce his right
to my obedience."

"Answer me but one question," interrupted Antagoras in a low
voice, though with compressed lips: "Dost thou then love another?"
The blood mounted to the virgin's cheeks, it suffused her brow,
her neck, with burning blushes, and then receding, left her face
colourless as a statue. Then with tones low and constrained as his
own, she pressed her hand on her heart, and replied, "Thou sayest
it ; I love another."

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 363

' ' And that other is Pausanias ? Alas, thy silence, thy trembling,
answer me. "

Antagoras groaned aloud and covered his face with his hands ;
but after a short pause, he exclaimed with great emotion,
"No, no — say not that thou lovest Pausanias; say not that
Aphrodite hath so accursed thee : for to love Pausanias is to love
dishonour."

" Hold, Chian ! Not so : for my love has no hope. Our hearts
are not our own, but our actions are."

Antagoras gazed on her with suspense and awe ; for as she spoke
her slight form dilated, her lip curled, her cheek glowed again, but
with the blush less of love than of pride. In her countenance, her
attitude, there was something divine and holy, such as would have
beseemed a priestess of Diana.

"Yes," she resumed, raising her eyes, and with a still and mourn-
ful sweetness in her upraised features. " What I love is not
Pausanias, it is the glory of which he is the symbol, it is the Greece
of which he has been the Saviour. Let him depart, as soon he
must — let these eyes behold him no more ; still there exists for me
all that exists now — a name, a renown, a dream. Never for me
may the nuptial hymn resound, or the marriage torch be illumined.
O goddess of the silver bow, O chaste and venerable Artemis !
receive, protect thy servant ; and ye, O funereal gods, lead me soon,
lead the virgin unreluctant to the shades."

A superstitious fear, a dread as if his earthly love would violate
something sacred, chilled the ardour of the young Chian ; and for
several moments both were silent.

At length, Antagoras, kissing the hem of her robe, said, —

"Maiden of Byzantium, — like thee then, I will love, though
without hope. I will not, I dare not, profane thy presence by
prayers which pain thee, and seem to me, having heard thee, almost
guilty, as if proffered to some nymph circling in choral dance the
moonlit mountain-tops of Delos. But ere 1 depart, and tell thy
father that my suit is over, O place at least thy right hand in mine,
and swear to me, not the bride's vow of faith and troth, but that
vow which a virgin sister may pledge to a brother, mindful to protect
and to avenge her. Swear to me, that if this haughty Spartan, con-
temning alike men, laws, and the household gods, should seek to
constrain thy purity to his will ; if thou shouldst have cause to
tremble at power and force ; and fierce desire should demand what
gentle love would but reverently implore, — then, Cleonice, seeing
how little thy father can defend thee, wilt thou remember Antagoras,
and through him, summon around thee all the majesty of Hellas?

364 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

Grant me but this prayer, and I leave thee, if in sorrow, yet not
with terror."

" Generous and noble Chian," returned Cleonice as her tears fell
upon the hand he extended to her, — "why, why do I so ill repay
thee ? Thy love is indeed that which ennobles the heart that yields
it, and her who shall one day recompense thee for the loss of me.
Fear not the power of Pausanias : dream not that I shall need a
defender, while above us reign the gods, and below us lies the grave.
Yet, to appease thee, take my right hand, and hear my oath. If
the hour comes when I have need of man's honour against man's
wrong, I will call on Antagoras as a brother."

Their hands closed in each other ; and not trusting himself to
speech, Antagoras turned away his face, and left the room.

CHAPTER V.

| OR some clays, an appearance at least of harmony was
restored to the contending factions in the Byzantine camp.
Pausanias did not dismiss Gongylus from the govern-
ment of the city ; but he sent one by one for the more
important of the Ionian complainants, listened to their grievances,
and promised redress. He adopted a more popular and gracious
demeanour, and seemed, with a noble grace, to submit to the policy
of conciliating the allies.

But discontent arose from causes beyond his power, had he
genuinely exerted it, to remove. For it was a discontent that lay
in the hostility of race to race. Though the Spartan Equals had
preached courtesy to the lonians, the ordinary manner of the Spartan
warriors was invariably offensive to the vain and susceptible con-
federates of a more polished race. A Spartan, wherever he might
be placed, unconsciously assumed superiority. The levity of an
Ionian was ever displeasing to him. Out of the actual battle-field,
they could have no topics in common, none which did not provoke
irritation and dispute. On the other hand, most of the lonians
could ill conceal their disaffection, mingled with something of just
contempt at the notorious and confessed incapacity of the Spartans
for maritime affairs, while a Spartan was yet the commander of the
fleet. And many of them, wearied with inaction, and anxious to
return home, were willing to seize any reasonable pretext for deser-
tion. In this last motive lay the real strength and safety of Pausanias.
And to this end his previous policy of arrogance was not so idle as
it had seemed to the Greeks, and appears still in the page of history.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 365

For a Spartan really anxious to preserve the pre-eminence of his
country, and to prevent the sceptre of the seas passing to Athens,
could have devised no plan of action more sagacious and profound
than one which would disperse the lonians, and the Athenians
themselves, and reduce the operations of the Grecian force to that
land warfare in which the Spartan pre-eminence was equally indis-
putable and undisputed. And still Pausanias, even in his change
of manner, plotted and intrigued and hoped for this end. Could
he once sever from the encampment the Athenians and the Ionian
allies, and yet remain with his own force at Byzantium until the
Persian army could collect on the Phrygian frontier, the way
seemed clear to his ambition. Under ordinary circumstances, in
this object he might easily have succeeded. But it chanced that
all his schemes were met with invincible mistrust by those in
whose interest they were conceived, and on whose co-operation
they depended for success. The means adopted by Pausanias in
pursuit of his policy were too distasteful to the national preju-
dices of the Spartan government, to enable him to elicit from
the national ambition of that government sufficient sympathy
with the object of it. The more he felt himself uncompre-
hended and mistrusted by his countrymen, the more personal
became the character, and the more unscrupulous the course, of his
ambition. Unhappily for Pausanias moreover, the circumstances
which chafed his pride, also thwarted the satisfaction of his affec-
tions ; and his criminal ambition was stimulated by that less guilty
passion which shared with it the mastery of a singularly turbulent
and impetuous soul. Not his the love of sleek, gallant, and wanton
youth ; it was the love of man in his mature years, but of man to
whom love till then had been unknown. In that large and dark
and stormy nature all passions once admitted took the growth of
Titans. He loved as those long lonely at heart alone can love ; he
loved as love the unhappy when the unfamiliar bliss of the sweet
human emotion descends like dew upon the desert. To him Cleonice
was a creature wholly out of the range of experience. Differing in
every shade of her versatile humour from the only women he had
known, the simple, sturdy, uneducated maids and matrons of Sparta,
her softness enthralled him, her anger awed. In his dreams of future
power, of an absolute throne and unlimited dominion, Pausanias
beheld the fair Byzantine crowned by his side. Fiercely as he
loved, and little as the sentiment of love mingled with his passion,
he yet thought not to dishonour a victim, but to elevate a bride.
What though the laws of Sparta were against such nuptials, was not
the hour approaching when these laws should be trampled under his

366 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

armed heel ? Since the contract with the Persians, which Gongylus
assured him Xerxes would joyously and promptly fulfil, Pausanias
already felt, in a soul whose arrogance arose from the consciousness
of powers that had not yet found their field, as if he were not the
subject of Sparta, but her lord and king. In his interviews with
Cleonice, his language took a tone of promise and of hope that at
limes lulled her fears, and communicated its sanguine colourings of
the future to her own dreams. With the elasticity of youth, her
spirits rose from the solemn despondency with which she had replied
to the reproaches of Antagoras. For though Pausanias spoke not
openly of his schemes, though his words were mysterious, and his
replies to her questions ambiguous and equivocal, still it seemed to
her, seeing in him the hero of all Hellas, so natural that he could
make the laws of Sparta yield to the weight of his authority, or
relax in homage to his renown, that she indulged the belief that his
influence would set aside the iron customs of his country. Was it
too extravagant a reward to the conqueror of the Mede to suffer him
to select at least the partner of his hearth? No, Hope was not dead
in that young breast. Still might she be the bride of him whose
glory had dazzled her noble and sensitive nature, till the faults that
darkened it were lost in the blaze. Thus insensibly to herself her
tones became softer to her stern lover, and her heart betrayed itself
more in her gentle looks. Yet again were there times when doubt
and alarm returned with more than their earlier force — times when,
wrapped in his lurid and absorbing ambition, Pausanias escaped from
his usual suppressed reserve — times when she recalled that night in
which she had witnessed his interview with the strangers of the East,
and had trembled lest the altar should be kindled upon the ruins of
his fame. For Cleonice was wholly, ardently, sublimely Greek, •
filled in each crevice of her soul with its lovely poetry, its beautiful
superstition, its heroic freedom. As Greek, she had loved Pausanias,
seeing in him the lofty incarnation of Greece itself. The descendant
of the demigod, the champion of Platsea, the saviour of Hellas —
theme for song till song should be no more — these attributes were
what she beheld and loved ; and not to have reigned by his side
over a world would she have welcomed one object of that evil
ambition which renounced the loyalty of a Greek for the supremacy
of a king.

Meanwhile, though Antagoras had, with no mean degree of gener-
osity, relinquished his suit to Cleonice, he detected with a jealous
vigilance the continued visits of Pausanias, and burned with in-
creasing hatred against his favoured and powerful rival. Though,
in common with all the Greeks out of the Peloponnesus, he was very

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 367

imperfectly acquainted with the Spartan constitution, he could not
be blinded, like Cleonice, into the belief that a law so fundamental
in Sparta, and so general in all the primitive States of Greece, as
that which forbade intermarriage with a foreigner, could be cancelled
for the Regent of Sparta, and in favour of an obscure maiden of
Byzantium. Every visit Pausanias paid to Cleonice but served, in
his eyes, as a prelude to her ultimate dishonour. He lent himself,
therefore, with all the zeal of his vivacious and ardent character, to
the design of removing Pausanias himself from Byzantium. He
plotted with the implacable Uliades and the other Ionian captains
to send to Sparta a formal mission stating their grievances against
the Regent, and urging his recall. But the altered manner of
Pausanias deprived them of their just pretext ; and the lonians,
more and more under the influence of the Athenian chief, were dis-
inclined to so extreme a measure without the consent of Aristides
and Cimon. These two chiefs were not passive spectators of affairs
so critical to their ambition for Athens — they penetrated into the
motives of Pausanias in the novel courtesy of demeanour that he
adopted, and they foresaw that if he could succeed in wearing away
the patience of the allies and dispersing the fleet, yet without giving
occasion for his own recall, the golden opportunity of securing to
Athens the maritime ascendancy would be lost. They resolved,
therefore, to make the occasion which the wiles of the Regent had
delayed ; and towards this object Antagoras, moved by his own
jealous hate against Pausanias, worked incessantly. Fearless and
vigilant, he was ever on the watch for some new charge against the
Spartan chief, ever relentless in stimulating suspicion, aggravating
discontent, inflaming the fierce, and arguing with the timid. His
less exalted station allowed him to mix more familiarly with the
various Ionian officers than would have become the high-born
Cimon, and the dignified repute of Aristides. Seeking to distract
his mind from the haunting thought of Cleonice, he flung himself
with the ardour of his Greek temperament into the social pleasures,
which took a zest from the design that he carried into them all. In
the banquets, in the sports, he was ever seeking to increase the
enemies of his rival, and where he charmed a gay companion, there
he often enlisted a bold conspirator.

Pausanias, the unconscious or the careless object of the Ionian's
jealous hate, could not resist the fatal charm of Cleonice's presence ;
and if it sometimes exasperated the more evil elements of his nature,
at other times it so lulled them to rest, that had the Fates given him the
rightful claim to that single treasure, not one guilty thought might
have disturbed the majesty of a soul which, though undisciplined

368 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

and uncultured, owed half its turbulence and half its rebellious
pride to its baffled yearnings for human affection and natural joy.
And Cleonice, unable to shun the visits which her weak and covet-
ous father, despite his promised favour to the suit of Antagoras, still
encouraged ; and feeling her honour, at least, if not her peace, was
secured by that ascendancy which, with each successive interview
between them, her character more and more asserted over the
Spartan's higher nature, relinquished the tormenting levity of tone
whereby she had once sought to elude his earnestness, or conceal
her own sentiments. An interest in a fate so solemn, an interest
far deeper than mere human love, stole into her, heart and elevated
its instincts. She recognized the immense compassion which was
due to the man so desolate at the head of armaments, so dark in the
midst of glory. Centuries roll, customs change, but, ever since the
time of the earliest mother, woman yearns to be the soother.

CHAPTER VI.

IT was the hour of the day when between the two principal
meals of the Greeks men surrendered themselves to idle-
ness or pleasure ; when groups formed in the market-
place, or crowded the barbers' shops to gossip and talk
of news ; when the tale-teller or ballad-singer collected round him
on the quays his credulous audience ; when on playgrounds that
stretched behind the taverns or without the walls the more active
youths assembled, and the quoit was hurled, or mimic battles waged
with weapons of wood, or the Dorians weaved their simple, the
lonians their more intricate or less decorous dances.. At that hour
Lysander, wandering from the circles of his countrymen, walked
musingly by the sea-shore.

" And why," said the voice of a person who had approached him
unperceived, "and why, O Lysander, art thou absent from thy com-
rades, thou model and theme of the youths of Sparta, foremost in
their manly sports, as in their martial labours? "

Lysander turned and bowed low his graceful head, for he who
accosted him was scarcely more honoured by the Athenians, whom
his birth, his wealth, and his popular demeanour dazzled, than by
the plain sons of Sparta, who, in his simple garb, his blunt and
hasty manner, his professed admiration for all things Spartan, beheld
one Athenian at least congenial to their tastes.

"The child that misses its mother," answered Lysander, "has
small joy with its playmates. And I, a Spartan, pine for Sparta."

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 369

"Truly," returned Cimon, "there must be charms in thy noble
country of which we other Greeks know but little, if amidst all the
luxuries and delights of Byzantium thou canst pine for her rugged
hills. And although, as thou knowest well, I was once a sojourner
in thy city as ambassador from my own, yet to foreigners so little of
the inner Spartan life is revealed, that I pray thee to satisfy my curi-
osity and explain to me the charm that reconciles thee and thine to
institutions which seem to the lonians at war with the pleasures and
the graces of social life." l

"111 can the native of one land explain to the son of another why
he loves it," returned Lysander. "That which the Ionian calls
pleasure is to me but tedious vanity ;. that which he calls grace, is to
me but enervate levity. Me it pleases to find the day,. from sunrise
to night, full of occupations that leave no languor, that employ, but
not excite. For. t,he morning, our gymnasia, our military games,
the chase — diversions that brace the limbs and leave us in peace fit
for war — diversions, which, unl'.ke the brawls of the wordy Agora,
bless us with the calm mind and clear spirit resulting from vigorous
habits, and ensuring jocund health. Noon brings our simple feast,
shared in public, enlivened by jest ; late at eve we collect in our
Leschse, and the winter nights seem short, listening to the old men's
talk of our sires and heroes. To us life is one serene yet active
holiday. No. Spartan condescends to labour, yet no Spartan can
womanize himself by ease. For us, too> differing from you Ionian
Greeks, for us women are companions, not slaves. Man's youth is
passed under the eyes and in the presence of those from whom he
may select, as his heart inclines, the future mother of his children.
Not for us your, feverish and miserable ambitions, the intrigues of
demagogues, the drudgery of the mart, the babble of the populace ;
we alone know the quiet repose of heart. That which I see every-
' where else, the gnawing strife of passion, visits not the stately calm
of the Spartan life. We have the leisure, not of the body alone, but

1 Alexander, King of Macedon, had visited the Athenians with overtures of
peace and alliance from Xerxes and Mardonius. These overtures were confined
to the Athenians alone, and the Spartans were fearful lest they should be accepted.
The Athenians, however ^ generously refused them. Gold, said they, hath no
amount, earth no territory how beautiful soever that could tempt the Athenians
to accept conditions from the Mede for the servitude of Greece. On this the
Persians invaded Attica, and the Athenians, after waiting in vain for promised
aid from Sparta, took refuge at Salamis. Meanwhile, they had sent messengers
or ambassadors to Sparta, to remonstrate on the violation of their agreement in
delaying succour. This chanced at the very time when, by the death of his father
Cleombrotus, Pausanias became Regent. Slowly, and after much hesitation, the
Spartans sent them aid under Pausanias. Two of the ambassadors were Aristides
and Cimon.

370 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

of the soul. Equality with us is the all in all, and we know not that
jealous anguish — the desire to rise one above the other. We busy
ourselves not in making wealth, in ruling mobs, in ostentatious
rivalries of state, and gaud, and power — struggles without an object.
When we struggle it is for an end. Nothing moves us from our
calm, but danger to Sparta, or woe to Hellas. Harmony, peace,
and order — these are the graces of our social life. Pity us, O
Athenian ! "

Cimon had listened with profound attention to a speech unusually
prolix and descriptive for a Spartan ; and he sighed deeply as it
closed. For that young Athenian, destined to so renowned a place
in the history of his country, was, despite his popular manners, no
favourer of the popular passions. Lofty and calm, and essentially
an aristocrat by nature and opinion, this picture of a life unruffled
by the restless changes of democracy, safe and aloof from the shift-
ing humours of the multitude, charmed and allured him. He forgot
for the moment those counter propensities which made him still
Athenian — the taste for magnificence, the love of women, and the
desire of rule. His busy schemes slept within him, and he answered:

"Happy is the Spartan who thinks with you. Yet," he added,
after a pause, " yet own that there are amongst you many to whom
the life you describe has ceased to proffer the charms that enthral
you, and who envy the more diversified and exciting existence
of surrounding States. Lysander's eulogiums shame his chief
Pausanias."

"It is not for me, nor for thee, whose years scarce exceed my
own, to judge of our elders in renown," said Lysander, with a slight
shade over his calm brow. "Pausanias will surely be found still a
Spartan, when Sparta needs him ; and the heart of the Heracleid
beats under the robe of the Mede. "

" Be frank with me, Lysander ; thou knowest that my own coun-
trymen often jealously accuse me of loving Sparta too well. I imitate,
say they, the manners and dress of the Spartan, as Pausanias those
of the Mede. Trust me then, and bear with me, when I say that
Pausanias ruins the cause of Sparta. If he tarry here longer in the
command he will render all the allied enemies to thy country. Al-
ready he has impaired his fame and dimmed his laurels ; already,
despite his pretexts and excuses, we perceive that his whole nature
is corrupted. Recall him to Sparta, while it is yet time — time to
reconcile the Greeks with Sparta, time to save the hero of Plataea
from the contaminations of the East. Preserve his own glory, dearer
to thee as his special friend than to all men, yet dear to me, though
an Athenian, from the memory of the deeds which delivered Hellas."

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 371

Cimon spoke with the blunt and candid eloquence natural to him,
and to which his manly countenance and earnest tone and character
for truth gave singular effect.

Lysander remained long silent. At length he said, " I neither
deny nor assent to thine arguments, son of Miltiades. The Ephors
alone can judge of their wisdom."

" But if we address them, by message, to the Ephors, thou and
the nobler Spartans will not resent our remonstrances ? "

"All that injures Pausanias Lysander will resent. Little know I
of the fables of poets, but Homer is at least as familiar to the Dorian
as to the Ionian, and I think with him that between friends there is
but one love and one anger."

" Then are the frailties of Pausanias dearer to thee than his fame,
or Pausanias himself dearer to thee than Sparta — the erring brother
than the venerable mother."

Lysander's voice died on his lips ; the reproof struck home to
him. He turned away his face, and with a slow wave of his hand
seemed to implore forbearance. Cimon was touched by the action
and the generous embarrassment of the Spartan ; he saw, too, that
he had left in the mind he had addressed thoughts that might
work as he had designed, and he judged by the effect produced on
Lysander what influence the same arguments might effect addressed
to others less under the control of personal friendship. Therefore,
with a few gentle words, he turned aside, continued his way, and
left Lysander alone.

Entering the town, the Athenian threaded his path through some
of the narrow lanes and alleys that wound from the quays towards
the citadel, avoiding the broader and more frequented streets. The
course he took was such as rendered it little probable that he should
encounter any of the higher classes, and especially the Spartans,
who from their constitutional pride shunned the resorts of the
populace. But as he came nearer the citadel stray Helots were
seen at times, emerging from the inns and drinking houses, and these
stopped short and inclined low if they caught sight of him at a
distance, for his hat and staff, his majestic stature, and composed
step, made them take him for a Spartan.

One of these slaves, however, emerging suddenly from a house
close by which Cimon passed, recognized him, and retreating within
abruptly, entered a room in which a man sat alone, and seemingly
in profound thought ; his cheek rested on one hand, with the other
he leaned upon a small lyre, his eyes were bent on the ground, and
he started, as a man does dream-like from a reverie, when the Helot
touched him and said abruptly, and in a tone of surprise and
inquiry, —

372 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

" Cimon, the Athenian, is ascending the hill towards the Spartan
quarter."

" The Spartan quarter ! Cimon ! " exclaimed Alcman, for it was
he. " Give me thy cap and hide."

Hastily enduing himself in these rough garments, and drawing
the cap over his face, the Mothon hurried to the threshold, and,
seeing the Athenian, at the distance, followed his footsteps, though
with the skill of a man used to ambush he kept himself unseen —
now under the projecting roofs of the houses, now skirting the wall,
which, heavy with buttresses,, led towards the outworks of the
citadel. And with such success did he pursue his track that when
Cimon paused at last at the place of his destination, and. gave one
vigilant and searching glance around him, he detected no living form.

He had then reached a small, space of table-land on which, stood a
few trees of great age — all that time and the encroachments of the
citadel and the town had spared of the sacred grove which formerly
surrounded a rude and primitive temple, the gray columns of which
gleamed through the heavy foliage. Passing, with a slow and
cautious step, under the thick shadow of these trees, Cimon now
arrived before the. open door of the temple, placed at the east
so as to, admit the first beams of the rising sun. Through the
threshold, in the middle of the fane, the eye rested on the statue of
Apollo, raised upon a lofty pedestal and surrounded by a rail — a
statue not such as the later genius of the Athenian represented the
god of light, and youth, and beauty ; not wrought from Parian
marble, or smoothest ivory, and in the divinest proportions of the
human form, but rude, formal, and roughly hewn from the wood of
the yew-tree — some early effigy of the god, made by the simple piety
of the first Dorian colonizers of Byzantium. Three forms stood
mute by an altar, equally homely and ancient, and adorned with
horns, placed a little apart, and considerably below the statue.

As the shadow of the Athenian,, who halted at the threshold, fell
long and dark along the floor, the figures turned slowly, and
advanced towards him. With an inclination of his head Cimon
retreated from the temple ; and, looking round, saw abutting from
the rear of the building a small cell or chamber, which doubtless in
former times had served some priestly purpose, but now, doorless,
empty, desolate, showed the utter neglect into, which the ancient
shrine of the Dorian god had fallen amidst the gay and dissolute
Byzantians. To this cell. Cimon directed his steps; the men he
had seen in the temple followed him, and all four, with brief and
formal greeting, seated themselves, Cimon on a fragment of some
broken column, the others, on a bench that stretched along the wall.

" Peers of Sparta," said the Athenian, "ye have doubtless ere

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 373

this revolved sufficiently the grave matter which I opened to you in
a former conference, and in which, to hear your decision, I seek at
your appointment these sacred precincts."

"Son of Miltiades,'"' answered the blunt Polydorus, "you inform
us that it is the intention of the Athenians to despatch a messenger
to Sparta demanding the instant recall of Pausanias. You ask us to
second that request. But without our aid the Athenians are masters
to do as they will. Why should we abet your quarrel against the
Regent?"

"Friend," replied Cimon, "we, the Athenians, confess to no
quarrel with Pausanias ; what we demand is to avoid all quarrel
with him or yourselves. You seem to have overlooked my main
arguments. Permit me to re-urge them briefly. If Pausanias
remains, the allies have resolved openly to revolt ; if you, the
Spartans, assist your chief, as methinks you needs must do, you are
at once at war with the rest of the Greeks. If you desert him you
leave Hellas without a chief, and we will choose one of our own.
Meanwhile, in the midst of our dissensions, the towns and states
well affected to Persia will return to her sway ; and Persia herself
falls upon us as no longer an united enemy but an easy prey. For
the sake, therefore, of Sparta and of Greece, we entreat you to
co-operate with us ; or rather, to let the recall of Pausanias be
effected more by the wise precaution of the Spartans than by the
fierce resolve of the other Greeks. So you save best the dignity of
your State, and so, in reality, you best serve your chief. For
less shameful to him is it to be recalled by you than to be deposed
by us."

" I know not," said Gelon, surlily, " what Sparta hath to do at
all with this foreign expedition ; we are safe in our own defiles."

' ' Pardon me, if I remind you that you were scarcely safe at
Thermopylae, and that had the advice Demaratus proffered to
Xerxes been taken, and that island of Cithera, which commands
Sparta itself, been occupied by Persian troops, as in a future time,
if Sparta desert Greece, it may be, you were undone. And, wisely
or not, Sparta is now in command at Byzantium, and it behoves her
to maintain, with the dignity she assumes, the interests she re-
presents. Grant that Pausanias be recalled, another Spartan can
succeed him. Whom of your countrymen would you prefer to that
high post, if you, O Peers, aid us in the dismissal of Pausanias ? " l
******

1 This chapter was left unfinished by the author ; probably with the intention
of recasting it. Such an intention, at least, is indicated by the marginal marks
upon the MS. — L.

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.

'HE fountain sparkled to the noonday, the sward around it
was sheltered from the sun by vines formed into shadowy
arcades, with interlaced- leaves for roof. Afar through
the vistas thus formed gleamed the blue of a sleeping sea.

Under the hills, or close by the margin of the fountain, Cleonice
was seated upon a grassy knoll, covered with wild flowers. Behind
her, at a little distance, grouped her handmaids, engaged in their
womanly work, and occasionally conversing in whispers. At her
feet reposed the grand form of Pausanias. Alcman stood not far
behind him, his hand resting on his lyre, his gaze fixed upon the
upward jet of the fountain.

" Behold, " said Cleonice, "how the water soars up to the level
of its source ! "

"As my soul would soar to thy love," said the Spartan,
amorously.

"As thy soul should soar to the stars. O son of Hercules, when
I hear thee burst into thy wild nights of ambition, I see not thy way
to the stars."

"Why dost thou ever thus chide the ambition which may give
me thee? "

"No, for thou mightest then be as much below me as thou art
now above. Too humble to mate with the Heracleid, I am too
proud to stoop to the Tributary of the Mede."

"Tributary for a sprinkling of water and a handful of earth.
Well, my pride may revolt, too, from that tribute. But, alas ! what
is the tribute Sparta exacts from me now ? — personal liberty — freedom
of soul itself. The Mede's Tributary may be a king over millions ;
the Spartan Regent is a slave to the few. "

"Cease — cease — cease. I will not hear thee," cried Cleonice,
placing her hands on her ears.

Pausanias gently drew them away ; and holding them both captive
in the large clasp of his own right hand, gazed eagerly into her
pure, unshrinking eyes.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 375

"Tell me," he said, "for in much thou art wiser than I am,
unjust though thou art. Tell me this. Look onward to the future
with a gaze as steadfast as now meets mine, and say if thou canst
discover any path, except that which it pleases thee to condemn,
which may lead thee and me to the marriage altar ! "

Down sank those candid eyes, and the virgin's cheek grew first rosy
red, and then pale, as if every drop of blood had receded to the heart.

" Speak ! " insisted Pausanias, softening his haughty voice to its
meekest tone.

"I cannot see the path to the altar," murmured Cleonice, and
the tears rolled down her cheeks.

" And if thou seest it not," returned Pausanias, "art thou brave
enough to say — Be we lost to each other for life ? I, though man
and Spartan, am not brave enough to say that ! "

He released her hands as he spoke, and clasped his own over his
face. Both were long silent.

Alcman had for some moments watched the lovers with deep
interest, and had caught into his listening ears the purport of their
words. He now raised his lyre, and swept his hands over the
chords. The touch was that of a master, and the musical sounds
produced their effect on all. The handmaids paused from their
work. Cleonice turned her eyes wistfully towards the Mothon.
Pausanias drew his hands from his face, and cried joyously, " I
accept the omen. Foster-brother, I have heard that measure to a
Hymeneal Song. Sing us the words that go with the melody."

" Nay," said Alcman, gently, " the words are not those which are
sung before youth and maiden when they walk over perishing flowers
to bridal altars. They are the words which embody a legend of the
land in which the heroes of old dwell, removed from earth, yet
preserved from Hades."

"Ah," said Cleonice — and a strange expression, calmly mournful,
settled on her features — "then the words may haply utter my own
thoughts. Sing them to us, I pray thee."

The Mothon bowed his head, and thus began : —

THE ISLE OF SPIRITS.

Many wonders on the ocean

By the moonlight may be seen ;
Under moonlight on the Euxine

Rose the blessed silver isle,

As Leostratus of Croton,

At the Pythian God's behest,
Steer'd along the troubled waters

To the tranquil spirit-land.

376 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

In the earthquake of the battle,
When the Locrians reel'd before

Croton's shock of marching^ iron,
Strode a Phantom to their van :

Strode the shade of Locrian Ajax,

Guarding still the native soil,
And Leo train?, confronting,

Wounded fell before the spear.

Leech and herb the wound could heal not ;

Said the Pythian God, " Depart,
Voyage o'er the troubled Euxine

To the tranquil spirit-land.

" There abides the Locrian Ajax,
He who gave the wound shall heal ;

Godlike souls are in their mercy
Stronger yet than in their wrath."

While at ease on lulled waters

Rose the blessed silver isle,
Purp'e vines in lengthening vistas

Knit the hill-top to the beach.

And the beach had sparry caverns,

And a floor of golden sands,
And wherever soared the cypress,

Underneath it bloomed the rose.

Glimmered there amid the vine trees,

Thoro' cavern, over beach,
Lifelike shadows of a beauty

Which the living know no more,

Towering statues of great heroes,

They who fought at Thebes and Troy ;

And with looks that poets dream of
Beam'd the women heroes loved.

Kingly, forth before their comrades,
As the vessel touch'd the shore,

Came the stateliest Two, by Hymen
Ever hallowed into One.

As He strode, the forests trembled
To the awe that crowned his brow :

As She stepp'd, the ocean dimpled
To the ray that left her smile.

" Welcome hither, fearless warrior !"
Said a voice in which there slept

Thunder-sounds to scatter armies,
As a north-wind scatters leaves.

" Welcome hither, wounded sufferer,"

Said a voice of music low
As the coo of doves that nestle

Under summer boughs at noon.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 377

"Who are ye, O shapes of glory ?"

Ask'd the wondering l.ving man :
Quoth the Man-ghost, " This is Helen,

And the Fair is for the Brave.

" Fairest prize to bravest victor ;

Whom doth Greece her bravest deem ? "
Said Leostratus, "Achilles:"

" Bride and bridegroom then are we."

" Low I kneel to thee, Pelides,

But, O marvel, she thy bride,
She whose guilt unpeopled Hellas,

She whose marriage lights fired Troy?"

Frown'd the large front of Achilles,

Overshadowing sea and sky,
Even as when between Olympus

And Oceanus hangs storm.

" Know, thou dullard," said Pelides,

" That on the funereal pyre
Earthly sins are purged from glory,

And the Soul is as the Name."

If to her in life — a Paris,

If to me in life — a slave,
Helen's mate is here Achilles,

Mine — the sister of the stars.

Nought of her survives but beauty,

Nought of me survives but fame ;
Here the Beautiful and Famous

Intermingle evermore."

Then throughout the Blessed Island

Sang aloud the Race of -Light,
"Know, the Beautiful and Famous

Marry here for evermore ! "

~" Thy song bears a meaning deeper than its words," said Patt-
sanias ; "but if that meaning be consolation, I comprehend it not."

"I do," said Cleonice. "Singer, I pray thee draw near. Let
us talk of what my lost mother said was the favourite theme of the
grander sages of Miletus. Let us talk of what lies afar and undis-
covered amid waters more troubled than the Euxine. Let us speak
of the Land<of Souls."

"""Who ever returned :from that land to tell us of it?" said Pau-
sanias. "Voyagers that never voyaged thither save in song. " -

"Son of Cleombrotus," said Alcman, "hast thou not heard that
in one of the cities founded by thine ancestor, Hercules, and named
after his own name, there yet dwells a Priesthood that can summon
to living eyes the Phantoms of the Dead?"

378 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

" No," answered Pausanias, with the credulous wonder common
to eager natures which Philosophy has not withdrawn from the
realm of superstition.

"But," asked Cleonice, "does it need the Necromancer to con-
vince us that the soul does not perish when the breath leaves the
lips? If I judge the burthen of thy song aright, thou art not, O
singer, uninitiated in the divine and consoling doctrines which,
emanating, it is said, from the schools of Miletus, establish the
immortality of the soul, not for Demigods and Heroes only, but for
us all ; which imply the soul's purification from earthly sins, in some
regions less chilling and stationary than the sunless and melancholy
Hades."

Alcman looked at the girl surprised.

"Art thou not, maiden," said he, "one of the many female
disciples whom the successors of Pythagoras the Samian have
enrolled?"

" Nay," said Cleonice, modestly ; " but my mother had listened to
great teachers of wisdom, and I speak imperfectly the thoughts I have
heard her utter when she told me she had no terror of the grave. "

"Fair Byzantine," returned the Mothon, while Pausanias, leaning
his upraised face on his hand, listened mutely to themes new to his
mind and foreign to his Spartan culture. "Fair Byzantine, we in
Lacedaemon, whether free or enslaved, are not educated to the
subtle learning which distinguishes the intellect of Ionian Sages.
But I, born and licensed to be a poet, converse eagerly with all who
swell the stores which enrich the treasure-house of song. And thus,
since we have left the land of Sparta, and more especially in yon
city, the centre of many tribes and of many minds, I have picked
up, as it were, desultory and scattered notions, which, for want of a
fitting teacher, I bind and arrange for myself as well as I may.
And since the ideas that now float through the atmosphere of Hellas
are not confined to the great, nay, perhaps are less visible to them,
than to those whose eyes are not riveted on the absorbing substances
of ambition and power, so I have learned something, I know not
how, save that I have listened and reflected. And here, where I
have heard what sages conjecture of a world which seems so far off,
but to which we are so near that we may reach it in a moment, my
interest might indeed be intense. For what is this world to him
who came into it a slave ! "

"Alcman," exclaimed Pausanias, "the foster-brotl.er of the
Heracleid is no more a slave."

The Mothon bowed his head gratefully, but the expression on his
face retained the same calm and sombre resignation.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 379

"Alas," said Cleonice, with the delicacy of female consolation,
"who in this life is really free? Have citizens no thraldom in
custom and law ? Are we not all slaves ?"

" True. All slaves ! " murmured the royal victor. " Envy none,
O Alcman. Yet," he continued gloomily, "what is the life beyond
the grave which sacred tradition and ancient song holds out to us ?
Not thy silver island, vain singer, unless it be only for an early race
more immediately akin to the Gods. Shadows in the shade are the
dead ; at the best reviving only their habits when on earth, in
phantom-like delusions ; aiming spectral darts like Orion at spectral
lions ; things bloodless and pulseless ; existences followed to no
purpose through eternity, as dreams are through a night. Who
cares so to live again ? Not I."

" The sages that now rise around, and speak oracles different from
those heard at Delphi," said Alcman, "treat not thus the Soul's
immortality. They begin by inquiring how creation rose ; they
seek to find the primitive element ; what that may be they dispute ;
some say the fiery, some the airy, some the ethereal element. Their
language here is obscure. But it is a something which forms,
harmonizes, works, and lives on for ever. And of that something
is the Soul ; creative, harmonious, active, an element in itself. Out
of its development here, that soul comes on to a new development
elsewhere. If here the beginning lead to that new development in
what we call virtue, it moves to light and joy : — if it can only roll
on through the grooves it has here made for itself, in what we call
vice and crime, its path is darkness and wretchedness. "

"In what we call virtue — what we call vice and crime? Ah,"
said Pausanias, with a stern sneer, " Spartan virtue, O Alcman, is
what a Helot may call crime. And if ever the Helot rose and
shouted freedom, would he not say, This is virtue ? Would the
Spartan call it virtue, too, my foster-brother?"

" Son of Cleombrotus," answered Alcman, "it is not for me to
vindicate the acts of the master ; nor to blame the slave who is of
my race. Yet the sage definers of virtue distinguish between the
Conscience of a Polity and that of the Individual Man. Self-
preservation is the instinct of every community, and all the ordin-
ances ascribed to Lycurgus are designed to preserve the Spartan
existence. For what are the pure Spartan race ? a handful of men
established as lords in the midst of a hostile population. Close by
the eyrie thine eagle fathers built in the rocks, hung the silent
Amyclae, a city of foes that cost the Spartans many generations to
subdue. Hence thy State was a camp, its citizens sentinels ; its
children were brought up from the cradle to support the stern life to

380 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

which necessity devoted the men. Hardship and privation were
second nature. Not enough to be brave ; vigilance was equally
essential. Every Spartan life was precious ; therefore came the
cunning which characterizes the Spartan ; therefore the boy is per-
mitted to sjeal, but punished if detected ; therefore the whole Com-
monwealth strives to keep aloof from the wars of Greece unless
itself be threatened. A single battle in a common cause might
suffice to depopulate the Spartan race, and leave it at the mercy of
the thousands that so reluctantly own its dominion. Hence the
ruthless determination to crush the spirit, to degrade the class of the
enslaved Helots ; hence its dread lest the slumbering brute force of
the Servile find in its own masses a head to teach the conscious-
ness, and a hand to guide the movements, of its power. These
are the necessities of the Polity, its vices are the outgrowth of its
necessities ; and the life that so galls thee, and which has sometimes
rendered mad those who return to it from having known another,
and the danger that evermore surrounds the lords of a sullen
multitude, are the punishments of these vices. Comprehendest
thou ?"

"I comprehend."

"But individuals have a conscience apart from that of the Com-
munity. Every community has its errors in its laws. No human
laws, how skilfully soever framed, but give to a national character
defects as we'll as merits, merits as well as defects. Craft, selfish-
ness, cruelty to the subdued, inhospitable frigidity to neighbours,
make the defects of the Spartan character. But," added Alcman,
with a kind of reluctant anguish in his voice, "the character has its
grand virtues, too, or would the Helots not be the masters ? Valour
indomitable ; grand scorn of death ; passionate ardour for the State
which is so severe a mother to them ; antique faith in the sacred
altars j sublime devotion to what is held to be duty. Are these not
found in the Spartan beyond all the Greeks, as thou seest them in
thy friend Lysander ; in that soul, stately, pure, compact in its own
firm substance as a statue within a temple is in its Parian stone?
But what the Gods ask from man is virtue in himself, according as
he comprehends it. And, therefore, here all societies are equal ;
for the Gods pardon in the man the faults he shares with his Com-
munity, and ask from him but the good and the beautiful, such as
the nature of his Community will permit him to conceive and to
accomplish. Thou knowest that there are many kinds of music —
for instance, the Doric, the ^Eolian, the Ionian — in Hellas. The
Lydians have their music, the Phrygians theirs too. The Scyth and (
the Mede doubtless have their own. Each race prefers the music it

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 381

cultivates, and finds fault with the music of other races. And yet a
man who has learned melody and measure, will recognize a music in
them all. So it is with virtue, the music of the human soul. It
differs in differing races. But he who has learned to know what
virtue is can recognize its harmonies, wherever they be heard. And
thus the soul that fulfils its own notions of music, and carries them
up to its idea of excellence, is the master soul ; and in the regions
to which it goes, when the breath leaves the lips, it pursues the same,
set free from the trammels that confined, and the false judgments
that marred it here. For then the soul is no longer Spartan, or
Ionian, Lydian, Median, or Scythian. Escaped into the upper air,
it is the citizen of universal freedom and universal light. And hence
it does not live as a ghost in gloomy shades, being merely a pale
memory of things that have passed away ; but in its primitive being
as an emanation from the one divine principle which penetrates
everywhere, vivifies all things, and enjoys in all. This is what I
weave together from the doctrines of varying schools ; schools that
collect from the 'fields of thought flowers of different kinds which
conceal, by adorning it, the ligament that unites them all : this, I
say, O Pausanias, is my conception of the soul."

Cleonice rose softly, and taking from her bosom a rose, kissed it
fervently, and laid it at the feet of the singer.

" Were this my soul," cried she, " I would ask thee to bind it in
the wreath."

Vague and troubled thoughts passed meanwhile through the mind
of the Heracleid ; old ideas being disturbed and dislodged, the new
ones did not find easy settlement in a brain occupied with ambitious
schemes and a heart agitated by stormy passions. In much super-
stitious, in much sceptical, as education had made him the one, and
experience but of worldly things was calculated to make him the
other, he followed not the wing of the philosophy which passed
through heights not occupied by Olympus, and dived into depths
where no Tartarus echoed to the wail of Cocytus.

After a pause he said in his perplexity,

"Well mayst thou own that no Delphian oracle tells thee all
this. And when thou speakest of the Divine Principle as One, dost
thou not, O presumptuous man, depopulate the Halls of Ida? Nay,
is it not Zeus himself whom thou dethrones! ; is not thy Divine
Principle the Fate which Zeus himself must obey ? "

" There is a young man of Clazomense," answered the singer,
"named Anaxagoras, who avoiding all active life, though of birth
the noblest, gives himself up lo contemplation, and wi.om I have
listened to in the city as he passed through it, on his way into Egypt.

382 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

And I heard him say, ' Fate is an empty name.' l Fate is blind, the
Divine is All-seeing."

" How ! " cried Cleonice. " An empty name — she ! Necessity
the All-compelling."

The musician drew from the harp one of the most artful of
Sappho's exquisite melodies.

" What drew forth that music ? " he asked, smiling. " My hand
and my will from a genius not present, not visible. Was that genius
a blind fate ? no, it was a grand intelligence. Nature is to the Deity
what my hand and will are to the unseen genius of the musician.
They obey an intelligence and they form a music. If creation pro-
ceed from an intelligence, what we call fate is but the consequence
of its laws. And Nature operates not in the external world alone,
but in the core of all life ; therefore in the mind of man obeying
only what some supreme intelligence has placed there : therefore in
man's mind producing music or discord, according as he has learned
the principles of harmony, that is, of good. And there be sages
who declare that Intelligence and Love are the same. Yet," added
the Mothon, with an aspect solemnly compassionate, " not the love
thou mockest by the name of Aphrodite. No mortal eye hath ever
seen that love within the known sphere, yet all insensibly feel its
reign. What keeps the world together but affection ? What makes
the earth bring forth its fruits, but the kindness which beams in the
sunlight and descends in the dews ? What makes the lioness watch
over her cubs, and the bird, with all air for its wanderings, come
back to the fledglings in its nest ? Strike love, the conjoiner, from
creation, and creation returns to a void. Destroy love the parental,
and life is born but to perish. Where stop the influence of love or
how limit its multiform degrees ? Love guards the fatherland ;
crowns with turrets the walls of the freeman. What but love binds
the citizens of States together, and frames and heeds the laws that
submit individual liberty to the rule of the common good ? Love
creates, love cements, love enters and harmonises all things. And
as like attracts like, so love attracts in the hereafter the loving souls
that conceived it here. From the region where it summons them,
its opposites are excluded. There ceases war ; there ceases pain.
There indeed intermingle the beautiful and glorious, but beauty
purified from earthly sin, the glorious resting from earthly toil. Ask
ye how to know on earth where love is really presiding ? Not in
Paphos, not in Amathus. Wherever thou seest beauty and good ;
wherever thou seest life, and that life pervaded with faculties of

1 Anaxagoras was then between 20 and 30 years of age. — See Ritter, vol. ii.,
for the sentiment here ascribed to him, and a general view of his tenets.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 383

joy, there thou seest love ; there thou shouldst recognize the
Divinity."

"And where I see misery and hate," said the Spartan, "what
should I recognize there ? "

" Master," returned the singer, " can the good come without a
struggle? Is the beautiful accomplished without strife? Recall the
tales of primeval chaos, when, as sang the Ascraean singer, love first
darted into the midst ; imagine the heave and throe of joining ele-
ments ; conjure up the first living shapes, born of the fluctuating
slime and vapour. Surely they were things incomplete, deformed
ghastly fragments of being, as are the dreams of a maniac. Had
creative Love stopped there, and then, standing on the height of
some fair completed world, had viewed the warring portents, wouldst
thou not have said — But these are the works of Evil and Hate ?
Love did not stop there, it worked on ; and out of the chaos once
ensouled, this glorious world swung itself into ether, the completed
sister of the stars. Again, O my listeners, contemplate the sculptor,
when the block from the granite shaft first stands rude and shapeless
before him. See him in his earlier strife with the obstinate matter
— how uncouth the first outline of limb and feature ; unlovelier often
in the rugged commencements of shape, than when the dumb mass stood
shapeless. If the sculptor had stopped there, the thing might serve
as an image for the savage of an abominable creed, engaged in the
sacrifice of human flesh. But he pauses not, he works on. Stroke
by stroke comes from the stone a shape of more beauty than man
himself is endowed with, and in a human temple stands a celestial
image.

"Thus is it with the soul in the mundane sphere; it works its
way on through the adverse matter. We see its work half com-
pleted ; we cry, Lo, this is misery, this is hate — because the chaos
is not yet a perfected world, and the stone block is not yet a statue
of Apollo. But for that reason must we pause ? — no, we must work
on, till the victory brings the repose.

"All things come into order from the war of contraries — the
elements fight and wrestle to produce the wild flower at our feet ;
from a wild flower man hath striven and toiled to perfect the
marvellous rose of the hundred leaves. Hate is necessary for the
energies of love, evil for the activity of good ; until, I say, the
victory is won, until Hate and Evil are subdued, as the sculptor
subdues the stone ; and then rises the divine image serene for ever,
and rests on its pedestal in the Uranian Temple. Lift thine eyes ;
that temple is yonder. O Pausanias, the sculptor's workroom is the
earth."

384 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

Alcman paused, and sweeping his hand once more over his lyre,
chanted as follows :

" Dewdrop that weepest on the sharp-barbed thorn,
Why didst thou fall from Day's golden chalices f
' My tears bathe the thorn,' said the Dewdrop,
' To nourish the bloom of the rose.'

" Soul of the Infant, why to calamity
Comest thou wailing from the calm spirit-source T
' Ask of the Dew,' said the Infant,
' Why it descends on the thorn ! '

" Dewdrop from storm, and soul from calamity
Vanish soon — whither ? let the Dew answer thee ;
' Have not my tears been my glory ?
Tears drew me up to the sun.'

" What were thine uses, lhat thou art glorified ?
What did thy tears give, profiting earth or sky?
' 1'here, to the thorn-stem a blossom,
Here, to the Iris a tint.' "

Alcman had modulated the tones of his voice into a sweetness so
plaintive and touching, that, when he paused, the hand-maidens
had involuntarily risen and gathered round, hushed and noiseless.
Cleonice had lowered her veil over her face and bosom ; but the
heaving of its tissue betrayed her half-suppressed, gentle sob ; and
the proud mournfulness on the Spartan's swarthy countenance had
given way to a soft composure, melancholy still — but melancholy as
a lulled, though dark water, over which starlight steals through
disparted cloud.

Cleonice was the first to break the spell which bound them all.

" I would go within," she murmured faintly. "The sun, now slant-
ing, strikes through the vine-leaves, and blinds me with its glare."

Pausanias approached timidly, and taking her by the hand, drew
her aside, along one of the grassy alleys that stretched onwards to
the sea.

The handmaidens tarried behind to cluster nearer round the singer.
They forgot he was a slave.

CHAPTER II.

|HOU art weeping still, Cleonice!" said the Spartan,
"and I have not the privilege to kiss away thy tears."
" Xay, I weep not, 'answered the girl, throwing up
her veil ; and her face was calm, if still sad — the tear
yet on the eyelids, but the smile upon the lip — Saicpvotv ytXdoiaa.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 385

"Thy singer has learned his art from a 'teacher heavenlier than the
Pierides, and its name is Hope."

"But if I understand him aright," said Pausanias, "the Hope
that inspires him is a goddess who blesses us little on the earth."

As if the Mothon had overheard the Spartan, his voice here
suddenly rose behind them, singing :

" There the Beautiful and Glorious
Intermingle evermore."

Involuntarily both turned. The Mothon seemed as if explaining
to the handmaids the allegory of his marriage song upon Helen and
Achilles, for his hand was raised on high, and again, with an
emphasis, he chanted :

"There, throughout the Blessed Islands,

And amid the Race of Light,
Do the Beautiful and Glorious
Intermingle evermore."

"Canst thou not wait, if thou so lovest me?" said Cleonice, with
more tenderness in her voice than it had ever yet betrayed to him ;
" life is very short. Hush ! " she continued, checking the passionate
interruption that burst from his lips ; "I have something I would
confide to thee : listen. Know that in my childhood I had a dear
friend, a maiden a few years older than myself, and she had the
divine gift of trance which comes from Apollo. Often, gazing into
space, her eyes became fixed, and her frame still as a statue's ; then
a shiver seized her limbs, and prophecy broke from her lips. And
she told me, in one of these hours, when, as she said, ' all space and
all time seemed spread before her like a sunlit ocean,' she told me
of my future, so far as its leaves have yet unfolded from the stem of
my life. Spartan, she prophesied that I should see thee — and — "
Cleonice paused, blushing, and then hurried on, "and she told me
that suddenly her eye could follow my fate on the earth no more,
that it vanished out of the time and the space on which it gazed, and
saying it she wept, and broke into funeral song. And therefore,
Pausanias, I say life is very short for me at.least — "

" Hold," cried Pausanias; "torture not me, nor delude thyself
with the dreams of a raving girl. Lives she near ? Let me visit her
with thee, and I will prove thy prophetess an impostor."

" They whom the Priesthood of Delphi employ throughout Hellas
to find the fit natures for a Pythoness heard of her, and heard herself.
She whom thou callest impostor gives the answer to perplexed nations
from the Pythian shrine. But wherefore doubt her ? — where the
sorrow? I feel none. If love does rule the worlds beyond, and

o

386 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

does unite souls who love nobly here, yonder we shall meet, O
descendant of Hercules, and human laws will not part us there."

"Thou die ! die before me ! thou, scarcely half my years ! And
I be left here, with no comfort but a singer's dreamy verse, not even
mine ambition ! Thrones would vanish out of earth, and turn to
cinders in thine urn."

"Speak not of thrones," said Cleonice, with imploring softness,
"for the prophetess, too, spake of steps that went towards a throne,
and vanished at the threshold of darkness, beside which sate the
Furies. Speak not of thrones, dream but of glory and Hellas — of
what thy soul tells thee is that virtue which makes life an Uranian
music, and thus unites it to the eternal symphony, as the breath of
the single flute melts when it parts from rhe instrument into the
great concord of the choir. Knowest thou not that in the creed of
the Persians each mortal is watched on earth by a good spirit and an
evil one ? And they who loved us below, or to whom we have done
beneficent and gentle deeds, if they go before us into death, pass to
the side of the good spirit, and strengthen him to save and to bless
thee against the malice of the bad, and the bad is strengthened in
his turn by those whom we have injured. Wouldst thou have all
the Greeks whose birthright thou wouldst barter, whose blood thou
wouldst shed for barbaric aid to thy solitary and lawless power,
stand by the side of the evil Fiend ? And what could I do against
so many? what could my soul do," added Cleonice with simple
pathos, "by the side of the kinder spirit?"

Pausanias was wholly subdued. He knelt to the girl, he kissed
the hem of her robe, and for the moment ambition, luxury, pomp,
pride fled from his soul, and left there only the grateful tenderness
of the man, and the lofty instincts of the hero. But just then — was
it the evil spirit that sent him ? — the boughs of the vine were put
aside, and Gongylus the Eretrian stood before them. His black eyes
glittered keen upon Pausanias, who rose from his knee, startled and
displeased.

" What brings thee hither, man?" said the Regent, haughtily.

" Danger," answered Gongylus, in a hissing whisper. "Lose not
a moment — come."

"Danger!" exclaimed Cleonice, tremblingly, and clasping her
hands, and all the human love at her heart was visible in her aspect.
"Danger, and to him!"

" Danger is but as the breeze of my native air," said the Spartan,
smiling; "thus I draw it in and thus breathe it away. I follow
thee, Gongylus. Take my greeting, Cleonice — the Good to the
Beautiful. Well, then, keep Alcman yet awhile to sing thy kind

PAUSANI,>S, THE SPARTAN. 387

face to repose, and this time let him tune his lyre to songs of a more
Dorian strain — songs that show what a Heracleid thinks of danger."
He waved his hand, and the two men, striding hastily, passed
along the vine alley, darkened its vista for a few minutes, then
vanishing down the descent to the beach, the wide blue sea again
lay lone and still before the eyes of the Byzantine maid.

CHAPTER III.

AUSANIAS and the Eretrian halted on the shore.

" Now speak," said, the Spartan Regent. " Where is
the danger?"

"Before thee," answered Gongylus, and his hand
pointed to th^ ocean.

"I see thcTleet of the Greeks in the harbour — I see the flag of
my galley above the forest of their masts. I see detached vessels
skimming along the waves hither and thither as in holiday and sport ;
but discipline slackens where no foe dares to show himself. Eretrian,
I see no danger."

"Yet danger is there, and where danger is thou shouldst be. I
have learned from my spies, not an hour since, that there is a con-
spiracy formed — a mutiny on the eve of an outburst. Thy place now
should be in thy galley."

"My boat waits yonder in that creek, overspread by the wild
shrubs," answered Pausanias ; "a. few strokes of the oar, and I am
where thou seest. And in truth, without thy summons, I should
have been on board ere sunset, seeing that on the morrow I have
ordered a general review of the vessels of the fleet. Was that to be
the occasion for the mutiny?"

"So it is supposed."

"I shall see the faces of the mutineers," said Pausanias, with
a calm visage, and an eye which seemed to brighten the very
atmosphere. "Thou shakest thy head; is this all?"

"Thou art not a bird — this moment in one place, that moment in
another. There, with yon armament, is the danger thou canst meet.
But yonder sails a danger which thou canst not, I fear me, overtake."

"Yonder!" said Pausanias, his eye following the hand of the
Eretrian. "I see naught save the white wing of a seagull —
perchance, by its dip into the water, it foretells a storm."

" Farther off than the seagull, and seeming smaller than the white
spot of its wing, seest thou nothing?"

388 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

" A dim speck on the farthest horizon, if mine eyes mistake
not."

' ' The speck of a sail that is bound to Sparta. It carries with it
a request for thy recall."

This time the cheek of Pausanias paled, an.l his voice slightly
faltered as he said,

"Art thou sure of this?"

" So I hear that the Samian captain, Uliades, has boasted at noon
in the public baths."

"A Samian ! — is it only a Samian who hath ventured to address
to Sparta a complaint of her General ?"

"From what I could gather," replied Gongylus, "the complaint
is more powerfully backed. But I have not as yet heard more,
though I conjecture that Athens has not been silent, and before the
vessel sailed Ionian captains were seen to come with joyous faces
from the lodgings of Cimon." f

The Regent's brow grew yet more troubled. " Cimon, of all the
Greeks out of Laconia, is the one whose word would weigh most in
Sparta. But my Spartans themselves are not suspected of privity
and connivance in this mission ? "

"It is not said that they are."

Pausanias shaded his face with his hand for a moment in deep
thought. Gongylus continued —

"If the Ephors recall thee before the Asian army is on the frontier,
farewell to the sovereignty of Hellas ! "

" Ha ! " cried Pausanias, " tempt me not. Thinkest thou I need
other tempter than I have here ? " — smiting his breast.

Gongylus recoiled in surprise. "Pardon me, Pausanias, but
temptation is another word for hesitation. I dreamed not that I
could tempt ; I did not know that thou didst hesitate."

The Spartan remained silent.

"Are not thy messengers on the road to the great king? — nay,
perhaps already they have reached him. Didst thou not say how
intolerable to thee would be life henceforth in the iron thraldom of
Sparta — and now ? "

"And now — I forbid thee to question me more. Thou hast
performed thy task, leave me to mine."

He sprang with the spring of the mountain goat from the crag on
which he stood — over a precipitous chasm, lighted on a narrow
ledge, from which a slip of the foot would have been sure death,
another bound yet more fearful, and his whole weight hung sus-
pended by the bough of the ilex which he grasped with a single
hand ; then from bough to bough, from crag to crag, the Eretrian

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 389

saw him descending till he vanished amidst the trees that darkened
over the fissures at the foot of the cliff.

And before Gongylus had recovered his amaze at the almost pre-
terhuman agility and vigour of the Spartan, and his dizzy sense at
the contemplation of such peril braved by another, a boat shot into
the sea from the green creek, and he saw Pausanias seated beside
Lysander on one of the benches, and conversing with him, as if in
calm earnestness, while the ten rowers sent the boat towards the
fleet with the swiftness of an arrow to its goal.

"Lysander," said Pausanias, "hast thou heard that the lonians
have offered to me the insult of a mission to the Ephors demanding
my recall?"

" No. Who would tell me of insult to thee?"

"But hast thou any conjecture that other Spartans around me,
and who love me less than thou, would approve, nay, have approved,
this embassy of spies and malcontents ? "

" I think none have so approved. I fear some would so approve.
The Spartans round thee would rejoice did they know that the pride
of their armies, the Victor of Platsea, were once more within their
walls."

" Even to the danger of Hellas from the Mede?"

" They would rather all Hellas were Medised than Pausanias the
Heracleid."

"Boy, boy," said Pausanias, between his ground teeth, "dost
thou not see that what is sought is the disgrace of Pausanias tha
Heracleid ? Grant that I am recalled from the head of this arma-
ment, and on the charge of lonians, and I am dishonoured in the
eyes of all Greece. Dost thou remember in the last Olympiad that
when Themistocles, the only rival now to me in glory, appeared on
the Altis, assembled Greece rose to greet and do him honour? And
if I, deposed, dismissed, appeared at the next Olympiad, how would
assembled Greece receive me? Couldst thou not see the pointed
finger and hear the muttered taunt—That is Pausanias, whom the
lonians banished from Byzantium. No, I must abide here ; I must
prosecute the vast plans which shall dwarf into shadow the petty
genius of Themistocles. I must counteract this mischievous embassy
to the Ephors. I must send to them an ambassador of my own.
Lysander, wilt thou go, and burying in thy bosom thine own Spartan
prejudices, deem that thou canst only serve me by proving the
reasons why I should remain here ; pleading for me, arguing lor
me, and winning my suit ? "

"It is for thee to command and for me to obey thee," answered
Lysander, simply. " Is not that the duty of soldier to chief? When

39° PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

\ve converse as friends I may contend with thee in speech. When
them sayest, Do this, I execute thine action. To reason with thee
would be revolt. "

Pausanias placed his clasped hands on the young man's shoulder,
and leaving them there, impressively said —

"I select thee for this mission because thee alone can I trust.
And of me hast thou a doubt ? — tell me."

"If I saw thee taking the Persian gold I should say that the
Demon had mocked mine eyes with a delusion. Never could I
doubt, unless — unless — "

" Unless what?"

"Thou wert standing under Jove's sky against the arms of
Hellas."

" And then, if some other chief bade thee raise thy sword against
me, thou art Spartan and wouldst obey ? "

" I am Spartan, and cannot believe that I should ever have a
cause, or listen to a command, to raise my sword against the chief
I now serve and love," replied Lysander.

Pausanias withdrew his hands from the young man's broad
shoulder. He felt humbled beside the quiet truth of that sublime
soul. His own deceit became more black to his conscience. " Me-
thinks," he said tremulously, " I will not send thee after all — and
perliaps the news may be false."

The boat had now gained the fleet, and steering amidst the
crowded triremes, made its way towards the floating banner of the
Spartan Serpent. More immediately round the General's galley
were the vessels of the Peloponnesian allies, by whom he was still
honoured. A welcoming shout rose from the seamen lounging on
their decks as they caught sight of the renowned Heracleid. Cimon,
who was on his own galley at some distance, heard the shout.

"So Pausanias," he said, turning to the officers round him, "has
deigned to come on board, to direct, I suppose, the manoeuvres for
to-morrow."

" I believe it is but the form of a review for manoeuvres," said an
Athenian officer, " in which Pausanias will inspect the various divi-
sions of the fleet, and if more be intended, will give the requisite
orders for a subsequent day. No arrangements demanding much
preparation can be anticipated, for Amagoras, the rich Chian, gives
a «reat banquet this day — a supper to the principal captains of the
Isles."

" A frank and hospitable reveller is Antagoras," answered Cimon.
"He would have extended his invitation to the Athenians — me
included — but in their name I declined."

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 391

" May I ask wherefore ?" said the officer who had before spoken.
" Cimon is not held averse to wine-cup and myrtle-bough."

" But things are said over some wine-cups and under some myrtle-
boughs," answered Cimon, with a quiet laugh, " which it is impru-
dence to hear and would be treason to repeat. Sup with me here
on deck, friends- — a supper for sober companions — sober as the
Lnconian Syssitia, and let not Spartans say that our manners are
spoilt by the luxuries of Byzantium. "

CHAPTER IV.

5N an immense peristyle of a house which a Byzantine noble,
ruined by lavish extravagance, had been glad to cede to
the accommodation of Antagoras and other officers of
Chios, the young rival of Pausanias feasted the chiefs of
the y£gean. However modern civilization may in some things sur-
pass the ancient, it is certainly not in luxury and splendour. And
although the Hellenic States had not, at that period, aimed at the
pomp of show and the refinements of voluptuous pleasure which
preceded their decline ; and although they never did carry luxury
to the wondrous extent which it reached in Asia, or even in Sicily,
yet even at that time a wealthy sojourner in such a city as Byzantium
could command an entertainment that no monarch in our age would
venture to parade before royal guests, and submit to the criticism of
tax -pay ing subjects.

The columns of the peristyle were of dazzling alabaster, with
their capitals richly gilt. The space above was roofless ; but an
immense awning of purple, richly embroidered in Persian looms — a
spoil of some gorgeous Mede — shaded the feasters from the summer
sky. The couches on which the banqueters reclined were of citron
wood, inlaid with ivory, and covered with the tapestries of Asiatic
looms. At the four corners of the vast hall played four fountains,
and their spray sparkled to a blaze of light from colossal candelabra,
in which burnt perfumed oil. The guests were not assembled at a
single table, but in small groups ; to each group its tripod of exqui-
site workmanship. To that feast of fifty revellers no less than
seventy cooks had contributed the inventions of their art, but under
one great master, to whose care the banquet had been consigned by
the liberal host, and who ransacked earth, sky, and sea for dainties
more various than this degenerate ag'e ever sees accumulated at a
single board. And the epicure who has but glanced over the elaborate

392 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

page of Athenoeus, must own with melancholy self-humiliation that
the ancients must have carried the art of flattering the palate to a
perfection as absolute as the art which built the Parthenon, and
sculptured out of gold and ivory the Olympian Jove. But the first
course, with its profusion of birds, flesh, and fishes, its marvellous
combinations of forced meats, and inventive poetry of sauces, was
now over. And in the interval preceding that second course, in
which gastronomy put forth its most exquisite masterpieces, the slaves
began to remove the tables, soon to be replaced. Vessels of fragrant
waters, in which the banqueters dipped their fingers, were handed
round ; perfumes, which the Byzantine marts collected from every
clime, escaped from their precious receptacles.

Then were distributed the garlands. With these each guest
crowned locks that steamed with odours ; and in them were com-
bined the flowers that most charm the eye, with bud or herb that
most guard from the head the fumes of wine : with hyacinth and
flax, with golden asphodel and silver lily, the green of ivy and
parsley leaf was thus entwined ; and above all the rose, said to
convey a delicious coolness to the temples on which it bloomed. And
now for the first time wine came to heighten the spirits and test
the charm of the garlands. Each, as the large goblet passed to him,
poured from the brim, before it touched his lips, his libation to the
good spirit. And as Antagoras, rising first, set this pious example,
out from the further ends of the hall, behind the fountains, burst a
concert of flutes, and the great Hellenic Hymn of the Paean.

As this ceased, the fresh tables appeared before the banqueters,
covered with all the fruits in season, and with those triumphs in
confectionery, of which honey was the main ingredient, that well
justified the favour in which the Greeks held the bee.

Then, instead of the pure juice of the grape, from which the liba-
tion had been poured, came the wines, mixed at least three parts
with water, and deliciously cooled.

Up again rose Antagoras, and every eye turned to him.

"Companions," said the young Chian, "it is not held in free
States well for a man to seize by himself upon supreme authority.
We deem that a magistracy should only be obtained by the votes of
others. Nevertheless, I venture to think that the latter plan does
not always ensure to us a good master. I believe it was by election
that we Greeks have given to ourselves a generalissimo, not con-
tented, it is said, to prove the invariable wisdom of that mode of
government ; wherefore this seems an occasion to revive the good
Custom of tyranny. And I propose to do so in my person by
proclaiming myself Symposiarch and absolute commander in the

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 393

Commonwealth here assembled. But if ye prefer the chance of the
die — "

" No, no," cried the guests, almost universally ; " Antagoras, the
Symposiarch, we submit. Issue thy laws. "

" Hearken then, and obey. First, then, as to the strength of the
wine. Behold the crater in which there are three Naiades to one
Dionysos. He is a match for them ; not for more. No man shall
put into his wine more water than the slaves have mixed. Yet if
any man is so diffident of the god that he thinks three Naiades too
much for him, he may omit one or two, and let the wine and the
water fight it out upon equal terms. So much for the quality of the
drink. As to quantity, it is a question to be deliberated hereafter.
And now this cup to Zeus the Preserver."

The toast went round.

" Music, and the music of Lydia ! " then shouted Antagoras, and
resumed his place on the couch beside Uliades.

The music proceeded, the wines circled.

"Friend," whispered Uliades to the host, "thy father left thee
wines, I know. But if thou givest many banquets like this, I doubt
if thou wilt leave wines to thy son."

"I shall die childless, perhaps," answered the Chian ; "and
any friend will give me enough to pay Charon's fee across the Styx."

"That is a melancholy reflection," said Uliades, "and there is
no subject of talk that pleases me less than that same Styx. Why
dost thou bite thy lip, and choke the sigh? By the Gods ! art thou
not happy ? "

" Happy ! " repeated Antagoras, with a bitter smile. " Oh,
yes ! "

"Good ! Cleonice torments thee no more. I myself have gone
through thy trials ; ay, and oftentimes. Seven times at Samos, five
at Rhodes, once at Miletus, and forty-three times at Corinth, have I
been an impassioned and unsuccessful lover. Courage ; I love
still."

Antagoras turned away. By this time the hall was yet more
crowded, for many not invited to the supper came, as was the
custom with the Greeks, to the Symposium ; but these were all of
the Ionian race.

"The music is dull without the dancers," cried the host. " Ho,
there ! the dancing girls. Now would I give all the rest of my
wealth to see among these girls one face that yet but for a moment
could make me forget — "

"Forget what, or whom?" said Uliades ; "not Cleonice?"

" Man, man, wilt thou provoke me to strangle thee? " muttered
Antajroras.

394 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

Uliades edged himself away.

" Ungrateful ! " he cried. " What are a hundred Byzantine girls
to one tried male friend ? "

"I will not be ungrateful, Uliades, if thou stand by my side
against the Spartan."

"Thou art, then, bent upon this perilous hazard?"

" Bent on driving Pausanias from Byzantium, or into Hades —
yes."

"Touch!" said Uliades, holding out his right hand. "By
Cypris, but these girls dance like the daughters of Oceanus ; every
step undulates as a wave."

Antagoras motioned to his cup-bearer. " Tell the leader of that
dancing choir to come hither." The cup-bearer obeyed.

A man with a solemn air came to the foot of the Chian's couch,
bowing low. He was an Egyptian — one of the meanest castes.

" Swarthy friend," said Antagoras, "didst thou ever hear of the
Pyrrhic dance of the Spartans ? "

" Surely, of all dances am I teacher and preceptor."

" Your girls know it, then ? "

" Somewhat, from having seen it ; but not from practice. 'Tis
a male dance and a warlike dance, O magnanimous, butj in this
instance, untutored, Chian ! "

"Hist, and listen." Antagoras whispered. The Egyptian
nodded his head, returned to the dancing girls, and when their
measure had ceased, gathered them round him.

Antagoras again rose.

" Companions, we are bound now to do homage to our masters —
the pleasant, affable and familiar warriors of Sparta."

At this the guests gave way to their applauding laughter.

"And therefore these delicate maidens will present to us that
flowing and Amathusian dance, which the Graces taught to Spartan
sinews. Ho, there ! begin."

The Egyptian had by this time told the dancers what they were
expected to do ; and they came forward with an affectation of stern
dignity, the burlesque humour of which delighted all those lively
revellers. And when with adroit mimicry their slight arms and
mincing steps mocked that grand and masculine measure so associ-
ated with images of Spartan austerity and decorum, the exhibition
became so humorously ludicrous, that perhaps a Spartan himself
would have been compelled to laugh at it. But the merriment rose
to its height, when the Egyptian, who had withdrawn for a few
minutes, reappeared with a Median robe and mitred cap, and calling
out in his barbarous African accent, " Way for the conqueror ! "
threw into his mien and gestures all the likeness to Pausanias him-

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 395

self, which a practised mime and posture-master could attain. The
laughter of Antagoras alone was not loud — it was low and sullen, as
if sobs of rage were stifling it ; but his eye watched the effect pro-
duced, and it answered the end he had in view.

As the dancers now, while the laughter was at its loudest roar,
vanished behind the draperies, the host rose, and his countenance
was severe and grave —

"Companions, one cup more, and let it be -to Harmodius and
Aristogiton. Let the song in their honour come only from the lips
of free citizens, of our Ionian comrades. Uliades, begin. I pass
to thee a myrtle bough ; and under it I pass a sword."

Then he began the famous hymn ascribed to Callistratus, com-
mencing with a clear and sonorous voice, and the guests repeating
each stanza after him with the enthusiasm which the words usually
produced among the Hellenic republicans :

I in a myrtle bough the sword will carry,
As did Harmodius and Aristogiton ;
When they the tyrant slew,
And back to Athens gave her equal laws.

Thou art in nowise dead, best-loved Harmodius ;
Isles of the Blessed are, they say, thy dwelling,
There swift Achilles dwells,
And there, they say, with thee dwells Diomed.

I in a myrtle bough the sword will carry,
As did Harmodius and Aristogiton,
When to Athene's shrine
They gave their sacrifice — a tyrant man.

Ever on earth for both of you lives glory,
O loved Harmodius, loved Aristogiton,
For ye the tyrant slew,
And back to Athens ye gave equal laws.

When the song had ceased, the dancers, the musicians, the
attendant slaves had withdrawn from the hall, dismissed by, a
whispered order from Antagoras.

He, now standing up, took from his brows the floral crown, and
first sprinkling them with wine, replaced the flowers by a wreath of
poplar. The assembly, a little while before so noisy, was hushed
into attentive and earnest silence. The action of Antagoras, the
expression of his countenance, the exclusion of the slaves, prepared
all present for something more than the convivial address of a
Symposiarch.

"Men and Greeks," said the Chian, "on the evening before
Teucer led his comrades in exile over the wide waters to found a
.second Salamis, he sprinkled his forehead with Lyaean dews,. being
crowned with the poplar leaves — emblems of hardihp.od and contest ;

396 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

and, this done, he invited his companions to dispel their cares for
the night, that their hearts might with more cheerful hope and
bolder courage meet what the morrow might bring to them on the
ocean. I imitate the ancient hero, in honour less of him than of
the name of Salamis. We, too, have a Salamis to remember, and
a second Salamis to found. Can ye forget that, had the advice of
the Spartan leader Eurybiades been adopted, the victory of Salamis
would never have been achieved ? He was for retreat to the
Isthmus ; he was for defending the Peloponnese, because in the
Peloponnesus was the unsocial selfish Sparta, and leaving the rest
of Hellas to the armament of Xerxes. Themistocles spoke against
the ignoble counsel ; the Spartan raised his staff to strike him. Ye
know the Spartan manners. ' Strike if you will, but hear me,'
cried Themistocles. He was heard, Xerxes was defeated, and
Hellas saved. I am not Themistocles ; nor is there a Spartan
staff to silence free lips. But I too say, Hear me ! for a new Salamis
is to be won. What was the former Salamis? — the victory that
secured independence to the Greeks, and delivered them from the
Mede and the Medising traitors. Again we must fight a Salamis.
Where, ye say, is the Mede ? — not at Byzantium, it is true, in
person ; but the Medising traitor is here."

A profound sensation thrilled through the assembly.

"Enough of humility do the maritime lonians practise when they
accept the hegemony of a Spartan landsman ; enough of submission
do the free citizens of Hellas show when they suffer the imperious
Dorian to sentence them to punishments only fit for slaves. But
when the Spartan appears in the robes of the Mede, when the
imperious Dorian places in the government of a city, which our
joint arms now occupy, a recreant who has changed an Eretrian
birthright for a Persian satrapy ; when prisoners, made by the
valour of all Hellas, mysteriously escape the care of 'the Lacedae-
monian, who wears their garb, and imitates their manners — say, O
ye Greeks, O ye warriors, if there is no second Salamis to conquer ! "

The animated words, and the wine already drunk, produced on
the banqueters an effect sudden, electrical, universal. They had
come to the hall gay revellers ; they were prepared to leave the hall
stern conspirators.

Their hoarse murmur was as the voice of the sea before a storm.

Antagoras surveyed them with a fierce joy, and, with a change of
tone, thus continued : ''Ye understand me, ye know already that a
delivery is to be achieved. I pass on : I submit to your wisdom
the mode of achieving it. While I speak, a swift-sailing vessel
bears to Sparta the complaints of myself, of Uliades, and of many
Ionian captains here present, against the Spartan general. And

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 397

although the Athenian chiefs decline to proffer complaints of their
own, lest their State, which has risked so much for the common
cause, be suspected of using the admiration it excites for the purpose
of subserving its ambition, yet Cimon, the young son of the great
Miltiades, who has ties of friendship and hospitality' with families
of high mark in Sparta, has been persuaded to add to our public
statement a private letter to the effect, that speaking for himself,
not in the name of Athens, he deems our complaints justly founded,
and the recall of Pausanias expedient for the discipline of the
armament. But can we say what effect this embassy may have
upon a sullen and haughty government ; against, too, a royal
descendant of Hercules ; against the general who at Plataea flattered
Sparta with a renown to which her absence from Marathon, and her
meditated flight from Salamis, gave but disputable pretensions ? "

"And," interrupted Uliades, rising, "and — if, O Antagoras, I
may crave pardon for standing a moment between thee and thy
guests — and this is not all, for even if they recall Pausanias, they
may send us another general as bad, and without the fame which
somewhat reconciles our Ionian pride to the hegemony of a Dorian.
Now, whatever my quarrel with Pausanias, I am less against a man
than a principle. I am a seaman, and against the principle of
having for the commander of the Greek fleet a Spartan who does
not know how to handle a sail. I am an Ionian, and against the
principle of placing the Ionian race under the imperious domination
of a Dorian. Therefore I say, now is the moment to emancipate
our blood and our ocean — the one from an alien, the other from a
landsman. And the hegemony of the Spartan should pass away."

Uliades sat down with an applause more clamorous than had
greeted the eloquence of Antagoras, for the pride of race and of
special calling is ever more strong in its impulses than hatred to a
single man. And despite of all that could be said against Pausanias,
still these warriors felt awe for his greatness, and remembered that
at Plataea, where all were brave, he had been proclaimed the
bravest.

Antagoras, with the quickness of a republican Greek, trained
from earliest youth to sympathy with popular assemblies, saw that
Uliades had touched the right key, and swallowed down with a
passionate gulp his personal wrath against his rival, which might
otherwise have been carried too far, and have lost him the advantage
he had gained.

" Rightly and wisely speaks Uliades," said he. "Our cause is
that of our whole race ; and clear has that true Samian made it to
you all, O lonians and captains of the seas, that we must not wait
for the lordly answer Sparta may return to our embassage. Ye

398 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

know that while night lasts we must return to our several vessels ;
an hour more, and we shall be on deck. To-morrow Pausanias
reviews the fleet, and we may be some days before we return to
land, and can meet in concert. Whether to-morrow or later the
occasion for action may present itself, is a question I would pray
you to leave to those whom you entrust with the discretionary power
to act."

" How act?" cried a Lesbian officer.

" Thus would I suggest," said Antagoras, with well dissembled
humility ; " let the captains of one or more Ionian vessels perform such
a deed of open defiance against Pausanias as leaves to them no
option between death and success ; having so done, hoist a signal,
and sailing at once to the Athenian ships, place themselves under
the Athenian leader ; all the rest of the Ionian captains will then
follow their example. And then, too numerous and too powerful
to be punished for a revolt, we shall proclaim a revolution, and
declare that we will all sail back to our native havens unless we
have the liberty of choosing our own hegemon."

" But," said the Lesbian who had before spoken, "the Athenians
as yet have held back and declined our overtures, and without them
we are not strong enough to cope with the Peloponnesian allies."

" The Athenians will be compelled to protect the lonians, if the
lonians in sufficient force demand it," said Uliades. "For as we
are nought without them, they are nought without us. Take the
course suggested by Antagoras : 1 advise it. Ye know me, a plain
man, but I speak not without warrant. And before the Spartans can
either contemptuously dismiss our embassy or send us out another
general, the Ionian will be the mistress of the Hellenic seas, and
Sparta, the land of oligarchies, will no more have the power to
oligarchize democracy. Otherwise, believe me, that power she has
now from her hegemony, and that power, whenever it suit her, she
will use."

Uliades was chiefly popular in the fleet as a rough good seaman,
as a blunt and somewhat vulgar humorist. But whenever he gave
advice, the advice carried with it a weight not always bestowed
upon superior genius, because from the very commonness of his
nature, he reached at the common sense and the common feelings
of those whom he addressed. He spoke, in short, what an ordinary
man thought and felt. He was a practical man, brave but not
over-audacious, not likely to run himself or others into idle dangers,
and when he said he had a warrant for his advice, he was believed
to speak from his knowledge of the course which the Athenian chiefs,
Aristides and Cimon, would pursue if the plan recommended were
actively executed.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAX. 399

" I am convinced," said the Lesbian. " And since all are grateful
to Athens for that final stand against the Mecle, to which all Greece
owes her liberties, and since the chief of her armaments here is a
man of so modest a virtue, and so clement a justice, as we all
acknowledge in Aristides, fitting is it for us lonians to constitute
Athens the maritime sovereign of our race."

" Are ye all of that mind?" cried Antagoras, and was answered
by the universal shout, "We are — all!" or if the shout was not
universal, none heeded the few whom fear or prudence might keep
silent. " All that remains then is to appoint the captain who shall
hazard the first danger and make the first signal. For my part, as
one of the electors, I give my vote for Uliades, and this is my ballot."
1 1 e took from his temples the poplar wreath, and cast it into a
silver vase on the tripod placed before him.

" Uliades by acclamation ! " cried several voices,

"I accept," said the Ionian, "and as Ulysses, a prudent man,
asked for a colleague in enterprises of danger, so I ask for a
companion in the hazard I undertake, and I select Antagoras."

This choice received the same applauding acquiescence as that
which had greeted the nomination of the Ionian.

And in the midst of the applause was heard without the sharp
shrill sound of the Phrygian pipe.

"Comrades," said Antagoras, "ye hear the summons to our
ships ? Our boats are waiting at the steps of the quay, by the
Temple of Neptune. Two sentences more, and then to sea. First,
silence and fidelity ; the finger to the lip, the right hand raised to
Zeus Horkios. For a pledge, here is an oath. Secondly, be this
the signal : whenever ye shall see Uliades and myself steer our
triremes out of the line in which they may be marshalled, look forth
and watch breathless, and the instant you perceive that beside our
flags of Samos and Chios we hoist the ensign of Athens, draw off from
your stations, and follow the wake of our keels, to the Athenian navy.
Then, as the Gods direct us, Hark, a second time shrills the fife."

CHAPTER V.

>T the very hour when the Ionian captains were hurrying
towards their boats, Pausanias was pacing his decks
alone, with irregular strides, and through the cordage
and the masts the starshine came fitfully on his troubled
features. Long undecided he paused, as the waves sparkled to the
stroke of oars, and beheld the boats of the feasters making towards

400 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

the division of the fleet in which lay the navy of the isles. Farther
on, remote and still, anchored the ships of Athens. He clenched
his hand, and turned from the sight.

" To lose an empire," he muttered, "and without a struggle ; an
empire over yon mutinous rivals, over yon happy and envied Athens :
an empire — where its limits ? — if Asia puts her armies to my lead,
why should not Asia be Hellenized, rather than Hellas be within the
tribute of the Mede ? Dull — dull stolid Sparta ! methinks I could
pardon the slavery thou inflictest on my life, didst thoii but leave
unshackled my intelligence. But each vast scheme to be thwarted,
every thought for thine own aggrandizement beyond thy barren
rocks, met and inexorably baffled by a selfish aphorism, a cramping
saw—' Sparta is wide eno' for Spartans.' — ' Ocean is the element of
the fickle.' — ' What matters the ascendancy of Athens ? — it does
not cross the Isthmus.' — 'Venture nothing where I want nothing.'
Why, this is the soul's prison ! Ah, had I been born Athenian, I
had never uttered a thought against my country. She and I would
have expanded and aspired together."

Thus arguing with himself, he at length confirmed his resolve,
and with a steadfast step entered his pavilion. There, not on
broidered cushions, but by preference on the hard floor, without
coverlid, lay Lysander calmly sleeping, his crimson warlike cloak,
weather-stained, partially wrapped around him ; no pillow to his head
but his own right arm.

By the light of the high lamp that stood within the pavilion,
Pausanias contemplated the slumberer.

" He says he loves me, and yet can sleep," he murmured bitterly.
Then seating himself before a table he began to write, with slowness
and precision, whether as one not accustomed to the task or weighing
every word.

\Vhen he had concluded, he again turned his eyes to the sleeper.
" Hosv tranquil ! Was my sleep ever as serene? I will not disturb
him to the last."

The fold of the curtain was drawn aside, and Alcman entered
noiselessly.

" Thou hast obeyed ? " whispered Pausanias.

" Yes ; the ship is ready, the wind favours. Hast thou decided? "

"I have," said Pausanias, with compressed lips.

He rose, and touched Lysander, lightly, but the touch sufficed ;
the sleeper woke on the instant, casting aside slumber easily as a
garment.

"My Pausanias," said the young Spartan, " I am at thine orders
— shall I go? Alas! I read thine eye, and I shall leave thee in
peril."

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 401

" Greater peril in the council of the Ephors and in the babbling
lips of the hoary Gerontes, than amidst the meeting of armaments.
Thou wilt take this letter to the Ephors. I have said in it but little ;
I have said that I confide my cause to thee. Remember that thou
insist on the disgrace to me — the Heracleid, and through me to
Sparta, that my recall would occasion ; remember that thou prove
that my alleged harshness is but necessary to the discipline that
preserves armies, and to the ascendancy of Spartan rule. And as
to the idle tale of Persian prisoners escaped, why thou knowest how
even the lonians could make nothing of that charge. Crowd all
sail, strain every oar, no ship in the fleet so swift as that which bears
thee. I care not for the few hours' start the talebearers have. Our
Spartan forms are slow ; they can scarce have an audience ere thou
reach. The Gods speed and guard thee, beloved friend. With thee
goes all the future of Pausanias."

Lysander grasped his hand in a silence more eloquent than words,
and a tear fell on that hand which he clasped. " Be not ashamed
of it," he said then, as he turned away, and, wrapping his cloak
round his face, left the pavilion. Alcman followed, lowered a
boat from the side, and in a few moments the Spartan and the
Mothon were on the sea. The boat made to a vessel close at hand
— a vessel builded in Cyprus, manned by Bithynians ; its sails were
all up, but it bore no flag. Scarcely had Lysander climbed the deck
than it heaved to and fro, swaying as the anchor was drawn up, then,
righting itself, sprang forward, like a hound unleashed for the chase.
Pausanias with folded arms stood on the deck of his own vessel,
gazing after it, gazing long, till shooting far beyond the fleet, far
towards the melting line between sea and sky, it grew less and
lesser, and as the twilight dawned, it had faded into space.

The Heracleid turned to Alcman, who, after he had conveyed
Lysander to the ship, had regained his master's side.

"What thinkest thou, Alcman, will be the result of all this?"

"The emancipation of the Helots," said the Mothon quietly.
"The Athenians are too near thee, the Persians are too far.
Wouldst thou have armies Sparta can neither give nor take away
from thee, bind to thee a race by the strongest of human ties — make
them see in thy power the necessary condition of their freedom."

Pausanias made no answer. He turned within hie pavilion, and
flinging himself down on the same spot from which he had disturbed
Lysander, said, " Sleep here was so kind to him that it may linger
where he left it. I have two hours yet for oblivion before the sun
rise."

402 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

CHAPTER VI.

we were enabled minutely to examine the mental organ-
ization of men who have risked great dangers, whether by
the impulse of virtue, or in the perpetration of crime, we
should probably find therein a large preponderance of
hope. By that preponderance we should account for those heroic
designs which would annihilate prudence as a calculator, did not a
sanguine confidence in the results produce special energies to achieve
them, and thus create a prudence of its own, being as it were the
self-conscious admeasurement of the diviner strength which justified
the preterhuman spring. Nor less should we account by the same
cause for that audacity which startles us in criminals on a colossal
scale, which blinds them to the risks of detection, and often at the
bar of justice, while the evidences that ensure condemnation are.
thickening round them, with the persuasion of acquittal or escape.
Hope is thus alike the sublime inspirer or the arch corrupter ; it is the
foe of terror, the defier of consequences, the buoyant gamester which
at every loss doubles the stakes, with a firm hand rattles the dice, and,
invoking ruin, cries within itself, " How shall I expend the gain ?"

In the character, therefore, of a man like Pausanias, risking so
much glory, daring so much peril, strong indeed must have been
this sanguine motive power of human action. Nor is a large and
active development of hope incompatible with a temperament
habitually grave and often profoundly melancholy. For hope itself
is often engendered by discontent. A vigorous nature keenly
susceptible to joy, and deprived of the possassion of the joy it yearns
for by circumstances that surround it in the present, is goaded on by
its impatience and dissatisfaction ; it hopes for the something it has
not got, indifferent to the things it possesses, and saddened by the
want which it experiences. And therefore it has been well said by
philosophers, that real happiness would exclude desire ; in other
words, not only at the gates of hell, but at the porch of heaven, he
who entered would leave hope behind him. For perfect bliss is but
supreme content. And if content would say to itself, — " But I hope
for something more," it would destroy its own existence.

From his brief slumber the Spartan rose refreshed. The trumpets
were sounding near him, and the very sound brightened his aspeci,
and animated his spirits.

Agreeably to orders he had given the night before, the anchor was
raised, the rowers were on their benches, the libation to the Carnean
Apollo, under whose special protection the ship was placed, had

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 403

been poured forth, 'and with the rising sea and to the blare of
trumpets the gorgeous trireme moved forth from the bay.

It moved, as the trumpets ceased, to the note of a sweeter, but
not less exciting music. For, according to Hellenic custom, to the
rowers was allotted a musician, with whose harmony their oars,
when first putting forth to sea, kept time. And on this occasion
Alcman superseded the wonted performer by his own more popular
song and the melody of his richer voice. Standing by the mainmast,
and holding the large harp, which was stricken by the quill, its
strings being deepened by a sounding-board, he chanted an lo Paean
to the Dorian god of light and poesy. The harp at stated intervals
was supported by a burst of flutes, and the burthen of the verse was
caught up by the rowers as in chorus. Thus, far and wide over the
shining waves, went forth the hymn.

lo, lo Paean ! slowly. Song and oar must chime together :
lo, lo Paean ! by what title call Apollo?
Clarian ? Xanthian ? Boedromian ?
Countless are thy names, Apollo.
lo Carnee ! lo Carnee !
By the margent of Eurotas,
'Neath the shadows of Taygetus,
Thee the sons of Lacedssmon
Name Carneus. lo, lo !
lo Carnee ! lo Carnee !

lo, To Prcan ! quicker. Song and voice must chime together :
lo Paean ! lo Paean ! King Apollo, lo, lo !
lo Carnee !

For thine altars do the seasons
Paint the tributary flowers,
Spring thy hyacinth restores,
Summer greets thee with the rose,
Autumn the blue Cyane mingles
With the coronals of corn,
And in every wreath thy laurel
Weaves its everlasting green.

lo Carnee ! lo Carnee !
For the brows Apollo favours
Spring and winter does the laurel
Weave its everlasting green.

lo, lo Paean ! louder. Voice and oar must chime together:
For the brows Apollo favours
Even Ocean bears the laurel.
lo Carnee ! lo Carnee !

lo, lo Paean ! stronger. Strong are those who win the laurel.

As the ship of the Spartan commander thus bore out to sea, the
other vessels of the armament had been gradually forming them-
selves into a crescent, preserving still the order in which the allies
maintained their several contributions to the fleet, the Athenian

404 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

ships at the extreme end occupying the right wing, the Pelopon-
nesians massed together at the left.

The Chian galleys adjoined the Samian ; for Uliades and Antagoras
had contrived that their ships should be close to each other, so that
they might take counsel at any moment and act in concert.

And now when the fleet had thus opened its arms as it were to
receive the commander, the great trireme of Pausanias began to
veer round, and to approach the half moon of the expanded arma-
ment. On it came, with its beaked prow, like a falcon swooping
down on some array of the lesser birds.

From the stern hung a gilded shield and a crimson pennon. The
heavy-armed soldiers in their Spartan mail occupied the centre of
the vessel, and the sun shone full upon their armour.

"By Pallas the guardian," said Cimon, "it is the Athenian
vessels that the strategus honours with his first visit."

And indeed the Spartan galley now came alongside that of
Aristides, the admiral of the Athenian navy.

The soldiers on board the former gave way on either side. And
a murmur of admiration circled through the Athenian ship, as
Pausanias suddenly appeared. For, as if bent that day on either
awing mutiny or conciliating the discontented, the Spartan chief
had wisely laid aside the wondrous Median robes. He stood on
her stern in the armour he had worn at Plataea, resting one hand
upon his shield, which itself rested on the deck. His head alone
was uncovered, his long sable locks gathered up into a knot, in the
Spartan fashion, a crest as it were in itself to that lofty head. And
so imposing were his whole air and carriage, that Cimon, gazing at
him, muttered, " What profane hand will dare to rob that demigod
of command ? "

CHAPTER VII.

?AUSANIAS came on board the vessel of the Athenian
admiral, attended by the five Spartan chiefs who have
been mentioned before as the warlike companions assigned
to him. He relaxed the haughty demeanour which had
given so much displeasure, adopting a tone of marked courtesy.
He spoke with high and merited praise of the seaman-like appear-
ance of the Athenian crews, and the admirable build and equipment
of their vessels.

"Pity only," said he, smiling, "that we have no Persians on the
ocean now, and that instead of their visiting us we must go in search
of them."

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 405

"Would that be wise on our part? "said Aristides. "Is not
Greece large enough for Greeks ? "

"Greece has not done. growing," answered the Spartan; "and
the Gods forbid that she should do so. When man ceases to grow
in height he expands in bulk ; when he stops there too, the frame
begins to stoop, the muscles to shrink, the skin to shrivel, and
decrepit old age steals on. I have heard it said of the Athenians
that they think nothing done while aught remains to do. Is it not
truly said, worthy son of Miltiades?"

Cimon bowed his head. "General, I cannot disavow the senti-
ment. But if Greece entered Asia, would it not be as a river that
runs into a sea ? it expands, and is merged. "

"The river, Cimon, may lose the sweetness of its wave and take
the brine of the sea. But the Greek can never lose the flavour of
the Greek genius, and could he penetrate the universe, the universe
would be Hellenized. But if, O Athenian chiefs, ye judge that we
have now done all that is needful to protect Athens, and awe the
Barbarian, ye must be longing to retire from the armament and
return to your homes."

" When it is fit that we should return, we shall be recalled," said
Aristides quietly.

"What, is your State so unerring in its judgment? Experience
does not permit me to think so, for it ostracised Aristides."

"An honour," replied the Athenian, "that I did not deserve,
but an action that, had I been the adviser of those who sent me
forth, I should have opposed as too lenient. Instead of ostracising
me, they should have cast both myself and Themistocles into the
Barathrum. "

"You speak with true Attic honour, and I comprehend that
where, in commonwealths constituted like yours, party runs high,
and the State itself is shaken, ostracism may be a necessary tribute
to the very virtues that attract the zeal of a party and imperil the
equality ye so prize. But what can compensate to a State for the
evil of depriving itself of its greatest citizens?"

"Peace and freedom," said Aristides. "If you would have the
young trees thrive you must not let one tree be so large as to over-
shadow them. Ah, general at Plataea," added the Athenian, in a
benignant whisper, for the grand image before him moved his heart
with a mingled feeling of generous admiration and prophetic pity,
' ' ah, pardon me if I remind thee of the ring of Polycrates, and say
that Fortune is a queen that requires tribute. Man should tremble
most when most seemingly fortune-favoured, and guard most against
a fall when his rise is at the highest."

406 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

" But it is only at its highest flight that the eagle is safe from the
arrow," answered Pausanias.

"And the nest the eagle has forgotten in her soaring is the more
exposed to the spoiler."

"Well, my nest is in rocky Sparta; hardy the spoiler who
ventures thither. Yet, to descend from these speculative com-
parisons, it seems that thou hast a friendly and meaning purpose in
thy warnings. Thou knowest that there are in this armament men
who grudge to me whatever I now owe to Fortune, who would
topple me from the height to which I did not climb, but was led by
the congregated Greeks, and who, while perhaps they are forging
arrow-heads for the eagle, have sent to place poison and a snare in
its distant nest. So the Nausicaa is on its voyage to Sparta, con-
veying to the Ephors complaints against me — complaints from men
who fought by my side against the Mede."

"I have heard that a Cyprian vessel left the fleet yesterday,
bound to Laconia. I have heard that it does bear men charged by
some of the lonians with representations unfavourable to the con-
tinuance of thy command. It bears none from me as the Nauarchus

of the Athenians. But "

' But — what ? '*

'But I have complained to thyself, Pausanias, in vain."
' Hast thou complained of late, and in vain ? "
'Nay."

' Honest men may err ; if they amend, do just men continue to
accuse ? "

" I do not accuse, Pausanias, I but imply that those who do may
have a cause, but it will be heard before a tribunal of thine own
countrymen, and doubtless thou hast sent to the tribunal those who
may meet the charge on thy behalf."

"Well," said Pausanias, still preserving his studied urbanity and
lofty smile, "even Agamemnon and Achilles quarrelled, but Greece
took Troy not the less. And at least, since Aristides does not
denounce me, if I have committed even worse faults than Aga-
memnon, I have not made an enemy of Achilles. And if," he
added after a pause, "if some of these lonians, not waiting for the
return of their envoys, openly mutiny, they must be treated as
Thersites was." Then he hurried on quickly, for observing that
Cimon's brow lowered, and his lips quivered, he desired to cut off
all words that might lead to altercation.

"But I have a request to ask of the Athenian Nauarchus. Will
.you gratify myself and the fleet by putting your Athenian triremes
into play ? Your seamen are so. famous for their manoeuvres, that

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 407

they might furnish us with sports of more grace and agility than do
the Lydian dancers. Landsman though I be, no sight more glads
mine eye, than these sea lions of pine and brass, bounding under
the yoke of their tamers. I presume not to give thee instructions
what to perform. Who can dictate to the seamen of Salamis? But
when your ships have played out their martial sport, let them
exchange stations with the Pelopownesian vessels, and occupy for
the present the left of the armament. Ye object not ? "

" Place us where thou wilt, as was said to thee at Platsea,"
answered Aristides.

" I now leave ye to prepare) Athenians, and greet ye, saying, the
Good to the Beautiful."

" A wondrous presence for a Greek commander !" said Cimon,
as Pausanias again stood on the stern of his own vessel, which
moved off towards the ships of the islands.

" And no mean capacity," returned Aristides. "See you not his
object in transplacing us?"

"Ha, truly; in case of mutiny on board the Ionian ships, he
separates them from Athens. • But woe to him if he thinks in his
heart that an Ionian is a Thersites, to be silenced by the blow of a
sceptre. Meanwhile let the Greeks see what manner of seamen are
the Athenians. Methinks this game ordained to us is a contest
before Neptune, and for a crowm"

Pausanias bore right on towards the vessels from the^Egsean Isles.
Their masts and prows were heavy with garlands, but no music
sounded from their decks, no welcoming shout from their crews.

" Son of Cleombrotus," said the prudent Erasiniclas, "sullen dogs
bite. Unwise the stranger who trusts himself to their kennel.
Pass not to those triremes ; let the captains, if thou wantest them,
come to thee."

Pausanias replied, "Dogs fear the steady eye and spring at the
recreant back. Helmsman, steer to yonder ship with the olive tree
on the Parasemon, and the image of Bacchus on the guardian
standard. It is the ship of Antagoras the Chian captain."

Pausanias turned to his warlike Five. "This time, forgive me, I
go alone." And before their natural Spartan slowness enabled them
to combat this resolution, -their leader was by the side of his rival,
alone in the Chian vessel, and surrounded by his sworn foes.

" Antagoras," said the Spartan, "a Chian seaman's ship is his
dearest home. I stand on thy deck as at thy hearth, and ask thy
hospitality ; a crust of thy honied bread, and a cup of thy Chian
wine. For from thy ship I would see the Athenian vessels go
through their nautical gymnastics."

The Chian turned pale and trembled ; his vengeance was braved

408 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

and foiled. He was powerless against the man who trusted to his
honour, and asked to break of his bread and eat of his cup. Pau-
sanias did not appear to heed the embarrassment of his unwilling
host, but turning round, addressed some careless words to the
soldiers on the raised central platform, and then quietly seated him-
self, directing his eyes towards the Athenian ships. Upon these all
the sails were now lowered. In nice manoeuvres the seamen pre-
ferred trusting to their oars. Presently one vessel started forth, and
with a swiftness that seemed to increase at every stroke.

A table was brought upon deck and placed before Pausanias, and
the slaves began to serve to him such light food as sufficed to furnish
the customary meal of the Greeks in the earlier forenoon.

" But where is mine host ? " asked the Spartan. " Does Antagoras
himself not deign to share a meal with his guest?"

On receiving the message, Antagoras had no option but to come
forward. The Spartan eyed him deliberately, and the young Chian
felt with secret rage the magic of that commanding eye.

Pausanias motioned to him to be seated, making room beside
himself. The Chian silently obeyed.

" Antagoras," said the Spartan in a low voke, " thou art doubtless
one of those who have already infringed the laws of military disci-
pline and obedience. Interrupt me not yet. A vessel without waiting
my permission has left the fleet with accusations against me, thy
commander ; of what nature I am not even advised. Thou wilt
scarcely deny that thou art one of those who sent forth the ship and
shared in the accusations. Yet I had thought that if I had ever
merited thine ill will, there had been reconciliation between us in
the Council Hall. What has chanced since ? Why shouldst thou
hate me? Speak frankly ; frankly have I spoken to thee."

" General, replied Antagoras, "there is no hegemony over men's
hearts ; thou sayest truly, as man to man, I hate thee. Wherefore?
Because as man to man, thou standest between me and happiness.
Because thou wooest, and canst only woo to dishonour, the virgin in
whom I would seek the sacred wife."

Pausanias slightly recoiled, and the courtesy he had simulated,
and which was essentially foreign to his vehement and haughty
character, fell from him like a mask. For with the words of
Antagoras, jealousy passed within him, and for the moment its
agony was such that the Chian was avenged. But he was too
habituated to the stateliness of self-control, to give vent to the rage
that seized him. He only said with a whitened and writhing lip,
''Thou art right; all animosities may yield, save those which a
woman's eye can kindle. Thou hatesl me — be it so — that is as man
to man But as officer to chieftain, I bid thee henceforth beware

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 409

how tbou givest me cause to set this foot on the head that lifts itself
to the height of mine."

With that he rose, turned on his heel, and walked towards the
stern, where he stood apart gazing on the Athenian triremes, which
by this time were in the broad sea. And all the eyes in the fleet
were turned towards that exhibition. For marvellous was the ease
and beauty with which these ships went through their nautical
movements ; now as in chase of each other, now approaching as in
conflict, veering ofif, darting aside, threading as it were a harmonious
maze, gliding in and out, here, there, with the undulous celerity of
the serpent. The admirable build of the ships ; the perfect skill of
the seamen ; the noiseless docility and instinctive comprehension by
which they seemed to seize and to obey the unforeseen signals of their
Admiral — all struck the lively Greeks that beheld the display, and
universal was the thought if not the murmur, There was the power
that should command the Grecian seas.

Pausanias was too much accustomed to the sway of masses, not to
have acquired that electric knowledge of what circles amongst them
from breast to breast, to which habit gives the quickness of an
instinct. He saw that he had committed an imprudence, and that
in seeking to divert a mutiny, he had incurred a yet greater peril.

He returned to his own ship without exchanging another word
with Antagoras, who had retired to the centre of the vessel, fearing
to trust himself to a premature utterance of that defiance which the
last warning of his chief provoked, and who was therefore arousing
the soldiers to louder shouts of admiration at the Athenian skill.

Rowing back towards the wing occupied by the Peloponnesian
allies, of whose loyalty he was assured, Pausanias then summoned
on board their principal officer, and communicated to him his policy
of placing the lonians not only apart from the Athenians, but under
the vigilance and control of Peloponnesian vessels in the immediate
neighbourhood. "Therefore," said he, "while the Athenians will
occupy this wing, I wish you to divide yourselves ; the Lacedaemonian
ships will take the way the Athenians abandon, but the Corinthian
triremes will place themselves between the ships of the Islands and
the Athenians. I shall give further orders towards distributing the
Ionian navy. And thus I trust either all chance of a mutiny is cut
off, or it will be put down at the first outbreak. Now give orders to
your men to take the places thus assigned to you. And having
gratified the vanity of our friends the Athenians by their holiday
evolutions, I shall send to thank and release them from the fatigue
so gracefully borne."

All those with whom he here conferred, and who had no love for
Athens or Ionia, readily fell into the plan suggested. Pausanias then

410 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

despatched a Laconian vessel to the Athenian Admiral, with com-
plimentary messages and orders to cease the manceuvres, and then
heading the rest of the Laconian contingent, made slow and stately
way towards the station deserted by the Athenians. But pausing
once more before the vessels of the Isles, he despatched orders to
their several commanders, which had the effect of dividing their
array, and placing between them the powerful Corinthian service.
In the orders of the vessels he forwarded for this change, he took
especial care to dislocate the dangerous contiguity of the Samian and
Chian triremes.

The sun was declining towards the west when Pausanias had
marshalled the vessels he headed, at their new stations, and the
Athenian ships were already anchored close and secured. But there
was an evident commotion in that part of the fleet to which the
Corinthian galleys had sailed. The lonians had received with
indignant murnlurs the command which divided their strength.
Under various pretexts each vessel delayed to move ; and when the
Corinthian ships came to take a vacant space, they found a for-
midable array, — the soldiers on the platforms armed to the teeth.
The confusion, was visible to the Spartan chief; the loud hubbub
almost reached to his ears. He hastened towards the place ; but
anxious to continue the gracious part he had so unwontedly played
that day, he cleared his decks of their formidable hoplites, lest he
might seem to meet menace by menace, and drafting them into other
vessels, and accompanied only by his personal serving-men and
rowers, he put forth alone, the gilded shield and the red banner still
displayed at his stern.

But as he was thus conspicuous and solitary, and midway in the
space left between the Laconian and Ionian galleys, suddenly two
ships from the latter darted forth, passed through the centre of the
Corinthian contingent, and steered with the force of all their rowers,
right towards the Spartan's ship.

" Surely," said Pausanias, " that is the Chian's vessel. I recognize
the vine tree and the image of the Bromian god ; and surely that
other one is the Chimera under Uliades the Samian. They come
hither, the Ionian with them, to harangue against obedience to my
orders."

"They come hither to assault us," exclaimed Erasinidas ; " their
beaks are right upon us."

He had scarcely spoken, when the Chian's brass prow smote the
gilded shield, and rent the red banner from its staff. At the same
time, the Chimera, under Uliades, struck the right side of the
Spartan ship, and with both strokes the stout vessel reeled and
dived. " Know, Spartan," cried Antagoras, from the platform in

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 411

the midst of his soldiers, "that we lonians hold together. lie who
woLikl separate, means to conquer, us. We disown thy hegemony.
If ye would seek us, we are with the Athenians."

With that the two vessels, having performed their insolent and
daring feat, veered and shot off with the same rapidity with which
they had come to the assault ; and as they did so, hoisted the
Athenian ensign over their own national standards. The instant
that signal was given, from the other Ionian vessels, which had been
evidently awaiting it, there came a simultaneous shout ; and all,
vacating their place and either gliding through or wheeling round the
Corinthian galleys, steered towards the Athenian fleet.

The trireme of Pausanias, meanwhile, sorely damaged, part of its
side rent away, and the water rushing in, swayed and struggled
alone in great peril of sinking.

Instead of pursuing the lonians, the Corinthian galleys made at
once to the aid of the insulted commander.

"Oh," cried Pausanias, in powerless wrath, "Oh, the accursed
element ! Oh that mine enemies had attacked me on the land ! "

" How are we to act?" said Aristides.

"We are citizens of a Republic, in which the majority govern,"
answered Cimon. "And the majority here tell us how we are to
act. Hark to the shouts of our men, as they are opening way for
their kinsmen of the Isles."

The sun sank, and with it sank the Spartan maritime ascendancy
over Hellas. And from that hour in which the Samian and the
Chian insulted the galley of Pausanias, if we accord weight to the
authority on which Plutarch must have based his tale, commenced
the brief and glorious sovereignty of Athens. Commence when and
how it might, it was an epoch most signal in the records of the
ancient world for its results upon a civilization to which as yet
human foresight can predict no end.

END OF VOLUME I.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

VOLUME II.

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I.

jE pass from Byzantium, we are in Sparta. In the Archeion»
or office of the Ephoralty. sate five men, all somewhat
advanced in years. These constituted that stern and
terrible authority which had gradually, and from unknown
beginnings,1 assumed a kind of tyranny over the descendants of
Hercules themselves. They were the representatives of the Spartan
people, elected without reference to rank or wealth,2 and possessing
jurisdiction not only over the Helots and Laconians, but over most
of the magistrates. They could suspend or terminate any office,
they could accuse the kings and bring them before a court in which
they themselves were judges upon trial of life and death. They
exercised control over the armies and the embassies sent abroad ;
and the king, at the head of liis forces, was still bound to receive his
instructions from this Council of Five. Their duty, in fact, was to
act as a check upon the kings, and they were the representatives of
that Nobility which embraced the whole Spartan people, in contra-
distinction to the Laconians and Helots.

The conference in which they were engaged seemed to rivet their
most earnest attention. And as the presiding Ephor continued the
observations he addressed to them, the rest listened with profound
and almost breathless silence.

1 K. O. Muller (Dorians), Book 3, c. 7, § 2. According to Aristotle, Cicero
and others, the Ephoralty was founded by Theopompus subsequently to the
mythical time of Lycurgus. To Lycurgus itself it is referred by Xenophon and
Herodotus. MOller considers rightly that, though an ancient Doric institution, it
was incompatible with the primitive constitution of Lycurgus, and had gradually
acquired its peculiar character by causes operating on the Spartan State alone.

* Aristot Pol. ii.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 413

The speaker, named Periclides, was older than the others. His
frame, still upright and sinewy, was yet lean almost to emaciation,
his face sharp, and his dark eyes gleamed with a cunning and
sinister light under his gray brows.

"If," said he, "we are to believe these lonians, Pausanias
meditates some deadly injury to Greece. As for the complaints of
his arrogance, they are to be received' with due caution. Our
Spartans, accustomed to the peculiar discipline of the Laws of
yEgimius, rarely suit the humours of lonians and innovators. The
question to consider is not whether he has been too imperious
towards lonians who were but the other day subjected to the Mede,
but whether he can make the command he received from Sparta
menacing to Sparta herself. We lend him iron, he hath holpen
himself to gold."

" Besides the booty at Plataea, they say that he has amassed much
plunder at Byzantium," said Zeuxidamus, one of the Ephors, after a
pause.

Periclides looked hard at the speaker, and the two men exchanged
a significant glance.

"For my part," said a third, a man of a severe but noble counte-
nance, the father of Lysander, and, what was not usual with the
Ephors, belonging to one of the highest families of Sparta, " I have
always held that Sparta should limit its policy to self-defence ; that,
since the Persian invasion is over, we have no business with Byzan-
tium. Let the busy Athenians obtain if they will the empire of the
sea. The sea is no province of ours. All intercourse with foreigners,
Asiatics and lonians, enervates our men and corrupts our generals.
Recall Pausanias— recall our Spartans. I have said."

" Recall Pausanias first," said Periclides, " and we shall then hear
the truth, and decide what is best to be done."

"If he has medised, if he has conspired against Greece, let us
accuse him to the death," said Agesilaus, Lysander's father.

" We may accuse, but it rests not with us to sentence," said
Periclides, disapprovingly.

"And," said a fourth Ephor, with a visible shudder, "what
Spartan dare counsel sentence of death to the descendant of the
Gods ? "

"I dare," replied Agesilaus, "but provided only that the
descendant of the Gods had counselled death to Greece. And for
that reason, I say that I would not, without evidence the clearest,
even harbour the thought that a Heracleid could meditate treason to
his country."

Periclides felt the reproof and bit his lips.

" Besides," observed Zeuxidamus, " fines enrich the State."

414 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

Periclicles nodded approvingly.

An expression of lofty contempt passed over the brow and lip of
Agesilaus. But with national self-command, he replied gravely, and
with equal laconic brevity, "If Pausanias hath committed a trivial
error that a fine can expiate, so be it. But talk not of fines till ye
acquit him of all treasonable connivance with the Mede."

At that moment an officer entered on the conclave, and approach-
ing the presiding Ephor, whispered in his ear.

"This is well," exclaimed Periclides aloud. "A messenger
from Pausanias himself. Your son Lysander has just arrived from
Byzantium."

"My son!" exclaimed Agesilaus eagerly, and then checking
himself, added calmly, "That is a sign no danger to Sparta threatened
Byzantium when he left."

" Let him be admitted," said Periclicles.

Lysander entered ; and pausing at a little distance from the council
board, inclined his head submissively to the Ephors ; save a rapid
interchange of glances, no separate greeting took place between son
and father.

"Thou art welcome," said Periclides. "Thou hast done thy
duty since thou hast left the city. Virgins will praise thee as the
brave man ; age, more sober, is contented to say thou hast upheld
the Spartan name. And thy father without shame may take thy
hand."

A warm flush spread over the young man's face. He stepped
forward with a quick step, his eyes beaming with joy. Calm and
stately, his father rose, clasped the extended hand, then releasing
his own placed it an instant on his son's bended head, and reseated
himself in silence.

" Thou earnest straight from Pausanias?" said Periclides.

Lysander drew from his vest the despatch entrusted to him, and
gave it to the presiding Ephor. Periclides half rose as if to take
with more respect what had come from the hand of the son of
Hercules.

"Withdraw, Lysander," he said, "and wait without while we
deliberate on the contents herein."

Lysander obeyed, and returned to the outer chamber.

Here he was instantly surrounded by eager, though not noisy
groups. Some in that chamber were waiting on business connected
with the civil jurisdiction of the Ephors. Some had gained admit-
tance for the purpose of greeting their brave countryman, and hear-
ing news of the distant camp from one who had so lately quitted the
great Pausanias. For men could talk without restraint of their
General, though it was but with reserve and indirectly that they slid

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 415

in some furtive question as to the health and safety of a brother
or a son.

"My heart warms to be amongst ye again," said the simple
Spartan youth. "As I came thro' the defiles from the sea-coast,
and saw on the height the gleam from the old Temple of Pallas
Chalcicecus, I said to myself, ' Blessed be the Gods that ordained
me to live with Spartans or die with Sparta ! "'

"Thou wilt see how much we shall make of thee, Lysander,"
cried a Spartan youth a little younger than himself, one of the
superior tribe of the Hylleans. " We have heard of thee at Plata>a.
It is said that had Pausanias not been there thou wouldst have been
called the bravest Greek in the armament."

"Hush," said Lysander, "thy few years excuse thee, young
friend. Save our General, we were all equals in the day of battle."

" So thinks not my sister Percalus," whispered the youth archly ;
" scold her as thou dost me, if thou dare."

Lysander coloured, and replied in a voice that slightly trembled,
" I cannot, hope that thy sister interests herself in me. Nay, when
I left Sparta, I thought — " He checked himself.

"Thought what?"

" That among those who remained behind Percalus might find
her betrothed long before I returned. "

" Among those who remained behind ! Percalus ! How meanly
thou must think of her."

Before Lysander could utter the eager assurance that he was very
far from thinking meanly of Percalus, the other bystanders, impatient
at this whispered colloquy, seized his attention with a volley of ques-
tions, to which he gave but curt and not very relevant answers, so
much had the lad's few sentences disturbed the calm tenor of his
existing self-possession. Nor did he quite regain his presence of
mind until he was once more summoned into the presence of the
Ephors.

CHAPTER II.

1HE communication of Pausanias had caused an animated
discussion in the Council, and led to a strong division of
opinion. But the faces of the Ephors, rigid and composed,
revealed nothing to guide the sagacity of Lysander, as he
re-entered the chamber. He himself, by a strong effort, had recovered
the disturbance into which the words of the boy had thrown his
mind, and he stood before the Ephors intent upon the object cf
defending the name, raid fulfilling the commands of his chief. So

416 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

reverent and grateful was the love that he bore to Pausanias, that he
scarcely permitted himself even to blame the deviations from Spartan
austerity which he secretly mourned in his mind ; and as to the grave
guilt of treason to the Hellenic cause, he had never suffered the
suspicion of it to rest upon an intellect that only failed to be pene-
trating, where its sight was limited by discipline and affection. He
felt that Pausanias had entrusted to him his defence, and though he
would fain, in his secret heart, have beheld the Regent once more
in Sparta, yet he well knew that it was the duty of obedience and
friendship to plead against the sentence of recall which was so
dreaded by his chief.

With all his thoughts collected towards that end, he stood before
the Ephors, modest in demeanour, vigilant in purpose.

"Lysander," said Periclides, after a short pause, "we know thy
affection to the Regent, thy chosen friend ; but we know also thy
affection for thy native Sparta ; where the two may come into
conflict, it is, and it must be, thy country which will claim the
preference. We charge thee, by virtue of our high powers and
authority, to speak the truth on the questions we shall address to
thee, without fear or favour."

Lysander bowed his head. " I am in presence of Sparta my
mother and Agesilaus my father. They know that I was not reared
to lie to either."

"Thou say'st well. Now answer. Is it true that Pausanias wears
the robes of the Mede ? "

' It is true."

' And has he stated to thee his reasons?"

' Not only to me, but to others."

'What are they?"

'That in the mixed and half medised population of Byzantium,
splendour of attire has become so associated with the notion of
sovereign power, that the Eastern dress and attributes of pomp are
essential to authority ; and that men bow before his tiara, who might
rebel against the helm and the horsehair. Outward signs have a
value, O Ephors, according to the notions men are brought up to
attach to them."

"Good, "said one of the Ephors. "There is in this departure
from our habits, be it right or wrong, no sign then of connivance
with the Barbarian."

"Connivance is a thing secret and concealed, and shuns all
outward signs."

"But," said Periclides, "what say the other Spartan Captains to
this vain fashion, which savours not of the Laws of yEgimius?"

"The first law of ^gimius commands us to fight and to die for

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 417

the king or the chief who has kingly sway. The Ephors may blame,
but the soldier must not question."

"Thou speakest boldly for so young a man," said Periclides harshly.

" I was commanded to speak the truth."

" Has Pausanias entrusted the command of Byzantium to Gongylus
the Eretrian, who already holds four provinces under Xerxes ? "

" He has done so."

"Know you the reason for that selection?"

" Pausanias says that the Eretrian could not more show his faith
to Hellas, than by resigning Eastern satrapies so vast."

" Has he resigned them?"

" I know not ; but I presume that when the Persian king knows
that the Eretrian is leagued against him with the other Captains of
Hellas, he will assign the Satrapies to another."

"And is it true that the Persian prisoners, Ariamanes and Datis,
have escaped from the custody of Gongylus?"

"It is true. The charge against Gongylus for that error was heard
in a council of confederate captains, and no proof against him was
brought forward. Cimon was entrusted with the pursuit of the
prisoners. Pausanias himself sent forth fifty scouts on Thessalian
horses. The prisoners were not discovered."

" Is it true," said Zeuxidamus, "that Pausanias has amassed much
plunder at Byzantium ? "

" What he has won as a conqueror was assigned to him by common
voice, but he has spent largely out of his own resources in securing
the Greek sway at Byzantium."

There was a silence. None liked to question the young soldier
farther ; none liked to put the direct question, whether or not the
Ionian Ambassador could have cause for suspecting the descendant
of Hercules of harm against the Greeks. At length Agesilaus said :

" I demand the word, and I claim the right to speak plainly. My
son is young, but he is of the blood of Hyllus.

"Son — Pausanias is dear to thee. Man soon dies: man's name
lives for ever. Dear to thee if Pausanias is, dearer must be his
name. In brief, the Ionian Ambassadors complain of his arrogance
towards the Confederates ; they demand his recall. Cimon has
addressed a private letter to the Spartan host, with whom he lodged
here, intimating that it may be best for the honour of Pausanias, and
for our weight with the allies, to hearken to the Ionian Embassy. It
is a grave question, therefore, whether we should recall the Regent
or refuse to hear these charges. Thou art fresh from Byzantium ;
thou must know more of this matter than we. Loose thy tongue,
put aside equivocation. Say thy mind, it is for us to decide
afterwards what is our duty to the State."

P

4i 8 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

"I thank thee, my father," said Lysander, colouring deeply at a
compliment paid rarely to one so young, " and thus I answer thee :

" Pausanias, in seeking to enforce discipline and preserve the
Spartan supremacy, was at first somewhat harsh and severe to these
lonians, who had indeed but lately emancipated themselves from the
Persian yoke, and who were little accustomed to steady rule. But
of late he has been affable and courteous, and no complaint was
urged against him for austerity at the time when this embassy was
sent to you. Wherefore was it then sent ? Partly, it may be, from
motives of private hate, not public zeal, but partly because the
Ionian race sees with reluctance and jealousy the Hegemony of
Sparta. I would speak plainly. It is not for me to say whether ye
will or not that Sparta should retain the maritime supremacy of
Hellas, but if ye do will it, ye will not recall Pausanias. No other
than the Conqueror of Platoea has a chance of maintaining that
authority. Eager would the lonians be upon any pretext, false or
frivolous, to rid themselves of Pausanias. Artfully willing would be
the Athenians in especial that ye listened to such pretexts ; for,
Pausanias gone, Athens remains and rules. On what belongs to
the policy of the State it becomes not me to proffer a word, O
Ephors. In what I have said I speak what the whole armament
thinks and murmurs. But this I may say as soldier to whom the
honour of his chief is dear. — The recall of Pausanias may or may
not be wise as a public act, but it will be regarded throughout all
Hellas as a personal affront to your general ; it will lower the royalty
of Sparta, it will be an insult to the blood of Hercules. Foi'give
me, O venerable magistrates. I have fought by the side of Pausanias,
and I cannot dare to think that the great Conqueror of Platoea, the
man who saved Hellas from the Mede, the man who raised Sparta
on that day to a renown which penetrated the farthest corners of the
East, will receive from you other return than fame and glory. And
fame and glory will surely make that proud spirit doubly Spartan."

Lysander paused, breathing hard and colouring deeply — annoyed
with himself for a speech of which both the length and the audacity
were much more Ionian than Spartan.

The Ephors looked at each other, and there was again silence.

"Son of Agesilaus," said Periclides, " thou hast proved thy
Lacedaemonian virtues too well, and too high and general is thy
repute amongst our army, as it is borne to our ears, for us to doubt
thy purity and patriotism ; otherwise, we might fear that whilst thou
speakest in some contempt of Ionian wolves, thou hadst learned the
arts of Ionian Agoras. But enough : thou art dismissed. Go to
thy home ; glad the eyes of thy mother ; enjoy the honours thou
wilt find awaiting thee amongst thy coevals. Thou wilt learn later

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 419

whether thou return to Byzantium, or whether a better field for thy
valour may not be found in the nearer war with which Arcadia
threatens us."

As soon as Lysander left the chamber, Agesilaus spoke : —

" Ye will pardon me, Ephors, if I bade my son speak thus boldly.
I need not say I am no vain, foolish father, desiring to raise the
youth above his years. But making allowance for his partiality to
the Regent, ye will grant that he is a fair specimen of our young
soldiery. Probably, as he speaks, so will our young men think. To
recall Pausanias is to disgrace our general. Ye have my mind. If the
Regent be guilty of the darker charges insinuated — correspondence
with the Persian against Greece — I know but one sentence for him —
Death. And it is because I would have ye consider well how dread
is such a charge, and how awful such a sentence, that I entreat ye
not lightly to entertain the one unless ye are prepared to meditate the
other. As for the maritime supremacy of Sparta, I hold, as I have
held before, that it is not within our councils to strive for it ; it must
pass from us. We may surrender it later with dignity ; if we recall
our general on such complaints, we lose it with humiliation."

"I agree with Agesilaus," said another, "Pausanias is an
Heracleid ; my vote shall not insult him."

"I agree too with Agesilaus," said a third Ephor ; "not because
Pausanias is the Heracleid, but because he is the victorious general
who demands gratitude and respect from every true Spartan."

" Be it so," said Periclides, who, seeing himself thus outvoted in
the council, covered his disappointment with the self-control habitual
to his race. " But be we in no hurry to give these Ionian legates
their answer to-day. We must deliberate well how to send such a
reply as may be most conciliating and prudent. And for the next
few days we have an excuse for delay in the religious ceremonials
due to the venerable Divinity of Fear, which commence to-morrow.
Pass we to the other business before us ; there are many whom we
have kept waiting. Agesilaus, thou art excused from the public
table to-dny if thou wouldst sup with thy brave son at home."

" Nay," said Agesilaus, "my son will go to his pheidition and I
to mine — as I did on the day when I lost my first-bora ."

420 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

CHAPTER III.

|N quitting the Hall of the Ephors, Lysancler found himself
at once on the Spartan Agora, wherein that Hall was
placed. This was situated on the highest of the five hills,
over which the unwalled city spread its scattered popula-
tion, and was popularly called the Tower. Before the eyes of the
young Spartan rose the statues, rude and antique, of Latona, the
Pythian Apollo, and his sister Artemis ; — venerable images to
Lysander's early associations. The place which they consecrated
was called Chorus ; for there, in honour of Apollo, and in the most
pompous of all the Spartan festivals, the young men were accustomed
to lead the sacred dance. The Temple of Apollo himself stood a
little in the background, and near to it that of Hera. But more
vast than any image of a god was a colossal statue which represented
the Spartan people ; while on a still loftier pinnacle of the hill than
that table-land which enclosed the Agora — dominating, as it were,
the whole city — soared into the bright blue sky the sacred Chalcioscus,
or Temple of the Brazen Pallas, darkening with its shadow another
fane towards the left dedicated to the Lacedaemonian Muses, and
receiving a gleam on the right from the brazen statue of Zeus, which
was said by tradition to have been made by a disciple of Daedalus
himself.

But short time had Lysander to note undisturbed the old familiar
scenes. A crowd of his early friends had already collected round
the doors of the Archeion, and rushed forward to greet and welcome
him. The Spartan coldness and austerity of social intercourse
vanished always before the enthusiasm created by the return to his
native city of a man renowned for valour ; and Lysander's fame had
come back to Sparta before himself. Joyously, and in triumph, the
young men bore away their comrade. As they passed through the
centre of the Agora, where assembled the various merchants and
farmers, who, under the name of Periceci, carried on the main
business of the Laconian mart, and were often much wealthier than
the Spartan citizens, trade ceased its hubbub ; all drew near to gaze
on the young warrior ; and now, as they turned from the Agora, a
group of eager women met them on the road, and shrill voices
exclaimed: "Go, Lysander, thou hast fought well — go and choose
for thyself the maiden that seems to thee the fairest. Go, marry
and get sons for Sparta."

Lysander's step seemed to tread on air, and tears of rapture stood
in his downcast eyes. But suddenly all the voices hushed ; the

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 421

crowds drew back ; his friends halted. Close by the great Temple
of Fear, and coming from some place within its sanctuary, there
approached towards the Spartan and his comrades a majestic womnn
• — a woman of so grand a step and port, that, though her veil as yet
hid her face, her form alone sufficed to inspire awe. All knew her
by her gait ; all made way for Alithea, the widow of a king, the
mother of Pausanias the Regent. Lysander, lifting his eyes from
the ground, impressed by the hush around him, recognized the form
as it advanced slowly towards him, and, leaving his comrades behind,
stepped forward to salute the mother of his chief. She, thus seeing
him, turned slightly aside, and paused by a rude building of im-
memorial antiquity which stood near the temple. That building was
the tomb of the mythical Orestes, whose bones were said to have
been interred there by the command of the Delphian Oracle. On a
stone at the foot of the tomb sate calmly down the veiled woman,
and waited the approach of Lysander. When he came near, and
alone — all the rest remaining aloof and silent — Alithea removed her
veil, and a countenance grand and terrible as that of a Fate lifted
its rigid looks to the young Spartan's eyes. Despite her age — for
she had passed into middle life before she had borne Pausanias —
Alithea retained all the traces of a marvellous and almost preter-
human beauty. But it was not the beauty of woman. No softness
sate on those lips ; no love beamed from those eyes. Stern, inexor-
able— not a fault in her grand proportions — the stoutest heart might
have felt a throb of terror as the eye rested upon that pitiless and
imposing front. And the deep voice of the Spartan warrior had a
slight tremor in its tone as it uttered its respectful salutation.

' ' Draw near, Lysander. What sayest thou of my son ? "

" I left him well, and "

"Does a Spartan mother first ask of the bodily health of an
absent man-child ? By the tomb of Orestes and near the Temple of
Fear, a king's widow asks a Spartan soldier what he says of a
Spartan chief."

"All Hellas," replied Lysander, recovering his spirit, "might
answer thee best, Alithea. For all Hellas proclaimed that the
bravest man at Plataea was thy son, my chief."

"And where did my son, thy chief, learn to boast of bravery?
They tell me he inscribed the offerings to the Gods with his name as
the victor of Platsea — the battle won not by one man but assembled
Greece. The inscription that dishonours him by its vainglory will
be erased. To be brave is nought. Barbarians may be brave.
But to dedicate bravery to his native land becomes a Spartan. He
who is everything against a foe should count himself as nothing in
the service of his country."

422 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

Lysander remained silent under the gaze of those fixed and
imperious eyes.

" Youth," said Alithea, after a short pause, " if thou returnest to
Byzantium, say this from Alithea to thy chief: — 'From thy child-
hood, Pausanias, has thy mother feared for thee ; and at the Temple
of Fear did she sacrifice when she heard that thou wert victorious at
PlatEea ; for in thy heart are the seeds of arrogance and pride; and
victory to thine arms may end in ruin to thy name. And ever since
that day does Alithea haunt the precincts of that temple. Come
hack and be Spartan, as thine ancestors were before thee, and
Alithea will rejoice and think the gods have heard her. But if
thou seest within thyself one cause why thy mother should sacrifice
to Fear, lest her son should break the laws of Sparta, or sully his
Spartan name, humble thyself, and mourn that thou didst not perish
at Platsea. By a temple and from a tomb I send thee warning.'
Say this. I have done ; join thy friends."

Again the veil fell over the face, and the figure of the woman
remained seated at the tomb long after the procession had passed on,
and the mirth of young voices was again released.

CHAPTER IV.

!HE group that attended Lysander continued to swell as he
mounted the acclivity on which his parental home was
placed. The houses of the Spartan proprietors were at
that day not closely packed together as in the dense
population of commercial towns. More like the villas of a suburb,
they Jay a little apart, on the unequal surface of the rugged ground,
perfectly plain and unadorned, covering a large space with ample
court-yards, closed in, in front of the narrow streets. And still was
in force the primitive law which ordained that doorways should be
shaped only by the saw, and the ceilings by the axe ; but in contrast
to the rudeness of the private houses, at every opening in the street
were seen the Doric pillars or graceful stairs of a temple ; and high
over all dominated the Tower-hill, or Acropolis, with the antique
fane of Pallas Chalcicecus.

And so, loud and joyous, the procession bore the young warrior
to the threshold of his home. It was an act of public honour to his
fair repute and his proven valour. And the Spartan felt as proud of
that unceremonious attendance as ever did Roman chief sweeping
under arches of triumph in the curule car.

At the threshold of the door stood his mother — for the tidings of

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 423

his coming had preceded him — and his little brothers and sisters.
His step quickened at the sight of these beloved faces.

"Bound forward, Lysander," said one of the train; "thou hast
won the right to thy mother's kiss."

" But fail us not at the pheidition before sunset," cried another.
" Every one of the obe will send his best contribution to the feast to
welcome thee back. We shall have a rare banquet of it."

And so, as his mother drew him within the doors, his arm round
her waist, and the children clung to his cloak, to his knees, or sprang
up to claim his kiss, the procession set up a kind of chaunted shout,
and left the warrior in his home.

"Oh, this is joy, joy !" said Lysander, with sweet tears in his
eyes, as he sat in the women's apartment, his mother by his side,
and the little ones round him. " Where, save in Sparta, does a man
love a home?"

And this exclamation, which might have astonished an Ionian —
seeing how much the Spartan civilians merged the individual in the
state — was yet true, where the Spartan was wholly Spartan, where,
by habit and association, he had learned to love the severities of the
existence that surrounded him, and where the routine of duties which
took him from his home, whether for exercises or the public tables,
made yet more precious the hours of rest and intimate intercourse
with his family. For the gay pleasures and lewd resorts of other
Greek cities were not known to the Spartan. Not for him were the
cook-shops and baths and revels of Ionian idlers. When the State
ceased to claim him, he had nothing but his Home.

As Lysander thus exclaimed, the door of the room had opened
noiselessly, and Agesilaus stood unperceived at the entrance, and
overheard his son. His face brightened singularly at Lysander's
words. He came forward and opened his arms.

" Embrace me now, my boy ! my brave boy ! embrace me now !
The Ephors are not here."

Lysander turned, sprang up, and was in his father's arms.

" So thou art not changed. Byzantium has not spoiled thee. Thy
name is uttered with praise unmixed with fear. All Persia's gold,
all the great king's Satrapies could not medise my Lysander. Ah,"
continued the father, turning to his wife, "who could have predicted
the happiness of this hour? Poor child ! he was born sickly. Hera
had already given us more sons than we could provide for, ere our
lands were increased by the death of thy childless relatives. Wife,
wife ! when the family council ordained him to be exposed on
Taygetus, when thou didst hide thyself lest thy tears should be seen,
and my voice trembled as I said, ' Be the laws obeyed,' who could
have guessed that the Gods would yet preserve him to be the pride

424 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

of our house ? Blessed be Zeus the saviour and Hercules the
warrior ! "

"And," said the mother, "blessed be Pausanias, the descendant
of Hercules, who took the forlorn infant to his father's home, and
who has reared him now to be the example of Spartan youths."

"Ah," said Lysander, looking up into his father's eyes, "if I can
ever be worthy of your love, O my father, forget not, I pray thee,
that it is to Pausanias I owe life, home, and a Spartan's glorious
destiny."

" I forget it not," answered Agesilaus, with a mournful and serious
expression of countenance. "And on this I would speak to thee.
Thy mother must spare thee awhile to me. Come. I lean on thy
shoulder instead of my staff."

Agesilaus led his son into the large hall, which was the main
chamber of the house ; and pacing up and down the wide and
solitary floor, questioned him closely as to the truth of the stories
respecting the Regent which had reached the Ephors.

"Thou must speak with naked heart to me," said Agesilaus;
" for I tell thee that, if I am Spartan, I am also man and father ;
and I would serve him, who saved thy life and taught thee how to
fight for thy country, in every way that may be lawful to a Spartan
and a Greek."

Thus addressed, and convinced of his father's sincerity, Lysander
replied with ingenuous and brief simplicity. He granted that
Pausanias had exposed himself with a haughty imprudence, which
it was difficult to account for, to the charges of the lonians. " But,"
he added, with that shrewd observation which his affection for Pau-
sanias rather than his experience of human nature had taught him —
" But we must remember that in Pausanias we are dealing with no
ordinary man. If he has faults of judgment, which a Spartan rarely
commits, he has, O my father, a force of intellect and passion which
a Spartan as rarely knows. Shall I tell you the truth? Our State
is too small for him. But would it not have been too small for
Hercules? Would the laws of ^gimius have permitted Hercules to
perform his labours and achieve his conquests ? This vast and fiery
nature suddenly released from the cramps of our customs, which
Pausanias never in his youth regarded save as galling, expands itself,
as an eagle long caged would outspread its wings."

" I comprehend," said Agesilaus thoughtfully, and somewhat
sadly. " There have been moments in my own life when I regarded
Sparta as a prison. In my early manhood I was sent on a mission
to Corinth. Its pleasures, its wild tumult of gay licence dazzled
and inebriated me. I said, ' This it is to live.' I came back to
Sparta sullen and discontented. But then, happily, I saw thy mother

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 425

at the festival of Diana — we loved each other, we married — and
when I was permitted to take her to my home, I became sobered
and was a Spartan again. I comprehend. Poor Pausanias ! But
luxury and pleasure, though they charm awhile, do not fill up the
whole of a soul like that of our Heracleid. From these he may
recover ; but Ambition — that is the true liver of Tantalus, and
grows larger under the beak that feeds on it. What is his ambition,
if Sparta be too small for him?"

"I think his ambition would be to make Sparta as big as himself."

Agesilaus stroked his chin musingly.

"And how?"

"I cannot tell, I can only guess. But the Persian war, if I may
judge by what I hear and see, cannot roll away and leave the
boundaries of each Greek State the same. Two States now stand
forth prominent, Athens and Sparta. Themistocles and Cimon aim
at making Athens the head of Hellas. Perhaps Pausanias aims to
effect for Sparta what they would effect for Athens. "

"And what thinkest thou of such a scheme? "

"Ask me not. I am too young, too inexperienced, and perhaps
too Spartan to answer rightly."

" Too Spartan, because thou art too covetous of power for
Sparta."

"Too Spartan, because I may be too anxious to keep Sparta
what she is."

Agesilaus smiled. "We are of the same mind, my son. Think
not that the rocky denies which enclose us shut out from our minds
all the ideas that new circumstance strikes from Time. I have medi-
tated on what thou sayest Pausanias may scheme. It is true that the
invasion of the Mede must tend to raise up one State in Greece to
which the others will look for a head. I have asked myself, can
Sparta be that State ? and my reason tells me, No. Sparta is lost
if she attempt it. She may become something else, but she cannot
be Sparta. Such a State must become maritime, and depend on
fleets. Our inland situation forbids this. True we have ports in
which the Perioeci flourish ; but did we use them for a permanent
policy the Perioeci must become our masters. These five villages
would be abandoned for a mart on the sea-shore. This mother of
men would be no more. A State that so aspires must have ample
wealth at its command. We have none. We might raise tribute
from other Greek cities, but for that purpose we must have fleets
again, to overawe and compel, for no tribute will be long voluntary.
A state that would be the active governor of Hellas must have lives
to spare in abundance. We have none, unless we always do here-
after as we did at Plataea, raise an army of Helots — seven Helots to

r 2

426 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

one Spartan. How long, if we did so, would the Helots obey us,
and meanwhile how would our lands be cultivated? A State that
would be the centre of Greece, must cultivate all that can charm
and allure strangers. We banish strangers, and what charms and
allures them would womanize us. More than all, a State that would
obtain the sympathies of the turbulent Hellenic populations, must
have the most popular institutions. It must be governed by a
Demus. We are an Oligarchic Aristocracy — a disciplined camp of
warriors, not a licentious Agora. Therefore, Sparta cannot assume
the head of a Greek Confederacy except in the rare seasons of actual
war ; and the attempt to make her the head of such a confederacy
would cause changes so repugnant to our manners and habits, that
it would be fraught with destruction to him who made the attempt,
or to us if he succeeded. Wherefore, to sum up, the ambition of
Pausanias is in this impracticable, and must be opposed."

" And Athens," cried Lysander, with a slight pang of natural and
national jealousy, "Athens then must wrest from Pausanias the
hegemony he now holds for Sparta, and Athens must be what the
Athenian ambition covets."

"We cannot help it— she must; but can it last? — Impossible.
And woe to her if she ever comes in contact with the bronze of
Laconian shields. But in the meanwhile, what is to be done with
this great and awful Heracleid? They accuse him of medising, of
secret conspiracy with Persia itself. Can that be possible ? "

" If so, it is but to use Persia on behalf of Sparta. If he would
subdue Greece, it is not for the king, it is for the race of Hercules."

"Ay, ay, ay," cried Agesilaus, shading his face with his hand.
"All becomes clear to me now. Listen. Did I openly defend
Pausanias before the Ephors, I should injure his cause. But when
they talk of his betraying Hellas and Sparta, I place before them
nakedly and broadly their duty if that charge be true. For if true,
O my son, Pausanias must die as criminals die."

"Die — criminal — an Heracleid — king's blood — the victor of Platsea
— my friend Pausanias ! "

" Rather he than Sparta. What sayest thou?"

"Neither, neither," exclaimed Lysander, wringing his hands —
"impossible both. ''

" Impossible both, be it so. I place before the Ephors the terrors
of accrediting that charge, in order that they may repudiate it. For
the lesser ones it matters not ; he is in no danger there, save that of
fine. And his gold," added Agesilaus with a curved lip of disdain,
"will both condemn and save him. For the rest, I would spare
him the dishonour of being publicly recalled, and to say truth, I
would save Sparta the peril she might incur from his wrath, if she

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 427

inflicted on him that slight. But mark me, he himself must resign
his command, voluntarily, and return to Sparta. Better so for him
and his pride, for he cannot keep the hegemony against the will of
the lonians, whose fleet is so much larger than ours, and it is to his
gain if his successor lose it, not he. But better, not only for his
pride, but for his glory and his name, that he should come from these
scenes of fierce temptatiqn, and, since birth made him a Spartan,
learn here again to conform to what he cannot change. I have
spoken thus plainly to thee. Use the words I have uttered as thou
best may, after thy return to Pausanias, which I will strive to make
speedy. But while we talk there goes on danger — danger still of
his abrupt recall — for there are those who will seize every excuse for
it. Enough of these grave matters : the sun is sinking towards the
west, and thy companions await thee at thy feast ; mine will be
eager to greet me on thy return, and thy little brothers, who go
with me to my pheidition, will hear thee so praised that they will
long for the crypteia — long to be men, and find some future Platsea
for themselves. May the gods forbid it ! War is a terrible un-
settler. Time saps States as a tide the cliff. War is an inundation,
and when it ebbs, a landmark has vanished."

CHAPTER V.

^OTHING so largely contributed to the peculiar character
of Spartan society as the uniform custom of taking the
principal meal at a public table. It conduced to four
objects : the precise status of aristocracy, since each table
was formed according to title and rank, — equality among aristocrats,
since each at the same table was held the equal of the other — military
union, for as they feasted so they fought, being formed into divisions
in the field according as they messed together at home ; and lastly,
that sort of fellowship in public opinion which intimate association
amongst those of the same rank and habit naturally occasions.
These tables in Sparta were supplied by private contributions ; each
head of a family was obliged to send a certain portion at his own
cost, and according to the number of his children. If his fortune
did not allow him to do this, he was excluded from the public tables.
Hence a certain fortune was indispensable to the pure Spartan, and
this was one reason why it was permitted to expose infants, if the
family threatened to be too large for the father's means. The general
arrangements were divided into syssitia, according, perhaps, to the
number of families, and correspondent to the divisions or obes

428 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

acknowledged by the State. But these larger sections were again
subdivided into companies or clubs of fifteen, vacancies being filled
up by ballot ; but one vote could exclude. And since, as we have
said, the companies were marshalled in the field according to their
association at the table, it is clear that fathers of grave years and of
high station (station in Sparta increased with years) could not have
belonged to the same table as the young men, their sons. Their
boys under a certain age they took to their own pheiditia, where the
children sat upon a lower bench, and partook of the simplest dishes
of the fare.

Though the cheer at these public tables was habitually plain, yet
upon occasion it was enriched by presents to the after-course, of
game and fruit.

Lysander was received by his old comrades with that cordiality in
which was mingled for the first time a certain manly respect, due to
feats in battle, and so flattering to the young.

The prayer to the Gods, correspondent to the modern grace, and
the pious libations being concluded, the attendant Helots served the
black broth, and the party fell to, with the appetite produced by
hardy exercise and mountain air.

' ' What do the allies say to the black broth ? " asked a young
Spartan. '

"They do not comprehend its merits," answered Lysander.

CHAPTER VI.

' VERYTHING in the familiar life to which he had returned
delighted the young Lysander. But for anxious thoughts
about Pausanias, he would have been supremely blest.
To him the various scenes of his early years brought no
associations of the restraint and harshness which revolted the more
luxurious nature and the fiercer genius of Pausanias. The plunge
into the frigid waters of Eurotas — the sole bath permitted to the
Spartans1 at a time when the rest of Greece had already carried the
art of bathing into voluptuous refinement — the sight of the vehement
contests of the boys, drawn up as in battle, at the game of football,
or in detached engagements, sparing each other so little, that the
popular belief out of Sp .rta was that they were permitted to tear
out each other's eyes,2 but subjecting strength to every skilful art

1 Except occasionally the dry sudorific bath, all warm bathing was strictly
forbidden as enervating.

2 An evident exaggeration. The Spartans had too great a regard for the phy-
sical gifts as essential to warlike uses, to permit cruelties that would have blinded

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 429

that gymnastics could teach — the mimic war on the island, near the
antique trees of the Plane Garden, waged with weapons of wood
and blunted iron, and the march regulated to the music of flutes and
lyres — -nay, even the sight of the stern altar, at which boys had
learned to bear the anguish of stripes without a murmur — all pro-
duced in this primitive and intensely national intelligence an increased
admiration for the ancestral laws, which, carrying patience, fortitude,
address and strength to the utmost perfection, had formed a handful
of men into the calm lords of a fierce population, and placed the
fenceless villages of Sparta beyond a fear of the external assaults
and the civil revolutions which perpetually stormed the citadels and
agitated the market-places of Hellenic cities. His was not the
mind to perceive that much was relinquished for the sake of that
which was gained, or to comprehend that there was more which
consecrates humanity in one stormy day of Athens, than in a serene
century of iron Lacedsemon. But there is ever beauty of soul where
there is enthusiastic love of country ; and the young Spartan was
wise in his own Dorian way.

The religious festival which had provided the Ephors with an
excuse for delaying their answer to the Ionian envoys occupied the
city. The youths and the maidens met in the sacred chorus ; and
Lysander, standing by amidst the gazers, suddenly felt his heart
beat. A boy pulled him by the skirt of his mantle.

" Lysander, hast thou yet scolded Percalus ? " said the boy's
voice, archly.

" My young friend," answered Lysander, colouring high, "Percalus
hath vouchsafed me as yet no occasion ; and, indeed, sbe alone, of
all the friends whom I left behind, does not seem to recognize me."

His eyes, as he spoke, rested with a mute reproach in their gaze
on the form of a virgin, who had just paused in the choral dance,
and whose looks were bent obdurately on the ground. Her luxuriant
hair was drawn upward from cheek and brow, braided into a knot
at the crown of the head, in the fashion so trying to those who have
neither bloom nor beauty, so exquisitely becoming to those who have
both ; and the maiden, even amid Spartan girls, was pre-eminently
lovely. It is true that the sun had somewhat embrowned the smooth
cheek ; but the stately throat and the rounded arms were admirably
fair — not, indeed, with the pale and dead whiteness which the
Ionian women sought to obtain by art, but with the delicate rose-
hue of Hebe's youth. Her garment of snow-white wool, fastened
over both shoulders with large golden clasps, was without sleeves,
fitting not too tightly to the harmonious form, and leaving more

their young warriors. And they even forbade the practice of the pancratium as
ferocious and needlessly dangerous to life.

43° PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

than the ancle free to the easy glide of the dance. Taller than
Hellenic women usually were, but about the average height of her
Spartan companions, her shape was that which the sculptors give to
Artemis. Liyht and feminine and virginlike, but with all the rich
vitality of a divine youth, with a force, not indeed of a man, but
such as art would give to the goddess whose step bounds over the
mountain top, and whose arm can launch the shaft from the silver
bow — yet was there something in the mien and face of Percalus
more subdued and bashful than in those of most of the girls around
her ; and, as if her ear had caught Lysander's words, a smile just
now played round her lips, and gave to all the countenance a wonder-
ful sweetness. Then, as it became her turn once more to join in
the circling measure she lifted her eyes, directed them full upon the
young Spartan, and the eyes said plainly, "Ungrateful! I forget
thee ! I ! "

It was but one glance, and she seemed again wholly intent upon
the dance ; but Lysander felt as if he had tasted the nectar, and
caught a glimpse of the courts of the Gods. No further approach
was made by either, although intervals in the evening permitted it.
But if on the one hand there was in Sparta an intercourse between
the youth of both sexes wholly unknown in most of the Grecian
States, and if that intercourse made marriages of love especially
more common there than elsewhere, yet, when love did actually
exist, and was acknowledged by some young pair, they shunned
public notice ; the passion became a secret, or confidants to it were
few. Then came the charm of stealth : — to woo and to win, as if
the treasure were to be robbed by a lover from the Heaven unknown
to man. Accordingly Lysander now mixed with the spectators,
conversed cheerfully, only at distant intervals permitted his eyes to
turn to Percalus, and when her part in the chorus had concluded, a
sign, undetected by others, seemed to have been exchanged between
them, and, a little while after, Lysander had disappeared from the
assembly.

He wandered down the street called the Aphetais, and after a
little while the way became perfectly still and lonely, for the in-
habitants had crowded to the sacred festival, and the houses lay
quiet and scattered. So he went on, passing the ancient temple in
which Ulysses is said to have dedicated a statue in honour of his
victory in the race over the suitors of Penelope, and paused where
the ground lay bare and rugged around many a monument to the
fabled chiefs of the heroic age. Upon a crag that jutted over a
silent hollow, covered with oleander and arbute and here and there
the wild rose, the young lover sat down, waiting patiently ; for the
eyes of Percalus had told him he should not wait in vain. Afar he

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 431

saw, in the exceeding clearness of the atmosphere, the Taenarium or
Temple of Neptune, unprophetic of the dark connection that shrine
would hereafter have with him whom he then honoured as a chief
worthy, after death, of a monument amidst those heroes : and the
gale that cooled his forehead wandered to him from the field of the
Hellanium in which the envoys of Greece had taken council how to
oppose the march of Xerxes, when his myriads first poured into
Europe.

Alas, all the great passions that distinguish race from race pass
away in the tide of generations. The enthusiasm of soul which
gives us heroes and demi-gods for ancestors, and hallows their empty
tombs ; the vigour of thoughtful freedom which guards the soil from
invasion, and shivers force upon the edge of intelligence ; the heroic
age and the civilized alike depart ; and he who wanders through the
glens of Laconia can scarcely guess where was the monument of
Lelex, or the field of the Hellanium. And yet on the same spot
where sat the young Spartan warrior, waiting for the steps of the
beloved one, may, at this very hour, some rustic lover be seated,
with a heart beating with like emotions, and an ear listening for as
light a tread. Love alone never passes away from the spot where its
iootstep hath once pressed the earth, and reclaimed the savage.
Traditions, freedom, the thirst for glory, art, laws, creeds, vanish ;
but the eye thrills the breast, and hand warms to hand, as before the
name of Lycurgus was heard, or Helen was borne a bride to the
home of Menelaus. Under the influence of this power, then, some-
thing of youth is still retained by nations the most worn with time.
But the power thus eternal in nations is shortlived for the individual
being. Brief, indeed, in the life of each is that season which lasts
for ever in the life of all. From the old age of nations glory fades
away ; but in their utmost decrepitude there is still a generation
young enough to love. To the individual man, however, glory alone
remains when the snows of ages have fallen, and love is but the
memory of a boyish dream. No wonder that the Greek genius, half
incredulous of the soul, clung with such tenacity to Youth. What
a sigh from the heart of the old sensuous world breathes in the strain
of Mimnermus, bewailing with so fierce and so deep a sorrow the
advent of the years in which man is loved no more !

Lysander's eye was still along the solitary road, when he heard
a low musical laugh behind him. He started in surprise, and
beheld Percalus. Her mirth was increased by his astonished
gaze, till, in revenge, he caught both her hands, and drawing her
towards him, kissed, not without a struggle, the lips into serious
gravity.

Extricating herself from him, the maiden put on an air of offended

432 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

dignity, and Lysander, abashed at his own audacity, muttered some
broken words of penitence.

"But indeed," he added, as he saw the cloud vanishing from her
brow ; " indeed thou wert so provoking, and so irresistibly beauteous.
And how earnest thou here, as if thou hadst dropped from the
heavens?"

" Didst thou think," answered Percalus demurely, "that I could
be suspected of following thee ? Nay ; I tarried till I could
accompany Euryclea to her home yonder, and then slipping from
her by her door, I came across the grass and the glen to search for
the arrow shot yesterday in the hollow below thee." So saying, she
tripped from the crag by his side into the nooked recess below, which
was all out of sight, in case some passenger should pass the road,
and where, stooping down, she seemed to busy herself in searching
for the shaft amidst the odorous shrubs.

Lysander was not slow in following her footstep.

' Thine arrow is here," said he, placing his hand to his heart.

' Fie ! The Ionian poets teach thee these compliments."

' Not so. Who hath sung more of Love and his arrows than our
own Alcman?"

' Mean you the Regent's favourite brother ? "

' Oh no ! The ancient Alcman ; the poet whom even the Ephors
sanction."

Percalus ceased to seek for the arrow, and they seated themselves
on a little knoll in the hollow, side by side, and frankly she gave
him her hand, and listened, with rosy cheek and rising bosom, to
his honest wooing. He told her truly, how her image had been with
him in the strange lands ; how faithful he had been to the absent,
nmidst all the beauties of the Isles and of the East. He reminded
her of their early days — how, even as children, each had sought the
other.. He spoke of his doubts, his fears, lest he should find himself
forgotten or replaced ; and how overjoyed he had been when at last
her eye replied to his.

"And we understood each other so well, did we not, Percalus?
Here we have so often met before ; here we parted last ; here thou
knewest I should go ; here I knew that I might await thee."

Percalus did not answer at much length, but what she said sufficed
to enchant her lover. For the education of a Spartan maid did not
favour the affected concealment of real feelings. It could not,
indeed, banish what Nature prescribes to women — the modest self-
esteem — the difficulty to utter by word, what eye and blush reveal —
nor, perhaps, something of that arch and innocent malice, which
enjoys to taste the power which beauty exercises before the warm
heart will freely acknowledge the power which sways itself. But the

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 433

girl, though a little wilful and high-spirited, was a candid, pure, and
noble creature, and too proud of being loved by Lysander to feel
more than a maiden's shame to confess her own.

"And when I return," said the Spartan, "ah then look out and
take care ; for I shall speak to thy father, gain his consent to our
betrothal, and then carry thee away, despite all thy struggles, to the
bridesmaid, and these long locks, alas, will fall."

" I thank thee for thy warning, and will find my arrow in time to
guard myself," said Percalus, turning away her face, but holding up
her hand in pretty menace ; "but where is the arrow? I must make
haste and find it."

" Thou wilt have time enough, courteous Amazon, in mine absence,
for I must soon return to Byzantium."

PERCALUS. — "Art thou so sure of that?"

LYSANDER. — "Why — dost thou doubt it?"

PERCALUS (rising and moving the arbute boughs aside with the
tip of her sandal), — " And, unless thou wouldst wait very long for
my father's consent, perchance thou mayst have to ask for it very
soon — too soon to prepare thy courage for so great a peril. "

LYSANDER (perplexed). — "What canst thou mean? By all the
Gods, I pray thee speak plain."

PERCALUS. — "If Pausanias be recalled, wouldst thou still go to
Byzantium ? "

LYSANDER. — "No ; but I think the Ephors have decided not so
to discredit their General."

PERCALUS (shaking her head incredulously). — "Count not on
their decision so surely, valiant warrior ; and suppose that Pausanias
is recalled, and that some one else is sent in his place whose absence
would prevent thy obtaining that consent thou covetest, and so
frustrate thy designs on — on — (she added, blushing scarlet) — on
these poor locks of mine."

LYSANDER (starting). — "Oh, Percalus, do I conceive thee aright?
Hast thou any reason to think that thy father Dorcis will be sent to
replace Pausanias — the great Pausanias ! "

PERCALUS (a little offended at a tone of expression which seemed
to slight her father's pretensions). — "Dorcis, my father, is a warrior
whom Sparta reckons second to none ; a most brave captain, and
every inch a Spartan ; but — but — "

LYSANDER. — " Percalus, do not trifle with me. Thou knowest
how my fate has been linked to the Regent's. Thou must have
intelligence not shared even by my father, himself an Ephor. — What
is it ? "

PERCALUS. — "Thou wilt be secret, my Lysander, for what I may
tell thee I can only learn at the hearth-stone."

434 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

LYSANDER. — " Fear me not. Is not all between us a secret ?"

PERCALUS. — "Well, then, Periclides and my father, as thou art
aware, are near kinsmen. And when the Ionian Envoys first arrived,
it was my father who was specially appointed to see to their fitting
entertainment. And that same night I overheard Dorcis say to my
mother, 'If I could succeed Pausanias, and conclude this war, I
should be consoled for not having commanded at Platsea. ' And my
mother, who is proud for her husband's glory, as a woman should
be, said, ' Why not strain every nerve as for a crown in Olympia ?
Periclides will aid thee — thou wilt win.'"

LYSANDER. — " But that was the first night of the Ionian's arrival."
, PERCALUS. — "Since then, I believe that thy father and others of
the Ephors overruled Periclides and Zeuxidamus, for I have heard
all that passed between my father and mother on the subject. But
early this morning, while my mother was assisting to attire me for
the festival, Periclides himself called at our house, and before I came
from home, my mother, after a short conference with Dorcis, said to
me, in the exuberance of her joy, ' Go, child, and call here all the
maidens, as thy father ere long will go to outshine all the Grecian
chiefs.' So that if my father does go, thou wilt remain in Sparta.
Then, my beloved Lysander — and — and — but what ails thee ? Is
that thought so sorrowful?"

LYSANDER. — "Pardon me, pardon ; thou art a Spartan maid; thou
must comprehend what should be felt by a Spartan soldier when he
thinks of humiliation and ingratitude to his chief. Gods ! the man
who rolled back the storm of the Mede to be insulted in the face of
Hellas by the government of his native city ! The blush of shame
upon his cheek burns my own."

The warrior bowed his face in his clasped hands.

Not a resentful thought natural to female vanity and exacting
affection then crossed the mind of the Spartan girl. She felt at once,
by the sympathy of kindred nurture, all that was torturing her lover.
She was even prouder of him that he forgot her for the moment to
be so truthful to his chief ; and abandoning the innocent coyness she
had before shown, she put her arm round his neck with a pure and
sisterly fondness, and, kissing his brow, whispered soothingly, "It
is for me to ask pardon, that I did not think of this — that I spoke so
foolishly ; but comfort — thy chief is not disgraced even by recall.
Let them recall Pausanias, they cannot recall his glory. When, in
Sparta, did we ever held a brave man discredited by obedience
to the government ? None are disgraced who do not disgrace
themselves."

" Ah ! my Percalus, so I should say ; but so will not think Pau-
sanias, nor the allies ; and in this slight to him I see the shadow of

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 435

the Erinnys. But it may not be true yet ; nor can Periclides of
himself dispose thus of the Lacedaemonian armies."

" We will hope so, dear Lysander," said Percalus, who, born to
be man's helpmate, then only thought of consoling and cheering
him. " And if thou dost return to the camp, tarry as long as thou
wilt, thou wilt find Percalus the same."

"The Gods bless thee, maiden!" said Lysander, with grateful
passion, " and blessed be the State that rears such women ; elsewhere
Greece knows them not."

"And does Greece elsewhere know such men?" asked Percalus,
raising her graceful head. " But so late — is it possible? See where
the shadows are falling ! Thou wilt but be in time for thy pheidition.
Farewell."

" But when to meet again ? "

" Alas ! when we can." She sprang lightly away ; then, turning
her face as she fled, added, "Look out! thou wert taught to steal
in thy boyhood — steal an interview. I will be thy accomplice."

CHAPTER VII.

| HAT night, as Agesilaus was leaving the public table at
which he supped, Periclides, who was one of the same
company, but who had been unusually silent during the
entertainment, approached him, and said, "Let us walk
towards thy home together ; the moon is up, and will betray listeners
to our converse should there be any."

" And in default of the moon, thy years, if not yet mine, permit
thee a lanthorn, Periclides."

" I have not drunk enough to need it," answered the Chief of the
Ephors, with unusual pleasantry ; "but as thou art the younger man,
I will lean on thine arm, so as to be closer to thine ear."

"Thou hast something secret and grave to say, then?"

Periclides nodded.

As they ascended the rugged acclivity, different groups, equally
returning home from the public tables, passed them. Though the
sacred festival had given excuse for prolonging the evening meal,
and the wine-cup had been replenished beyond the abstemious wont,
still each little knot of revellers passed, and dispersed in a sober and
decorous quiet which perhaps no other eminent city in Greece could
have exhibited ; young and old equally grave and noiseless. For the
Spartan youth, no fair Hetoerae then opened homes adorned with
flowers, and gay with wit, no less than alluring with beauty ; but as

436 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

the streets grew more deserted, there stood in the thick shadow of
some angle, or glided furtively by some winding wall, a bridegroom
lover, tarrying till all was still, to steal to the arms of the lawful wife,
whom for years perhaps he might not openly acknowledge, and carry
in triumph to his home.

But not of such young adventurers thought the sage Periclides,
though his voice was as low as a lover's "hist!" and his step as
stealthy as a bridegroom's tread.

"My friend," said he, "with the faint gray of the dawn there
comes to my house a new messenger from the camp, and the tidings
he brings change all our decisions. The Festival does not permit us
as Ephors to meet in public, or, at least, I think thou wilt agree with
me it is more prudent not to do so. All we should do now, should
be in strict privacy."

' But hush ! from whom the message — Pausanias ? "
'No — from Aristides the Athenian."
' And to what effect ? "

' The lonians have revolted from the Spartan hegemony, and
ranged themselves under the Athenian flag.

' Gods ! what I feared has already come to pass."
' And Aristides writes to me, with whom you remember that he
has the hospitable ties, that the Athenians cannot abandon their
Ionian allies and kindred who thus appeal to them, and that if
Pausanias remain, open war may break out between the two divisions
into which the fleet of Hellas is now rent."

"This must not be, for it would be war at sea; we and the
Peloponnesians have far the fewer vessels, the less able seamen.
Sparta would be conquered."

" Rather than Sparta should be conquered, must we not recall her
General ?"

"I would give all my lands, and sink out of the rank of Equal,
that this had not chanced," said Agesilaus, bitterly.

" Hist ! hist ! not so loud."

" I had hoped we might induce the Regent himself to resign the
command, and so have been spared the shame and the pain of an act
that affects the hero-blood of our kings. Could not that be clone yet ? "

" Dost thou think so? Pausanias resign in the midst of a mutiny?
Thou canst not know the man."

"Thou art right — impossible. I see no option now. He must be
recalled. But the Spartan hegemony is then gone — gone for ever —
gone to Athens."

" Xot so. Sparta hath many a worthy son beside this too arrogant
Heracleid."

"Yes; but where his genius of command? — where his immense

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 437

renown ? — where a man, I say, not in Sparta, but in all Greece, fit
to cope with Aristides and Cimon in the camp, with Themistocles in
the city of our rivals? If Pausanias fails, who succeeds?"

" Be not deceived. What must be, must ; it is but a little time
earlier than Necessity would have fixed. Wouldst thou take the
command ? "

"I? The Gods forbid."

"Then, if thou wilt not, I know but one man."

" And who is he?"

" Dorcis."

Agesilaus started, and, by the light of the moon, gazed full upon
the face of the chief Ephor.

"Thy kinsman, Dorcis? Ah ! Periclides, hast thou schemed this
from the first?"

Periclides changed colour at finding himself thus abruptly detected,
and as abruptly charged ; however, he answered with laconic
dryness, —

"Friend, did I scheme the revolt of the lonians? But if thou
knowest a better man>than Dorcis, speak. Is he not brave?"

"Yes."

"Skilful?"

" No. Tut ! thou art as conscious as I am that thou mightest as
well compare the hat on thy brow to the brain it hides as liken the
stolid Dorcis to the fiery but profound Heracleid."

" Ay, ay. Bu. there is one merit the hat ^as which the brow has
not — it can do no harm. Shall we send our chiefs to be made worse
men by Eastern manners? Dorcis has dull wit, granted; no arts
can corrupt it ; he may not save the hegemony, but he will return as
he went, a Spartan."

"Thou art right again, and a wise man, Periclides. I submit.
Thou hast my vote for Dorcis. What else hast thou designed ? for
I see now that whatever thou designest that wilt thou accomplish ;
and our meeting on the Archeion is but an idle form."

"Nay, nay," said Periclides, with his austere smile, "thou givest
me a wit and a will that I have not. But as chief of the Ephors I
watch over the State. And though I design nothing, this I would
counsel, — On the day we answer the lonians, we shall tell them,
' What ye ask, we long since proposed to do.' And Dorcis is already
on the seas as successor to Pausanias."

" When will Dorcis leave?" said Agesilaus, curtly.

" If the other Ephors concur, to-morrow night."

" Here we are at my doors, wilt thou not enter?"
, "No. I have others yet to see. I knew we should be of the
same mind."

438 PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

Agesilaus made no reply ; but as he entered the court-yard of his
house, he muttered uneasily, —

" And if Lysander is right, and Sparta is too small for Pausanias,
do not we bring back a giant who will widen it to his own girth,
and rase the old foundations to make room for the buildings he
would add ? "

(UNFINISHED.)

THE pages covered by the manuscript of this uncompleted story
of "Pausanias" are scarcely more numerous than those which its
author has filled with the notes made by him from works consulted
with special reference to the subject of it. Those notes (upon Greek
and Persian antiquities) are wholly without interest for the general
public. They illustrate the author's conscientious industry, but they
afford no clue to the plot of his romance. Under the sawdust, how-
ever, thus fallen in the industrial process of an imaginative work,
unhappily unfinished, I have found two specimens of original com-
position. They are rough sketches of songs expressly composed for
"Pausanias;" and, since they are not included in the ioregoing
portion of it, I think they may properly be added here. The un-
rhymed lyrics introduced by my father into some of the opening
chapters of this romance appear to have been suggested by some
fragments of Mimnermus, and composed about the same time as
"The Lost Tales of Miletus." Indeed, one of them has been
already printed in that work. The following verses, however, which
are rhymed, bear evidence of having been composed at a much
earlier period. I know not whether it was my father's intention to
discard them altogether, or to alter them materially, or to insert
them without alteration in some later portion of the romance. But
I print them here precisely as they are written.

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN. 439

FOR PAUSANIAS.
Partially borrowed from Arislopiianes " Peace," v,

AWAY, away, with the helm and greaves,

Away with the leeks and cheese ! l
I have conquer'd my passion for wounds and blows
And the worst that I wish to the worst of my foes
Is the glory and gain
Of a year's campaign
On a diet of leeks and cheese.

I love to drink by my own warm hearth,
Nourisht with logs from the pine-clad heights,

Which were hewn in the blaze of the summer sun
To treasure his rays for the winter nights

On the hearth where my grandam spun.

I love to drink of the grape I press,

And to drink with a friend of yore ;
Quick ! bring me a bough from the myrtle tree

Which is budding afresh by Nicander's door.
Tell Nicander himself he must sup with me,
And along with the bough from his myrtle tree
We will circle the lute, in a choral glee

To the goddess of corn and peace.
For Nicander and I were fast friends at school.
Here he comes ! We are boys once more.

When the grasshopper chaunts in the bells of thyme
I love to watch if the Lemnian grape2
Is donning the purple that decks its prime ;
And. as I sit at my porch to see,
With my little one trying to scale my knee,
To join in the grasshopper's chaunt, and sing
To Apollo and Pan from the heart of Spring-3
Listen, O list !

Hear ye not, neighbours, the voice of Peace ?
" The swallow I hear in the household caves."

lo i'Egien ! Peace !
" And the skylark at poise o'er the bended sheaves,"

lo ^Egien ! Peace !

Here and there, everywhere, hear we Peace,
Hear her, and see her, and clasp her — Peace !
The grasshopper chaunts in the bells of thyme,
And the halcyon is back to her nest in Greece !

1 Tvpou re KCU Kpofj.fj.v(av. Cheese and onions, the rations furnished to soldiers
in campaign.

2 It ripened earlier than the others. The words of the Chorus are, ras A^/uciaf
d/aireAous ei 7rewaiVou<rii' ri&r).

3 Variation —

" What a blessing is life in a noon of Spring."

440

PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN.

IN PRAISE OF THE ATHENIAN KNIGHTS.
Imitated from the "Knights" of Aristophanes, v. 565, etc.

CHAUNT the fame of the Knights, or in war or in peace,
Chaunt the darlings of Athens,1 the bulwarks of Greece,
Pressing foremost to glory, on wave and on shore,
Where the steed has no footing they win with the oar.2

On their bosoms the battle splits, wasting its shock.
If they charge like the whirlwind, they stand like the rock.
Ha ! they count not the numbers, they scan not the ground,
When a foe comes in sight on his lances they bound.

Fails a foot in its speed? heed it not. One and all3
Spurn the earth that they spring from, and own not a fall.
O the darlings of Athens, the bulwarks of Greece,
Wherefore envy the lovelocks they perfume in peace !

Wherefore scowl if they fondle a quail or a dove,
Or inscribe on a myrtle the names that they love ?
Does Alcides not teach us how valour is mild ?
Lo, at rest from his labours he plays with a child.

When the slayer of Python has put down his bow,
By his lute and his lovelocks Apollo we know.
Fear'd, O rowers, those gallants their beauty to spoil
When they sat on your benches, and shared in your toil !

When with laughter they row'd to your cry " Hippopai,"
"On, ye coursers of wood, for the palm wreath, away ! "
Did those dainty youths ask you to store in your holds
Or a cask from their crypt or a lamb from their folds ?

No, they cried, " We are here both to fight and to fast,
Place us first in the fight, at the board serve us last !
Wheresoever is peril, we knights lead the way,
Wheresoever is hardship, we claim it as pay.

" Call us proud, O Athenians, we know it full well,
And we give you the life we're too haughty to sell."
Hail the stoutest in war, hail the mildest in peace,
Hail the darlings of Athens, the bulwarks of Greece !

1 Variation —

"The adorners of Athens, the bulwarks of Greece."

2 Variation —

"Keenest racers to glory, on wave or on shore,

By the rush of the steed or the stroke of the oar ! "
* Variation —

•' Falls there one ? never help him • Our knights one and all."

THE END.
RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BUNOAY.

PR
4-922
F3
1888

Lytton, Edward George Earle
Lytton Bulwer-Lytton
Falkland

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UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY