I.—SCULPTURE: ITS VARIETIES AND MATERIALS.
All work cut out in a solid material, in imitation of natural objects, is called sculpture. Thus carvings in wood, ivory-stone, marble, metal, and works moulded from wax and clay, come under the head of sculpture.
But sculpture, as we are about to consider it, is to be distinguished by the term statuary from all carved work belonging to ornamental art and glyptics. It must be borne in mind, however, that the sculptor does not ordinarily carve his work directly out of the marble; he first makes his statue, or bas relief, in clay or wax. This method enables him to “sketch in clay” and perfect his work in this obedient material. Michael Angelo, and many great masters could dispense with this and carve at once the statue from the block. The modeling in clay is, however, generally the primary work. The “model,” as it is called, is afterward moulded, and by means of this mould a cast of the original clay statue, or bas-relief, is taken by the use of liquid plaster. The clay model is, therefore, like the original drawing of a painter—a master work.
The model completed, most of the carving is done by a skilled laborer, the sculptor taking it up to give the finish, which a master-hand alone can bestow. The copying of the model into marble is accomplished by means of a method of mechanical measurement, or “pointing.” The model and the block of marble are both fastened to a base called a “scale-stone,” to which a standard vertical rod can be attached at corresponding centers, having at its upper end a sliding needle, so adapted by a movable joint as to be set at any angle and fastened by a screw when so set. The master sculptor having marked the governing points with a pencil on the model the instrument is applied to these and the measure taken. The standard being then transferred to the block-base, the pointer, guided by his measure, cuts away the marble, taking care to leave it rather larger than the model, so that the general proportions are kept, and the more important work is then left for the master hand.
The character of work is influenced by the nature of the material in which the sculptor carves; the harder the stone the more difficult to give it the pliant forms of life. It is remarkable that the most ancient and perfect Egyptian statues should have been formed of very hard stones; and, as the ancient Egyptians were not acquainted with steel, they must have been dependent upon bronze, of various degrees of hardness, for their cutting tools. These works are remarkable for their excellence, both of form and proportion, and in the finish given to the details of feature, the dress, and the ornaments.
Assyrian sculpture was in softer stones, limestones and alabaster; only small objects, such as seals, being worked in hard stones.
Greek and Roman sculptors made many statues and bas-reliefs in hard stones, such as basalt, granite, and porphyry. The extreme difficulty of such work may be understood when it is seen that the ordinary method of the chisel and mallet, in the most skillful hands, would be quite unavailing in this hard material. The treadle-wheel, the drill, and the file, are brought to aid the chisel, and even these require the use of emery upon the wheel of the lapidary, in the manner in which the hardest stones are cut.
Clay modeled and dried in the sun, or hardened by the fire, was naturally one of the early forms in which sculpture was developed. At once ready to hand, and easily modeled, it was adopted for the same reasons that made clay convenient for the ordinary vessels of every-day use. We find countless numbers of these baked, or sun-dried clay figures. They have escaped destruction because of the little value of the material and because they resist decay. The Egyptians and Assyrians applied a vitreous glaze to terra-cotta objects, which made them more decorative and more durable.
Terra-cotta was chosen by many sculptors to preserve the spirit and freedom of the original. Although some shrinking under the action of the fire must be allowed for, yet what is well baked is certain to possess the excellence of the fresh clay. It escapes the chances of over-finish, which too often befalls marble and bronze.
Another form of sculpture to be noticed is called chryselephantine, on account of the combined use of gold and ivory; the nude parts of the figure being of ivory, probably with color applied to the features and the drapery of gold. The statue was substantially but roughly made in marble, with wood, perhaps, upon it; the ivory being laid on in thick pieces.
Statues of wood, of various kinds, were made by the most ancient sculptors. Many small figures in wood, the work of the Egyptian carvers, are to be seen in the museums, and the mummy cases show the practice of carving the head, while the trunk is left only partly shaped out of the block.
Bronze was one of the most important forms of ancient statuary. It must be remembered that bronze is an entirely different alloy from brass, the former being an alloy of copper and tin, while brass is of copper and zinc. Small proportions of gold, silver, lead, and iron, were mixed with the bronze by ancient metal-workers to give various colors to their work; thus a blush of shame was produced by allowing the iron in the bronze to rust. Plutarch mentions a face which was pale, the sculptor having mixed silver with the bronze.
The primitive bronze-workers, before they arrived at the knowledge of casting, began by hammering solid metals into shapes. The toreutic art, although not definitely known at present, was probably that of hammering, punching, and chiseling plates of metal, either separately or with a view of fixing them upon stone or wood. Both the solid hammered work and the hollow-plate work is mentioned by the authorities. The hollow statues were built up in pieces, fastened together with nails, rivets, and dove-tails, and it is not improbable that some system of welding was practiced.
The casting of metals in moulds must have followed the discovery that they could be melted. As the sculptor improved in his art of modeling he would be able to make better moulds. He would soon observe that the solid statue was not only very costly, but so very heavy that the whole figure would collapse from sheer weight.
This trouble was corrected by the discovery of a contrivance for casting metals in a hollow mould. It was done pretty much as it is at the present day, by fixing within the mould a core, which did not touch the sides, except at certain small points necessary for support. The space between this and the surface of the mould was to be filled by the molten metal.
There is still another method, less common in modern times, but employed by the ancients, for some of their smaller works. This is when a wax model is encased in clay or plaster of Paris and the molten metal then poured into it to melt the wax, and take the form of the work precisely as it left the hand of the sculptor. The original model is thus destroyed and the bronze takes its place. Some very large and important works have recently been cast in this method, but with the core. In bronze casting with a core, this contrivance must be made with great care. The mould, which is obliged to be formed of pieces fitted together, in order that the model may be taken out, is first well soaked in oil, then melted wax is applied to the inner side of the moulded parts in such thickness as may be required in the metal of the completed statue. But as a hollow metal statue would not be strong enough to support its own weight, a sort of skeleton of iron bars is made to take the general form of the figure, and this strong frame-work is firmly fixed within the mould. We have then the mould, with its wax lining, enclosing the iron skeleton, or armature, as it is called, with an opening left in the proper place to allow of pouring in the liquid plaster of Paris mixed with pounded brick, which fills the space about the armature. Therefore, if at this stage, the mould were taken to pieces again, the sculptor would behold his statue as one of apparently solid wax. Practically this is done in order that he may satisfy himself of the success of his work, and correct it where necessary. The model is then again placed in the mould preparatory to casting.
Galvano-plastique, or the use of electricity, to deposit a thin layer of metal in a pure state upon a model, is an important invention or application of science to art.
Having described the various materials and methods employed in sculptured art, we are ready to classify the different forms adopted and arrange them under the proper terms.
Sculpture in relief is the first division. There are four varieties. Bas-relief, or basso-relievo, is the term used when the work projects from the plain surface, the forms being rounded as in nature. If the work is very little raised, the forms being not so projecting as in nature, it is called flat-relief, or stiacciato. If more raised, but not free from the ground in any place, it is half-relief or mezzo-relievo. If the relief is still higher it becomes full-relief, or alto-relievo, in which parts of the human figure are entirely free from the ground of the slab. In sunk-relief, or cavo-relievo, the work is recessed within an outline, but still raised in flat relief, not projecting above the surface of the slab. Much of the renaissance and modern sculpture combines the first-named kinds of work on different planes in degrees of distance, with some under-cutting. The beauty and character of bas-relief depend much upon the representation of outline.
Statuary proper is sculpture in the round. The statue is therefore seen on every side.
Statues are, (1) standing; (2) seated; (3) recumbent; (4) equestrian.
Statues are classed into five forms as to size: Colossal, above the heroic standard; heroic, above six feet but under the colossal; life-size; small life-size; statuettes, half the size of life and smaller.
To know the proper proportions of the figures is a matter of the utmost value in all sculpture, even more so than in painting, as the statue is measurable on every side and in every direction. It would have been impossible for the ancient Egyptians to carve out of the living rock their tremendous figures unless they had arrived at a rule of proportion for their figure. Without this their colossi would have been only rude monsters. Such a rule they had discovered and laid down in a canon, as it is called, similar to that which was followed by the Greek sculptors after them, and especially made known by Polycletus, whose name it received. Though there is some doubt about the precise terms of the canon, there can be no doubt that it had for its unit of measurement some part of the human figure. The version of Vitruvius Pollio is supposed to be the correct one. He says: “Nature has so composed the human body that the face, from the chin to the top of the forehead, and the roots of the hair, should be a tenth part; also the palm of the hand from the wrist-joint to the tip of the middle finger; the head from the chin to the highest point, an eighth; from the top of the chest to the roots of the hair, a sixth.”
The rule of ten faces, or eight heads, derived from this, has remained to the present time. Several sculptors of a later period, who have given much attention to the subject of proportion, differ slightly from the canon of Polycletus, though it is commonly accepted.
That strict rules of symmetrical proportion should be followed is necessary in all statuary, but especially in that which serves as a decoration for architecture. The knowledge of the figure acquired by eminent sculptors inspired them with admiration for the beautiful, and enabled them to express in the creation of their art an ideal of grand beauty, which was guided by a taste and feeling which rarely failed to direct them aright. It was the greatest sculptor of modern times, Michael Angelo, who said that the sculptor should carry “his compasses in his eye.” Some one comments on this that, “Sculptors, and painters especially, dread the rule of geometry. They regard rule as a fetter upon their invention, not dreaming that this great man (Michael Angelo), before he expressed himself thus, had for so long a time had the compasses in his hand.” This points to a profound truth in all practical art, that no man can be a great artist unless he have the power of drawing in the true proportions of the beautiful.
Having pointed out the leading points in the technic of sculpture, we take up its history, beginning naturally with the earliest forms as found in Egypt.
The Egyptians, inhabiting a flat, uniform country, of pure and salubrious climate, working as sculptors before a written language was invented, carved their colossal sphinx almost entirely out of the living rock; an amazing example of symbolic sculptural representation, combining the human with the brute form of the lion. The date of this first great work is probably earlier than that of the earliest pyramids—that built by Chofo, King of Memphis, the Cheops of Herodotus, and the larger one by Nef Chofo, his son. M. Renan, speaking for M. Mariette, states that a tablet was found by him recording that Nef Chofo did certain repairs to the sphinx; so that since it required repairs, it must already have existed for a considerable time. All small barbaric or archaic work of the ancient Egyptians in sculpture has perished in the vast lapse of time. But this one monument, raised at least 4,000 years before the Christian era, stands to prove, with its companion pyramids, the wonderful power of conception, the energy and practical skill which characterized the early Egyptians. What they lacked in ideas of beauty, they made up for by the simple grandeur in the colossal size and perfection in execution.
The intention of producing a monument to last forever was shown in an equally striking manner in the construction of the pyramids, and with an exercise of science and skill even more remarkable.
Egyptian art, in the form of architecture, was, after the pyramids of Ghizeh, further developed about 1650 B. C., under Osirtesen I., who built the oldest of the temples at Thebes. Columns and obelisks were then invented, and the cavi relievi were largely used. Statuary, however, did not advance until after the Phœnician Shepherd Kings—a body of wandering Arabs, so called, who conquered Upper Egypt for a time—were driven out by Amosis, King of Thebes, about 1450 B. C.
Passing over Amunothph I. and his successor Thothmosis I., of whom there is a fine statue in the Turin Museum, we come to Thothmosis II., whose reign marks a period of vast development, as he married Nitocris, the last Queen of Memphis, capital of Lower Egypt, and thus united the two kingdoms, about 1340 B. C. The great avenue of sphinxes, leading to the temple of Karnak, was made in her reign, and there is a statue of Thothmosis II., a seated figure seven feet nine inches high, in good proportions, of about seven heads high, the fingers and toes straight, not showing the knuckles, and the legs sharply chiseled at the shins, not showing the small bone on the outside of the leg, as in the statues of the later time of Amunothph III. (about 1260 B. C.).
The famous colossus, called the musical Memnon, one of the two still standing in the desert near Thebes, more than fifty feet high, is of this period. These statues are not in good proportion, being too short in the waist. The two fine lions, carved in red granite, belonging to this time, which Lord Prudhoe brought over and presented to the British Museum, are remarkable as examples of fine typical treatment of the lion. They show much grandeur of feeling, and, compared with the modern naturalistic sculpture of lions, they are superior as examples of monumental art.
In 1170 B. C. reigned Ramses II., the greatest of the Egyptian kings, under whom was invented all the wonderful adaptation of the lotus and papyrus plant to the design of columns, as seen in the famous colonnade of the hall of Karnak. His statue, in the Turin Museum, is in the finest style of ancient Theban art; it is a seated figure carved out of a block of black granite, and is not colossal, being only five feet seven inches high. The point to be noticed in this statue is the effort at action, which is not seen in earlier works. The right hand is raised to the breast holding the short sort of crosier of the god Osiris; the left hand resting on the knee, strongly clenched. The colossal statue of Ramses, as Osiris, may be taken as examples, with that of the Memnon, in the British Museum, of the sculpture of this time. The large sphinx in the Louvre bears the name of Ramses II. The four-seated colossi, carved out of the living rock at the entrance of the great temple of Abou Simbel in Ethiopia, represent the same king. They are between sixty and seventy feet high, and wonderfully well sculptured, but the proportions are not so good as in some smaller statues, as they are six heads only in height, and short in the waist and thick in the limbs, showing no attempt at any close or correct imitation of nature. They look straight before them with a calm smile of confident power and contentment. These statues, and others which are to be seen in the museums, are not equal to those of the time of Amunothph III., previously referred to; they are not so well carved, and the features are heavy, with thick noses and lips, while the limbs are clumsy, and without any attempt at accurate modeling.
It will be observed, therefore, that Egyptian sculpture may be classed broadly into three styles. (1) the Egyptian proper, reaching its finest period in the reign of Amunothph III.; (2) the Ethiopic Egyptian; (3) the later Egyptian, leading to the decline of that style of sculpture. Of the first it should be noticed that the general proportions of the figure were more accurately considered than the relative proportions of hands and feet to the limbs, which are generally incorrect. There are, however, some examples of excellent proportion, as in a colossal arm and fist in the British Museum. This arm belonged to a statue of Thothmes III., and came from Memphis. It is about ten feet long. The fist also came from Memphis, and measures four feet across. The heads of statues of this period are of the pure Coptic type, with a nose somewhat aquiline, and the lips comparatively thin. The eyes, however, were always carved in full in profile representations; the feet, one in advance of the other on the same plane. The details of form at the knuckles and legs are well indicated.
In the Ethiopic-Egyptian statues, general proportion is lost sight of; the figures become dumpy, being only six heads high; the limbs are clumsy and wanting in modeling; the hands and feet stiff and not marked by details at the joints; nor do they show the small bone of the leg. The heads are more of the Negro type, with turned-up noses and thick lips.
In the later Egyptian it is remarkable that with more attempt to imitate nature in the modeling of the muscles, the forms of the trunk and limbs become unnaturally puffed. More is added in symbolic attributes; heads of the cat, the hawk, and the ape, are placed on the human body; the dress is more elaborate, that of the head especially, on which a disc for the sun was often placed, as on the god Osiris. From the fall of Thebes, about 1000 B. C., to the conquest of Egypt by the Persians, 523 B. C., sculpture became more and more degraded, and soon lost its original style of simplicity and grandeur of form.
After some two centuries of rule, the Persians were conquered by Alexander the Great, 332 B. C., but there are no statues of Greek style of this date found in Egypt; under the Ptolemies, his successors for 300 years, new temples of inferior but still Egyptian style were built, such as those at Phile, Edfou, and Denderah, and many statues were made, but nearly all have been destroyed, and there is not one of any king or queen of the Ptolemies.
After Egypt became a Roman province, in 38 B. C., Egyptian sculpture, in a debased form, was still continued upon the decoration of the temples, but the statues were then in the hands of Greek artists. Still later, there is the well-known statue of Antinous as an Egyptian, the work of a Greek sculptor of the time of the Emperor Hadrian (A. D. 117-138).
Assyrian sculpture is a discovery of recent times, first made in 1842-3 by Botta, the French consul at Mosul on the banks of the Tigris, and almost simultaneously by Mr. Layard, who though he had seen the ruins of Nineveh in 1840 did not get permission to examine and excavate till 1845. The sculptures differ widely from any in Egypt in being nearly all in bas-relief and high relief. There are very few statues, carved in the round, that stand either with a support practically or on the legs. There are no colossi nearly approaching in size the Egyptian and Greek colossal statues, none being higher than eighteen feet, while as we have seen sixty feet was a moderate height for an Egyptian or Greek colossal figure, and some were higher. The colossal human-headed bulls and lions with wings, at the portals of the king’s palace, are in high relief on huge slabs, one on each side, facing outwards, and one on each side on the wall, with the head turned to look to the front. It does not appear that any principal figure was set up in an interior, either of these compound animals, or of any deity or king. No colossal seated figures like the Egyptian statues have been found. The standing figures carved in relief differ entirely in the expression of the countenance and motive of the figure from the Egyptian. They have all some action; the king grasps a captured lion, or as chief priest he walks with his staff which he holds firmly, while the left hand rests on the hilt of his sword. It is true that the legs are on one plane, and the feet in a position that could not support the body; still the intention to show action and life is there. There is none of the desire to express majestic, calm, eternal repose and content which is so characteristic of Egyptian sculptured statues. Throughout the great number of slabs in the British Museum and in the Louvre there is a very vigorous descriptive power displayed in carving figures of men, horses, chariots, battles, sieges of cities, hunting scenes, processions, rivers with men swimming on inflated skins, with fish and boats; implements, weapons, chairs, baskets, trees, birds, buildings, with a close resemblance to the real objects that is very distinctive of the Assyrian style. The quadrupeds and birds are much better done than the human figures; the character of some of the mules is faithfully given, and there is much feeling for nature in some of the lions in the hunting-scenes. There is no doubt, also, that this naturalistic realism was carried further by painting the sculptures. In none of these painted reliefs, however, is there anything of the careful carving and delicate delineation of the Egyptian cavi relievi; they are all boldly done, and with a good deal of skill, but by hands that would seem to have been self-taught, and at liberty to represent as they pleased so that the conventional attributes and symbolic objects were duly made clear. There is scarcely any regulated use of typical forms; and in the proportions of the figures especially there is no rule. The principal figures are about 6½ heads high, and in others the heads are often larger, while the arms and legs are out of all proportion gigantic, the muscles being exaggerated into masses at the calf and knee, and the shin-bone absurdly prominent. All truth seems to have been sacrificed for the sake of conveying a violent look of immense strength. The battle scenes remind us of some of the puerile representations by mediæval workmen of a poor style, or the debased Roman work seen on sarcophaguses. The Assyrians, unlike the Egyptians, were “mighty hunters,” consequently horses were favorites with the Assyrian carvers, as they were with the Greek sculptors afterwards; they seldom have more than one fore-leg and one hind one, but their heads are carefully carved, and all the trappings show the same intention to obtain exact resemblance as is displayed in the dress and ornaments of the kings and other figures. It is important to observe that these sculptures are very equal in merit; there is no sign of improvement and little of falling off. As to the date of these sculptures, they are much later than all the Egyptian work of the finer style.
It may be concluded that the Assyrian palaces, with their sculptured walls, took a much shorter time to build than the Egyptian, as they were built of sun-baked bricks, with ornamental slabs below, and wooden beams and columns above, all which structures have perished leaving only the stone slabs. The soft nature of the stone, which is a kind of grey alabaster, extremely suited to carving in the manner employed, afforded the facility that influenced the style and enabled the carvers to indulge their inclination for realistic detail. They do not appear to have sought for fine colored hard stones as the Egyptians did, nor do they show the same desire to make their work monumental and enduring.
Assyrian sculpture was always archaic, though at the same time more vigorous in what might be called graphic sculpture, and truer in imitation of nature than Egyptian, which rarely attempted action in the figure or facial expression. There is, however, no alliance between the two styles, and there was never likely to be, as the Assyrians were not a people of poetic and abstract ideas, but of facts, circumstances, and action. They thought of the present glory, and did not trouble themselves about the future. The same characteristics will partly account for the absence of any kind of reference to a future state. The tree of life with the priest ministering before it and holding fruit is to be seen; but it is remarkable that no sepulchral monuments have been found; no tomb or mark of regard in any shape for the welfare of the dead hereafter has been discovered.
Bearing in mind that the Assyrians were never a statue-making people, and never attempted to follow the example of the Egyptians—do we find them influencing the sculptural art of any other people in work like that of the Assyrians? This question is answered at once by the remains found at Persepolis, where there are to be seen similar winged and human-headed lions and bulls, and sculptured slabs, but no statues either in the round or in alto-relievo.
The ruins of the palaces of Cambyses, Darius, and Xerxes, the date of which is from 560 B. C. to the conquests of Alexander the Great (331 B. C.), show only sculptural remains left, after all the soft brick walls and the wooden beams and rafters have long perished. Persian sculptural art since those days never advanced to the dignity of statuary, but like its Assyrian predecessor stopped short where Greek art began to develop. The same is to be observed of that ramification of the Assyrian arts which is to be traced in the building of the temple of Jerusalem under Solomon, which, however, was some five centuries before the time of Cambyses, and about the same length of time after the settling of the Israelites in the Delta of the Nile (1550 B. C.). The law of Moses was sufficient to prevent any sculpture in the likeness of living things; but the cherubim, with their wings, seem to have been borrowed from the Assyrians. The temple was, no doubt, built of stone and cedar-wood after the manner of the Assyrians, and with a profusion of ornament in carving, of valuable marbles, wood, and embossed work in precious metals.
The colossal sculptures in the rock-cut temples of India, whether taken as derived from the Assyrian centre or not, may be classed with that style as semi-barbaric and naturalistic, with a superadded symbolism which only led to the most extravagant deformities of the human figure to express the power and attributes of a deity. Statuary proper never existed in any shape of beauty like the human form, throughout Persia, India, and China, and there is no sign of any disposition amongst the Asiatics to learn the art from their European conquerors; it is not in their nature.
[SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE.]
[MODERN STATE OF ANCIENT COUNTRIES.]
By GEORGE SANDYS.
The parts I speak of are the most renowned countries and kingdoms; once the seats of most glorious and triumphant empires; the theaters of valor and heroical actions; the soils enriched with all earthly felicities; the places where Nature hath produced her wonderful works; where arts and sciences have been invented and perfected; where wisdom, virtue, policy, and civility, have been planted, have flourished; and, lastly, where God himself did place his own commonwealth, gave laws and oracles, inspired his prophets, sent angels to converse with men; above all, where the Son of God descended to become man; where he honored the earth with his beautiful steps, wrought the works of our redemption, triumphed over death, and ascended into glory; which countries, once so glorious and famous for their happy estate, are now, through vice and ingratitude, become the most deplored spectacles of extreme misery; the wild beasts of mankind having broken in upon them, and rooted out all civility, and the pride of a stern and barbarous tyrant possessing the thrones of ancient and just dominion. Who, aiming only at the height of greatness and sensuality, hath in tract of time reduced so great and goodly a part of the world to that lamentable distress and servitude, under which (to the astonishment of the understanding beholders) it now faints and groaneth. Those rich lands at this present remain waste and overgrown with bushes, receptacles of wild beasts, of thieves, and murderers; large territories dispeopled or thinly inhabited; goodly cities made desolate; sumptuous buildings become ruins; glorious temples either subverted or prostituted to impiety; true religion discountenanced and oppressed; all nobility extinguished; no light of learning permitted, nor virtue cherished; violence and rapine insulting over all, and leaving no security except to an abject mind, and unlooked-on poverty; which calamities of theirs, so great and deserved, are to the rest of the world as threatening instructions. For assistance wherein, I have not only related what I saw of their present condition, but, so far as convenience might permit, presented a brief view of the former estates and first antiquities of those peoples and countries; thence to draw a right image of the frailty of man, the mutability of whatever is worldly, and assurance that, as there is nothing unchangeable saving God, so nothing stable but by his grace and protection.
[THE DESIGN OF THE NEW ENGLAND PLANTATIONS.]
By the Rev. COTTON MATHER.
There were more than a few attempts of the English to people, to settle and improve the parts of New England which were to the northward of New Plymouth, but the designs of those attempts being aimed no higher than the advancement of some worldly interests, a constant series of disasters confounded them, until there was a plantation erected on the nobler designs of Christianity, and that plantation, though it has had more adversaries, perhaps, than any one upon earth, yet, having obtained help from God, it continues to this day. There have been very fine settlements in the northeast regions, but what is become of them? I have heard that one of our ministers, once preaching to a congregation there, urged them to approve themselves a religious people from this consideration: that otherwise they would contradict the main object of planting this wilderness, whereupon a well-known person, then in the assembly, cried out: “Sir, you are mistaken, you think you are preaching to the people at the Bay; our main end was to catch fish.” Truly ’twere to have been wished that something more excellent had been the main end of the settlements in that brave country, which we have, even long since the arrival of that more pious colony at the Bay, now seen dreadfully unsettled, no less than twice, at least, by the sword of the heathen, after they had been replenished by many hundreds of people who had thriven to many thousands of pounds, and all the force of the Bay, too, to assist them in maintaining their settlements. But the same or like inauspicious things attended many other endeavors to make plantations, on such a main end, in several other parts of the country, before the arrival of the Massachusetts colony, which was formed on more glorious aims.
REMARKS ON THE CATALOGUE OF PLANTATIONS.
(1) There are few towns to be now seen on our list but what were existing in this land before the dreadful Indian war which befell us twenty years ago; and there are few towns broken up within the then Massachusetts line by that war but what have revived out of their ashes. Nevertheless the many calamities which have ever since been wasting the country have so nip the growth of it, that its later progress hath held no proportion with what was from the beginning; but yet with such variety, that while the trained companies of some towns are no bigger than they were thirty or forty years ago, others are as big again.
(2) The calamities that have carried off the inhabitants of our several towns have not been all of one sort. Pestilential sicknesses have made fearful havoc in divers places, where the sound have not perhaps been enough to tend the sick, while others have not had one touch from the Angel of Death, and the sword hath cut off scores in sundry places, when others, it may be, have not lost a single man by that avenger.
(3) ’Tis no unusual, though no universal experiment, among us, that while an excellent, laborious, illuminating ministry has been continued in a town, the place has thriven to admiration; but ever since that man’s time they have gone down the wind in all their interests. The gospel has evidently been the making of all our towns, and the blessings of the Upper have been accompanied with the blessings of the Nether Springs. Memorable also is the remark of Slingsby Beibel, Esq., in his most judicious “Book of the Interests of Europe:” “Were not the cold climate of New England supplied by good laws and discipline, the barrenness of the country would never have brought people to it, nor have advanced it in consideration and formidableness above the other English plantations exceeding it much in fertility and other inviting qualities.”
(4) Well may New England lay claim to the name it wears, and to a room in the tenderest affections of its mother, the happy island. For as there are few of our towns but what have their namesakes in England, so the reason why most of our towns are called what they are, is because the chief of the first inhabitants would thus bear up the names of the particular places there from whence they came.
(5) I have heard an aged saint, near his death, thus cheerfully express himself: “Well, I am going to heaven, and I will there tell the faithful who are gone long since from New England thither, that though they who gathered in our churches are all dead and gone, yet the churches are still alive, with as numerous flocks of Christians as were ever among them.” Concerning most of the churches in our catalogue, the report thus carried unto heaven, I must now also send through the earth; but if with “as numerous,” we could in every respect say as gracious, what joy to all the saints, both in heaven and on earth, might be from thence occasioned.—Magnalia Christi Americana.
[EXTRACTS FROM “ESSAYS TO DO GOOD.”]
By the Rev. COTTON MATHER.
To take a poor child, especially an orphan left in poverty, and bestow a liberal education on it, is an admirable charity, yea, it may draw after it a long train of good, and may interest you in all the good done by him whom you have educated. Hence, also, what is done for schools, for colleges, and for hospitals is done for the general good. The endowment and maintenance of these is at once to do good to many.
But alas, how much of the silver and the gold is buried in hands where it is little better than if conveyed back to the mines whence it came. How much of it is employed to as little purpose as what arrives at Hindoostan, where a great part of it, after some circulation, is by the Moguls lodged in subterraneous caves never to see the light again. The Christian whose faith and hope are genuine, acts not thus.
Sometimes elaborate compositions may be prepared for the press, works of great bulk, and of greater worth, by which the best interests of knowledge and virtue might be considerably promoted, but they lie, like the impotent man at the pool of Bethesda, in silent neglect, and are likely to continue in that state, till God inspires some wealthy persons nobly to subscribe to their publication, and by this generous application of their property to bring them abroad. The names of such noble benefactors to mankind ought to live as long as the works themselves live; and when the works do any good, what these have done towards the publishing of them, ought to be “told for a memorial of them.” He urges gentlemen of leisure to seek “some honorable and agreeable employments,” and says, “I will mention one: The Pythagoreans forbade men’s eating their own brains, or keeping their good thoughts to themselves.” The incomparable Boyle observes that as to religious books in general, “those that have been written by laymen, and especially by gentlemen, have (cæteris paribus) been better received and more effectual than those published by clergymen.” Mr. Boyle’s were certainly so. Men of quality have frequently attained such accomplishments in languages and science that they become prodigies of literature. Their libraries also have stupendous collections approaching toward Vatican or Bodleian dimensions. It were much to be wished that persons of wealth and station would qualify themselves for the use of the pen, as well as of the sword, and deserve this eulogium: “They have written excellent things.” An English person of quality in his treatise entitled “A view of the soul,” has the following passage: “It is certainly the highest dignity, if not the greatest happiness of which human nature is capable in the vale below, to have the soul so far enlightened as to become a mirror, conduit or conveyor of God’s truth to others.” It is a bad motto for a man of capacity to say, “My understanding is unfruitful.” Gentlemen, consider what subjects may most properly and usefully fall under your cultivation. Your pens may stab atheism and vice more effectually than other men’s can. If out of your tribe there come those who handle the pen of the writer, they will do uncommon execution. One of them has ingenuously said, “Though I know of some functions, yet I know no truths of religion that like the shew-bread belong to the priests alone.” * * *
To do good is a sure and pleasant way effectually to bespeak God’s blessings on ourselves. Who so likely to find blessings as the men who are blessings? While we work for God, he certainly will work for us, and ours—will do for us more than we have done for him; “more than we can ask or think.” A good action is its own reward.
But what shall be done for the good man in the heavenly world? His part and work in the city of God are at present incomprehensible to us, but the kindness which his God will show him in the strong city will be truly marvelous. The attempts which the Christian has made to fill this world with righteous things, are so many tokens for good to him, that he shall have a portion in that world wherein shall dwell nothing but righteousness. He will be welcomed with “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
I will conclude with a declaration which I will boldly maintain. It is this: Were a man able to write in seven languages, could he daily converse with all the sweets of the liberal sciences to which the most accomplished make pretensions; were he to entertain himself with all ancient and modern history; and could he feast continually on the curiosities which the different branches of learning may discover to him, all this would not afford the ravishing satisfaction which he might find in relieving the distresses of a poor, miserable neighbor, nor would it bear any comparison with the heartfelt delight which he might have by doing service to the kingdom of our great Savior in the world.
[SPIRITUAL KNOWLEDGE.]
By JONATHAN EDWARDS.
There is a kind of taste of the mind, whereby persons are guided in their judgment of the natural beauty, gracefulness, propriety, nobleness, and sublimity of speeches and action, whereby they judge, as it were, by the glance of the eye, or by inward sensation, and the first impression of the object; so there is likewise such a thing as a divine taste, given and maintained by the Spirit of God, in the hearts of the saints, whereby they are in like manner led and guided in discerning and distinguishing the true spiritual and holy beauty of actions; and that more easily, readily, and accurately, as they have more or less of the Spirit of God dwelling in them. And thus “the sons of God are led by the Spirit of God, in their behavior in the world.”
A holy disposition and spiritual taste, where grace is strong and lively, will enable a soul to determine what actions are right and becoming Christians, not only more speedily, but far more exactly, than the greatest abilities without it. This may be illustrated by the manner in which some habits of mind, and dispositions of heart, of a nature inferior to true grace, will teach and guide a man in his actions. As for instance, if a man be a very good natured man, his good nature will teach him how to act benevolently amongst mankind, and will direct him, on every occasion, to those speeches and actions which are agreeable to rules of goodness, than the strongest reason will a man of a morose temper. So if a man’s heart be under the influence of an entire friendship, and most endeared affection to another, though he be a man of an indifferent capacity, yet this habit of his mind will direct him, far more readily and exactly, to a speech and deportment, or manner of behavior, which shall in all respects be sweet and kind, and agreeable to a benevolent disposition of heart, than the greatest capacity without it. He has, as it were, a spirit within him, that guides him; the habit of his mind is attended with a taste by which he immediately relishes that air and mien which is benevolent, and disrelishes the contrary, and causes him to distinguish between one and the other in a moment, more precisely, than the most accurate reasonings can find out in many hours. As the nature and inward tendency of a stone, or other heavy body, that is let fall from aloft, shows the way to the center of the earth more exactly in an instant than the ablest mathematician, without it, could determine, by his most accurate observations, in a whole day. Thus it is that a spiritual disposition and taste teaches and guides a man in his behavior in the world. So an eminently humble, or meek, or charitable disposition, will direct a person of mean capacity to such a behavior, as is agreeable to Christian rules of humility, meekness and charity, far more readily and precisely than the most diligent study and elaborate reasonings of a man of the strongest faculties, who has not a Christian spirit within him. So also will a spirit of love to God, and holy fear and reverence toward God, and filial confidence in God, and an heavenly disposition, teach and guide a man in his behavior.
It is an exceedingly difficult thing for a wicked man, destitute of Christian principles in his heart to guide him, to know how to demean himself like a Christian, with the life and beauty, and heavenly sweetness of a truly holy, humble, Christ-like behavior. He knows not how to put on these garments; neither do they fit him.
The saints in thus judging of actions by a spiritual taste, have not a particular recourse to express rules of God’s word, with respect to every word and action that is before them, the good or evil of which they thus judge: But yet their taste itself, in general, is subject to the rule of God’s word, and must be tried by that, and a right reasoning upon it. As a man of a rectified palate judges of particular morsels by his taste; but yet his palate itself must be judged of, whether it be right or no, by certain rules and reasons. But a spiritual taste of soul mightily helps the soul in its reasonings on the word of God, and in judging the true meaning of its rules: As it removes the prejudices of a depraved appetite, and naturally leads the thoughts in the right channel, casts a light on the word of God, and causes the true meaning, most naturally, to come to mind, through the harmony there is between the disposition and relish of a sanctified soul, and the true meaning of the rules of God’s word. Yea, this harmony tends to bring the texts themselves to mind, on proper occasions; as the particular state of the stomach and palate tends to bring particular meats and drinks to mind, as are agreeable to that state. “Thus the children of God are led by the Spirit of God” in judging of actions themselves, and in their meditations upon, and judging of, and applying the rules of God’s holy word: And so God “teaches them his statutes and causes them to understand the way of his precepts;” which the Psalmist so often prays for.
But this leading of the spirit is a thing exceedingly diverse from that which some call so; which consists not in teaching them God’s statutes and precepts, that he has already given; but in giving them new precepts by immediate inward speech or suggestion, and has in it no tasting the true excellency of things, or judging or discerning the nature of things at all. They do not determine what is the will of God by any taste or relish, or any manner of judging of the nature of things, but by an immediate dictate concerning the thing to be done; there is no such thing as judgment or wisdom in the case. Whereas, in that leading of the spirit which is peculiar to God’s children, is imparted that true wisdom and holy discretion, so often spoken of in the word of God; which is high above the other way, as the stars are higher than a glow worm; and that which Balaam and Saul (who sometimes were led by the spirit in that other way) never had, and no natural man can have without a change of nature.
[End of Required Reading for October, 1883.]
Man is only a reed, the weakest plant of nature, but he is a thinking reed. It is not necessary that the whole universe should be in arms to crush him. A vapor, a drop of water is sufficient to put him out of existence. But even though the universe could crush him to atoms, man would still be more noble than that which kills him, because he is conscious that he is dying, and of the advantage which the universe has over him; the universe knows nothing.—Pascal.
Nothing is so dangerous as an ignorant friend; a wise enemy is worth much more.—La Fontaine.
[WHERE LIES THE MUSIC?]
By ALICE C. JENNINGS.
[When Paganini once rose to amuse a crowded auditory with his music, he found that his violin had been removed, and a coarser instrument substituted for it. Explaining the trick, he said to the audience, “Now I will show you that the music is not in my violin, but in me.”—Chautauquan for December, 1882.]
An artist once, whose magic could command
That sound its deepest secrets should unfold,
Had found his instrument by evil hand
Exchanged for one of meaner, coarser mould.
Yet, like the clashing tongue of vibrant bells,
The hindrance but a greater power revealed.
“See, I will show thee that the music dwells
In me, and not the instrument I wield.”
He turns, and sweetly, grandly, at his call,
The violin its richest music flings.
The instrument is naught—the player all—
The power is in the touch, and not the strings.
A coarse, rude instrument, this world, at best:
Its strings made tense by selfishness and pride;
If by its discords music be expressed,
The music in our fingers must reside.
Remember this: in tune keep heart and hand,
And to earth’s music thou shalt hold the key,
And from its discords sweetest tones command,
Unknown and unimagined, save by thee.
[WAVERLEY NOVELS.]
By WALLACE BRUCE.
When Walter Scott, one morning before breakfast, while looking for fishing-tackle, came upon his long neglected manuscript of Waverley, and decided to publish it, he baited his hook, so to speak, with a plump literary angle-worm, and carefully concealing himself, dropped it cautiously into one of the quiet and almost stagnant pools which here and there break the flow of the eighteenth century.
Not to carry the figure further he wakes up one morning to find the “Author of Waverley” famous; but no one knew who the “Author of Waverley” was. Romances, relating alike to the history of Scotland, England, France, Switzerland and Palestine, covering a wide range of life and character, with a varied record of eight hundred years, followed each other so rapidly that the reading world opened its eyes in wonder, until the “great unknown” was finally regarded the “great magician.” His books, as they came wet from the press, were literally devoured by the story-loving people of England and Scotland; and packages, shipped across the Atlantic, were regarded the most valuable part of the cargo. I have heard elderly people of New England speak of anxiously waiting for the next ship which was to bring to their hands a new novel by the “Author of Waverley.” Never before had the pen of any man awakened such responsive interest in his own generation. The publication of Waverley marked a new era in romantic literature.
During the eighty years that have followed that publication mankind has had its hopes, longings, ambitions and jealousies mirrored in works of fiction. Hundreds, ay, thousands of novels—most of them unworthy of their high lineage—have contended with each other for the world’s approbation; writers without number have flooded the century with romance; but through all these years Walter Scott stands the acknowledged master, the purest-hearted, the noblest-minded of them all; the man who could say upon his death-bed: “I have not written one line which I would wish blotted.”
No words of re-invitation are necessary to those who have once read the pages of Sir Walter, but it will be a “consummation devoutly to be wished” if I can turn the coming generation of your readers away from the sickly sentiment of the day to the works of him, whose influence, like that of King Arthur of the Round Table, inspires the soul with
“High thoughts and amiable words,
And courtliness, and the desire of fame,
And love of truth, and all that makes a man.”
Some years ago, while preparing a lecture on “The Landmarks of Scott,” I found myself confronted with twenty-six novels and five well-known poems, besides innumerable essays and histories, all demanding at least a passing word. I saw that two minutes devoted to each would more than fill my lecture hour, and leave no room for the frame-work, viz: Loch Katrine, Loch Lomond, the Trosachs, Melrose, Edinboro, the Yarrow, the Ettrick, the Tweed, and the Border Country, where the Percy and the Douglas fought. It then occurred to me that Scott had unconsciously prepared a panoramic history of Europe from the time of the Crusades to the year 1812. Acting upon this suggestion I examined the novels and poems and found to my great delight, that with here and there an absent link of fifty or a hundred years the chain was almost perfect. I condensed the prominent features of eight hundred years, tracing their connection with Scott’s graphic pictures into a pen-sketch of ten minutes, and I have been gratified to see that this idea of chronological order has been recently followed by one of the leading New York publishers. It is my object in a series of articles to elaborate this historical sequence from the time of “Count Robert of Paris” (1094) down to “St. Ronan’s Well” (1812), and to point out in passing some of the beauties of the great author.
If the reader of these articles will follow with me the romances to which I refer, I think he will say, at the close of the series, that he has found in the Waverley Novels a vivid picture of the events and customs of Europe, from the days of the crusades down to a time within the memory of men still living. M. Augustin Thierry, one of the most philosophical essayists of France, has eloquently said: “There are scenes of such simplicity, of such living truth, to be found, that notwithstanding the distance of the period in which the author places himself, they can be realized without effort. It is because in the midst of the world which no longer exists, Walter Scott always places the world which does, and always will exist; that is to say, human nature, of which he knows all the secrets. Everything peculiar to the time and place, the exterior of men, and aspect of the country and of the habitations, costumes and manners, are described with the most minute truthfulness; and yet the immense erudition, which has furnished so many details, is nowhere to be perceived. Walter Scott seems to have for the past that second sight, which, in times of ignorance, men attributed to themselves for the future. To say that there is more real history in his novels on Scotland and England than in the philosophically false compilations, which still possess that great name, is not advancing anything strange in the eyes of those who have read and understood “Old Mortality,” “Waverley,” “Rob Roy,” the ”Fortunes of Nigel,” and the “Heart of Mid Lothian.”
Allison says in his essay on Chateaubriand, published in Blackwood’s Magazine, March, 1832: “We feel in Scott’s characters that it is not romance, but real life which is represented. Every word that is said, especially in the Scotch novels, is nature itself. Homer, Cervantes, Shakspere, and Scott, alone have penetrated to the deep substratum of character, which, however disguised by the varieties of climate and government, is at bottom everywhere the same; and thence they have found a responsive echo in every human heart. He has carried romance out of the region of imagination and sensibility into the walks of actual life. He has combined historical accuracy and romantic adventure with the interest of tragic events; we live with the heroes, and princes, and paladins of former times, as with our own contemporaries; and acquire from the splendid coloring of his pencil such a vivid conception of the manners and pomp of the feudal ages, that we confound them, in our recollections, with the scenes which we ourselves have witnessed. The splendor of their tournaments, the magnificence of their dress, the glancing of their arms, their haughty manners, daring courage, and knightly courtesy; the shock of their battle-steeds, the splintering of their lances, the conflagration of their castles, are brought before our eyes in such vivid colors, that we are at once transported to the age of Richard and Saladin, of Charles the Bold and Philip Augustus.”
The four novels, which deal with the history of the Crusades, are “Count Robert of Paris,” “The Betrothed,” “The Talisman,” and “Ivanhoe.” It is a singular fact that the one occupying the first place in chronological order was written last, and hardly completed by the author when he died. “Ivanhoe” is, without doubt, the great favorite. I have often thought that “Ivanhoe” bears the same relation to Scott’s novels that “The Merchant of Venice” does to the dramas of Shakspere. “Old Mortality,” and “Hamlet,” may show deeper insight; but neither Scott nor Shakspere ever surpassed the two I have associated in dramatic interest. The three novels which precede “Ivanhoe” in point of time will give us a complete knowledge of the times and manners of the Crusades, and lead us, as it were, from one picture-gallery to another, until we come to the master-piece of the great artist.
“Count Robert of Paris” opens with a description of the court of Alexius Commenus—a wily monarch, who had ample need of all his strategy in dealing with foes that menaced him from every side: the Franks from the west, the Turks from the east, the Scythians from the north, the Saracens from the south. The wealthy city on the Bosphorous, enriched by the spoils of nations, whose golden gate symbolized the wealth and magnificence of seven hundred years of prosperity, was on the great highway of travel, where, so to speak, the “cross-roads” of Europe met, and presented a tempting prize to the restless and barbarous hordes from the shores of the Caspian to the German Ocean. “The superb successor of the earth’s mistress,” decked in borrowed splendor, gave early intimations of that speedy decay to which the whole civilized world, then limited within the Roman Empire, was internally and imperceptibly tending. Intrigue and corruption in the palace had compelled the Greek sovereigns of Constantinople, for many years, to procure foreign soldiers to quell insurrections and defend any traitorous attempt on the imperial person. These were known as Verangians—a word signifying barbarians—and formed a corps of satellites more distinguished for valor than the famed Prætorian Bands of Rome.
The second chapter of the book reveals the hatred and jealousy existing between these foreign soldiers and the crafty civilians. The Verangian, to whom the reader is introduced, is an Anglo-Saxon too proud to bow his head to a Norman conqueror, a wanderer from his father-land, a soldier in search of better fortune, soon to discover by lucky chance among the crusaders the fair Bertha of his early love. Upon this slender thread the novelist hangs the romantic elements of the story. But Count Robert of Paris is in no sense a love drama; in fact it can hardly be termed a romance. It is rather a historic sketch, placing in sharp contrast the wild enthusiasm of western Europe, her castles of rude masonry, her mud hovels, her rude simplicity, with the over-refined manners and tapestried chambers of the eastern court hastening to its decay. It is living Europe confronting the dead centuries.
The third chapter introduces us to a richly furnished drawing room, where the Princess Anna Commena—the first lady historian—sits reading to a sleepy group her prolix history of the glory of her father’s reign. At this gathering Scott brings together with great art all the leading actors of the drama; the Emperor Alexius and his wife Irene; Nicepherous Briennius, the intriguing son-in-law, husband of the fair historian; the crafty philosopher Agelastes; Achilles Tatius, master of the guards, and the faithful Verangian. This is the real commencement of the story, and to this gathering the news is announced of another body of the great Crusade, consisting not of the ignorant or of the fanatical like those led on by Peter the Hermit, but an army of lords and nobles marshaled by kings and emperors. Against this mass of steel-clad warriors the East had no power to oppose save the inherent cunning and strategy of Commenus. Craft and wealth meet stupidity and avarice. The more powerful chiefs of the Crusades are loaded with presents, feasted by the emperor with the richest delicacies, and their thirst slaked with iced wine; while their followers are left at a distance in malarial districts, and intentionally supplied with adulterated flour, tainted provisions, and bad water. Neglected by friends and insulted by foes, they contracted diseases and died in great numbers “without having once seen a foot of the Holy Land, for the recovery of which they had abandoned their peace, their competence, and their native country. Their misfortunes were imputed to their own wilfulness, and their sickness to the vehemence of their own appetites for raw fruits and unripened wines.” By promises of wealth and long-practiced arts of diplomacy, the Emperor Commenus at last even induces the leaders of the crusade individually to acknowledge him—the Grecian Emperor—originally lord paramount of all these regions, as their liege lord and suzerain.
Scott takes advantage of this historical fact to draw one of his matchless pictures, which in color and incident rivals the best pages of his more dramatic romances; and it is here that Count Robert, when the emperor left his throne for a single moment, dismounted from his horse, took the seat of royal purple, and indolently began to caress a large wolf-hound, which had followed him, and which, feeling as much at ease as his master, reposed its grim form on the carpets of gold and silk damask which tapestried the imperial footstool. It was a picture of modern liberty looking worn-out despotism in the face. That sublime audacity revealed the mettle of the race which was to make individual conscience supreme; and his haughty and fearless speech was the prologue of Magna Charta, the Bill of Rights, and the Declaration of Independence. We must pass over the meeting in the garden of Agesilaus, the entertainment at the palace, the drugged cup, the dungeon experience of the count, and his miraculous release, the fortitude and virtue of his Countess Brenhilda, the meeting of the Verangian with Bertha in the garden of the philosopher, the treachery of Briennius, his imprisonment and death-decree, and many other incidents of interest, for the remaining space of this article must be given to a brief consideration of “The Betrothed;” but the reader will be happy to know that, after the conquest of Jerusalem, Count Robert of Paris returned to Constantinople en route to his native kingdom. Upon reaching Italy the marriage of the Verangian and Bertha was celebrated in princely style; and on his return to England a large district, adjacent to the New Forest, near the home of his ancestors, was conferred upon him by William Rufus, where it is presumed they spent their declining years in peace and happiness.
“The Betrothed” opens with the year 1187—the time of the Third Crusade—when Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, preached the crusade from castle to castle, from town to town, awaking the inmost valleys of his native Cambria with the call to arms for the recovery of the Holy Sepulcher. As a connecting link between the stories we will say that the soldiers of the First Crusade, after years of hardship and suffering, at last accomplished their vows. Antioch and Jerusalem yielded to their arms, the Holy Sepulcher was redeemed from infidels. Those who returned to their homes recounted their triumphs, and all Europe was aglow with new zeal. Forty-five years later, in the year 1142, a Second Crusade was organized against the impending dangers which threatened Palestine and Jerusalem. The warlike West was again in arms; but this crusade was more unfortunate than the first. The crusaders were again compelled to endure the outrages and perfidies of the Greek. As in the First Crusade, the Christian armies dragged in their train a great number of children, women, and old men, who could do nothing toward victory but greatly augmented the disaster of defeat. The piety and heroism of the First Crusade had degenerated into a love of show and military splendor. “That which was still more injurious to discipline,” to quote from the admirable “History of the Crusades,” by J. F. Michaud, “was the depravity of manners in the Christian army, which must be principally attributed to the great number of women that had taken arms and mixed in the ranks of the soldiery. In this crusade there was a troop of Amazons, commanded by a general, whose dress was much more admired than her courage,” and whose gilded boots procured her a name which we will not copy from the historian’s pages. Forty years of struggle pass away in Palestine, and at the time of the opening of our story Henry the Second of England, Richard the First, and Philip of France, determine on renewing the Holy War. Moved by the eloquence and enthusiasm of Baldwin, there is a general cessation of hostilities between the Welsh princes and their warlike neighbors on the Marches of England. But one castle, known as the Garde Doloureuse, was not so fortunate. Its owner was Raymond Berenger. The hand of his daughter was asked in marriage by one of the Welsh chieftains. The compliment was declined. Raymond Berenger, in accordance with a rash promise, gave battle upon the plain and was slain. The castle was assaulted, but faithfully defended by an honest Fleming, inspired by the heroism of the orphaned daughter. Before the battle, Scott gives us a fine picture of the Welsh bards, and an admirable idea of life in the mountain fastnesses of Wales. His description of the defense of the castle is so graphic that we seem to walk the ramparts with the soldiers, and listen to the counsel of its defenders. Hugo De Lacy, Constable of Chester, arrives in time to raise the siege of the castle, and at once lays siege to the heart of the fair Eveline, to whom it seems she had been promised, when a child, by her father. From a sense of duty, rather than love, she accepts his proposal. She visits her Saxon aunt—a cruel and demented relic of the house of Baldringham; and is compelled to sleep in a haunted chamber, known as the “Room of the Red Finger.” The picture of Saxon life here presented is in strong contrast with the life of the Norman nobles. The century that had followed the Norman invasion of England had irritated wounded pride. Overcome by superstition and terror, Eveline sees in her dreams the spectre, and hears the fatal couplet, which gives name to the romance:
“Widowed wife and married maid,
Betrothed, betrayer, and betrayed.”
Eveline goes from her aunt’s to the abbess of a convent, a near relative, and Hugo De Lacy, having signified his intention of going to the Holy Land, asks a remission of his vow for two years; but the rigid prelate Baldwin was inexorable: “The advancement of the crusade was the chief business of Baldwin’s life, and the liberation of the Holy Sepulcher from the infidels was the unfeigned object of all his exertions. The successor of the celebrated Becket had neither the extensive views, nor the aspiring spirit of that redoubted personage; but on the other hand, saint as the latter had become, it may be questioned whether, in his professions for the weal of christendom, he was half so sincere as was the present archbishop.”
The interview between De Lacy and Baldwin shows the great power of the Church in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. He was compelled to leave Eveline before wedlock had united them indissolubly, and the first line of the couplet: “Widowed wife and married maid,” seemed already in the course of fulfillment. Hugo de Lacy sets sail for Palestine with these good-by words: “If I appear not when three years are elapsed let the Lady Eveline conclude that the grave holds De Lacy, and seek out for her mate some happier man. She can not find one more grateful, though there are many who better deserve her.”
Eveline returns to the castle of her father; the care of the country against Welsh invasion is assigned to Damian de Lacy, who had already by acts of bravery won the esteem of Eveline. The days and months of indolent castle life wear slowly away, with the occasional visit of a strolling harper, or a hawking expedition near the castle, which Scott, with his love for out-door amusements, enters into with apparent relish. On one of these excursions Eveline is made prisoner by a party of Welsh soldiers, and she is led away blindfolded through the recesses of the hills. She is rescued by Damian de Lacy, who however is seriously wounded, and taken against the advice of friends to the castle. Unfounded rumors poison the minds of the people, the castle is attacked by the king’s forces, led on by a traitor of Hugo’s family. Damian is taken prisoner and condemned to death. More than three years had passed away, and now Hugo returns in poverty, and completely broken in spirit. Damian is released, and Hugo waives his claim to the hand of Eveline, and Damian wins one of the noblest women that Scott has made immortal in the world. So much for the brief outline of the story, which reveals the manner of life on the Welsh borders during the time of the Third Crusade. The two novels which follow, “The Talisman” and “Ivanhoe,” portray even in more vivid colors the sufferings of the crusaders in Palestine, and the every day life of Merrie England.
[THE IVY.]
By HENRY BURTON.
Pushing the clods of earth aside,
Leaving the dark where foul things hide,
Spreading its leaves to the summer sun,
Bondage ended, freedom won;
So, my soul, like the ivy be,
Rise, for the sunshine calls for thee!
Climbing up as the seasons go,
Looking down upon things below,
Twining itself in the branches high,
As if the frail thing owned the sky;
So, my soul, like the ivy be,
Heaven, not earth, is the place for thee.
Wrapping itself round the giant oak,
Hiding itself from the tempest’s stroke;
Strong and brave is the fragile thing,
For it knows one secret, how to cling:
So, my soul, there’s strength for thee,
Hear the Mighty One, “Lean on me!”
Green are its leaves when the world is white,
For the ivy sings through the frosty night;
Keeping the hearts of oak awake,
Till the flowers shall bloom and the spring shall break;
So, my soul, through the winter’s rain,
Sing the sunshine back again.
Opening its green and fluttering breast,
Giving the timid birds a nest;
Coming out from the winter wild,
To make a wreath for the Holy Child;
So let my life like the ivy be,
A help to man and a wreath for Thee!
—Good Words.