Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 71, No. 436, February 1852

by Various

PART II.

CHAPTER VI.

When the curtain drew up, the stage was occupied by the two heroes of the establishment, who said not a word, but rushed at each other with prodigious swords, and hacked and hewed with the most amazing vigour. The fight had a running accompaniment from the partisans of the two belligerents. "Go it, Fitz-Neddie!" (this was familiar for Fitz-Edward) was answered with outcries of "At him, Martingale!" And, inspired by these demonstrations, the battle was prolonged till the combatants were fairly out of breath. While they were resting on their swords, and grinning horribly at each other, Miss de la Rose rushed upon the stage, with dishevelled locks and white satin shoes, and explained, in a very long soliloquy, the state of affairs. Baron Fitz-Edward had made various attempts to storm Baron Martingdale's castle, in search of his runaway ward—who, of course, was Miss de la Rose herself; and, on the present occasion, he had been surprised by the watchful Martingdale in the very act of applying a ladder to the donjon wall. But virtue such as Miss de la Rose's has surer guards than even the courage of Martingdale; for when that noble warrior is likely to be overcome, there uniformly appears the "sylvan demon, or the blood-red knight," whose strokes it is impossible to resist. When this exposition of the state of affairs had given breath enough to the still panting enemies to enter into conversation, Fitz-Edward sneered, and scorned, and threatened, and walked up the stage, and across it, and stamped with his feet, and clenched his hands, in a way that brought down thunders of applause, which, from another part of the house, were answered by rival peals, when Martingdale gave full career to the rage that was in his heart, and roared to an extent that shook the scene on which his baronial castle was painted, "as if a storm passed by." If it had not been of very strong canvass, it must have burst. While this dialogue was going on, it was painful to observe that some duplicity was at work, for several bearded fellows slipt across the stage in a mysterious manner, and were evidently posted between Adelgiza—Miss de la Rose—and the castle. The discovery of this stratagem was made too late, and Fitz-Edward grasped the arm of Adelgiza in triumph, and was about to lead her out for the purpose of being married to her on the spot by a convenient old priest, who accompanied all his expeditions with a special license, when suddenly a dead silence fell upon the stage, and, with noiseless steps, a tall knight, with visor closed, and a whole bush of red feathers growing luxuriantly out of his helmet, marched towards Fitz-Edward, touched his arm with his sword, and motioned majestically for Adelgiza to retire in safety to her home. At this point of the story I was summoned to go behind the scenes, where Mr Montalban wished to have a few minutes' conversation.

"Difficulties have arisen, my dear sir," said the manager, "about your very excellent play. Mr Martingdale says he is willing to be quiet and subdued in presence of Fitz-Edward; but, to make up for it, he must have one or two 'bits' entirely to himself. He doesn't care whether it be as part of a scene with others or a soliloquy. He suggests a description of a shipwreck, though he thinks his powers of voice would qualify him more for a bull-fight. Perhaps you can put him asleep for a few minutes, and then he can give us his dream."

"It might be managed, no doubt," I said; "but how would it help the progress of the play?"

"O, he doesn't care for that. He is an ignorant ass; but if he gets sulky, he may spoil the run."

"Is there anything else?"

"You must omit that young girl who attends Edith and says nothing. Miss de la Rose complains that her beauty is so great, and her action so graceful, that nobody attends to anything else while she is on the stage."

"Why don't you put an ugly person in her place?"

"I have more sense," chuckled the manager. "These here ugly critturs may be as clever as they like, but the house is always pleased with the sight of a pretty girl: and there she is. Here!" he added, beckoning condescendingly to a young lady, who had been looking at us for some time, "come and speak to the author of our next new play."

She came up; and, in spite of the absurd apparel she was in—a dress composed of Greek and Turkish and Hindoo articles indiscriminately, she being a feasting lady in Baron Martingdale's castle—she struck me to be the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. She did not seem above twenty years of age; tall, and exquisitely made; with an expression that led one to expect a higher position for her than a walking figure.

"I will tell you some other suggestions they make," said Mr Montalban. "In the mean time, I must go and get the daggers ready for the next scene."

"Do you think they are going to bring out your play?" inquired the young lady.

"Certainly. I should say it will be acted in a month."

"It will never be acted here, I assure you of that. Notice is already given of a play which our translator has just finished from the French; and if you have advanced any money, it is to buy dresses for that. We keep a translator at twenty-five shillings a-week, and as much gin as he requires, and I am told this next spectacle will be very fine indeed."

When I had recovered my breath after this astounding communication, I replied, "I am afraid you see everything in this theatre in an unfavourable light. Your own position is certainly not equal to your merits."

"And therefore I tell you that Hengist and Horsa is never meant to appear? It doesn't seem to follow; but, nevertheless, what I tell you is true. My situation here is exactly what I wish."

"Then your ambition is easily satisfied, for I am told you are never allowed to speak."

"I am Miss de la Rose's double," she replied, "and gain confidence and a knowledge of the stage."

"Her double?" I inquired.

"Yes. I learn every part that she learns; so that if she were taken unwell, or were run over by a cab, I should be able to take her place; and, once give me the chance, she should never get it again!"

"And for this remote hope you hang on here every night, and probably have a very small salary?"

"No salary at all—is not worth mentioning," she said. "It is not for money I devote myself to the stage, and I don't require any profession for my support. Will you let me read your play?"

"With all my heart," I answered. I have another copy at home."

"Give me your address," she said, "and I will send for it to-morrow. Say nothing in the mean time of what I have told you, but be prepared for disappointment; for now I am off to preside at the second table." A round of applause saluted her graceful walk across the stage, which rose into a tempest of admiration when she acknowledged the compliment by a salaam of the deepest respect.

Miss de la Rose touched me on the shoulder. "She's the vainest fool, that Miss Claribel, that ever stept on boards. Why can't she walk quietly to her place without such coquetting with the pit?"

"Has she been an actress here long?"

"Never an actress at all, and never will be," replied the first tragedienne. "She has long watched for an opening; but we stop it up, sir, as if it were a rat-hole. So she may practise her Ophelia to the glass in the green-room. She shall never sing her ballads or spread out her hair before the lamps, I can tell her that. More applause!—what is it? It makes me quite nervous to hear all those disgusting noises. It is only Miss Claribel presenting a cup of wine to that brute Martingdale."

"She is so very beautiful," I said, and so majestic in her motion."

"Is she? You and I differ very much on that point. She certainly limps with the left leg; and—oh! there they're applauding again! It kills me, this nonsense! Why, she has only made her exit in search of me, for I am now going on to quarrel with the baron." So saying, she settled her dagger in her belt, and glided on to the stage.

Miss Claribel came to me again.

"Miss de la Rose is a severe critic—as most people are who are ignorant and vain," she began.

"I assure you I did not agree with her judgments; but one thing she told me that gives me great pleasure, and that is, that you are prepared to make a debût in Ophelia."

"And why should that give you pleasure?" she inquired. "It is a beautiful character, and I think I can enter into its simple purity and poetic charm."

"I have no doubt you can; and, in fact"—but here her bright eye was so fixed on me, that I coloured and hesitated.

"Oh," she said, "I see; you have the boy's fever on you yet, and think you could shake the spheres in Hamlet."

"I certainly have studied the character."

"And can you declaim?"

"I think so."

"Will you let me hear you?"

"Most proudly."

"Then I'll come for the play myself to-morrow, and we can rehearse a scene."

"My mother will be delighted to see you. I shall expect you at twelve o'clock." She nodded her consent to the appointment, and we parted.

"Are you quite sure, Mr Montalban," I said, "that Hengist and Horsa will be produced without delay?"

"Call me no gentleman if I deceive you," replied the manager, laying his hand on his waistcoat, a little above the left side pocket; "and the day that sees me forfeit my word of honour, will be the last of my management of this here theatre."

What could I say? I determined to wait for more certain information from Miss Claribel, and, in rather a desponding frame of mind, I slipt out of the theatre before the play was over, and wended my way home.

As I applied the latch-key, the door was opened by the lodger on the upper floor, whose performances on the violin we had often heard, but whom I had never encountered before. He was enveloped in whisker and moustache to an extent that nearly hid his features. He wore a braided coat, very wide in the tails; loose trousers, and glossy boots. He grinned when he saw me, and revealed a row of white teeth which looked like some mother-o'-pearl ornaments set in hair; and, lifting up the low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat which adorned his head, he said, "Ver' fine night for de valk—I hope you quite vell?" And with a very gracious bow he replaced his hat, tucked a long green baize parcel under his arm, and left the house. It is quite possible for people who live at the opposite ends of any great city not to meet, but London is the only place in the world where the inhabitants of the same house shall never come in each other's way. This foreigner had been our fellow-lodger for several months, and we had never thought of making his acquaintance. He continued to be an abstraction as long as we merely listened to his fiddle, and heard his step on the floor; but now that our eyes had actually met, and we had exchanged words, he became a real existence, and I felt ashamed of our unsocial reserve.

Punctually at twelve Miss Claribel made her appearance, plainly dressed, modest in her demeanour, and low-toned in the voice. There was very little in her present style to recal the feasting lady of the night before. There was still great beauty in her face, and great elegance in her motion, but they had no resemblance to stage features or stage attitudes. My mother received her very kindly. "Your acquaintance with the interior workings of a theatre," she said, "will be of great use to my son, if you will be kind enough to give him the results of your experience."

"My experience is very small, except in so far as the actors in a theatre are concerned. With authors we have never had anything to do, except on this occasion."

"How?—not with authors?" I broke in. "Then how do you get possession of new plays?"

"Steal them," replied Miss Claribel quietly. "I told you we keep a translator—a remarkably clever man while he is sober; and we owe everything to the French and Germans."

"But when a new play is offered to the management?"

"The management laughs, and puts in a few advertisements in the papers about the encouragement to native talent; gets a little money, if it can, from the vanity of the aspirant, and ends with a fresh version from Scribe or Kotzebue."

"Charles, my dear," said my mother, "I wish we had known Miss Claribel some days ago."

"But still, Miss Claribel," I said, "there must be some exceptions at the Stepney Star, for Mr Montalban told me his principle was novelty and home manufacture. He did not profess the Shakspearian drama, but laid himself out for the poets of the present day."

"He has an original pantomime at Christmas-time every year, and no other poets are ever engaged in our service; but, perhaps, the merit of Hengist may open the eyes even of Mr Montalban. Will you let me judge of it for myself?"

I gave her the copy I had promised.

"There was another thing you talked of last night," I added. "You have not forgotten your promise about Ophelia?" In a moment she took off her bonnet, slung it across her arm in the manner of a basket, let loose her hair, which fell in wavy ringlets down to the middle of her back, assumed a wandering expression in the eyes, but still retained intellect enough in their look to give full effect to the pathos, and began, "There's rosemary—that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember; and there is pansies—that's for thoughts." And it was not many minutes before my mother was in tears. I was a great deal too manly to follow her example, but I felt a choaking at the throat which was very uncomfortable.

"Is it possible," I inquired, "that you have never had the opportunity of showing your delightful talents on the stage?"

"Very possible, indeed," she replied; "and, unless by some accident, I feel sure also I never shall. In fact, the rise of a junior performer entirely depends on the health or longevity of the senior. There have been limping old men tottering through Ranger and Charles Surface, exactly as they had done for forty years; and keeping in those parts for the express purpose of debarring younger men from them, whose talents, they think, would eclipse their reputation."

"But can't a manager give the part to any one he likes?"

"O, no. It is down in Miss de la Rose's engagement that she is to have all the principal characters."

"But when there are two principal characters in one play?" inquired my mother.

"Mrs Ferdinand Windleshaw has secured all the second characters. She is always the Emilia to Miss de la Rose's Desdemona."

"And you!" I cried—"is there no part left for you?"

"Both those ladies would leave the theatre at once if I were allowed to speak one line."

"Then, my dear Miss Claribel," said my mother, greatly won by the simple openness of the visitor, "why do you remain on the stage, or rather not on the stage, but behind the scenes? You could surely find some other way of making your extraordinary talents of use."

"I draw a little in the intervals of study," she replied, "and compose a little music. I make quite enough for my own support; and, in short, there are reasons why I continue true to the stage."

"I have known you too short a time," replied my mother, "to ask you for your confidence; but I assure you I take a great interest in your success, and I hope you will always consider me a friend."

Miss Claribel took my mother's hand. "I won't try to thank you," she said; "for such kindness overcomes me. If you knew the loneliness of a poor actress's life, the solitude of the desolate room she goes back to after the glare of the lamps, the friendlessness she experiences in the very midst of the clapping of innumerable hands, you would know how doubly valuable to her heart is the kind sympathy of a lady in your position. You give me a new tie to existence in letting me feel assured of your goodwill, and I will come and see you whenever I feel my griefs too much for me to sustain alone."

Things had now got a great deal too sentimental for me to say a word about Hamlet. I believe both the ladies had utterly forgotten the existence of the Danish prince, and, for a while, the presence of his representative. There was a feeling of disappointment in my heart as I shook hands with Miss Claribel at the door. I did not acknowledge the reason of it even to myself; but I have no doubt now it arose from her neglect of my dramatic powers. Neglect is the most difficult to bear of all the ills that theatric flesh is heir to. My mother was delighted with her visitor. She felt sure there was a mystery about her; and she was determined to unravel it. In the mean time I determined to wait patiently for a week, as requested by Mr Montalban, and then go to the rehearsal of Hengist and Horsa.

CHAPTER VII.

That same evening the landlady brought me a polite message from Mr Catsbach, the occupant of the upper floor, and an invitation to visit him at eight o'clock. I was received with many apologies for the liberty he had taken—with many apologies also for not having taken it before—for he had long had a violent inclination to make my acquaintance—the more especially as he perceived, from my excellent touch on the flute, that I was as great a musical enthusiast as himself. I returned his compliment by declaring my gratification at catching the sounds of his violin; and ventured to hope that, now that we were acquainted, we might practise sometimes together.

"Dat vill most pleasant be," said Mr Catsbach; "and meantimes ve vill have die branty and wader." In a short time the table was replenished with bottles and glasses, the frost of non-acquaintance rapidly wore off, and I examined my companion more minutely than I had hitherto done. Though very much disguised, and, I thought, disfigured by the mass of whisker, beard, and moustache, in which he enveloped his countenance, I saw that his features were regular and handsome; and if he had told me he was count or baron, I should have believed him on the strength of his gentlemanly manners and appearance. However, he did not mention anything of the kind. In fact, he mentioned very little about himself at all; and I had the pleasing reflection on the following morning that I had concealed very few incidents of my own life, without getting the slightest return of confidence from him. My forthcoming triumph at the Stepney Star and my ambition to appear in Hamlet were not forgotten. I even went so far as to tell him I had discovered an Ophelia who would play up to me in very first-rate style, and that I thought of very soon astonishing the world with my debût. There are few educated foreigners now who do not understand and enjoy Shakspeare as much as the generality of Englishmen. Catsbach was quite at home in Hamlet, and, after the third tumbler of our brandy and water, gave a recitation of "To be or not to be," which was very effective to me, (who never drank so much before,) in spite of the foreign pronunciation. There were now two points of sympathy between us; and what music began, Shakspeare—not to mention the brandy—completed. We parted that night as if we had been friends for years, and he was to return my visit on the following night. All people are capable of being thawed, however thick the coat of ice may appear to be at first—only it takes longer to melt in some than in others. After my mother had retired—for our fellow lodger returned my visit without delay—when the second tumbler shone upon the table, and a small shining brass kettle on the hob was singing its accompaniment to our conversation, I began a few fishing questions as to his history and position, for I felt rather ashamed of my own openness on the previous evening.

"Have you been long in England?" I inquired.

"'Es—no; a few months—or 'ears. I not know."

"You speak the language extremely well, considering you have been here so short a time."

The foreigner twirled his moustaches, and took a pull at the tumbler.

"I must say John Bull, though a little rough in his manner, is very kind and generous to foreigners."

"Ver'; too mosh," said Catsbach.

"And this is truly and honourably called the home of the patriot and the exile," I said.

"The fact is," said Mr Catsbach, in a perfectly English pronunciation, and with some energy, "our friend Jack is the greatest fool alive."

I started back. "Why, how well you speak," I cried; "but who is Jack?"

"Why, John Bull," he said. "The shallowest, bellowingest old beast that ever carried a horn. You talk of those exiles and fellows who can find no living in their own country, and come over here to eat up the fat of the land."

"You amaze me. Aren't you one of the refugees yourself?"

"Never was out of England in my life, and never will be," replied Mr Catsbach. "But you must pardon me, my dear fellow, for not having explained myself to you before. I am no foreigner, and never was—only I wear these embellishments on cheek and chin for a particular purpose; and fortunately Jack is fool enough for anything, and never suspects any man if he speaks with a strange accent and wears a queer-cut coat."

I drew back a little, not feeling quite sure of the reason for which Mr Catsbach had assumed his disguise.

He saw my movement. "You're not such a fool as Jack, I perceive," he said; "and suppose that all may not be right, in spite of foreign garb and hairy countenance. Be easy on that score," he continued. "You are a fine, honourable young fellow, full of learning and genius—your mother is a perfect lady—the brandy also is excellent; and I will tell you a small portion of my story, just to show you that I am not altogether unworthy of the society of all three."

My mother was absent; the brandy, however, and I were present, and I bowed to his compliment.

"As to birth, parentage, and education," he began, "these are matters of no consequence; and I must say for Jack, if a man behaves himself pretty well, it doesn't much matter whether his name be Mowbray or Smith."

"I beg your pardon," I interposed. "I consider there is a very great difference indeed."

"Ah! but Jack at large doesn't think so; and so I have no hesitation in telling you my name is Tooks. When I came to years of discretion, which I managed to do pretty early, I felt thankful it was not Snooks, and looked out of the window of my private existence, as it were, to see what was going on on the High Street of life. From my earliest days I devoted myself to the study of Jack—that is short for 'John Bull,' and prose for 'my country.' I took a personal interest in all his concerns. He was no abstraction like Athens or Rome, but a real breathing personage, with great peculiarities of character, and the most extraordinary position the world had ever seen. I studied the Army List, the Navy List, the Shipping Gazette, and felt that Jack was the most astonishing potentate on the face of the earth. I studied the Parliamentary debates—the reports of public meetings—the list of railway directors and committee men—and I was forced to confess that Jack was little better than an ass. At sixteen I was secretary to the agglomerated association for vindicating the rights of man. The rights of property, however, were left to take care of themselves, and our chairman was transported for theft. I lost a silver watch, the bequest of my grandmother, in an unaccountable manner—an upper coat, and a gold pencil-case; so, in case of being stript of everything, I resigned my secretaryship, and had to pay half-a-year's rent of the cellar in which our meetings were held. But Jack, after all, is a noble fellow; and there are thieves and impostors in all parties. At seventeen I was an eloquent speaker among the 'Constitutional Brothers.' We were all great admirers of Jack, and would have died for the glorious constitution, the envy of surrounding nations, and the glory of our own; but we differed from the rest of the world on the date at which this constitution had been in its purest and best condition. We fixed on the reign of Harold, and were most hostile to the Norman invaders. Whatever had been introduced since then we considered a badge of conquest and subjection. We called the Parliament the Wittenagemote, and hated the feudal system. Our innovations were all in a backward sense. We wished to undo the Battle of Hastings, and find out a lineal descendant of King Harold. It was reported that one did exist in the person of a shoemaker at Northampton. We went to see him, and found him one of the constables in the town, who threatened to take us into custody if we tried on any more of our nonsense. Low fellows have no ambition, though they were grandsons of Julius Cæsar. We talked very high of what we should do in this appalling absence of a legitimate possessor of the throne; and just when we had nearly resolved to proceed to use the ancient privilege of the English people and elect a king, an uncle of mine, a merchant in Swithin's Alley, interfered with my royal candidature, and I became a clerk in his counting-house, at a hundred a-year."

Here Mr Catsbach, or rather Mr Tooks, refreshed himself with the whole remainder of his tumbler; made himself another with the utmost expedition, and proceeded.

"I need a little support," he said, "for I am now coming to a period when I fell in love. I will be very brief in my account of the interesting event, for it sticks in my throat, and has made me miserable for many months. She was the prettiest girl that ever was seen—of course they are all that when we see them through the spectacles of admiration and vanity; for a girl's principal beauty consists in the willingness, more or less, with which she reciprocates your feelings. That's the reason why misogynists are all ugly fellows—it's the reason also why old men think the average amount of beauty fallen off. The prettiest creature in the world was Ellinor Bones, a niece of my aunt; so, in a sort of way, we were cousins. She was a ward of my uncle's, with three thousand pounds in the four per cents; and the moment I saw her, I said there's my destiny. There have been few books, and no play of my acquaintance, without a young fellow marrying his uncle's ward; so I made up my mind at once, and had no doubt of converting the beautiful Ellinor into Mrs Tooks. The course of true love never did run smooth, our immortal friend says. Doesn't it?—ours flowed like a mill-pond; so either ours was not true love, or William for once is wrong. A divided allegiance now held my whole being, the beauty of Ellinor and the political condition of Jack. There was no room for bills of lading, and I hated the very sight of a ledger, unless under its canonised form, when I betted on it at Doncaster. I made love—I thought politics—I neglected my three-legged stool. My love was reciprocated. Jack improved very much; and my uncle shook his head with more ominous wisdom than the Earl of Burleigh. Ellinor was the strangest character I ever knew—a sort of miniature in enamel of Jack himself. She had all his honesty and openness—his self-reliance and fixed determination. She said she would marry me, and I defied the Spanish Inquisition to torture her into a recantation. But how was the ceremony to be achieved? We put up the banns in Mary-le-Bone church. The number of matrimonial candidates is infinite. The curate speaks as if his mouth were full of hot potatoes; and you are at perfect liberty to marry any of the lot, for there is no distinction made between 'any of these parties respectively.' We had made calculations as to the expense of housekeeping, and many plans for enlarging our income. I had always one resource. Jack is the most generous of patrons, and very fond of music. I relied on my fiddle, if the worst came to the worst. I determined, in the mean time, to make myself a name, if possible, in eloquence and statistics, that might be beneficial to me if I thought of standing for a borough. I made a speech at a preliminary meeting for Westminster, and was kicked out of the room as a dishonest swindler, for advocating justice to the public creditor; at the same time I was reported in the papers as having been powerful in favour of the spunge. So, on the following morning, I got notice from my uncle that he had no farther occasion for my services. I saw Ellinor on the subject. What was to be done? We resolved to marry, and trust to our talents and good fortune for the rest. We met next morning at Mary-le-Bone church, and were bound for ever, for better for worse. At our exit from the hymeneal altar, who was waiting for us at the door? My uncle and two bailiffs!—my aunt and the housekeeper! A hand was laid on my shoulder. 'Debt?—or criminal?' I inquired. 'You'll see that in plenty of time,' growled my uncle. 'But Jack,' I exclaimed, 'will never stand this; he has too great a regard for the liberty of the subject. I will set Habeas Corpus at work.' They tore me away. 'Where's my Ellinor?' I exclaimed, as I sat in the cab, and was rapidly driven off to Swithin's Alley; but echo made its usual unsatisfactory answer. A few days put all straight. My uncle found his ruse of no use; and I discovered myself one morning on the pavement, with no particular amount of money, and a wife, without the power of offering her a home. I hurried off to my uncle's. 'Where's my wife?' I distractedly asked the cook—for I had taken the precaution to enter by the kitchen. She was a Scotchwoman—very popular for sheep's-head broth. 'Gae wa' wi' ye, ye ne'er-do-weel, rinning awa' wi' bonny lasses for the sake o' their siller.'

"'But where is she?' I again exclaimed.

"'She's as bad's yersel, and has gane aff in the search o' ye. She eloupit within an hour o' her return; so ye had best keep out o' the way, for the maister swears ye'll never get a fardin o' her tocher.'

"'Caledonian impostor!' I cried, 'I'll find my Ellinor, if she is in rerum natura;' and I distractedly rushed off to commence my search. But she is not in rerum natura, or I have never been lucky enough to discover where rerum natura is. I've tried the Times till I'm tired. 'Ellinor! your distracted husband is perishing with despair. A note addressed MISERRIMUS, Old Slaughter's, will make him the happiest of men.'—'Has Ellinor forgotten her Augustus? Come to me at the door of the New Hummums at eight to-night. Fortune smiles, and a fig for uncles and aunts.'

"I can't tell you the annuity I settled for the first year on the Times. There I was every morning. No answer at Old Slaughter's—no appearance at the New Hummums. In the mean time, how was I to live? My dear fellow, I must pause a little, for there are secrets about John Bull, and the way he manages to grub on, which it requires some ingenuity to discover, and a greater amount of ingenuousness to confess." Mr Tooks paused, and occupied his leisure moments in the concoction of another tumbler. "How do you think all the people in this tremendous London live?" he continued. "Do you think they have all money lying incubating in the bank; or with snug little farms in Suffolk or Kent, doing nothing all day long but growing wheat and hops for their benefit? What if they had? Why, every fellow would live on his income, and eat his home-grown bread. There would be nobody to do anything for anybody else, and the world would stand still. Excuse my political economy, but I see great advantages in poverty, in the abstract; but when it comes too close, it loses, like many other things, the charm that distance gives them. I, sir, had nothing. Ellinor had saved ninety-two pounds seven; but it was in her reticule when we were separated at the door of Mary-le-Bone church. I had not a farthing. Was I to lie down and die for that? Had I studied Jack so ill? No. I was one of his children, and I would show all the dogged unthrashability of my sire at Waterloo and elsewhere. In short, I let my hair grow. I grew strong, like Samson, under the process. I rough-paved my throat with German gutturals. I put on pantaloons that seemed cut according to the pattern of the cover of a celestial globe, with two little dependences in which to insert the legs. I got a coat, with its tails widening like a fan. I took my fiddle in my hand, and here I am—very comfortable as regards income and enjoyment, and only miserable for the loss of my beloved Ellinor. Come with me to-morrow night, and I will show you how the world moves."

CHAPTER VIII.

But I couldn't give myself up to Mr Tooks's guidance, for my destiny was now drawing near at the Stepney Star, and I had no spirits for anything else till that was decided. Once or twice Miss Claribel came, but her confidences were all to my mother. For several hours at a time they would retire to my mother's room, and both would reappear with their eyes rather red, as if they had been crying. Was Miss Claribel growing despondent? Was there no chance of accident or illness befalling the sempiternal Emily de la Rose? If she was indeed in low spirits, she took remarkably good care that I should bear her company. She was like the hero or heroine, I forget which, in Moore's ballad, who held a feast of tears, and was social in the deepest of woes. "You expect the rehearsal on Thursday?" she said. "Not a chance of it. They are getting up a rhyming version of the Miller and his Men, and Martingdale and Fitz-Edward are on the point of borrowing the property pistols to fight a duel with, to decide which of them goes into the sack. But come on Thursday, and then you will see for yourself." On Thursday I went. With more politeness and friendliness than usual, Mr Montalban invited me up to his room. "Great news," he said; "I have great news for you. I think I may now say our fortunes are made."

"Does the play go well at rehearsal?" I inquired, with a glow of gratification not unmingled with triumph over the sinister auguries of Miss Claribel.

"Never has been put in rehearsal at all. The Lord Chamberlain has positively said no. It is not to be done."

"On what ground has the Lord Chamberlain put his veto?" I asked, compressing my lips to restrain my anger. "Does he find anything injurious to morals or religion in Hengist and Horsa?"

"Far from it," replied Montalban. "You are aware that the Lord Chamberlain is appointed for the express purpose of seeing that plays are worthy of public approbation, both for their literary merit and moral tendency. Well, his lordship—who is always the most distinguished man in the Peerage for his literary tastes and performances—has devoted several days to the study of your excellent play, and his final decision is, that it deserves a wider field than we can afford it here. He has ordered its representation to be delayed till arrangements can be made for its appearance at one of the great national theatres. What do you say to that, Mr Dipbowing? Think of the thousands at Drury Lane! Think of the Queen in the royal box, attended by all her court? I give you joy, upon my honour, and feel highly charmed that it is through me that your glory is to be secured." Here Mr Montalban shook hands with me so heartily, that I couldn't resist the influence of his friendly manner, and returned his pressure with a warmth equal to his own.

"Will it be long before arrangements can be made for its appearance at Drury Lane?" I inquired, in the midst of our gratulations.

"Well, that is a sensible question," replied Montalban. "I must consult his Lordship on the point. I have certainly made an offer for it; but as the trustees are hard-hearted people, with no love for the modern drama, they insist on a deposit towards the rent; and as I am deficient to the amount of fifty pounds——"

"Is that the whole deficiency?" I said; "for if such a sum——"

"Forty-eight pound fifteen is the exact amount that would enable me to table their demand; but with such enormous expenses as I am at here, where could a man look for assistance, even to that paltry extent? The Lord Chamberlain, I have no doubt, would forego his fee——"

"What!" I inquired, "is there a fee on the production of a new play?"

"Isn't there?" answered Montalban. "The advantage of a censorship of the press or of the stage, which is the same thing, is not to be had for nothing. No, no: we pay his Lordship—per self or deputy—a very handsome acknowledgment for the trouble he takes in correcting, altering, and improving the tragedies that are submitted to his approval."

"Has his Lordship condescended to amend any of the lines in Hengist?" I asked with gratified interest.

"He has only blotted out all the Heavens, and put in a number of skies. He has also done away with all the fiends and devils; for our improver is a very devout man, and seems to have an awful veneration for Beelzebub. O! it's well worth the money, I assure you, to have the certificate that all's right from such high literary and religious authority."

"And fifty pounds would do it," I said half to myself.

"Forty-eight pound fifteen," said Mr Montalban, altogether to the same individual.

"It shall be done," I said, and shook his hand again. "Send in your agreement to the trustees; I will give you the sum you require."

"I don't for a moment scruple to take your offer," replied the manager, "for I feel—I know—I am only acting as your trustee in doing so. Your terms, Mr Dipbowing, are quadrupled. You shall have twenty pounds a-night from the very commencement of the run. And old Drury shall feel the breath of the Legitimate again. Is there anything else that strikes you?"

"Couldn't you find an opening for Miss Claribel?" I said. "I am confident she has great dramatic powers, and only requires an opportunity to display them in order to take the town by storm."

"Name what part you like, and she shall be in the bills, in letters two inches long, on our opening night." Again I shook hands, and the matter was satisfactorily settled.

"O," said Mr Montalban, calling me back, as if he had forgotten something, "if you don't happen to have the money in hand, I can tell you of a way which will be more easy for you, and quite as agreeable to me."

I was delighted at his thoughtful friendship; and did not scruple to confess that, till some money which we expected came from India, the outlay would put me to inconvenience.

"Better and better," he exclaimed. "I can put you in clover in the mean time, and you can do as you like when the payments for the play begin. I have a friend who is oppressed with ready money, and is always delighted to make a safe and honourable investment. Here is a bill at two months for a hundred and fifty pounds. Just write your name there, and this day week I will pay you a hundred, keeping the other fifty as a loan for our Drury Lane transaction; and in consequence of the play being now sure to go on at Old Drury, we will have a dress rehearsal on that day. On Thursday, sir, you will receive a hundred pounds, and see Hengist in all his glory."

I never signed a paper with so much pleasure in my life. I considered it was merely receiving prepayment of part of my theatrical gains; and felt now perfectly assured that the manager had no doubt of my success, as he in a joking manner offered to consider the money repaid, if I would give him an order on the treasurer of Old Drury for my profits of the first ten nights.

"You look very happy," said Miss Claribel to me, as I passed the wing, "and yet you have not been on the stage to see the rehearsal of your play."

"It is not in rehearsal," I said; "and moreover, my dear Miss Claribel, it isn't going to be rehearsed—to-day."

"I told you so," replied Miss Claribel, tying her bonnet and putting on her shawl; "but as I have now got up my rôle of standing behind Miss de la Rose's chair, I will walk a part of the way home with you, and hear what you have said to Montalban."

"What I have said to Montalban is this," I said, when we had got out into the street, "that you were lost and buried here, and that I requested a more prominent position for a young lady of so much beauty and so much talent."

"And he said?"

"That you should very shortly make your appearance in whatever character I chose to name."

"Did you name any character?"

"I resolved to consult you first. Will you try Desdemona or Ophelia?"

"You lent him money," said Miss Claribel, in a sad voice.

"On the contrary," I said, "he has advanced some to me." We walked for five minutes in silence. I thought she was speechless with gratitude for my interference in her behalf; I thought also it might be with reverence of my genius, now that she saw it was appreciated by the bestowers of wealth and fame.

"Will you tell my dear and kind Mrs de Bohun, that I will come to her for an hour to-morrow at twelve o'clock? In the mean time, my good young friend, I wish you good day." And without a word of thanks or congratulation, she walked away.

As I saw her graceful figure and elegant motion, I again felt a gush of gratification fill my heart at having interfered so effectually in her favour. Beautiful and modest Miss Claribel! I thought; it is to me you will owe your triumph at Drury Lane, and not solitary shall you be in your success! No, there's a Hamlet shall respond to all the divine tendernesses of the sweet Ophelia—an Othello who will weep tears of blood over the death-couch of your Desdemona—a Romeo—But here I was nearly run over by a West End omnibus; and wondering whether Miss Claribel would be as delighted with my support as I was with hers, I got into the 'bus, which awoke me from my reverie, and returned home.

I met Catsbach in the passage. "My dear fellow," he said, "I insist on your coming with me to-night. I have something very interesting to show you."

"Where'er you like," I cried in a sort of rapture—"'whatever realms to see.' My arm a nobler victory ne'er gained, and I am at your command. 'Go on: I follow thee.'"

"Come up to me at seven; bring your flute. We shall have a cheerer or two before we start; and you can tell me all about the rehearsal of your play."

"Is all right about the rehearsal, Charles?" said my mother, as I entered her room radiant with delight.

"Yes, mother—all is going charmingly—but not at the Stepney Star. No! brighter skies are opening—more enduring glory and wealth, mother—sweetened by the delightful thought that it has been honourably won, and that it will all be spent in adding comforts—ay! luxuries to you! I am to be paid a hundred pounds next week; the play is to be brought out at Drury Lane; my uncle will hear of my triumph the moment he steps on English ground, and conscience will gnaw his prosaic heart for his neglect and harshness; the Queen will probably attend the first night; horses, and spectacles, and tableaux vivants shall be banished from the English stage; and when people in the street see you and me in the nice little Brougham I intend to keep for you, they'll say the good times of the drama are come back again; that's the author of Hengist and Horsa."

It is useless to describe our rapture. We got a map of London, and looked over it all in search of a nice new street to go and live in. My mother rather leant to the classic retirements of Brompton, but I put a great splash of ink on Wilton Place. "Lord John Russell," I exclaimed, "began by writing a play, and I, too, will be a Belgravian."

CHAPTER IX.

We left the house at half-past eight. Catsbach carried a long green bag, and I my flute-case in my pocket. We got into an omnibus, and, after a half-hour's drive, were put down at the end of a wide street. We walked a few hundred yards, and went into a long dark passage. We then mounted some steps, and, on opening a small door, emerged on the upper floor of an orchestra, in an immense assembly-room, magnificently lighted with numerous chandeliers, and already occupied by two or three hundred people, very gaily dressed. A clapping of hands saluted the appearance of my companion, who bowed to his admirers, and took his place at a small desk in the middle of the orchestra. I took up my station at his side. About ten other musicians were seated at their desks, and we waited for the amusements to begin. The floor on which the company promenaded was about twenty feet wide, and was in the shape of the letter T. It was surrounded on all sides by a raised platform about eight feet in width and six feet in elevation; at the front of which were banisters for the protection of a line of spectators, who had already begun to assemble in considerable numbers. The floor was exactly like the dried-up bed of a canal, with a great gathering of observers on the banks. Six or eight elegantly-dressed gentlemen, with silver bows at their breasts, and white wands in their hands, were busy among the company, making introductions, arranging partners, and placing the couples in their proper places. Suddenly one of them stept into the middle of the floor, looked intently at Catsbach, who had now stood up with the violin on his shoulder, and clapping his hands three times, exclaimed, "Valse a deu tang!" and with a crash from the whole orchestra, the music began, and the ball was opened.

A pretty sight as ever I saw, though I have seen many assemblies of higher pretensions since then. There was as much decorum and as much politeness, as far as I could judge, as could be shown in a duke's palace. There was a great amount of beauty; several groups were very pleasant to look on; evidently parties made up for the purpose of the evening's enjoyment: tradesmen, thought I to myself, and their wives, with two or three daughters and a son—or perhaps a lover of Marianne—dancing only with the families of their neighbours, and enjoying the gay scene and exhilarating exercise at a very moderate expense, and no damage to morals or reputation. Others, no doubt, found their way in who were not so respectably guarded as by their fathers or lovers; but from my lofty field of contemplation I saw no evidence whatever that it was not a festival of the vestal virgins held in the temple of Diana. Dance succeeded to dance; the masters of the ceremonies were indefatigable in their attentions, and all went happy as a marriage bell. Catsbach resumed all his German incomprehensibility, scolded the inferior fiddlers with a plentiful infusion of donners and blitzens, and was in all respects a most hairy and distinguished conductor of the band. In one of the pauses of the music, he whispered to me to take out my flute and accompany the next dance. With trembling hand I did so; and there was the heir of the De Bohuns, the author of Hengist and Horsa, performing at a Casino! However, one comfort is, I performed extremely well. There were several rounds of applause as the new instrument made itself heard above the violins and bassoons, and I thought I perceived a greater liveliness in the movements of the dancers when they caught the clear notes of the flute. I could have played all night; and asked Catsbach how long the assembly would last.

"Do you see those three gentlemen," he said, "leaning over the banisters, and enjoying so heartily the gay scene at their feet?"

"Yes—the stout old squire, with his two sons, probably?"

"They are very pleasant fellows—a constable and two other officers of the detective police. When the clock strikes a quarter to twelve, you will see the Essex freeholder, as you thought him, pull out his watch, and in exactly fifteen minutes the hall will be deserted, the lights out, and you and I sitting down to a jolly supper in the refreshment parlour behind the assembly-room."

"Do they expect any crime to be committed at these places?" I inquired.

"No, not a crime. Sometimes a row is threatened, but it is generally by snobs whose fathers are in the peerage, or still lower snobs, who think it shows gentle blood to behave like blackguards when they have paid a shilling at the door. There's a young lord," he continued, "with one of his parasites; I shouldn't be surprised if you saw your friend the squire make his debût on the floor."

"Country dance!—the haymakers!" exclaimed the senior master of the ceremonies, and Catsbach resumed his fiddlestick.

It was most merrily and beautifully danced; and as I did not contribute to the music, I was at full liberty to watch the whole scene. I followed the young noble and his obsequious attendant in all his motions. He was a fine-featured, tall-figured youth, with soft eyes shaded by long silken lashes, a classically-shaped head, and altogether a soft, almost feminine, expression, that was at first sight very captivating, till you saw that, though the face was eminently handsome, there was no intellect in its look, and the lips, the great revealers of character, were selfish and cold. When my eyes rested on the other, I felt a sudden thrill of some strong feeling, which I could not define, rush to my heart like an electric shock. In spite of the black neckcloth, the carefully buttoned-up coat, the coloured gloves, and the green spectacles that half hid his face, I knew I had seen him before. I couldn't tell where nor when, but I felt it was in enmity we had met. At last I saw a slavish smile put fresh slime on his thick blubber lips, and I knew the man. Before I had time to ask advice from Catsbach how I could revenge myself on my enemy, I lost them for a moment in the crowd. Suddenly I saw a hand raised, and, after a sharp sound, like a stroke with the flat hand on water, I saw the young nobleman procumbent on the floor, and a stream of blood issuing from his nose and mouth. My friend the Squire in an instant was on the spot; the sufferer raised from the ground; and the music ceased. I hurried round into the front.

"See if he's a gentleman, and get his card," said the noble, still supported in the Squire's arms.

"He a gentleman, my lord! Nothing of the sort; but let us get out of this; they're nothing but thieves and shop-boys. Do come, my lord; I wouldn't have this known on any consideration," whispered the sycophant, taking him by the arm.

"We must hear more of this," said the Squire. "Don't let that man go." And one of the attendant freeholders touched the gentleman's shoulder.

"You don't know who it is," he said to the officer. "You will repent of this insolence, I assure you. He is the Right Honourable the Earl Maudlin, eldest son of the Marquis of Missletoe. I must insist on your letting us go, and punishing that low person who dared to assault his lordship."

"Take down his name," said the Squire calmly; "and have the goodness to give me your own."

A shade of despair fell on the follower's countenance.

"I am a friend of his lordship," he said; "but I won't give my name. For heaven's sake! let us go."

"I say gub'nor," interposed his lordship, "this is a pretty mess we have got into. You'll look rather queer before the beek to-morrow. As to me, I'm used to it."

"Hush, my lord! Mention no names," replied the terrified friend. "I have really nothing to do with this," he continued, addressing the Squire; "and I insist on leaving the room."

"Not yet," replied the Squire with a smile. "We must teach you fine-feathered birds from Grosvenor Square to keep to your own grounds. I am Sergeant Smiffins of the police, and you must both come with me on charge of an assault—give your names or not, as you like. Many anonymous gentlemen step up and down the mill, and enjoy teazing oakum in the house of correction for two months, for far less than this."

"All in the newspapers to-morrow, gub'nor," said Earl Maudlin, who evidently enjoyed the confusion and despair of his companion.

"Do any of you know this man," inquired Sergeant Smiffins, who seemed to enter into the fan of the scene himself.

"For any sake," whispered the prisoner, taking his captor aside; "don't push this any farther. I am his lordship's tutor. I dined with his lordship at the Clarendon. I accompanied his lordship here with no evil intention."

"But only because you can't get manliness into your heart to say no to a lord," replied the sergeant. "I've met with many fellows like you before, and think you far worse than any of the thieves and pickpockets my duty brings me acquainted with. Has anybody lost a handkerchief, or a watch?" he cried aloud. "This man must be detained and I will take him on suspicion if any of you have missed anything. I can't let him go without ascertaining his name."

"I can tell you his name," I said; and a circle was made round me. "He is the Reverend Mr Vatican Scowl, a wolf in sheep's clothing, and I have every reason to believe a Jesuit in disguise."

"All up, gub'nor!" chuckled Lord Maudlin. "The Times will have you at full length; and what will the bishop say—not to mention the pope?" Mr Scowl sank in despairing silence, and seemed little moved with the hisses of the assembly. "But where is the gentleman who planted that one-two?" inquired Lord Maudlin. His antagonist stept forward. "I am sorry," continued his lordship, "that the difference of our position can't allow me to settle this matter as I should like. But as I should infallibly have apologised to you after receiving your fire, I don't see why I shouldn't do so now after feeling your bunch of fives. I beg to tell you, I am very sorry for what has occurred, and feel that I behaved like an ass."

"Do you give his lordship in charge after this?" inquired the sergeant.

"Not I," said his antagonist; "he only tried to take my partner from me. I bear no malice, and am sorry I put so much force into the blow I gave. A China vase is soon cracked, and I regret very much I didn't hit him a gentler tap."

"In that case I have nothing more to say," answered the sergeant, letting his prisoner go; "and the ball had better proceed." I therefore hurried back to my place in the orchestra, but not before I had whispered in Mr Scowl's ear, in a voice borrowed from Fitz-Edward, with a tap on the breast borrowed from Edmund Kean,—

"Raro antecedentem scelestum
Deseruit pede Pœna claudo."

"Remember your examination of Puddlecombe-Regis school!" Mr Scowl, I am happy to say, appeared at full length in the newspapers, and lost the patronage of the Marquis of Missletoe. Catsbach applauded my conduct very much, and offered me fifteen shillings as my share of the orchestral profits, which I need not say I declined; and having refused all his solicitations to accompany him to his musical engagements, sometimes at public assemblages, and sometimes at dances and quadrilles in private houses, I braced myself for the decisive event, and on the morning of Thursday set off with solemn steps and slow, towards the Stepney Star. I determined not to enter the theatre till the play was fairly begun, and I anticipated the rapture with which an author hears his own words delivered by intelligent actors to a delighted audience. On arriving at the little passage which led through a house in the long row of buildings, shops, offices, store-rooms, and humble private dwellings that constitute a main street in the district, I was surprised to see none of the lower potentates of the stage lounging on the step, and looking on the passengers in a heroic and presumptuous manner, as if to persuade them that they were Coriolanuses or Brutuses. There was not even the dirty-faced little errand boy, who on previous occasions used to spy me from the end of the row, and prepare his expectant hand for the half-crown as he opened the swinging door. People passed and repassed, on business thoughts intent, as if that entrance conducted to a warehouse, and were not the gates that opened into a newer and nobler world. O blind pursuers of mammon! I thought, are you aware that within thirty feet of where you are bustling and struggling about bills of lading, and the prices of chicoried coffee, there is a scene at this moment going on that would rivet your souls to higher and purer thoughts? Know you not that the heroic Hengist is developing his grandeur and generosity,—Horsa, the fiery courage that made the Saxons triumphant in this land,—and over all an atmosphere of love and poetry, breathed from the impassioned bosom of Editha the British maid, that would elevate and refine the soul of a ship-agent or bill-broker, if he once placed himself within their influence? How can you be so absurd, I continued, getting angry at the evident ignorance of the busy crowd that there was a rehearsal of a new play going on so near them? How can you be so disgustingly dull, you miserable pork butcher, as to deny yourself such gratification? Insane grocer—delirious coal-merchant—cowardly lawyer's clerk! But the loss is yours, I went on, tossing my head, after mentally addressing the people I met, affixing trades and occupation to them according to their respective looks—the loss is yours, not mine. Here I have touched the haven's mouth, and beyond it is romance, beauty, happiness, fame! By this time I had reached the door, and was rather surprised to see it shut,—a vast red expanse of wood, with the name of the theatre conspicuously painted on it in white letters. "Every individual about the building," I thought, "so intent on the proceedings on the stage, that they have closed the entrance, to enjoy them without interruption." I felt in my pocket for five shillings to reward the errand boy's good sense, instead of the usual half-crown, and knocked gently with my cane. There was no answer, and I increased the vigour of my application. "They must be terribly interested in Hengist," I thought, and waited with patience, till I concluded they must have finished the first act. I turned about with the intention of knocking again in a more authoritative manner, when a man with a long stick in his hand, and a tin case hung round his neck, stopt at the door. He unfolded an immense bill in green and blue letters, and was proceeding to paste it up over the very name of the Stepney Star.

"What are you doing there?" I said—"Mr Montalban will give you in charge of the police. You mustn't stick your disgusting rubbish here."

"P'raps you'll let me paste it over your tatae trap," said the man, going on brushing his paste over the door. "A very fine advertising post you would make; and folks would think you was one of 'em yourself."

"One of whom?" I inquired, getting wroth at the man's impertinence.

"Why, one of the chickens," he said. "It only needs your nose to be a little sharper to make you pass for a prize bantam." Before I had time to make any retort either with stick or tongue, the man completed his work, and on the enormous expanse of paper I read "Incubitorium! Chickens hatched here by artificial heat. Admittance twopence. Parties are requested to bring their own eggs."

"There!" he said, "ain't that a finer name than the Stepney Star. Incubitorium! It fills a bill well, and will be a far better concern than the last."

"Does Mr Montalban know of this?"

"He's bolted—him and all the kit."

"And are they not at rehearsal on the stage?"

"No; they're fitting up nests for the young poultry, and won't let you in at no price. You needn't kick at the door; you'll disturb the old hens, and p'raps they wouldn't do their duty to-night."

So saying, the man passed on to ornament the neighbouring walls with the announcements of the Incubitorium. The passengers must have thought me mad, so continued and powerful were my kicks upon the unopening door. I paused for breath—tried to laugh myself out of the belief that the whole proceeding wasn't a ludicrous mistake; and just as I was going at it again with fresh vigour, a hand was laid on my arm.

"Are you going to crack the eggs before they're hatched?" said Miss Claribel. "They'll take you up for a housebreaker, if you're not quiet."

"For heaven's sake," I said, "tell me what is all this?"

"It is that you are swindled by Mr Montalban; and if you have only lost the money you advanced, you may hold yourself very fortunate."

"But he is to give me a hundred pounds," I said.

"You've accepted a bill?"

"I have."

"I thought so. Do you see that man with the fishy kind of eyes, the large nose beginning in the middle of his forehead, and the white hat perched on one side of his head?"

"Yes; I see him. A blackguard Jew-looking fellow he is."

"He has been taking note of you for some time, that he may know you when the bill is due. He is a bailiff, and, I believe, brother-in-law of Mr Montalban."

"But I have not had a farthing; how can they ask me to pay it?"

"O, that makes no difference. I hear a great deal of talk on these subjects, and I fear you will have to advance the full amount. When was it due?"

"In two months. The amount a hundred and fifty pounds."

"We must make the money," she said, "before that time. We must make our debût in Hamlet. Now I am free from the Stepney Star, I feel that I am certain of success. Have you any friend who could get us an engagement in some country theatre, for our first appearance? I want nothing more than an opportunity of showing what I can do."

"Ha!" I said; "yes. I have a friend—a German. His name is Catsbach. I know he can do what we require. Long before the two months are over we shall both be rolling in wealth; and who knows, after all, if this disappointment may not turn out the best piece of good fortune that could have befallen us?"

Full of brighter anticipations than ever, I went up stairs that evening to consult with Mr Tooks. He entered most warmly into the scheme; undertook to get us permission to give a taste of our quality at a theatre a few miles from town, to act as leader of the band; and, in short, was the very best man I could have applied to on the subject. In return, however, he insisted on my accompanying him to his musical engagements, where he felt sure my flute would be as popular as it had proved on the last occasion. He added, also, that he could not allow me to be so useful without being paid; and, in short, I saw the good fellow's design was to be useful to me, at the same time that he put it entirely on the awkward position it put him into if I declined all compensation. I told him he might arrange about that entirely as he pleased, and we shook hands half-a-dozen times in satisfaction of the new agreement.

"Consider, my dear fellow," he said, as he made me my fourth tumbler, "consider what respectability it brings to the profession that we have the heir of the De Bohuns first flute in the orchestra. I feel as the tailors must have felt when the King of Prussia and Alexander of Russia used to cut out the soldiers' jackets. It isn't the profession that makes the gentleman, it's the gentleman that makes the profession."

---

[LONGFELLOW'S GOLDEN LEGEND.]

There must, after all, be some occult but irresistible charm in the leading idea of old Goethe's Faust. We say this, not on account of the numerous translations of that poem which have appeared in our language—though the names of Shelley, Gower, Anstey, Hayward, Blackie, Syme, and perhaps two dozen more, testify that it has been selected by a large section of German scholars, as a master-piece every way worthy of being converted into our native tongue—but from the numerous efforts which have been made to produce imitations of it. From Byron to Festus Bailey—a sad declension, we admit—poets and poetasters have thought it their privilege to make free with the Satanic character, and to introduce the author of evil, or at least one of his subordinate imps, in the capacity of a tempter. Leaving Byron altogether out of the question, we must say that most of the imitators of Goethe have represented their fiends as taking a great deal of unnecessary trouble. In perusing their grand dramatic efforts, the question ever and anon occurs to us, what temptation the tempter could have in besetting such pitiable milksops and nincompoops as the gentlemen who are selected for seduction? Astaroth may assault Saint Anthony, Apollyon wrestle with Bunyan, or Sathanas disturb Martin Luther at his meditations with perfect propriety—there is at least some measure of equality between the two contending parties. But why Lucifer, fallen angel though he be, should stoop so low as to attach himself personally to a hazy maunderer like Festus, when he might be doing an infinite deal of more effectual mischief elsewhere, entirely baffles our comprehension. We had given him credit for a keener sense of his own dignity and position. However, as Mr Bailey is no doubt an inspired poet, we must suppose that he knows best; though certainly, Lucifer, in his hands, is anything but a Morning Star.

It is rather remarkable that the majority of the poets who make free with Satan, or rather with Lucifer—for they affect the more dazzling and less murky name—restrict his apparition and familiar intercourse with their heroes to the Middle Ages. Their poems exhibit a sprinkling of alchemists, minnesingers, and crusaders, which abundantly mark out the period; and they seem to think that, by throwing back the epoch of the infernal visitation, they increase the elements of credulity, and establish a certain fitness of relation between Diabolus and his proposed victim. In this they commit a gross mistake. The fiend of the Middle Ages was not, as they represent him, a mere metaphysical atheist—a tiresome arguer on abstract principles, who could do little else than reproduce the most pernicious doctrines of a depraved scholastic philosophy for the recreation of his particular pupil. He was, on the contrary, a fellow of infinite fancy. Rely upon it, Saint Dunstan took him by the nose for something else than a mere foreshadowing of the opinions of Kant or Hegel. He did not visit Saint Anthony to pester him with perplexing questions. His allurements were of the flesh, fleshly; and, if monkish legends say true, they were oftentimes difficult to resist. He ensnared the avaricious through promises of gold, the sensual by pandering to their lusts, the ambitious by false pretences of worldly pre-eminence and honour. But everything was based on delusion. None of the Devil's gifts turned out worth the having; and Johann Faust himself in his conjuring-book, which still exists, and which we have seen, has borne sad testimony to the juggling of the infernal agents. As to the gifts of knowledge which the tempter could convey, these were limited to such feats of hocus-pocus as Hermann Boaz or the Wizard of the North could rival. To bring wine out of a wooden table—to change a truss of straw into a steed—or to produce the phantasm of a deer-hunt in a banqueting hall—were the masterpieces of demoniacal lore: and, paltry as they were, it must be confessed that, if any gentleman was willing to subscribe a scroll with his blood, such acquirements were a more likely bribe than the privilege of conversing with an imp as stupid as any lecturer on modern German rationalism. Therefore, in selecting the Middle Ages for their time, our poetasters have greatly erred. Lucifer, as they portray him, might possibly have cut a figure in a mechanics' institute—he is sadly out of place in the part and period which they have assigned him. In our deliberate opinion, they had better have let the Devil alone.

We repeat it—they had better let Lucifer alone. It is dangerous meddling with edge-tools. Temptations enough beset even the best of us, without the realisation of the actual corporeality of the tempter. Most hideously alarmed, we doubt not, would Mr Bailey be, if his poetical imaginations became practical realities, and Lucifer were to enter his study some time about midnight, when every other light in the house was extinguished, in the garb of a travelling scholasticus! If not more loftily elevated than the second story, he would bolt through the window like an arrow. We mean no reflection upon his personal valour; under such circumstances we should do the same, and consider it to be our bounden duty, even though a whole legion of cats were serenading beneath. But we have this safeguard against such visits, that we never represented ourselves as intimate with the opinions of Abaddon. Mr Bailey, on the contrary, knows all about him—nay, has no doubt whatever as to his ultimate felicitous destination. He is several universes beyond Milton. He foresees restoration to the whole powers of evil; and having thus, in his philosophy, kindly reinstated the fallen angels, of course those who have fallen by their agency become at once immaculate. But the subject is too grave to be pursued in a light strain. Great allowance is always to be made for poetic license; but there is a bound to everything; and we are compelled to record our deliberate opinion, that nowhere, in literature, can we find passages more hideously and revoltingly presumptuous than occur in the concluding pages of the Festus of Mr Bailey.

We have not now to deal with Mr Bailey. The author before us, Professor Longfellow, is infinitely his superior in poetical accomplishment, in genius, in learning, and in delicacy of sentiment. It was, we think, very well remarked by a former critic in this Magazine, that "he has studied foreign literature with somewhat too much profit." We adopt that observation as rather addressed to the form or shape of his compositions, than to the intrinsic value of his thoughts, or to their expression. For, in perfect candour, we must own that, in our opinion, Longfellow at this moment stands, beyond comparison, at the head of the poets of America, and may be considered as an equal competitor for the palm with any one of the younger poets of Great Britain. We cannot pass a higher eulogy; and it is not the less impartial, because in this his latest poem, The Golden Legend, he has laid himself open to censure, not only on the ground of palpable imitation of design, from the model of Goethe, but in other respects more nearly and more seriously affecting his ultimate reputation as a creative poet.

We have no hesitation in expressing our opinion that there is nearly as much fine poetry in Mr Longfellow's Golden Legend as in the celebrated drama of Goethe. In the latter there are, unquestionably, isolated scenes of singular power and magnificence. The opening song of the angels is, in point of diction, a grand effort of genius; and the wonderful conception of the "Walpurgis-Nacht on the Brocken," with all its weird and fantastic accessories, has been, and will be, cited by the admirers of the German poet as a proof of the vastness of his imagination, and of his consummate dexterity as an artist. To these, as specimens of first-class poetry, we may add the lyrical passages which are put into the mouth of Gretchen; but, granting all this, much matter still remains of inferior merit. The scenes in the witch's apartment, and in Auerbach's cellar—the conversations of Wagner, and even some of the more recondite dialogue between Faust and Mephistopheles—are clearly unworthy of Goethe. Notwithstanding an occasional affected mysticism, as if they conveyed, or were intended to convey, some occult or allegorical significance to the reader, these latter passages are, take them all in all, both dull and monotonous. In a drama like the Faust, we do not insist upon continuous action; but where action is excluded, we expect at least to find the absence of that grand source of interest compensated by a more than common display of poetical accomplishment. In the later Greek drama, the chorus, by the splendour of its lyrical outbursts, causes us to overlook the fact that it does not materially aid the action of the piece; but, in order to achieve this, who does not perceive that the genius of Euripides was strained to its utmost point? Sometimes, according to our view, Goethe is too metaphysical—at other times he condescends to a style beneath the dignity of a poet. Humour was by no means his forte. Whenever he intended to be humorous he failed; and a failure in that respect, as we all know, is peculiarly distressing. Out of the orgies of the drunken Leipzigers, and the hocus-pocus which is practised upon them, we can extract no food for merriment—the German Canidia, with her filthy attendants, is simply sickening—and Wagner is no better than an ass. Again, if we look to the relation which the represented characters bear to the world without, it is impossible to deny that Goethe has failed in giving extrinsic interest to his drama. There is nothing in it to indicate time, which, as much as locality, is an implied requisite in a poem, especially if it be cast in the dramatic form. The reason of this is obvious. Unless time and locality be distinctly marked, there is no room for that interest which is created by our willing surrender of belief to the poet. What we require from him is, that he shall establish that degree of probability which gives life and animation to the poem, by identifying it, to a certain extent, with human action and character. This hardly can be accomplished, unless, within the poem itself, we find distinct and unmistakeable materials for ascertaining the period to which it properly refers. Whatever may be the genius of the author, and however beautiful may be the form and disposition of his abstract conceptions, we still maintain that he sacrifices much, if he dispenses with or rejects those peculiar associations which enable the reader at once to recognise the tale as belonging to some known period of the world's history. Now, in the Faust, there is very little to mark the period. We may not feel the want, accepting the poem as we have it, on account of its intrinsic beauty: nevertheless it does appear to us that the effect might have been materially heightened, had Goethe introduced some accessories characteristic of the age in which Johann Faust of Wittenberg really lived; and that thus a greater degree of energy, as well as of verisimilitude, would have been imparted to his poem.

Many, we are well aware, will dissent from the opinions we have just expressed. The thorough disciple of Goethe has such an unbounded and obstinate admiration of his master, that he can discern beauties in passages which, to the sense of the ordinary reader, appear essentially commonplace; and he never will admit that any one of his works could have been improved by the adoption of a different plan. We honour such enthusiasm, though we cannot share in it now. A good many years have gone by since we, in the first fervour of our Teutonic zeal, actually accomplished a complete translation of the Faust, a treasure which we would very willingly have submitted to the public gaze, had we been intimately acquainted with a publisher of more than common daring. At that time we should have done eager battle with any man who ventured to impugn the merit of any portion of the drama. But, since then, our opinions on matters of taste have undergone considerable modification; and, whilst expressing, as we hope we have distinctly done, the highest admiration for the genius displayed in many parts of the work, we cannot regard it, on the whole, either as a perfect poem, or as one which, from its form, should recommend itself to later poets as a model.

Mr Longfellow will, in all probability, not receive that credit which is really his due, for the many exquisite passages contained in his Golden Legend, simply on account of its manifest resemblance to the Faust. Men in general look upon the inventive faculty as the highest gift of genius, and are apt to undervalue, without proper consideration, everything which appears to be not original, but imitative. This is hardly fair. The inventive faculty is not always, indeed it is very rarely, combined with adequate powers of description. The best inventors have not always taken the trouble to invent for themselves. Shakspeare stole his plots—so did Scott; and perhaps no more imitative poet than Virgil ever existed. Even in the instance before us, Goethe can hardly be said to have a right to the priority of invention, since Marlowe preceded him in England, and Friedrich Müller in Germany. But it must be confessed that Mr Longfellow does not possess the art of disguising his stolen goods. It is one thing to take a story, and to dress it up anew, and another to adopt a story or a plot, which, throughout, shall perpetually put you in mind of some notorious antecedent. Could we endure a second Hamlet, even though, in respect of genius, it were not inferior to the first? We do not think so. The fault lies, not in the conveyance of ideas, but in the absence of their proper disguise. No man can read six pages of The Golden Legend, without being reminded of the Faust, and that so strongly that there is a perpetual challenge of comparison. So long as the popularity of the elder poem continues, the later one must suffer in consequence.

Whether Mr Longfellow could have avoided this, is quite another question. We confess that we entertain very great doubts as to that point. In respect of melody, feeling, pathos, and that exquisite simplicity of expression which is the criterion of a genuine poet, Mr Longfellow need not shun comparison with any living writer. He is not only by nature a poet, but he has cultivated his poetical powers to the utmost. No man, we really believe, has bestowed more pains upon poetry than he has. He has studied rhythm most thoroughly; he has subjected the most beautiful strains of the masters of verbal melody, in many languages, to a minute and careful analysis; he has arrived at his poetical theories by dint of long and thoughtful investigation; and yet, exquisite as the product is which he has now given us, there is a large portion of it which we cannot style as truly original. In the honey which he presents to us—and a delicious compound it is—we can always detect the flavour of the parent flowers. He possesses, more than any other writer, the faculty of assuming, for the time, or for the occasion, the manner of the poet most qualified by nature to illustrate his immediate theme. He not only assumes his manner, but he actually adopts his harmonies. Those who do not understand the subject of poetic harmonies will be able, perhaps, to realise our meaning, if they will imagine what effect would be excited on their minds by hearing the air of "The Flowers of the Forest" reproduced with the accompaniment of new words. Just so is it with Mr Longfellow. He is a great master of harmonies, but he borrows them too indiscreetly. He gives us a very splendid concert; but then the music is not always, nor indeed in the majority of instances, his own.

Do we complain of this? By no manner of means. We are thankful that the present age is graced by such a poet as Mr Longfellow, whose extraordinary accomplishment, and research, and devotion to his high calling, can hardly be overrated. His productions must always command our deep attention, for in them we are certain to meet with great beauty of thought, and very elegant diction. He ought to be one of the best of translators; for, in consequence of the peculiarity which we have noticed, many of his original poems sound exactly like translations. At one time we hear the music of Uhland, at another of Grillparzer, at another of Goethe, and at another of Calderon. He has even thrown some of his poetry into the mould of Massinger and Decker; and, if we mistake not much, Paul Gerhard is one of his especial favourites. To the wideness of this harmonic range we should be inclined to ascribe many of his shortcomings. It is not an unqualified advantage to a poet to be able to assume at will the manner of another, and even, as Mr Longfellow frequently does, to transcend him. Every poet should have his own style, by which he is peculiarly distinguished. He should have his own harmonies, which cannot be mistaken for another's. When such is not the case, the poet is apt to go on experimenting too far. He is tempted, in versification, to adopt new theories, which, upon examination, will not bear to be tried by any æsthetical test. Southey was one instance of this, and Mr Longfellow is another. Southey had a new theory for every poem; Mr Longfellow, within the compass of the same poem, presents us with various theories. This surely is a blemish, because it necessarily detracts from unity of tone and effect. We are no advocates for close poetical precision, or the maintenance of those notes which, a century ago, were deemed almost imperative; but we think that poetic license may sometimes be carried too far. In various passages of The Golden Legend, Mr Longfellow, acting no doubt upon some principle, but one which is wholly unintelligible to us, discards not only metre, but also rhyme and rhythm—an experiment which has rarely been tried since Karl Wilhelm Justi presented the German public with the Song of Solomon in the novel form of an opera. The following dialogue may be sweetly and naturally expressed, but the reader will no doubt be at a loss to determine whether it belongs to the domain of poetry, or to that of prose:—

ELSIE.

"Here are flowers for you,
But they are not all for you.
Some of them are for the Virgin,
And for Saint Cecilia.

PRINCE HENRY.

As thou standest there
Thou seemest to me like the angel
That brought the immortal roses
To Saint Cecilia's bridal chamber.

ELSIE

But these will fade.

PRINCE HENRY.

Themselves will fade,
But not their memory;
And memory has the power
To recreate them from the dust.
They remind me, too,
Of martyred Dorothea,
Who, from celestial gardens, sent
Flowers as her witnesses
To him who scoffed and doubted.

ELSIE.

Do you know the story
Of Christ and the Sultan's daughter?
That is the prettiest legend of them all.

PRINCE HENRY.

Then tell it to me;
But first come hither.
Lay the flowers down beside me,
And put thy hands in mine.
Now, tell me the story."

This, whatever else it may be, has certainly no pretensions to the name of verse.

Occasionally, whilst retaining rhyme and the semblance of metre, Mr Longfellow is betrayed into great extravagance. What plea of justification can be urged in behalf of the construction of the following lines, which are put into the mouth of Lucifer?—

"My being here is accidental;
The storm, that against yon casement drives,
In the little village below waylaid me.
And there I heard, with a secret delight,
Of your maladies physical and mental,
Which neither astonished nor dismayed me.
And I hastened hither, though late in the night,
To proffer my aid!"

We are almost tempted to say, with old Mr Osbaldistone, that the bellman makes better verses: certainly he could hardly construct more dislocated specimens of versification than these.

Sometimes, even when revelling in the luxuriance of verse, Mr Longfellow commits strange improprieties. To the structure and music of the lines which we shall now transcribe, no abstract objection need be stated, though such objection could be found; but they are terribly out of place in a poem of this kind, and inconsistent with its general structure. An eclogue after the manner of Virgil or Theocritus would hardly appear more incongruous if introduced in the middle of a Shakspearean drama—

ELSIE.

"Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city, impatiently bearing
Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, of doing and daring!

PRINCE HENRY.

This life of ours is a wild æolian harp of many a joyous strain,
But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls in pain.

ELSIE.

Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart that aches and bleeds with the stigma
Of pain, alone bears the likeness of Christ, and can comprehend its dark enigma.

PRINCE HENRY.

Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure with little care of what may betide;
Else why am I travelling here beside thee, a demon that rides by an angel's side?"

We were wrong in limiting our remark to the incongruity. To such verse as this, if verse it can be termed, there are serious objections. We presume it is constructed on some rhythmical principle; but what that principle may be, we defy any living artist to discover.

From reading the foregoing extracts, any one might naturally conclude that Mr Longfellow has no ear. So far from this being the case, he is one of the most accomplished and skilful versifiers of his time, and therefore we regret the more that he will not confine him to the safe, familiar, and yet ample range of recognised Saxon metres. We could almost find it in our heart to wish that Evangeline had proved a decided failure, if by that means his return could have been secured to simpler habits of composition. Surely he must see, on reflection, that there are natural limits to the power and capacity of each language, and that it is utterly absurd to strain our own in order to compass metres and melodies which peculiarly belong to another. There can be no doubt that the German language, from its construction and sound, can be adapted to many of the most intricate of the Grecian metres. But the English language is not so easily welded, and beyond a certain point it is utterly hopeless to proceed. Mr Longfellow thoroughly understands the value of pure and simple diction—why will he not apply the same rules to the form and structure of his verse? As sincere admirers of his genius, we would entreat his attention to this; for he may rely upon it that, if he continues to give way to this besetting sin of experiment, he is imperilling that high position which his poetical powers may well entitle him to attain.

After this lecture to the author, we are bound, for the satisfaction of our readers, to look a little more closely into the poem in question. We have already said that, in general form and design, it has too near a resemblance to the Faust. We might even extend this observation to details; for there are several scenes evidently suggested by passages in the German drama. Those who remember Goethe's prayer of Margaret addressed to the Virgin, will at once understand the suggestion that led to the insertion of Elsie's prayer in The Golden Legend. We insert it here on account of its intrinsic beauty; and, being beautiful, no comparison with any other poet is required.

Night.—Elsie praying.

"My Redeemer and my Lord,
I beseech thee, I entreat thee,
Guide me in each act and word,
That hereafter I may meet thee,
Watching, waiting, hoping, yearning,
With my lamp well trimmed and burning!

Interceding,
With those bleeding
Wounds upon thy hands and side,
For all who have lived and erred
Thou hast suffered, thou hast died,
Scourged, and mocked, and crucified,
And in the grave hast thou been buried!

If my feeble prayer can reach thee,
O my Saviour, I beseech thee,
Even as thou hast died for me,
More sincerely
Let me follow where thou leadest,
Let me, bleeding as thou bleedest,
Die, if dying I may give
Life to one who asks to live,
And more nearly,
Dying thus, resemble thee!"

Sweet, virginal thoughts—not such as poor Margaret, in the intense anguish of her soul, poured forth at the shrine of the Mater Dolorosa! Still, by close adherence to form, even though the situations are changed, Longfellow provokes comparison—in this instance not wisely, for Margaret's prayer might wring tears from a heart of stone.

If, however, we go on in this way, looking alternately towards Goethe and Longfellow, we shall never reach the poem. Therefore we return the Faust to its proper place on our book-shelves, solemnly vowing not to allude, to it again in the course of the present article, or to repeat the name of Goethe, under the penalty of reviewing—which, according to our scrupulous notions, implies reading—even at this late period of time, Lord John Russell's tragedy of Don Carlos.

The story of The Golden Legend is not very intelligible, and has received by far too little consideration from the author. Whether it be taken or not from the venerable tome printed by our typographical Father Caxton, we cannot say; because we are unable, from its scarcity, to lay our hands upon the old book bearing that name. As Mr Longfellow gives it to us, it would appear that a certain Prince Henry of Hoheneck, on the Rhine—not a very young gentleman, but one who has attained nearly the middle period of existence—is afflicted with some disease, nearly corresponding to that doubtful malady the vapours. He does not know what is the matter with him; and, what is worse, none of the doctors, either allopathic or homœopathic, whom he has consulted, can enlighten him on the subject. He describes his symptoms thus:—

"It has no name.
A smouldering, dull, perpetual flame,
As in a kiln, burns in my veins,
Sending up vapours to the head;
My head has become a dull lagoon,
Which a kind of leprosy drinks and drains;
I am accounted as one who is dead,
And, indeed, I think that I shall be soon."

A very melancholious view, indeed, for a patient!

Under these circumstances, Lucifer, who, it seems, is always ready for a job, drops in under the disguise of a quack physician, and proceeds, with considerable skill, to take his diagnosis. Prince Henry tells him that he has consulted the doctors of Salerno, and that their reply to the statement of his case is as follows:—

"Not to be cured, yet not incurable!
The only remedy that remains
Is the blood that flows from a maiden's veins,
Who of her own free will shall die,
And give her life as the price of yours."

Lucifer, with much show of propriety, laughs at the prescription; and, in place of it, recommends his own, which we take to be not at all unsuited to the peculiar feelings and unnatural despondency of the patient. So far as we can make out from Mr Longfellow, he simply advises a caulker—not by any means a bad thing in muggy weather, if used in moderation, or likely to produce any very diabolical consequences. Thus speaks Lucifer, displaying at the same time his bottle:—

"This art the Arabian Gebir taught,
And in alembics, finely wrought,
Distilling herbs and flowers, discovered
The secret that so long had hovered
Upon the misty verge of Truth,
The Elixir of Perpetual Youth,
Called Alcohol, in the Arab speech!
Like him, this wondrous lore I teach!"

The result is that Prince Henry adopts the prescription, imbibes a considerable quantity of the stimulant, which seems presently to revive him—and then falls asleep. This is plain enough, but surely there was no occasion for the Devil to appear in person, simply to administer a dram. But what follows? That is a grand mystery which Mr Longfellow has not explained in a satisfactory manner. There is no insinuation that the Prince, in his cups, committed any gross act of extravagance. He may, indeed, on this occasion have applied himself to the alcohol rather too freely, as would appear from the subsequent account of a servant.

"In the Round Tower, night after night,
He sat, and bleared his eyes with books;
Until one morning we found him there
Stretched on the floor, as if in a swoon
He had fallen from his chair.
We hardly recognised his sweet looks!"

But surely this temporary aberration from the paths of sobriety would not justify the conduct of the monks, who appear shortly afterwards to have taken Hoheneck by storm, compelled the Prince to do penance in the Church of St Rochus, and then excommunicated him. We were not aware that the clergy in those days were so extremely ascetic. There is no sort of allegation that they suspected the nature of the cellar from which the Devil's Elixir was drawn, or that they were resolved to punish the Prince for having unwittingly pledged Sathanas. This story, however, which appears entirely unintelligible to us, seems to have satisfied the curiosity of the minstrel, Walter von der Vogelweide, whom Mr Longfellow has once more pressed into his service, and who, as an old friend of the Prince, has called at the castle to inquire after his welfare. He learns that the Prince is now residing at the house of a small farmer in the Odenwald; whereupon he of the Bird-meadows determines to make himself comfortable for the evening.

"But you, good Hubert, go before,
Fill me a goblet of May-drink,
As aromatic as the May
From which it steals the breath away,
And which he loved so well of yore;
It is of him that I would think.
You shall attend me, when I call,
In the ancestral banquet-hall."

Previous to retiring, however, he utters the following soliloquy, which we transcribe as a passage of considerable descriptive merit.

"The day is done; and slowly from the scene
The stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts,
And puts them back into his golden quiver!
Below me in the valley, deep and green
As goblets are, from which in thirsty draughts
We drink its wine, the swift and mantling river
Flows on triumphant through those lovely regions,
Etched with the shadows of its sombre margent,
And soft, reflected clouds of gold and argent!
Yes, there it flows for ever, broad and still,
As when the vanguard of the Roman legions
First saw it from the top of yonder hill.
How beautiful it is! Fresh fields of wheat,
Vineyard, and town, and tower with fluttering flag,
The consecrated chapel on the crag,
And the white hamlet gathered round its base,
Like Mary sitting at her Saviour's feet,
And looking up at his beloved face!
O friend! O best of friends! Thy absence more
Than the impending night darkens the landscape o'er!"

The scene then changes to the farm where Prince Henry is residing. Elsie, the farmer's daughter, scarcely more than a child in years, but a woman in tenderness and devotion, is as beautiful a conception as ever was formed in the mind of the poet. She resolves, in conformity with the mysterious remedy suggested by the doctors of Salerno, to offer her life for that of her Prince, and communicates her resolution to her parents. We regard this scene as by far the most touching in the drama; and, as we have quoted passages in which the author does not appear to great advantage, we gladly request the attention of the reader to extracts of another kind. We regret that our limits will not permit us to transcribe the scene at length.

URSULA.

"What dost thou mean? my child! my child!

ELSIE.

That for our dear Prince Henry's sake,
I will myself the offering make,
And give my life to purchase his.

URSULA.

Am I still dreaming or awake?
Thou speakest carelessly of death,
And yet thou knowest not what it is.

ELSIE.

'Tis the cessation of our breath.
Silent and motionless we lie:
And no one knoweth more than this.
I saw our little Gertrude die;
She left off breathing, and no more
I smoothed the pillow beneath her head.
She was more beautiful than before.
Like violets faded were her eyes;
By this we knew that she was dead.
Through the open window looked the skies
Into the chamber where she lay,
And the wind was like the sound of wings
As if angels came to bear her away.
Ah! when I saw and felt these things,
I found it difficult to stay;
I longed to die as she had died;
And go forth with her side by side.
The saints are dead, the martyrs dead,
And Mary, and our Lord; and I
Would follow in humility
The way by them illumined!

---

URSULA.

Alas! that I should live to see
Thy death, beloved, and to stand
Above thy grave! Ah, woe the day!

ELSIE.

Thou wilt not see it. I shall lie
Beneath the flowers of another land;
For at Salerno, far away
Over the mountains, over the sea,
It is appointed me to die!
And it will seem no more to thee
Than if at the village on market-day
I should a little longer stay
Than I am used.

---

URSULA.

Not now! not now!

ELSIE.

Christ died for me, and shall not I
Be willing for my Prince to die?
You both are silent; you cannot speak.
This said I, at our Saviour's feast,
After confession to the priest,
And even he made no reply.
Does he not warn us all to seek
The happier, better land on high,
Where flowers immortal never wither;
And could he forbid me to go thither?

GOTTLIEB.

In God's own time, my heart's delight!
When he shall call thee, not before!

ELSIE.

I heard him call. When Christ ascended
Triumphantly, from star to star,
He left the gates of heaven ajar;
I had a vision in the night,
And saw him standing at the door
Of his Father's mansion, vast and splendid,
And beckoning to me from afar.
I cannot stay!"

We need not point out the exquisite simplicity of the language here employed, or the beauty and tenderness of the thought. It is in such passages that Mr Longfellow's genius is most eminently apparent; because in them all is nature, and there is no indication of a model. In his more laboured scenes there is generally an appearance of effort, beside the imitative propensity, to which we have already sufficiently alluded.

The acceptance of Elsie's offer, on the part of Prince Henry of Hoheneck, seems to be the turning-point of the story and the temptation. Here again Lucifer interposes, in the character of a monk, who, from the Confessional, gives unholy advice to the Prince; but this scene does not strike us with peculiar admiration. In brief, the offer is accepted. Prince Henry and the peasant's daughter set out together for Salerno, and the greater portion of the remainder of the drama is occupied with the description of their route, and what befel them on their way. Mr Longfellow has made excellent use of this dioramic method. He has contrived to throw himself entirely into the age which he has selected for illustration; and crusaders, monks, pilgrims, and minstrels pass before us in varied procession, giving life and animation to the scenery through which the voyagers move.

The most remarkable passages are the Friar's Sermon, and the Miracle play represented in the cathedral of Strasburg. We observe that several critics have already fallen foul of the author on account of those scenes, denouncing him in no measured terms for the levity, and even the profanity, of his tone. One or two have even gone the length of declaring that he is more impious than Lord Byron; and that Cain is, in the hands of the youthful reader, a less dangerous work than the Golden Legend. This is sheer nonsense. Mr Longfellow, as the general tenor of his writings discloses, is eminently a Christian poet, and the last charge which can be brought against him is that of scepticism and infidelity. His aim, in this part of the Golden Legend, is to reproduce a true and vivid picture of the manners, the customs, and even the superstition of the age; and this he has been enabled to do, through his intimate familiarity with writings which are very little studied at the present day. He is deeply versed, not only in the monkish legends and traditions, but in that kind of theological literature which, in the thirteenth century, and even much later, was mixed up with the pure evangelical doctrine, and retailed to the people as truth, by the ministers of a corrupted Church. That the sermon delivered by Friar Cuthbert, in the square of Strasburg, must sound irreverent to modern ears, is a proposition which no one can deny. It is irreverent, but not a whit more so than were all the sermons of the period. It is intended to mark, and does mark more accurately than anything we ever read, the license of language which was employed by the emissaries of the Church of Rome—the haughty claims and systematic usurpations of that Church—and the mixture of truth and fable which then constituted the staple of her doctrine. Friar Cuthbert is not preaching from the Evangelists: he is preaching half from his own invention, and half from the spurious Gospel of Nicodemus. His sermon is nothing more nor less than a satire upon the teaching of the Church of Rome, and a most effective one it is. Into what, then, do the objections of our scrupulous brethren resolve themselves? Is it wrong to depict, in prose or verse—for the lesson may be conveyed in either—the ignorance of the people of Europe in past ages, and the exceeding presumption and monstrous latitude of their teachers? If so, it would be better for us at once to get rid of history. A work of fiction, which does nothing more than reproduce historical truths, can never, in our opinion, be condemned for giving a faithful picture of the manners of the time; and that Mr Longfellow's is a faithful picture, no one who has studied the manners and perused the literature of the middle ages will deny. It is very possible, however, that our purists never heard of the Gospel of Nicodemus, and are not aware that such liberties were ever taken with the revealed truths of religion. That is no fault of Mr Longfellow's. But if the Golden Legend is to be condemned on account of these scenes, we very much fear that Chaucer must also be voted unfit for reading, and our old friend and favourite Sir David Lindesay consigned to entire oblivion. What is more, the ban must be extended to many of the early reformers, nay, martyrs of the Protestant Church. The sermons of Latimer, from their familiarity of allusion and illustration, and their frequent reference to tradition, would sound strangely in modern Calvinistic ears. It is a notorious fact that, for a considerable period after the Reformation, the most eminent divines, finding that the people were greatly attached to the legendary tales and fictions which formed so large a portion of the teaching of the Romish Church, were compelled in some measure to continue the practice, and to look for illustrations beyond the compass of the sacred writings, in order to give effect to their discourses. This of course was only a temporary expedient, but still it was employed, in order that the change might appear less sudden and violent. But on that account, are the writings of Latimer and many more of the early reformers to be condemned? We should be sorry to think so. What sort of picture of the age would have been presented to us, had Mr Longfellow put into the mouth of Friar Cuthbert the language of an adherent of Geneva? Is the sermon towards the conclusion of Queenhoo Hall, written by Sir Walter Scott, to be pronounced blasphemous, because it is conceived in the manner of the times? If not, Mr Longfellow also must be relieved from this preposterous censure, which one or two critics, wishing to be thought more reverent—being, in fact, more ignorant—than their neighbours, have attempted to fasten upon him.

As to the Miracle play, we look upon it as a most successful reproduction, or rather image, of those strange religious shows which were long represented in the Romish churches all over Europe, and which, though somewhat altered in their form, are not yet abolished in some parts of the Continent. Mr Longfellow, whilst preserving so much of the spirit of the old Mysteries as to convey an adequate idea of their grotesqueness, has lent to this composition a charm which none of the old plays possess. Those who are anxious to ascertain what a Miracle play really was, will find a fair specimen in the first volume of Hawkins' English Drama. The general reader may, however, content himself with Mr Longfellow's production, which is, in many points of view, remarkable. The scenes represented are principally taken from the Apocryphal Gospels, attributed to St Thomas, of the Infancy of our Saviour—which gospels were long read in some of the Nestorian churches. Here, again, Mr Longfellow has been charged with impiety, as if, by his own invention, he were supplementing Scripture. He has done nothing of the kind. He has simply reproduced, in a peculiar form, a legend or tradition well known in the middle ages; and if this license is to be prohibited, what imaginative or poetical author who has treated of sacred subjects can escape? Milton has sinned in this respect far more deeply than Longfellow. But we really do not think it necessary to pursue this subject further.

We must not, any more than the travellers, loiter on the road, therefore we pass over the scenes at the Convent of Hirschau, as also that in the neighbouring nunnery. We confess that the carousal of the monks, in which Lucifer bears a share, (for the fiend continues to travel in disguise along with his expected victim,) does not strike us as being happily conceived. It is coarse, and we are sorry to say, vulgar; though it may be, doubtless, that such things were often said and enacted within convent walls. But the poet is bound to use a certain degree of discretion in his choice of materials, and in his manner of setting them forth. We think some of the ribaldry in this scene might have been spared with advantage, without in the least injuring that contrast between outward profession and real purity which the author evidently intended to draw; and we would urge upon Mr Longfellow the propriety of revising in future editions the passages to which we refer, as tending in no way to promote the strength, whilst they undoubtedly diminish the pleasure which we receive from other parts of the drama. The scene in the nunnery, in which the Abbess Irmengarde relates to Elsie the tale of her youthful attachment, and the preference which she gave to Walter of the Vogelweide over Prince Henry of Hoheneck, when both of them were her suitors, is very sweetly written, and entirely in keeping with the times.

Then follow several scenes of much beauty, which conduct us through Switzerland into Italy. The travellers embark from Genoa in a felucca, bound for Salerno; and thus speaks the captain or padrone of the vessel, as the wind is freshening. It is a strange piece of rhyme, but worth listening to, were it only on account of its singularity.

IL PADRONE.

"I must entreat you, friends, below!
The angry storm begins to blow,
For the weather changes with the moon.
All this morning, until noon,
We had baffling winds, and sudden flaws
Struck the sea with their cat's-paws.
Only a little hour ago
I was whistling to Saint Antonio
For a capful of wind to fill our sail,
And instead of a breeze he has sent us a gale.
Last night I saw Saint Elmo's stars,
With their glimmering lanterns, all at play
On the tops of the masts and the tips of the spars,
And I knew we should have foul weather to-day.
Cheerly, my hearties! yo heave ho!
Brail up the mainsail, and let her go
As the winds will and Saint Antonio!

Do you see that Livornese felucca,
That vessel to the windward yonder,
Running with her gunwale under?
I was looking when the wind o'ertook her.
She had all sail set, and the only wonder
Is, that at once the strength of the blast
Did not carry away her mast.
She is a galley of the Gran Duca,
That, through fear of the Algerines,
Convoys those lazy brigantines,
Laden with wine and oil from Lucca.
Now all is ready, high and low;
Blow, blow, good Saint Antonio!

Ha! that is the first dash of the rain,
With a sprinkle of spray above the rails,
Just enough to moisten our sails,
And make them ready for the strain,
See how she leaps, as the blasts o'ertake her,
And speeds away with a bone in her mouth!
Now keep her head towards the south,
And there is no danger of bank or breaker.
With the breeze behind us, on we go;
Not too much, good Saint Antonio!"

The verse sounds like an echo of the shrill piping of the Mediterranean wind.

The voyagers arrive at Salerno; and we are immediately introduced to the schools, sonorous with academical wrangling. Mr Longfellow displays much humour in this part of his poem, having, we think, hit off excellently the extreme acerbity exhibited by the scholastic disputants on the most worthless of imaginable subjects. He has given us a vivid picture of the war which was so long maintained between the sect of the Nominalists and that of the Realists; and not less of the fury which possessed the souls of ancient hostile grammarians. "The heat and acrimony of verbal critics," says Disraeli the elder, "have exceeded description. Their stigmas and anathemas have been long known to bear no proportion against the offences to which they have been directed. 'God confound you,' cried one grammarian to another, 'for your theory of impersonal verbs!'" In the Golden Legend we have first a travelling Scholastic affixing, as was the usual custom, his Theses to the gate of the college, and offering to maintain his one hundred and twenty-five propositions against all the world. Then appear two Doctors disputing, followed by their pupils.

DOCTOR SERAFINO.

"I, with the Doctor Seraphic, maintain
That a word which is only conceived in the brain
Is a type of eternal Generation;
The spoken word is the Incarnation.

DOCTOR CHERUBINO.

What do I care for the Doctor Seraphic,
With all his wordy chaffer and traffic?

DOCTOR SERAFINO.

You make but a paltry show of resistance;
Universals have no real existence!

DOCTOR CHERUBINO.

Your words are but idle and empty chatter;
Ideas are eternally joined to matter!

DOCTOR SERAFINO.

May the Lord have mercy on your position,
You wretched, wrangling, culler of herbs!

DOCTOR CHERUBINO.

May he send your soul to eternal perdition,
For your Treatise on the Irregular Verbs!"

(They rush out fighting.)

The sort of intellectual diet supplied to the students of Salerno is next explained by a hopeful votary of Sangrado. It seems very tempting.

SECOND SCHOLAR.

"What are the books now most in vogue?

FIRST SCHOLAR.

Quite an extensive catalogue;
Mostly, however, books of our own;
As Gariopontus' Passionarius,
And the writings of Matthew Platearius;
And a volume universally known
As the Regimen of the School of Salern,
For Robert of Normandy written in terse
And very elegant Latin verse.
Each of these writings has its turn.
And when at length we have finished these,
Then comes the struggle for degrees,
With all the oldest and ablest critics;
The public thesis and disputation,
Question, and answer, and explanation
Of a passage out of Hippocrates,
Or Aristotle's Analytics.
There the triumphant Magister stands!
A book is solemnly placed in his hands,
On which he swears to follow the rule
And ancient forms of the good old School;
To report if any confectionarius
Mingles his drugs with matters various,
And to visit his patients twice a-day,
And once in the night, if they live in town;
And if they are poor, to take no pay.
Having faithfully promised these,
His head is crowned with a laurel crown;
A kiss on his cheek, a ring on his hand,
The Magister Artium et Physices
Goes forth from the school like a lord of the land.
And now, as we have the whole morning before us,
Let us go in, if you make no objection,
And listen awhile to a learned prelection
On Marcus Aurelius Cassiodorus."

Lucifer now comes upon the stage in the garb of the Doctor who is to decide regarding Elsie's fate. The main plot of the story, as we have already stated, is at once so obscure and unnatural that it will not stand examination. It is, therefore, rather from conjecture than assertion that we presume the author intended to represent the power of the Evil Spirit over the Prince, as depending upon his acceptance or rejection of the innocent self-offered sacrifice. Be that as it may, the Prince and Elsie appear; and, in spite of the remonstrances of the former, the girl persists in her resolution. Let us quote one more passage in Mr Longfellow's best and most pathetic manner.

ELSIE.

"O my Prince! remember
Your promises. Let me fulfil my errand.
You do not look on life and death as I do.
There are two angels that attend unseen
Each one of us, and in great books record
Our good and evil deeds. He who writes down
The good ones, after every action closes
His volume, and ascends with it to God.
The other keeps his dreadful day-book open
Till sunset, that we may repent; which doing,
The record of the action fades away,
And leaves a line of white across the page.
Now, if my act be good, as I believe it,
It cannot be recalled. It is already
Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed accomplished.
The rest is yours. Why wait you? I am ready.

(To her Attendants.)

Weep not, my friends! rather rejoice with me.
I shall not feel the pain, but shall be gone,
And you will have another friend in heaven.
Then start not at the creaking of the door
Through which I pass. I see what lies beyond it.

(To Prince Henry.)

And you, O Prince! bear back my benison
Unto my father's house, and all within it.
This morning in the church I prayed for them,
After confession, after absolution,
When my whole soul was white, I prayed for them.
God will take care of them, they need me not.
And in your life let my remembrance linger,
As something not to trouble or disturb it,
But to complete it, adding life to life.
And if at times beside the evening fire
You see my face among the other faces,
Let it not be regarded as a ghost
That haunts your house, but as a guest that loves you.
Nay, even as one of your own family,
Without whose presence there were something wanting.
I have no more to say. Let us go in.

PRINCE HENRY.

Friar Angelo! I charge you on your life,
Believe not what she says, for she is mad,
And comes not here to die, but to be healed.

ELSIE.

Alas! Prince Henry!

LUCIFER.

Come with me; this way.

(Elsie goes in with Lucifer, who thrusts
Prince Henry back and closes the door.)"

There is, however, happily no occasion for the expenditure of our tears. Prince Henry plucks up heart of grace, bursts open the door, and rescues Elsie just as she is on the point of submitting to the Luciferian lancet. The pair return in triumph to the Rhine—the hearts of the old people are made glad by the recovery of their daughter—and the drama ends, not with horror, but with the agreeable finale of a marriage.

Such is the nature of the poem, which does undeniably exhibit many proofs of genius, accomplishments, power of expression, and learning; but which, nevertheless, we cannot accept as a great work. It is like an ornament in which some gems of the purest lustre are set, side by side with fragments of coloured glass, and even inferior substances. The evident presence of the latter sometimes shakes our faith in the absolute value of the jewels, which are deserving of better association; and we cannot help wishing that the whole work could be taken to pieces, the counterfeit materials thrown aside, and the remainder entirely reconstructed on a new principle and design. There is ever an intimate connection between the design and the material. Thoughts, however rich in themselves, lose their effect when ill displayed; and the want of the knowledge of this has ere now proved fatal to the fame of many a promising artist. The language and sentiments of Elsie, however beautiful in themselves—and that they are beautiful we most unhesitatingly maintain—excite in our minds no sympathy. They are simply portions of an ill-constructed drama, almost aimless in purpose, and without even an intelligible moral; they do not tend to any point upon which our interest or expectations are concentrated, and therefore, in order to do justice to them, we are forced to regard them as fragmentary. Mr Longfellow has not succeeded in giving a human interest to his drama. His story is poor, or rather incomprehensible, and his plan essentially vicious; and these are faults which no brilliancy of execution can ever serve to redeem. We are deeply disappointed to find that such is the case, for we can assure the author that we have watched his poetical career with no common interest—that we have long been aware of the great extent of his powers—and that we have waited, with much anxiety, in the expectation of seeing those powers exhibited in their full measure. We fear that we must wait a little longer before he shall do justice to himself. It is a sound rule in criticism that every work is to be judged according to its profession; an epic as an epic—a drama as a drama—a ballad as a ballad. After making every allowance for the avowed irregularity of this composition, we cannot admit that it satisfies even the requirements of a dramatic romance. It cannot be said that it was purposely constructed to exclude belief, and therefore, interest; because Mr Longfellow has taken obvious pains to mark the time by the accessories, in which he has perfectly succeeded; and also to give us a vivid sketch of society as it then existed. His radical error, we think, may be traced to two things—the want of a life-like plot, and the introduction of supernatural machinery.

No reader of The Golden Legend will venture to aver that he has derived the slightest interest from the story, apart from the poetry with which it is surrounded. Now, although there is undoubtedly a great deal in the manner of telling a story, the matter of the story itself is obviously of greater consequence. The matter is the body of the tale—the manner its dress and ornament. And inasmuch as no accumulation of ornament will suffice to make up for want of symmetry, or disguise deformity in the body to which it is applied, how can we expect that a poem radically defective in plan, can be rendered interesting by any amount of adventitious accomplishment? In the acted drama we know very well that a bad or uninteresting plot can never be redeemed, even by the most brilliant speeches. To the epos, or narrative tale, the same rule applies; for episodes, however spirited or pathetic, never can make up for the want of interest in the leading story. The fault is not peculiar to Mr Longfellow—it is discernible in most of the compositions, both in prose and poetry, of the present age. Aptitude of handling is considered a greater accomplishment than unity or strength of design; and the consequence is that we lay down works, written by many of our best authors, with a vague feeling of disappointment, which can be attributed only to their total disregard of that preliminary consideration of story and plan which occupied the attention, as it constituted the triumph, of our older literary masters. Surely, when a man sits down to write, his first care ought to be that his subject is not only intelligible, but also interesting to his readers. We have already, at the commencement of this paper, expressed our decided objection to the machinery employed by Mr Longfellow. It is the reverse of original, being now very hackneyed; and it is absurdly disproportionate to the object for which it is introduced. Most devoutly do we trust that both poets and poetasters will henceforth refrain from including Lucifer in their dramatis personæ. By introducing him as they have done, they have read no valuable lesson in ethics to mankind. If they represent him as a talented fiend, he is certain to blaspheme—if as an amiable one, they mistake the character altogether. If malice, envy, and a desire to plunge others into perdition, are the characteristic impulses which a poet thinks necessary to portray, surely he can find samples enough of these upon earth, without invoking the presence of an actual demon. Even in poetry or fiction, familiarity with the Powers of Darkness is a thing by no means to be coveted.

We hope hereafter to find Mr Longfellow engaged on some subject more worthy of his genius. Of his powers there can be no doubt, nor of his success, provided he will apply those powers properly. We are fully sensible of the many beauties contained within the compass of this volume; and our only regret, while laying down the pen, is that we cannot yet congratulate the author on having achieved a work, fully developing his excellencies, natural and acquired, and entitling him to assume a higher rank among the masters of English song.

---

[BULL-FIGHTS, IN PICTURES AND PROSE.][60]

"To see a bull-fight," says Mr Ford, "forms, and has long formed, one of the first objects of most travellers in Spain." But, although Spanish inns may be better, and Spanish brigands less numerous, than of yore—although we have railway to beyond Tours, and tri-monthly steam to the Peninsular ports—and although a certain Handbook, writ by one Ford, and published by Murray, greatly facilitates and tempts to trans-Pyrenean travel, it still is fact that English travellers in Spain are but as one in a thousand. The other nine hundred and ninety-nine are fain to content themselves, in respect of matters Tauromachian, with such delineations as pen and pencil afford—as artists and authors publish. We thought, until lately, that in this respect the public had been indifferently well catered for. We now suspect ourselves to have been mistaken, and that, until Mr Lake Price painted, and Messrs Ford and Hoskins wrote, the bull-fights of Spain had never been fully elucidated and displayed to the eyes of England.

Every writer of travels in Spain thinks it his duty to describe a bull-fight; but such descriptions are too frequently spoiled by injudicious straining after picturesque effects. French writers are especially open to this reproach. They walk about the bull-ring on stilts. There can be no greater mistake. To attempt to embroider a Spanish bull-fight is akin to painting the lily. Nothing can add to its originality and picturesque character. Every circumstance connected with it is so striking, so thoroughly national, so unlike civilised Europe, that no effort of imagination or inflation of language can heighten the general effect, although they may, and usually do, materially impair it. A plain and accurate description is the one thing needful. This we have in the two books before us; but with a difference. Mr Ford, minutely acquainted with his subject, and thoroughly versed in things of Spain, writes of a bull-fight as might write some enlightened Spanish man of letters, who had miraculously divested himself of national prejudices. Mr Hoskins writes in pure John Bull style, giving a plain matter-of-fact account of what he saw and was struck by—such an account as he might give of a boxing or wrestling match, or of any other athletic or hazardous sport he for the first time witnessed. He does not trace the history, or go into the æsthetics of bull-fighting, but limits himself to a clear and off-hand relation of what he attentively and carefully observed. His is a thoroughly English narrative of a strictly Spanish spectacle. As such we like it. Both Mr Ford's and Mr Hoskins' pages will be found most useful and interesting companions to Mr Price's spirited drawings.

Mr Price has travelled much in Spain, and witnessed many bull-fights. Whoever has seen one will be convinced of this by a single glance at his work. For those whose own experience does not constitute them judges, there is Mr Ford's assurance (no mean guarantee) that his friend "has made himself perfectly acquainted with the whole performance, has studied the changes of acts, scenes, and characters, and has fixed on the spot, with his accurate pencil, every salient feature and impressive incident. A mirror of the bull-fight, from the beginning to the end, is now held up in his series of plates."

For phrases a translator can always contrive a just equivalent, but not always for a word. "Our boxing term, Bull-fight," says Mr Ford, "is a very low translation of the time-honoured Castilian title, Fiestas de Toros, the Feasts, Festivals, Holy Days of Bulls." The difference is as great as between the burly prize-fighter, big-boned, broken-nosed, and brutal, and the graceful and dignified matador, the magnificent dandy of the circus, the beloved of women, the cherished of his tailor. Hear Mr Ford describe him, since we cannot here present Mr Price's admirable plate:—

"The Matador, or slayer, is the most important personage of the performance; his is the dangerous part of killing the bull, the catastrophe with which the Tauromachian tragedy is concluded. He can only arrive at this height of his hazardous profession by long study, experience, and practice, and by ascending regularly from the inferior grades. As he is the star, the observed and admired of all observers, his costume is worthy of his eminent rank; and as his gains are great, and commensurate with the perils to which he is exposed, he can afford to indulge in personal decoration, the dearest delight of the semi-oriental Spaniard. He adheres to the fashion of the majos, or fancy men of Andalusia, the native province of the celebrities of his gentle craft. He displays his taste and magnificence in a prodigal richness of silks and velvets, gold and silver embroidery. His wardrobe is as extensive as it is expensive, for he seldom makes his appearance twice in the same dress in the same city. He wears on his head a montera, or small cap, decked with black ribbons; his hair is gathered behind into a thick pigtail, like those of which our sailors were wont to be so proud; a gaudy silk handkerchief is passed once round his naked throat, and often through a jewelled ring; his short jacket—the type of which is quite Moorish—glitters all gorgeous with epaulettes, fringes, tags, and bullion lace; his loins are girded up with the national sash—the zone of antiquity; his short tight breeches, enriched with a gold or silver band and knee-knots, his silk stockings and ball-room pumps, show off to advantage a light, sinewy, active figure. When not called on the stage, he carries a gay silken cloak, that is laid aside when the death-signal is given, and a long Toledan blade, and blood-red flag, are substituted.

"The majority of these worthies are known by some endearing nickname, derived from the place of their birth, or from some peculiarity of person or conduct. Such nicknames are familiar as household words to the million, whose idols these heroes of the ring are, even more than our champions, the Cribbs and Springs, used to be, when prize-fights were in vogue; and in the Matadors there is much to fascinate their countrymen and women. To personal form and courage—sure passports of themselves to popular favour—the attraction of dress, of extravagant expenditure, and boon companionship, are added. Theirs, moreover, is the peculiar dialect, half gipsy and half slang, which, pregnant with idiomatic pungency, gives a racy expression to the humours of the ring, and to the epigrammatic wit of the south, which is termed throughout the Peninsula the Sal Andaluza, 'Andalucian salt:' this, it must be confessed, can scarcely be pronounced Attic.

"The names of the two best Matadors that ever graced the arenas of Spain live immortal in the memories of Spaniards. Both excelled equally with pen and sword. Joseph Delgado, alias Pepe Illo, wrote a profound treatise on Tauromachia, which has gone through several editions. He was killed at Madrid, May 11, 1801, by a Penaranda bull. The veteran had felt unwell in the morning, and had a presentiment of his fate, but declared that "he would do his duty," and, like Nelson, fell gloriously, his harness on his back. Scarcely second to him was Francisco Montes,'the first sword of Spain.' He was the author of a most Complete Art of Bull-Fighting. All amateurs who contemplate going the circuit of the plazas of the Peninsula will do well to study these works. The more the toresque intellect is cultivated, the greater the consequent enjoyment; a thousand minute beauties in the conduct and character of the combatants are caught, and relished by the learned, which are lost upon the ignorant and uneducated.

"Montes, also, like his renowned predecessor, was severely wounded, July 21, 1850, but was snatched from death by his nephew, el Chiclanero, whose portrait is given by Mr Lake Price. The youth rushed forth, and pierced with his sword the spinal narrow of the goring bull, who fell at his feet. He then bowed to the spectators and retired, amid thunders of applause, to attend his wounded uncle. An additional bull was conceded to his honour, and sacrificed as a blood-offering to the adored Montes. The remark of Seneca, that the world had seen as many examples of courage in gladiators of the Roman amphitheatre as in the Catos and Scipios, may be truly applied to the gallant Matadors of Spain. Montes is no more, but his mantle has descended to his nephew, who rules now decidedly the champion of the Spanish ring, and is considered by many eminent judges a greater man than even his illustrious uncle."

We revert to Plate No. I. of Mr Price's series, with its accompanying explanatory notice. The subject is the office where tickets for the amphitheatre are sold. The heart-flutterings of the emancipated school-girl, on the brink of her first ball, the eagerness of the Etonian, who, to-morrow, for the first time, is to sport pink and cross a hunter, are faint and feeble emotions compared to the Spaniard's vehement desire for his darling sport. In the choice of places many things are to be considered. The prices depend upon position—enclosed boxes being much dearer than open benches, and shade than sun.

"The sun of tawny, torrid Spain, on whose flag it once never set, is not to be trifled with; and its coup is, indeed, frequent and fatal in summer, the season selected perforce for the bull-fight. In winter the bulls fall off, from the want of artificial green crops, which are hardly known in the Peninsula; they only recover their prime condition, courage, and fierceness, when refreshed, like giants, by a free range over the rich pastures which the spring of the south calls into life and luxuriance. Again, it is in summer that fine weather is certain, and the days are long—considerations of importance in a spectacle that is to be enacted out of doors, and which lasts many hours. The glare and heat of a vertical summer sun in Spain, when the heavens and earth seem on fire, is intolerable to man and beast; the bull-fights, therefore, are naturally deferred until the afternoon, when a welcome shade is cast over the northern portion of the amphitheatre. The sun's transit, or zodiacal progress into Taurus, is not the worst calculated astronomical observation in Spain. The line of subdued coolness, as divided from burning brightness, is sharply marked on the circular arena; and this demarcation determines the relative prices, which range from one to five shillings each, and are very high for Spain considering the wages of labour.... The love of the bull-fights amounts to madness in the masses of Spaniards. There is no sacrifice, no denial, that they will not endure, to save money to go to their national exhibition!"

"The Bulls in the Court of the Plaza" is the subject of the second plate. Here the bulls are seen in the yard attached to the amphitheatre in which, to-morrow, they are to combat and die. Groups of amateurs are enjoying a "private view," scanning their points and conjecturing their prowess. "The white and brown bull in front proved so unusually savage and murderous in the ring of Madrid, that a Spanish nobleman caused its head to be mounted in silver, and placed among the most cherished memorials of his ancient palace."

After a picture of the Madrid "Place of Bulls," which is capable of containing eighteen thousand spectators, comes the processional entrance of the toreros or bull-fighters, all in full costume. "The locality selected by Mr Lake Price for this opening scene is the Plaza of Seville; and a most picturesque one it is, although not finished—the usual fate of many splendid beginnings and promises of Spain. The deficient portion lets in, as if on purpose, a view of the glorious cathedral. On grand occasions this side is decorated with flags; and when the last crimson sun ray sets on the Moorish belfry, and brings it out like a pillar of fire, and the flapping banners wave in triumph as the evening breeze springs up, no more beautiful conclusion of a beautiful spectacle can be imagined by poet or painter." Preceding the procession, the alguazil, in his ancient Spanish costume of Philip IV.'s day, applies to the chief personage present for the key of the toril or bull-den. When Mr Hoskins visited the circus at Seville—Seville, once "the capital of the bull-fight," but now surpassed by Madrid in the ceremony and magnificence of that spectacle—the Duke de Montpensier occupied the state-box. "The alguazil rode beneath the prince's box for the key of the cell of the bulls, which the prince threw; but in catching it the alguazil displayed such bad horsemanship, that the crowd were convulsed with laughter." The alguazil ought to catch the key in his hat, but seldom does. When he has handed it to one of the chulos or footmen, he gallops off full speed, "amid the hootings of the populace, who instinctively persecute the finisher of the law, as little birds mob a hawk: more than a thousand kind wishes are offered up that the bull may catch and toss him. The brilliant army of combatants now separate like a bursting shell, and take up their respective places, as our fielders do at a cricket-match. The spectacle, which consists of three acts, now commences in earnest; from six to eight bulls are generally killed for the day's feast."

In the first act, the principal performers, besides the bull, are the picadors. Mr Price has illustrated their proceedings and exploits in six plates. "When the bull-calf is one year old," says Mr Ford, "his courage is tested by the mounted herdsman, who charges him violently with his garrocha, or sharp goad. If the bold brute turns twice on his assailant, facing the steel, he is set apart for the future honours of the arena." Sometimes, when, emerging from his dark cell into the dazzling glare of the amphitheatre, the bull beholds, presented to his charge, the sharp spear of the expectant picador, he calls to mind his calf-days and the keen goad, swerves in his headlong and seemingly irresistible rush, and passes on to a second and a third antagonist. "If still baffled, stunning are the pæans raised in honour of the men. Such bulls as will not fight at all, and show a white feather, become the objects of popular insult and injury; they are hooted at as 'cows,' which is no compliment to a bull, and, as they sneak by the barriers, are mercilessly punished with a forest of porros, or lumbering cudgels, with which the mob is provided for the nonce. When the bull is slow to charge, the picador rides out into the arena, and challenges him with his vara (spear.) Should the bull decline his polite invitation and turn tail, he is baited by dogs, which is most degrading." If execrations and abuse are lavished upon a craven, on the other hand frantic is the applause and enthusiasm when the bull displays unusual pluck. Mr Hoskins saw some capital fights.

"A brown bull with white spots," he writes, "then came in and soon rolled on the ground two picadors and their worthless steeds: one of the animals was killed on the spot, and the other soon dropped. Immediately the bull upset the third horse and his rider, and was rapturously cheered: 'Viva, toro! viva, toro! Bravo, toro!' Again he upset two more steeds, and the picadors fell heavily to the ground; the plaudits were deafening. Soon he raised from the earth the third horse and his rider, who kept his seat at first; but both fell—the picador underneath, stunned, but able, after a short time, to mount again. Horse after horse this fine beast attacked: one poor animal and his rider were soon prostrate on the ground, and immediately afterwards another. The banderillas made him still more mad, and the chulos were obliged to run their best to escape his rage. It was most exciting to see them vaulting over the barriers, flying, as it were, out of his horns. At last the matador struck him; and though the sword was, as usual, deep between the left shoulder and the blade, he seemed as fierce as ever. He was near the enclosure, and a man adroitly drew it out. The matador was preparing to strike him again, when he lay down as if to die, but soon rose, apparently desirous of revenge: after one effort he sank on the arena, and the matador gave him his coup de grace. The band played, and the teams dragged out his carcase and three dead horses, besides two which he had wounded dreadfully: the Spaniards sang with delight."

A little black bull, which in Smithfield would have been slightly esteemed, next rushed into the circle, and quickly cleared it, rolling over the picadors, and making the chulos fly for dear life. After one of these "he galloped at a fearful speed. Not a voice was heard, so deep was the anxiety; but the chulo flew over the barricade as if the bull had pitched him, so near to his legs were its horns. The animal seemed astonished at having lost its victim, and then vented its rage on the red cloak the chulo had been obliged to drop." This fierce little bull killed and badly wounded half-a-dozen horses, goring them disgustingly when on the ground, and galloped round the arena in triumphant defiance, until the terrible matador, with red flag and straight blade, answered the challenge, and slew him with a thrust.

The risks run by the picadors are terrible; although less, perhaps, from the horns of the bull than from bad falls, and from their horses rolling over them. Few of them, Mr Ford assures us, have a sound rib in their body.

"Occasionally, the bull tosses man and steed in one ruin, and, when they fall, exhausts his fury on the poor beast; for the picador either manages to make him a barrier, or is dragged of by the attendant chulos, who always hover near, and with their cloaks entice the bull from the man, leaving the horse to his sad fate. When these deadly struggles take place, when life hangs on a thread, every feeling of eagerness and excitement is stamped on the countenances of the spectators. Their rapture is wrought to its pitch, when the horse, maddened with the wounds and terror, the crimson seams streaking his foam-and-sweat whitened body, flies from the still pursuing bull: then are displayed the nerve and horsemanship of the picador. It is a piteous sight to behold the mangled horses treading out their protruding and quivering entrails, and yet carrying off their riders unhurt. This too frequent occurrence, and which horrifies every Englishman, has, with some other painful incidents, been kindly kept out of sight by our artist, whose object is to please. Spaniards are no more affected with the reality, than Italians are moved by the abstract tanti palpiti of Rossini. The miserable horse, when dead, is rapidly stripped of his accoutrements by his rider, who hobbles off, and the carcass is then dragged out by the mules, often leaving a bloody furrow on the sand, as Spain's river-beds are marked with the scarlet fringe of flowering oleanders. The riders have a more than veterinary skill in pronouncing off-hand what wounds are mortal or not. Those thrusts which are not immediately fatal, are plugged up by them with tow, and then they remount the crippled steed, and carry him, like a battered battle-ship, again into action."

Mr Lake Price has certainly shown good taste in suppressing the more revolting and painful details of bull-fights. The bloody minutiæ of the spectacle would have spoiled his pictures. In painting bull-fights, as in painting battles, the artist must leave to imagination by far the greater part of the gaping wounds and streaming blood, and horrible mutilations. No field of severe battle was ever painted, we apprehend, exactly as it appeared to him who walked over it just as the fight was done. The fidelity of a daguerreotype would be inadmissible in such cases. Imagine an exact representation of Borodino's redoubt, or Albuera's heights, at the very moment of the battle's close, before the fast-accumulating wounded were half removed, or the ghastly dead committed to the shallow grave. From such a picture, whatever its artistic merit, all would turn with shuddering and sickness. If we may compare small things with great, so it is with bull-fights. The painter, if he does not actually suppress fact, must at least choose his moment well, and spare his admirers the more revolting circumstances of the barbarous sport. For barbarous it really is, and some of the occurrences incidendal to it doubtless "horrify every Englishman," as Mr Ford says; but, at the same time, we have observed that nearly all Englishmen who pass even a short time in Spain get over their horror, and become pretty regular attendants at the bull-ring. So that we must not press too severely on Spaniards for their ardent and passionate love of a spectacle which, from childhood, they are accustomed to hear spoken of with enthusiasm, as the finest and most essentially national sport in the world.

No less than eight of Mr Price's pictures are devoted to the second act of the Bull's Tragedy, in which the chulos chiefly figure. This employment is the noviciate of bull-fighting. Great activity and speed of foot are the chief qualifications requisite.

"The duty of this light division is to skirmish and draw off the bull when the picador is endangered, which they do with their particoloured silken cloaks. Their mercurial address and agility is marvellous; they skim over the sand like glittering humming-birds, seeming scarcely to touch the earth. The most dangerous position is when they venture into the middle of the Plaza, and are pursued by the bull to the barrier, over which they bound. The escape often takes place in the very nick of time, and they win by a neck; and frequently so close is the run, that they seem to be helped over the fence by the bull's horns; nay, so active are the bulls, that they often clear the six feet high palisado, on which occasion an indescribable hubbub and confusion take place amid the combatants, water-sellers, alguazils, and persons within; all the doors are immediately opened, and the perplexed beast soon finds his way back again into the arena, to new inflictions. The Plates XIV. and XVII. represent two of the most difficult and dangerous performances of the combatants on foot, and which are rarely attempted, except by the most skilful and experienced toreros and matadors, who take part in these interludes. Such is the Suerte de la Capa, or feat of the cloak. When the infuriated bull, foaming with rage, stands lord of all he surveys, Montes would coolly advance, and, when within two yards, turn his back to the animal, and, holding his cloak behind his shoulders, receive the rushing charge five or six times, stepping adroitly aside at each. The second, El Salto trascuerno, is even more hazardous. The performer advances as before, and when the bull lowers his head to charge, places his foot between the horns, is lifted up, and lights on the other side. These touch-and-go experiments form no part of the strict duties of the chulo; his exclusive province is the banderilla. This implement consists of a barbed dart or arrow, which is wrapt round with papers of different colours, cut in fanciful patterns of ornamental cruelty; the bearer, holding one in each hand, approaches the bull, presenting the point to him, and at the instant when he stoops to toss him, jerks them into his neck, turns aside, and eludes him. To do this neatly requires a quick eye, and a light hand and foot. The ambition of the performer is to place the barbs evenly and symmetrically, one on each side of the bull's neck. Three and four pairs of these are usually stuck in. Sometimes, when the bull has given dissatisfaction, these banderillas are armed with crackers, which, by means of detonating powder, explode the moment they are fixed; the agony of the scorched animal makes him plunge and snort frantically, to the delight of a people whose ancestors welcomed the Auto da Fé, and the perfume of burning living flesh."

Five plates, exhibiting the bull's last moments, complete and conclude this masterly and accurate series. Here is the matador, craving permission to kill the bull in honour of the municipality of Seville: here he advances—his long four-edged sword, of more than bayonet strength, firmly grasped in his right hand, whilst his left waves the scarlet muleta, further exasperating the menaced brute. Be it observed, that there is no "thrusting" in the case. Rapier work were here of little avail. The sword is solid, stiff, and heavy; it receives the bull, but does not meet him. Entering between the shoulder and blade-bone, it is buried, by the victim's own impetus, to the very hilt. Only by so profound and desperate a wound could this energetic vitality be thus instantaneously extinguished. When successful, skilful matadors will sometimes withdraw the sword from the wound, and raise it in triumph above their prostrate victim. On all occasions, a firm hand, great nerve, and a quick eye, are essential. The bull is very often not killed by the first thrust: if the sword strikes a bone, it is ejected high in the air by the rising neck. When a bull will not run on the flag, he is doomed to the dishonourable death of a traitor, and is houghed from behind with a sharp steel crescent fixed on a long pole. When the sinews of his hind legs are thus cruelly divided, the poor beast crawls in agony, and squats down; then a butcher-like assistant, the cachetero, creeps up, and pierces the spinal marrow with a pointed dagger, which is the usual mode of slaughtering cattle in the Spanish shambles. To perform any of these vile operations is beneath the matador, who sometimes will kill such a bull by plunging the point of his sword into the vertebræ. The great danger gives dignity to this most difficult feat, el descabellar. If the exact spot be hit, death is immediate; if the aim misses, and the animal's side only is pricked, he dashes at the unprotected torero, and frequently disables him.

Artists and authors travelling in Spain may, for some time to come, give their brushes and pens a holiday, so far as bull-fights go. There remains little that is new to be written or painted concerning them. Every phase and incident of the contest has been correctly seized and vividly portrayed by Mr Price, who has fairly exhausted his subject. As regards description, that given by Mr Ford is exactly what is needed to accompany an artistical work. It tells us all that is wanted, and, in conjunction with the pictures, gives to fire-side travellers as good an idea of what a bull-fight really is, as can possibly be obtained without actually witnessing one. It has not suited our purpose, in the present brief paper, to extend our examination of "Spain as it is" beyond the fourth chapter of the second volume; but it is only fair to say, lest it should be supposed the merit of the book is also confined to that chapter, that Mr Hoskins' volumes contain a mass of useful information and clever criticism on the public and private picture-galleries of Spain.

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[CUPID IN THE CABINET.]