NIGHT AND MORNING.
‘To-morrow to fresh fields and pastures new!’
Lycidas.
Yes! I have been for many a changeful year,
Studious or sensual, gay or wild, or sad,
An earnest votary of Evening. She
Had something wondrous winning to my eye,
So soft she was, and quiet. Often too,
Absorbed in books, which were perchance a bane,
Perchance a blessing; or in glittering crowds,
Gazing all rapt on woman’s eloquent face,
Nature’s most witching and most treacherous page;
Or high in mirth with those whose senseful wit
Outflashed the rosy wines that warmed its flow,
I’ve held my vigils till the brow of Night
Grew pale and starless, and her solemn pomp,
Out-glared by day, faded in hueless space.
I do repent me of my worship. Night
Was given for rest: who breaks this natural law
Wrongs body and soul alike. One vigorous hour
Of sober day-light thought is worth a night’s
Slow oscitations of a drowsy mind.
’Neath Eve’s pale star the desolate heart reverts
To those far moments, when the sky was blue,
And earth was green, as earth and sky to eyes
Once disenchanted, can appear no more.
We all are mourners. Good men must deplore
Lost hours, lost friends, lost pleasures; and the bad
Are racked by throes of impotent remorse,
Dark, fierce, and bitter; for themselves are lost,
And still neglecting what remains of life,
They strive by backward reachings to redeem
The irredeemable. Why pass the hours,
The fleeting hours, in profitless regrets,
When each regret but lops another bough,
Full of green promise, from the tree of life?
You, who in your bereavement truly feel
This truth, expressed so sadly and so well:
‘Joy’s recollection is no longer joy,
While Sorrow’s memory is sorrow still;’
I counsel to recant your vows, and come
With me to worship at a better shrine,
The shrine of Morning.
Morning is the hour
Of vigorous thought, unconquerable hope,
And high endeavor. All our powers, in sleep
Bathed, nurtured, clad, and strung with nerves of steel,
Rise from their brief oblivion keen with health,
And strong for struggling, and we feel that toil
Is toil’s own recompense. I deem that Man
Is not a retrospective being; for his course
Is on, still on; and never should his eyes
Turn back, but to detect his errors past,
And shun them in his future steps. Too long,
Ah! much too long, O world! and oft I’ve gazed
In awe and wonder on thy midnight sleep,
While magic Memory, singly or in groups,
Upon her faded tablets re-produced
Fair and familiar forms of Love and Joy.
Oh! so familiar were they, and so fair,
Though dim, those blessed faces, that my eyes
Grew tremulous with the dew of unshed tears.
The gaze hath hurt me. It hath taken their rest
And natural joy from body and spirit, and worn
Too fast the wheel-work of this frail machine.
And now, oh! sleeping Nature! while the stars
Smile on thy face, and I in fancy hear
The low pulsations of thy dormant life,
And feel thy mighty bosom heave and fall
With regular breathings; through my little world
I feel Disease advancing on his sure
And stealthy mission. Well I know his step,
The wily traitor! when I mark my short,
Quick respirations; and his call I know,
As, in the hush of night, my ear alarmed
By the heart’s death-march notes, repeats its strange
And audible beatings.
Down! grim spectre, down!
Flap not thy wings across my face, nor let
Thy ghastly visage, horrible shadow! freeze
My staring eye-balls! Let me fly, O Death!
Thy chilling presence, and implore thy soft
And merciful brother,[2] dewy Sleep, to drip
Papaverous balsam on my eyes, and lull
My throbbing temples on his lap to rest!
·····
The day-spring reddens: the first few, faint streaks,
Mingling and brightening o’er the eastern skies,
Announce the upward chariot of the Sun.
Light leaps from Darkness! In the grave of Night
Day lays aside his burial-robes, and dons
His regal crown, and Nature smiles to see
His resurrection, shouting, ‘Hail! oh, hail!
Eve’s younger[3] brother! and again, all hail!
Thou bright-eyed Morning! fairest among all
Of God’s fair creatures! Rise, bright prince, and shine
O’er this green earth, from brooding Darkness won,
From wild, waste Chaos, and the womb of Night!’
Let me too burst the leaden bands of Sleep,
And while the blinking stars, all faint and pale
With their long watch, recall their courier-rays
To their far orbits; and our earthly stars,
The stars of Fashion, sick and wan as they,
Are wheeling homeward to their feverous rest,
Let me walk forth among the silent groves,
Or through the cool vales snuff the morning air.
How fresh! how breathing! Every draught I take
Seems filled with healthiest life, and sends the blood
Rushing and tingling through my quickened veins,
Like inspiration! How the fluent air,
Fanned into motion by thy breezy wings,
O, fragrant Morning! blows from off the earth
The congregated vapors, dank and foul,
By yesterday coagulate and mixed!
Miasmas steaming up from sunless fens;
The effluvia of vegetable death;
Disease exhaled from pestilential beds,
And Lust’s rank pantings and the fumes of wine;
All these, condensed in one pernicious gas
By Noon’s hot efflux and the reeking Night,
Thy filtering breezes make as fresh and sweet
As infant slumbers; pure as the virgin’s breath
Whispering her first love in the eager ear
Of her heart’s chosen.
On this climbing hill,
While, lost in ecstacy, I stand and gaze
On the fresh beauties of a world disrobed,
How does thy searching breath, oh, infant Day!
Inspire the languid frame with new-born life,
And all its sinking powers rejuvenate,
Freshening the murky hollows of the soul!
Good Heaven! How glorious this morning hour,
Nature’s new birth-time! All her mighty frame,
In lowly vale, on lofty mountain-top,
And wide savannah, stirs, with sprightful life,
Life irrepressible, whose eager thrill
Shoots to her very finger-tips, and makes
Each little flower through all her delicate threads
Each fibrous plant, each blade of corn or grass,
And each tall tree, through all its limbs and leaves,
Quiver and tremble.
The increasing light
Reveals the outlines of the shadowy hills,
And, charm by charm, the landscape all comes forth,
Wood, stream, and valley; while above that green
And waving ocean swells an endless vault
Of blue serenity, and round its verge
Kindles and flashes with rubescent gleams
The far horizon; till the whole appears
A sapphire dome, which, edged with golden rim,
Spans the green surges of an emerald sea.
The Sun is still unseen; yet far before
His chariot-wheels a train of glory marks
His kindling track, and all the air is now
A luminous ocean. Whence these floods of light,
Rich with all hues? Say! have the spheréd stars,
Powdered in shining atoms, fallen and filled
The ambient air with their invisible dews?
Or have the fugitive particles of light,
The Sun’s lost emanations, which all night
Lay hid in hollows of the earth, or slept
In vegetable cells, come forth to greet
Their monarch’s coming? Are they pioneers
Sent to prepare his way, and raise his bright
Victorious banner, that their sovereign’s eye
From his serene pavilion may behold
No lingering shadow from the gloomy host
Of hateful Darkness, who hast westward borne
His routed army and his fading flag?
Alas! proud Science, Fancy’s sneering foe,
Says they are but the Sun’s refracted rays,
And scintillations from his burning wheels.
Earth’s bride-groom rises. Round his glittering head
He shakes his streamy locks, and fast and far
Sheds showers of splendor; and his blushing bride,
Recumbent on her grassy couch, scarce opes
Her bashful eyes to meet his ardent gaze.
While at the advent of her lord, the Earth,
Marking his shining footsteps, with a smile
Remembers the espousals of her youth,
When morning stars rang out the nuptial song[4]
In jubilant chorus; on her milky breast,
All the green nurslings of his favor raise
Their dewy heads, and welcome his approach
With thankful greetings; and each gentle flower
Turns her fair face to the munificent god
Of her idolatry, and well repays
His warm caresses with her perfumed breath.
But while inanimate nature takes the shows
Of life, and joy, and deep and passionate sense,
The animal kingdom sleeps not; all its tribes
Swell the glad anthem. Birds, that all night long
Slept and dreamed sweetly ’neath their folded wings,
At nature’s summons are awakening now;
Nor unmelodiously; for from their throats,
In many a warbling trill, or mingled gush,
Comes music of such sweet and innocent strength,
As might force tears from the black murderer’s eyes,
And make the sighing captive, while he weeps
His own hard wrongs, lift his chained hands, and pray
For his oppressor more than for himself.
Thou, too, my soul, if wearing years have left
Aught of high feeling in thy wasted powers,
Of gratitude for mercies undeserved,
Or hope of future favors, here and now,
Upon this breezy hill-top, in the eye
Of the bright day-god rising from his sleep,
Perform thine orisons:
‘Father and King,
While here thy quickening breezes round me play,
And yonder comes thy visible delegate
With his bright scutcheon, to diffuse again
All day the rays of thy beneficence
Over this lovely earth, thy six days’ work;
To Thee, Almighty One! thy child would raise
A loud thanksgiving. And if this, my strain
Of joy and thanks, and supplication, be
Or cold, or weak, or insincere in aught,
(As our poor hearts deceive themselves so oft,)
Thou! O Omnipotent! canst make it warm,—
Warm as thy love, strong as thy Son’s strong tears,
And pure as thine own essence. Formed by Thee,
Saved by thy mercy from thy wrath, we all
Are guilty ingrates, and the best of men
Hath sins perchance which might outweigh the worth
Of all the angels. I, at least, have sinned,
Sinned long and deeply; and if still my heart,
Warped by its own bad passions, or allured
By the world’s glitter and the arts of him,
Thy foe and our destroyer, should forget
Its source and destiny, and breathe its vows
Again to idols, yet reject Thou not
This present offering. Let thy Grace surround
My steps as with a muniment of rocks,
And guide me in the uneven paths of life,
A pilgrim shielded by thy hollow hand.
And as the grateful earth sends up all day
Her exhalations through the bibulous air
To the sun, her monarch; and receives them back
Rich, soft, and fertile, in the still small shower,
That falls invisible from the morning’s womb:
So may my fervent heart exhale to Thee
Daily, the breathings of its thankful prayer.
And praise spontaneous; which thy heavenly grace
Shall render back in a perpetual dew
Of benedictions, making all the waste
Green with cool verdure.
Oh! the time hath been,
When thy benighted children lost the creed
Of thy true worship, and to brutes bowed down,
And senseless stones, and, kneeling in sincere
But vain devotion, to the creature gave
The adoration due to Thee alone,
The mighty Maker. Others strove to turn
Thine anger from them, by the streaming blood
Of human victims; and the reverend priest
Stood up, and in the name of people and king,
Prayed Thee, or some vain substitute, to bless
The holy murder. Even thy chosen, thine own
Peculiar nation, did forget that Thou
Lov’st the oblation of a grateful heart,
A holocaust self-sacrificed to God,[5]
And trusted to the blood of bulls and goats,
And whole burned offerings. And still mankind
Kneel in blind worship. Every heart sets up
Its separate Dagon. Fierce Ambition breathes
His burning vow, and, to secure his prayer,
Makes the dear children of his heart, his own
Sweet home’s affections and delights, pass through
The fire of Moloch: Avarice at the shrine
Of greedy Mammon, gluts his eyes with gold:
Some to Renown bend low the obsequious knee,
Praying to be eternized by a blast
From her shrill trumpet: in the glittering halls
Of sensual Pleasure some sing songs, and bind
Their fair young brows with chaplets steeped in wine;
Though soon the chaplets turn to chains, the wines
To gall and wormwood, and the festal song
To howls and hootings. High above these shrines
The great arch-demon and parental Jove
Of all the Pantheon, a god unknown
But every where adored, omnipotent
And omnipresent to the tribes of men,
Self, rears his temple.
But the day shall come,
When far and wide o’er the regenerate world,
From each green vale and ancient hill, thy sons
Duly to Thee shall bring their evening thanks
And morning homage. Round each cheerful hearth,
Or kneeling in the spreading door-tree’s shade,
Each human heart, brim-full of love and hope,
And holy gratitude, shall send aloft
A pure oblation, and the throbbing earth
Be one great censer, breathing praise to Thee.’
THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK.[6]
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH BOOK.
When in the year of Redemption 701, Witizia was elected to the Gothic throne, his reign gave promise of happy days to Spain. He redressed grievances, moderated the tributes of his subjects, and conducted himself with mingled mildness and energy in the administration of the laws. In a little while, however, he threw off the mask and showed himself in his true nature, cruel and luxurious. Considering himself secure upon the throne, he gave the reins to his licentious passions, and soon by his tyranny and sensuality acquired the appellation of Witizia the Wicked. How rare is it to learn wisdom from the misfortunes of others! With the fate of Witizia full before his eyes, Don Roderick was no sooner established as his successor, than he began to indulge in the same pernicious errors, and was doomed in like manner to prepare the way for his own perdition.
As yet the heart of Roderick, occupied by the struggles of his early life, by warlike enterprises, and by the inquietudes of newly-gotten power, had been insensible to the charms of women; but in the first voluptuous calm the amorous propensities of his nature assumed their sway. There are divers accounts of the youthful beauty who first found favor in his eyes, and was elevated by him to the throne. We follow, in our legend, the details of an Arabian chronicler, authenticated by a Spanish poet. Let those who dispute our facts produce better authority for their contradiction.
Among the few fortified places that had not been dismantled by Don Roderick was the ancient city of Denia, situated on the Mediterranean coast, and defended on a rock-built castle that overlooked the sea.
The Alcayde of the castle, with many of the people of Denia, was one day on his knees in the chapel, imploring the Virgin to allay a tempest which was strewing the coast with wrecks, when a sentinel brought word that a Moorish cruiser was standing for the land. The Alcayde gave orders to ring the alarm bells, light signal-fires on the hill tops, and rouse the country; for the coast was subject to cruel maraudings from the Barbary cruisers.
In a little while the horsemen of the neighborhood were seen pricking along the beach, armed with such weapons as they could find; and the Alcayde and his scanty garrison descended from the hill. In the meantime the Moorish bark came rolling and pitching toward the land. As it drew near, the rich carving and gilding with which it was decorated, its silken bandaroles, and banks of crimson oars, showed it to be no warlike vessel, but a sumptuous galleot, destined for state and ceremony. It bore the marks of the tempest: the masts were broken, the oars shattered, and fragments of snowy sails and silken awnings were fluttering in the blast.
As the galleot grounded upon the sand, the impatient rabble rushed into the surf to capture and make spoil; but were awed into admiration and respect by the appearance of the illustrious company on board. There were Moors of both sexes sumptuously arrayed, and adorned with precious jewels, bearing the demeanor of persons of lofty rank. Among them shone conspicuous a youthful beauty, magnificently attired, to whom all seemed to pay reverence.
Several of the Moors surrounded her with drawn swords, threatening death to any that approached; others sprang from the bark, and, throwing themselves on their knees before the Alcayde, implored him, by his honor and courtesy as a knight, to protect a royal virgin from injury and insult.
‘You behold before you,’ said they, ‘the only daughter of the King of Algiers, the betrothed bride of the son of the King of Tunis. We were conducting her to the court of her expecting bridegroom, when a tempest drove us from our course, and compelled us to take refuge on your coast. Be not more cruel than the tempest, but deal nobly with that which even sea and storm have spared.’
The Alcayde listened to their prayers. He conducted the princess and her train to the castle, where every honor due to her rank was paid her. Some of her ancient attendants interceded for her liberation, promising countless sums to be paid by her father for her ransom; but the Alcayde turned a deaf ear to all their golden offers. ‘She is a royal captive,’ said he; ‘it belongs to my sovereign alone to dispose of her.’ After she had reposed, therefore, for some days at the castle, and recovered from the fatigue and terror of the seas, he caused her to be conducted, with all her train, in magnificent state to the court of Don Roderick.
The beautiful Elyata entered Toledo more like a triumphant sovereign than a captive. A chosen band of Christian horsemen, splendidly armed, appeared to wait upon her as a mere guard of honor. She was surrounded by the Moorish damsels of her train, and followed by her own Moslem guards, all attired with the magnificence that had been intended to grace her arrival at the court of Tunis. The princess was arrayed in bridal robes, woven in the most costly looms of the orient; her diadem sparkled with diamonds, and was decorated with the rarest plumes of the bird of paradise; and even the silken trappings of her palfrey, which swept the ground, were covered with pearls and precious stones. As this brilliant cavalcade crossed the bridge of the Tagus, all Toledo poured forth to behold it; and nothing was heard throughout the city but praises of the wonderful beauty of the princess of Algiers. King Roderick came forth attended by the chivalry of his court, to receive the royal captive. His recent voluptuous life had disposed him for tender and amorous affections, and, at the first sight of the beautiful Elyata, he was enraptured with her charms. Seeing her face clouded with sorrow and anxiety, he soothed her with gentle and courteous words, and, conducting her to a royal palace, ‘Behold,’ said he, ‘thy habitation where no one shall molest thee; consider thyself at home in the mansion of thy father, and dispose of any thing according to thy will.’
Here the princess passed her time, with the female attendants who had accompanied her from Algiers; and no one but the king was permitted to visit her, who daily became more and more enamoured of his lovely captive, and sought, by tender assiduity, to gain her affections. The distress of the princess at her captivity was soothed by this gentle treatment. She was of an age when sorrow cannot long hold sway over the heart. Accompanied by her youthful attendants, she ranged the spacious apartments of the palace, and sported among the groves and alleys of its garden. Every day the remembrance of the paternal home grew less and less painful, and the king became more and more amiable in her eyes; and when, at length, he offered to share his heart and throne with her, she listened with downcast looks and kindling blushes, but with an air of resignation.
One obstacle remained to the complete fruition of the monarch’s wishes, and this was the religion of the princess. Roderick forthwith employed the Archbishop of Toledo to instruct the beautiful Elyata in the mysteries of the Christian faith. The female intellect is quick in perceiving the merits of new doctrines: the archbishop, therefore, soon succeeded in converting, not merely the princess, but most of her attendants; and a day was appointed for their public baptism. The ceremony was performed with great pomp and solemnity, in the presence of all the nobility and chivalry of the court. The princess and her damsels, clad in white, walked on foot to the cathedral, while numerous beautiful children, arrayed as angels, strewed the path with flowers; and the archbishop, meeting them at the portal, received them, as it were, into the bosom of the church. The princess abandoned her Moorish appellation of Elyata, and was baptised by the name of Exilona, by which she was thenceforth called, and has generally been known in history.
The nuptials of Roderick and the beautiful convert took place shortly afterward, and were celebrated with great magnificence. There were jousts, and tourneys, and banquets, and other rejoicings, which lasted twenty days, and were attended by the principle nobles from all parts of Spain. After these were over, such of the attendants of the princess as refused to embrace Christianity, and desired to return to Africa, were dismissed with munificent presents; and an embassy was sent to the King of Algiers, to inform him of the nuptials of his daughter, and to proffer him the friendship of King Roderick.
For a time Don Roderick lived happily with his young and beautiful queen, and Toledo was the seat of festivity and splendor. The principal nobles throughout the kingdom repaired to his court to pay him homage, and to receive his commands; and none were more devoted in their reverence than those who were obnoxious to suspicion, from their connection with the late king.
Among the foremost of these was Count Julian, a man destined to be infamously renowned in the dark story of his country’s woes. He was of one of the proudest Gothic families, lord of Consuegra and Algeziras, and connected by marriage with Witizia and the Bishop Oppas; his wife, the Countess Frandina, being their sister. In consequence of this connection, and of his own merits, he had enjoyed the highest dignities and commands: being one of the Espatorios, or royal sword-bearers; an office of the greatest confidence about the person of the sovereign. He had, moreover, been intrusted with the military government of the Spanish possessions on the African coast of the strait, which at that time were threatened by the Arabs of the East, the followers of Mahomet, who were advancing their victorious standard to the extremity of Western Africa. Count Julian established his seat of government at Ceuta, the frontier bulwark, and one of the far-famed gates of the Mediterranean Sea. Here he boldly faced, and held in check, the torrent of Moslem invasion.
Don Julian was a man of an active, but irregular genius, and a grasping ambition; he had a love for power and grandeur, in which he was joined by his haughty countess; and they could ill brook the downfall of their house as threatened by the fate of Witizia. They had hastened, therefore, to pay their court to the newly elevated monarch, and to assure him of their fidelity to his interests.
Roderick was readily persuaded of the sincerity of Count Julian; he was aware of his merits as a soldier and a governor, and continued him in his important command; honoring him with many other marks of implicit confidence. Count Julian sought to confirm this confidence by every proof of devotion. It was a custom among the Goths to rear many of the children of the most illustrious families in the royal household. They served as pages to the king, and handmaids and ladies of honor to the queen, and were instructed in all manner of accomplishments befitting their gentle blood. When about to depart for Ceuta, to resume his command, Don Julian brought his daughter Florinda to present her to the sovereigns. She was a beautiful virgin, that had not as yet attained to womanhood. ‘I confide her to your protection,’ said he to the king, ‘to be unto her as a father; and to have her trained in the paths of virtue. I can leave with you no dearer pledge of my loyalty.’
King Roderick received the timid and blushing maiden into his paternal care; promising to watch over her happiness with a parent’s eye, and that she should be enrolled among the most cherished attendants of the queen. With this assurance of the welfare of his child, Count Julian departed, well pleased, for his government at Ceuta.
The beautiful daughter of Count Julian was received with great favor by the queen Exilona, and admitted among the noble damsels that attended upon her person. Here she lived in honor and apparent security, and surrounded by innocent delights. To gratify his queen, Don Roderick had built for her rural recreation, a palace without the walls of Toledo, on the banks of the Tagus. It stood in the midst of a garden, adorned after the luxurious style of the east. The air was perfumed by fragrant shrubs and flowers; the groves resounded with the song of the nightingale; while the gush of fountains and waterfalls, and the distant murmur of the Tagus, made it a delightful retreat during the sultry days of summer. The charm of perfect privacy also reigned throughout the place; for the garden walls were high, and numerous guards kept watch without to protect it from all intrusion.
In this delicious abode, more befitting an oriental voluptuary than a Gothic king, Don Roderick was accustomed to while away much of that time which should have been devoted to the toilsome cares of government. The very security and peace which he had produced throughout his dominions, by his precautions to abolish the means and habitudes of war, had effected a disastrous change in his character. The hardy and heroic qualities which had conducted him to the throne, were softened in the lap of indulgence. Surrounded by the pleasures of an idle and effeminate court, and beguiled by the example of his degenerate nobles, he gave way to a fatal sensuality that had lain dormant in his nature during the virtuous days of his adversity. The mere love of female beauty had first enamoured him of Exilona; and the same passion, fostered by voluptuous idleness, now betrayed him into the commission of an act fatal to himself and Spain. The following is the story of his error, as gathered from an old chronicle and legend.
In a remote part of the palace was an apartment devoted to the queen. It was like an eastern harem, shut up from the foot of man, and where the king himself but rarely entered. It had its own courts, and gardens, and fountains, where the queen was wont to recreate herself with her damsels, as she had been accustomed to do in the jealous privacy of her father’s palace.
One sultry day, the king, instead of taking his siesta, or mid-day slumber, repaired to this apartment to seek the society of the queen. In passing through a small oratory, he was drawn by the sound of female voices to a casement overhung with myrtles and jessamines. It looked into an interior garden, or court, set out with orange trees, in the midst of which was a marble fountain, surrounded by a grassy bank, enamelled with flowers.
It was the high noontide of a summer day, when, in sultry Spain, the landscape trembles to the eye, and all nature seeks repose, except the grasshopper, that pipes his lulling note to the herdsman as he sleeps beneath the shade.
Around the fountain were several of the damsels of the queen, who, confident of the sacred privacy of the place, were yielding in that cool retreat to the indulgence prompted by the season and the hour. Some lay asleep on the flowery bank; others sat on the margin of the fountain, talking and laughing, as they bathed their feet in its limpid waters, and King Roderick beheld delicate limbs shining through the wave, that might rival the marble in whiteness.
Among the damsels was one who had come from the Barbary coast with the queen. Her complexion had the dark tinge of Mauritania, but it was clear and transparent, and the deep rich rose blushed through the lovely brown. Her eyes were black and full of fire, and flashed from under long silken eye-lashes.
A sportive contest arose among the maidens, as to the comparative beauty of the Spanish and Moorish forms; but the Mauritanian damsel revealed limbs of voluptuous symmetry that seemed to defy all rivalry.
The Spanish beauties were on the point of giving up the contest, when they bethought themselves of the young Florinda, the daughter of Count Julian, who lay on the grassy bank, abandoned to a summer slumber. The soft glow of youth and health mantled on her cheek; her fringed eyelashes scarcely covered their sleeping orbs; her moist and ruby lips were lightly parted, just revealing a gleam of her ivory teeth; while her innocent bosom rose and fell beneath her bodice, like the gentle swelling and sinking of a tranquil sea. There was a breathing tenderness and beauty in the sleeping virgin, that seemed to send forth sweetness like the flowers around her.
‘Behold,’ cried her companions exultingly, ‘the champion of Spanish beauty!’
In their playful eagerness they half disrobed the innocent Florinda before she was aware. She awoke in time, however, to escape from their busy hands; but enough of her charms had been revealed to convince the monarch that they were not to be rivalled by the rarest beauties of Mauritania.
From this day the heart of Roderick was inflamed with a fatal passion. He gazed on the beautiful Florinda with fervid desire, and sought to read in her looks whether there was levity or wantonness in her bosom; but the eye of the damsel ever sunk beneath his gaze, and remained bent on the earth in virgin modesty.
It was in vain he called to mind the sacred trust reposed in him by Count Julian, and the promise he had given to watch over his daughter with paternal care; his heart was vitiated by sensual indulgence, and the consciousness of power had rendered him selfish in his gratifications.
Being one evening in the garden where the queen was diverting herself with her damsels, and coming to the fountain where he had beheld the innocent maidens at their sport, he could no longer restrain the passion that raged within his breast. Seating himself beside the fountain, he called Florinda to him to draw forth a thorn which had pierced his hand. The maiden knelt at his feet to examine his hand, and the touch of her slender fingers thrilled through his veins. As she knelt, too, her amber locks fell in rich ringlets about her beautiful head, her innocent bosom palpitated beneath the crimson boddice, and her timid blushes increased the effulgence of her charms.
Having examined the monarch’s hand in vain, she looked up in his face with artless perplexity.
‘Senior,’ said she, ‘I can find no thorn, nor any sign of wound.’
Don Roderick grasped her hand and pressed it to his heart. ‘It is here, lovely Florinda!’ said he, ‘It is here! and thou alone canst pluck it forth!’
‘My lord!’ exclaimed the blushing and astonished maiden.
‘Florinda!’ said Don Roderick, ‘dost thou love me?’
‘Senior,’ said she, ‘my father taught me to love and reverence you. He confided me to your care as one who would be as a parent to me, when he should be far distant, serving your majesty with life and loyalty. May God incline your majesty ever to protect me as a father.’ So saying, the maiden dropped her eyes to the ground, and continued kneeling; but her countenance had become deadly pale, and as she knelt she trembled.
‘Florinda,’ said the king, ‘either thou dost not or thou wilt not understand me. I would have thee love me, not as a father, nor as a monarch, but as one who adores thee. Why dost thou start? No one shall know our loves; and, moreover, the love of a monarch inflicts no degradation like the love of a common man; riches and honors attend upon it. I will advance thee to rank and dignity, and place thee above the proudest females of my court. Thy father, too, shall be more exalted and endowed than any noble in my realm.’
The soft eye of Florinda kindled at these words. ‘Senior,’ said she, ‘the line I spring from can receive no dignity by means so vile; and my father would rather die than purchase rank and power by the dishonor of his child. But I see,’ continued she, ‘that your majesty speaks in this manner only to try me. You may have thought me light and simple and unworthy to attend upon the queen. I pray your majesty to pardon me, that I have taken your pleasantry in such serious part.’
In this way the agitated maiden sought to evade the addresses of the monarch; but still her cheek was blanched, and her lip quivered as she spake.
The king pressed her hand to his lips with fervor. ‘May ruin seize me,’ cried he, ‘if I speak to prove thee! My heart, my kingdom, are at thy command. Only be mine, and thou shalt rule absolute mistress of myself and my domains.’
The damsel rose from the earth where she had hitherto knelt, and her whole countenance glowed with virtuous indignation. ‘My Lord,’ said she, ‘I am your subject, and in your power; take my life if it be your pleasure; but nothing shall tempt me to commit a crime which would be treason to the queen, disgrace to my father, agony to my mother, and perdition to myself.’ With these words she left the garden, and the king, for the moment, was too much awed by her indignant virtue to oppose her departure.
We shall pass briefly over the succeeding events of the story of Florinda, about which so much has been said and sung by chronicler and bard: for the sober page of history should be carefully chastened from all scenes that might inflame a wanton imagination; leaving them to poems and romances, and such-like highly seasoned works of fantasy and recreation.
Let it suffice to say, that Don Roderick pursued his suit to the beautiful Florinda, his passion being more and more inflamed by the resistance of the virtuous damsel. At length, forgetting what was due to helpless beauty, to his own honor as a knight, and his word as a sovereign, he triumphed over her weakness by base and unmanly violence.
There are not wanting those who affirm that the hapless Florinda lent a yielding ear to the solicitations of the monarch, and her name has been treated with opprobrium in several of the ancient chronicles and legendary ballads that have transmitted, from generation to generation, the story of the woes of Spain. In very truth, however, she appears to have been a guiltless victim, resisting, as far as helpless female could resist, the arts and intrigues of a powerful monarch, who had nought to check the indulgence of his will, and bewailing her disgrace with a poignancy that shows how dearly she had prized her honor.
In the first paroxysm of her grief she wrote a letter to her father, blotted with her tears, and almost incoherent from her agitation. ‘Would to God, my father,’ said she, ‘that the earth had opened and swallowed me ere I had been reduced to write these lines! I blush to tell thee, what it is not proper to conceal. Alas! my father; thou hast entrusted thy lamb to the guardianship of the lion. Thy daughter has been dishonored, the royal cradle of the Goths polluted, and our lineage insulted and disgraced. Hasten, my father, to rescue your child from the power of the spoiler, and to vindicate the honor of your house!’
When Florinda had written these lines, she summoned a youthful esquire, who had been a page in the service of her father. ‘Saddle thy steed,’ said she, ‘and if thou dost aspire to knightly honor, or hope for lady’s grace—if thou hast fealty for thy lord, or devotion to his daughter—speed swiftly upon my errand. Rest not, halt not, spare not the spur; but hie thee day and night until thou reach the sea; take the first bark, and haste with sail and oar to Ceuta, nor pause until thou give this letter to the count my father.’
The youth put the letter in his bosom. ‘Trust me, lady,’ said he, ‘I will neither halt nor turn aside, nor cast a look behind, until I reach Count Julian.’ He mounted his fleet steed, sped his way across the bridge, and soon left behind him the verdant valley of the Tagus.
The heart of Don Roderick was not so depraved by sensuality, but that the wrong he had been guilty of toward the innocent Florinda, and the disgrace he had inflicted on her house, weighed heavy on his spirits, and a cloud began to gather on his once clear and unwrinkled brow.
Heaven, at this time, say the old Spanish chronicles, permitted a marvellous intimation of the wrath with which it intended to visit the monarch and his people, in punishment of their sins; nor are we, say the same orthodox writers, to startle, and withhold our faith, when we meet in the page of discreet and sober history with these signs and portents, which transcend the probabilities of ordinary life; for the revolutions of empires and the downfall of mighty kings are awful events, that shake the physical as well as the moral world, and are often announced by forerunning marvels and prodigious omens. With such-like cautious preliminaries do the wary but credulous historiographers of yore usher in a marvellous event of prophecy and enchantment, linked in ancient story with the fortunes of Don Roderick, but which modern doubters would fain hold up as an apocryphal tradition of Arabian origin.
Now, so it happened, according to the legend, that about this time, as King Roderick was seated one day on his throne, surrounded by his nobles, in the ancient city of Toledo, two men of venerable appearance entered the hall of audience. Their snowy beards descended to their breasts, and their gray hairs were bound with ivy. They were arrayed in white garments of foreign or antiquated fashion, which swept the ground, and were cinctured with girdles, wrought with the signs of the zodiac, from which were suspended enormous bunches of keys of every variety of form. Having approached the throne and made obeisance: ‘Know, O King,’ said one of the old men, ‘that in days of yore, when Hercules of Libya, surnamed the strong, had set up his pillars at the ocean strait, he erected a tower near to this ancient city of Toledo. He built it of prodigious strength, and finished it with magic art, shutting up within it a fearful secret, never to be penetrated without peril and disaster. To protect this terrible mystery he closed the entrance to the edifice with a ponderous door of iron, secured by a great lock of steel; and he left a command that every king who should succeed him should add another lock to the portal; denouncing wo and destruction on him who should eventually unfold the secret of the tower.
‘The guardianship of the portal was given to our ancestors, and has continued in our family, from generation to generation, since the days of Hercules. Several kings, from time to time, have caused the gate to be thrown open, and have attempted to enter, but have paid dearly for their temerity. Some have perished within the threshold, others have been overwhelmed with horror at tremendous sounds, which shook the foundations of the earth, and have hastened to re-close the door, and secure it with its thousand locks. Thus, since the days of Hercules, the inmost recesses of the pile have never been penetrated by mortal man, and a profound mystery continues to prevail over this great enchantment. This, O King, is all we have to relate; and our errand is to entreat thee to repair to the tower and affix thy lock to the portal, as has been done by all thy predecessors.’ Having thus said, the ancient men made a profound reverence and departed from the presence chamber.
Don Roderick remained for some time lost in thought after the departure of the men: he then dismissed all his court, excepting the venerable Urbino, at that time archbishop of Toledo. The long white beard of this prelate bespoke his advanced age, and his overhanging eye-brows showed him a man full of wary counsel.
‘Father,’ said the king, ‘I have an earnest desire to penetrate the mystery of this tower.’ The worthy prelate shook his hoary head: ‘Beware, my son,’ said he; ‘there are secrets hidden from man for his good. Your predecessors for many generations have respected this mystery, and have increased in might and empire. A knowledge of it, therefore, is not material to the welfare of your kingdom. Seek not then to indulge a rash and unprofitable curiosity, which is interdicted under such awful menaces.’
‘Of what importance,’ cried the king, ‘are the menaces of Hercules, the Lybian? Was he not a pagan? and can his enchantments have aught avail against a believer in our holy faith? Doubtless, in this tower are locked up treasures of gold and jewels, amassed in days of old, the spoils of mighty kings, the riches of the pagan world. My coffers are exhausted; I have need of supply; and surely it would be an acceptable act in the eyes of Heaven, to draw forth this wealth which lies buried under profane and necromantic spells, and consecrate it to religious purposes.’
The venerable archbishop still continued to remonstrate, but Don Roderick heeded not his counsel, for he was led on by his malignant star. ‘Father,’ said he, ‘it is in vain you attempt to dissuade me. My resolution is fixed. To-morrow I will explore the hidden mystery, or rather the hidden treasures of this tower.’
The morning sun shone brightly upon the cliff-built towers of Toledo, when King Roderick issued out of the gate of the city, at the head of a numerous train of courtiers and cavaliers, and crossed the bridge that bestrides the deep rocky bed of the Tagus. The shining cavalcade wound up the road that leads among the mountains, and soon came in sight of the necromantic tower.
Of this renowned edifice marvels are related by the ancient Arabian and Spanish chroniclers; ‘and I doubt much,’ adds the venerable Agpaida, ‘whether many readers will not consider the whole as a cunningly devised fable, sprung from an oriental imagination; but it is not for me to reject a fact which is recorded by all those writers who are the fathers of our national history: a fact, too, which is as well attested as most of the remarkable events in the story of Don Roderick. None but light and inconsiderate minds,’ continues the good friar, ‘do hastily reject the marvellous. To the thinking mind the whole world is enveloped in mystery, and every thing is full of type and portent. To such a mind the necromantic tower of Toledo will appear as one of those wondrous monuments of the olden time; one of those Egyptian and Chaldaic piles, storied with hidden wisdom and mystic prophecy, which have been devised in past ages, when man yet enjoyed an intercourse with high and spiritual natures, and when human foresight partook of divination.’
This singular tower was round, and of great height and grandeur; erected upon a lofty rock, and surrounded by crags and precipices. The foundation was supported by four brazen lions, each taller than a cavalier on horseback. The walls were built of small pieces of jasper, and various colored marbles, not larger than a man’s hand; so subtilely joined, however, that but for their different hues they might be taken for one entire stone. They were arranged with marvellous cunning, so as to represent battles and warlike deeds of times and heroes long since passed away; and the whole surface was so admirably polished that the stones were as lustrous as glass, and reflected the rays of the sun with such resplendent brightness as to dazzle all beholders.[7]
King Roderick and his courtiers arrived wondering and amazed, at the foot of the rock. Here there was a narrow arched way cut through the living stone; the only entrance to the tower. It was closed by a massive iron gate, covered with rusty locks of divers workmanship, and in the fashion of different centuries, which had been affixed by the predecessors of Don Roderick. On either side of the portal stood the two ancient guardians of the tower, laden with the keys appertaining to the locks.
The king alighted, and, approaching the portals, ordered the guardians to unlock the gate. The hoary-headed men drew back with terror. ‘Alas!’ cried they, ‘what is it your majesty requires of us? Would you have the mischiefs of this tower unbound, and let loose to shake the earth to its foundations?’
The venerable archbishop Urbino likewise implored him not to disturb a mystery which had been held sacred from generation to generation, within the memory of man; and which even Cæsar himself, when sovereign of Spain, had not ventured to invade. The youthful cavaliers, however, were eager to pursue the adventure, and encouraged him in his rash curiosity.
‘Come what come may,’ exclaimed Don Roderick, ‘I am resolved to penetrate the mystery of this tower.’ So saying, he again commanded the guardians to unlock the portal. The ancient men obeyed with fear and trembling, but their hands shook with age, and when they applied the keys, the locks were so rusted by time, or of such strange workmanship, that they resisted their feeble efforts; whereupon the young cavaliers pressed forward and lent their aid. Still the locks were so numerous and difficult, that with all their eagerness and strength a great part of the day was exhausted before the whole of them could be mastered.
When the last bolt had yielded to the key, the guardians and the reverend archbishop again entreated the king to pause and reflect. ‘Whatever is within this tower,’ said they, ‘is as yet harmless, and lies bound under a mighty spell: venture not then to open a door which may let forth a flood of evil upon the land.’ But the anger of the king was roused, and he ordered that the portal should be instantly thrown open. In vain, however, did one after another exert his strength; and equally in vain did the cavaliers unite their forces, and apply their shoulders to the gate: though there was neither bar nor bolt remaining, it was perfectly immoveable.
The patience of the king was now exhausted, and he advanced to apply his hand; scarcely, however, did he touch the iron gate, when it swung slowly open, uttering, as it were, a dismal groan, as it turned reluctantly upon its hinges. A cold, damp wind issued forth, accompanied by a tempestuous sound. The hearts of the ancient guardians quaked within them, and their knees smote together; but several of the youthful cavaliers rushed in, eager to gratify their curiosity, or to signalise themselves in this redoubtable enterprise. They had scarcely advanced a few paces, however, when they recoiled, overcome by the baleful air, or by some fearful vision. Upon this, the king ordered that fires should be kindled to dispel the darkness, and to correct the noxious and long imprisoned air: he then led the way into the interior; but, though stout of heart, he advanced with awe and hesitation.
After proceeding a short distance, he entered a hall, or antechamber, on the opposite side of which was a door; and before it, on a pedestal, stood a gigantic figure, of the color of bronze, and of a terrible aspect. It held a huge mace, which it whirled incessantly, giving such cruel and resounding blows upon the earth as to prevent all further entrance.
The king paused at sight of this appalling figure; for whether it were a living being, or a statue of magic artifice, he could not tell. On its breast was a scroll, whereon was inscribed in large letters, ‘I do my duty.’ After a little while Roderick plucked up heart, and addressed it with great solemnity: ‘Whatever thou be,’ said he, ‘know that I come not to violate this sanctuary, but to inquire into the mystery it contains; I conjure thee, therefore, to let me pass in safety.’
Upon this the figure paused with uplifted mace, and the king and his train passed unmolested through the door.
They now entered a vast chamber, of a rare and sumptuous architecture, difficult to be described. The walls were incrusted with the most precious gems, so joined together as to form one smooth and perfect surface. The lofty dome appeared to be self-supported, and was studded with gems, lustrous as the stars of the firmament. There was neither wood, nor any other common or base material to be seen throughout the edifice. There were no windows or rather openings to admit the day, yet a radiant light was spread throughout the place, which seemed to shine from the walls, and to render every object distinctly visible.
In the centre of this hall stood a table of alabaster, of the rarest workmanship, on which was inscribed in Greek characters, that Hercules Alcides, the Theban Greek, had founded this tower in the year of the world three thousand and six. Upon the table stood a golden casket, richly set round with precious stones, and closed with a lock of mother-of-pearl; and on the lid were inscribed the following words:
‘In this coffer is contained the mystery of the tower. The hand of none but a king can open it; but let him beware! for marvellous events will be revealed to him, which are to take place before his death.’
King Roderick boldly seized upon the casket. The venerable archbishop laid his hand upon his arm, and made a last remonstrance. ‘Forbear, my son!’ said he; ‘desist while there is yet time. Look not into the mysterious decrees of Providence. God has hidden them in mercy from our sight, and it is impious to rend the veil by which they are concealed.’
‘What have I to dread from a knowledge of the future?’ replied Roderick, with an air of haughty presumption. ‘If good be destined me, I shall enjoy it by anticipation: if evil, I shall arm myself to meet it.’ So saying, he rashly broke the lock.
Within the coffer he found nothing but a linen cloth, folded between two tablets of copper. On unfolding it, he beheld painted on it figures of men on horseback, of fierce demeanor, clad in turbans and robes of various colors, after the fashion of the Arabs, with scimetars hanging from their necks, and cross-bows at their saddle backs, and they carried banners and pennons with divers devices. Above them was inscribed in Greek characters, ‘Rash monarch! behold the men who are to hurl thee from thy throne, and subdue thy kingdom!’
At sight of these things the king was troubled in spirit, and dismay fell upon his attendants. While they were yet regarding the paintings, it seemed as if the figures began to move, and a faint sound of warlike tumult arose from the cloth, with the clash of cymbal and bray of trumpet, the neigh of steed and shout of army; but all was heard indistinctly, as if afar off, or in a reverie or dream. The more they gazed, the plainer became the motion, and the louder the noise; and the linen cloth rolled forth, and amplified and spread out, as it were, a mighty banner, and filled the hall, and mingled with the air, until its texture was no longer visible, or appeared as a transparent cloud: and the shadowy figures become all in motion, and the din and uproar became fiercer and fiercer; and whether the whole were an animated picture, or a vision, or an array of embodied spirits, conjured up by supernatural power, no one present could tell. They beheld before them a great field of battle, where Christians and Moslems were engaged in deadly conflict. They heard the rush and tramp of steeds, the blast of trump and clarion, the clash of cymbal, and the stormy din of a thousand drums. There was the clash of swords, and maces, and battle-axes, with the whistling of arrows, and the hurling of darts and lances. The Christians quailed before the foe; the infidels pressed upon them and put them to utter rout; the standard of the cross was cast down, the banner of Spain was trodden under foot, the air resounded with shouts of triumph, with yells of fury, and with the groans of dying men. Amidst the flying squadrons, King Roderick beheld a crowned warrior, whose back was turned toward him, but whose armor and device were his own, and who was mounted on a white steed that resembled his own war horse Orelia. In the confusion of the flight, the warrior was dismounted, and was no longer to be seen, and Orelia galloped wildly through the field of battle without a rider.
Roderick stayed to see no more, but rushed from the fatal hall, followed by his terrified attendants. They fled through the outer chamber, where the gigantic figure with the whirling mace had disappeared from his pedestal; and on issuing into the open air, they found the two ancient guardians of the tower lying dead at the portal, as though they had been crushed by some mighty blow. All nature, which had been clear and serene, was now in wild uproar. The heavens were darkened by heavy clouds; loud bursts of thunder rent the air, and the earth was deluged with rain and rattling hail.
The king ordered that the iron portal should be closed; but the door was immoveable, and the cavaliers were dismayed by the tremendous turmoil, and the mingled shouts and groans that continued to prevail within. The king and his train hastened back to Toledo, pursued and pelted by the tempest. The mountains shook and echoed with the thunder, trees were uprooted and blown down, and the Tagus raged and roared and flowed above its banks. It seemed to the affrighted courtiers as if the phantom legions of the tower had issued forth and mingled with the storm; for amidst the claps of thunder and the howling of the wind, they fancied they heard the sound of the drums and trumpets, the shouts of armies and the rush of steeds. Thus beaten by tempest, and overwhelmed with horror, the king and his courtiers arrived at Toledo, clattering across the bridge of the Tagus, and entering the gate in headlong confusion, as though they had been pursued by an enemy.
In the morning the heavens were again serene, and all nature was restored to tranquillity. The king, therefore, issued forth with his cavaliers and took the road to the tower, followed by a great multitude, for he was anxious once more to close the iron door, and shut up those evils that threatened to overwhelm the land. But lo! on coming in sight of the tower, a new wonder met their eyes. An eagle appeared high in the air, seeming to descend from heaven. He bore in his beak a burning brand, and lighting on the summit of the tower, fanned the fire with his wings. In a little while the edifice burst forth into a blaze as though it had been built of rosin, and the flames mounted into the air with a brilliancy more dazzling than the sun; nor did they cease until every stone was consumed and the whole was reduced to a heap of ashes. Then there came a vast flight of birds, small of size and sable of hue, darkening the sky like a cloud; and they descended and wheeled in circles round the ashes, causing so great a wind with their wings that the whole was borne up into the air and scattered throughout all Spain, and wherever a particle of those ashes fell it was as a stain of blood. It is furthermore recorded by ancient men and writers of former days, that all those on whom this dust fell were afterwards slain in battle, when the country was conquered by the Arabs, and that the destruction of this necromantic tower was a sign and token of the approaching perdition of Spain.
‘Let all those,’ concludes the cautious friar, ‘who question the verity of this most marvellous occurrence, consult those admirable sources of our history, the chronicle of the Moor Rasis, and the work entitled ‘The Fall of Spain,’ written by the Moor, Abulcasim Tarif Abentarique. Let them consult, moreover, the venerable historian Bleda, and the cloud of other Catholic Spanish writers, who have treated of this event, and they will find I have related nothing that has not been printed and published under the inspection and sanction of our holy mother church. God alone knoweth the truth of these things; I speak nothing but what has been handed down to me from times of old.’