VIII.
On my occasional visit to Boston, I usually put up at the Eastern Stage House, perhaps because it was there that the stage-coach by which I arrived at the city discharged its passengers. It was an old fashioned establishment, which but for the absence of galleries, might remind one of the famous Tabard Inn, from which Chaucer’s pilgrims set out. For its capacious yard, in which the passengers alighted, and where they remounted for their homeward journey, was approached through a narrow cross street, and in its ample stables the stage-horses took their rest and refreshment. The front entrance to the tavern was under an archway on Ann street, loyally named for the old queen; for which title was not long ago senselessly substituted the unsuggestive appellation of North street. It has long since given place to more modern edifices. It was a comfortable place of temporary residence, and in illustration of former manners I remember one practice which I have never seen elsewhere. At the plate of each guest, at dinner, was placed a small decanter of brandy, holding I suppose half-a-pint of that liquor, and for which no extra charge appeared in the bill, which account itself was 229 moderate enough compared with the inordinate hotel reckonings of the present day.
IX.
In small matters, as well as in great, history repeats itself. Thus, the anachronic emotion of Miss —— (on page [17]) finds its parallel in “Facetiæ Poggii,” written at Florence, in the year 1450, of which the following story is one:—
“Cyriac of Ancona, a wordy man and much given to talk, was once deploring in our presence the fall and ruin of the Roman empire, and seemed to be vehemently grieved at it. Then Anthony Lusco, a most learned man, who also stood by, said, jeering at the silly grief of the fellow, ‘He is very like a man of Milan, who, hearing on a feast day one of the race of minstrels, who are wont to sing the deeds of departed heroes to the people, reciting the death of Roland, who was slain about seven hundred years before in battle, fell at once a-weeping bitterly, and when he got home to his wife, and she saw him sad and sighing, and asked what was the matter, “Alas! alas! wife,” he said, “we are as good as dead and 230 gone.” “Why, man,” she answered, “what dreadful thing has befallen you? Take comfort and come to supper.” But he, when he went on sobbing and sighing, and would take no food, and his wife pressed him to tell the cause of his woe, at last said, “Don’t you know the bad news I have heard to-day?” “What?” asked the wife. “Roland is dead, who alone was the safeguard of Christendom.” On which his wife tried to soothe the silly grief of her husband, and yet, with all her tenderness, could scarce get him to sit down to meat.’”[13]
The effect of the ballad, however, upon the worthy man of Milan reminds one of the historical incident, recording the effect of song, celebrated anew in one of the stanzas of Childe Harold:—
| “When Athens’ armies fell at Syracuse, And fettered thousands felt the yoke of war, Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, Her voice their only ransom from afar; See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car Of the o’ermastered victor stops: the reins Fall from his hands—his idle scimitar Starts from its belt—he rends his captives’ chains, And bids them thank the bard for freedom and his strains.” |