Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine - Volume 57, No. 352, February 1845
Welcome and Departure
To horse! — away o'er hill and steep!
Into the saddle blithe I sprung;
The eve was cradling earth to sleep,
And night upon the mountains hung.
With robes of mist around him set,
The oak like some huge giant stood,
While, with its hundred eyes of jet,
Peer'd darkness from the tangled wood.
Amidst a bank of clouds, the moon
A sad and troubled glimmer shed;
The wind its chilly wings unclosed,
And whistled wildly round my head.
Night framed a thousand phantoms dire,
Yet did I never droop nor start;
Within my veins what living fire!
What quenchless glow within my heart!
We met; and from thy glance a tide
Of stifling joy flow'd into me:
My heart was wholly by thy side,
My every breath was breathed for thee.
A blush was there, as if thy cheek
The gentlest hues of spring had caught,
And smiles so kind for me! — Great powers!
I hoped, yet I deserved them not!
But morning came to end my bliss;
A long, a sad farewell we took.
What joy — what rapture in thy kiss,
What depth of anguish in thy look!
I left thee, dear! but after me
Thine eyes through tears look'd from above;
Yet to be loved — what ecstacy!
What ecstacy, ye gods, to love!
Here are three small cabinet pictures of exquisite finish. We have laboured hard to do justice to them, for the smallest gems are the most difficult to copy; yet after all we have some doubts of our success.
Evening
Peace breathes along the shade
Of every hill,
The tree-tops of the glade
Are hush'd and still;
All woodland murmurs cease,
The birds to rest within the brake are gone.
Be patient, weary heart — anon,
Thou, too, shalt be at peace!
A Calm at Sea
Lies a calm along the deep,
Like a mirror sleeps the ocean,
And the anxious steersman sees
Round him neither stir nor motion.
Not a breath of wind is stirring,
Dread the hush as of the grave —
In the weary waste of waters
Not the lifting of a wave.
The Breeze
The mists they are scatter'd,
The blue sky looks brightly,
And Eolus looses
The wearisome chain!
The winds, how they whistle!
The steersman is busy —
Hillio-ho, hillio-ho!
We dash through the billows —
They flash far behind us —
Land, land, boys, again!
In one of Goethe's little operas, which are far less studied than they deserve, although replete with grace, melody, and humour, we stumbled upon a ballad which we at once recognised as an old acquaintance. Some of our readers may happen to recollect the very witty and popular ditty called "Captain Wedderburn's Courtship," a peculiar favourite amongst the lower orders in Scotland, but not, so far as we knew, transplanted from its native soil. Our surprise, therefore, was great when we discovered Captain Wedderburn dressed out in the garb of a Junker of the middle ages, and "bonny Girzie Sinclair," the Laird of Roslin's daughter, masquerading as a German Fraülein. The coincidence, if it be not plagiary, is so curious, that we have translated the ballad with a much freer hand than usual, confessing at the same time that the advantage, in point of humour and gallantry, is clearly on the side of the old Mid-Lothian ditty.
The Cavalier's Choice
It was a gallant cavalier
Of honour and renown,
And all to seek a ladye-love
He rode from town to town.
Till at a widow-woman's door
He drew the rein so free;
For at her side the knight espied
Her comely daughters three.
Well might he gaze upon them,
For they were fair and tall;
Ye never have seen fairer
In bower nor yet in hall.
Small marvel if the gallant's heart
Beat quicker in his breast:
'Twas hard to choose, and hard to lose —
How might he wale the best?
"Now, maidens, pretty maidens mine,
Who'll rede me riddles three?
And she who answers best of all
Shall be my own ladye!"
I ween they blush'd as maidens do
When such rare words they hear —
"Now speak thy riddles, if thou wilt,
Thou gay young Cavalier!"
"What's longer than the longest path?
First tell ye that to me;
And tell me what is deeper
Than is the deepest sea?
And tell me what is louder
Than is the loudest horn?
And tell me what is sharper
Than is the sharpest thorn?
"And tell me what is greener
Than greenest grass on hill?
And tell me what is crueller
Than a wicked woman's will?"
The eldest and the second maid,
They sat and thought awhile;
But the youngest she look'd upward,
And spoke with merry smile.
"O, love is surely longer far
Than the longest paths that be;
And hell, they say, is deeper
Than is the deepest sea;
And thunder it is louder
Than is the loudest horn;
And hunger it is sharper
Than is the sharpest thorn;
I know a deadly poison
More green than grass on hill;
And the foul fiend he is crueller
Than any woman's will!"
Scarce had the maiden spoken
When the youth was by her side,
And, all for what she answer'd him,
Has claim'd her as his bride.
The eldest and the second maid,
They ponder'd and were dumb;
And there, perchance, are waiting yet
Till another wooer come.
Then, maidens, take this warning word,
Be neither slow nor shy,
And always, when a lover speaks,
Look kindly and reply.
The following beautiful verses are from Wilhelm Meister. We shall venture to call them
Retribution
He that with tears did never eat his bread,
He that hath never lain through night's long hours,
Weeping in bitter anguish on his bed —
He knows ye not, ye dread celestial powers.
Ye lead us onwards into life. Ye leave
The wretch to fall, then yield him up, in woe,
Remorse, and pain, unceasingly to grieve;
For every sin is punished here below.
We shall close this number with a series of poems, in imitation, or rather after the manner of the antique, all of which possess singular beauty. No man understood or appreciated the exquisite delicacy of the Greek Anthology better than our author; and although we may, in several of the versions, have fallen short of the originals, we trust that enough still remains to convince the reader that we have not exaggerated their merit.
POEMS AFTER THE MANNER OF THE ANTIQUE
The Husbandman
Lightly doth the furrow fold the golden grain within its breast,
Deeper shroud, old man, shall cover in thy limbs when laid at rest.
Blithely plough and sow as blithely! Here are springs of mortal cheer,
And when e'en the grave is closing, Hope is ever standing near.
Anacreon's Grave
Where the rose is fresh and blooming — where the vine and myrtle spring —
Where the turtle-dove is cooing — where the gay cicalas sing —
Whose may be the grave surrounded with such store of comely grace,
Like a God-created garden? 'Tis Anacreon's resting-place.
Spring and summer and the autumn pour'd their gifts around the bard,
And, ere winter came to chill him, slept he safe beneath the sward.
The Brothers
Slumber, Sleep — they were two brothers, servants to the Gods above;
Kind Prometheus lured them downwards, ever fill'd with earthly love;
But what Gods could bear so lightly, press'd too hard on men beneath;
Slumber did his brother's duty — Sleep was deepen'd into Death.
Love's Hour-glass
Eros! wherefore do I see thee, with the glass in either hand?
Fickle God! with double measure wouldst thou count the shifting sand?
"This one flows for parted lovers — slowly drops each tiny bead —
That is for the days of dalliance, and it melts with golden speed."
Warning
Do not touch him — do not wake him! Fast asleep is Amor lying;
Go — fulfil thy work appointed — do thy labour of the day.
Thus the wise and careful mother uses every moment flying,
Whilst her child is in the cradle — Slumbers pass too soon away.
Solitude
Grant, O ye healing Nymphs, that have your haunts
By rock and stream and lonely forest glade,
The boon which, in their bosoms' silent depths,
Your votaries crave! Unto the sad of heart
Give comfort — knowledge unto him that doubts —
Possession to the lover, and its joy.
For unto you the Gods have given, what they
Denied to man — to aid and to console
All those soe'er who put their trust in you.
Perfect Bliss
All the divine perfections, which, while ere
Nature in thrift doled out 'mongst many a fair,
She shower'd with open hand, thou peerless one, on thee!
And she that was so wond'rously endow'd,
To whom a throng of noble knees were bow'd,
Gave all — Love's perfect gift — her glorious self, to me!
The Chosen Rock
Here, in the hush and stillness of mid-noon,
The lover lay and thought upon his love;
With blithesome voice he spoke to me: "Be thou
My witness, stone! — Yet, therefore, vaunt thee not,
For thou hast many partners of my joy —
To every rock that crowns this grassy dell,
And looks on me and my felicity;
To every forest-stem that I embrace
In my entrancement as I roam along,
Stand thou for a memorial of my bliss!
All mingle with my rapture, and to all
I lift a consecrating cry of joy.
Yet do I lend a voice to thee alone,
As culls the Muse some favourite from the crowd,
And, with a kiss, inspires for evermore."
The Death Trance
Weep, maiden, here by Cupid's grave! He fell,
Some nothing kill'd him — what I cannot tell.
But is he really dead? — I swear not that, in sooth;
A trifle — nothing — oft revives the youth.
Philomela
Surely, surely, Amor nursed thee, songstress of the plaintive note,
And, in fond and childish fancy, fed thee from his pointed dart.
So, sweet Philomel, the poison sunk into thy guileless throat,
Till, with all love's weight of passion, strike its notes to every heart.
Sacred Ground
A place to mark the Graces, when they come
Down from Olympus, still and secretly,
To join the Oreads in their festival,
Beneath the light of the benignant moon.
There lies the poet, watching them unseen,
The whilst they chant the sweetest songs of heaven,
Or, floating o'er the sward without a sound,
Lead on the mystic wonder of the dance.
All that is great in heaven, or fair on earth,
Unveils its glories to the dreamer's eye,
And all he tells the Muses. They again,
Knowing that Gods are jealous of their own,
Teach him, through all the passion of his verse,
To utter these high secrets reverently.
The Park
How beautiful! A garden fair as heaven,
Flowers of all hues, and smiling in the sun,
Where all was waste and wilderness before.
Well do ye imitate, ye gods of earth,
The great Creator. Rock, and lake, and glade,
Birds, fishes, and untamed beasts are here.
Your work were all an Eden, but for this —
Here is no man unconscious of a pang,
No perfect Sabbath of unbroken rest.
The Teachers
What time Diogenes, unmoved and still,
Lay in his tub, and bask'd him in the sun —
What time Calanus clomb, with lightsome step
And smiling cheek, up to his fiery tomb —
What rare examples there for Philip's son
To curb his overmastering lust of sway,
But that the Lord of the majestic world
Was all too great for lessons even like these!
Marriage Unequal
Alas, that even in a heavenly marriage,
The fairest lots should ne'er be reconciled!
Psyche wax'd old, and prudent in her carriage,
Whilst Cupid evermore remains the child.
Holy Family
O child of beauty rare —
O mother chaste and fair —
How happy seem they both, so far beyond compare!
She, in her infant blest,
And he in conscious rest,
Nestling within the soft warm cradle of her breast!
What joy that sight might bear
To him who sees them there,
If, with a pure and guilt-untroubled eye,
He looked upon the twain, like Joseph standing by.
Exculpation
Wilt thou dare to blame the woman for her seeming sudden changes,
Swaying east and swaying westward, as the breezes shake the tree?
Fool! thy selfish thought misguides thee — find the man that never ranges;
Woman wavers but to seek him — Is not then the fault in thee?
The Muse's Mirror
To deck herself, the Muse, at early morn,
Wander'd a-down a wimpling brook, to find
Some glassy pool more quiet than the rest.
On sped the stream, and ever as it ran
It swept away her image, which did change
With every bend and dimple of the wave.
In wrath the Goddess turn'd her from the spot,
Yet after her the brook, with taunting tongue,
Did call — "'Tis plain thou wilt not see the truth
All purely though my mirror shows it thee!"
But she, meanwhile, stood with indifferent ear,
By a far corner of the crystal lake,
Delightedly surveying her fair form,
And settling flowerets in her golden hair.
Phœbus and Hermes
The deep-brow'd lord of Delos once, and Maia's nimble-witted son,
Contended eagerly by whom the prize of glory should be won;
Hermes long'd to grasp the lyre, — the lyre Apollo hoped to gain,
And both their hearts were full of hope, and yet the hopes of both were vain.
For Ares, to decide the strife, between them rudely dash'd in ire,
And waving high his falchion keen, he cleft in twain the golden lyre.
Loud Hermes laugh'd maliciously, but at the direful deed did fall
The deepest grief upon the heart of Phœbus and the Muses all.
A New Love
Love, not the simple youth that whilome wound
Himself about young Psyche's heart, look'd round
Olympus with a cold and roving eye,
That had accustom'd been to victory.
It rested on a Goddess, noblest far
Of all that noble throng — a glorious star —
Venus Urania. And from that hour
He loved her. Ah! to his resistless power
Even she, the holy one, did yield at last,
And in his daring arms he held her fast.
A new and beauteous Love from that embrace
Had birth; that to the mother owed his grace
And purity of soul; whilst from his sire
He borrow'd all his passion, all his fire.
Him ever where the gracious Muses be
Thou'lt surely find. Such sweet society
Is his delight, and his sharp-pointed dart
Doth rouse within men's breasts the love of Art.
The Wreaths
Our German Klopstock, if he had his will,
Would bar us from the skirts of Pindus old.
No more the classic laurel should be prized,
But the rough leaflets of our native oak
Alone should glisten in the poet's hair;
Yet did himself, with spirit unreclaim'd
From first allegiance to those early Gods,
Lead up to Golgotha's most awful height
With more than epic pomp the new Crusade.
But let him range the bright angelic host
On either hill — no matter. By his grave
All gentle hearts should bow them down and weep.
For where a hero and a saint have died,
Or where a poet sang prophetical,
Dying as greatly as they greatly lived,
To give memorial to all after times,
Of lofty worth and courage undismay'd;
There, in mute reverence, all devoutly kneel,
In homage of the thorn and laurel wreath,
That were at once their glory and their pang!
The Swiss Alp
Yesterday thy head was brown, as are the flowing locks of love,
In the bright blue sky I watch'd thee towering, giant-like, above.
Now thy summit, white and hoary, glitters all with silver snow,
Which the stormy night hath shaken from its robes upon thy brow;
And I know that youth and age are bound with such mysterious meaning,
As the days are link'd together, one short dream but intervening.
SPAIN AS IT IS
There exists in this country a numerous class of persons who, if they were given their choice of an overland journey to India and back, or a ramble through Spain, occupying the same space of time, would prefer the former, as likely to be less inconvenient, and decidedly far less perilous. The wars and rumours of wars, revolutions, rebellions, skirmishes, and pronunciamentos, that newspapers have recorded during the last ten or twelve years, with an occasional particularly bloody and barbarous execution by way of interlude, have certainly not been calculated to reassure timid travellers; nor can we well wonder that, at the mere mention of an excursion beyond the Pyrenees, tourists are seized with a vertigo; and that visions, not only of rancid gaspachos and vermin-haunted couches, but of chocolate-complexioned ruffians with sugar-loaf hats, button-bedecked jackets, fierce mustaches, and lengthy escopetas, peering out of the gloomy recesses of a cork wood, or from among the silvery foliage of an olive grove, pass before the eyes of their imagination. Dangers often appear greater at a distance than upon close examination; many a phantom of ghastly aspect proves upon inspection to be but a turnip-faced goblin after all: and we suspect that if some of the timorous would adventure themselves upon Spanish soil, they might find their precious persons far safer than they had anticipated; and discover that they were in the hands neither of Caffres nor cannibals, but amongst a courteous and generous people, who, if occasionally a little too disposed to slit each other's weasands, on the other hand are very rarely forgetful of the laws of hospitality, or of the kindness and protection to which travellers in a foreign land have a fair claim. We do not mean to recommend Spain as a desirable travelling ground for those adventurous English dames, whom we have occasionally met journeying by coachfuls in France, Germany, and other peaceable lands, unsquired and unescorted save by their waiting-maids: to them the encounter of rateros, salteadores, or other varieties of Spanish banditti, might be in various respects disagreeable; but for men, who, without leaving Europe, may wish to visit other scenes than those in which every Cockney tourist has wandered, we know of few expeditions more interesting than one into the interior of Spain. Fine scenery, interesting monuments, associations historic, classic, and poetical, and — which to our thinking is still preferable — a people who, in spite of Gallo and Anglo manias, still possess great originality of character and customs, are there to be met with. We cannot do better than refer those persons who would like additional evidence on the subject, to the volumes named at foot2, in which they will see how a man possessed of prudence, good sense, and good temper, may visit some of the wildest and least frequented parts of the Peninsula, not only without injury or annoyance, but with considerable pleasure and profit.
Captain Widdrington's journey to Spain, in the Spring of 1843, had, as he tells us, a twofold object. He was desirous of observing the effects of the numerous changes that have taken place in that country since the death of Ferdinand; and he, at the same time, thought that his assistance and previous knowledge of the country and people, would be useful to a scientific friend, Dr Daubeny, who had been commissioned by the Agricultural Society to examine the formation of phosphorite in Estremadura. This mineral, it was imagined, might be advantageously substituted for bones as manure.
The travellers had sketched out their route beforehand, and seem to have adhered very closely to the plan they had laid down. Proceeding from Bayonne to Madrid, after a short stay in that capital they struck into Estremadura; visited the vein of phosphorite, and explored several interesting districts, into which few travellers penetrate; thence to the quicksilver mines at Almaden, and to various iron mines and founderies, through Seville, Ronda, Malaga, and Granada, and back to Madrid. Here Captain Widdrington separates from his companion, and continues his peregrinations alone, through the kingdom of Leon, the Asturias, and Galicia. In his narrative of this somewhat extensive ramble, the gallant captain displays a very respectable degree of knowledge on a considerable variety of subjects. Agriculture, geology, natural history, the resources of Spain, and the best mode of applying them, political intrigues and changes, the strange and apparently inexplicable ups and downs of public men, are all touched upon in turn: and if the earlier portion of his work is worthy of a member of the learned societies to which he belongs, the latter part is no less creditable to his habits of observation, and to the soundness of his judgment.
One of the first things that appear to have struck Captain Widdrington on arriving at Madrid, was the great activity in the building department — an activity arising chiefly from the sequestration of the church property. Convents were being pulled down, or at least altered so as to render them suitable to other purposes. The ground on which one had stood had been converted into a public walk — a chapel had been replaced by a covered market. The large convent of St Thomas was the headquarters of the national guard; while that of the Trinity had been appropriated to the reception of works of art, the spoils of the other convents. One had been sold to a private speculator, who let it out in chambers; another was the refuge of military invalids; a third, the convent of St Catalina — which was set fire to while the Duke of Angouleme was attending, in the year 1823, a mass celebrated in honour of his successful campaign — had been demolished, and a building for the senate and deputies was erecting on its site. The names of many of the streets had been altered to those of various heroes of Spanish liberty; such as Porlier, Lacy, the Empecinado, and others. The street of the Alcala had been rebaptized after the Duque de la Victoria; but no doubt, as the Captain observes, by this time on a changé tout cela.
Of the Countess of Mina, who was then aya, or governess, to the queen, some interesting details are given by Captain Widdrington, who had known her and her husband when they were living in exile at Plymouth subsequently to the affairs of 1823. Madame Mina appears to be a person of very superior powers of mind, far better qualified to superintend the female department of a Spanish queen's education, than the bigoted and afrancesada dowager-marchioness who preceded her in the office, and in the selection of whom Maria Christina, with her usual selfishness, had probably thought more of the political principles and opinions in which she wished Isabella to be brought up, than of her daughter's future welfare and happiness. The universal complaint of the Spanish or national party in the time of Christina was, that the queen's education was neglected, or, it should rather be said, misconducted. The queen-dowager's French tendencies were more than suspected. Of course, when the popular party became in the ascendant, and Madame Mina received the appointment, alike unsolicited and unexpected, of governess to the queen, the afrancesados set up a yell of horror and consternation. Her husband's humble birth, her character, even her piety, and the mourning habit she had worn ever since her husband's death, were made matters of reproach to her. But though Mina had been born a tiller of the earth, he had died a grandee of Spain, ennobled yet more by his patriotism and great qualities than he could be by the tinsel of a title; the character of the countess was that of a high-minded and virtuous woman; and as to the accusation of being a santarona, or affectedly pious, it was no less unjust than malicious. Here is Captain Widdrington's portrait of her: —
"Her stature is rather below the middle size, and her person stout, with an abundance of the blackest hair simply dressed; eyes very large, dark and fuller than usual, even in this classic land of them, and beaming with intelligence. Her forehead, and the lower part of her face, are remarkable for their development, and an admirable study for the phrenologists, who would pronounce them models, as indicating firmness of character. Her constant costume is the deepest black, which completely covers her person; and when she accepted her appointment, it was stipulated that she should never be required to lay it aside. The only ornament she wore was a simple but rather massive gold chain and cross, which had a singularly good effect in relieving the mass of deep black; and her manner, noble and serious, bordering on the severe at first sight, made her the beau-idéal of a lady abbess."
During the celebrated attack upon the palace at Madrid, on the 7th of October 1841, the countess gave proof of energy, courage, and presence of mind, worthy of Mina's widow, and of one who supplied the place of mother to the queen and infanta of Spain. A most interesting account of the transactions of that eventful night is to be found in the third chapter of Captain Widdrington's book; and as he is indebted for the details to Madame Mina herself, it is no doubt the most accurate that has appeared before the public. The alabarderos, or halberdiers, who formed the body-guard of the queen, and whose post was in the avenues leading to the royal apartments, consisted of two hundred sergeants, picked from the whole army, and placed under the command of a colonel and lieutenant-colonel, who had the rank of lieutenant and sergeant in this sacred band. "By the regulations, one-third of this little corps ought always to have been on duty; but, 'Cosas de Espana,' when the disturbance broke out, there were only the two officers and seventeen privates present! The rest were in the town, at supper, or various other engagements." And on this handful of men devolved the duty of defending the queen against the attack of as many companies as they numbered muskets. The first alarm was given by vivas and other noises in the quadrangle of the palace. Colonel Dulce, the commander of the halberdiers, descended the stairs to enquire the cause of the uproar, and was met on the landing-place by a detachment of the Princesa regiment marching up. He ordered them to halt; they opened fire in reply. Colonel Dulce retreated to the guard-room, and the skirmish began. A double flight of steps leads up from one of the principal entrances of the palace to this guard-room, of which the door is of considerable size, and covered by a mampara or moveable stuffed screen, similar to those used in churches abroad. The alabarderos left the mampara in its place, opening the door no more than was absolutely necessary to fire through. The assailants took up their station at the bottom of the stairs, and blazed away, vigorously replied to from the sala de armas. The sides of the doorway and the mampara were riddled, but the assailants could only fire at a guess, their opponents being completely concealed behind the screen; and on the other hand, a stone balustrade at the top of the staircase between the two flights and the angle of the floor, protected the insurgents. The latter, no doubt, thought the whole guard was at its post, so steady and incessant was the fire the alabarderos kept up. To approach the guard-room door was certain death. General Concha, the same who the other night danced the third quadrille with Isabel at a court ball, taking the pas of the Spanish grandees there assembled, was present at this treasonable attack, at the head of the Princesa regiment, in plain clothes, but with a drawn sword. About midnight (the firing had begun at half-past seven — what were the authorities about all that time?) Diego Leon, the scapegoat of the affair, made his appearance in his usual dashing attire, a showy hussar uniform, braided, belted, and befrogged, and took command of the proceedings. "According to his own account, he went to the foot of the great staircase, and called to the alabarderos to discontinue firing, lest they should alarm the queen!" but the noise of the musketry was such, that he could not make himself heard, even with the aid of a trumpet! Things, however, had not gone as the conspirators wished; the gallant defence of the halbardiers, which they had not reckoned upon, had caused them to lose much time, and after a short consultation Concha and Leon took to flight. Concha hid himself under the dry arch of a bridge, and afterwards took refuge at the Danish embassy, where he passed a few days, and was then conveyed from another embassy (French, of course) to headquarters at Paris. His caution in wearing plain clothes saved him; while poor Leon, who thought, as he afterwards said, that uniform was the proper costume for the occasion, was taken at Colmenar, a few leagues from Madrid. Captain Widdrington says, with much truth, that nothing could be more characteristic of the two men than their different mode of acting in this trifling particular.