Chapter X: A Breeze From the West (3)

Twice afterward she felt that horrible craving, and then it ceased. Her father saw that she ate little, but never guessed how little it really was; he saw that she grew pinched and pale, but fancied it was grief alone that caused it. He did not know, and no one knew, that, with what Errickdale counted “plenty” at her command, Bridget was living like the poorest. The thirst for self-sacrifice, the thirst of a supernatural love, consumed her. “HE did it,” she used to say to herself. “He was poor for us, and he died for us.” From her room one by one her possessions departed; she carried them to those who, as she thought, needed them more, or she disposed of them for their use. Soon the attic room, which no one but herself ever entered, held literally nothing but the crucifix on the wall. Laying her weary limbs on the hard floor at night, she thought of the hard cross whereon her Lord had died. “Mine is an easier bed than his,” she said, and smiled in the darkness. “May he make me worthier to share his blessed pains!”

But the nights were few that she spent on even so poor a couch as this. There was sickness in Errickdale as well as want, and Bridget was nurse, and doctor, and servant, and watcher beside the dead. And in her princess life at Malton Eleanora Rossetti counted the same long hours blithely, eager for her festival to come.

* * * * *

The 20th of January! Stars overhead, and snow underfoot, and a biting frost to make Errickdale as merry as its heiress wished. Winter without, and want and woe perhaps; but who needed to think of that? In the old mansion summer itself was reigning. Orange and lemon trees mingled their golden fruits and spicy bloom in the corridors and halls and up and down the winding stairs. Lamps burned some faintly-scented oil, that filled the warm air with a subtle, delicious odor, and lamps and tall wax tapers flooded the room with golden but undazzling light. Fountains played among beds of rare ferns and exotics; and magnificent blossoms lay in reckless profusion upon the floor, to be trodden upon, and yield their perfume, and die unheeded. And in doublet and hose and cap and plume, and all the gay festival gear of a king’s court of mediæval times, hosts of servants waited upon Eleanora’s word.

The winter twilight fell soon over Errickdale. In its gathering shadows John Rossetti was galloping home from Teal on his swiftest horse, when the creature shied suddenly, then stopped, trembling all over. A woman stood in the path, ghostly and strange to see through the gloom. Fearless John Rossetti started at the unexpected sight. “What do you want of me?” he asked.

“Food,” the woman answered, in a voice that thrilled him with inexplicable awe; from some far-off land it seemed to come――a land that knew nothing of ease and joy. “Your people die of want, and cold, and pain,” it said. “In the name of God Almighty, and while you have time, hear me and help them.”

Then this fearless John Rossetti sneered. “While I have time?” he said. “I have no time to-night, I warrant you. Choose better seasons than this for your begging, Bridget O’Rourke.”

He struck the spurs into his horse, but, though it quivered all over again, it would not move an inch. The woman lifted her hands to heaven. “God, my God! I have done all I can,” she said. “I leave it now with thee.” And so she vanished.

In Errick Hall Eleanora was speaking to a servant. “Make haste,” she said. “I had almost forgotten it. Make haste and bring Bridget O’Rourke to me. I promised she should see it all.”

The servant hurried obediently to John O’Rourke’s cottage. Its owner was crouching sullenly over the fire. “Where’s my girl?” he said. “Miss Eleanora wants her to see the sights? See ’em she shall, then. It’s little she gets of brightness now, poor thing. Bridget! Bridget!”

But though he called loudly, no one answered. He climbed the stairs to the dark attic, and still no reply.

“Give me the light, boy,” he cried, with a dull foreboding at his heart, and he and the servant entered the room together.

She was not there. What was more, nothing was there――literally nothing――except the cross of Him who gave his all, his very life, for men.

“I fear, I fear,” this John said, trembling; and he took the crucifix down, and carried it with him for defence against invisible foes whom he dreaded far more than anything he could see.

“We will go look for her, O’Rourke,” the servant said. “I must find her for Miss Eleanora, if not for her own sake.”

In the kitchen supper was on the table, and the fire crackled on the hearth. Her loving father had been waiting long for her. Where was the child?

They asked the question at every tenement and every room. The people joined them in the search for her whom they all held dear. On the outskirts of the place, and where the road stretched out without another sign of habitation for five miles to Teal, was a lonely hovel.

“She’s there,” one woman said to another. “’Course she’s there. Might ’a’ known it. Jake Ireton’s wife had twins yesterday, and it’s little else they have. She’s there, caring for ’em.”

Yet they paused at the door, as if loath to open it. The whole throng seemed to feel that vague foreboding which John O’Rourke had felt; those who were able to crowd into the narrow room entered it timidly. What was it that they dreaded?

In the grand saloon of Errick mansion, decked like a regal ballroom, John Rossetti’s daughter, attired gorgeously like the French queen in the famous painting which is Malton’s pride, received her courtiers; and the band played the gay dance-music, and the light feet of the dancers glided over the floors.

In the poorest hut of Errickdale John O’Rourke’s daughter received her courtiers, too, in regal state.

It was dark and silent there before the torches were brought in. By their flaring light the people saw the poor mother on a bed of rags and straw.

“Be still as ye can,” she said softly. “Is’t thee, O’Rourke? Thy good girl’s been wi’ me this four hours. One o’ my babbies died, thank God! She laid it out there all decent.”

And then, in the dim light, they saw the outline of a tiny form beside the bed; such being the roses and adornings of Bridget’s court.

“She heard a horse go trampling by, and went to see ’t,” the woman said. “When she came back, says she: ‘’Twas master. I’ve pleaded my last plea for my people. My heart’s broke.’ Then t’other babby cried, and she took’t to still it, and she lay down wi’ it, and, ever since, they’ve both been still, and I hope she’s sleepit and forgot her woes awhile, God bless her!”

Sleeping on the hard floor, but she does not feel it. They bring the torches near her; she does not heed the glare, though the baby on her bosom starts and wakes and weeps. She does not hear it weep. In truth, this queen has forgotten her woes in a dreamless slumber, and truly God has blessed her; but with bitter wailing her courtiers kneel before her in the court of Death, the king.

There is food on the table which her own hands had placed there; there is fire on the hearth which her own hands kindled. She who lies there dead has not died of cold or hunger; she has died of a broken heart.

And the viol and flute and harp ring sweetly, and the trumpet and drum have a stately sound in Errick Hall, and youths and maidens dance and make merry. The great doors were flung open, and in long procession the guests passed into the banqueting-hall, where was room for every one to sit at the magnificent tables, and Eleanora was enthroned on a dais, queen of them all. Reproduced as in a living picture was a ball of _Le Grand Monarque_. “John Rossetti has surpassed himself,” his guests said with admiring wonder. In a pause of the music Eleanora’s silvery laugh was heard; she looked with pride at her father, and spoke aloud so that all might hear: “Yes, there never was such a father as mine. His birthday gift is beyond my highest expectations.”

“_Rossetti of Errickdale!_”

From above their heads the strange voice came. Far up in the embrasure of a window a man with a lighted torch was standing. John O’Rourke’s eyes met John Rossetti’s, and commanded them, and held them fast.

“We mean no harm,” he said. “We come peaceable, if you meet us peaceable; but if not, there’s danger and death all round ye. I warn ye fairly. Miss Eleanora bade my Bridget come to see her feast, and we’ve come to bring her. Ye’d best sit quiet, all of ye, for we’ve fire to back us.” And he held his torch dangerously near to the curtains. Errickdale hall and Errickdale master were in his power.

Coming through the hall they heard it――the steady, onward tramp of an orderly and determined crowd; the notes of a weird Irish dirge heralded their coming. Two and two the courtiers of Bridget O’Rourke marched in.

Men in rags, their lips close-shut and grim, a rude and flaring torch borne in each man’s hand; haggard women with wolfish eyes and scantly clad, leading or carrying children who are wailing loudly or moaning in a way that chills the blood to hear, while the women shrilly sing that dirge for a departed soul――would the terrible procession never cease? Blows and clamor would be easier to bear than this long-drawn horror, as two and two the people filed around the loaded tables and gayly-attired guests.

Rising in amazement at the first entrance of these new-comers, throughout their coming Eleanora stood upright, one hand pressed upon her heart, as if to quell its rapid beating. Beautiful, and queenly despite her pallid cheeks, she stood there, yet two and two the people passed slowly up the hall, and slowly passed before her dais, and made no sign of homage. It was another queen who held them in her sway.

Was it over at last?――for the procession that seemed to have no end ceased to file through the lofty doors. The men stood back against the wall, still with their lips close-shut and grim; they lowered their torches as banners are lowered to greet a funeral train. The women flung up their lean, uncovered arms, and shrieked out one more wail of bitter lamentation, then stood silent too. The very babes were still. And all eyes were fixed upon the door――all except John O’Rourke’s, that never stirred from John Rossetti’s face.

Borne in state, though that state was but a board draped with a ragged sheet――her face uncovered to those stars and to that biting frost, her feet bare to those snows for which Eleanora wished; the face marked by a suffering which was far deeper than any that mere cold or hunger causes, yet sealed by it to an uplifted look which was beyond all earthly loveliness; the hands crossed on a heart that ached no longer, over the crucifix which was this queen’s only treasure――so Bridget O’Rourke had come to Eleanora’s feast.

And so they bore her up the hall; and before the regal dais this more regal bier stood still.

Then at last Eleanora moved, and started, and stretched out her hands. “What do you want of me?” she said. “What is it that you want of me? Speak to me, Bridget O’Rourke. Speak to me.”

They were face to face again in their youth and beauty, but the contrast between them now brought no delight. They were face to face again; but let this heiress command as she might or beg as she might, never again would the rich voice speak to her with passionate pleading, or the grave eyes meet her own with a stronger prayer than words. This Queen of Death made no answer to her royal sister, except the awful answer of that silence which no power of earth can break.

“_Rossetti of Errickdale!_”

Once again from far above their heads they heard him calling――the man whose earthly all lay dead before them.

“We threatened to strike for food, and we feared ye. We suffered sore like slaves, for we feared ye. It’s ye that may fear us now, I tell ye, for to-night we strike for a life. Give us my good girl’s life again――my good girl’s life.”

He was wild with grief, and the people were wild with want and grief. Echoing up to the arches, their shout rang loud and long. “We strike for a life,” they cried. “Give us back that life, or we burn ye all together.”

Owner of princely wealth was he upon whom they called. Seven hours ago that life was in his gift――one act of pity might have saved it, one doled-out pittance kept the heart from breaking. Let him lavish his millions upon her now; he cannot make her lift a finger or draw a breath.

“John O’Rourke!”

It was not the master’s voice that answered. For the first time John O’Rourke’s eyes turned from the master and looked upon Eleanora. The queen of a night held out her hands again to her who had gone to claim the crown of endless ages.

“John O’Rourke,” she said, gently and slowly, so that each word carried weight, “what is it that Bridget wants of me? What would she ask if she could speak to me to-night? I will give her whatever she would ask. _Does she want her life back again?_”

The unexpected question, the gentle words, struck home. Suddenly O’Rourke’s defiant eyes grew dim; and through his tears he saw his good girl’s face, with the deep lines of suffering plain upon it, and the new and restful look of perfect peace. It pleaded with him as no words could plead.

“Miss Eleanora,” he cried, “I wouldn’t have her back. Not for all the world I wouldn’t call her back. She’s been through sore anguish, and I thank God it’s over. Give us food and fair wages, miss――that’s all she would ask of ye.”

He paused, and in the pause none dreamed how wild a fight the man was fighting with his wrath and hatred. But still that worn and silent form pleaded with him and would not be gainsaid. At length he spoke, huskily:

“And she would ask of us, miss, not to harm one of ye, but to let master and all go free for the love of God. Shall we do what Bridget would ask of us, my men?”

His strained voice faltered, he burst into loud Irish weeping――a lonely father’s weeping, touching to hear in its patient resignation.

“Yes! yes!” the men and women answered him; and in the hall rich and poor wept and laughed together, for the great strike of Errickdale was over, and peace was made, and want supplied. But through the tumult of sorrow and rejoicing she alone lay utterly unmoved and silent who had won life at the price of life.

The story is often told in Malton of a young girl, very beautiful and much beloved, who renounced the world on the night of her eighteenth birthday, in the very midst of a feast of unequalled splendor, and at the threshold of a future full of brilliant promise. They say she dwelt in lonely Errickdale, among the poor and ignorant, and lived like them and for them. And now and then they add that, when once some one ventured to ask her why she chose so strange a life, she answered that she had seen death at her feast in the midst of pomp and splendor, and had learned, once for all, their worth. But when she was further asked if she could not be willing, like many others present at that feast, to care for the poor and to give to them, and yet have joy and comfort too, the fire of a divine love kindled in her eyes, and she answered that she counted it comfort and joy to live for the people for whom she had seen another content and glad to die.

MODERN MELODISTS.

SCHUMANN.[199]

Robert Schumann was the true successor of Schubert. The impassioned admirer of him whom he designated as “the Prince of Melody,” Schumann, though not equalling his inimitable predecessor, succeeded nevertheless in winning for himself a lofty place among the masters of lyric music.

We say that Schumann has not equalled Schubert; but it must not thence be concluded that he is necessarily inferior to his rival each time that he treats an analogous subject. Schumann has perhaps rendered all the shades of human love with as much truth and depth as Schubert, but scarcely ever has he reached the dramatic power of “The Erl King” and “The Young Nun”; never has he found the brilliant coloring and light which shines out in “The Mariner,” “The Departure,” and “The Stars.” Thus Schumann’s _Hidalgo_ is evidently the same cavalier as he of Schubert’s “Departure.” In Schubert he quits his German Fatherland and hurries forth to seek new pleasures. Schumann takes him into Spain: “Mine be fresh flow’rets rare,” he cries, “the hearts of ladies fair, and mine the combat fierce.” Alas! _Quantum mutatus!_ The beauties of Spain bring small inspiration, and Schumann’s bolero resembles the joyous song of Schubert just as much as a military band of Madrid resembles an orchestra of Vienna. In the same way, in dramatic situations, Schumann is not always well inspired. Instead of being simple, his thought is vulgar (as in “The Hostile Brothers” and “The Two Grenadiers”), or else, in larger works, his search for the dramatic accent gives a strained expression to his style and a wearisome obscurity to his intention. This, however, is not always the case. Who does not know the admirable “Funeral March” of his Quintette, assuredly the most beautiful of his symphonic works, and excelling all the _musique de chambre_ of Schubert?

The overture to _Manfred_ has many sombre beauties; but instead of following these lugubrious accents by a plaint more melodious, more human, and less infernal――instead of letting in a little light to make his “darkness” yet more “visible”――Schumann only quits the shadows to precipitate himself into utter blackness, and horror succeeds alarm.

We find, however, the true note of dramatic inspiration in the _Lied_ “J’ai pardonné,” with its cry of love betrayed and of terrible malediction.

“J’ai vu ton âme en songe,
J’ai vu la nuit où sa douleur la plonge,
Et le remords à tes pas enchainé.
Et ton printemps aux larmes destiné.”[200]

The effect is all the more striking because absolutely new: an harmonic sequence of incredible boldness, resolving itself into fresh discords more audacious still, and, hovering above, a simple phrase of song, which falls cold and solemn, like a malediction from on high!

Towards the middle the discords resolve themselves regularly; and before resuming the original idea, before returning to the expressions of anguish uttered by the first harmonies, Schumann allows us, through eight bars, a breathing-time, on a very simple phrase which he keeps in the proximate keys to the primitive. If, with regard to the overture to _Manfred_, Schumann is to be reproached with having allowed so little light to find entrance among its shadows, he has, at any rate in this case, had the good sense to submit to the necessary laws of contrast, and thus gains much by allowing us to breathe a few moments, that we may realize more fully the depth of despair to which he is about to drag us down. He returns to the first phrase, and we hear again the chords which have already so deeply moved us; still the melodic phrase enlarges and mounts upward, while the discords take a new development. After this tempest of the soul we reach the haven, the key returns to ut on the words _J’ai pardonne_ (“I have pardoned”), and Schumann leaves us filled with admiration, not unmixed with horror.

Strange eccentricity of the human genius! In this sublime _Lied_, perhaps the most powerful page which Schumann has written, we can discover the germ of those defects which too often mar his more extended works, and begin to understand why Schumann has fallen into the obscurities we just now named. What is, in fact, the especial characteristic of this wonderful melody? Despair; but despair under tortuous and exaggerated forms.

If only Schumann would have been content to paint the sufferings of the heart, all might have gone well; but no, he exhausts himself in attempting also to render the tortures of the mind, the anxious doubting of Manfred, the absolute negation incarnate in Faust. Now, if the torments of the heart furnish one of the most powerful elements of the drama (_Orestes_, _Œdipus_, and _Phædrus_ prove this truth), there is absolutely nothing artistic whatever in mental torments, philosophic doubt, and scepticism. The true artist, by his very nature, must believe and love.

If against this assertion Goethe, Byron, and Alfred de Musset are quoted――three great poets, with whom Schumann has some analogy――we would say: All three were poets, not because, but in spite, of doubt; and, what is truer still, they are poets when they cease to doubt, or when they struggle against it. Even Alfred de Musset was no sceptic when he exclaimed in his immortal “August Night” (_Nuit d’Août_):

“O ma muse, ne pleurez pas;
A qui perd tout, Dieu reste encore.
Dieu là-haut, l’espoir ici-bas!”[201]

Alas! Schumann also knew the evil of our time. Was it not doubt which made him lose his way in the search after some impossible and anti-artistic ideal? Was it not doubt which, by day and night, tortured his sick soul and urged him on to commit suicide? Doubt, in his impassioned mind, engendered madness; need we, after this, wonder that his artistic ideas were confused, his tone unhealthy, and that his music oftener makes us think of death than life, darkness than light? But when Schumann succeeds in tearing himself from the fatal embrace of scepticism, his musical inspirations take sublime flights. When he sang of love he was truly great, because he believed in love.

While Schubert was content to throw off, one by one, without apparent connection, his admirable _Lieder_,[202] Schumann gathered all the shades of tenderness into a marvellous unity――as, for instance, in the “Loves of a Poet” and “Woman’s Love,” in which we are made to traverse all its phases.

Before saying any more about these two important works, we would name several detached _Lieder_ of singular gracefulness: “Désir,” or “Chanson du Matin” (A Morning Song), and “O ma Fiancée.” Nor must we forget a reverie, “Au Loin” (Far Away), on which is the impress of an infinite sadness. We seem in it to be listening, at the dead of night, to the lament of an exile weeping at the thought of his country and all whom he loves. It reminds us of a Daniel singing, on the banks of the Euphrates, the divine plaint of captivity: _Super flumina Babylonis, illic sedimus et flevimus_.

The “Loves of a Poet” open with a series of little melodies full of poesy――a little nosegay of fragrant flowers which the poet offers to his beloved. It is when, alas! he has been betrayed by the faithless one that he sings his sublime song “J’ai pardonné”――a pardon which is, nevertheless, worse than a malediction.

If only the “Loves of a Poet” ended with this admirable melody, the work would be complete; and the effect marvellous. But no; Henri Heine, the author of the poem, prolonged in an inexplicable fashion the situation, henceforth without interest, and the betrayed poet comes back to tell us that he is――unfortunate! Did we not know it already? He repeats this stale bit of information _nine_ times over consecutively, in _nine_ “Lieder,” and under _nine_ different forms!――a literary impossibility which inevitably reminds us of the despair of the Cid, persistently offering his head to Chimenes.

At the fourth reapparition Heine seems at last to begin to suspect that the plaintive tone is wearisome; but he finds nothing better, by way of a change, than to throw his hero into the humoristic style――we had almost said the grotesque. Our readers shall judge:

“A man loves a woman,
Of whom one, more fortunate, has the love.”

Already we have a trio of lovers. We continue:

“But he who reigns in this heart
Fancies another, in _his_ turn.”

Here, then, is an interesting quarternion of people who cannot contrive to come to an understanding with one another; but we are not at the end. Enter another individual――Number 5.

“The fair one, in revenge,
Makes choice of an unknown.”

And now, place for the last lover,

Whose “hand and heart alike
Will be for the first comer.”

A jurisconsult would simply have told us: _Primus_ amat _Secundam_, quæ _Tertium_, qui _Quartam_, quæ _Quintum_, qui Sextam … (cætera desiderantur)――which, at any rate, would have had the merit of clearness; and, on remarking immediately that the _species_ contained three feminine terminations and three masculine, he would have celebrated three marriages.

Even the genius of Goethe, which imagined the _Elective affinities_, would never have sufficed to create these _Repulsive affinities_. But the one most to be pitied is the unfortunate Schumann, who had condemned himself to set this _theory of Elective Repulsions_ to music. In his place one would have preferred, like Rameau, to seek one’s inspirations fron the _Gazette de Hollande_.

Henri Heine, after this _tour de force_, has nothing left but to kill his poet; and he kills him accordingly. After a few more insipidities which fill the twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth _Lieder_, the poet will order his coffin――

“Of wood encircled with iron,
Bigger than the tun of Heidelberg,
Longer than the bridge of Treves
Or that of Frankfort,” etc.

The last feature might have been touching, if it had been better managed. “Know you,” asks the poet, “what makes my coffin so heavy?

“It is that it contains my joy,
My sorrow, and my love.”

The music of Schumann is affected by the feebleness of the poem. The melodies which follow “J’ai pardonné” are inferior to the preceding ones. It is only towards the end that the musician escapes from the material hindrances of the subject; the air gains in freedom, the harmonies in richness; the poor poet recovers some of his first accents when he sings: “It is that it contains my joy, my sorrow, and my love.”

“A Woman’s Love.” Here is a little poem far superior to the preceding. The author is Adalbert de Chamisso, well known for his _Wonderful History of Peter Schlemihl_. This time poet and musician identify themselves with each other marvellously, and Schumann lives and breathes in every verse of the poet.

In the first song the young girl owns her love:

“Have I, then, had a dream?
But him I see!

* * * * *

What makes me tremble thus,
And takes my sleep from me,
And makes my heart beat fast?
――Yes; it is he!”

Throughout this melody one is conscious of a deep and inward happiness, which is not without a pleasing touch of melancholy.

In that which next follows the young girl sings her beloved. The rhythm is lofty, the melody brilliant. There are, however, in this _Lied_ parts which are not equal to the preceding, and which are wanting in naturalness. But listen; she is loved:

“Why tremble thus? why doubt, my heart?
Thou beatest nigh to breaking. Ah!
Me has he chosen among all;
And thou, my heart, believ’st it not!”

The enthusiasm which fills this melody makes it comparable to the deepest melodies of Schubert. What we feel peculiar in it to Schumann is a feverish tone, a shade of delirium, if we may say so, which we might seek for in yain in Schubert. The ternary rhythm, especially when the measure is rapid, is singularly suitable to impassioned movements. A chord, detached not too strongly falls upon the first beat of each bar; the hurrying melody stops upon the word _Ah_, on a concord of the seventh, very simple, but of a pleasing effect after the regular ascent of the bass. Then it continues, rapid and fevered, and the first phrase closes in C, on the words: “And thou, my heart, believ’st not.”

Then, more slowly, the maiden caresses her precious memories:

“His mouth has said to me:
I love thee.”

The melody softens, the phrase is more free and becomes freshly animated on the words, “A dream bewilders me,” then bursts out powerfully when the young girl exclaims:

“O Heaven! if this is but a dream,
Then may I wake no more.”

This phrase, by its lofty accent and a certain lyric transport, pleasantly recalls certain movements of Gluck’s.

When, in a low voice, the maiden resumes, “Why tremble thus,” etc., we might think the melody terminated. But the artist has kept us a few last notes, breathed from the depths of his soul. After an eager repetition of the words, “Me has he chosen among all, and thou, my heart, believ’st it not,” she once more utters them, very slowly and very softly, in a melodic phrase full of tenderness and supplication. She is more calm; her heart belies her mouth, and she believes.

The fourth and fifth _Lieder_ are two songs of an affianced maiden. The young girl at first sings to herself of her betrothed, and the sentiment of the music is inward, tranquil, and deep; but on quitting her father’s roof to meet her husband the _fiancée_ sings to her sisters, with a youthful pride and gladness, “If I am fair, I owe it only to my happiness,” and the melody breaks into a song of exceeding beauty.

A wife, she murmurs soon into her husband’s ear, “I hope,” and in the following _Lied_ we see her as a mother. She presses her little one to her heart, and a melody of exquisite sweetness expresses the words:

“Fresh brightness and new love
In a cradle are revealed.”

Alas! the eighth _Lied_ recalls us to sorrow, the great reality of life. “O bitter woe! my best-beloved beneath the wing of death is sleeping; forlorn, I shrink within myself, and solace my sad heart with weeping.” Then the veil falls.

“Again I see thee, happiness gone by
Of former days.”

So ends the poem. But if the part of the poet is finished when he has made this sorrowful appeal to the past, there is nothing to enchain the inspiration of the musician. From the depth of his grief, at the foot of this coffin, the poet has just evoked the memories of happiness for ever fled. The musician will give a voice to that soul which is called music――O marvellous power! Words would be misplaced; harmonies are more discreet, more silent. There is nothing outward here; it is the soul, contemplating the past, to which music lends its poignant reality.

We cannot quit Schumann without a few words on the wife he so loved, and who has shown herself worthy of his love by a steadfast devotion to the memory of her husband, so long and so unjustly unappreciated. The author of a number of remarkable _Lieder_, Mme. Clara Schumann deserves a place among the most distinguished representatives of the melodic style. Her place should be elsewhere, among living composers, but we could not separate her even in thought from the husband to whom, in death, she proves so faithful.

We have read with exceeding pleasure a little collection of _Lieder_, of which the idea is touching. The husband and wife contributed each their flowers (of melody) to the garland they have woven. We even doubt whether the best page of this collection is not a melody by Mme. Schumann, entitled “Love for Love.”

If we were asked, What is the style of Mme. Schumann? we should answer, That of Robert Schumann. Can we wonder at it? They loved each other so much that their souls must gradually have come to bear a mutual resemblance, and they would have but one inspiration, as they had but one love.

Schubert and Schumann are the two composers of the past who occupy the first rank in the melodic style; they have in common that the _Lied_ has been carried by them to its highest expression, and that in return they owe to it their most lasting renown.

In a complete work we should have now to inquire what the different great composers have been at the time when they were drawn by their inspirations on melodic ground. Without entering into disquisitions which would here be out of place, we ought nevertheless, from the fear of being too incomplete, bring forward certain _Lieder_ which, however small a place they may claim among the works of the masters of whom we are about to speak, none the less reveal an illustrious origin. Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven have written a tolerably large number of melodies, very little known until twenty years ago, when an intelligent editor had the happy idea of collecting in one volume forty of these melodies, chosen from the most beautiful.[203] It needs no long examination to show that Haydn and Beethoven, always inspired, but above all symphonists, generally take some large phrase which one would suppose borrowed from one of their symphonies. Thus Haydn’s “Love Song” reminds us of those fine themes with which his andantes open; and in the same manner Beethoven, who, by exception, has found in his charming “Adelaide” the true form of the melody, surprisingly recalls, in the canzonetta, “In questa tomba,” the admirable adagio of the grand Sonata Appassionnata in F minor.

Mozart, who was more of a melodist[204] than these two masters, has composed real _Lieder_, in which, at times, we seem to have a presentiment of Schubert. Thus, “The Cradle Song” might very suitably bear the signature of the author of “The Young Mother.” Elsewhere, on the contrary, in “L’Amour Malheureux” and “Loin de toi,” we find the style and the dramatic accent of the author of _Don Juan_ and _The Magic Flute_.

The _Lieder_ of Weber and Mendelssohn, of Meyerbeer, of Berlioz and Richard Wagner, will not detain us longer. These illustrious masters have cultivated the _Lied_ with too little zeal to have won from it any lasting fame. Even Meyerbeer would gain nothing by our dwelling on this subject in regard to him. He has a certain “Monk” upon his conscience, of which the less we say the better. On the other hand, other artists, greatly inferior to those just named, have given in their melodic compositions the full measure of their talent. We may quote, as examples, Niedermeyer, an accomplished musician, whose “Lake” has obtained a great and deserved success; Monpou, the author of “Castibelza,” whose merit must not be confounded with that of such contemporaries as Abbadie, Arnaud, and Loïsa Puget.

In Italy Rossini and Donizetti have left melodies to which they have given the singular name of _Soirées_. Our readers will recall Rossini’s “Mira la bianca luna,” which has a real charm, but which reminds one rather of the author of the “Gazza ladra” than of the inspired singer of “William Tell.”

In the “Abbandonata” Donizetti reaches a truth of expression of which, unfortunately, he has not been too lavish. In listening to those prettinesses, written chiefly to obtain pleasing vocal effects, and which, in the hands of writers like Bordogni, Gordigiani, and their compeers, have been lowered to the level of the most vulgar vocalization, we find ourselves regretting the old masters of the Italian school――Scarlatti, Lotti, Marcello, Durante, whose melodies are incontestably more youthful and fresh than the romances of the modern Italian composers.

[199] See “Les Mélodistes,” by M. Arthur Coquard in _Le
Contemporain_ for Nov. 1, 1872.

[200] “In dreams I have seen thy soul; I have seen the night
in which she hides her woe; I have seen remorse to thy
footsteps chained, and thy springtime doomed to tears.”

[201] “Weep not, my Muse; oh! weep no more. God stays with
him who loses all beside――God on high, and hope below!”

[202] We hope that in a former notice we have shown that
there is an artistic connection between them. (See THE
CATHOLIC WORLD for February, 1877.)

[203] _Quarante Mélodies de Beethoven, Mozart, et Haydn,
chez Flaxland._

[204] We say _melodist_, and not _melodic_. One may be a
musician of the first order without being a great melodist.
Thus Meyerbeer, so great in other respects, is a poor
melodist; but will any one say that he is not melodic?

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

THE BROWN HOUSE AT DUFFIELD; or, Life within and without the Fold.
By Minnie Mary Lee. Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. 1876.

A good Catholic novel is still, we fear,

Nigro simillima cygno.

The great majority of semi-controversial tales which have been written during the last twenty years, by well-intentioned but injudicious writers of our faith, have no claim to be recognized as works of art; for their execution has been in general too hasty to admit of that careful study and elaboration indispensable to the production of an enduring work. Neither can they be fairly considered as natural or practical illustrations of the influence of our holy religion in social and domestic life, still less as successful means of initiating outsiders into the beauties of the church’s doctrines. It is not the legitimate aim of a novel to be prosaically didactic. One page of Bellarmine or Petavius contains more sound doctrinal position than the fresh cut leaves of any modern controversial tale. Of course in master-hands the difficult task of blending narrative and dogma has succeeded, but it took no less a writer than Cardinal Wiseman to render _Fabiola_ interesting, and it required the pen of Father Newman to write _Loss and Gain_. Narrative is better suited than controversy to most of our lay writers. In every case the silent example of a noble character is more potent for good than the most ingenious arguments or most earnest exhortations. The book before us is not free from the strictures we have passed on its numerous train of companions. There is much improbability in the plot, and a decided lack of naturalness in the characters. It is a mistake to elevate an ordinary heroine to the highest plane of wisdom; she ceases to be flesh and blood, and then our interest in her ceases likewise.

The tale is replete with the holiest examples for imitation and the highest lessons in self sacrifice, devotion, and duty.

FRANK BLAKE. By Dillon O’Brien. St. Paul: Pioneer Press Co. 1876.

So long as works of fiction constitute an important department of literature of which the supply is rarely in excess of the demand, it is well for critics to insist that at least no morbid products of fancy tinged with a vile pruriency be admitted to take rank under this head. We are glad that the author of _Frank Blake_ has appreciated this truth; for though he has worked up some delicate situations, he has been a most strict observer of propriety and has tempered sentiment with sense. _Frank Blake_ is an oft-told Irish story. The incidents are not such as we meet in _Orlando Furioso_, but still such as are calculated to enlist a sober interest. The plot is natural and ripens with ease. For once the Irish peasant is represented as though seven centuries of English misrule had at least enabled him to acquire a decent knowledge of the language of his subjugator. But he is not by any means Saxonized, as is made evident by his unmistakable Celtic wit and adequacy to meet and make the best of sudden emergencies.

THE WISE NUN OF EASTONMERE, AND OTHER TALES. By Miss Taylor.
Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. 1876.

This unpretentious volume derives its chief attraction from the fact that every line bears testimony to the modest estimate the writer has formed of her powers. We will not vouch for the amount of instruction to be derived from Miss Taylor’s little book, but there can be no doubt that it is edifying, and in a wise, sober sense. Its simplicity in style and construction makes up for the absence of more conspicuous qualities.

“And few, of all, at once could make pretence
To royal robes and rustic innocence.”

Transcriber’s Note:

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like this_. Dialect, obsolete, alternative, and misspelled words were not changed.

Obvious printing errors, such as duplicate words, backwards, upside down, unprinted, or partially printed letters and punctuation, were completed. Letters were added that had been dropped in typesetting when a word was hyphenated and split between two lines. Final stops missing at the end of sentences were added. Missing punctuation was added or corrected at beginning and ends of sentences, lines of poetry, and abbreviations.

The copyright line at the bottom of the first page of each monthly volume was moved to follow the volume number and date. Footnotes were numbered sequentially and moved to the end of the article in which the related anchors occur.

The following were adjusted:

added anchor for Footnote [188]
added hyphens:
bare-headed, … waits bare-headed …
sister-in-law, … her sister-in-law, and other …
Fitz-James, … said Sir John Fitz-James in a low voice …
added close parenthesis, … (Ps. xc. 11, 12.[87]) …
changed accent marks:
Ou to Où, … Où allons nous …
Hyeres to Hyères, … wishing for news from Hyères …
caléche to calèche, … return in the calèche …
Châteaubriand to Chateaubriand, … in his mouth by Chateaubriand.

Noted, left unchanged: there is no decimal between dollars and cents in price of books in New Publications sections.