Chapter XXX: Book XIV: §Voltaire§, in his Œdipus, makes Jocasta say, (6)

The dinner party, receiving the excuses of the host, and overcome with a sense of mystery, soon withdrew in spite of the cordial message and wishes of the gentleman that they would make themselves merry in his absence. At four o’clock in the morning a carriage stood at the door, into which Mr. W—— put the two ladies, and, driving himself, they set off on their way out of France, pursuing quiet streets, confining their course to unfrequented roads and lanes of the country, and avoiding the more public highways, until the horses were worn out. They were then near a little village; and the question arose how to get a carriage brought to them, and explain why they could not go to it. Mr. W—— went to the inn and, having found a private carriage which was waiting over there, agreed with the servant to come out a mile or so and carry his party, Mr. W——’s two sisters—one of whom was very lame indeed, and could not walk a step—some miles on, till they should come to a railway. This done and the lame lady with much difficulty put into the carriage by her “brother” and “sister,” they proceeded for a distance until they came to a railway, where they left the carriage to break up the clew, and rode a short distance in the rail-car without attracting attention. Then they took another carriage, riding in roundabout ways, until at the end of two days they reached the little seaport where Mrs. W—— was spending the summer. How must Mr. W—— conduct the ladies into the presence of his wife without being observed by every one? After some reconnoitring, this was successfully accomplished, and throwing her arms around the neck of Mrs. W——, Eugenie exclaimed: “You and your husband are the only friends left to me in the world.” She, with the lady who accompanied her, remained in the room of Mrs. W——, lest some one should see and recognize her. No servant could be allowed to enter the room. Mrs. W—— brought food to the two ladies and served the Empress in everything, who expostulated at the inconvenience she was causing her friend, and insisted upon waiting upon herself, her behavior being of such a sweet character as still more to endear her to her friends, who were risking nearly all they possessed in her cause.

Their plan was now to get her across the Channel to the Isle of Wight, and thence to England. There were but two conveyances in the harbor—both private yachts—and only one able to get out to sea. The owner of that one flatly refused to take the ladies over, but at last, after the identity of the ladies had been made known and much persuasion used, he consented, and Mr. W—— and the two ladies, with the reticule containing two pocket-handkerchiefs, set out the day after their arrival in the little seaport town on their voyage to England.

This is a journey usually made in a few hours; but a terrible storm arising, it was prolonged to twenty-seven. The same night and in the same waters the ever-memorable vessel the _Captain_ went down. But although the gentleman in command lost all control of himself and ship, they weathered the storm.

During this time Eugenie showed the most remarkable self-possession, and evidently looked upon death as a relief from her woes. But this was not to be, and after a passage fraught with the most imminent danger, she was landed on the Isle of Wight, to find on English ground that asylum which had been sought by so many fugitives before her. And to add to her relief, her son, of whose whereabouts she knew nothing, was found to be in Hastings, not far from her.

Such is the true story of Eugenie’s escape from Paris and France. What a sad, sad tale of fallen greatness! How much must she have suffered in those few days! the fury of a Paris mob in her ears; the fear of pursuit at her back; how often did she start, and give herself up for lost! What threatening meaning did many an accidental phrase assume! No wonder her courage sustained the fearful storm; the thunder and lightning, the waters, however dark and cold and deep, would be far more merciful than that dreadful mob that called out her name, the mob that had shown no pity to the little child or tender woman, and derided with the bitterest insults the fond Marie Antoinette at the guillotine. Oh, France! when we remember those days of terror, can we wonder at this retribution?

NAPOLEON III.

The following lines, suggested by the rise of Louis Napoleon, were written January 6th, 1853. The capitulation of Sedan occurred September 1, 1870, and the death of the exile of Chiselhurst, January 9, 1873.

The light-house that once crowned the pointed rock
Of Eddystone, its bold inventor deem’d
A work to last for centuries, nor dream’d
It would succumb beneath the tempest’s shock:
And, therefore, as if Providence to mock,
He housed within it when the lightning gleam’d
Mid storm and darkness, but when morning beam’d,
Nought stood upon the bare and granite block!
Ambition thus dares all, and rears on high,
With the audacity of human pride,
A pile that may with Egypt’s wonders vie;
Perceiving not—presumptuous homicide!—
The ministers of wrath, that lurking nigh,
Will scatter the proud fabric far and wide.

THE EMPIRE IS PEACE.

This memorable utterance was originally made at Toulouse in the autumn of 1852, while Louis Napoleon was feeling the public pulse in the vineyards of Southern France, preparatory to re-establishing the imperial _régime_. At the close of a splendid banquet given to him by the Chamber of Commerce, in the Bourse, the Prince-President, emboldened by the mad enthusiasm of the company present, suddenly cast off all reserve, and unequivocally announced the impending change. “There is one objection,” he urged in vindication of his purpose, “to which I must reply. Certain minds seem to entertain a dread of war; certain persons say, the Empire is only war. But I say, §the Empire is Peace§ (l’Empire c’est la Paix), for France desires it, and when France is satisfied the world is tranquil.”

JEFFERSON ON MARIE ANTOINETTE.

Mr. Jefferson’s estimate of Marie Antoinette is not so favorable as that of some writers; for many years after his return from France he wrote of her thus:—

This angel, as gaudily painted in the rhapsodies of Burke, with some
smartness of fancy, but no sound sense, was proud, disdainful of
restraint, indignant at all obstacles to her will, eager in the
pursuit of pleasure, and firm enough to hold to her desires, or perish
in their wreck. Her inordinate gambling and dissipations, with those
of the Count d’Artois and others of her _clique_, had been a sensible
item in the exhaustion of the treasury, which called into action the
reforming hand of the nation; and her opposition to it, her inflexible
perverseness and dauntless spirit, led herself to the guillotine, drew
the king on with her, and plunged the world into crimes and calamities
which will forever stain the pages of modern history. I have ever
believed that had there been no queen there would have been no
Revolution. No force would have been provoked or exercised. [He adds,
that he would not have voted for the execution of the sovereign. He
would have shut the queen up in a convent, and deprived the king only
of irresponsible and arbitrary power.]

GENERAL BLÜCHER.

This “personal” of Blücher is from the _Recollections_ of Lady Clementina Davies:—When the special messengers arrived to inform Blücher that Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and that his services would be immediately required in the field, they were astonished to find him literally running round and round a large room, the floor of which was covered with sawdust, and in which he had immured himself under the delusion that he was an elephant. For the time it was feared that Blücher was hopelessly insane, or that he was so far suffering from _delirium tremens_ that his active co-operation in the anticipated campaign would be impossible; but when the urgent news was brought him he at once recovered himself, and proceeded to give his advice in a perfectly sound state of mind, the tone of which was thus, as by a sudden shock, restored to him.

THE MOTHER OF CHARLES V.

An interesting historical discovery has been made by a Prussian savant, of the name of Bergenroth, who was commissioned by the English Government to investigate various collections of Spanish archives for papers illustrating the relations between Spain and England in the middle ages. Among other important documents, M. Bergenroth discovered a hitherto unpublished mass of correspondence of Ferdinand the Catholic and Charles V.

From this correspondence it appears that Joanna, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, and mother of Charles, was not really mad, as all the world has hitherto believed. The story was an atrocious fabrication, under cover of which, first her father, and then her son kept her incarcerated, in order to keep possession themselves of the crown of Castile, which was hers by right of her mother Isabella. After long years of rigorous and even cruel captivity, the unfortunate lady did at last lose her senses, but not until her old age.

We are continually called upon to reconstruct our views of history, which, the more we study it, more and more resembles Hamlet’s cloud, taking whatever shape partisanship may determine. We must draw a new likeness of Charles, who is no longer the prince full of Flemish _bonhomie_, good knight, and boon companion, rigorous and despotic, but not personally cruel; and when this is done, Philip II. will appear a less surprising anomaly.

THE TRADITIONAL MARY MAGDALENE.

The injurious and probably unjust inferences respecting Mary Magdalene, as drawn by the general assent of the Christian Church from the narratives of the Evangelists, in which mention is made of her attendance on our Lord, want the stamp of confirmation. Such portraiture is more traditional than authoritative. The prevailing conjecture that the infirmity of which she had been cured implied moral guilt was rejected, or mentioned with hesitation, by the early Greek and Latin Fathers. It was taken up by Gregory the Great, and stamped with his authority in the latter part of the sixth century. It is sanctioned by the Roman Breviary, and its truth has been assumed by most ecclesiastical writers, who seem to think that Mary loved much because she had much to be forgiven. Painters and poets have described the supposed illustrious penitent, in loose array, without giving her costume the benefit of her conversion! By these means it became established in the popular mind. This was the more easy, as it supplied an agreeable and interesting contrast. It made one Mary serve as a foil to set off the excellencies of another. Mary, the mother of our Lord, became the type of feminine purity; but the leaders of opinion were not content with giving her those honors to which all Christians consider her justly entitled. To give it, however, the advantage of a striking contrast, and thus make it shine with greater splendor, a female character of an opposite description was wanted—a type of fallen womanhood, penitent and restored. And as “the woman which was a sinner,” mentioned by St. Luke in the seventh chapter of his Gospel, is left by the historian strictly anonymous, Mary Magdalene, whose name occurs in the next chapter, was seized on for this purpose, and her character treated in a way which, by any honest woman, would be deemed worse than martyrdom.

MOTHER GOOSE.

Mother Goose, instead of being a traditional bard, or a creature of fancy, as commonly supposed, was a veritable personage. The mother-in-law of Thomas Fleet, the editor, in 1731, of the Boston _Weekly Rehearsal_, was the original Mother Goose—the “old woman” of the world-famous melodies. Mother Goose belonged to a wealthy family in Boston, where her eldest daughter, Elizabeth Goose, was married by Cotton Mather, in 1715, to Fleet, and in due time gave birth to a son. Like most mothers-in-law in our own day, the importance of Mrs. Goose increased with the appearance of her grandchild, and poor Mr. Fleet, half distracted with her endless nursery ditties, finding all other means fail, tried what ridicule could effect, and actually printed a book with the title: “Songs for the Nursery, or Mother Goose’s Melodies for Children, printed by T. Fleet, at his printing house, Pudding Lane, Boston. Price ten coppers.”

Mother Goose was the mother of nineteen children, and hence we may easily trace the origin of that famous classic:—

“There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,
She had so many children she didn’t know what to do.”

HISTORY AND FICTION.

The archbishop of Canterbury once put the following question to Betterton, the actor: “How is it that you players, who deal only with things imaginary, affect your auditors as if they were real; while we preachers, who deal only with things real, affect our auditors as if they were imaginary?” “It is, my lord,” replied the player, “because we actors speak of things imaginary as if they were real, while you preachers too often speak of things real as if they were imaginary.” Whitefield used to tell this anecdote as an explanation of his own vehement and dramatic style of preaching. The remark may be applied to historical and fictitious writing. The old school historians were so solid and stately that they conveyed only feeble images to the mind, while poets and romancers out of airy nothings have created living and breathing beings. How much more readily we remember romance than history, and yet “truth is stranger than fiction.” Shakspeare’s Macbeth and Richard are not the Macbeth and Richard of history, yet we cling to the poet’s portraits of them, and discard the sober truth. “Macbeth,” Sir Walter Scott tells us, “broke no law of hospitality in his attempt on Duncan’s life. He attacked and slew the king at a place called Bothgowan, or the Smith’s house, near Elgin, in 1039, and not, as has been supposed, in his own castle of Inverness. The act was bloody, as was the complexion of the times; but in very truth, the claim of Macbeth to the throne, according to the rules of Scottish succession, was better than that of Duncan. As a king, the tyrant so much exclaimed against, was, in realty, a firm, just and equitable prince. Early authorities show us no such persons as Banquo and his son Fleance, nor have we reason to think that the latter ever fled further from Macbeth than across the flat scene according to the stage direction. Neither were Banquo or his son ancestors of the house of Stuart. All these things are now known, but the mind retains pertinaciously the impressions made by the imposition of genius. While the works of Shakspeare are read, and the English language exists, history may say what she will, but the general reader will only recollect Macbeth as the sacrilegious usurper and Richard as the deformed murderer.”

CONTEMPORARY CRITICISM.

Robert Greene, the Elizabethan dramatist and novelist, indulged in the following disparaging criticism in reference to Shakspeare:—

“There is an upstart crow beautified with our feathers that, with his _tiger’s heart wrapt in a player’s hide_, supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you, and being an absolute Johannes factotum, is in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a country.”

The line in italics is a parody of one in 3 Henry VI., i. 4:—

“O! tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide,” which was taken from an old play called the _First Part of the Contention of the two famous Houses of York and Lancaster_. Shakspeare is known to have founded his Henry VI. upon this piece and another which are supposed to have been written by Greene or his friends, and hence, no doubt, Greene’s acrimonious remark.

Says Dugald Stewart in his _Essays_:—A curious specimen of cotemporary criticism is found in the Letters of the celebrated Waller, who speaks thus of the first appearance of _Paradise Lost_:—“The old blind schoolmaster, John Milton, hath published a tedious poem on the Fall of Man. If its length be not considered as merit, it has no other!” Johnson also says, in his _Lives of the Poets_: “Thompson has lately published a poem, called the _Castle of Indolence_, in which there are some good stanzas!”

Why do not men of superior talents strive, for the honor of the arts which they love, to conceal their ignoble jealousies from the malignity of those whom incapacity and mortified pride have leagued together as the covenanted foes of worth and genius? What a triumph has been furnished to the writers who delight in levelling all the proud distinctions of humanity! and what a stain has been left on some of the fairest pages of our literary history by the irritable passions and petty hostilities of Pope and Addison!

Michelet, the historian, showed his extreme aversion to the First Napoleon by describing him as “without eyelashes or eyebrows; with a small quantity of hair of an uncertain brown; with eyes gray, like a pane of glass, wherein one sees nothing; in short, an incomplete and obscure impersonality which appears phantasmagorical.”

GREAT EVENTS FROM LITTLE CAUSES.

Fortuna quæ plurimum potest, cum in aliis rebus, tum præcipue in
bello, in parvis momentis magnus rerum mutationes efficit.—§Cæsar§,
_De Bello Civili_.

In _Poor Richard’s Almanac_, 1758, Franklin quotes,—“He adviseth to circumspection and care even in the smallest matters, because sometimes ‘A little neglect may breed great mischief,’ adding, ‘For want of a nail the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was lost; for want of a horse the rider was lost’; being overtaken and slain by the enemy, all for want of care about a horse-shoe nail.” And St. James (ch. iii. v. 5) gives a fine illustration in respect to the government of the tongue, “Behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth.”

In the relations of cause and consequence there must, of course, be many greater causes in readiness to act. An accidental spark may blow up a fortress—_provided_ there be gunpowder in the magazine. But it is as legitimate as it is curious to trace the successive links of a chain of events back to small accidents.

“How momentous,” says Campbell, “are the results of apparently trivial circumstances! When Mahomet was flying from his enemies, he took refuge in a cave; which his pursuers would have entered, if they had not seen a spider’s web at the entrance. Not knowing that it was freshly woven, they passed by, and thus a spider’s web changed the history of the world.”

When Louis VII., to obey the injunctions of his bishops, cropped his hair and shaved his beard, Eleanor, his consort, found him, with this unusual appearance, very ridiculous, and soon very contemptible. She revenged herself as she thought proper, and the poor shaved king obtained a divorce. She then married the Count of Anjou, afterwards Henry II. of England. She had for her marriage-dower the rich provinces of Poitou and Guienne; and this was the origin of those wars which for three hundred years ravaged France, and cost the French three millions of men. All this probably had never occurred had Louis not been so rash as to crop his head, and shave his beard, by which he became so disgustful in the eyes of Queen Eleanor.

Warton mentions, in his _Notes on Pope_, that the Treaty of Utrecht was occasioned by a quarrel between the Duchess of Marlborough and Queen Anne about a pair of gloves.

The expedition to the island of Ré was undertaken to gratify a foolish and romantic passion of the Duke of Buckingham.

The coquetry of the daughter of Count Julian introduced the Saracens into Spain.

What can be imagined more trivial, remarks Hume, in one of his essays, than the difference between one color of livery and another in horse races? Yet this difference begat two most inveterate factions in the Greek empire, the Prasini and Veneti; who never suspended their animosities till they ruined that unhappy government.

The murder of Cæsar in the capitol was chiefly owing to his not rising from his seat when the senate tendered him some particular honors.

The negotiations with the Pope for dissolving Henry VIII.’s marriage (which brought on the Reformation) are said to have been interrupted by the Earl of Wiltshire’s dog biting his holiness’s toe, when he put it out to be kissed by that ambassador; and the Duchess of Marlborough’s spilling a basin of water on Mrs. Masham’s gown, in Queen Anne’s reign, brought in the Tory Ministry, and gave a new turn to the affairs of Europe.

If the nose of Cleopatra had been shorter, said Pascal, in his epigrammatic and brilliant manner, the condition of the world would have been different.

Luther might have been a lawyer, had his friend and companion escaped the thunderstorm; Scotland had wanted her stern reformer, if the appeal of the preacher had not startled him in the chapel of St Andrew’s Castle; and if Mr. Grenville had not carried, in 1764, his memorable resolution as to the expediency of charging certain stamp duties on the plantations in America, the western world might still have bowed to the British sceptre.

Giotto, one of the early Florentine painters, might have continued a rude shepherd boy, if a sheep drawn by him upon a stone had not accidentally attracted the notice of Cimabue.

THE SIGNING OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.

Mr. Jefferson used to relate, with much merriment, that the final signing of the Declaration of Independence was hastened by an absurdly trivial cause. Near the hall in which the debates were then held was a livery stable, from which swarms of flies came into the open windows and assailed the silk-stockinged legs of honorable members. Handkerchief in hand they lashed the flies with such vigor as they could command on a July afternoon, but the annoyance became at length so extreme as to render them impatient of delay, and they made haste to bring the momentous business to a conclusion.

After such a long and severe strain upon their minds, members seem to have indulged in many a jocular observation as they stood around the table. Tradition has it that when John Hancock had affixed his magnificent signature to the paper, he said, “There, John Bull may read my name without spectacles!” Tradition, also, will never relinquish the pleasure of repeating that, when Mr. Hancock reminded members of the necessity of hanging together, Dr. Franklin was ready with his “Yes, we must indeed all hang together, or else, most assuredly we shall all hang separately.” And this may have suggested to the portly Harrison—a “luxurious, heavy gentleman,” as John Adams describes him—his remark to slender Elbridge Gerry, that when the hanging came he should have the advantage, for poor Gerry would be kicking in the air long after it was all over with himself.

French critics censure Shakspeare for mingling buffoonery with scenes of the deepest tragic interest. But here we find one of the most important assemblies ever convened, at the supreme moment of its existence, while performing the act that gives it its rank among deliberate bodies, cracking jokes, and hurrying up to the table to sign, in order to escape the flies. It is precisely so that Shakspeare would have imagined the scene.

THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA.

According to a Spanish tradition the discovery of America is mainly due to the result of a hard-fought game of chess. Columbus had for seven weary years been dancing attendance upon the Court of Spain in pursuance of the aim of his life. The anxious petitioner for royal favor and assistance had failed to arouse in Ferdinand sufficient interest, in what was declared by the commissioners appointed to report upon the project, to be a visionary and impracticable scheme. True, he had enlisted the sympathy of the good queen Isabella, and his hopes had been encouraged and sustained by her in many ways. But after years of vain solicitation, baffled by the skepticism which could not share his aspirations, he determined to lay his plans before Charles VIII. of France, and accordingly called to take leave of their majesties before his departure from Cordova. Arriving at the palace at nightfall, he announced his purpose to the queen, who instantly sought Ferdinand with a determination to make a final effort on behalf of the sad and discouraged suitor. The king was absorbed in a game of chess with a grandee whose skill taxed his powers to the utmost. Isabella’s interruption had the effect of distracting the monarch’s attention, and of causing him to lose his principal piece, which was followed by a volley of imprecations on mariners in general, and Columbus in particular. The game grew worse, and defeat seemed imminent. With the prospect of being vanquished, Ferdinand at length told the queen that her _protegé_ should be successful or otherwise accordingly as the game resulted. She immediately bent all her energies upon the board, and watched the long contest with concentrated interest. The courtiers clustered around the table, amused at the excitement of the king and the quiet satisfaction of his antagonist. And so the game went on which was to decide the discovery of a new world, until Isabella leaned toward her husband’s ear and whispered, “you can checkmate him in four moves.” In the utmost astonishment Ferdinand re-examined the game, found the queen’s assertion correct, and in the course of a few minutes announced that Columbus should depart on his voyage with the title of Admiral of the Elect.

THE STORY OF TWO FAVORITE BALLADS.

ANNIE LAURIE.

The birth of the heroine of the well-known ballad of Annie Laurie is quaintly recorded by her father, Sir Robert Laurie, of Maxwelltown, in the family register, in these words:—

“At the pleasure of the Almighty God, my daughter, Annie Laurie, was born on the 16th day of December, 1682 years, about 6 o’clock in the morning, and was baptised by Mr. Geo.” [Hunter, of Glencairn.]

And his own marriage is given in the same quaint style:—

“At the pleasure of the Almighty, I was married to my wife, Jean Riddle, upon the 27th day of July, 1674, in the Tron Kirk of Edinb., by Mr. Annane.”

These statements are derived from the curious collection of manuscripts left by the late Mr. W. F. H. Arundell, of Barjarg Tower, Dumfriesshire. The papers of this industrious collector contain a vast fund of information respecting the antiquities and county families of Dumfriesshire. From them we learn further that Annie was wooed by William Douglas, of Fingland, in Kirkcudbrightshire. Her charms are thus spoken of in his pathetic lyric, “Bonnie Annie Laurie”:—

Her brow is like the snow-drift,
Her neck is like the swan,
Her face it is the fairest
That e’er the sun shone on,
That e’er the sun shone on,
And dark blue is her eye;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me down and die.

“She was, however, obdurate to his passionate appeal, preferring Alexander Ferguson, of Craigdarroch, to whom she was eventually married. This William Douglas was said to have been the hero of the well-known song, “Willie was a Wanton Wag.” Though he was refused by Annie, he did not pine away in single blessedness, but made a runaway marriage with Miss Elizabeth Clark, of Glenboig, in Galloway, by whom he had four sons and two daughters.”

ROBIN ADAIR.

Robin Adair was well-known in the London fashionable circles of the last century by the _sobriquet_ of the “Fortunate Irishman;” but his parentage and the exact place of his birth are unknown. He was brought up as a surgeon, but “his detection in an early amour drove him precipitately from Dublin,” to push his fortunes in England. Scarcely had he crossed the Channel when the chain of lucky events that ultimately led him to fame and fortune commenced.

Near Holyhead, perceiving a carriage overturned, he ran to render assistance. The sole occupant of this vehicle was a “lady of fashion, well-known in polite circles,” who received Adair’s attentions with thanks; and, being lightly hurt, and hearing that he was a surgeon, requested him to travel with her in her carriage to London. On their arrival in the metropolis she presented him with a fee of one hundred guineas, and gave him a general invitation to her house. In after life Adair used to say that it was not so much the amount of this fee, but the time it was given, that was of service to him, as he was then almost destitute. But the invitation to her house was a still greater service, for there he met the person who decided his fate in life. This was Lady Caroline Keppel, daughter of the second Earl of Albemarle and of Lady Anne Lenox, daughter of the first Duke of Richmond. Forgetting her high lineage, Lady Caroline, at the first sight of the Irish surgeon, fell desperately in love with him; and her emotions were so sudden and so violent as to attract the general attention of the company.

Adair, perceiving his advantage, lost no time in pursuing it; while the Albemarle and Richmond families were dismayed at the prospect of such a terrible _mesalliance_. Every means were tried to induce the young lady to alter her mind, but without effect. Adair’s biographer tells us that “amusements, a long journey, an advantageous offer, and other common modes of shaking off what was considered by the family as an improper match, were already tried, but in vain; the health of Lady Caroline was evidently impaired, and the family at last confessed, with a good sense that reflects honor on their understandings as well as their hearts, that it was possible to prevent, but never to dissolve an attachment; and that marriage was the honorable, and indeed the only alternative that could secure her happiness and life.”

When Lady Caroline was taken by her friends from London to Bath, that she might be separated from her lover, she wrote, it is said, the song of “Robin Adair,” and set it to a plaintive Irish tune that she had heard him sing. Whether written by Lady Caroline or not, the song is simply expressive of her feelings at the time, and as it completely corroborates the circumstances just related, which were the town-talk of the period, though now little more than family tradition, there can be no doubt that they were the origin of the song, the words of which, as originally written, are the following:—

What’s this dull town to me?
Robin’s not near;
He whom I wish to see,
Wish for to hear.
Where’s all the joy and mirth,
Made life a heaven on earth?
Oh! they’re all fled with thee,
Robin Adair!

What made the assembly shine?
Robin Adair!
What made the ball so fine?
Robin was there!
What, when the play was o’er,
What made my heart so sore?
Oh! it was parting with
Robin Adair!
But now thou art far from me,
Robin Adair!
But now I never see
Robin Adair!
Yet he I love so well
Still in my heart shall dwell,
Oh! can I ne’er forget
Robin Adair!

Immediately after his marriage with Lady Caroline, Adair was appointed Inspector General of Military Hospitals, and subsequently, becoming a favorite of George III., he was made Surgeon-General, King’s Sergeant Surgeon, and Surgeon of Chelsea Hospital. Very fortunate men have seldom many friends, but Adair, by declining a baronetcy that was offered to him by the king, for surgical attendance on the Duke of Gloucester, actually acquired considerable popularity before his death, which took place when he was nearly fourscore years of age, in 1790. In the “Gentleman’s Magazine” of that year there are verses “On the Death of Robert Adair, Esq., late Surgeon-General, by J. Crane, M. D.,” who, it is to be hoped, was a much better physician than a poet.

Lady Caroline Adair’s married life was short but happy. She died of consumption, after giving birth to three children, one of them a son. On her death-bed she requested Adair to wear mourning for her as long as he lived; which he scrupulously did, save on the king’s and queen’s birthdays, when his duty to his sovereign required him to appear at Court in full dress. If this injunction respecting mourning were to prevent Adair marrying again, it had the desired effect; he did not marry a second time, though he had many offers.

JOAN OF ARC.

The legend respecting the substitution of another person at the stake, and the subsequent marriage of the Maid to Robert des Hermoises, has been treated by no less an iconoclast than M. Octave Delepierre, the learned Belgian Consul in England, in a volume (_Doute Historique_), privately printed. In the _Athenæum_ for September 15, 1855, there is a complete analysis of the story, from which it appears that more than two centuries after the alleged execution of Joan, namely in 1645, Father Vignier found documents among the archives at Metz, which spoke of the presence and recognition of Joan in that city, five years after her alleged execution. The Father was then a guest of a descendant of Robert des Hermoises, in whose muniment chest he discovered the marriage contract of Robert and Joan. The matter was forgotten, when in 1740, documents were found at Orleans which recorded, among other things, a gratuity made to Joan in 1439, “for services rendered by her at the siege of the same city, 210 livres.” The tradition has many singular points, and is full of delightful uncertainty.

AMY ROBSART.

Another time-honored illusion is gone, and Amy Robsart descends into the grave like a respectable lady, instead of disappearing through a trap-door into a vault beneath and breaking her neck. So one by one the pleasant fictions over which in youth we lingered with such keen enjoyment, are stripped of their reality, and nothing but dull prose is left in their place. The pretty legend of Pocahontas, the venerable and patriotic one of William Tell, the ingenious mystification between the island of Juan Fernandez, Alexander Selkirk, and Robinson Crusoe, all have been cast down from their shrines. Nay, attempts have been made to remove Shakspeare himself into the region of myth, by representing that Lord Bacon was the veritable author of the plays and poems supposed to have been written by the great bard of Avon. No one need now despair of the disappearance of any time-honored personage or romance.

The name of Amy Robsart has always possessed a peculiar interest, not merely on account of the historical associations connected with her, but for the halo with which romance and poetry have invested her; and not the least strange feature of the case is the fact that historians should have so generally ignored the falsity of the legend. It had lain wrapped in its venerable mantle for more than three hundred years, until very recently, when public attention was forcibly called to the subject by an article published in the Oxford _Undergraduates’ Journal_, England. In a communication in that periodical, from the Secretary to the Oxford Architectural and Historical Society, there is a statement to the following effect: “The Rev. J. Burgon, the Vicar of St. Mary’s (Oxford), has caused an inscription to be cut on the top step of the three steps leading to the chancel of St. Mary’s Church, commemorating the site of the interment of the ill-fated Amy Robsart. The inscription is as follows: ‘In a vault of brick, at the upper end of this quire, was buried Amy Robsart, wife of Lord Robert Dudley, K. G., Sunday, 22d September, A. D. 1560.’” History tells us that the funeral was celebrated with great pomp: but previously to the ceremony, a coroner’s inquest was held on the body, and after a long and minute investigation of the circumstances, a verdict of “accidental death,” was returned. The character of the Earl of Leicester, (Lord Robert Dudley) her husband, was such as to raise grave doubts as to the mode by which she came by her death, and the popular belief that Queen Elizabeth was in love with him, and was willing to marry him, gave great countenance to the prevailing suspicion that he had kept his marriage a secret, and got rid of his wife to enable him to carry out his ambitious schemes. The historian, Hume, alludes to these reports, which, however, he derived from Camden, the antiquary, and which very probably originated in the political hostility and personal hatred of Cecil, Walsingham, and others of Leicester’s mortal enemies. Ashmole, in his work, _The Antiquities of Berkshire_ gives the popular legend from which Sir Walter Scott derived many of the materials for his beautiful romance of _Kenilworth_.

Ashmole wrote his book about the middle of the seventeenth century, a hundred years after the fatal event at Cumnor Hall; he is, therefore, no authority on the subject; but William Julius Mickle, the poet, took him for one a century later, and turned the story into verse. And thus, between political hostility, personal dislike, the non-authenticated statements of historians, antiquaries, poets and novelists, it has long been accepted as an undoubted fact that Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, murdered his wife, or was accessory to her murder, at Cumnor Hall. But it has been very generally overlooked that his alleged main motive for the supposed murder could have had no existence. There is no doubt the Queen knew he was married, but she continued to disgrace herself by open professions of attachment to him notwithstanding; and after Amy’s sudden death, the inquest on her body, and her public funeral, “Good Queen Bess” was just as fond of him as ever, and showered such favors upon him as could have left him but little to wish for. He knew perfectly well that a marriage between himself and Elizabeth would have convulsed the kingdom, and probably cost him his life. He also knew that she had no real intention of parting with one iota of the royal power or prerogative, even to him, and hence the motive for the so-called murder falls to the ground, and with it the pathetic romance built upon it.

WILLIAM TELL.

William Tell is very hard to kill. German writers in the last century demolish him, over and over again, but to little purpose. He remained the Swiss hero, and what is far worse, those hideous statues at Altorf continue to assert their undying ugliness, and pretend to prove, by their presence there, the truth of the story. The giant has been recently slain once more as an impostor. Once more? Half a dozen times; and each slayer takes himself for the sole and original champion. Swiss professors even have been at the work of demolition. Three or four years ago Mr. Baring-Gould, in his “Curious Myths of the Middle Ages,” set up a dozen of those myths, and bowled them all down at one bowl: he proved, as others had done, that the legend of William Tell was “as fabulous as any other historical event.” Mr. Baring-Gould, however, does more than some others have done. He traces the story as far back as it can be traced. This is the order of the tradition:—

1. In the tenth century a tippling, boasting Danish soldier, named Toki, swore he could drive an arrow through an apple, placed on the point of a stick, at a great distance. King Harald Bluetooth told the boaster that the apple should be placed on his son’s head, and if Toki did not send an arrow through it at the first attempt, his own head should pay the penalty. Toki performed the feat with perfect success; but Harald perceiving he had brought other arrows, demanded the reason thereof, and Toki replied that if he had injured his son he would have driven those other arrows into the King’s body. The story was first related by Saxo Grammaticus, in the twelfth century.

2. But in the eleventh century the above prototype of Tell had successors or imitators. King Olaf, the Saint of Norway, challenged Eindridi, among other things, to shoot with an arrow at a writing tablet on the head of Eindridi’s son. Each was to have one shot. Olaf grazed the boy’s head, whereupon the boy’s mother interfered, and Eindridi was withdrawn from the contest. Olaf remarked that his competitor had a second arrow, which Eindridi confessed that he intended for his Majesty if anything very unpleasant had happened to the boy.

3. A year or two later in this eleventh century, another Norse archer, Hemingr, had a match with King Harold. Harold set a spear-shaft for a mark in the ground. He then fired in the air; the arrow turned in its descent and pierced the spear-shaft. Hemingr followed suit, and split the King’s arrow, which was perpendicularly fixed in the spear-shaft. Then the King stuck a knife in an oak. His arrow went into the haft. Hemingr shot, and his arrow cleft the haft and went into the socket of the blade. The enraged King next fired at a tender twig, which his arrow pierced, but Hemingr’s split a hazel-nut growing upon it. “You shall put the nut on your brother Bjorn’s head,” said Harold, “and if you do not pierce it with your spear at the first attempt, your life shall be forfeited.” Of course the thing was done. Hemingr is supposed to have had his revenge by sending an arrow through Harold’s trachea at the battle of Stamford Bridge, where he fought on the English side.

4. In the Faroe Isles, the above Harold is said to have had a swimming-match with a certain Geyti, who not only beat him, but gave him a ducking. Harold condemned him to shoot a hazel-nut off his brother’s head, under the usual penalty, and with the usual result.

5. The same story is told of one Puncher, (suggestive name,) with this difference, that the object aimed at was a coin.

6. In Finland, it is a son who shoots an apple off his father’s head; for which feat some robbers, who had captured his sire, gave him up to the son.

7. In a Persian poem of the twelfth century, a King, in sport, shoots an arrow at an apple on the head of his favorite page, who, though not hurt, died of the fright.

8. The story, with a difference, is told of Egil, in the Saga of Thidrik, of no particular date.

9. It is familiar to us, in the English ballad of William of Cloudesley, chronological date of event uncertain.

10. Enter William Tell, in the first decade of the fourteenth century. We need not tell his well-known tale again. It is only necessary to remark, by way of comment, that the Tell and Gesler legend was not set up till many years afterwards, and that in no contemporary record is any mention made of either Tell, Gesler, or the apple incident. No Vogt named Gesler ever exercised authority for the Emperor in Switzerland; no family bearing the name of Tell can be traced in any part of that country.

11, and lastly. The hero’s name was not Tell at all, but M’Leod, and he came from Braemar. Mr. Baring-Gould has quite overlooked him. Therefore is the new claimant’s story here subjoined in order to make the roll of legends complete. It is taken from _The Braemar Highlands; their Tales, Traditions and History_, by Elizabeth Taylor. The King referred to is Malcolm Canmore.

“A young man named M’Leod had been hunting one day in the royal forest. A favorite hound of the King’s having attacked M’Leod, was killed by him. The King soon heard of the slaughter of his favorite, and was exceedingly angry—so much so that M’Leod was condemned to death. The gibbet was erected on Craig Choinnich, _i.e._, Kennoth’s Craig. As there was less of justice than revenge in the sentence, little time was permitted ere it was carried into execution. The prisoner was led out by the north gate of the castle. The King, in great state, surrounded by a crowd of his nobles, followed in procession. Sorrowing crowds of the people came after, in wondering amazement. As they moved slowly on, an incident occurred which arrested universal attention. A woman with a child in her arms came rushing through the crowd, and throwing herself before the King, pleaded with him to spare her husband’s life, though it should be at the expense of all they possessed. Her impassioned entreaties were met with silence. Malcolm was not to be moved from his purpose of death. Seeing that her efforts to move the King were useless, she made her way to her husband, and throwing her arms around him declared that she would not leave him—she would go and die with him. Malcolm was somewhat moved by the touching scene. Allen Durward, noticing the favorable moment, ventured to put in the suggestion that it was a pity to hang such a splendid archer. ‘A splendid archer, is he?’ replied the King; ‘then he shall have his skill tried.’ So he ordered that M’Leod’s wife and child should be placed on the opposite side of the river; something to serve as a mark was to be placed on the child’s head. If M’Leod succeeded in hitting the mark without injuring his wife or child his life would be spared, otherwise the sentence was to be carried into execution. Accordingly (so the legend goes) the young wife and child were put across the river, and placed on Tomghainmheine; according to some, a little farther down the river, near where a boat-house once stood. The width of the Dee was to be the distance separating M’Leod from his mark. He asked for a bow and two arrows, and having examined each with the greatest care, he took his position. The eventful moment came, the people gathered round him, and stood in profound silence. On the opposite side of the river his wife stood, the central figure of a crowd of eager bystanders, tears glistening on her cheeks as she gazed alternately at her husband and child in dumb emotion. M’Leod took aim; but his body shook like an aspen-leaf in the evening breeze. This was a trial for him far harder than death. Again he placed himself in position; but he trembled to such a degree that he could not shoot, and turning to the King, who stood near, he said in a voice scarcely articulate in its suppressed agony, ‘This is hard!’ But the King relented not; so the third time he fell into the attitude, and as he did so, almost roared, ‘This is hard!’ Then as if all his nervousness had escaped through the cry, he let the arrow fly—it struck the mark! The mother seized her child, and in a transport of joy seemed to devour it with kisses; while the pent-up emotion of the crowd found vent through a loud cry of wonder and triumph, which repeated itself again and again as the echoes rolled slowly away among the neighboring hills. The King now approached M’Leod, and after confirming his pardon, inquired why he, so sure of hand and keen of sight, had asked two arrows? ‘Because,’ replied M’Leod, ‘had I missed the mark, or hurt my wife and child, I was determined not to miss you.’ The king grew pale, and turned away as if undecided what to do. His better nature prevailed; so he again approached M’Leod, and with kindly voice and manner told him that he would receive him into his body-guard, and he would be well provided for. ‘Never!’ answered the undaunted Celt. ‘After the painful proof to which you have just put my heart. I could never love you enough to serve you faithfully. The King in amazement cried out, ‘Thou art a Hardy! and as Hardy thou art, so Hardy thou shalt be.’” From that time M’Leod went under the appellation of Hardy, while his descendants were termed the M’Hardy’s—Mac being the Gaelic word for son. The date of the above is the eleventh century, when the legend burst forth in several parts of the world. Here we have it in Scotland. Like many other legends it probably came originally from India.

THE TIME OF LE GRAND MONARQUE.

Thackeray draws the following graphic picture of the extremes of society in Europe in the time of Louis XIV. Rarely is the contrast between “the boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,” and “the short and simple annals of the poor,” delineated with such masterly vigor. Referring to the influence of French fashions upon the German courts, he says:—

It is incalculable how much that royal bigwig cost Germany. Every prince imitated the French king, and had his Versailles, his Wilhelmshöhe or Ludwigslust; his court and its splendors; his gardens laid out with statues; his fountains, and water-works, and Tritons; his actors, and dancers, and singers, and fiddlers; his harem, with its inhabitants; his diamonds and duchies for these latter; his enormous festivities, his gaming-tables, tournaments, masquerades, and banquets lasting a week long, for which the people paid with their money, when the poor wretches had it; with their bodies and very blood when they had none; being sold in thousands by their lords and masters, who gaily dealt in soldiers,—staked a regiment upon the red at the gambling table; swapped a battalion against a dancing-girl’s diamond necklace, and, as it were, pocketed their people.