Chapter II: Part 2

The works and correspondence of Abelard were published for the first time in 1616 by the learned Duchesne, and we therein find three letters from Eloisa to Abelard and four from Abelard to Eloisa. These are the letters on which Pope, in England, and Dorat, Mercier, Saurin, Colardeau, &c., in France, founded their poems.

Out of these seven letters, four only can strictly be termed the amatory correspondence of the two lovers. The remainder, and those that have been brought to light and published in later years, are pious effusions which contain no trace whatever of those passionate emotions which pervaded the four other letters. We must remind the reader that the oldest manuscript existing of these epistles is nothing more than an alleged copy of the originals made one hundred years after the death of Eloisa. It is preserved in the library of the town of Troyes, and belongs to the latter half of the 13th century.

A modern French historian, M. Henri Martin, having written some pages in a melodramatic style on these letters of Eloisa, a critic, M. de Larroque,[22] pointed out to him the error into which he had fallen, they having evidently been composed some years after the death of the heroine.

The learned Orelli published in 4ᵗᵒ at Zurich, in 1841, what may be termed the memoirs of Abelard, entitled, _Historia Calamitatum_: also the seven letters of the two lovers.

In the preface to this work, Orelli declares, that on many grounds he believes that these letters, so different from such as might have been expected from Eloisa, were never written by her. The grounds, which Orelli omits to state, are supplied by M. Lalanne in “_La_ _Correspondance Littéraire_” of the 5th December 1856.

In order to arrive at a clear perception of the improbabilities and contradictions contained in these epistles, all the bearings of the case should be kept well in mind.

In the _Historia Calamitatum_, Abelard opens his heart to a friend who is in affliction and whom he endeavours to console by drawing a counter picture of his own misery. The writer relates his life from his birth; his struggles and his theological triumphs; his passion for Eloisa, the vengeance of Fulbert, her uncle, the canon of Paris; his wandering life since he assumed the cowl in the abbey of St. Denis; the foundation of the convent of the Paraclete, where he received Eloisa and the nuns of the convent of Argenteuil; and lastly his nomination as Abbé of the monastery of St. Gildas, where the monks more than once conspired against his life.

This is about the only document we possess regarding the life of Abelard, for it is remarkable that the contemporary writers are singularly concise in all that concerns him. Otho, bishop of Freisingen, who died in 1158, is the only one who makes even an allusion to the vengeance of Fulbert; and he expresses himself so vaguely that his meaning would be incomprehensible were we not able to explain it by the help of the _Historia Calamitatum_.

According to these memoirs, Abelard was thirty-seven or thirty-eight years of age when he became enamoured of Eloisa, who was then sixteen or seventeen years old. He introduced himself into the household of the Canon Fulbert, was appointed professor to the young girl, and soon became domesticated in the family. Eloisa, becoming soon after pregnant, fled to Brittany, where she gave birth to a son. She afterwards returned to Paris, and after frequent negotiations between Fulbert and Abelard, the lovers were at length married, but the marriage was kept secret.

The rest is known. Abelard, fearfully mutilated, became a monk in the abbey of St. Denis, and at his bidding, to which she was ever entirely submissive, Eloisa took the veil in the convent of Argenteuil.

These events occupied about the space of two years, and bring us to 1118 or 1119.

In a council held in Paris ten years later (1129) a decree was passed expelling Eloisa and the other nuns from the convent of Argenteuil, which the Abbé Suger had claimed as being a dependance of the _Abbaye de St. Denis_.[23]

This expulsion coming to the ears of Abelard, he offered the nuns an asylum in the Paraclete, which he had lately founded, and which he soon after made over to them as a gift.

Pope Innocent II. confirmed this gift in 1131. Abelard speaks further, in his _Historia Calamitatum_, of events befalling a year later, and of his return to the abbey of St. Gildas. We see therefore that this memoir, written with much care and attention, cannot have been published before 1133, and perhaps even long after that. Abelard was then in his fifty-fourth year and Eloisa in her thirty-second or thirty-third. About fourteen years had elapsed since both had embraced the monastic life: in the meanwhile they had met and had spent more or less time together in the Paraclete between 1129 and 1132.

Let us now enquire if the subject matter contained in these seven letters, all of which were written after the latter date (a fact that should be carefully noted) agrees with that which has preceded.

The amorous correspondence of the lovers is confined to four letters. The first is written by Eloisa. She says, that if she writes to Abelard at all, it is that she has by accident seen the _Historia Calamitatum_; and in order to convince him that she has read it, she touches briefly on each circumstance recorded in it, every one of which must have been only too familiar to them both.

Does the reader think this a natural or a probable style of commencement? Does it not denote something artificial in the composition? Farther on she complains that Abelard has forsaken her: “her to whom the name of mistress was dearer than that of wife, however sacred this latter tie might be.”[24]

And finally she adds: “Only tell me if you can, why, since we have taken the monastic vows, which you alone desired, you have so neglected and forgotten me that I have neither been blessed by your presence nor consoled by a single letter in your absence. Answer me, I beseech you, if you can, or I may myself be tempted to tell you what I think, and what all the world suspects.”[25]

This letter, full of passionate reproach, contains contradictions and improbabilities perceptible to all who have read that which has preceded.

Let us first call attention to the style, which is hardly to be explained. The passionate expressions of Eloisa would have been quite natural in the first years that followed her separation from Abelard, but fourteen years had elapsed--fourteen years of monastic life to both one and the other.

She appeals to a man of fifty-four years of age, cut off for the space of fourteen years from all intercourse with her, worn out by his theological contests, his wandering life, and the persecutions of which he had been the victim; and who prays only, according to his own letters, “for eternal rest in the world to come.” But nothing checks the flow of her passion, which she pours out with a vehemence the more remarkable as proceeding from a woman of whom Abelard had not long since written, in his _Historia Calamitatum_: “All are alike struck by her piety in the convent, her wisdom, and her incomparable gentleness and patience under the trials of life. She is seldom to be seen, but lives in the solitude of her cell, the better to apply herself to prayer and holy meditation.”

But the continuation seems even more incomprehensible.

Admitting, which is somewhat difficult, that Eloisa had not seen Abelard since his severe affliction until his reception of her in the Paraclete in 1129, on her expulsion from Argenteuil, is it at all certain that they did meet then, and that moreover the frequency of their interviews gave rise to scandalous reports which obliged them again to separate? How then can Eloisa complain that since their entrance upon a religious life (that is to say since 1119) she has “neither rejoiced in his presence, nor been consoled by his letters?” And she wrote this in 1133 or 1134! It is incredible that these lines should have been penned by her.

The second letter of Eloisa is not less ardent than the first. She mourns in eloquent language over the cold tone of sadness pervading the answer sent to her by Abelard. She reverts at some length to the cruel cause of their separation, and deplores her misfortune in such unequivocal terms, that we think it better to give her words in their original latin. “_Difficillimum est a desideriis maximarum voluptatum avellere animum. ... In tantum vero illæ quæs pariter exercuimus amantium voluptates dulces mihi fuerunt ut nec displicere mihi nunc, nec a memoria labi possint._

“_Quocumque loco me vertam, semper se oculis meis cum suis ingerunt desideriis. Nec etiam dormienti suis illusionibus parcunt. Inter ipsa missarum solemnio, obscæna earum voluptatum fustasmata ita sibi penitus miserrimam captivant animam ut turpitudinibus illis magis quam orationi vacem. Quæ cum ingemiscere debeam de commissis, suspiro potius de amissis; nec solum quæ egimus, sed loca pariter et tempora in quibus hæc egimus ita tecum nostro infixa sunt animo, ut in ipsis omnia tecum agam, nec dormiens etiam ab his quiescam. Nonnunquam et ipso motu corporis, animi mei cogitationes deprehenduntur, nec a verbis temperant improvisis ... castam me prædicant qui non deprehenderunt hypocritam._”[26]...

These expressions, scarcely equalled by the delirium of Sappho, succeed at length in rekindling the expiring passion of Abelard. He replies by quotations from Virgil, from Lucanus, and by passages from the Song of Solomon. To convince her that their sorrows are not unmerited, he reminds her on his side of their past pleasures, and among others, of a sacrilegious interview held in the refectory of the convent of Argenteuil, where he had visited her in secret.

He then, and more than once, enlarges in praise of eunuchs, and ends by enclosing a prayer he has composed for her and for himself.

This closes the amorous correspondence, for in the next letter Eloisa declares her resolution, to which she remains firm, of putting a restraint on the ardour of her feelings, although she cannot at the same time refrain from quoting some equivocal lines from Ovid’s _Art of Love_.

We must here once more ask whether, circumstanced as these two lovers were, and taking into consideration the piety and resignation apparent in all the writings of Abelard, he being at the time fifty-four years of age, and Eloisa thirty-three--and after fourteen years’ separation, it is credible or possible that the letters we have quoted, letters in which all modesty is laid aside, should have been written by Eloisa? Allowing that she had preserved Abelard’s correspondence, is it easy to suppose that Abelard, continually moving from place to place, should have preserved hers to the day of his death, so that their letters might eventually be brought together?--letters, too, breathing an ardour so compromising to the reputation of both?

Is it likely that Eloisa should have kept copies of her own letters, the perusal of which, it must be confessed would not have tended to the edification of the nuns?

Remember also that all these events occurred in the first half of the 12th century, in an age when it was very unusual to make collections of any correspondence of an amorous nature.

We can then only arrive at the same conclusion as Messieurs Lalanne, Orelli, Ch. Barthélemy, and others, viz. that the correspondence which has given such renown to the names of Abelard and Eloisa as lovers, is in all probability apocryphal.

M. Ludovic Lalanne has another supposition, which is curious, and which appears to us not to be impossible:

“These letters,” says he, “are evidently very laboured. The circumstances follow each other with great regularity, and the vehement emotions that are traceable throughout, do not in any wise interfere with the methodical march of the whole. The length of the letters, and the learned quotations in them from the Bible, from the fathers of the church, and from pagan authors, all seem to indicate that they were composed with a purpose and with art, and were by no means the production of a hasty pen. Eloisa, we must remember, was a woman of letters, and a reputation for learning was of great value in her eyes. Did she, who survived her lover upwards of twenty years, wish to bequeath to posterity the memory of their misfortunes, by herself arranging and digesting at a later period, so as to form a literary composition, the letters that at divers times she had written and received? Or has perhaps a more eloquent and experienced pen undertaken the task? These are questions difficult to resolve. Anyhow, the oldest manuscript of this correspondence with which we are acquainted, is upwards of a hundred years posterior to the death of Eloisa. It is, as we have already said, the manuscript of the library of the town of Troyes.”

Let us now proceed to examine the authority for the so-called tomb of these lovers in the cemetery of Père la Chaise.

Two learned archæologists will enlighten us on the subject. Monsieur Lenoir,[27] in his _Musée des Monuments français_, and Monsieur de Guilhermy, in an article of the _Annales Archéologiques de Didron_ for 1846.

During the French Revolution of 1792, the convent of the Paraclete, founded by Abelard, was sold. In order to protect the remains of the lovers from desecration, which was too common in those days, some worthy inhabitants of Nogent-sur-Seine, took possession of the coffins and deposited them in the church of that town. Seven years later M. Lenoir obtained the permission of the minister to transfer these remains to Paris, and it occurred to him at the same time, that it would be expedient to enclose them in a tomb of the period in which the lovers had lived. He was told that in the chapel of the infirmary of Saint Marcel-les-Chalons, Peter the Venerable had erected a monument to Abelard. Several denied this fact; but be that as it may, Monsieur Lenoir obtained possession of part of this monument, which had been purchased by a physician of the town in order to save it from destruction. M. Lenoir then constructed a monument with the fragments of a chapel of the abbey of St. Denis, and, as he tells us, placed the sarcophagus, which was of the style of architecture in vogue in the 12th century, in a room of the museum entrusted to his care.

The following information given by M. de Guilhermy[28] will show us how far M. Lenoir succeeded in his architectural device, and how far the sarcophagus contains the actual remains of Abelard and Eloisa:

“How many illusions,” says M. de Guilhermy, “would vanish into thin air if the pilgrims who came to visit the shrine of these celebrated lovers in the cemetery of Père la Chaise only knew, that in the construction of the sepulchral chapel there is not one single stone from the abbey of the Paraclete. The pillars, the capitals, the rose-works, which decorate the facings of the tomb belonged to the abbey of St. Denis. It does not require a very practised eye to discover that the sculptures are not in harmony, and were never intended to form a whole. It was the former director of the _Musée des Monuments Français_, who conceived the idea of putting together some fragments placed at his disposal, and with these to erect a monument worthy of receiving the bones of the two illustrious lovers of the 12th century.

“A wooden case sealed with the republican seal of the municipality of Nogent-sur-Seine, carried to Paris in 1799 the remains which were taken out of the grave in the Paraclete; but before depositing them in their new asylum, it was thought necessary to satisfy the amateurs of relics of this nature. The republicans opened the box, and all that was left of the bodies after a period of six hundred years was stolen out of it.” M. de Guilhermy says that: “Actually a tooth of Eloisa was offered for sale at the time. At any rate it was in the following manner that the tomb of Abelard was completed. A bas-relief which represented the funeral procession of Louis, the eldest son of Louis IX. of France, was taken from St. Denis, and it was decided that for the future this piece of sculpture should do duty for the mausoleum of Abelard. Two medallions, the work of a second-rate artist of the 16th century, represented Abelard with curled mustachios, and Eloisa under the form of a half-naked woman.”

“But this is not all. On the sarcophagus are two recumbent figures. One is draped in priestly robes and was purloined from one of the numerous cloisters demolished in Paris; the other is the statue of some noble lady in the costume and style befitting the 14th century, which once reclined on a tomb in the chapel of St. Jean de Beauvais in Paris.”

It is as well to recall such details as these in order to expose errors which, unless refuted, would from their long standing end by being accepted as truths. But after reading all the circumstances narrated above, can it be believed that Monsieur Guizot, who is so well acquainted with the real facts, or who at any rate ought to be acquainted with them, should, in order to gratify the public taste for sentiment, write as follows in the preface to a translation of the letters of Abelard and Eloisa:[29]

“_Vingt-et-un ans après la mort d’Abailard, c’est-à-dire en 1163, agée de 63 ans, Héloïse descendit dans le même tombeau. Ils y reposent encore l’un et l’autre, après six cent soixante-quinze ans, et tous les jours de fraiches couronnes, déposées par des mains inconnues, attestent pour les deux morts la sympathie sans_ _cesse renaissante des générations qui se succèdent!_”

It would be difficult to find a more inflated style with which to decorate an historical error.

WILLIAM TELL.

A. D. 1307.

Formerly an historical fact needed only the authority of tradition to be generally received and duly established; but in the present day the critic is not so easily satisfied, and insists upon proof as a basis for his belief.

In the field of history we meet with many contested points, but it is rare to find an error persistently maintained during five hundred years, in spite of the refutation of innumerable authors.

This is the case with the tale of William Tell, which is nothing more nor less than a northern saga that has been adopted and repeated from generation to generation.

The revolution which took place in Switzerland in 1307 gave rise to the legend of the Swiss hero, and, from that time to the present, writers have continually endeavoured to expose its unsound basis, but the public, equally pertinacious, have insisted on believing in its truth.

The study of historical and popular legends is the study of a peculiar phase of the human mind, and is one of the aspects under which the history of a people should be considered.

All epochs of ignorance or superstition have been remarkable for a strong belief in the marvellous. The object of belief may vary, but the disposition to believe is the same.

In order to place the history of William Tell as clearly as possible before the reader, let us in the first place turn to the writings of the old Swiss chroniclers. Conrad Justinger, who died in 1426, is one of the most ancient. He was chancellor of the city of Bern, and the composition of a chronicle of this canton was committed to him. It does not extend beyond the year 1421.

Melchior Russ, registrar at Lucerne in 1476, copies word for word in his chronicle the narrative of Conrad Justinger concerning the political state of the Waldstätten, their disputes with the Hapsburg dynasty, and the insurrection of the country.

The Bernese chronicler attributes the insurrection of the Alpine peasantry to the services required and the heavy burdens imposed upon them by the house of Hapsburg, and to the ill-treatment the men, women, and girls endured from the governors of the country. In support of this accusation Melchior Russ cites an example; he says: “William Tell was forced by the seneschal to hit with an arrow an apple placed on the head of his own son, failing in which, he himself was to be put to death.” It is here that Russ takes up the narrative of Justinger, and continues the history of Tell in a chapter entitled: “_Adventure of Tell on the Lake_.”

“Tell resolved to avenge himself of the cruel and unjust treatment he had long endured from the governor and the magistrates. He went into the canton of Uri, assembled the commune, and told them with sobs of emotion of the tyranny and persecution to which he was every day exposed. His complaints coming to the ears of the governor, he ordered Tell to be seized, to be bound hand and foot, and to be carried in a boat to a fortified castle situated in the centre of the lake. During the passage across a violent tempest arose, and all on board, giving themselves up for lost, began to implore the aid of God and of the saints. It was suggested to the governor that Tell, being vigorous and skilled in nautical matters, was the only one likely to help them out of their danger. Aware of their imminent peril, the governor promised that Tell’s life should be spared if he succeeded in landing all the passengers in safety. On his promising to do so he was set free, and manœuvred so well that he steered close to a flat rock, snatched up his cross-bow, leapt ashore at one bound, and, aiming at the governor, shot him dead. The crew were home away in the boat, which Tell had quickly pushed off from the shore, and he regained the interior, where he continued to excite the people to rebellion and to revolt.”

We will now quote from Peterman Etterlein, another chronicler, whose work was first published at Bâle in 1507:

“Now it happened one day that the seneschal (or governor), named Gressler (or Gessler), came to the canton of Uri, and ordered a pole to be fixed on a spot much frequented by the people. A hat was placed on the top of the pole, and a decree was published commanding every passer-by to do homage to the hat as if the governor himself stood there in person. Now there was in the canton a worthy man named William Tell, who had secretly conspired with Stöffacher and his companions. This man passed and repassed several times in front of the pole and the hat without saluting them. The official on guard reported the circumstance to his master, who, when he became acquainted with this act of insubordination, summoned Tell to his presence, and demanded the reason of his disobedience. “My good Lord,” said Tell, “I could not imagine that your Grace would attach so much importance to a salute; pardon me this fault, therefore, and impute it to my thoughtlessness. Now William Tell was the most skilful crossbowman that it was possible to find, and he had pretty children whom he tenderly loved. The governor said to him: ‘It is reported that thou art a celebrated archer; thou shalt give me a proof of thy skill in bringing down with thine arrow an apple placed on the head of one of thy children. If thou dost not hit it at the first trial it shall cost thee thy life.’

“It was in vain that Tell remonstrated with the governor; he refused to relent, and he himself placed the apple on the head of the child. Thus driven by hard necessity, Tell first took an arrow which he slipt under his doublet, and then took another which he fitted to his bow. Having prayed to God and to the holy Virgin to direct his arm and to save his son, he brought down the apple without wounding the child. The governor had perceived that he concealed the first arrow, and questioned him as to his reason for so doing, and after much hesitation on the one part and terrible menaces on the other, Tell confessed that if he had struck his child, he should have shot the governor with the second arrow. Well, replied Gessler, I have promised thee thy life and I will keep my word, but since I am acquainted with thy evil intentions, I will confine thee in a place where thou wilt never see the sun nor the moon, and where thou wilt no longer have it in thy power to attempt my life. He immediately ordered his attendants to seize Tell, and he embarked with them and the prisoner for his castle of Küssenach, where he resolved to shut up his victim in a dark tower. Tell’s arms were placed in the stern of the boat, close to the governor.”

As in the preceding narrative, a storm arises, and Tell, to whom the care of the vessel is confided, leaps upon a rock, lies in ambush in a hollow through which the governor must pass to reach his castle, and kills him with an arrow from his bow.

The other chroniclers have followed the same story, sometimes modifying it and at others subjecting it to a critical examination. Now there are four different views existing of this tradition of William Tell. The first admits the authenticity of the legend in all its details, as it is believed in the canton of Uri.

The second admits the existence of Tell, his refusal to do homage to the hat, his voyage on the lake, and the tragical end of Gessler; but it rejects the story of the apple.

According to the third view, William Tell is believed to have existed and to have made himself remarkable by some daring exploit; but this exploit was not connected with the plans of the conspirators, and consequently exercised no influence over the formation of the Swiss confederation.

The fourth view supposes the tradition of William Tell to be a mere fable, an afterthought, unworthy of being inserted in any history of Switzerland.

We know of no chronicle anterior to those of Melchior Russ and Petermann Etterlein that records the events of which the tradition of William Tell is composed. And so great a difference is perceptible between the two histories, that it would be presumption to maintain that the one emanates from the other, or that they have been drawn from a common source.

However it is far from being the fact that all the historical works written by the cotemporaries of this hero have been destroyed or buried in oblivion. Freudenberger, in his _Danish Fable_, has cited several of them. Franz Guillimann, in his work _De rebus Helveticis_, published at Fribourg in 1598, inserted the history of William Tell, although he regarded it as a mixture of fiction and probable facts, or rather as a conventional truth that does not bear examination; for he casts a doubt upon the very existence of the personage whose memory the Swiss people honour as their liberator.

In one of his letters, addressed to Goldast, 27th March 1607, he writes thus: “You ask me what I think of the history of William Tell: here is my answer. Although in my _Helvetian Antiquities_ I have yielded to the popular belief in introducing certain details connected with that tale, still when I look more closely into it, the whole thing appears to me to be a pure fable; and that which confirms me in my opinion is, that up to this time I have never met with any writer anterior to the 15th century who alludes to any such history. It appears to me that all the circumstances have been invented to foment the hatred of the confederate states against Austria. I could produce my reasons for supposing this story of Tell to be a fabrication; but why should we waste time on such a subject?”

Here then we have a respectable historian, the author of a learned work on the antiquities of Switzerland, confessing himself obliged to admit an error because it is popular! Perhaps also, in his own interest, it was safer to do so, for a few years later (in 1760) Uriel Freudenberger created a terrible disturbance in Bern by publishing a small volume in Latin entitled _William Tell, a Danish Fable_, which was by many attributed to Emmanuel Haller. The canton of Uri condemned the author to be burned with his book, and on the 14th of June in the same year it addressed a very urgent letter to the other cantons, advising them to pass a like sentence.

The work of Freudenberger having been burnt, the copies became extremely scarce, but it was reprinted in Breyer’s _Historical Magazine_, Vol. I. p. 325. The same text was also reproduced--but only in order to be partially refuted--in the work of Hisely, published at Delft in 1826 under the title: “_Of William Tell and the Swiss Revolution of 1307; or the history of the early cantons up to the treaty of Brunnen in 1315_.”

In the latter half of the 17th century, a writer as eminent as Guilliman, J. H. Rahn, after recording in his chronicle the history of Tell according to the tradition, explains his reasons for regarding it as fabulous, or at least as open to suspicion.

Later still, another writer, Isaac Christ. Iselin, in his large historical dictionary (_Historisches und geographisches allgemeines Lexicon_, Basel 1727, in folio) says, that although several authors cite this story, it is nevertheless open to doubt, because 1) the ancient annalists are silent on the subject, and 2) because Olaus Magnus has related the same adventure of a certain Toko, in the reign of Harold king of Denmark. There is so great a similarity between the two stories that it is impossible to avoid supposing that one has been copied from the other.

Two important publications express themselves in a still more positive manner. In the chronicle of Melchior Russ, edited by Schneller of Lucerne, the editor, in learned notes, conveys serious doubts upon the story and even upon the very existence of William Tell. These doubts acquire a fresh importance from the collection of documents published in 1835 by Kopp, a man of letters, who shows how slight is the foundation for the tradition which makes Tell the avenger of oppressed liberty. It will be seen that the Swiss writers of the 15th and 16th centuries, far from being agreed as to the time at which Tell is said to have signalised himself by an act of heroism, refer this event, on the contrary, to different periods, and separate the two extremes of the dates by a space of forty years. Kopp renders the story of the apple still more doubtful, by the positive assurance that the administration of Küssenach was never in the hands of a Gessler. This assertion is founded on the charters, which denote the uninterrupted succession of the administrators of Küssenach during the century in which the incident in question is said to have taken place. The notes of M. Kopp contain precise indications which shake the basis upon which rests the history of William Tell, and threaten to overthrow it.

Thus, in resuming, we see that the most ancient work which makes any mention of the adventures of William Tell is the chronicle of Melchior Russ junior, written at the end of the 15th century. Hence it follows that this story was not known until two centuries after the event (1296 to 1482), and that the chronicles of the middle ages, so eager after extraordinary facts and interesting news, were entirely ignorant of it. Indeed, Hammerlin and Faber, writers of the 15th century, and Mutius a chronicler at the beginning of the 16th century, narrate in detail the tyrannical conduct of Austria, which they consider as the principal cause of the insurrection of the Swiss people; but not one of them speaks of a Tell or of a William, neither of the story of the apple, nor of the tragical end of Gessler. Moreover, we possess the work of a contemporary of William Tell, Jean de Winterthür, whose chronicle is one of the best of the 14th century. He recounts the details of the war which the herdsmen of the Alps waged against Austria. He describes with remarkable precision the battle of Morgarten, the particulars of which he had gathered from the lips of his father, an eye-witness of it. He says, that on the evening of that day so fatal to Austria, he saw the Duke Leopold arrive in flight, pallid and half-dead with fright. Jean de Winterthür also tells us that the heroes of Morgarten instituted, on the very day of their victory, a solemn festival to perpetuate the remembrance of it. But this chronicler, who knew so much, and who was so fond of relating even fabulous histories, has made no mention whatever of the deeds of William Tell! How is it possible to conceive that the above-named authors could unanimously pass over in silence the historical fact attributed to William Tell, a fact accompanied by circumstances so remarkable that they must have made a strong impression on every mind? The love of the marvellous is a characteristic trait of the middle-ages, and yet the poetical story of William Tell has left no vestige in the annals of his cotemporaries! It does not appear in the chronicle of Zürich of 1479, where even the name of William Tell is not cited. What must be inferred from this silence?

If we proceed to examine the circumstances as they are related by those who have written of William Tell, we shall find the authors at variance in their details; contradicting themselves in their chronology and in the names of the places where they assert the facts to have occurred.

In 1836 the professors of philosophy at the university of Heidelberg proposed the following subject for literary composition: “To examine with greater care than Messieurs Kopp and Ideler have done, into the origin of the Swiss confederation and into the details given respecting Gessler and Tell, and to estimate the sources whence these details have come down to us.” The university received in answer to this proposition a memoir which obtained a prize, and which was published by the author, Ludwig Häusser, in 1840.

Of all the works that have appeared on this subject this is the most complete and the most valuable. To a great acquaintance with the historical literature of Switzerland, M. Häusser unites that spirit of criticism without which it is impossible to distinguish truth from fiction. The following are the conclusions arrived at by M. Häusser from his researches. 1) There is nothing to justify the historical importance that is commonly attached to William Tell. He has no right to the title of deliverer of Switzerland, seeing that he took no active part in the freedom of the Waldstätter. 2) The existence of a Swiss named William Tell is without doubt. It is probable that this man made himself remarkable by some bold exploit, but one not in any way connected with the history of the confederation. 3) As for the tradition as it is preserved in ballads and chronicles, it is only supported by such evidence as is unworthy of credit. It is easy to demonstrate that the particulars related in this tradition are not authentic, and that they are pure inventions of the imagination. In short, the story of the apple shot from the head of the child is of Scandinavian origin.

Monsieur J. Hisely has summed up the whole discussion on the subject of William Tell in his _Recherches Critiques_, published at Lausanne in 1843.

In the historico-critical treatise of Julius Ludwig Ideler (Berlin 1836), the author says that there exists no record of incontestable authenticity referring to the romantic incident of Tell’s life. The chapel near Flüelen, on the borders of the lake, was only constructed in 1388: the chapel at Burglen, on the spot where Tell’s house formerly stood, dates back to the same time, and there is no written document to prove that they were built to commemorate any share taken by Tell in the emancipation of Switzerland.

The stone fountain at Altdorf[30] which bore the name of Tell, and above which was seen the statue of Tell, and of his son with an apple placed upon his head, was only constructed in 1786, when the tradition had already been singularly shaken by critical researches.

Ideler adds, that Tell’s lime-tree in the centre of the market place at Altdorf (Tellenlinde), and his crossbow preserved in the arsenal at Zürich, are not more valid proofs than the pieces of the true cross which are exhibited in a thousand places, or the handkerchief of St. Veronica, that is said to be the real original.

A critic whom it is also important to read on this question, is Hisely, in his investigations into the sources whence the Swiss writers have drawn the history of William Tell. He explains at length the reasons that make him consider the absolute silence of Jean de Winterthür and of Conrad Justinger as an inexplicable enigma.

Hisely has pursued his researches without being prejudiced for or against the popular faith, but the result tends to show how little foundation there is for the story.

In conclusion we will cite the legends analogous to the circumstance of the apple shot in twain by William Tell.

ENDRIDE PANSA, OR THE SPLAY-FOOTED.

(A LEGEND OF THE 10TH CENTURY.)

The king of Norway went to pay a visit to Endride, a young pagan whom he wished to convert to Christianity. After they had drank together, and before setting out for the chase, the king said to Endride: “I wish to see which of us two is the best marksman.” “I consent,” said Endride. They entered a neighbouring forest. The king took off his cloak, fixed a long piece of wood in the ground at a considerable distance, which was to serve as a mark to the two archers. He then bent his bow and aimed so accurately that the arrow hit the top of the wood and remained fixed in it. All the spectators were in admiration at the dexterity of the king. Endride at first asked to be excused from shooting; but the king refused, and Endride, being forced to obey, shot, and planted his arrow in that of the king, so that they were embedded the one in the other. The king, evidently piqued, said to Endride: “In truth thy skill is remarkable, but this trial is not decisive. Let thy sister’s son be brought, on whom thou hast once said all thy affections are concentrated. Let him serve as a mark for us, and let one of the chessmen be placed upon the head of the child.” The boy was brought and fastened to a stake. “We are going,” said the king to his rival, “to bring down this chessman from the head of the child without hurting him.” “Make the trial, if such is your good pleasure,” replied Endride; “but if you touch the boy, I will avenge him.”

The king ordered the eyes of the child to be bandaged, made the sign of the cross, and blessed the point of the arrow before shooting. The countenance of Endride became flushed with emotion. The dart flew, and the historian Thormod Torfæus, who recites the fact, adds that Olaf shot off the chessman without doing the least injury to the child.

The saga goes on to relate that Endride, overcome with admiration at the skill of the king, yielded to his wishes, was baptised and was received as a welcome guest at the court of Olaf.

ADVENTURES OF HEMING.

Harold Hardrade, king of Norway (1047-1066), went one day to visit Aslak, a rich peasant of the isle of Torg, which forms part of the group of the islands of Heligoland, and made acquaintance with Heming, son of the opulent islander. Aslak, who distrusted his guest, sought to get rid of him as soon as possible; he came therefore at the end of the second day to tell Harold that his vessel was ready to sail. But the king replied, that he intended to pass yet another day on the island. He then betook himself to the forest, there to contend for the honour of victory in shooting with the crossbow. Although Harold was a skilful archer, he could not equal his rival. Irritated, and desirous to avenge this affront, the king ordered Heming, under pain of death, to hit with his arrow a nut placed upon the head of his brother Biörn. At first Heming refused to obey so barbarous an order; but, yielding at length to the entreaties of his brother, he begged the king to place himself by the side of Biörn, in order to ascertain the result of the trial. But Harold made Odd Ofeigsön take that place, and he himself remained close to Heming. The latter, having made the sign of the cross and invoked the vengeance of heaven upon the oppressor, drew his bow and shot the nut placed on the head of Biörn.

The saga relates that the tyranny of Harold excited the islanders to revolt, and that Heming, having taken refuge in England, was present in the English army at the battle of Standfordbridge in 1066. The Norwegian king, at the first shock of the two armies, was struck by an arrow that pierced his throat.

ADVENTURE OF PALNATOKE, OR TOKO.

This legend is to be found in the _History of Denmark by Saxo Grammaticus_. He has drawn his recitals from oral tradition and ancient ballads. This author died in 1204. It appears that the adventure of Toko must have taken place under the reign of Harold of the Black Tooth; that is to say about 950.

A certain Toko, attached for some time to the service of the king, had excited the jealousy of his companions in arms by his valour and his exploits. One day, during a banquet, Toko boasted that with the first flight of his arrow he would bring down from a distance an apple placed on the end of a staff. His curious companions related the circumstance to the king, adding to it remarks insulting to himself. Harold, whose wicked disposition was irritated by the discourse of his flatterers, ordered Toko to perform what he had boasted himself capable of doing, taking for a mark an apple placed on the head of his child. He added, that if he did not succeed on the first attempt, his vanity should cost him his life. The imminence of the danger strengthened the courage of Toko. After placing his child, the intrepid warrior impressed upon him the necessity of remaining motionless when he should hear the hissing of the arrow; and, having taken the measures dictated by prudence, he made him turn his head aside, lest he should be frightened at the sight of the weapon his father was aiming at him. Then Toko took three arrows, fixed one in his bow, and hit the apple at the first trial. The king asking Toko what he had intended to do with the two remaining arrows, the archer replied: “If my arm had failed me, the second arrow should have pierced thy heart, and the third, that of the first audacious man who dared to advance a step.” The king, concealing his resentment, subjected Toko to other trials, and he, cursing Harold, sought out Svend, the son of Harold, who was arming to make war against his father. One day, having surprised the king behind a bush, he revenged himself for all the outrages he had endured, by letting fly at him an arrow which inflicted a mortal wound.

Olaüs Magnus also relates this story, which is not surprising, seeing that he has sometimes copied word for word from _Saxo Grammaticus_. He confesses, moreover, that he has borrowed from his predecessor.

ADVENTURES OF EGIL.

If from Scandinavia we pass into Iceland, we there find the legend of the apple transmitted to us by the Vilkina-Saga, in the 14th century.

Once upon a time, Egil, the brother of Veland the smith, came to the court of king Nidung. Egil excelled in the art of handling the bow and the crossbow. His address excited admiration throughout the country. The king Nidung gave Egil a good reception, and put his skill more than once to the proof. After having exhausted all the resources of his imagination, he took it into his head to have an apple placed upon the head of the son of Egil. “From where thou standest,” said he to the archer, “thou must shoot down this apple.” Egil took an arrow from his quiver, tried its point, and laid it by his side. He then took a second arrow, rested it on the string of his bow, took aim, and struck the apple in such a manner that the arrow and the apple both fell to the ground. This trial of skill still lives in the memory of the people. King Nidung then asked Egil why he had taken two arrows, since he had been ordered to hit the apple at one trial. “Sire,” replied Egil, “I will tell you the truth, whatever may be the consequence. This arrow was destined for you, if I had wounded my son.” The king admired the frankness of this reply, and was not offended by it, acknowledging the cruelty of the order he had given.

All the spectators agreed that it was the speech of a worthy and brave man.

ADVENTURE OF WILLIAM OF CLOUDESLY.

The large forests of England were for many years formidable to the Normans. They were inhabited by the last remnants of the Saxon armies, who still disputing the conquest, persisted in leading a life opposed to the laws of the invader. Every where driven out, pursued, hunted like wild beasts, they here, favoured by the shelter of the forests, had been able to maintain themselves in force, under a sort of military organisation.

Among the chief outlaws, Adam Bel, Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudesly, were not the least celebrated. Bound together by the same destiny, they had taken an oath of fraternity, as was customary in the 12th century. Adam and Clym were not married, but William had a wife and three children, whom he had left at Carlisle. One day he resolved to visit them. He set off in spite of the counsels of his companions, and arrived at night in the city: but being recognised by an old woman, he was denounced to the magistrate, his house was surrounded, he was made prisoner, and a gallows was erected in the market-place on which to hang him. A young swine-herd informed Adam and Clym of the fate of their brother in arms. The sentence was about to be executed, when the two friends of the condemned man appeared in the market-place, and a sanguinary combat ensued, which terminated in the delivery of the prisoner. The three outlaws, however, worn out at length with their wandering life, decided upon making their submission. They arrived in London with the eldest son of William of Cloudesly, entered the king’s palace without uttering a word to any one, proceeded into the hall, and, kneeling on one knee, raised their hands and said. “Sire, deign to pardon us.” “What are your names?” demanded the king. “Adam Bel, Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudesly.” “Ah, you are then those brigands of whom I have heard? I swear to God, you shall all three be hung!” They were immediately arrested by the king’s order; but the queen, moved by the unhappy fate of these three men who had voluntarily surrendered themselves, interceded for them and obtained their pardon, but on condition that they should be victorious in a shooting match with the king’s archers.

Two branches of a hazel tree were fixed in the ground in a field at a distance of twenty times twenty paces. None of the king’s men at arms could hit this mark. “I will try,” said William, and he bent his bow and took so true an aim that the arrow split the branch. “Thou art the best archer that I have seen in the whole course of my life,” said the astonished king. “To please my sovereign lord,” said William, “I would do something still more surprising. I have a son of the age of seven years: I love this son with an extreme tenderness: I will attach him to a post in the presence of every one, I will place an apple upon his head, and at the distance of a hundred and twenty paces I will pierce the apple without wounding the child.” “I take thee at thy word,” said the king; “but if thou failest, thou shalt be hung.” “What I have promised,” said William, “I will perform.” He fixed a stake in the ground, fastened his son to it, and, having made him turn away his head, placed the apple upon it. After taking these precautions, William went to a distance of a hundred and twenty paces, bent his bow, besought all present to keep strict silence, and let fly the arrow, which pierced the apple without touching the child. “God preserve me from ever serving as an aim to thee!” exclaimed the king. The skilful archer, his brethren in arms, and his wife and children, were conducted to the court, where the king and queen loaded them with favours.

This trial of skill of William of Cloudesly still dwells in the memory of the people. Several English poets make mention of the fact, and the old English ballad has furnished Sir Walter Scott with many particulars of the scene of the archery meeting in Ivanhoe.

Let us here conclude, only making the remark, that at the end of the _Recherches critiques sur l’histoire de Guillaume Tell_, by J. J. Hisely, this author has quoted the documents, so called authentic, which the supporters of this story have published; and he has also made mention of the chapel built on the Lake of Lucerne, to the memory it is said, of William Tell.

Hisely also shows that none of these alleged proofs stand the test of strict examination, and that some of the documents are even forgeries.

PETRARCH AND LAURA.

A. D. 1325.

Petrarch was born at Arezzo in 1304. His father Petracco sent his son at an early age to study law at Bologna, but an irresistible passion for poetry, which soon shewed itself, led him to neglect more profitable studies for the works of the poets and philosophers of antiquity. At 22 years of age Francesco di Petracco (for such was his name) had lost both father and mother, and was left without the means of subsistence. He took up his abode with his brother Gherardo at Avignon, the last residence of his father, and instead of striving to increase their very small income by entering upon some lucrative profession, Francesco spent his whole time in reading Virgil, Cicero, Horace, and _tutti quanti_.

One morning early, as Petrarca (the name he had now adopted, probably out of vanity) entered the church of the nuns of Santa Clara, he was struck, say his biographers, by the dazzling beauty of a young girl, by the sweet expression of her face, the grace of her form, and the tastefulness of her costume.

Her eyes were blue, say some; they were black, say others; and the reader will see presently that this is not the only point on which opinions differed. This beauty was Laura, or Loretta de Noves, or de Sade, or Desbaux; for there is great uncertainty even regarding her name. Petrarca, we are told, took her for his ideal. He may really have been in love with her, or he may only have conformed to the fashion of those days, when poets were in the habit of selecting some imaginary object for their devotion and adoring it in a poetical sense. Thus was it with Cavalcanti, Montemagno and Cino da Pistoja, whose Mandetta, Lauretta, and Selvaggia were only poetical fictions and so was it in fact with Dante himself, whose Beatrice was a child who died at nine years of age. Thomas Keightley, in his _Tales and Popular Fictions_, and other English authors, adopt the latter sceptical opinion. “I confess,” says Keightley, “that I am not indisposed to regard the Beatrice of Dante, the Laura of Petrarca, the Fiammetta of Boccacio, and all those ladies with significant names, who were all first seen in passion week, and whose lovers all survived them, as being more the creatures of air and of romance than of real flesh and blood.”