Chapter III (3)

Of the regular sights set down in the hand-books, and explored by conscientious Englishmen with their Murrays under their arms, it would not be appropriate to speak at length. I may however indulge in an allusion to the different material, whereof are constructed two of the most highly-laboured marvels, here exhibited. Now the city itself is divided into two nearly equal parts by the small river Pegnitz, these parts bearing the names respectively of the principal church that stands in either. The one is dedicated to St. Sebald, the other to St. Lawrence. The former, as its chief curiosity, contains the shrine of its patron Saint, an elaborate and most exquisitely wrought fretwork canopy, about fifteen feet in height, beneath which repose his remains. The design is in a measure architectural, and Gothic of course; but the ornamentation is its great glory, though one is staggered somewhat at the irreverent juxtaposition of the twelve Apostles with Cupids and Mermaids, and at sundry Fathers of the Church disporting themselves amid clusters of fruit and bouquets of flowers. This monument of artistic skill was the work of Peter Vischer, one of the worthies of Nuremburg, and has been completed three hundred and forty years. The able worker, having dispensed with consistency in the admixture of Christian and Pagan accessories, as I have mentioned, was at least justified in introducing a figure of himself as one of the human animals; and a very fine statuette he makes, with chisel in hand and his working apron about him. Now mark, if you please, O attentive reader, this shrine of St. Sebald is entirely cast in bronze. To say that the effect is beautiful, is too limited praise. It is harmonious; thoroughly satisfying to the eye; perfect.

Cross with me now, if you be not weary, one of the dozen picturesque bridges over the Pegnitz, and let us see what Adam Krafft, another great Nuremburger of that same age, has done in the same line of Gothic decoration for the Church of St. Lawrence. His work is a shrine, or I should rather say a repository for the sacramental wafer of the Roman Catholic rite. It is an open-work spire, tapering to the height of sixty feet, with an infinity of graceful detail, and rare sculptures in high and low relief. One fantasy is, I think, unique of its kind. The roof is a little too low to admit the crowning summit fairly; and the top, therefore, has been made to bend over. The effect--purposely designed, I cannot doubt--is odd; nor can I agree with the fantastic remark of Murray's Handbook, that it "has the air of a plant which is chocked in its further growth." Spires and plants are not endowed with equal pliability, and the idea of one of the former waving about, or nodding gracefully, suggests an immediate "stand from under." And this all the more in this instance, because--which brings me thus round-aboutedly to my main point--the material hereon employed is stone, a clean and white-toned stone, that looks as though its excellent carvings and mouldings had been completed only for the last Crystal Palace Exhibition. The apparent newness is downright provoking; and if Adam Krafft could peep at it from his honoured grave, he would never dream that he has lain therein three centuries and a half. Let me say further--having thus stumbled upon personalities--that he too made himself as durable as his work. And with more modesty than Master Peter Vischer above named, who moulded for himself a niche in his monument corresponding, in size and position, to the one assigned to the patron Saint, though being at the opposite end of the shrine, the glorifier and the glorified could not be taken into one glance and a comparison forced. There was more modesty, I say, in Adam Krafft's mode of travelling down the stream of Time as showman of his show, though he was not methinks without a dash of _craft_, as befits the bearer of his name. Down upon their marrow-bones (as the school boys have it) with rounded backs grope Adam and his two apprentices, the three backs forming a base of operations, or in plainer words upholding the sixty-feet structure, and doing for it that which is done beneath his rival's shrine by a snail at each of the four corners. Perhaps, after all, the sculptor-architect was wiser than the bronze-caster, in his mode of identifying himself with his work. Amid a multitude of figures and emblems, Peter Vischer, as well as St. Sebald, may be overlooked, for they are small in size; but you can scarcely avoid asking "who are these three?" when you note how lofty is the edifice that the large quasi-Atlases bear.

Enough, touching these minor differences. The essential one, whereof I intended to speak, is the material in which the pair wrought respectively. I have said that the bronze entirely satisfied my critical eye, which is tantamount to saying that it charmed me. Not so with the stone. It is obviously ill-adapted for detached ornamentation, needing the solid adjunct of buttress, window, wall, or pillar, just as ivy needs the oak, or (may I utter such a term?) lace the woman. Indeed, with all my admiration for sundry mediaeval specimens of Gothic architecture, wherein I scarcely yield to John Ruskin himself, I confess that the famous Eleanor's Crosses in England never quite pleased me, because therein the tracery and dainty delicacies of the design are not backed by anything massive. The greater part of my readers will not agree with me. I am sorry, but can't help it. Only, I don't want to see any more open-work baskets in stone. Give me the most fantastical of Gothic devices, as many as you please, so long as they have something to cling to.

Finally, I have fallen quite in love with this quaint, irregular old place. Nor do I know how long I might have loitered, had not the inevitable disillusion come, as come it will over so many promising things and fair. Otherwise I might have gone back--in imagination--to those honest old times of Durer, Vischer, Krafft, and Company, and imagined myself a free burgher of a free city. But the spell was doubly broken. At the old castle--whereof some small apartments are unpretendingly fitted up for the King and Queen of Bavaria--there comes upon one, in another part thereof, a vision of certain instruments of torture, used undoubtedly in those good old times to keep the burghers submissive to their oligarchy of merchant princes. And again at the Rath-haus, or Hotel de Ville; the maidenly show-woman lighted us by lanthorn-light through a set of subterranean dungeons, too numerous to have been destined for offenders only against the criminal laws, too horrible to be sanctioned under our creed of comparative gentleness. And so, on the whole, I returned back to actual existence, and to all the boredom of Parliamentary conflicts and Presidential elections, with a certain sense of relief.

ROMAN NOMENCLATURE.

By dint of many rambles I am become fairly versed in the topography of Rome; but its history, as elucidated by monuments or relics, is a perpetual riddle to the beholder. The Republic, the Empire, the Barbarian Invasions, Free Lances, Barons, Kings, and Popes--all are suggested; all come before you in confused array; not unfrequently, three or four at once. You shall go into a church to hear mass amid modern tawdriness, entering through a mediaeval porch, taking your place between walls that were put up long before the Christian era, and under a roof supported by pillars whereon the sun of Phrygia has shone. Pagan and Christian--all is jumbled; until finally, unless you have the patience of Job and the zeal of an antiquarian, you begin to doubt all legendary and historic lore, and to measure what you see by its external attractiveness alone. One thing, however, is clearly marked. You are groping about, in a state of vexed uncertainty; suddenly you come upon an inscription, conspicuous, in large legible letters, often gilded. Now you are grateful. You stride up; and lo, there stands, emblazoned before you the interesting fact that such or such a Pontifex Maximus, some Benedict, or Clemens, or Pius, or Leo, or Gregory, restored, excavated, ornamented, or built, as the case may have been, the object upon which you have been pondering. Neither, in the dearth of desirable information, are you compensated by the opportunity of picking up chronological knowledge in regard to the Papacy. These fulsome records omit, not only all description that might be useful; they fail to mention the year of the World, or the year of Grace, altogether. In place thereof, you learn that the digging or decoration in question took place in a certain year of the reign of a certain Pope; but as the chair of St. Peter has had one hundred and sixteen occupants, between A.D. 1000 and A.D. 1860, "Anno VI. of Innocent VI." or "Anno II. of Julius II." does not materially aid the memory as to dates. This petty craving after chiselled or painted immortality is nowhere more contemptibly exhibited than in Raphael's famous Loggie at the Vatican, where, over each separate window, one reads in staring type, "Leo X., Pontifex Maximus." Surely there is something strangely inconsistent, in a power that boasts its remote origin and its endowment in perpetuity, thus taking infinite pains to isolate its historical fragments.

A smile only--not a grunt of indignation--is elicited by another peculiarity of Rome, which comes under the lounger's notice. Something of the same sort is perhaps also observable in all large cities; but it never struck me so strongly. I allude to the names of the streets and squares and public places, which names by the way are carefully and prominently labelled. The jumble is curious, though one starts a little at times from what to Protestant eyes seems irreverent. Take a sample, dispensing with the titles in Italian. You may stroll through the street of the Three Virgins, of the Three Robbers, of Jesus, of the Tarpeian Rock, of the Two Butchers' Shops, of the Baboon, of Divine Love, of the New Benches, of the Prefects, of the House-tops, of Jesus and Mary, of the Greeks, of the Tower of Blood, of the Triton, of the Guardian Angel, of the Strumpet, of the Soul, of the Scrofula, of the Eagle, of the Lion's Mouth, of the Five Moons, of Minerva, of the Incurables, of the Wind, of the Wolf, of St. John Beheaded. You may halt in the square of the Mouth of Truth, in that of the Field of Flowers, in that of the Satyrs, in that of Consolation, in that of the Goose. It is evident that no ruling mind or principle has regulated this public nomenclature. _Tot homines, quot sententiae._

And is it not the same thing in private affairs? What variety of tastes! Here is a specimen. Two young men of my acquaintance, who have been campaigning in India, arrived here, the other day, on their first visit. One of them had a relative here, of a scholastic turn of mind, who was bringing a protracted sojourn to a close; and to him the cavalry officers were in a measure consigned. "Can you tell me what's to be seen at Ostia and Veii?" said one of them to me, forty-eight hours after their arrival. "Our friend, B., is going to take us a day's excursion to each place, to-morrow and the following day." I could scarcely keep my countenance. The poor innocents were sold to an antiquarian. Ostia is destitute of any objects that would repay a half-hour's walk. As for Veii, the learned have only agreed of late whereabouts that ancient city stood.

BRIGANDS, BEGGARS, AND SOUVENIRS.

My last communication was from Rome. It was piquant, on the day of departure thence from Naples, to dine at Terracina with a Prussian family, who had been stopped and robbed by brigands, at eight o'clock the previous morning, at a spot between Velletri and Cisterna. There was however no _Fra Diavolo_ in the case. The respectable _pere de famille_, who with his sons and daughters had been laid under contribution, informed us that the fellows were evidently peasants unused to the trade; that they presented guns, in exacting their demand for money; but that they were nervous in their brief operation, and that they did not ransack the trunks, nor even carry off the watches and rings of the party. The chief sufferer was the vetturino, whom fright and the loss of thirty-six dollars had thrown into a fever, causing the detention which brought us into contact with the narrators. We passed on our way, without adventure; the safest period, there as elsewhere, being that which immediately follows one. I incline to think that extreme destitution induced this recourse to a practice almost obsolete, as it probably gave rise to the personal robberies, unattended with violence, which have been recently rife in Rome itself.

And in connection with this point, I may swell the laments of late travellers as to the chronic prevalence, throughout Southern Italy, of those other unceasing robberies of extortion and mendicancy, which are so much more difficult of toleration. I declare that of all the mythical personages of classic lore brought back to one's memory by local association, whether in the Elysian Fields or on the borders of Lake Avernus, the Harpies are those who alone survive, and who obtrude themselves always and everywhere, in season and out of season. The foul brood have assumed human semblance, and haunt you in all varieties. The unbidden cicerone, or the sturdy beggar--it is hard to say which is the worse.

How I anathematized them both at Sorrento, where there are certain souvenirs of Tasso, not so direct and tangible as those preserved in the Convent of San Onofrio at Rome, but which are worth the tracing. You will remember that the hapless poet found a resting place here in the house of his sister, after he escaped from his seven years' imprisonment at Ferrara. To be adjured, for charity, in the name of the Virgin and every Saint in the calendar--to have a jackass and a guide, or a jackass of a guide, thrust upon you, _nolens volens_ for an excursion that you have no mind to take, or to be importuned to "put out, put out, put out to sea," when you know that March winds and waves make the azure grotto of Capri totally inaccessible--these diversions, I say, do not assist one in gathering up one's reminiscences of Tasso, however much they may chasten and so improve the temper.

And here I may observe also upon a peculiarity that marks the research of certain travellers, somewhat akin perhaps to the taste which induces certain readers to trace history through personal memoirs, in place of studying broader narrations. If truth were told, there are a hundred who commune with Pepys and Horace Walpole, to ten who find delight in Hume. So is it--though by no means in the same proportion--with sight-seers on ground that is rich in historical associations. All their sympathies, or the larger portion of them at least, are with individuals, as though there were no grappling with a race, a nation, an age that is past. Stories, wholly or in part fictitious, are their hand-books. To them the Capitol of Rome is the scene of Rienzi's rise and fall, as interpreted by Bulwer Lytton. At Pompeii their chief care is to find out the abode of Glaucus and Ione. Nor can it be denied that there is an additional charm in this mode of viewing localities that are new to us, if it be not the most philosophical. In my own case, without needless parading of the degree in which I share this gentle weakness or disapprove it, I must own that its exercise gives at times an unexpected zest to a ramble. Whilst in Rome, for instance, I do not think that one's serious views of history or art are in any manner jarred upon, because here and there one stumbles upon relics that savour of individuality. At any rate I should not like to have missed the old mansion of the Anviti family, near the bridge of St. Angelo, mentioned by that old gossip, Benvenuto Cellini, as the frequent rendezvous of Michael Angelo, Raffaele, Cardinal Bembo, and other choice spirits of his day. I should have been sorry to have omitted a visit to the boudoir of Lucrezia Borgia, in the Convent close beside the church of St. Pietro in Vincolo, once the residence of Pope Alexander VI., and now mainly converted into a barrack for the troops of "the elder son of the Church." The part however in which is placed this small apartment, decorated with frescoes of the period, is still applied to conventual purposes. There is no legend about the matter, at least so far as regards the possession of the Borgia family; and the room being small in size, and unique in situation and style of ornament within and without, it is not difficult to believe that it was the chosen resort of a young lady in days when there was less gadding about than now. Still, to be candid, I must own that in musing here, as in looking at the lock of the same amiable woman's hair preserved in the Ambrosian Library of Milan, one is apt to have one's recollections of mediaeval depravity not slightly tinctured by visions of Giulia Grisi in the prime of her voice and beauty, to say nothing of Victor Hugo's grand drama, and old Mademoiselle Georges' unrivalled performance therein.

Again, and lastly--lest the reader imagine that when once I get back to Rome, I am spell-bound and cannot leave it--what traveller has not cast a pleased eye upwards towards the window whence the baker's daughter, A. D. 1515, or thereabouts, ogled the young prince of painters as he passed by on his way to, or from his work, at the Farnesina Palace? You know the precise spot, O Viator, in a small piazza very near the Ponte Sisto? The house is white-washed or yellow-washed now; but there is the old Ionic pilaster, yet embedded in the wall, and the ornamental architectural mouldings yet shut in the Fornarina's window. And here it occurs to me to make one more digression, for the purpose of suggesting a theory of my own touching one of the many portraits of La Fornarina that have come down to us, and that vary so much in expression though all evidently intended for the same person. Between the fine one in the Tribune at Florence, and the filthy one in the Sciarra Palace at Rome, there is the widest possible difference. The former is evidently enough a woman unrefined, though beautiful; but there is neither coarseness nor indelicacy in the portraiture. The latter has both these characteristics, pushed to an extreme that is repulsive. It is said to be a copy from Raffaele by Giulio Romano. Now my belief is, that it was painted as a quiz upon his master's grace and delicacy, by the scapegrace pupil who ran counter to those special attributes. Meretricious, ugly, and vulgar, this wretched creature bears emblasoned in large letters on the bracelet upon her arm the name of Raffaele Sanzio d'Urbino. This piece of impudence seems to me the crowning touch. I can't credit that such a Fornarina ever came from Raffaele's easel. I do think that a coarse-minded and coarse-handed young artist may have made fun of his superior in oil--as modern literary wags have sometimes done in ink--and that Raffaele therefore is in no way answerable for that caricature in the Sciarra, which affects to be a reproduction from himself.

LIVRES DES VOYAGEURS.

Verily there is no lack of the plainer symbols of humanity, to remind the wanderer that Childe Harold was bitterly truthful, when he appended to his inimitable descriptions of the Alps the assertion that they

"serve to show,
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below."

The impertinences and follies that are penned by men and women in the various Livres des Voyageurs, wherein they record their names, were alone sufficient proof of this. It is true that enthusiasm and fine feeling cannot endure for an indefinite period; and that he would be a sorry companion who always brought his stilts to the dinner-table. Still, one must regret that a certain craving for notoriety seems to impel so many a tourist to write himself down an ass, whilst no sense of fairness restrains others from commenting, appropriately or inappropriately, upon the names or remarks of predecessors. There is a cowardice and cruelty herein which has, I confess, sometimes made me angry, when the identity, characters, and conduct of the individuals concerned were alike unknown or indifferent to me. In place, however, of prolonging this digression, and without the least notion of proving anything whatever by the citation, I beg to offer the reader a brace of extracts from the visitors' record book at the Montanvert.

The first tickled me exceedingly, as a genuine specimen of the so-called Irish Bull. Mr. Somebody had entered his name, and added thereto this valuable bit of information: "Walked up from Chamouni in four hours and a-half, _having lost the greater part of his way_?" The italics are mine, of course; but is not the _mot_ worth its space in print?

My other extract concerns some of my young countrywomen, and I trust that their countrywomen who may read it will forgive me for putting it into circulation. They are very poor laughers, who never laugh when the joke tells against themselves; in this instance it is we who pay the piper. A party of English school girls had been lately at Montanvert with their governess, and had set down their names one after another in the big book, as is the custom there. A waggish Frenchman, waiting of course until their backs were turned, had bracketted the list, and written against the conclave this pithy and caustic criticism: "_Teint rouge; appetit geant; langage embarrasse._" What an ungallant scamp! Yet it must be owned that the same absurd album is rich in provocatives. A running fire of sarcasm, exchanged between English and French tourists, marks almost every page.

A SINGULAR ANAGRAM.

Among the curiosities--not of literature--but of letters, the Anagram was wont to be a favourite in the days of a by-gone generation. Who, for instance, has not smiled blandly over that famous transposition, which aptly converts "Horatio Nelson" into _Honor est a Nilo_?

The taste, however, for this sort of laborious trifling has almost passed away; nor do we propose to re-open the subject of cabalistic lettering. Our only purport is to offer a new specimen of its eccentricities, which came upon us recently during a vain attempt to solve certain mysteries, that occupy just now many serious minds. It is commended alike to snappers-up of unconsidered trifles, and to readers who chance to be imbued with a little tinge of superstitious sensitiveness. We strive to hope that, though almost as curious, it is not so unimpeachably appropriate as the one quoted above. The name, so much in men's mouths, "Louis Napoleon Bonaparte," may by this method be converted into, _An open plot--arouse, Albion_!

A WELL KNOWN DOCUMENT,

_Very Slightly Paraphrased_.

A comparison of the following lines, with the original American
Declaration of Independence, will show that the earnest and
impassioned language of real life is sometimes closely assimilated
to blank verse.

When, in their course, human events compel One people to dissolve the social bands That linked them with another, and to take Among the powers of the Earth that station, Equal and separate, to which the laws Of Nature and of Nature's God, by right, Entitle them--respect to the opinions Of fellow men calls on them to declare The causes, which have rendered necessary Such separation. We, then, hold these truths To be self-evident: That all mankind Are equal, and endowed by their Creator With certain unalienable rights: That amongst these are Life, and Liberty, And the Pursuit of Happiness: That men, To make these rights available and safe, Have instituted Governments, deriving Their lawful power from the free consent

Of those they govern: That when any form Of Government is proved to be destructive Of these their ends, it is the People's right To alter, or abolish it, and found A Government anew, with principles So laid for its foundation, and with powers In such form organized, as shall to them Seem most conducive to their happiness And safety. Prudence will, indeed, dictate That long-established Governments should not Be changed for any light or transient cause: And all experience, accordingly, Hath shown that men are more disposed to suffer, So long as evils are endurable, Than to assert their rights, and throw aside Their customary forms. But when abuses And usurpations, in a lengthened train, Pursue an object steadfastly, evincing A firm design to bow them down beneath Absolute despotism, it is their right, It is their bounden duty, to throw off Such Government, and to provide new guards For their security in future. Such Has been the patient sufferance of these Our Colonies, and such is now the need, That forces them to change their present systems Of Government. Great Britain's present King Hath made his history the history Of usurpation, and of injuries Often repeated, and directly tending To the establishment of Tyranny

Over these States: to prove this, let the World In candour listen to undoubted facts. He has refused to give assent to laws, Wholesome, and needful for the public good. He has denied his Governors the power To sanction laws of pressing urgency, Unless suspended in their operation, Till his assent should be obtained; and when Suspended thus, he has failed wilfully To give them further thought. He has refused To sanction other laws, deemed advantageous To districts thickly peopled, unless they, Who dwelt therein, would basely throw away Their right to representatives--a right Inestimable, to themselves and only To Tyrants formidable. In the hope To weary them into a weak compliance With his obnoxious measures, he has summoned The Legislative Bodies to assemble At places inconvenient, and unusual, And whence their public records were remote. He has repeatedly dissolved the Houses Of Representatives for interfering With manly firmness, when he has invaded The People's rights. Long time he has refused, After such dissolutions, to convene Others in lieu of them; whereby, the powers Of Legislation, since they might not be Annihilated, have for exercise Been forced upon the body of the people; Leaving, meanwhile, the unprotected State To dangers of invasion from without, And inward anarchy. He has endeavoured

To check the population of these States, Thwarting the laws for naturalization Of foreigners, withholding his assent From other laws, that might encourage them In immigrating hither, and enhancing The price of new allotments of the soil. He has obstructed the administration Of Justice, by his veto on the laws Establishing judiciary powers He has made Judges on his will alone Dependent, for the tenure of their office, For the amount, and for the proper payment Of their emoluments. He has erected New offices in multitudes, and sent Swarms of his officers to harass us, And to eat out our substance. He has kept, In times of peace, among us, standing armies, Without the sanction of our Legislatures. His aim has been to place the military Above the civil power, and beyond Its just control. He has combined with others To make us subject to a jurisdiction, In spirit foreign to our Constitution, And unacknowledged by our laws; assenting To acts, that they have passed with semblance only Of legislation: Acts for quartering Among us bodies of armed troops: For shielding, By a mock trial, those their instruments From punishment for any murders done On our inhabitants: For cutting off Our trade with every quarter of the world-- For laying on us taxes not approved By our consent: For oft-times robbing us

Of any benefit that might attend Trial by jury: For transporting us Beyond the seas, to answer for offences, Imputed to us: For abolishing, Within a neighbouring province, the free system Of English laws; establishing therein An arbitrary power; and enlarging Its boundaries, to render it at once The fit example, and the instrument For bringing into these our Colonies The same despotic rule: For taking from us Our Charters; and abolishing our laws Most valued; changing thus, in principle, Our forms of Government: And for suspending Our Legislatures, with the declaration That they, themselves, in each and every case, Were vested with supreme authority To legislate for us. He has laid down His sway, by holding us without the pale Of his protection, and by waging war Against us. He has plundered on our seas; Ravaged our coasts; our cities burnt; and taken Our people's lives. He is transporting hither Armies composed of foreign mercenaries, To end the works of death, and desolation, And tyranny, begun with circumstances Of cruelty and perfidy unequalled In the most barbarous ages, and unworthy The Ruler of a nation civilized. He has constrained our fellow-citizens, On the high seas made captive, to bear arms Against their country, and of friends and brothers

To be the executioners, or fall Beneath his creatures' hands. He has excited Amongst ourselves domestic insurrection; And sought to bring on the inhabitants Of our frontier the savage Indian, Whose code of warfare, merciless and sure, Spares not, in undistinguished massacre, Age, sex, condition. We, in every stage Of these oppressions, have in humblest terms Petitioned for redress. To our petitions, Though oft repeated, there has been _one_ answer-- Repeated injury. A prince, whose life And conduct thus are marked by every act That may define a Tyrant, is unfit To rule o'er Freemen. Neither have we failed In due attention to our British brethren. From time to time, we have admonished them Of efforts, by their Legislature made, Unwarrantably to extend to us Their jurisdiction. How we emigrated, And settled here, we have reminded them. We to their native justice have appealed And magnanimity; and have conjured them, By common kindred ties, to disavow These usurpations, which, inevitably, Would mar our intercourse and friendship. They Have also turned a deaf ear to the voice Of Justice and of Consanguinity. So must we yield to the necessity Which forces us to separate, and hold them--

As we do hold the rest of human kind-- Our enemies in War, in Peace our friends. We, therefore, who are here to represent The States United of America, In General Congress met, for rectitude Of our intentions to the Judge Supreme Of all things here in confidence appealing, Do, in the name, and by authority Of the good people of these Colonies, Solemnly publish and declare, that these United Colonies are, and of right Ought to be, Free and Independent States: That from allegiance to the British Crown They are absolved: That all connecting ties Of policy between them and Great Britain Are, as they should be, totally dissolved: And that, as Free and Independent States, They have full power to levy war, conclude Peace, and contract alliances, establish Commerce, and do all other acts and things Which Independent States of right may do. This is our Declaration: to support it, With firm reliance on Divine protection, We to each other mutually pledge Our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honour.

BEL PIEDE.

Browning, whose household gods were planted
Beside the banks of classic Arno,
Once, in a dainty ballad, chanted
The lady of the _bella mano_.

Pass from the Arno to the Tiber,
From Tuscan to a Roman lady;
And let a humbler bard describe her--
This fair one of the _bel piede_.

To Roman dame, as I and you know,
Is rarely given a foot symmetrical;
No Cinderellas--many a Juno--
Upon the Pincian we can yet recall.

Those were the days when bonnets did not
Expose the face to every starer;
When skirts, worn short and airy, hid not
The foot and ankle of the wearer.

With high arched instep, narrow, tapering,
Divinely booted--none could beat hers--
The foot, that set my young heart capering,
Came down the broad steps of St. Peter's.

Her long black veil, the crowd around me,
Her swift landau, my swift emotion--
She came: her fairy foot spell-bound me;
She went: which way, I had no notion.

Haunting all public haunts was fruitless,
Mid solemn pomps, on festal hey-day;
Search for those glorious boots was bootless:
Rome showed no more my _bel piede_.

In Paris next enchained it held me,
Through redowa, waltz, all sorts of dances;
But mask and domino repelled me--
She moved, but I made no advances.

Again she passed--no trace behind her--
I sought, enquired, left nothing undone;
But all was vain: I could not find her,
And, in despair, set off for London.

The sea between Boulogne and Dover
Was, as it always is, terrific;
Against that awful passage over,
Why not invent some smooth specific?

Cloaked, muffled, shawled, a form was leaning
Across the gunwale, keeping shady;
I recked not what might be its meaning--
I thought not, then, of _bel piede_.

Sudden, a lurch, a shriek, a splashing!
I knew the shriek was from a lady;
But horror through my brain went crashing--
I saw, heels up, my _bel piede_!

She sank. No more! But O ye mermaids,
Of whose long tails we've had a surfeit,
If ye were worthy to be her maids,
You'd cut your tails, and copy her feet!

WHO IS HE?

_A Reply to Quevedo_.

These lines were suggested by some sprightly verses, entitled "Who
is She?" that had recently appeared in _Fraser's Magazine_.

A Spanish writer once decided,
In flippant song,
That woman's lip, or tongue, or eye did
All that went wrong.
Nay, that the true mode of unmasking
Her wiles would be,
On all occasions simply asking--
Pray, who is she?

Now, why must woman's petticoats
Aye be the blamables?
How is't Quevedo never quotes
Mankind's unnamables?
He rates the sex, and certes for it he
Makes a good plea;
But can't I, on as good authority,
Ask, who is he?

Quevedo swears that Eve and Helen
Wrought dire mishaps:
That Adam and the Trojans fell in
Their deep-laid traps.
Eve?--why Diabolus beguiled her;
You know't, Quevedo!
Helen?--that rascal Paris wiled her:
That's Homer's _credo_!

Trust me, man causes woman's failing;
And, on my life,
He's always wantonly assailing
Maid, widow, wife.
Beneath the surface let the gazer
Look deep--he'll see
Some stronger vessel that betrays her:
Just ask--who's he?

Is it a milk-maid drops her pailful?--
Lubin's love-making:
Is her fate scandalous or baleful?--
Lubin's been raking!
The school-girl loaths her bread and butter,
Pouts o'er her tea,
Mumbles her lessons in a flutter--
Ask, who is he?

Despite experience, what can set
The widow hoping?
Why are wives sometimes gadding met,
And sometimes moping?
Don't talk of widows' amorous bump,
Of wives too free;
But pop the question to them, plump--
Pray, who is he?

We're mighty prompt to throw the blame on
The weaker fair sex;
When justice ought to fix the shame on
Ours--not on their sex.
Ours the seduction and the fooling,
If such there be:
Come; your exception to this ruling--
Pray, who is he?

The old and hump-backed ply their battery
Of gold and jewels;
Well-knit young fellows deal in flattery,
Dance, song, oaths, duels.
So, to conclude, I'll take my oath, sir,
Upon the Bible,
That to blame one--in place of both, sir,--
Is a gross libel!

TO NINON.

_From the French of Alfred de Musset._

Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well, Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell? Love is the cause of many a pang--their source thou well can'st guess; No pity in him dwells, as thou must needs thyself confess: And yet, ah! me, thou would'st perchance chastise me ne'ertheless!

Were I to tell thee that, beneath six months of silence crushed, Long-hidden torments I have borne, and vows insensate hushed; Ninon, despite thy careless air, thou hast a searching eye, That, like a Fairy's, ere it come, what's coming can espy: "I know it all, I know it all," thou would'st perchance reply.

Were I to tell thee that I roam in sweet, delirious dream, Haunting thy footsteps so that I thy very shadow seem; A tinge of sadness on thy cheek, a quick, mistrustful glance,-- Ninon, thou knowest well that these thy loveliness enhance: And thus, that thou believest not, thou would'st reply perchance.

Were I to tell thee that my soul hoards up the lightest word, That falling from thy lips at eve in our discourse I've heard; Lady, thou know'st that, when aroused to anger or disdain, Eyes, though of azure they may be, can still their lightnings rain: And thine perchance would flashing say, "We must not meet again!"

Were I to tell thee that by night I wake and think of thee, And that by day for thee I pray, and weep on bended knee, Ah! Ninon, when thou laugh'st, the bee, as well thou art aware, In hovering round thy rosy mouth, that 'twas a flower might swear: Were I to tell thee all, perchance the laugh would still be there

But nothing shalt thou know of this. I venture, all untold, Calmly to sit beneath thy lamp, and converse with thee hold. I hear the murmur of thy voice, thy balmy breath inhale; And thou may'st doubt me, or surmise, or laugh, I shall not quail; Thine eyes shall see no cause in me, their kindly look to veil.

By stealth at times, in secret joy, mysterious flowers I glean, When o'er thy harpsichord at eve enraptured I can lean, And list from thy harmonious hands what fairy accents flow; Or in voluptuous waltz, as round with flying feet we go, I feel thee in mine arms, a reed, that's waving to and fro.

When from thy side I have been kept by thronged saloons at night, And in my chamber draw my bolt that shuts the world from sight, A thousand reminiscences I seize upon, and hold In jealous grasp; and there, alone, like miser o'er his gold, To Heaven my heart, all full of thee, with greedy joy unfold.

I love; and I have learned to speak in cool and careless tone. I love; nought tells of it. I love; who knows it?--I alone! Dear is my secret, dear the pain with which I am oppressed; And I have sworn to love, without a hope on which to rest; But not without a taste of joy--I see thee, and am blest.

No! not for me! I was not born such bliss supreme to meet: To die within thy arms, or live contented at thy feet. Alas! all proves it--e'en the grief that fain I would dispel. Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well: Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell?

THE LAST OF THE ROMAN GLADIATORS.

The incident, which the following stanzas attempt to describe, is
historical. It is related by Gibbon in his "Decline and Fall of the
Roman Empire."

Ye, who have the ruins seen Of the Coliseum's walls, Think ye, what the sight hath been Of Rome's highest festivals! If your fancy can restore Crumbled arch and corridor, Call forth the dead; Bid them fill again the seats, Where now Echo only greets The stranger's tread.

Fourteen hundred years are past, Rome hath fallen in her pride, Since the gladiator last In the Coliseum died. Fourteen hundred years ago, Tens of thousands thronged the show, In joyous guise, On the struggle and the strife, And the pangs of parting life, Feasting their eyes.

Then ye might have heard the roar Of the noble beasts of prey, As they fought and bled, before Men less noble far than they. Strength is useless, courage vain, Beauty saves not--they are slain, The forest race; Whilst the still unsated crowd For new victims shout aloud, To fill their place.

Hark! the Praetor's stern command Costlier sacrifice proclaims; Lo! the gladiatorial band, Glory of the Roman Games! As they enter, man by man, Shape and size the people scan With eager glance; And of each ill-fated pair, That await the signal there, Foretell the chance.

Hark! the trumpet's sudden sound; Lo! the work of death begun: Seas of blood shall drench the ground, Ere that deadly work be done. Ha! a moment of delay? What the lifted hand can stay? Is there a fear Of Pompeii's fiery shower? Or, doth Earthquake's giant power Make havoc here?

No--for Nature with a smile Looks upon her outraged laws, Man's indignant voice the while Bidding man in pity pause. See!--a monk, obscure, unknown, Christ's disciple, treads alone The arena's sand, Foe from foe intent to part, Striving with a zealous heart, But feeble hand.

Would ye seek to know his fate? Listen to that savage yell! Scorn, derision, fury, hate, Doomed his death--the martyr fell. Record there is none to show, Whose the hand that dealt the blow That laid him there; Men who gazed, and men who fought, All alike to madness wrought, The guilt must share.

Whether stoned to death, or slain By the sword, or by the spear, Little recks it--it were vain Through the mists of time to peer. This we know--the martyr died; Nor without success had plied His work of peace, Since, to expiate that deed, Rome's Imperial Lord decreed, The Games should cease.

Rome obeyed her Lord's commands; Never were those Games renewed: Now the priest of Jesus stands Where the gladiator stood. Thanks, Telemachus, to thee, Sainted martyr, now we see Altars around; And the spot, where thou of yore Did'st thy life-blood nobly pour, Is hallowed ground.

THE PRUDENT BRIDE.

At Salem Meeting-House, one summer day, Two lovers, Abby Purkis and John Cole, Were joined in holy wedlock. Off they started To spend the honey-moon, gregarious, At Trenton, Saratoga, and the Falls. Reaching this last-named wonder of the world, They went the usual round; mounted the tower That overlooks the cataract; stood and watched The eddying Rapids, and the whirling Pool; Nor on thy deck, O daring "_Maid of the Mist_," Failed they to buffet the tumultuous roar, The drenching spray, the seeming perilous plunge Beneath the Horse-Shoe. Every where, throughout, Abby was brave; nay, on John's stalwart arm Leaning, was confident. At last they reached The Cavern of the Winds. Then changed her bearing. Trembling, she paused. In truth, the howling blasts, And gusty moans as of imprisoned spirits, Struck the bride's soul with terror. All aghast, She stood before the entrance, and refused, Firmly refused to trust herself within. John urged--she would not; coaxed--'twas all in vain; Laughed at, and called her "little fool"--she would not. Nay more, she prayed him by the love he bore her Not to set foot himself within a place So fraught with peril. John was ungallant, And only laughed the more. Not he the man To flinch from fisticuffs with Aeolus! Had he not harpooned whales in Arctic seas? Were not typhoon, white squall, and hurricane His some time playmates? It was her turn now To coax, and urge, and crave--and be denied. Chafed that her will was not a law to John, Abby was woman still, and sorely grieved That he should run such risks. She kissed him fondly, And bade him tread with care, and hasten back. Her voice was choked with sobs. Her latest words Were scarcely audible, though through them breathed Salem's sound training. "John," she faltered forth, "We know not what may happen: dear, dear John, "Were it not well that you--should--leave--with--me-- "Your--watch--and--pocket-book?"

THE TRAMPER'S BED--AND THE KING'S.

Down by the side of a sweet clover-stack, On a summer night, I lie on my back. Clear space is above me; and there, as I lie, I look straight up to the stars in the sky. Once, when the King was dethroned by the mob, They swarmed to his palace, to stare or to rob, And the frightened lackies flung open the doors, And clouted shoes scraped along polished floors. Then it was I caught sight of his Majesty's bed, With its canopy, gilded and carved, overhead;-- If his Majesty wishes the stars to behold, And looks up, he can see but the carving and gold! Some night, should my soul be unbound as I sleep, And downward an Angel in search of it sweep, No bar, no obstruction, would hinder his flight;-- With a wave of his wings, by my corpse he would light. But what, if the soul to be loosed were the King's? Could an Angel reach that by the poise of his wings? Could he easily cleave through a palace his way? Through ceilings bedizened, through floors in decay-- Through gorgeous apartments and bare attic rooms, For lords and for ladies, for valets and grooms-- Through a quaint peaked roof rising high o'er the whole-- Could he enter, and tenderly waft off the soul? Better, then, is the bed by the sweet clover-stack, With the stars full in view, and the clear Angel's track! And though much be not mine of this world's pleasant things, I should care not to barter my couch for the King's!

OCCASION.

_From the Italian of Ternare_

"Say, who art thou, with more than mortal air, Endowed by Heaven with gifts and graces rare, Whom restless, winged feet for ever onward bear?"--

"I am Occasion--known to few, at best; And since one foot upon a wheel I rest, Constant my movements are--they cannot be repressed.

"Not the swift eagle in his swiftest flight Can equal me in speed. My wings are bright; And man, who sees them waved, is dazzled by the sight.

"My thick and flowing locks, before me thrown, Conceal my form--nor face, nor breast is shown, That thus, as I approach, my coming be not known.

"Behind my head, no single lock of hair Invites the hand, that fain would it grasp there; But he, who lets me pass, to seize me may despair."

"Whom, then, so close behind thee do I see?"-- "Her name is Penitence; and Heaven's decree Hath made all those her prey, who profit not by me.

"And thou, O mortal, who dost vainly ply These curious questions, thou dost not descry, That now thy time is lost--for I am passing by."

THE MOURNFUL BALLAD OF THE "ALABAMA."

Captain Semmes is on a cruise O'er the track that skippers use; From the Western Isles, to those Near Nantucket shoals, he goes. Woe is me, Alabama!

Letters to the merchants tell Who into his clutches fell; 'Tis the talk of all the town; News-boys call it up and down Woe is me, Alabama!

Straight the sons of Commerce came To their Chamber, crying shame For the tidings they had learned, For their ships and cargoes burned. Woe is me, Alabama!

Up and spake a merchant prince: "Friends, our city well may wince, For you have, alas! to know Of a most disastrous blow! Woe is me, Alabama!

"All is sunk beneath the waves, Breadstuffs, lard, tobacco, staves; Chained have been our Captains bold In the 'Alabama's' hold! Woe is me, Alabama!

"Lawless, too, is Captain Semmes; Neutral shipments he condemns. Useless is it to appeal To Consul's signature and seal. Woe is me, Alabama!

"But there's worse than this behind; Treacherous friends this blow designed. Great as is the corsair's guilt, Greater theirs his ship who built! Woe is me, Alabama!

"Neutral money, neutral skill, Wrought us this outrageous ill; Neutral engines, neutral guns, Aid him as he fights or runs. Woe is me, Alabama!

"Sons of Commerce, men of worth, Let these words of mine go forth! Let the British monarch know That to her all this we owe!" Woe is me, Alabama!

So the warning words went forth To England, from the angered North, Passed along from mouth to mouth, "No more dealings with the South!" Woe is me, Alabama!

"You may sell to this our land All we want of contraband; But have a care that nothing goes, From you, a neutral, to our foes!" Woe is me, Alabama!

Now Heaven preserve us all in peace, And let these ugly squabbles cease! So fighters all, and standers-by, Shall nevermore have cause to cry, "Woe is me, Alabama!"

November, 1862.

LINES FOR THE GUITAR.

_From the French of Victor Hugo._

Man was saying: "How can we, In our little boats at sea, Pass the guarda-costas by?"-- "Row!" said Woman in reply.

Man was saying: "How forget Perils that our lives beset, Strife, and Poverty's low cry?"-- "Sleep!" said Woman in reply.

Man was saying: "How be sure Beauty's favour to secure, Nor the subtle philtre try?"-- "Love!" said Woman in reply.

THREE MEN AND A WOMAN.

A Summer's dawn and a tranquil sea;
But lurid all with smoke:
For a bark was burning furiously,
What time the morning broke.

Terrible? ay, but risk there was none,
For stern the Captain's sway;
And when he spoke, each mother's son
Could not but choose obey.

"Man the boats!"--the boats were manned,
In order, one by one;
To pull a hundred miles to land,
All under the Summer's sun.

Four stalwart rowers bend to their oars:
Four sitters at the stern--
Three men and a woman--silent sit,
Watching the vessel burn.

They were no tremblers: each had known
Perils by land and deep;
But the woman alone would gently moan,
And at times, perforce, would weep.

Yet soon the sun was high in heaven,
And the sea was a-glow: and then
The temper of those men peered out--
Of those three fearless men.

One thought his white hand by the sun would be tanned;
One felt they were wrong to risk it,
In sweltering heat, with nothing to eat
But a bit of dry ship-biscuit.

The third brooded over his handful of freight
Going down, uninsured, to the deep:
But the woman alone would gently moan,
And at times, perforce, would weep;

Till a sense of shame the three o'ercame,
And a curious wish to know
Why, still unfearing, she gave way
To her uncomplaining woe.

"Ah, Sirs!"--she faltered in reply--
"The danger is easily braved:
But my husband may hear that the ship is burnt--
And not that we are saved!"

ANOTHER MARBLE FAUN.

_A Translation of La Statue, by Victor Hugo._

He seemed to shiver, for the wind was keen. 'Twas a poor statue underneath a mass Of leafless branches, with a blackened back And green foot--an old isolated Faun In old deserted park, who, bending forward, Half merged himself in the entangled boughs, Half in his marble settings. He was there, Pensive, and bound to the earth; and, as all things, Devoid of movement, he was there--forgotten.

Trees were around him, whipped by the icy blasts-- Gigantic chestnuts, without leaf or bird, And, like himself, grown old in that same place. Through the dark network of their undergrowth, Pallid his aspect; and the earth was brown. Starless and moonless, a rough winter's night Was letting down her lappets o'er the mist. Trees more remote, with sombre shafts upreared, Each other crossed; and trees remoter still, By distance blurred, threw up to the grey sky Their thousand twigs sharp-pointed, intricate; And posed themselves around; and through the fog Took, on the horizon's verge, the shadowy form Of mighty porcupines in countless herd.

This--nothing more: old Faun, dull sky, dark wood.

Piercing the mist, perchance there might be seen A distant terrace--its long layers of stone Tinted with slimy green; or group of Nymphs, Dimly defined beside a wide-spread basin, And shrinking--fitly in this desolate park-- As once from gazers, from neglect to-day. The old Faun was laughing. In their dubious haze Leaving the shamed Nymphs and their dreary basin-- The old Faun was laughing--'twas to him I came Moved to compassion, for these sculptors all Are pitiless ever, and, content with praise, Doom Nymphs to shame, condemn the Fauns to laughter.

Poor helpless marble, how I've pitied it Less often man--the harder of the two. So then, without a word that might offend His ear difformed--for well the marble hears The voice of thought--I said to him: "You hail From the gay amorous age; O Faun, what saw you, When you were happy? Were you of the Court? Did you take part in fetes?--For your diversion These Nymphs were fashioned. In this wood, for you, Capable hands mingled the gods of Greece With Roman Caesars; made rare vases peer Into clear waters; and this garden vext With tortuous labyrinths. When you were happy, O Faun, what saw you? All the secrets tell Of that too vain yet captivating past, Thick set with prudent love-makers, a past In which great poets jostled mighty Kings. How fresh your memory--you are laughing still!