Chapter II: The Slaves' Feast (8)

Moreover, these errors in dates were extremely common at the commencement of the sixteenth century. Education was incomplete. The means of verification were hard to obtain concerning expeditions that crossed each other in every sense. Thus, in the eighteen years following Vasco de Gama's expedition, the king of Portugal sent no less than 294 vessels to India and to the land of the Holy Cross, (Brazil.) The fourteen expeditions that sailed from Spanish ports between 1496 and 1509, though less numerous, followed each other as closely, and were no less difficult to disentangle.

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The hurry of copying and of printing multiplied errors.

The different editions of the voyages of Vespucius are full of contradictions in dates, a confusion that seems to exclude all reasonable suspicion of intentional falsification. [Footnote 220] Christopher Columbus erred as to the duration of the two passages of his first expedition, and that at the very moment, when toward its close, he approached the shores of Europe. [Footnote 221] The most exact and attentive historians err constantly as to well-authenticated facts, as, for instance, Orviédo, the official historian of the Indies, in asserting as a notorious fact that Columbus discovered the Indies in 1491. [Footnote 222]

[Footnote 220: Crit. Exam. vol. v. p. 111.]

[Footnote 221: Ibid. vol. v. p. 201.]

[Footnote 222: Instead of 1492. M. Humboldt cites many similar errors.]

Not daring to misrepresent the facts in Andalusia, did Americus induce the editors in Lorraine to tell falsehoods at a distance, acting in his stead? Or, to speak more correctly, did he get them to decree to him the honors of the discovery, and suggest to them the name of America? We have absolutely no ground for the supposition. Nowhere do the numerous publications taking their origin from the Cosmography of Hylacomylus allude to any relation direct or indirect with the Florentine. If the maps of the editions of Ptolemaeus in 1513 and 1522, had resulted from interested suggestions on the part of Americus Vespucius, we should not find upon them, in large characters, the indication that the great southern country was discovered by Christopher Columbus, the Genoese. This southern country would assuredly have extended to that famous fiftieth degree of south latitude, of which Americus was so proud, instead of ending somewhere about the fortieth degree. The editors of 1513 would not have fallen into the singular blunder of making Ferdinand the Catholic, king of Portugal. Some explanation would be needed, too, of the impostor's having selected as an accomplice an obscure scholar in a still more obscure town of Lorraine, (which an eminent representative of the scientific world tried lately to locate in the depths of Hungary,) [Footnote 223] where he had many Italian friends to whom he would more naturally have addressed himself. And one might reasonably ask why the good people of Saint-Dié and Strasburg (whom one cannot know through their writings without conceiving a high opinion of their character and of their devotion to science) could have participated so coolly in a dishonest action, or even have entered hoodwinked into a snare spread for their ingenuousness--a snare, too, of which no trace remains.

[Footnote 223: Navarrete. Crit. Exam. vol. iv. p. 103.]

To this accusation consisting of gratuitous and baseless assertions, there is a crowd of real motives to be opposed.

It is far more natural to admit, taking into consideration the extreme difficulties of communication at that period, that the enthusiasm of Hylacomylus and his Strasburg neighbors was spontaneous. Such is certainly the character of the extracts we have presented to the reader. It is extremely probable that Americus Vespucius never saw the Cosmography of 1507 or the Globus of 1509, and that he was to the end unconscious of the dangerous honor bestowed upon him at Saint-Dié. As to the maps illustrated with his name, they appeared in 1520 and 1522, eight and ten years after his death.

But for the tyranny of habit, which demands a response, point for point, to charges once preferred against an individual, we should have suddenly adopted a more radical system, and have declared not only that Americus Vespucius did not entertain the vile and criminal intentions ascribed to him with regard to Christopher Columbus, but that, at the stage of ideas and of science existing in his day, he could not have conceived them.

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In using the expression New World, or the fourth part of the world, we attach to it the precise sense of the vast American continent. Our eyes instinctively behold that colossal dike, which, stretching, so to speak, from pole to pole, restrains and divides the two oceans facing easterly toward Europe and Africa, and westerly toward Asia, but separated by enormous distances from all three.

We must set aside this preconceived idea, and return in thought to the latter days of the fifteenth century.

The ancients and the travellers of the middle ages prolonged Asia indefinitely eastward; and when at last they set a term to that country by India, the Mangi and Cathay, (China,) they continued it again by sowing in handfuls through the neighboring seas innumerable archipelagoes. It was while more especially acting upon the words of antiquity that Christopher Columbus braved the awful solitudes of the Atlantic, and, bearing directly westward, sought the Indies by another route than that used by the Portuguese. When the unknown land, the prize of his divination, rose from the bosom of the waters, the admiral never for an instant doubted that he was about to plant the standard of Castile upon an Asiatic island. He took Cuba for the very continent of Asia, _the end and the beginning of the Indies_. "I have discovered," wrote he to Pope Alexander VI. (February, 1502,) "333 leagues of the terra firma of Asia." On his third voyage, the spectacle of the immense flood of the Orinoco having suggested to him the very rational idea that such a river must belong to a large country, he made of it the India of the Ganges. In this conviction he lived and died.

In the same way Americus Vespucius, during his second voyage, coasting along the country destined to bear his name, fully believed himself to be in Asia. He tried to find Cape Cattigara in the great gulf of Ptolemaeus; [Footnote 224] and followed for 400 leagues a shore which was, he said, the end of Asia, by the eastern side, and the commencement by the western side. "This expedition has lasted thirteen months, during which we have run the greatest risks, and discovered an infinite stretch of the land of Asia as well as a number of islands." [Footnote 225] In passing over to the Portuguese service afterward, it was with a hope of pursuing his investigations, and of "finding the Island of Taprobana, (Ceylon,) situated between the sea of the Indus and the sea of the Ganges." His fourth had for its object the Molucca Islands, the land of spices, and Malacca.

[Footnote 224: Sinus Magnus. Ptolemaeus took the Indian ocean for a
sea, bounded on the north by Asia, and on the south by Africa, the
latter continent widening from west to east, to form the southern
barrier of the Indian ocean.]

[Footnote 225: "Discoprendo infinitissima terra de l'Asia e gran copia
d'isole."--Crit. Exam. vol. iv. p. 299 and note, et passim.]

The conviction of these two men decided general opinion, as is attested by the name of the Indies applied to the western lands. Both had passed away before Balboa's march to the great ocean (1513) and Magellan's voyage unsealed all eyes and dissipated the dreams of Ptolemaeus.

Now, since it is an indisputable fact that Christopher Columbus and Americus Vespucius never had an intuition of their veritable discovery, and that for the rest of their lives both of them firmly believed that they had reached the extreme end of the continent of Asia, how could the one have planned to frustrate the other of the glory of having revealed a new world whose existence they neither of them suspected? How could Vespucius undertake to slip surreptitiously into history, and impose a contraband name upon a continent that only seemed to him susceptible of bearing the name of Asia? Moreover, what personal advantage could he hope to reap from fraudulently dating his arrival at Paria during his first expedition, 1497, when the discovery of Oriental Asia was looked upon as accomplished by Christopher Columbus five years before?

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Let us also take these expressions of _fourth part of the world_ and _new world_ according to their original sense, and not with the absolute signification attached to them at the present day. In the mouth of Americus Vespucius, the former meant simply that he had passed over, between Lisbon and the extreme point of his explorations, an arc of 90°, whether the quarter of a grand circle or of the terrestrial circumference from one pole to the other. As to the latter, it was quite natural that the extraordinary and unexpected extent of the Asiatic lands, contemplated for the first time, and the aspect of a nature of which nothing European could give an idea, with inhabitants of a strange color and of cannibal habits; it was quite natural, we repeat, that the navigator should exclaim that before him lay a new world.

Cosmographers in their turn were struck by the interminable succession of shores, whose development south of the equator resolved, contrary to old prejudices, the problems so long agitated concerning the torrid zone and the second temperate zone, and the question whether or not the sun enlightened the southern hemisphere in the same manner as the northern. Such a theatre suddenly thrown open to geographic science appeared to them worthy to rival Europe by its gigantic proportions, and to be accounted a new part of the world. And yet it was not considered the New World, as we understand it, until the time when, explorations being completed, it was known to have nothing in common with the continent or the archipelagoes of Asia. If precaution had been taken to disengage this idea, the accusation against Americus Vespucius would have died a natural death in the beginning.

But we are told that he abused his office of _piloto mayor_, and his right of rectifying the maps by inserting his own name upon them.

This assertion is not sustained by the shadow of a proof. Mariners were not in the habit of giving their own names to the lands they discovered, whether Americus Vespucius, Columbus, Balboa, or Magellan. Had he done so, it would have had only the very restricted and allowable signification of a name applied to one of the numerous islands near Asia that seemed to spring from the sea on all sides to greet the eyes of navigators. The scholars of Lorraine and Alsace had no other view in selecting for this destiny the largest southern country. They treated as coequals in importance the great island of America and the islands of Paria, Cuba, Hispaniola, and Yucatan. [Footnote 226] Finally, the name of America, applied to the whole of the New World, resulted from the mistake by which the island (Cuba) was taken for the mainland, and the mainland (Paria) for the island. When with time the first error was recognized, they extended to the whole the appellation given to what had proved to be the principal part.

[Footnote 226: Cosmography of Munster, quoted above.]

For this Americus Vespucius could not have been responsible. He deserves, then, to preserve in the estimation of posterity the esteem accorded to him by all his contemporaries. He was loved and respected during his life, and from this fact we shall in conclusion draw a new testimony.

VI.

In the first place, Americus Vespucius possessed the friendship of Christopher Columbus. At the commencement of our article we saw Vespucius going to Toro, (where was assembled the court of Castile,) recommended by the admiral to his son Diego. We give the letter entire:

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SEVILLE, Feb. 5, 1505.

"My Dear Son: Diego Mendez [Footnote 227] left here Monday, the 3d of
this month. Since his departure I have talked with Amerigo Vespuchy, who
is going to court, called thither by business concerning navigation. He
has always shown a desire to please me; and he is a very able man.
Fortune has shown herself adverse to him as to many others. His labors
have not proved so profitable to him as should have naturally been the
case. He is going to court in my behalf, and with an ardent desire of
effecting something useful to me, if occasion should offer. While in this
place I cannot specify in what way he can serve us, not knowing how they
stand affected toward him, but he is quite determined to do all in his
power for my good. You will see for yourself how you can best employ him,
for he will speak and set everything at work; I want it to be done
secretly, that nothing may be suspected. I told him everything I could
concerning our interests." [Footnote 228]

[Footnote 227: A faithful servant of Columbus.]

[Footnote 228: Crit. Exam. vol. iv. pp. 29,30, and Washington Irving,
vol. iv. App. No. 9.]

He who expressed himself thus concerning Americus had known him not merely a day or two, but for long years.

But let us admit that he was the dupe of a consummate hypocrite. The traitor was to be unmasked when death should relieve him of the obstacle who had been a source of such insupportable impatience to him. Witnesses there were, however, to denounce him. Let us hear them:

Sebastian Cabot, a worthy rival of the most illustrious navigators of his day, had been summoned from England to Spain about the year 1512, to succeed Americus as corrector of geographic tables. Three years later he took occasion to bear testimony to his expertness in the determination of latitudes.

Peter Martyr, whose hand falls willingly on all whom he suspects of intrigue, whether correctly or incorrectly, has only words of praise for Vespucius, _à propos_ of his knowledge of nautical astronomy and of the art of navigation.

Ramusio, who employed thirty-four years of his life (1523-1557) in preparing and publishing his great collection of travels, and knew how to wither with his indignation all who enviously cavilled at Columbus, [Footnote 229] speaks five times in terms of high esteem, "of that high intelligence, of the excellent Florentine endowed with such fair genius, _il signor_ Amerigo Vespucio."

[Footnote 229: Those who maintained that Columbus had stolen the
knowledge of the New World from a pilot who died in his house. Oviedo
echoed this calumnious report. (History of the West-Indies, 1535.)]

But a discordant voice arose. Michel Servet, in re-editing the geography of Ptolemaeus at Lyons (1535, 1541,) says severe things of Americus, but not without making mistakes. "Columbus," he says, "discovered during a new voyage the continent and many more islands, of which the Spaniards are now completely masters. They then are totally misled who would call this continent America, since Americus never touched it until long after Columbus, and since he went there not with the Spaniards, but with the Portuguese, and to make trade."

Without pausing to notice details, we will confine ourselves to the morality of Vespucius which the author does not attack. He only blames those who invented the name of America. [Footnote 230]

[Footnote 230: M. Von Humboldt, vol. iv. p. 137, note, corrects
Servet's inaccuracies. Vespucius made a voyage for Spain with Hojeda in
1499. It was assuredly not in the character of a merchant, but probably
of an astronomer. A striking circumstance! this edition of 1535
contains after all the map of 1522, bearing the name of Americus.]

To this accusation, such as it is, the History of India, by Gomara, (1551,) answered contemptuously: "There are persons who enjoy blackening Alberico Vespucio's reputation, as may be seen by some editions of Ptolemaeus in Lyons."

Now, having seen the proofs drawn from those who have spoken, let us look at the counter-proofs of those who have not spoken--a testimony not without significance.

Witness, for example, Oviedo, who systematically cries down Christopher Columbus. He is silent as to the supposed pretension of Vespucius to priority in the discovery of the mainland. Is it to be supposed that, if the Florentine had actually claimed this honor, Oviedo would not have taken him under his protection, and used his claim to make a breach in a reputation that annoyed him?

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But there is another silence more decisive. Two years after the death of Christopher Columbus, that is to say in 1508, Don Diego, his eldest son, brought a lawsuit against the crown before the council of the Indies, to recover dignities and privileges that had been guaranteed to the admiral in the treaties acceded to by Ferdinand and Isabella. It was essentially important to the fiscal to prove that Columbus had been anticipated by some one else in Paria, in order to deprive the heirs of all claim to the revenues drawn from that country at least. Nor, although in this debate efforts were made to draw from the seamen testimony inimical to Columbus, and although the fiscal disdained to use no rumor, however vague or futile it might be--descending to every refinement of deceit and fraud, and pushing the hostility of the investigation even to extravagance, according to Las Casas; yet neither Americus Vespucius, who was still alive during the first four years, nor John Vespucius, his nephew, a renowned pilot, ever brought forward any claim to priority in the discovery. They were not called up as witnesses; the cosmographies printed in other countries in his honor were not mentioned; [Footnote 231] and the lawsuit came to an end in 1527, after nineteen mortal years, without the name of Vespucius having been brought forward in opposition to the great victim of injustice.

[Footnote 231: It is quite possible that they had not been seen in
Seville. This furnishes a strong though indirect proof that Vespucius
did not know of their existence.]

About the year 1513, Fernando Columbus, the admiral's second son, put the last touches to the history of his father. An openly expressed and pious indignation animated him against those who had embittered with so many mortifications that illustrious career. He leaves the memory of Americus Vespucius in peaceful repose. Evidently there was nothing to avenge in that quarter.

Sole and last of his contemporaries, finishing in extreme old age, at eighty-five, in the year 1559, a general history of the Indies, Las Casas accuses Vespucius of having falsified the date of his first voyage, and given the number 1497 to the editors of Lorraine, with the premeditated design of robbing Christopher Columbus of a glory so dearly acquired. [Footnote 232] Nevertheless, he does not prove this, nor try to do so. Las Casas was in fact mistaken. Americus Vespucius was a posthumous usurper, and absolutely irresponsible.

[Footnote 232: Humboldt shows that mistakes in dates occur in Las Casas
as in all the works of that day. Vol. iv. p. 139; vol. v. p. 191.
Charlevoix (History of St. Domingo,) says that Diego Columbus, in
gaining the suit raised by the fiscal, condemned Vespucius. Diego
simply proved that the admiral was the first to touch the coast of
Paria, 1498. He never thought of condemning Vespucius, who did not
appear in the case. The records of the lawsuit were not printed before
1829. Crit. Exam. vol. v. p. 204, and note 2.]

But a reaction came to the public conscience in favor of Christopher Columbus. To ingratitude, to the base passions and mean motives so cruelly leagued against him, there succeeded a more sound appreciation, in proportion as, further removed by time, perspective views re-established matters in their true position. He, who in 1492, had found the small island of San Salvador in the little group of the Bahamas, was not known to have that day discovered the New World. And yet it was another man's name that his discovery was destined to immortalize! Then opinion, deceived in the first instance about Christopher Columbus, erred in regard to Americus Vespucius. The latter had to bear the weight of an error he had not provoked, and, condemned without a hearing by a sort of universal consent, to incur the sad celebrity of imposture unveiled.

But to-day, we believe, a more enlightened judgment has acquitted him. His fame is pure. Christopher Columbus does not accuse one who was his friend. One glory does not mar another. It is sweet to have at least one injustice less to inscribe in the martyrology of great initiators.

------

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Translated from the German.

Three Leaves From an Old Journal.

I.

Milan, May 4, 1811.

I arrived at Milan, at eight P.M., two days ago. I had never before seen the magnificent cathedral, and I had everything to set off the picture on which I came unexpectedly. The slender sickle of the new moon hung in the violet sky, crimsoned in the west with the lingering sunlight: the street-lamps, just lighted, threw before me a line of red glow; the bronze statue surmounting the lofty obelisk rose in the clear blue above; around it silence, with a tumult below of a crowd hurrying to the theatre. While I stood lost in admiration, I saw two men, dressed for travel like myself, emerge from the shadow of one of the pillars. Their voices as they approached told me who they were, though I had not seen them in five years.

"Hermann! Adolph!" I exclaimed; and they greeted me with joy.

In a few moments we were seated at a table near the door of the nearest cafe, flasks of the Lombard champagne, the foaming wine of Asti, before us, each telling his adventures since our separation. From the same Fatherland, we had travelled far in different directions. They had just come from the Tyrol; from beholding the holy strife waged against the overbearing power of France by those brave sons of the mountains. We talked of those events, of those true-hearted patriots, and of our trust in justice human and divine. Adolph had visited the noble hero, Hofer, and read us a poem he had composed in his dwelling. I took a copy of the verses.

We had little thought of our imprudence in thus discoursing, as we talked till midnight, when the people were returning from the theatre. With promises of another meeting, we then parted and I went to my lodgings. Before I had walked far, I heard heavy, jingling steps close behind me, and, turning, saw a French gendarme. I crossed toward a side street; he followed, and suddenly seized me by the arm. "_Monsieur, votre portefeuille_." he said; and, when I gave it up, bade me follow him.

He led me to a lofty old building, the large door of which was secured with heavy bolts. When it swung open, I saw French soldiers on guard. My captor spoke apart with an officer, who presently gave me in charge to two soldiers. A turnkey, bearing a lamp, preceded us, and, going up-stairs, we entered a gloomy gallery. An iron-barred door was opened, and I was thrust into a narrow cell, ventilated only by a small grated window, through which gleamed a ray of starlight. The gendarme then came in, searched me, and took away my papers, handing back my watch and purse. I was then asked if I wanted anything; to which I replied with a bitter laugh; and with a not uncourteous "_au revoir_," the soldiers departed.

I threw myself on the straw mattress, and ruminated in the darkness on my own imprudence and my probable fate. I was only twenty-one, and full of the hope of great deeds in my country's service. I had parents, sisters, and one dearer than all; yet, for my love to them and to my native land, I should, no doubt, on the morrow be forced to kneel and receive the fire of the soldiers. Thought was agony, but I could not help thinking. Suddenly the dead silence of night was broken by a tone of melody so soft, so exquisite, so melancholy, that it penetrated my soul. It was no song; it was simply a strain of melody--such as brought tears to my eyes--such as was never heard before. {628} Orpheus might have drawn it forth! It was--yes, I was sure it was--the sound of a violin!

Only a violin and yet such music--in my cold despair, with the galleys or death before me--it raised me to the summit of rapture! With the profoundest feelings of solemnity, it blended all the joy of freedom! How it stole on the stillness of night, wafted through the bars of my window; clear, softly swelling, plaintive, imploring like a prayer of love--yielding like the timid bride--how did that wondrous harmony possess my soul! Various airs were apparently improvised; sometimes the tones glided like magic; then rising into power, they melted into the most enchanting melody; ever clear, as if the notes had been distinct pearl-drops. Then the rhapsodical strains passed, by a strange but charming transition, into deep and wonderful pathos. It was full of sadness sweet and tender, like a mourner's sigh; now it rose into silvery richness, now gradually faded away; the melancholy plaint of an imprisoned king! It filled me with calmness and trust in the midst of misfortunes.

The music continued at intervals. I knew not whether to wonder most at the composition or the execution of the player. Then he passed into strange combinations, into bolder and wilder flights; his music was full of fire; he seemed under the influence of inspiration. He seemed to create difficulties only to triumph over them, and surpassing harmony was in all. I had played the violin, (I have never attempted it since,) and could never have imagined the instrument capable of what I heard. When the music ceased, it lingered unforgotten in my soul.

At daylight I heard the beating of a drum, and I climbed to my window to see what was going on. It overlooked the court, and I saw a company of soldiers, with three prisoners standing in front of them. The officer gave a sign, and they marched away. Just then, my cell door was opened by the jailer, who, in reply to my questions, said: "Those prisoners are to die in an hour. They are suspected of treason; of having favored the insurrection among the Tyrolese."

These words were my death-warrant. I listened, shuddering, but with composure. The jailer then informed me that the prisoners were allowed to go into the court at that hour, and I could descend if I chose. I did so. I found myself in a crowd of rough men, collected out of Lombardy, as its scum, by the energy of the French government. At a distance from the others, leaning against a pillar, his eyes turned toward the rising sun, I saw a young man about twenty-five, apparently worn out with suffering. His form was emaciated, his face deadly pale; his eyes were sunken; his nose was aquiline; his forehead broad and high; and his tangled mass of black hair, with a long beard, gave him a wild aspect. But there was a touching interest in the sorrowful expression of his chiselled mouth and the lines of his blanched face. He noticed no one, and was quite unconscious of my long, earnest gaze.

Suddenly he went up to the guard who had charge of the cells, and spoke to him earnestly in Italian. I heard his voice in moving accents of entreaty.

"No, you cannot!" replied the old man, sternly. "And if you are not quiet of nights, I will even cut your last string for you."

"It is the musician!" I cried to myself, and I hastened to speak to him. But my steps were checked by hearing my own name pronounced behind me. The gendarme who had arrested me stood there, and sternly bade me follow him. I dared not hesitate. We went out of the door, and I saw a carriage in waiting. My conductor motioned me to get in, and followed me. After a short drive the carriage stopped before a handsome house. The French soldier alighted, held the door open for me, and led me up the steps and into the house. We stood in the hall some time; at length a door opened, and a voice cried, "_Entrez!_" I went in alone.

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A gentleman in military dress stood in the room, and extended his hand to me. I recognized him at once. Four years before, in Berlin, General K. had been brought wounded to the house of my father. Though a political enemy, he had received tender care and nursing till restored to strength.

He grasped my hand cordially. "You have been imprudent, my young friend," he cried. "Had I not occupied this post, nothing could have saved your life. You are now at liberty."

"And Hermann--and Adolph," I questioned.

"They are free also."

I poured out thanks, which the general interrupted. "You must all be my guests to-day," he said. "To-morrow I leave Milan with my troops, and you must depart, or your adventure might still have serious consequences. I have had your passports made out--to Germany."

II.

Paris, April 13, 1814.

A distinguished musical amateur--an intimate friend, to whom I had told the story of my imprisoned violinist, and who thought it a romance highly colored by imagination--sent me a note to say that I was to be treated to a violin concert, by way of curing my enthusiasm. Lafont had promised to give it; my friend took him at his word. It was to come off that evening, and Baillot, Kreuzer, and Rode were invited to take part in the music.

During the last four years I had heard the best violin players in the different cities where I had sojourned, but none even approached the unknown performer. Now, my ideal was to be tested by hearing the four most celebrated masters in the world!

The saloon was brilliantly lighted, and filled with a crowd of the artistic and fashionable. The splendor was distasteful to me; I thought of the dungeon in Milan, and the melody that seemed wafted from heaven.

After the overture, Lafont opened the concert. He displayed the most finished grace in andante as in allegro; the most exquisite polish and silvery clearness of tone; but his playing--compared to my prisoner's--was like a delicate miniature beside a grand historical painting.

Kreuzer played next. His tones were full and clear, and rose into rare boldness and strength; many passages were brilliant as a string of diamonds; but it was the brilliancy of polished metal or jewels, not the living beam that penetrates the soul.

Next we heard Baillot. His performance glowed with a noble fire. He drew forth a full, energetic harmony that thrilled me; it was glorious! He ruled the realm of sound like a monarch. But my prisoner ruled it like a god!

Rode appeared last. His form was impressive in grace and dignity; his features were expressive and full of magnetic attraction. I started when he began to play; for he stirred memory to its depths. He seemed to embody the picture that had been floating before my fantasy. His music breathed the same fire and fervor, restrained by kindred power. At one moment, he rose to a height that seemed to equal the stranger's; but he could not sustain it. I felt the difference. In Rode it was a wonderful, a masterly effort-- that which my prisoner accomplished with perfect ease. _His_ chainless spirit would have soared upward and onward, seeking prouder heights, more fathomless depths. _He_ swept the empyrean till nearing the confines of purer worlds, and gave back to men in unrivalled melodies the music heard from other spheres.

After the concert was over, my friend M---- introduced me to the celebrated artists, to whom I was bound to praise their admirable performances. I said nothing of my adventure in Milan; but Lafont, who had heard of it from M----, questioned me, and then I related the occurrence. {630} They all laughed except Rode. I tried to describe the mysterious music, mentioning peculiar difficulties overcome in a wonderful manner by the prisoner. "Oh! you are jesting!" exclaimed Lafont. They did not believe me. I was not well pleased, and soon after took my leave. Some one followed me as I walked from the house. It was Rode.

He expressed himself deeply affected by what I had told them, and asked me if it was certainly true. I assured him it was.

"I can believe you," he said, "and, furthermore, I am sure there is but one man on earth who can be your mysterious prisoner. I heard him myself fifteen years ago. I was in Genoa, and going home late one evening, when I heard a violin played in a manner that filled me with surprise. The music was enchanting. At length I discovered the performer to be a youth hardly grown out of boyhood. He stood on a garden wall, and was looking up toward a window, while he drew from the instrument sounds which revealed mysteries in music of which I had never dreamed before. I stood in the shadow and listened. The moon came out from behind a cloud, and shone full on the boy's face and form; he was like what you have described.

"When he ceased playing, the window was softly opened, and the face of a young girl appeared. The next moment I heard a harsh voice exclaim: '_Traditore! pel diavolo!_' The boy sprang from the wall into the street, plunged into a dark alley, and disappeared. A head peered over the wall, and oaths and menaces were profusely poured forth. The light in the window had been quickly extinguished. Some love affair, of course! After waiting some time, I went on, and as I passed by the wall trod upon something. It was a violin bow, no doubt dropped by the lad as he leaped from the wall. I kept the bow in hopes of finding the owner. It was marked with a P. But I could not trace him; I had to leave Genoa, and have heard nothing of him since. But to him I owe the improvements I have introduced into my performance, for I never lost the impression of his music. I call it a revelation: I owe to it the best part of my fame!"

I listened to the great artist with astonishment. Then I told him of the strange, fitful resemblances I had found in his playing to that of the stranger. Both of us cherish the hope that we shall yet discover him. So mighty a genius must one day sway the world.

III.

Berlin, March 30, 1829.

After my long residence in the north, I returned here yesterday. It was half-past eight when I had changed my travelling dress and dined. I asked the butler if there was anything new at the theatre. "Nothing, _mein Herr_," he replied. "But the concert is an attraction. There is a violin player--"

"I have had enough of violin players."

"This one, sir, is called a wonder. See, in the paper, here, what the critic--Rellstab--says of him."

"Never mind, I care little for the critic's praise. What is the name of this wonderful performer?"

"His name? I will tell you directly. Strange--it has just gone out of my head! He is an Italian--"

"An Italian?" I exclaimed, starting up.

"Yes--and the name .... it begins with a P."

"With a P! I must go instantly Where can I procure a ticket?"

"At the bureau opposite."

In a moment I had rushed across the street, and had the ticket.

At the door of the concert hall I found the crowd so great I could not force my way in. I was compelled to stand outside with the others. Gradually I edged myself nearer. The tutti of the last composition was ended; the solo--apollacca--began.

{631}

The tones struck deep in my heart. I had heard them before; they were unforgotten. But what a miracle! Do two play--or three? That I have never heard. No, I could not trust my ears. If I might but see the player! but gain one look! In vain! the crowd surged against the open door, yet none could make way through the swaying mass. At least I could hear now--and I lost not one note.

The music ceased, and a thunder-burst of applause shook the building. I pressed forward again, striving to get a sight of the player; but others, equally eager, pushed before me. I was again disappointed. With swelling heart I waited, impatient to hear him commence again.

At last: "Now he plays on the G string," said some one near me. He began. I was not deceived. That was the very melody I heard in prison! Those were the self-same tones that once--calming, elevating, faith-inspiring, as if sent direct from heaven--sent light into my gloomy soul!

With renewed efforts I forced my way into the hall. I saw once more the pale, melancholy brow, the sunken eyes, the long, dark hair, the attenuated cheeks, the enfeebled aspect of the whole person. It was HE! The mystery of eighteen years was at length solved. The stranger who had so charmed my soul, filling me with feelings unutterable--who had ceaselessly accompanied me since, like a veiled phantom--familiar, yet from which I could not tear the covering stood before me. I heard--I saw--PAGANINI!

------

Original.

Mary's Dirge.

By Carolus.

"Manibus date lilia plenis."

O THOU, whose awful mandate goes
Throughout a wondering world of woes,
Mysterious, still the same,
In moments such as this, we feel,
When grief is boundless, we must kneel
And bless THY holy name.

Ah, MARY! what avails thee now
Thy radiant eyes, thy classic brow,
And form of queenly mould;
The charms of polished culture's art,
Thy trusting, noble woman's heart,
Now pulseless, senseless, cold?

What now avails it to have stood,
In mind's keen conquest of the good,
Peerless among thy mates?
Or that a widowed mother wound,
Like NIOBE, her arms around
Her last, whom death awaits?

{632}

Alas! when heaven such gifts bestows,
It would, to earth-stained souls, disclose
A gleam of its own light,
But ere we learn how dear the prize,
All fades before our longing eyes,
Save sorrow, dreams, and night.

But where can friends so stricken find
A solace for the anguished mind,
Except in Him who sends
The grief that clouds, the joy that cheers,
The course of checkered, fleeting years.
And whilst he smites befriends?

As now I stand beside thy form,
So late in youth and beauty warm,
And sad, hushed vigil keep,
The eye would be as rayless grown,
As tearless, MARY, as thine own,
Could see--and could not weep.

Behold that lovely ruined shrine,
That marble waste where thought divine
Still seems to sit enthroned;
Those pallid lips whose every word,
Like sweet aëolian music heard,
A hymn to nature toned.

In pity, strew the virgin flower,
By virgin hands, in tender shower
Upon her virgin breast;
There sleeps she, purity's picked rose--
An angel snatched from earthly woes
To calm, eternal rest.

Though death's resistless, ruthless might
Sweeps beauty's loveliest forms from sight,
The soul retains her love,
And MARY'S spirit, ever near
The friends her young life cherished here,
Will lead their thoughts above.

Pittsburg, Jan. 21, 1867.

------

{633}

Abridged from the Dublin University Magazine.

Sir Thomas More.

Sir Thomas More did not account his own death an evil; not only, in his last moments, did he mention the king with sweet loyalty, but he also displayed a cheerfulness which has scandalized some writers. Holinshed, for instance, charges him with having been "a jester and scoffer at the houre of his death." This mirthful disposition of More's has made his character an interesting subject of inquiry. But irreverence has nothing in common with that genial tendency which Southey has called pantagruelism, and the desirability of which he has advocated. For pantagruelism is not buffoonery, levity, cynical insensibility; neither does it consist in mere play of wit, intellectual tumbling, and playful freaks of fancy. Jests are but its effects, the ripples, fitfully reflecting the sunlight on the surface, and showing that the underlying mass is a running stream and not a stagnant fen. Music and prayer are sisters; cheerfulness is the music of life, and harmonizes human passions into rest; it is most consistent with that holy creed, the apostle of which taught men to "rejoice evermore;" it is an ascensional force, a verbum, as the old mystics would have said, which carries the spirit upward, and turns human nature toward the bright side of things. He who was the teacher of its outwardly most grotesque aspect has by implication defined pantagruelism as a "marvellous contempt and holding cheap of fortuitous things," (Introd. to Gargantua;) its basis is a want of love for the things that are in the world; its effect is, therefore, a sweet smile at the contrast, perpetual in this earthly life, between aspirations and realities. Hence More's pleasantry, always harmless and free from sarcasm--sparks issuing from a healthy and beautiful spirit. Pantagruelism itself becomes linked, in some natures, to a gentle melancholy, the sadness of the soul exiled from its eternal birthplace; in northern minds especially is this solemnity of reverie frequent; More, to whom religion was a daily food, evinced this dreamy pensiveness, side by side with his mirth, from his youth to his death. It also seemed as if, gifted with the sagacity of a Machiavel, but without craft, he had in the most prosperous moments of his life a power of intuition which could divine his fate, and thus cast a softening radiance over what to other men would have appeared a most dazzling brightness of worldly success. Hence there is in the expression of his features a sort of anxiety mixed with cheerfulness; the penetrative and humorous nose is like that of Erasmus; but the bony, caustic traits of the humorist have otherwise an expression very different from the melancholy which tempers More's face, the open gray eyes, that seem anxiously anticipating the future or contemplating religious things, the lips that half project in that pouting way to be noticed on many Saxon types of countenances.

When Henry VIII. ascended the throne, More ventured to express, in a poem which attracted the royal favor, a conceit which was at once a criticism of the past reign, a hope, and a foreboding for the future:

"So after six and thirty thousand year All things shal be the same which
once they were; After the Golden came the Silver age: Then came the
Brass, and Iron the last stage. The Golden age is revolv'd to your reign:
I now conceive that Plato did not feign."

From that time began the prosperity of More; but his previous life had been both happy in a domestic capacity, and remarkable in a literary point of view. He had already been an ascetic, a husband, and a poet. {634} As Disraeli remarks, "More in his youth was a true poet; but in his active life he soon deserted these shadows of the imagination."

Whether in poetry or in prose, More was to fulfil Cardinal Morton's observation, that "The child here waiting at table, whomever shall live to see it, will prove a marvellous man." It was at the archbishop's that More won his first spurs in wit, devising pageants and allegories. But while his airy character early manifested itself, his early poems also reflect a vein of ascetic thoughtfulness; as in the Ruful Lamentacion he wrote on the death of Queen Elizabeth, mother to King Henry VIII:

"O ye that put your trust and confidence
In worldly joy and frayle prosperite,
That so lyve here as ye should never hence,
Remember death, and joke here uppon me.
Ensaumple, I thinke there may no better be.
Yourself wotte well that in this realme was I
Your quene but late, and lo, now here I lye.

"If worship myght have kept me, I had not gone;
If wyt myght have me saved, I neded not fere;
If money myght have helpe, I lacked none.
But, good God, what vayleth all this gere?
When deth is come, thy mighty messengere,
Obey we must there is no remedy.
Me hath he summoned, and now here I ly.

"Yet was I late promised otherwyse,
This yere to live in welth and delice.
Lo, whereto cometh thy blandishyng promyse,
O false astrology and devynatrice,
Of Goddes secrets makyng thyselfe so wyse.
How true is for this yere thy prophecy--
The yere yet lasteth, and lo, nowe here I ly."

Rhenanus, Brixius, Erasmus, commended his early poems; he was admitted among the brotherhood of those who cultivated lettered lore. This was a period of general renovation throughout Europe. For good or for evil, the torch of knowledge had been lighted. Vocabularies and lexicons had reached a fearful multiplication in Germany and Italy toward the close of the fifteenth and beginning of the sixteenth century. Nuremberg, Spires, Basil, teemed with rudimentary treatises, dictionaries, and grammars; men were feeding on Latin and Greek, studying eight or ten hours at a stretch. England and Italy surpassed France in the literary movement; and Budé complained that, in his countrymen's estimation, philological studies were the hobbies of a few monomaniacs. More began his contributions to the learning of the age by translating Lucian and Augustine's City of God. Erasmus, in a letter to Hutten, described him as a unique genius in England. But he gave his attention to religion no less than to literature. "Erudition," Stapleton quaintly remarks, "however varied and extensive, is, without piety, like a golden ring in the nostrils; there is nothing more absurd than to set a precious jewel in a decaying piece of wood. Knowledge is ill suited to a corrupt breast." To knowledge without goodness, Plato had denied the name of wisdom, and given the inferior designation of cleverness. But the youthful More was no less eager to attain piety than to become proficient in learning. He manifested these aspirations according to the tenets of his creed; he wore a hair-shirt, he slept on the bare floor, his head resting on a wooden block; he restricted his hours of rest to four or five at longest; acquainted with watchings and fastings, he nevertheless made no ostentatious display of these and similar austerities--often, on the other hand, concealing them under as conventional an appearance as it was possible to bear.

Finding it useful to have some great man as an ideal, he translated Pico della Mirandola's life. At that time, Colet, dean of St. Paul's, was preaching in London; More derived much comfort from his friendship, and compared himself to Eurydice following Orpheus, but in danger of falling back into the realms of darkness. In a letter to the dean he thus expatiates upon the annoyances of life in London: "The roofs intercept a great portion of the light, and do not allow a free view of the sky. The air is not bounded by the circle of the horizon, but by the housetops. Therefore I the more willingly bear with you for not repenting of your residence in the country, where you see good people around you, void of the cunning of towns; where, whithersoever you turn your eyes, the bland face of the earth delights you. {635} There you see nothing but the benignant gifts of nature, and, as it were, the sacred vestiges of innocence." As for his literary study, Lilly and Tonstall were his associates--Linacre and Grocinus his tutors. Now began that series of friendships which he was through life always willing to contract with educated men, such as Crooke, or Croke, one of the greatest students of the sixteenth century, who wrangled at Leipzig, "de dogmatibilitatibus" and other long things--schools then disputed on the weight of Hercules's club and the size of Diogenes's tub--who taught Greek to Henry VIII., and succeeded Erasmus in the chair of Greek at Cambridge; Lee, who wrote against Erasmus; Fisher, who wrote sturdily against reformers; Dorpius, who was shocked at the new classical studies, hearing people swear "by Jove," and was desirous of limiting Grecian studies to the works of Chrysostom and the Eastern fathers; Goclenius, who professed for twenty years; Cornelius Crocus, who wrote Latin with Terentian elegance, and became a Jesuit when fifty years old; Grynaeus, who taught Greek, who, although a reformer, never insulted his antagonists and discovered six books of Livy; Peter AEgidius, or Giles, whom Erasmus called a most agreeable host, and who wrote a Greek lexicon while Luther was bewailing his sins in a convent cell; Paulus Jovius, who spent twenty-seven years in writing his Latin history, was esteemed by Leo. X. above Livy, and wanted a great lady to send him some jam from Naples, because he was getting sick of new-laid eggs; Vives, who was one of the literary triumvirs of the age, and who, at his lectures at Corpus Christi College, was often applauded by Henry and Queen Catherine. In the mean while he had, in a more practical sphere, taken the virile gown, before practising as a barrister, and at twenty-eight years of age been elected to the office of perpetual "shyrevus" or sheriff. His business was to "administer justice" for the subordinate sheriffs, "_pro istis shyrevis_" (Stapleton,) who were incompetent in matters of law. While he was filling this office, a riot took place in the city. For several years past there had been a great increase of foreign workmen, to the great annoyance of the native working classes. A popular preacher of the day, Dr. Bell, preached a sermon, in which he urged the people to expel the foreign usurpers. Apprentices and artisans, therefore, agreed that on the first of May, after business, there should be a massacre of the foreigners. This trades' demonstration, however, was baffled through the foresight of More. He issued an edict, enjoining all well-disposed persons to stay within doors after nine o'clock on the first of May. On that day there was no disturbance. A few days after, however, several riotous crowds of working-men gathered in their thousands, rushed to Newgate, and set free some tiny minorities of swains who had been locked up for robbing, murdering, or otherwise annoying the foreigners. Hour by hour they mustered in huger strength; angry shouts in homeliest Saxon rang through the air; the whirligig was getting louder and louder to one's ears. It seemed at one time rather hard to say how all this would end. More, being loved by the town mob, tried to speak to the crowd of small boys, big men, and roughs. Was it a Saturday night, that there should be such noise in the streets? Did the working-men forget their duty? They did; and it was at last needful to send for the red coats, who, with queer-looking harquebuses, soon put the mob to flight. Thirteen ringleaders were arrested and condemned to death; one only, however, was executed, the others being saved through the intercession of three queens and the influence of More.

In 1503 he was made a member of Parliament, and opposed a grant of money to Henry VII. That monarch, who has been compared to Louis XI. of France, was not to be bearded in this manner, and More was obliged to fly to the continent. {636} But when Henry VIII. began his reign, More became the object of royal favor. His literary talent and jovial mood were qualities too valuable not to be appreciated by the king, who was surrounding himself with all varieties of genius. Like Gargantua, the young king was athirst of all that could adorn his court; More was therefore bound to the court by a golden chain. He was made a knight, and one of the privy council. In return for the royal favor he had to enliven the king with witty sayings, until this yoke became almost too heavy for him. He had scarcely any time left for his home enjoyments and his literary pursuits. In self-defence he was at last driven to a kind of stratagem; he affected dulness, and tried as much as he possibly could to become a bore. At last he succeeded and was allowed more freedom and privacy.