Chapter II (5)

The figure of Charlemagne next demands our attention. By a strange contradiction the Carlovingian poems, so called because they glorify the companions of the great emperor and the deeds performed by them during his reign, are, with scarcely any exception, nothing more than so many satires upon Charlemagne himself, who is represented either as a mute and doting imbecile, or else as a capricious despot; all the wisdom and courage of the time being monopolized by the great barons. The reason is not far to seek. At the epoch when these poems were written or "improved," royalty in France was struggling to recover the power of which the great crown vassals had possessed themselves at its expense, and the feudal league defended its acquisitions _not_ by force of arms alone. One of the most effectual means at that period of acting upon the popular mind was by the influence of minstrelsy--that is to say, by poesy and song; and the troubadours and _jongleurs_ of the time willingly gave their services to promote the interests of their more immediate protectors and patrons. Under the name of Charlemagne, it is, in fact, Louis le Gros or Louis le Jeune whom they attack, glorifying his epoch, but depreciating himself, as in "Les Quatre Fils d'Aymon" and similar sarcastic romances. Turold is almost alone in showing us the king "à la barbe grifaigne," with the authority and grandeur befitting so great a monarch, and as one who rises above his peers more by his dignity than by his lofty stature. The knights by whom he is surrounded are noble and valiant, but he surpasses them all.

In this homage rendered to the personal glory of Charlemagne, and in this sentiment of nationality, which is a remnant of the old monarchical unity, of which, in the XIIIth century, the remembrance had long been extinguished, but which, towards the close of the XIth, still existed, we have two characteristics which stamp the date of this poem more unmistakably than could be done by any peculiarities of orthography or versification.

It is marked by two other specialties: the absence of gallantry or amorous allusions, and the austerity of the religious sentiment. Scarcely a line here and there lets us know that Roland has a lady-love. It is his own affair, with which the public has nothing to do. In the whole poem two women only appear, and these only in slightly sketched outline. One is Queen Bramimonde, who appears for an instant, as she unfastens her bracelets, and lets their priceless jewels sparkle temptingly before the eyes of Ganelon; while later on we are again given a passing glimpse of her, first as captive, and then as Christian. In the other, "la belle Aude," the affianced bride of Roland, we have a momentary vision of beauty and faithful devotion even to death. She appears but to die of love and grief too deep for words. A few centuries later, could any French poet have been able to resign so excellent an opportunity for pouring forth a flood of sentimental verses? Even the poets of the XIIIth and XIVth centuries have lengthened out this tempting subject in endless variations.

As we pass on to the last consideration, we meet with other contrasts between the forefathers and their posterity. Religion, in the time of Wace and of Chrestien of Troyes, was still powerful and honored. Their heroes, even the most worldly and pugnacious, are exact in saying their prayers, kneeling devoutly, and confiding their souls to the care of the Blessed Virgin; still, in times of great solemnity or extremity, in the midst of danger, or face to face with death, we do not find the calm and serene fervor, the submission as well as faith, which fill the heart of Roland and his companions.

With regard to another point: if the "Lay of Roland," or, rather, if the popular tradition which gave it birth, makes Saracens instead of Gascons appear at Roncevaux, it is not pure fiction. After the death of Charlemagne, the Saracens had so often quitted their province of Castile to make inroads upon Aquitaine, and Western Europe had them in such terror, that the fear of present misfortune had soon effaced the remembrance of the old combats of Christian against Christian on the Spanish frontier. A fixed belief had grown that every enemy ambushed in the Pyrenees could not at any period have been other than an army of mis-believers; and to this may be added the idea, which was germinating, that a day would come when, in defence of Europe and of the faith, it would be necessary to destroy the vulture in its nest by carrying the sword into the country of Mahomet. It was not only that the slaughter of Roncevaux cried out for vengeance; the Holy War was in the spirit of the times, and naturally passed into the poems. These, without preaching a crusade, prepared the way a century beforehand, and the idea, dimly shadowed, it is true, but actually present, is expressed in the last five or six lines of the poem, which is, moreover, especially noticeable as being one which immortalizes defeat and death. It is the glorification of courage, in misfortune and in success, vain as to this world, but of eternal value for the next, where the glory of the warrior pales before the glory of the martyr.

And this thought leads us to our last consideration, namely, the meaning of the vowels A O I, with which every stanza terminates. From the moment that Roland had died fighting against the Mussulmans, he became a saint, whose name must forthwith be inscribed in the popular martyrology. It was, therefore, only fitting to consecrate to him a poem after the model of the hymns of the church, so many of which, as well as the Latin poem on S. Mildred, are terminated by the vowels e u o u a e--the modulation of _sæculorum amen_. This is the opinion of the learned Abbé Henry, although neither he nor any of the other writers whom we have consulted mention their suppositions as to the exact meaning of the vowels A O I.

The _Song of Roland_ is mentioned in numberless romances, was imitated in almost every language of Western Europe, and appears to have been made use of as a war-song by the French armies before it had developed itself to the proportions in which it has reached us. There is no reasonable doubt that it was parts of this poem that were sung by Taillefer on the advance of the Normans at the Battle of Hastings, and not the "Song of Rollo," their first duke, as several modern authors have supposed. We quote the words of Robert Wace:

"Taillefer, qui moult bien cantait,
Sur un cheval qui tost allait,
Devant as (eux) s'en alait cantant
De Carlemanne et de Rollant,
Et d'Olivier et des vassaus
Qui moururent à Raincevaus."[131]

Although we are not about to give a translation of the whole poem of four thousand lines, we will present the reader with an abridgment containing not only the thread of the narrative, but also all the principal parts of the poem, without change or abbreviation; commencing with the first stanza in the original French, as a specimen of the rest:

LA CHANSON DE ROLAND.

I.

Carles li reis, nostre emperère magne,
Set ans tuz pleins ad ested en Espaigne,
Tresqu'en la mer cunquist la tere altaigne,
Ni ad kastel ki devant lui remaigne,
Mur ne citet n'i est remes à fraindre
Fors Sarraguce, k'i est en une muntaigne.
Li reis Marsilie la tient, ki Deu n'enaimet;
Mahummet sert e Apollin recleimet
Ne s'poet guarder que mals ne li ateignet, AOI.[132]

ABRIDGED TRANSLATION OF THE SONG OF ROLAND.

Charles the king, our great emperor, has been for seven full years in Spain, where he has conquered the mountainous land even to the sea. Not a castle which has held out before him, not a town which he has not forced to open its gates; Saragossa on the height of its mountain alone excepted. King Marsilion holds it, who loves not God, serves Mahomet, and invokes Apollo(!) Nor can he hinder that evil shall befal him.

King Marsilion is reclining in his orchard, on a marble terrace, in the shade of the trees, and surrounded by more than twenty thousand men. He takes counsel of his dukes and of his counts how to escape death or an affront; his army not being strong enough to give battle. He asks, What shall be done?

No one answers. One only, the subtle Blancandrin, then ventures to speak. "Feign submission," he says; "send chariots, laden with gold, to this proud emperor. Promise that, if he will return to France, you will there join him in his chapel at Aix on the great feast of S. Michael; that there you will become his vassal, and receive his Christian law. Does he demand hostages, we will give them. We will send our sons. At the risk of his life I will send mine. When the French shall have returned to their homes far away, the day will arrive, the term will pass by; Charles will have no word from us, no news of us. Should the cruel one cut off the heads of our hostages, better is it that they should lose their heads than we our fair Spain."

And the pagans answered, He is in the right.

King Marsilion has broken up his council. He commands that six beautiful white mules be brought, with saddles of silver and bridles of gold. To Blancandrin and nine others who are faithful to him he says: "Present yourselves before Charles, carrying olive branches in your hands in token of peace and submission. If by your skill you compass my deliverance from him, what gold, what silver, what lands will I not bestow upon you!"

The messengers mount their mules, and set forth upon their journey.

The scene changes. We are at Cordova. There it is that Charles holds his court. He also is in an orchard. At his side are Roland, Oliver, Geoffrey of Anjou, and many others, sons of sweet France; fifteen thousand are there. Seated upon silken stuffs, they pass their time in playing; the oldest and wisest exercise themselves in the game of chess, the young knights in fencing.

The emperor is seated in a chair of gold, in the shade of a pine-tree and an eglantine. His beard has the brightness of snow, his figure is tall and nobly formed, and his countenance majestic. Any man seeking him has no need to be told which is he.

The pagan messengers, alighting from their mules, humbly salute the emperor. Blancandrin then addresses him, showing the rich treasures which his master sends him, and saying: "Are you not weary of remaining in this land? Should you return to France, the king, our lord, promises to follow you thither." Thereupon the emperor raises his hands towards God; then, bending down his head, he begins to reflect. This was his wont, never hasting to speak. Presently raising himself, he says to the messengers, "You have spoken well; but your king is our great enemy. What shall be a pledge to me for the fulfilment of your words?"

"Hostages," replies the Saracen. "You shall have ten, fifteen, or even twenty, and among them my own son. What more noble hostage could be given? When you shall have returned to your royal palace, on the great feast of S. Michael my master will follow you thither. There, in those baths which God has made for you, he desires to become a Christian."

And Charles made answer, "He may, then, yet be saved!"

The day was bright, the sun shining in full splendor. Charles caused a large tent to be prepared in the orchard for the ten messengers. There they passed the night.

The emperor rises betimes. He hears Mass and Matins, and thence going forth, under the shadow of a tall pine-tree prepares to take counsel with his barons; for without them he will do nothing.

Soon they are all before him: the duke Oger, the archbishop Turpin, Roland, the brave Oliver, and Ganelon, the one who would betray them all.

The council opens. Charles repeats to his barons the words of Blancandrin. "Will Marsilion come to Aix," he asks. "Will he there make himself a Christian? Will he be my vassal? I know not what to deem of his words."

And the French reply, Beware of him.

Roland rises, saying: "Trust not Marsilion. Seven years have we been in Spain, and during all that time naught have you had from him but treachery. Fifteen thousand of his pagans have already been to you, bringing olive branches and the same words as to-day. Your counsellors advised you to allow a truce. What did Marsilion? Did he not behead two of your counts, Basan and his brother Basil? Continue the war. Continue it as you have begun it: lead your army to Saragossa, besiege the city, and avenge those whom the felon has caused to perish."

While listening to him, the emperor's countenance darkens. He strokes his beard, and answers nothing. All the French keep silence. Ganelon alone rises, and, advancing to the emperor with a haughty air, thus addresses him: "Heed not the headstrong! Heed not me nor any other, but your own advantage. When Marsilion declares to you with joined hands that he desires to be your liege-man, to hold Spain from your hand, to receive your sacred law, are there those who dare to counsel you to reject his offers? Such have scant regard to the sort of death they are to die. It is a counsel of pride which ought not to prevail. Let us leave fools to themselves, and hold to the wise."

After Ganelon rises the duke Naymes. In the whole court there is no braver warrior. He says to Charles: "You have heard Count Ganelon. Weigh well his words. Marsilion is conquered; you have razed his castles, overthrown his ramparts; his towns are in ashes, his soldiers scattered abroad. When he gives himself up to your mercy, offering you hostages, wholly to overwhelm him would be a sin. There ought to be an end to this terrible war."

And the French said, The duke has well spoken.

"Lords barons," resumes Charlemagne, "whom, then, shall we send to Saragossa to King Marsilion?"

"By your favor, I will go," answers Naymes. "Give me, therefore, the gauntlet and the staff."

"No," says the emperor. "No, by my beard! A sage like you go so far away? You will in nowise go. Sit down again." ... "Well, my lords barons, whom, then, shall we send?"

"Send me," says Roland.

"You!" cries Oliver. "Your courage is too fiery. You would not fail to get yourself into some difficulty. If the king permits it, I can very well go."

"Neither you nor he," answers the emperor; "both of you hold your peace. In that place not one of my twelve peers shall set his foot!"

At these words, every one keeps silence. However, Turpin rises from his seat--Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims. He, in turn, asks for the glove and staff; but Charles commands him to sit down, and not say another word. Then addressing himself once more to his barons, he says, "Free knights, will you not, then, tell me who shall carry my message to Marsilion?"

And Roland answers: "Let it be my father-in-law, Ganelon." And the French agreed, saying: "He is the man you want; for a more skilful one you could not find."

Ganelon at these words falls into a horrible anguish. He lets slip from his shoulders his great mantle of marten; his figure is imposing, and shows well under his coat of silk. His eye sparkles with anger. "Fool!" he says to Roland, "whence this madness? If God permits me to return, the gratitude I owe thee shall end but with thy life!"

"I heed not your threatenings," answers Roland. "Pride takes away your reason. A wise messenger is needed. If the emperor gives me leave, I set out in your stead."

"Nay," replies Ganelon, "I go. Charles commands me, and I must obey him; but I would fain delay my departure for a little season, were it but to calm my anger."

Whereupon Roland began to laugh. Ganelon perceived it, and his fury was redoubled, insomuch that he was well-nigh out of his senses. He darted words of wrath at his son-in-law, and then, turning towards the emperor, said: "Behold me ready to do your bidding. I see well that I must go to Saragossa; and he who goes thither returns not. Sire, forget not that I am the husband of your sister. Of her I have a son, the most beautiful that could be seen. Baldwin will one day be brave. I leave to him my fiefs and my domains. Watch over him, for never shall I see him more!"

And Charles made answer: "You have too tender a heart. When I command it, you must go. Draw near, Ganelon; receive the staff and gauntlet. You have heard that our Franks have chosen you."

"No, sire, but it is Roland's work; therefore, I hate him--him and his dear Oliver, and the twelve peers likewise, who love him so well! I defy them all before your eyes!"

The emperor silences him, and commands him to depart. Ganelon approaches to take the gauntlet from the hand of Charlemagne, but it falls to the ground. Heavens! cry the French; what may this forebode?

"My lords," says Ganelon, "you will know by the tidings." He then turns to the emperor for his dismissal, saying, "Since I must go, wherefore delay?" Charles with his right hand makes him a sign of pardon, and places in his hands a letter and the staff.

Ganelon, retiring, equips himself in preparation to depart, fastening on his heels his beautiful gold spurs; and with his good sword Murgleis at his side, he mounts his horse Tachebrun, while his uncle Guinemer holds his stirrup. The knights of his house entreat him with tears to let them accompany him. "God forbid!" he answers. "Better that I alone should perish than cause the death of so many brave knights. Go home to sweet France. Salute on my behalf my wife, and Pinabel, my friend and comrade; likewise, Baldwin, my son. Aid him, serve him, and hold him for your lord." Having said thus, he departed on his way.

He had not ridden far before he came up with the Saracen messengers; Blancandrin, in order to wait for him, having slackened his pace. Then began between them cautious words. It is Blancandrin who speaks first: "What a marvellous man is this Charles! He has conquered Apulia, Calabria, passed the sea, and acquired at St. Peter's the tribute of the English; but what comes he to seek in our land of Spain?"

And Ganelon makes answer: "Thus his courage wills it. Never will any man hold out before him!"

"The French," replies the other, "are an exceedingly brave people; but these dukes and counts who give council to overturn and desolate everything do great wrong to their lord."

"Of such I know but one," says Ganelon; "it is Roland, and he shall repent him yet." Thereupon he relates that on a certain day, before Carcassone, the emperor being seated in a shady meadow, his nephew came to him, clad in his cuirass, and holding in his hand a rosy apple, which he presented to his uncle, saying: "Behold, fair sire, of all the kings in the world I offer you the crowns!" "This mad pride will end in his ruin, seeing that every day he exposes himself to death. Welcome will be the stroke that shall slay him! What peace would then be ours!"

"But," said Blancandrin, "this Roland, who is so cruel--this Roland, who would have every king at his mercy, and take possession of their dominions--by whose aid will he accomplish his design?"

"By the aid of the French," answered Ganelon. "They so greatly love him that never will they suffer any fault to be laid at his door. All of them, even to the emperor, march but at his will. He is a man to conquer the world from hence to the far East."

By dint of talking as they rode along, they made a compact to work the death of Roland. By dint of riding, they arrived at Saragossa, and under a yew-tree they got down.

King Marsilion is in the midst of his Saracens. They keep a gloomy silence, anxious to learn what news the messengers may bring.

"You are saved!" exclaims Blancandrin, advancing to the feet of Marsilion, and holding Ganelon by the hand--"saved by Mahomet and Apollo, whose holy laws we observe. Charles has answered nothing; but he sends this noble baron, by whose mouth you shall learn whether you will have peace or war."

"Let him speak," said the king.

Ganelon, after considering a moment, thus begins: "May you be saved by the God whom we are all bound to adore! The will of the puissant Charlemagne is this: you shall receive the Christian law; the half of Spain will be given you in fief. If you refuse to accept these terms, you shall be taken and bound, led to Aix, and condemned to a shameful death."

At this discourse the king grows pale, and trembles with fury. His golden javelin quivers in his hand; he is about to cast it at Ganelon, but is held back. Ganelon grasps his sword, drawing it two fingers' length out of the scabbard, and saying, "My beautiful sword! while you gleam at my side, none shall tell our emperor that I fell alone in this strange land; with the blood of the best you shall first pay for me."

The Saracens cry out: Let us hinder the combat. At their entreaties, Marsilion, calming himself, resumed his seat. "What evil possesses you?" said his uncle, the caliph, "that you would strike this Frenchman when you ought to hear him?" And Ganelon, meanwhile, composed his countenance, but kept his right hand still on the hilt of his sword. The beholders said to themselves, "Truly, he is a noble baron!"

Gradually he draws nearer to the king, and resumes his discourse: "You are in the wrong to be angry. Our king bestows upon you the half of Spain; the other half being for his nephew Roland, an insolent companion I admit; but if you do not agree to this, you will be besieged in Saragossa, taken, bound, judged, and beheaded. Thus says the emperor himself in his message to you." So saying, he places the letter in the pagan's hands.

Marsilion, in a fresh access of rage, breaks the seal, and rapidly glances over the contents. "Charles talks to me of his resentment! He calls to mind this Basan, this Basil, whose heads flew off at my bidding! To save my life, I am to send him my uncle, the caliph; otherwise he listens to no terms!"

Upon this the king's son exclaims: "Deliver Ganelon to me, that I may do justice upon him." Ganelon hears him, and brandishes his sword, setting his back against a pine.

The scene suddenly changes. The king has descended into his garden; he is calm, and walks with his son and heir, Jurfalen, in the midst of his vassals. He sends for Ganelon, who is brought to him by Blancandrin.

"Fair Sire Ganelon," says the king, "it may be that I received you somewhat hastily, and made as if I would have stricken you just now. To make amends for this mistake, I present you with these sable furs. Their value is more than five hundred pounds of gold. Before to-morrow, still more costly ones shall also be yours."

"Sire, it is impossible that I should refuse, and may it please Heaven to recompense you!"

Marsilion continues: "Hold it for certain, Sir Count, that it is my desire to be your friend. I would speak with you of Charlemagne. He is very old, it appears to me. I give him at least two hundred years; how worn out, therefore, he needs must be! He has spent his strength in so many lands, when will he be weary of warfare?"

"Never," said Ganelon, "so long as his nephew lives. Roland has not his equal in bravery from hence to the far East. He is a most valiant man, and so, likewise, is Oliver, his companion, and these twelve peers, so dear to the emperor, who march at the head of twenty thousand knights. Can you expect that Charles should know fear? He is more powerful than any man here below!"

"Fair sire," replies Marsilion, "I, also, have my army, than which a finer cannot be found. I have four hundred thousand knights wherewith to give battle to Charles and his French."

"Trust it not at all," the other answers; "it will cost you dear, as well as your men. Lay aside this rash boldness, and try a little management instead. Give the emperor riches so great that our French will be dazzled by them, and give him twenty hostages. He will then return into the sweet land of France, leaving the rear-guard to follow, in which, I trust, may be Count Roland and the valiant Oliver. Only listen to my counsel, and, believe me, they are dead."

"Show me, fair sire (and may Heaven bless you for it!), how I may slay Roland."

"I am well able to tell you. When once the emperor shall be in the great defiles of Cisaire, he will be at a great distance from his rear-guard. He will have placed in it his beloved nephew and Oliver, in whom he so greatly confides, and with them will be twenty thousand French. Send, then, a hundred thousand of your pagans. I do not in any wise promise that in a first conflict, murderous as it will be to those of France, there will not also be great slaughter of your men; but a second engagement will follow, and, no matter in which, Roland will there remain. You will have done a deed of exceeding bravery, and through all the rest of your life you will have no more war. What could Charles do without Roland? Would he not have lost the right arm of his body? What would become of his wonderful army? He would never assemble it more. He would lose his taste for warfare, and the great empire would be restored to peace."

Scarcely has he done speaking, when Marsilion throws his arms round his neck, and embraces him; then offers, without more delay, to swear to him that he will betray Roland.

"Be it so, if so it please you," answers Ganelon; and upon the relics of his sword he swears the treason, and completes his crime.

Marsilion, on his part, causes to be brought, on an ivory throne, the book of his law, even the book of Mahomet, and swears upon it that, if he can find Roland in the rear-guard, he will not cease fighting until he has slain him.

Thereupon Valdabron, a Saracen, who was formerly the king's guardian, draws near, and, presenting his sword, the best in the world, to Ganelon, says: "I give you this for friendship's sake; only help us to get rid of Roland, the baron."

"With all my heart." And they embrace.

Another, Climorin, brings him his helmet: "I never saw its like. Take it, to aid us against Roland, the marquis."

"Most willingly," says Ganelon; and they also embrace.

Comes at last the queen, Bramimonde. She says to the count, "Sire, I love you well, seeing that you are very dear to my lord and to all his subjects. Take these bracelets to your wife. See what gold, what amethysts and jacinths! Your emperor has none like these; they are worth all the treasures of Rome!"

And Ganelon takes the jewels.

Marsilion then summons Mauduit, his treasurer. "Are the gifts prepared for Charlemagne?"

"Sire, they are in readiness. Seven hundred camels laden with gold and silver, and twenty hostages of the noblest under heaven."

Then, with his hand on Ganelon's shoulder, the king says to him: "You speak fair and fine; but, by this law which you hold to be the best, beware of changing purpose towards us." After this, he promises that every year he will send him, as rent, ten mules laden with gold of Arabia; he gives him the keys of Saragossa to be carried to Charlemagne. "But, above all, see that Roland be in the rear-guard, that we may surprise him, and give him mortal combat."

Ganelon replies, "It seems to me that I have already tarried here too long." And he mounts his steed and departs.

At daybreak he reaches the emperor's quarters. "Sire," says he, "I bring you the keys of Saragossa, twenty hostages, and great treasure; let them be guarded well. It is Marsilion who sends them. As to the caliph, marvel not because he does not come. With my own eyes I saw him embark on the sea with three hundred thousand armed men; they were all weary of the rule of Marsilion, and were going forth to dwell in the midst of Christians; but at four leagues from the coast a furious tempest overwhelmed them, so that all were drowned. If the caliph had been living, I would have brought him hither. Believe me, sire, before a month is over, Marsilion will have joined you in France; he will receive the Christian law, and will, as your vassal, do you homage for the kingdom of Spain."

"Then God be praised!" said Charles. "You have well delivered your message, and it shall profit you well."

The clarions sound. Charles proclaims the war at an end. The soldiers raise the camp; they load the sumpter horses; the army is in motion, and on its way towards the sweet land of France. Nevertheless, the day closes; the night is dark. Charlemagne sleeps. In a dream he sees himself in the great defiles of Cisaire, with his lance of ash-wood in his hand. Ganelon seizes hold of it, shaking it so violently that it flies in pieces, and the splinters are scattered in the air.

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.

FOOTNOTES:

[131] "Taillefer, who excellently sang, Mounted upon a charger swift, Before them went forth singing Of Charlemagne and Roland, Of Oliver and of the vassals Who died at Roncevaux."

[132] The ancient MS. of Versailles, now in the possession of M. Bourdillon, begins,

"Challes li rois à la barbe grifaigne
Sis ans toz plens a este en Espaigne," etc.,

the thirteen lines of the stanza all ending with the same rhyme.

LAUS PERENNIS.[133]

In the early days of emigration, before the industry of the Old World had cut down the forests and muddied the streams of the New, a young man sat at noontide by the banks of a river, an insignificant tributary of one of those mighty veins that intersect the continent from Canada to Florida. His face was a study. He had the features of the North, with thick, fair hair and glittering blue eyes, but his form was slighter, though not less sinewy, than a Saxon's. Nerves of steel and a will of iron, generosity and self-sacrifice, the bravery of an Indian and the fidelity of a dog--such was the tale revealed by his exterior. His history was simple. He was the son of a petty farmer in Normandy, and the foster-brother of the Baron de Villeneuve. He had been brought up with the young baron, an only child, and had been his companion in his studies as well as his sports. Every one noticed how refined his manner was, how noble his bearing; and yet his village friends never had reason to complain of any superciliousness in his deportment towards them. His mother, feeling that his superiority would be wasted if he remained in the groove in which it seemed his natural destiny to travel, earnestly wished for a different career for her favorite, and urged him to enter the priesthood. This he was too conscientious to do, feeling no call to so high an office; and his foster-brother, in his turn, warmly recommended the army. Napoleon was then in the full blaze of his military glory, and merit might win the metaphorical spurs of what remained as the substitute of knighthood, without the weary delays of official routine. But the young Norman was insensible to military glory. There was no fair damsel, with high cap and ancestral gold necklace, with spinning-wheel and a dowry of snowy, homespun linen, who had made his heart beat one second faster than it had in childhood. If his foster-brother had had a sister, Robert Maillard would have been the very man to have loved her as the knights of old loved the lady of their dreams, hoping for no reward save a knot of ribbon and a pitying glance of faint approval. He had read of such love, and of fairies, elves, and witches, of impossible quests, and of princely donations; but he felt that the world had changed, and that these things could never be again. Strong and brave as he was, he began life with a secret hopelessness, knowing that it could never give him the only things he longed for. One day, in the midst of his irresolution as to what work he should undertake, knowing all work to be but a _passe-temps_ until eternity gave him the life he coveted, an old sea captain made his appearance in the inland village, and electrified the inhabitants by tales of discovery and adventure, of which curious proofs were not wanting in the shape of carved idols two inches long, mineral lumps of diminutive size, a string of wampum, etc., etc., and, above all, a tame monkey. Robert listened to the "ancient mariner" with delight, and, never having seen the ocean, was suddenly fired by a wild wish to try his fortune across the Atlantic. Here was a land as wild as the Armorican forests in the old tales of chivalry and legends of monasticism--a virgin land of practical freedom, where new empires might be carved by the strong and willing hand, and new mines of knowledge laid open by the daring intellect. It was not money that the simple Norman thought of; it was excitement, adventure, vague possibilities, limitless solitudes where hermits and hunters might live and dream. To leave Normandy was not exile to him; to leave all those he loved was not separation; but do not think he was heartless. He only lived in a shadow-world of high, heroic deeds, and the commonplaces of bucolic life palled upon him. Instinct bade him seek something beyond home, with its petty interests; and never slow to execute his resolutions, once they were formed, he bargained with the old sailor to take him to America as soon as he recrossed the ocean. From his father he received his portion of the scanty inheritance due to him, and left home as the prodigal--so said his weeping mother. His foster-brother loaded him with weapons of all kinds, and forced upon him clothes enough to last a lifetime in a country where fashion seldom changed. The first sight of the ocean was a poem to Robert. He thought of the galleys of the Crusaders, as they sailed to the Land of Promise; of Columbus and his unbelieving crew on their perilous way to the land of faith. The glorious western sunsets awoke a new feeling in the heart of the adventurer; he felt that this new "Ultima Thule" was the land of the poet as well as of the warrior, and that its majesty, its serene massiveness, should be, not the prey of murderous passion, but the field of a new-born art. Here was a land whose history, if it had any, had been blotted out, but whose immortal beauty was a picture of the lost Eden--the true home of enthusiasm, the virgin parchment on which to write a new hymn to the God whom its beauty revealed almost in a new light. Such were not the thoughts of most pilgrims to the New World; if they had been, people would have said that the millennium had come.

A Sir Galahad walks the earth but once in a century, and he has no compeers. Such was our Robert. Why does the world call those men _dreamers_ whose ideal is the only true reality, while the life of the world around them is one long nightmare?

Robert's life, after he had landed in one of the old sea-coast cities, was a checkered one. He fled from the civilization that had stifled him at home, and which he saw with dismay roughly reproduced in the communities of the sea-board; he found few men whose talk did not jar upon him; even in the wilderness, when he came to a log-cabin, he heard the oaths of low city haunts; in pastoral settlements, he found no pastoral innocence; and even among the friendly Indians they asked him for spirits, when he would have spoken of God. Discouraged and oppressed, he persisted in setting his face ever westward, till at last he came to a river, as it seemed to him; a brook, as it would figure on the map. He wondered if man had ever been here before, but smiled to himself the moment after, knowing that the red man, the natural possessor of this princely inheritance, must have often breathed his prayer to the Great Spirit by the banks of this stream. He began to think how useless the discovery of this new continent had been, since hitherto the country had been but a new field for the white man's sins, a new theatre for the red man's sorrows. He fell to thinking of his own far-off ancestors, roaming morass and forest, like these sturdy men of bronze, hunting the deer, and wolf, and bear, like them, painting their bodies like them, worshipping bloody gods of war, rearing children indefatigable on sea and land--Scandinavian vikings, fair, and ruddy, and golden-haired, each man a chief in stature, and their chiefs giants. How like the race that still lorded it over these new realms! But God's messengers had come among the Norsemen and daunted their fierceness, turned their vices into virtues, and leavened, with a true and manly, a Christian, civilization, their hardy, freedom-loving tribes. Robert knew of the many efforts of the missionaries among the Indians; but he knew, also, that it was the evildoing of the whites that made these efforts so fruitless. It seemed as if wherever the human race set foot it must disturb God's working; and in sudden disgust at his kind, he vowed never willingly to enter again any community of whites. Commerce was imposition, respectability was hypocrisy, civilization was cruelty. "God and my dreams alone remain," he cried; "with them I will walk, and forget that any other building exists save a church; that there is any language save prayer; any human beings save God's worthy ministers!" Before long, the scent of the pines and cedars lulled him to sleep, and, happy in his isolation, he did not resist the drowsiness that, by the banks of Norman streamlets, had often preceded the sweetest moments of his life.

Soon the pines began to sing in the strong wind that rocked them, and the song shaped itself into a hymn of praise, the words seeming to echo the form of David's psalm: "Then shall all the trees of the wood rejoice before the face of the Lord, for he cometh.... Praise him, ye strong winds that fulfil his word; ... fruitful trees and all cedars."

A voice came out of the rocks, as if wafted over miles of space, and, mingling with the song of the pines, chanted with it, "The treasure-house of the Lord is in the stones of the earth; from my bosom flow the rivers of life-giving waters"; and gently the sound of tinkling rivulets was added to the deep song of praise. It seemed as if all creation, bent upon doing the task respectively allotted to each of its parts, had met in conclave round that obscure Western river, before the tribunal of a sleeping mortal. As the shadows grew darker, the howl of wild beasts was heard, inexplicably free from the impression of terror, and strangely fitting in with the hymn of inanimate nature. At twilight, a concert of sweet scents rose from the earth, and vaporous clouds bore up the prayer of the fruitful soil, a gentle sound, as of crystal bells, accompanying the sacrifice.

"Let your prayer arise before me as an evening offering," came faintly from somewhere, and the cry of myriads of insects rose to greet the echo. Nothing seemed discordant. Robert, as it were, heard the world-pulse beat, and yet was neither appalled nor astonished; it was the same voice, whose whispers he knew, which was speaking to him now, only it spoke aloud. A moaning sound, muffled and sad, but grave as the voice of a teacher, now rose above the others, and the sleeper knew that it was that of the ocean:

"The floods have lifted up their waves with the voices of many waters. Wonderful are the surges of the sea; wonderful is the Lord on high."

Robert thought how true and how grand was this remorseless servant of the Almighty will. It does its work though fleets brave its decrees, and science peers into its secrets like a child feebly grasping a two-edged sword. It obeys God, and its work, not its voice, is its hymn of praise. But there is another mighty angel at work in the heavens, and the trumpet-tones of his voice ring in the thunder behind those fast-coming clouds. Tawny gold and ashen gray, like the shroud of a fallen world, those clouds sweep up on the horizon; blades of light rend them for a moment, and a livid radiance darts into every crevice of the forest; the song of the pines is hushed, and the hymn of the storm peals out:

"Holy and terrible is thy name.... Fire shall go forth before thee; ... thy lightnings shine upon the world; ... for thou art fearfully magnified!"

A cathedral of ice seems to grow suddenly out of the pine forest; the trees are turned to crystal pinnacles, a world of untrodden snow lies all around, and within the silence of the grave. Rose-colored lights play on the fairy turrets, and turn the ice-pillars to amber and topaz. More sublime than any dream of mediæval enchantment, Robert gazes spellbound on this crowning marvel, and, though no articulate words strike his ear, he is conscious of a life permeating this realm of silence; of a link with all other creatures of God, which, if it spoke, would utter the words that well spontaneously from his own heart:

"Thy knowledge is become too wonderful for me.... Whither shall I go from thy spirit, and whither shall I flee from thy face?"

But he is no idle gazer, treating the world as a show; he is a disciple--the Dante of Nature, led by her to the song-halls of her everlasting concert, taught by her that all things have a voice to glorify God and a mission to execute for him. He may not stay in the heart of the pole, for other lessons are all around him, and the time to learn them is so short--never more than a hundred years, seldom even the third of that time!

The silent world melts from sight, and the earth seems to recede; the blue vault of heaven is nearer; a rushing sound, so awful that his humanity shudders at it, yet so beautiful that it deadens the remembrance of the gentle sounds of the pine-trees, the crystal flower-bells, the wind, and even the rolling of the sea, wraps his being into itself, and holds him in its mighty spell. Worlds of light flash by him; of their size he knows naught, of their qualities less; but their radiance seems to him the face of God, "which no man can look upon and live," while their voice is as that of a thousand cataracts, each ringing forth a separate and harmonious note. "The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament proclaimeth the works of his hands." Did these words come out of the sound, or were they in his own heart, and did the sound draw them into itself, as the great ocean would draw back to its bosom some lonely fragment of its realm, stranded for a moment by the last wave that kissed the shore? Robert could not tell. He scarcely breathed. He would fain have kept this vision for ever; he trembled at the idea of leaving a world after which his own would look like a hive of bees, and whose sounds were so potent that all the sounds of earth, massed together in one, would barely seem a whisper in comparison. But his pilgrimage was not a reward, not even a trial; it was only an apprenticeship. Hardly a transition, save the coming of dawn and a consciousness of some void, and again Robert gazed upon familiar scenes of earth. The sun's forerunner was flushing the sky, and a wall of living water stood before him. He watched intently; no sound came to his ears. Yet he could see the coronal of rainbow-tinted foam rising at the feet of the cataract, and felt as if this must be the very passage through which God's people of old had come dry-shod in the bed of the sea. As he stood below, breathlessly waiting, the crown of the waterfall quivered with a new light, and the sun a crimson disk, rose slowly into sight. It seemed as though a bleeding Host were lifted up to heaven in a chalice of living jewels. A murmur began to rise from the clouds of spray; it grew louder and stronger, and Robert knew that the voice of the cataract had reached his ears at last. It was but a faint echo of that ineffable hymn of the spheres which rang yet in his memory, but it was none the less the sublimest sound he had heard on earth. Vaguely came to his understanding a fragment of its meaning:

"Glory to the Power whose breath has built us into a wall, and whose breath could hurl us like a flood over the corn-fields of man."

When Adam disobeyed God in Eden, this cataract was already thousands of years old, and for ages had done God's bidding, calm as eternity, regular as the course of the planets. Robert pondered on this sublime obedience of all strong things to the law of the Creator, while man, the weakest of creation, thought it a shame to follow any will but his own. But even as he stood thinking, the earth seemed to tremble beneath him, and he sank gently into its heaving bosom. A darkness that bred more awe than terror encompassed him, and he felt that he was in the presence of one of God's most dreaded ministers. Strange thunders echoed around him, and a bewildered consciousness of some mysterious agency being about him came to his wondering spirit. Out of the darkness grew a twilight, in which objects began to be distinguishable; precious ore glistened on the face of the rocks; metals and jewels, heaped in confusion, met his eye; silver daggers hung within reach of his hand, like bosses from a Gothic roof; columns of sparkling minerals shot up like enchanted trees by his side; while the plashing of fountains, the rushing of lava-rivers, and the dull, perpetual thunder of ascending flames reached his ear--a dusky kingdom, awful in the force it suggested, but hushed and chained by a power greater still; a silent kingdom, the workshop of nature, where our dreamer feared but to tread, lest a volcano might be set in motion on the earth, or an earthquake overwhelm a score of cities. But not before hearing the _credo_ of this mighty world could he leave its regions; it smote upon him from out the roar of a furnace, whence a stream of blinding light ran slowly into a rocky channel. Molten iron flowed at his feet, and a voice sang in his ear:

"The earth is the Lord's; the compass of the world, and all that dwell therein."

Like hammer-blows came the dread words; no spirit in living shape was near, yet a living presence seemed to glow in each fiery stream or glittering rock: the guidance of a will that, millions of ages ago, spoke one creative word, was enough to lead the revolutions and point the unerring road of this grim realm till time should be no more.

Slowly the walls of darkness dissolved, and the hard floor of metals turned to a fine white powder, soft yet firm; trees grew up, but they were white as with hoar-frost; and a marvellous vegetation sprang into being, the mosses swaying to and fro, the flowers moving from rock to rock, the fields of greenest grass swaying as if with animal life. Jewels hung from the fairy rocks, but they closed a strong grip on the finger that touched them; pearls lay scattered on the sandy floor, and back and forth fled swift creatures all lace and film, like animated cobwebs. Robert felt, by instinct, that as he had visited the bowels of the earth, so now he was roaming the garden of the ocean. In reverent wonder he paused, looking upward as if to the sky; and in the liquid firmament wandering stars of fitful radiance shone out upon him. They came now singly, now in strings like the milky way, or again in fields, as if a flag had been studded with glow-worms. As he could not tell why in the heart of volcanic fires he had been neither stifled nor consumed, so now he knew not why he was not drowned; but with the water veiling everything around, dripping in the coral caves, beating against the rocks, stirring the living petals of millions of sea-flowers, he stood upright, waiting for the voice that must swell the everlasting song. It rose at first, as though muffled by the water, grew stronger and clearer, till, in a tone of triumph, it gave forth its glad pæan:

"Bless the Lord, all ye seas and floods; ... all that move in the waters; ... ye dragons of the deep."

"Is man, then, the only rebel in creation," Robert thought sadly, "the only ungrateful one, who thinks it a loss of time to sing the praises of God?" And an answer seemed to knock at his heart, saying:

"Work is prayer, work is song."

Again the sea-walls broke, the jewel-flowers disappeared, and a change came over the dreamer. Snowy mountains; fleecy peaks, purple-shadowed where the sunset light caught their sides; level horizons of gold, suggesting far lands of miraculous radiance; banks of crimson by dun oceans, seeming the grave of a thousand worlds; a solitude oppressive and sublime; a silence which not even the riving asunder of the gray mountain or dissolving of the tawny shore into the ocean of blue can break--such was the new scene on which Robert gazed. Entranced with its beauty, he told himself that this was lovelier than even the ice-cathedral amid the soundless world of snow; and here would he fain build him a home, and wander out his pilgrimage; for "this is the threshold of heaven." Now the sun came from behind the translucent masses, and left streaks of opal and amethyst where his footprints had pressed the fleecy snow; and the dreamer started as the device of this world of amazing beauty and absolute obedience flashed into his eyes from out the great, golden heart of the sun. Here there was no voice, as elsewhere; but the words were burned into Robert's mind as he gazed at the mighty orb:

"He has set his tabernacle in the sun; hereafter ye shall see the Son of man sitting at the right hand of the power of God, and coming in the clouds of heaven."

No sooner had the dreamer gathered this new verse of the world-song into his memory, than the mountains and plains, the valleys and the sea, began to dissolve in mist. He stretched out his hands imploringly, as if to stay the wondrous vision in its flight; but he struck at empty air, and sank gently towards the earth. An echo from afar wafted him an answer, which seemed a promise that the cloud-land would receive him once more at some distant day, but the words were rather a command than an encouragement:

"Work is prayer, work is song."