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Since this article was prepared for the press, we have been grieved to hear of the death of Mr. Mellen. |
No correct notion of Mr. Paulding’s literary peculiarities can be obtained from an inspection of his MS., which, no doubt, has been strongly modified by adventitious circumstances. His small as, ts, and cs are all alike, and the style of the characters generally is French, although the entire MS. has much the appearance of Greek text. The paper which he ordinarily uses is of a very fine glossy texture, and of a blue tint, with gilt edges. His signature is a good specimen of his general hand.
Mrs. Sigourney seems to take much pains with her MSS. Apparently she employs black lines. Every t is crossed, and every i dotted, with precision, while the punctuation is faultless. Yet the whole has nothing of effeminacy or formality. The individual characters are large, well and freely formed, and preserve a perfect uniformity throughout. Something in her hand-writing puts us in mind of Mr. Paulding’s. In both MSS. perfect regularity exists, and in both the style is formed or decided. Both are beautiful; yet Mrs. Sigourney’s is the most legible, and Mr. Paulding’s nearly the most illegible in the world. From that of Mrs. S. we might easily form a true estimate of her compositions. Freedom, dignity, precision, and grace, without originality, may be properly attributed to her. She has fine taste, without genius. Her paper is usually good—the seal small, of green and gold wax, and without impression.
Mr. Walsh’s MS. is peculiar, from its large, sprawling and irregular appearance—rather rotund than angular. It always seems to have been hurriedly written. The ts are crossed with a sweeping scratch of the pen, which gives to his epistles a somewhat droll appearance. A dictatorial air pervades the whole. His paper is of ordinary quality. His seal is commonly of brown wax mingled with gold, and bears a Latin motto, of which only the words trans and mortuus are legible.
Mr. Walsh cannot be denied talent; but his reputation, which has been bolstered into being by a clique, is not a thing to live. A blustering self-conceit betrays itself in his chirography, which upon the whole, is not very dissimilar to that of Mr. E. Everett, of whom we shall speak hereafter.
Mr. Ingraham, or Ingrahame, (for he writes his name sometimes with, and sometimes without the e,) is one of our most popular novelists, if not one of our best. He appeals always to the taste of the ultra-romanticists, (as a matter, we believe, rather of pecuniary policy than of choice) and thus is obnoxious to the charge of a certain cut-and-thrust, blue-fire, melodramaticism. Still, he is capable of better things. His chirography is very unequal; at times, sufficiently clear and flowing, at others, shockingly scratchy and uncouth. From it nothing whatever can be predicated, except an uneasy vacillation of temper and of purpose.
Mr. Bryant’s MS. puts us entirely at fault. It is one of the most common-place clerk’s hands which we ever encountered, and has no character about it beyond that of the day-book and ledger. He writes, in short, what mercantile men and professional pen-men call a fair hand, but what artists would term an abominable one. Among its regular up and down strokes, waving lines and hair-lines, systematic taperings and flourishes, we look in vain for the force, polish, and decision of the poet. The picturesque, to be sure, is equally deficient in his chirography and in his poetical productions.
Mr. Halleck’s hand is strikingly indicative of his genius. We see in it some force, more grace, and little of the picturesque. There is a great deal of freedom about it, and his MSS. seem to be written currente calamo, but without hurry. His flourishes, which are not many, look as if thoughtfully planned, and deliberately, yet firmly executed. His paper is very good, and of a blueish tint—his seal of red wax.
Mr. Willis, when writing carefully, would write a hand nearly resembling that of Mr. Halleck; although no similarity is perceptible in the signatures. His usual chirography is dashing, free, and not ungraceful, but is sadly deficient in force and picturesqueness.
It has been the fate of this gentleman to be alternately condemned ad infinitum, and lauded ad nauseam—a fact which speaks much in his praise. We know of no American writer who has evinced greater versatility of talent; that is to say, of high talent, often amounting to genius; and we know of none who has more narrowly missed placing himself at the head of our letters.
The paper of Mr. Willis’ epistles is always fine, and glossy. At present, he employs a somewhat large seal, with a dove, or carrier-pigeon, at the top, the word “Glenmary” at bottom, and the initials “N. P. W.” in the middle.
Mr. Dawes has been long known as a poet; but his claims are scarcely yet settled—his friends giving him rank with Bryant and Halleck, while his opponents treat his pretensions with contempt. The truth is, that the author of “Geraldine” and “Athenia of Damascus” has written occasional verses very well—so well, that some of his minor pieces may be considered equal to any of the minor pieces of either of the two gentlemen above-mentioned. His longer poems, however, will not bear examination. “Athenia of Damascus” is pompous nonsense, and “Geraldine” a most ridiculous imitation of Don Juan, in which the beauties of the original have been as sedulously avoided, as the blemishes have been blunderingly culled. In style, he is, perhaps, the most inflated, involved, and falsely-figurative, of any of our more noted poets. This defect, of course, is only fully appreciable in what are termed his “sustained efforts,” and thus his shorter pieces are often exceedingly good. His apparent erudition is mere verbiage, and, were it real, would be lamentably out of place where we see it. He seems to have been infected with a blind admiration of Coleridge—especially of his mysticism and cant.
H. W. Longfellow, (Professor of Moral Philosophy at Harvard,) is entitled to the first place among the poets of America—certainly to the first place among those who have put themselves prominently forth as poets. His good qualities are all of the highest order, while his sins are chiefly those of affectation and imitation—an imitation sometimes verging upon downright theft.
His MS. is remarkably good, and is fairly exemplified in the signature. We see here plain indications of the force, vigor, and glowing richness of his literary style; the deliberate and steady finish of his compositions. The man who writes thus may not accomplish much, but what he does, will always be thoroughly done. The main beauty, or at least one great beauty of his poetry, is that of proportion; another, is a freedom from extraneous embellishment. He oftener runs into affectation through his endeavors at simplicity, than through any other cause. Now this rigid simplicity and proportion are easily perceptible in the MS., which, altogether, is a very excellent one.
The Rev. J. Pierpont, who, of late, has attracted so much of the public attention, is one of the most accomplished poets in America. His “Airs of Palestine” is distinguished by the sweetness and vigor of its versification, and by the grace of its sentiments. Some of his shorter pieces are exceedingly terse and forcible, and none of our readers can have forgotten his Lines on Napoleon. His rhythm is at least equal in strength and modulation to that of any poet in America. Here he resembles Milman and Croly.
His chirography, nevertheless, indicates nothing beyond the common-place. It is an ordinary clerk’s hand—one which is met with more frequently than any other. It is decidedly formed; and we have no doubt that he never writes otherwise than thus. The MS. of his school-days has probably been persisted in to the last. If so, the fact is in full consonance with the steady precision of his style. The flourish at the end of the signature is but a part of the writer’s general enthusiasm.
Mr. Simms is the author of “Martin Faber,” “Atalantis,” “Guy Rivers,” “The Partisan,” “Mellichampe,” “The Yemassee,” “The Damsel of Darien,” “The Black Riders of the Congaree,” and one or two other productions, among which we must not forget to mention several fine poems. As a poet, indeed, we like him far better than as a novelist. His qualities in this latter respect resemble those of Mr. Kennedy, although he equals him in no particular, except in his appreciation of the graceful. In his sense of beauty he is Mr. K.’s superior, but falls behind him in force, and the other attributes of the author of Swallow Barn. These differences and resemblances are well shown in the MSS. That of Mr. S. has more slope, and more uniformity in detail, with less in the mass—while it has also less of the picturesque, although still much. The middle name is Gilmore; in the cut it looks like Gilmere.
The Rev. Orestes A. Brownson is chiefly known to the literary world as the editor of the “Boston Quarterly Review,” a work to which he contributes, each quarter, at least two-thirds of the matter. He has published little in book form—his principal works being “Charles Elwood,” and “New Views.” Of these, the former production is, in many respects, one of the highest merit. In logical accuracy, in comprehensiveness of thought, and in the evident frankness and desire for truth in which it is composed, we know of few theological treatises which can be compared with it. Its conclusion, however, bears about it a species of hesitation and inconsequence, which betray the fact that the writer has not altogether succeeded in convincing himself of those important truths which he is so anxious to impress upon his readers. We must bear in mind, however, that this is the fault of Mr. Brownson’s subject, and not of Mr. Brownson. However well a man may reason on the great topics of God and immortality, he will be forced to admit tacitly in the end, that God and immortality are things to be felt, rather than demonstrated.
On subjects less indefinite, Mr. B. reasons with the calm and convincing force of a Combe. He is, in every respect, an extraordinary man, and with the more extensive resources which would have been afforded him by early education, could not have failed to bring about important results.
His MS. indicates, in the most striking manner, the unpretending simplicity, directness, and especially, the indefatigability of his mental character. His signature is more petite than his general chirography.
Judge Beverly Tucker, of the College of William and Mary, Virginia, is the author of one of the best novels ever published in America—“George Balcombe”—although, for some reason, the book was never a popular favorite. It was, perhaps, somewhat too didactic for the general taste.
He has written a great deal, also, for the “Southern Literary Messenger” at different times; and, at one period, acted in part, if not altogether, as editor of that Magazine, which is indebted to him for some very racy articles, in the way of criticism especially. He is apt, however, to be led away by personal feelings, and is more given to vituperation for the mere sake of point or pungency, than is altogether consonant with his character as judge. Some five years ago there appeared in the “Messenger,” under the editorial head, an article on the subject of the “Pickwick Papers” and some other productions of Mr. Dickens. This article, which abounded in well-written but extravagant denunciation of everything composed by the author of “The Curiosity Shop,” and which prophesied his immediate downfall, we have reason to believe was from the pen of Judge Beverly Tucker. We take this opportunity of mentioning the subject, because the odium of the paper in question fell altogether upon our shoulders, and it is a burthen we are not disposed and never intended to bear. The review appeared in March, we think, and we had retired from the Messenger in the January preceding. About eighteen months previously, and when Mr. Dickens was scarcely known to the public at all, except as the author of some brief tales and essays, the writer of this article took occasion to predict, in the Messenger, and in the most emphatic manner, that high and just distinction which the author in question has attained. Judge Tucker’s MS. is diminutive, but neat and legible, and has much force and precision, with little of the picturesque. The care which he bestows upon his literary compositions makes itself manifest also in his chirography. The signature is more florid than general hand.
Mr. Sanderson, Professor of the Greek and Latin languages in the High School of Philadelphia, is well known as the author of a series of letters, entitled “The American in Paris.” These are distinguished by ease and vivacity of style, with occasional profundity of observation, and, above all, by the frequency of their illustrative anecdotes, and figures. In all these particulars, Professor Sanderson is the precise counterpart of Judge Beverly Tucker, author of “George Balcombe.” The MSS. of the two gentlemen are nearly identical. Both are neat, clear and legible. Mr. Sanderson’s is somewhat the more crowded.
About Miss Gould’s MS. there is great neatness, picturesqueness, and finish, without over-effeminacy. The literary style of one who writes thus will always be remarkable for sententiousness and epigrammatism; and these are the leading features of Miss Gould’s poetry.
Prof. Henry, of Bristol College, is chiefly known by his contributions to our Quarterlies, and as one of the originators of the New-York Review, in conjunction with Dr. Hawks and Professor Anthon. His chirography is now neat and picturesque, (much resembling that of Judge Tucker,) and now excessively scratchy, clerky, and slovenly—so that it is nearly impossible to say anything respecting it, except that it indicates a vacillating disposition, with unsettled ideas of the beautiful. None of his epistles, in regard to their chirography, end as well as they begin. This trait denotes fatigability. His signature, which is bold and decided, conveys not the faintest idea of the general MS.
Mrs. Embury is chiefly known by her contributions to the Periodicals of the country. She is one of the most nervous of our female writers, and is not destitute of originality—that rarest of all qualities in a woman, and especially in an American woman.
Her MS. evinces a strong disposition to fly off at a tangent from the old formulæ of the Boarding Academies. Both in it, and in her literary style, it would be well that she should no longer hesitate to discard the absurdities of mere fashion.
Mr. Landor acquired much reputation as the author of “Stanley,” a work which was warmly commended by the press throughout the country. He has also written many excellent papers for the Magazines. His chirography is usually petite, without hair-lines, close, and somewhat stiff. Many words are carefully erased. His epistles have always a rigorous formality about them. The whole is strongly indicative of his literary qualities. He is an elaborately careful, stiff, and pedantic writer, with much affectation and great talent. Should he devote himself ultimately to letters, he cannot fail of high success.
Miss Leslie is celebrated for the homely naturalness of her stories and for the broad satire of her comic style. She has written much for the Magazines. Her chirography is distinguished for neatness and finish, without over-effeminacy. It is rotund, and somewhat diminutive; the letters being separate, and the words always finished with an inward twirl. She is never particular about the quality of her paper or the other externals of epistolary correspondence. From her MSS. in general, we might suppose her solicitous rather about the effect of her compositions as a whole, than about the polishing of the constituent parts. There is much of the picturesque both in her chirography and in her literary style.
Mr. Neal has acquired a very extensive reputation through his “Charcoal Sketches,” a series of papers originally written for the “Saturday News,” of this city, and afterwards published in book form, with illustrations by Johnston. The whole design of the “Charcoal Sketches” may be stated as the depicting of the wharf and street loafer; but this design has been executed altogether in caricature. The extreme of burlesque runs throughout the work, which is, also, chargeable with a tedious repetition of slang and incident. The loafer always declaims the same nonsense, in the same style, gets drunk in the same way, and is taken to the watch-house after the same fashion. Reading one chapter of the book, we read all. Any single description would have been an original idea well executed, but the dose is repeated ad nauseam, and betrays a woful poverty of invention. The manner in which Mr. Neal’s book was belauded by his personal friends of the Philadelphia press, speaks little for their independence, or less for their taste. To dub the author of these “Charcoal Sketches” (which are really very excellent police-reports) with the title of “the American Boz,” is either outrageous nonsense, or malevolent irony.
In other respects, Mr. N. has evinced talents which cannot be questioned. He has conducted the “Pennsylvanian” with credit, and, as a political writer, he stands deservedly high. His MS. is simple and legible, with much space between the words. It has force, but little grace. Altogether, his chirography is good; but as he belongs to the editorial corps, it would not be just to suppose that any deductions, in respect to character, could be gleaned from it. His signature conveys the general MS. with accuracy.
Mr. Seba Smith has become somewhat widely celebrated as the author, in part, of the “Letters of Major Jack Downing.” These were very clever productions; coarse, but full of fun, wit, sarcasm and sense. Their manner rendered them exceedingly popular, until their success tempted into the field a host of brainless imitators. Mr. S. is also the author of several poems; among others, of “Powhatan, a Metrical Romance,” which we do not very particularly admire. His MS. is legible, and has much simplicity about it. At times it vacillates, and appears unformed. Upon the whole, it is much such a MS. as David Crockett wrote, and precisely such a one as we might imagine would be written by a veritable Jack Downing; by Jack Downing himself, had this creature of Mr. Smith’s fancy been endowed with a real entity. The fact is, that “The Major” is not all a creation; at least one half of his character actually exists in the bosom of his originator. It was the Jack Downing half that composed “Powhatan.”
Judge Hopkinson’s hand is forcible, neat, legible, and devoid of superfluity. The characters have much slope, and whole words are frequently run together. The lines are at equal distances, and a broad margin is at the left of the page, as is the case with the MSS. of Judge Marshall, and other jurists. The whole is too uniform to be picturesque. The writing is always as good at the conclusion, as at the commencement of the epistles—a rare quality in MSS., evincing indefatigability in the writer.
Lieutenant Slidell, some years ago, took the additional name of Mackenzie. His reputation, at one period, was extravagantly high—a circumstance owing, in some measure, to the esprit de corps of the navy, of which he is a member, and to his private influence, through his family, with the Review-cliques. Yet his fame was not altogether undeserved; although it cannot be denied that his first book, “A Year in Spain,” was in some danger of being overlooked by his countrymen, until a benignant star directed the attention of the London bookseller, Murray, to its merits. Cockney octavos prevailed; and the clever young writer who was cut dead in his Yankee habiliments, met with bows innumerable in the gala dress of an English imprimatur. The work now ran through several editions, and prepared the public for the kind reception of “The American in England,” which exalted his reputation to its highest pinnacle. Both these books abound in racy description; but are chiefly remarkable for their gross deficiencies in grammatical construction.
Lieut. Slidell’s MS. is peculiarly neat and even—quite legible, but altogether too petite and effeminate. Few tokens of his literary character are to be found, beyond the petiteness, which is exactly analogous with the minute detail of his descriptions.
Francis Lieber is Professor of History and Political Economy in the College of South Carolina, and has published many works distinguished by acumen and erudition. Among these we may notice a “Journal of a Residence in Greece,” written at the instigation of the historian Niebuhr; “The Stranger in America,” a piquant book abounding in various information relative to the United States; a treatise on “Education;” “Reminiscences of an intercourse with Niebuhr;” and an “Essay on International Copy-Right”—this last a valuable work.
Professor Lieber’s personal character is that of the frankest and most unpretending bonhommie, while his erudition is rather massive than minute. We may therefore expect his MS. to differ widely from that of his brother scholar, Professor Anthon; and so in truth it does. His chirography is careless, heavy, black, and forcible, without the slightest attempt at ornament—very similar, upon the whole to the well-known chirography of Chief Justice Marshall. His letters have the peculiarity of a wide margin left at the top of each page.
Mrs. Hale is well known for her masculine style of thought. This is clearly expressed in her chirography, which is far larger, heavier, and altogether bolder than that of her sex generally. It resembles in a great degree that of Professor Lieber, and is not easily deciphered.
Mr. Everett’s MS. is a noble one. It has about it an air of deliberate precision emblematic of the statesman, and a mingled grace and solidity betokening the scholar. Nothing can be more legible, and nothing need be more uniform. The man who writes thus will never grossly err in judgment, or otherwise; but we may also venture to say that he will never attain the loftiest pinnacle of renown. The letters before us have a seal of red wax, with an oval device bearing the initials E. E. and surrounded with a scroll, inscribed with some Latin words which are illegible.
Dr. Bird is well known as the author of “The Gladiator,” “Calavar,” “The Infidel,” “Nick of the Woods,” and some other works—Calavar being, we think, by far the best of them, and beyond doubt one of the best of American novels.
His chirography resembles that of Mr. Benjamin very closely; the chief difference being in a curl of the final letters in Dr. B.’s. The characters, too, have the air of not being able to keep pace with the thought, and an uneasy want of finish seems to have been the consequence. A vivid imagination might easily be deduced from such a MS.
Mr. John Neal’s MS. is exceedingly illegible and careless. Many of his epistles are perfect enigmas, and we doubt whether he could read them himself in half an hour after they are penned. Sometimes four or five words are run together. Any one, from Mr. Neal’s penmanship, might suppose his mind to be what it really is—excessively flighty and irregular, but active and energetic.
The penmanship of Miss Sedgwick is excellent. The characters are well sized, distinct, elegantly but not ostentatiously formed, and with perfect freedom of manner, are still sufficiently feminine. The hair-strokes differ little from the downward ones, and the MSS. have thus a uniformity they might not otherwise have. The paper she generally uses is good, blue, and machine-ruled. Miss Sedgwick’s hand-writing points unequivocally to the traits of her literary style—which are strong common sense, and a masculine disdain of mere ornament. The signature conveys the general chirography.
Mr. Cooper’s MS. is very bad—unformed, with little of distinctive character about it, and varying greatly in different epistles. In most of those before us a steel pen has been employed, the lines are crooked, and the whole chirography has a constrained and school-boyish air. The paper is fine, and of a bluish tint. A wafer is always used. Without appearing ill-natured, we could scarcely draw any inferences from such a MS. Mr. Cooper has seen many vicissitudes, and it is probable that he has not always written thus. Whatever are his faults, his genius cannot be doubted.
Dr. Hawks is one of the originators of the “New York Review,” to which journal he has furnished many articles. He is also known as the author of the “History of the Episcopal Church of Virginia,” and one or two minor works. He now edits the “Church Record.” His style, both as a writer and as a preacher, is characterized rather by a perfect fluency than by any more lofty quality, and this trait is strikingly indicated in his chirography, of which the signature is a fair specimen.
This gentleman is the author of “Cromwell,” “The Brothers,” “Ringwood the Rover,” and some other minor productions. He at one time edited the “American Monthly Magazine,” in connection with Mr. Hoffman. In his compositions for the Magazines, Mr. Herbert is in the habit of doing both them and himself gross injustice, by neglect and hurry. His longer works evince much ability, although he is rarely entitled to be called original. His MS. is exceedingly neat, clear, and forcible; the signature affording a just idea of it. It resembles that of Mr. Kennedy very nearly; but has more slope and uniformity, with, of course, less spirit, and less of the picturesque. He who writes as Mr. Herbert, will be found always to depend chiefly upon his merits of style for a literary reputation, and will not be unapt to fall into a pompous grandiloquence. The author of “Cromwell” is sometimes wofully turgid.
Mrs. Esling, formerly Miss Waterman, has attracted much attention, of late years, by the tenderness and melody of her short poems. She deserves nearly all the commendation which she has received. Her MS. would generally be considered beautiful; but formed, like that of most of her sex, upon a regular school-model, it is, of course, not in the slightest degree indicative of character.
Mrs. E. F. Ellet has published one or two books, exclusively of a volume of poems, but is chiefly known to the literary world by her numerous contributions to the Magazines. As a translator from the Italian, she has acquired an enviable reputation. Her hand, of which the signature above scarcely conveys a full idea, is clear, neat, forcible and legible; just such a hand as one would desire for copying MSS. of importance. We have observed that the writers of such epistles as those before us, are often known as translators, but seldom evince high originality or very eminent talent of any kind.
Judge Noah has written several plays which took very well in their time, and also several essays and other works, giving evidence of no ordinary learning and penetration on certain topics—chiefly connected with Israelitish history. He is better known, however, from the wit and universal bonhommie of his editorial paragraphs. His peculiar traits of character may be traced in his writing, which has about it a free, rolling, and open air. His lines are never straight, and the letters taper too much to please the eye of an artist, and have now and then a twirl, like the tail of a pig, which gives to the whole MS. an indescribably quizzical appearance, and one altogether in consonance with the general notion respecting the quondam Major, and present Judge, than whom no man has more friends or fewer enemies.
Professor Palfrey is known to the public principally through his editorship of the “North American Review.” He has a reputation for scholarship; and many of the articles which are attributed to his pen evince that this reputation is well based, so far as the common notion of scholarship extends. For the rest, he seems to dwell altogether within the narrow world of his own conceptions; imprisoning them by the very barrier which he has erected against the conceptions of others.
His MS. shows a total deficiency in the sense of the beautiful. It has great pretension—great straining after effect; but is altogether one of the most miserable MSS. in the world—forceless, graceless, tawdry, vacillating and unpicturesque. The signature conveys but a faint idea of its extravagance. However much we may admire the mere knowledge of the man who writes thus, it will not do to place any dependence upon his wisdom or upon his taste.
This article will be concluded in our next number, and will embrace the autograph of every writer of note in America.
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BY J. H. DANA.
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There is no scenery in England more beautiful than that to be found in portions of the New Forest. Huge gray old oaks, gnarled, and twisted, and aspiring to heaven; deep glens, overshadowed by canopies of leaves, through which the light but faintly struggles; vast arcades, stretching far away in the distance, and buried in religious gloom; wild wood roads, that wind hither and thither among the giant trees in fanciful contortions; and open, sunny glades, intersected by sparkling streamlets, waving with verdant grass, and now and then disclosing a fairy cottage nestled in the edge of the forest, are to this day, the characteristics of this favorite hunting ground of the conqueror and his immediate successors. There is a solitude about this old labyrinthine chace, which is perfectly bewitching. You may travel for miles, in the more secluded parts of the forest, without meeting a human being, or seeing the smoke of a single cottage curling among the foliage; but on every hand you will behold trees growing in the wildest luxuriance, and tread on a sward as soft and thick as the richest velvet. You will, for a space, hear nothing but the sound of a nut rattling to the ground, or the song of some wood bird down in a brake; and then you will rouse the deer from their retreat, a rustle will be heard down in the under-growth, and you will catch a sight of the noble herd, perchance, as they go trotting away into the darker recesses of the forest.
Such is the New Forest now, and such it was eight centuries ago, on a bright sunny morning, towards the end of summer. The hour was still early, for the dew yet sparkled in the grass, or pattered down from the foliage as the wind stirred among the forest branches. The scene was one of the loveliest the chace afforded—a bright glade embosomed in the most silent depths of the forest. The whole of this open space was carpeted with the thickest and greenest grass, varying in hue, at every breath of the balmy wind over the undulated surface. On one side, the glade was bounded by a gentle elevation, covered with stately oaks, whose giant branches, spreading out far and wide, buried their trunks in the obscurity of a constant twilight—and on the other three sides the ground either extended itself in a plain, or sloped so gently off, that the descent was nearly imperceptible. Thousands of wild flowers spangled the surface of the glade, some flaunting proudly on the air, and some modestly hiding under the long grass, yet all sending forth the most delicious perfume—while innumerable birds, of every variety of plumage, hopped from twig to twig, or skimmed across the glade, filling the air with untold harmonies,—and high in the heaven, a solitary lark, lingering there long after his fellows had departed, poured forth his lay with such sweet, such liquid harmony, that a stranger, unaccustomed to his song, and unable to distinguish his tiny form far up in the sunny ether, might well have fancied those unrivalled notes the breathings of an unseen cherubim.
Such was the scene on which there now gazed two beings, both beautiful, but one surpassingly so. The elder of the two might have been one and thirty, and both his face and figure were moulded in the noblest style of manly beauty. His broad brow, chiselled features, and commanding port, bespoke him one born to rule, although the simple and somewhat mean garb he wore argued that he was not rich in this world’s goods. The attire of his companion was richer, but less gay, and she wore the veil of a novice. Her face, however, made up in loveliness for whatever absence of ornament there was in her dress, and indeed she might well have challenged the world to produce her rival. The fair delicate skin through which the blue veins could be seen meandering, the snowy brow that seemed made for the temple of the loveliest and purest thoughts, the golden hair that lay in wreathes upon the forehead, and the blue eye whose azure depths seemed to conceal mysteries as pure and rapturing as those of heaven, made up a countenance of overpowering beauty, even without that expression, so high and seraphic, which beamed with her every word, and threw over each lineament of her face a loveliness almost divine. Her figure was like that of a sylph, yet full and rounded in every limb; and beneath her dress peeped forth one of the most delicate feet that ever trod green sward. She was perhaps eighteen, though she might have been younger. She sat now on a low bank, at the very edge of the forest, while her companion reclined at her feet, holding one of her tiny hands in his broad palm, and gazing up into her eyes with a look of the deepest, yet most respectful passion. Nor were the maiden’s orbs averted from his gaze, for ever and anon she would twine her fingers playfully yet half sadly in his locks, and return his look with all a woman’s tenderness.
“Yes, sweet one,” said the hunter, as if continuing a conversation, “I have sometimes, during our separation for the last six long months, almost desponded, especially when I heard how urgent my brother was that you should wed his favorite Warren, and when I reflected that your aunt, the good abbess Christiana, was so hostile to my suit. But I did you injustice, dear one, and thus,” and he kissed the hands of his companion again and again, “I sue for pardon. God only knows,” he added in a sadder tone, “whether I shall ever have my rights. They sneer at me now as a landless prince, and that purse-proud Surrey hath no better name for me than Deer’s-foot, because I am not always able to follow the hunt with a steed. But so long as thou art true to me, sweet Maud, all these will be as nothing; and the time may come when we shall yet be happy.”
“Fear not, Beauclerk,” said the princess—for it was Matilda of Scotland who spoke, and he whom she addressed was the younger son of the conqueror, the penniless dependent of him whom men called the Red King, “fear not—all, as you say, will be well. I feel it, I know it. Do you believe in presentiments, dear Henry?” and pushing aside her lover’s thick locks, she held her hand on his forehead, and looked with her sunny orbs full into his eyes, as if she would playfully read his very soul.
“Presentiments trouble me not much, despite what the books say thereof,” answered the frank hunter, “I trust rather to my sword and my good right arm, though forsooth, they availed me little when I was cooped up in St. Michael’s Mount by my two kingly and loving brothers. Aye! presentiments and prophesies, and such things, trouble me but little, or I would e’en have consolation now, in all my troubles, in calling to mind the words of my father—the saints assoilzie his memory!—since dying, he said, ‘that I should be inheritor of all his honors, and should excel both Robert and William in riches and power.’ By St. George, the riches had best come soon, for I gave my last mark away this morning. No, kind Maud, I place little faith in presentiments. But you sigh. If it pains you that I credit them not, why, then I am the most devout believer in all England,” and again he pressed that fair hand to his lips, “why do you ask the question?”
“Because,” said the princess, blushing at his eagerness, “I have had a presentiment that we should yet be happy, and that full soon. I know not how it is to happen; but of this I am assured, we shall live for brighter days. The abbess threatens me with the veil if I do not wed Surrey, and even now forces me, in her presence, to wear a tissue of horse-hair; but though I can as yet see no escape from the alternative, I am not the less certain that it will never be mine to choose. So now, despond no more, dear Beauclerk.”
“Thanks, thanks, for your cheering homily,” said the young prince laughing, for her sanguine words had affected him with an unusual gaiety. “I can hunt now with some spirit. Little does Surrey think, while he is getting ready for the chase and perhaps sneering at me as a laggard for not being up to set out with the rest, that I have stolen out into the forest to meet her for whom he would give the whole of his broad lands.”
What answer the princess might have made to this somewhat vain-glorious speech, we know not, but at this instant a party appeared on the scene in the guise of a knight, somewhat advanced in years, and as he approached hastily, he said:
“You must forgive me, my dear lady, if I urge you to take horse. The abbess knows your journey will have consumed but a day, and that you should have reached Wilton last night, and I shall have a hard task to excuse your protracted stay without betraying you. The men-at-arms are drawn up but a little space off, and, though they are all my servitors, it is best that they should know nothing to reveal. The prince here will understand me.”
“Assuredly, Sir John; and if he they call Beauclerk ever attains power, he will not forget those who befriended the landless prince. I will bring up Maud in an instant.”
The knight bowed, and retreated into the wood. A few parting words were exchanged betwixt the lovers, a few tears were shed by Maud, which were kissed off by the prince, and then, with one long, last embrace, they tore themselves asunder, and in a few minutes the princess had rejoined her train. Prince Henry stood looking vacantly in the direction where she had disappeared, until the sound of her beast’s tramp had died in the distance, when, slowly mounting his steed, who had awaited its master in a neighboring copse, he entered one of the forest roads, and proceeded leisurely onwards. He had journeyed thus about half an hour when he heard a hunting horn sound close by him, and directly he beheld approaching the gallant array of his brother.
“Ha! my good cousin Deer’s-foot, well met,” said the Earl of Surrey; “we have been looking for you. I told your friend here, who swore you were yet abed, that we should meet you afoot in the forest before the day was over—and thereon we have laid a wager. I trow we have neither won. It would be but fair to give you the bet, would it not?” said the gay Earl with a half concealed sneer, as he glanced from his own rich suit to the prince’s garb.
“You may both want yet, fair sirs, all you can spare,” answered the prince; “but let us see who will be first in at the death. You were always apt at that, my lord,” and he turned to the royal treasurer.
“Ay, and shall maintain my reputation, your highness,” said Breteuil, recollecting he addressed almost a beggar; “and, if I may judge by your steed, even against yourself.”
“We shall see—we shall see,” said the prince. “I lay you a new steed, my lord, I distance you to-day.”
“Done,” said the treasurer, laughing; “you have thrown away your horse. But here is the king, and lo!” and as he spoke the horn announced that a stag had been roused, “the game is afoot.”
At the word the eager sportsmen gave spur to their steeds, and the cavalcade swept gaily off in the chase.
Never had a more gallant array than that which now followed the royal stag, woke up the echoes of the forest. Knights and squires, priests and pages, warriors and ecclesiastics, princes of the blood royal and high officers of state, pressed forward in the chase, now scouring along the level plain, now dashing away through the arcades of the forest, and now plunging recklessly through brake and dell, as the hounds dogged the flight of the noble animal into his once secure retreat. Yet it was well worthy of note how compactly the hunters kept around the king, none venturing to outstrip him, and only a few of the oldest maintaining an even rein with him.
Often during the chase the prince and Breteuil passed and repassed each other, and at every recognition Henry would gaily remind the treasurer of his wager. At length, however, the pursuit became more hot, the king gave rein to his steed and pressed on, and in passing some broken ground the royal party became separated, and those who were younger or better mounted than the rest swept on ahead. Among these was Prince Henry, who, though his steed was none of the best, kept up a not ignoble pace, until at length his arbalast caught against a tree, and he was nearly thrown from his horse. He checked his steed at once, and recovered his cross-bow, but the string was broken, rendering the weapon useless.
“Ha! My gallant prince,” said the treasurer, as he swept by; “you can scarcely hit your game now, even if you keep on. I trow your steed is mine.”
“A malison on the string,” said the prince bitterly; “there is nothing left for me except to sneak back to Winchester. But, no! I bethink me now there is a forester’s hut somewhere nigh here. Ah! yonder is its smoke curling over the tree-tops. I will hie me there, and get a new string. If the stag turns at the dell below, he will head up this way, and I may yet win my wager, for, the saints know, I can ill afford to lose my only steed.”
With these words the prince again gave spurs to his horse, and was soon before the forester’s hut.
“Ho! there, within,” he exclaimed; “a string for the prince. Marry, old mistress, have they never a keeper here better than you?”
These words were addressed to an old woman who met him at the threshold of the hut as he dismounted, and who appeared to be the only human being inhabiting the cabin. And she was one who might well occasion the prince’s exclamation of surprise. Her skin was like that of a corpse; her eyes were sunk deep into her head; her hair was grizzled and gray; her long bony fingers might have been those of a skeleton, and when she spoke, her hollow sepulchral tones made even the courageous prince shudder. She seemed to pay no regard to her visitor’s inquiry for a string, but fastening her basilisk-like eyes upon him, she said or rather chaunted, in Norman French, a rude lay, of which the following verses are a translation: