Page images
PDF
EPUB

tween trench and fort, Gryffith caught sight both of the banner and the earl, and left the press at the very moment when he had gained the greatest advantage, and when, indeed, but for the Norman, who, wounded as he was, and unused to fight on foot, stood resolute in the van, the Saxons, wearied out by numbers, and falling fast beneath the javelins, would have fled from their walls, and so sealed their fate, for the Welsh would have entered at their heels. But it was the misfortune of the Welsh heroes never to learn that war is a science; and instead of now centering all force on the point most weakened, the whole field vanished from the fierce eye of the Welsh king, when he saw the banner and form of Harold. The earl beheld the coming foe wheeling round as the hawk on the heron; halted, drew up his few men in a semicircle, with their large shields as a rampart, and their level spears as a palisade, and before them all, as a tower, stood Harold with his axe. In a minute more he was surrounded, and through the rain of javelins that poured round him, brightly glittered the sword of Griffyth. But Harold, more practised than the wild Graville in the sword-play of the Welsh, and unencumbered by other defensive armour (save only the helm, which was shaped like the Normans), than his light coat of mail, opposed quickness to quickness, and suddenly dropping his axe, sprang upon his foe, and clasping him round with the left arm, with the right hand griped at his throat.

666

Yield, and quarter !-yield for thy life, son of Llewellyn !'

"Strong was that embrace, and deathlike that gripe; yet as the snake from the hand of the dervise-as a ghost from the grasp of the dreamer-the little Cymrian glided away, and the broken torque was all that remained in the clutch of Harold. At this moment a mighty yell of despair broke from the Welsh near the fort. Stones and javelins rained upon them from the walls; and the fierce Norman was in the midst with his sword, drinking blood; but not for javelin, stone, and sword, shrank and shouted the Welshmen. On the other side of the trenches were marching against them their own countrymen, the rival tribes that helped the stranger to rend the land; and far to the right were seen the spears of the Saxon from Aber, and to the left was heard the shout of the forces under Godwin, from Caernêu; and they who had caught the leopard in his lair, were now themselves the prey caught in the toils. With new heart, as they beheld

these reinforcements, the Saxons pressed on. Tumult, and flight, and indiscriminate slaughter, wrapped the field. The Welsh rushed to the streams and the trenches, and in the bustle and hullabaloo, Griffyth was swept along, as a bull by a torrent, still facing the foe; now chiding, now inciting his own men; now rushing alone on the pursuers, and halting their onslaught, he gained, still unmolested, the stream, paused a moment, laughed loud, and sprang into the wave. A hundred javelins hissed into the bloody and swollen waters.

"Hold!' cried Harold the earl, lifting his hand on high, no dastard dart at the brave!"

To add one single word of comment upon the glorious beauty of this scene, unequalled, since the days of Scott, for interest and animation, for breadth of drawing and magnificent effect, were worse than profanation. Had we not already trespassed very largely upon the bounds allotted to uswe should add to this extract the narration of Harold's visit to the court of the Duke of Normandy, as presenting, perhaps, the best specimen which the book affords of the author's pecu liar and wonderfully graphic power of portraying the habits and manners of the times in which the scene of his story is laid; but as we have so largely exceeded our prescribed limits, we must, however reluctant, omit it.

In order more fully to develop the attributes of the age in which the scene of this story is laid, the author has made a liberal use of its superstitions; and we have, accordingly, the character of the prophetess Hilda, drawn with great power and beauty. She is described as one of the last remnants of that race, who, under the outward semblance of Christianity, secretly cultivated the worship of Thor and Odin. Her worthy father, as we are informed," had died as he had wished to die, the last man aboard his ship, with the soothing conviction that the Valkyrs would bear him to Valhalla." She was left an orphan-an Englishwoman at heart, but as much a Dane in her habits," as if she had been born and reared amidst the glades and knolls from which the smoke of her hearth rose through the old Roman compluvium." A grand and magnificent conception is the picture of this mys terious vala; and if these sour and

atrabilious critics, who attribute the results which its author has achieved to incessant industry, and laborious working up of minute details, can gaze unmoved on the glorious lineaments of that splendid picture-can gaze, and gazing deny that it was drawn by the hand of a master, they are truly insensible to the power of the sublime and beautiful; "neither could they be persuaded though one rose from the dead."

The very beautiful and skilful mode in which he has worked up their ancient superstitions, materially enhance the interest of the story; but there is something so awful and so grandly sublime about the fevered visions of the giant prophetess, that while we willingly accord to the author the highest praise which is due to the triumph of his genius and art, we feel a greater pleasure in contemplating the sweet and touchingly beautiful portrait of her grandchild, Edith, to whom the Vala forms so terrible and dark a contrast.

Waving his wand above that "realm of shadows which lies behind the Norman conquest," among those mighty forms which the author has brought to life, the contemplation of which has afforded to us the greatest pleasure, are Harold and the Norman conqueror. They stand out from this grand historical picture with a breadth of drawing, and a magnificence of effect, which has rarely, if ever, been equalled. We have them living and breathing before us: the lofty, generous, and noble Saxon, so sorely tried, and so bravely surmounting the struggle; the wily and astute Norman, so keenly alive to the chances of the mighty game; not a touch which could complete the portrait is wanting. Both have our admiration-one our sympathy and love. But we cannot conclude this notice without allowing the author to describe the last scene of all, and, possibly, the most touchingly beautiful, which concludes this eventful history, and in which is told all that remains to be narrated of its incidents:

"The sun had set, the first star was in heaven, the Fighting Man' was laid low, and on that spot, where now, all forlorn and shattered, amidst stagnant water, stands the altar-stone of Battle

VOL. XXXII.—NO. CLXXXIX.

Abbey, rose the glittering dragon that surmounted the consecrated banner of the Norman victor.

"Close by his banner, amidst the piles of the dead, William the Conqueror pitched his pavilion, and sat at meat; and over all the plain, far and near, torches were moving, like meteors on a marsh for the duke had permitted the Saxon women to search for the bodies of their lords; and as he sat, and talked, and laughed, there entered the tent two humble monks; their lowly mien, their dejected faces, their homely serge, in mournful contrast to the joy and splendour of the victory-feast.

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][ocr errors]

"And see,' said Ailred eagerly, as he drew out a leathern pouch, we have brought with us all the gold that our poor crypts contained, for we misdoubted this day,' and he poured out the glittering pieces at the Conqueror's feet.

[ocr errors]

"No! said William, fiercely, we take no gold for a traitor's body, no not even if Githa, the usurper's brother, offered us its weight in the shining metal -unburied be the accursed of the Church, and let the birds of prey feed their young with his carcase.'

"Two murmurs, distinct in tone and meaning, were heard in that assembly; the one of approval from fierce mercenaries insolent with triumph: the other of generous discontent, and indignant amaze, from the large majority of Norman nobles. But William's brow was still dark, and his eye still stern, for his policy confirmed his passions; and it was only by stigmatizing, as dishonoured and accursed, the memory and the cause of the dead king, that he could justify the sweeping spoliation of them who had fought against himself, and confiscate the lands to which his own Quens and warriors looked for their reward.

The murmurs had just died into a thrilling hush, when a woman, who had followed the monks unperceived and unheeded, passed, with a swift and noiseless step, to the duke's footstool; and, without bending knee to the ground, said, in a voice which though low was heard by all, Norman, in the name of the women of England, I tell thee, that thou darest not do this wrong to the hero who died in defence of their hearths and their children.'

666

Before she spoke she had thrown back her hood; her hair, dishevelled, fell over her shoulders, glittering like

X

gold in the blaze of the banquet-lights, and that wondrous beauty, without parallel amidst the dames of England, shone like the vision of an accusing angel, on the eyes of the startled duke and the breathless knights. But, twice in her life, Edith beheld that awful man: once, when roused from her reverie of innocent love, by the holiday pomp of his troops and banners, the child-like maid stood at the foot of the grassy knoll and once again, when in the hour of his triumph, and amidst the wrecks of England, on the field of Sanguelac, with a soul surviving the crushed and broken heart, the faith of the lofty woman defended the hero dead.

There, with knee unbent, and form unquailing, with marble cheek, and haughty eye, she faced the Conqueror; and as she ceased, his noble barons broke into bold applause.

[ocr errors]

"Who art thou?' said William, if not daunted at least amazed, methinks I have seen thy face before-thou art not Harold's wife or sister.'

"Dread lord,' said Osgood, 'she was the betrothed of Harold, but as within the degrees of kin, the Church forbade their union, and they obeyed the Church.'

[ocr errors]

"Out from the banquet throng stepped Mallet de Graville. O, my liege,' said he, thou hast promised me land and earldom; instead of these gifts undeserved, bestow on me the right to bury and to honor the remains of Haroid; to-day I took from him my life: let me give all I can in return-a grave.'

"William paused; but the sentiment of the assembly, so clearly pronounced, and it, may be, his own better nature, which, ere polluted by plotting craft, and hardened by despotic ire, was magnanimous and heroic, moved and won him.

"Lady,' said he, gently, thou appealest not in vain to Norman knighthood: thy rebuke was just, and I repent me of a hasty impulse. Mallet de Graville, thy prayer is granted-to thy choice be consigned the place of burial -to thy care, the funeral rites of him whose soul hath passed out of human judgment.'

The feast was over. William the Conqueror slept on his couch, and round him slumbered his Norman knights, dreaming of baronies to come; and still the torches moved dismally to and fro the waste of death; and through the hush of night was heard, far and near, the wail of women.

"Accompanied by the brothers of Waltham, and attended by link-bearers, Mallet de Graville was yet engaged in the

search for the royal dead, and the search was vain. Deeper and stiller the autumnal moon rose to its melancholy noon, and lent its ghastly aid to the glare of the redder lights; but on leaving the pavilion they had missed Edith; she had gone from them alone, and was lost in that dreadful wilderness. And Ailred said, despondingly

"Perchance we may already have seen the corpse we search for, and not recognised it; for the face may be mutilated with wounds. And therefore it is that Saxon wives and mothers haunt our battle-fields, discovering those they search by signs not known without the household.'

66 6

Ay,' said the Norman, I comprehend thee, by the letter or device, in which, according to your customs, your warriors impress on their own forms some token of affection, or some fancied charm against ill.'

[ocr errors]

"It is so,' answered the monk; wherefore I grieve that we have lost the guidance of the maid.'

"While thus conversing, they had retraced their steps, almost in despair, towards the duke's pavilion.

"See,' said de Graville, 'how near yon lonely woman hath come to the tent of the duke-yea, to the foot of the lowly gonfanon, which supplanted "the Fighting Man." Parder! my heart bleeds to see her striving to lift up the heavy dead!'

"The monks neared the spot, and Osgood exclaimed, in a voice almost joyful, It is Edith the fair! This way the torches; hither, quick!'

"The corpses had been flung in irreverent haste from either side of the gonfanon, to make room for the banner of the conquest and the pavilion of the feast. Huddled together they lay in that holy bed; and the woman silently, and by the help of no light save the moon, was intent on her search. She waved her hand impatiently as they approached, as if jealous of the dead, but as she had not sought, so neither did she offer them aid. Moaning low to herself, she desisted from her task, and knelt, watching them and shaking her head mournfully, as they removed helm after helm, and lowered the torches upon stern and livid brows. At length the lights fell red and full on the ghastly face of Haco, proud and sad as in life.

"De Graville uttered an exclamation: The king's nephew; be sure the king is

near.'

"A shudder went over the woman's form and the moaning ceased. They unhelmed another corpse, and the monks and the knight, after one glance, turned away, sickened and awe-stricken at the

sight; for the face was all defeatured and mangled with wounds; and nought could they recognise save the ravaged majesty of what had been man. But at the sight of that face a wild shriek broke from Edith's breast. She started to her feet, put aside the monks with a wild and angry gesture, and bending over the face, sought with her long hair to wipe from it the clotted blood; then, with convulsive fingers, she strove to loosen the buckles of the breast mail. The knight knelt to assist her. 'No, no,' she gasped, he is mine, mine now!' Her hands bled as the mail gave way to her efforts. The tunic beneath was all dabbled with blood. She rent the folds, and on the breast, just above the silenced heart, was punctured in the old Saxon letters the word 'EDITH,' and just below, in characters more fresh, the word 'ENGLAND.'

"See, see!' she cried in piercing accents, and clasping the dead in her arms, she kissed the lips, and called aloud in words of the tenderest endearments, as if she addressed the living. All knew then that the search was ended; all knew that the eyes of love had recognised the dead.

[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors]

"At the east end of the choir, in the abbey of Waltham, was long shown the tomb of the last Saxon king, inscribed with the touching words, Harold Infelix.' But not under that stone, according to the chronicler who should best know the truth, mouldered the dust of him, in whose grave was buried an epoch in human annals.

"Let his corpse,' said William the Norman, 'let his corpse guard the coasts which his life madly defended; let the seas wail his dirge and girdle his grave, and his spirit protect the land which hath passed to the Norman's sway;' and Mallet de Graville assented to the word of his chief; for his knightly heart turned into honor the latent taunt; and well he knew that Harold could have chosen no burial spot so worthy his English spirit and his Roman end.

"The tomb at Waltham would have excluded the faithful ashes of the betrothed whose heart had broken on the bosom she had found. More gentle was the grave in the temple of heaven, and bewailed by the bridal death-dirge of the everlasting sea.

"So, in that sentiment of poetry and love which made half the religion of a Norman knight, Mallet de Graville suffered death to unite those whom life had

divided. In the holy burial ground that encircled a small Saxon chapel on the shore, and near the spot on which William had leaped to land, one grave received the betrothed, and the tomb of Waltham only honoured an empty

name.

"Eight centuries have rolled away, and where is the Norman now, or where is not the Saxon? The little urn that sufficed for the mighty lord, is despoiled of his very dust; but the tombless shade of the kingly freeman still guards the coasts and rests upon the seas. In many a noiseless field, with thoughts for armies, your relics, O Saxon heroes, have won back the victory from the bones of the Norman saints; and whenever, with fairer fates, freedom opposes force, and justice, redeeming the old defeat, smites down the armed frauds that would consecrate the wrong, smile, O soul of our Saxon Harold, smile, appeased, on the Saxon's land!"

In comparing this work with the former productions of the author, it is impossible not to feel that it is one of a higher and loftier aim than any which have preceded it. No attempt has been made to interest the reader by scenes of startling effect, by exaggerated sentiment, or by any of those ordinary devices, often so successfully adopted by writers of fiction. The brilliant pictures in which its pages abound, the lofty and graceful portraits of the mighty dead, have all the sober charms of truth and reality; and as a commentary upon the obscure history of remote ages, it is an invaluable addition to the literature of England. Difficult as it was to link the long-forgotten past with our own times, by associations which are imperishable, because they belong to all ages and to all countries, the author has been completely successful. If this work has less of tender and touching interest than the "Last of the Barons,' it is unquestionably enriched by more varied learning. The style is more pure and classic, the conceptions more grand and lofty, while, at the same time, the historical narration is enlivened by a living vein of the most exquisite and beautiful poetry.

The part of the work which will be found least interesting to the general reader, is, possibly, the first volume, which is somewhat like the exordium of a speech before the orator has fully

warmed with a subject, which at first sight might be supposed one to afford little scope for a display of his peculiar powers. But let him go on, and when the glorious conceptions of genius have dawned upon him—when his eye is dazzled by the magnificent pictures of beauty which rise upon his view-when his heart is touched by the soft and deep pathos, and his mind is stirred by the lofty grandeur with which the master-art of genius has

contrived to invest details of history, apparently so uninteresting, he will turn over the last page, as we have done, with a deep regret, that the voice whose tones have charmed his ear is hushed, and upon his memory these scenes and pictures of enchanting beauty will often return, which have made unto the author a name to be remembered in his land's language, and which, as long as that language endures, can never die.

TO THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF W. A. BUTLER.

Between the boundaries of this world of death

And that bright region where the Glory dwells,
That Nature yearns for from her inmost cells,
The Shadowy Vale-so Israel's poet saith-
Winds far away all verdurous; and beneath,

From unseen source, the oblivious river wells,
Which waters with its streams those silent dells-

Soft-flowing as a slumbering infant's breath.
There, 'mid the canoniz'd phantom of all time,

Immaculate Berkley rests his laurelled head;
There Edmund, seer-like, meditates sublime ;

With these shalt thou enjoy that blissful bourne,
O spiritual Patriot! whom we mourn—

Whom the Church mourns in tears she long must shed!

C. I. BLACK.

THE STRANGER'S PARTING.

(FROM THE ROMAIC.)

And now 'tis May, now fresh and fair, now Springtide's glorious season,
And now again to house and home, must turn him home the Stranger ;
By night he saddles still his horse, by night he shoes his courser,
With silver nails he shoes him well, with nails of gold and silver;
And on his neck a bridle flings, with pearls all rich embroidered—
The maiden who the Stranger loves-the maiden who adores him-
Holds near the light, and lights him well, and pours the parting beaker—
At every cup she pours him out, at every turn she speaketh-
"Oh! take me, lord! oh! take me home! oh! take me with thee, Stranger!
That supper I may dress for thee, the couch spread where thou sleepest,
And then mine own may spread beside, mine own spread close beside thee!"
"Where now I go, dear maiden mine! no maiden can go with me,
Men only can therein abide-young men alone-young soldiers!"
"Well, deck me then in Frankish dress, a man's apparel give me—
Give me a courser fleet and strong-give me a golden saddle-
And I will off with thee at once, like thee a brave young soldier !
Oh! take me, lord! oh! take me, love!-oh! take me with thee, Stranger!"
M. S. J.

« PreviousContinue »