Chapter V (2)

And of Mozart! What shall we say of him—of Mozart, less only than Beethoven in those strains which linger amidst remote associations, but versatile beyond most composers in the romance and reality of the comic and the tragic in actual life. If ever a genius lived with which all its work was play, that genius was the genius of Mozart. Constantly he made the merest play of genius. At ten years old he could astonish the most critical of musical audiences in Paris, and before their rapture had approached within many degrees of moderation, he would be romping in the crowd of his companions. Nor was it different in his maturity. He could compose a piece, in which he was himself to take a part. He would distribute the score, perfectly arranged for the several performers. As they played, he would turn page after page over along with them, always in the spirit of the music and its harmony; but the emperor, looking over his shoulder, could see that not a note had he written down. Mozart seemed to combine in his genius all the sweetness of Italy with all the depth of Germany. But on these themes I have no authority to speak. All I can say is, that what I have heard of his compositions, and most of what I have learned of his life, have led me to think of him with admiration as a musician, and with affection as a man.

Music, it is sometimes said, is not an intellectual art. _What does this mean?_ Does it mean that music employs no intellect in the artist, and excites none in the hearer? The assertion in both cases is untrue. Music, as a study, must, I think, be profoundly intellectual. In the oldest universities it has always had a place among the abstract sciences. But, considered as an enjoyment—considered in relation to the hearer—we should first need to settle what we understand by an intellectual enjoyment. To work a problem in algebra, or to examine a question of theology, may be each an intellectual pleasure; but the pleasure, it is manifest, is, in each case very different. These both, it is true, agree in taxing the _reasoning_ faculty; but is nothing intellectual but that which formally taxes this faculty? Is nothing intellectual but that which involves syllogism—but that which implies demonstration or induction? Prayer is not intellectual, if we identify intellectuality with logic; and if we do this, it is _not_ intellectual to feel the merits of a picture, but peculiarly so to understand the proportions of its frame. According to such a theory, it is intellectual to analyze with Aristotle, but it is not so to burn and to soar with Plato. To speculate with Jeremy Bentham is intellectual, but it is not so to be enraptured by the divine song of Milton. Assertions which lead to such conclusions must be radically false. Whatever puts man’s spiritual powers into action, is intellectual. The _kind_ of action engaged will, of course, be ever according to the subject and the object. The intellectuality of a statesman is not that of a bard; the intellectuality which concocts an act of parliament, is not that which composes a “Song of the Bell.” Music is neither inductive nor raciotionative. It is an art; that is, it is an inward law realised in outward fact. Such is all art. In this music agrees with all arts, for all arts are but the outward realities of inward laws. But some of these are for utility, others for delight. Music is of those arts which spring from the desire for enjoyment and gratify it. It bears the soul away into the region of the infinite, and moves it with conceptions of exhaustless possibilities of beauty. If ideas, feelings, imaginations, are intellectual, then is music; if that which can excite, combine, modify, elevate—memories, feelings, imagination—is intellectual, then music is intellectual.

An art which, like music, is the offspring of passion and emotion, could not but take a dramatic form. The lyrical drama, secular and sacred, civilized humanity could not but produce. Nothing is more natural than that the gayety and grief of the heart should seek the intense and emphatic expression which music can afford. It would, indeed, be extraordinary if a creature like man—so covetous of excitement, so desirous of varying his sensations—did not press into his service, wherever it could be used, an art which has no other equal to it for excitement and variety. The opera, both comic and tragic, is a genuine production of this desire. The burlesque, the odd, the merry, the absurd, and, still more, pity, love, jealousy, vengeance, despair, have their music in the rudest states of society; it is only in the order of things that they should in cultivated states of society have a cultivated music. Such music, as a matter of course, would connect itself with a story, a plot, with incident, character, scenery, costume, and catastrophe. It would thus become dramatic. Thus it has become; and as such, it has a range as ample as that of human life, as deep as human passions, as versatile as the human fancy and the human will. Hence we have the opera. The opera is that form which the drama assumed among a people musically organized—among a people whose love of music was, therefore, intense, constitutional and expansive. But no art remains within the limits of its native space, and the opera is now as extensive as civilization; as extensive, certainly, as modern civilization. The ballad is the first comedy or tragedy. There are germs in the words of the ballet for the genius of Shakspeare—there are germs in the air of it for the genius of Rossini. Many object to the opera. First, they say, it is expensive. All our amusements are expensive—expensive as they ought not to be—expensive as they would not be with a higher and a purer social culture. Artistic amusements are expensive, especially, by the want of taste, which hinders the many from sharing in them—by the want of taste, which makes _expense_ itself distinction. True taste coincides with true feeling; true feeling delights in beauty, as it delights in goodness, for its own sake; and true feeling being wide as nature and humanity, the more widely its delight is shared the greater its own enjoyment. Were there among the people a diffusive taste for elevated music, we cannot but feel that music could be cheap as well as noble. But, secondly, many say that the opera is unnatural. It is absurd, they quizzically aver, that persons should sing their love-talk, their madness, their despair, etc., and grieve or laugh, and die or be married, in sharps or flats, in major or minor. And yet, this is exactly what nature does. Nature sings all its stronger emotions. The moment expression becomes excited it has rhythm—it has cadence; and the tune of Rossini is nearer to instinct than the blank verse of Shakspeare. Who will say that genuine passion is not in this wonderful blank verse? But who is it that could impromptu speak it? So in the tones and harmonies of music. In both nature is carried into the region of art, out from the region of the actual; and within the region of art the musical utterance of nature is no more strange than the poetical utterance of nature. The moral view of the opera I do not here pretend to deal with. My purpose is to speak on music as an element of social culture; and it is not beyond the range of possibility that beautiful truths can be united dramatically to beautiful tones. If they cannot, then society has an immense loss; and if a noble story cannot be told by music—cannot be told to a moral purpose, then music ceases to be an art, as it has always been considered as associated with the divinest impulses of our nature. The abuses of which the opera is susceptible, are the abuses of which every form of art is susceptible. The artist stands—he has ever stood—upon a point between the human and divine. He may carry his art into gross sensualities of the human, or into lofty spiritualities of the divine. With the purification of society we shall have the purification of art and of the artist; and, therefore, I can see no reason why the opera might not be made effective in the best culture of social humanity. The lyrical expression of humanity is not less human than it is religious.

The sacred lyrical drama, or oratorio, seems to be a remnant of the old mysteries. In those old mysteries a scriptural subject was exhibited to the people in a theatrical manner. The scriptural subject is all that remains of the old mystery in the modern oratorio. Stage, scenery, costume, have departed, and music takes their place. Music, therefore, in the oratorio, must, by its own power, indicate character, sentiment, passion; it must unite grandeur and diversity with unity of spirit; it must unite them with unity of expression. Yet even the oratorio has not escaped objection. But, if it has been wrongly attacked, it has been as unwisely defended. What, it is triumphantly asked, can inspire deeper devotion, more fervent piety, than the sacred composition of Handel? The mistake of the artiste on this side of the question, has its only measure in the mistake of the ascetic on the other. The strains, even of Handel, may be in unison with the highest and purest aspirations of the mind; but, in his divinest dramas, they are not of themselves—devotion. But, if high music confers a pleasure that harmonizes with the mind’s best faculties; if it prepares the mind’s best faculties for their best exercise; if by lifting the mind up into the sphere of great emotions from that of mean ones; if by withdrawing it from attention to selfish desires, it carries it into lofty thought, music exercises for the mind, even in the temple, a sacred power, though its power should yet only be artistic. No mind, for instance, can be in a low or degraded condition, while it is in sympathy with the pure and delectable genius of Haydn. No mind can have communed with him through his oratorio of the “Creation,” can have drunk in its liquid melodies—its gladdening hymns of praise—its soft and heart-soothing airs—its songs, which seem to sparkle with the light which they celebrate—with the dew that bathed first the flowers of Paradise—with its anthems of holy exultation, such as the sons of God might have shouted—with the whole breathing in every part as it does—with the young soul of goodness and beauty—no mind, I say, can be in such communion, and for the time be otherwise than transported beyond all that can belittle or defile. But Handel excites a profounder sentiment. He is not so cheerful as Haydn. He could not be; for this he is too massive and austere. He does not, like Haydn, lead the mind out to nature, he turns it in upon itself. Not loveliness, but mysteries make the spirit of his music. We find in Haydn the picturesqueness and the buoyancy of the Catholic worship; in Handel, the sombre, the inquiring, the meditative thoughtfulness of the Protestant faith. By Haydn’s “Creation” we are charmed and elated; by Handel’s “Messiah” we are moved with an overcoming sense of awe and power. Though nothing can surpass the sweetness of Handel’s melodies, yet interspersed amidst such masses of harmony, they seem like hymns amidst the billows of the ocean, or songs among the valleys of the Alps. Handel’s genius was made for a subject that placed him in the presence of eternity and the universe. His moods and movements are too vast for the moods and movements of common interests or the common heart. They require the spaces of the worlds. They require interests coincident with man’s destiny, and with man’s duration. Though Handel’s airs in the “Messiah” are of sweetest and gentlest melody, they have majesty in their sweetness and their gentleness. We can associate them with no event lower than that with which they are connected. In such tones we can conceive the Saviour’s birth celebrated in the song of angels; in such tones we can fancy the Redeemer welcomed in hosannas by those who ignorantly dragged him afterward to Calvary. And then the plaintiveness of Handel in the “Messiah,” has its true horizon only in that which girds the immortal. It is not simply plaintive, it is mysteriously awful. It is not a grief for earthly man, it is a grief for him who bore the griefs of all men—for Him who carried our sorrows—who was wounded for our transgressions—who was bruised for our iniquities, who was oppressed and afflicted, and who bore the chastisement of our peace. It is not a grief in which any common spirit dare complain. It is fit only for Him who had sorrows to which no man’s sorrows were like. It does not cause us to pity, but to tremble. It does not move us to weeping, because there lie beneath it, thoughts which are too deep for tears. And then, in unison with this dread and solemn pathos, is the subdued but mighty anguish of the general harmony. When the victory is proclaimed—the victory over the grave—the victory over death—the victory in which mortality is swallowed up of life—we are lost in the glory of a superhuman chorus; our imagination breaks all local bounds; we fancy all the elements of creation, all glorified and risen men, all the hosts of Heaven’s angels united in this exultant anthem. Handel truly is the Milton of music.

The grandest office of music, however, is that in which, no doubt, it originated—that in which, early, it had its first culture; in which, latest, it has its best—I mean its office in religion. In the sanctuary it was born, and in the service of God it arose with a sublimity with which it could never have been inspired in the service of pleasure. More assimilated than any other art to the spiritual nature of man, it affords a medium of expression the most congenial to that nature. Compared with tones that breathe out from a profound, a spiritually musical soul, how poor is any allegory which painting can present, or that symbol can indicate. The soul is invisible; its emotions admit no more than itself of shape or limitation. The religious emotions cannot always have even verbal utterance. They often seek an utterance yet nearer to the infinite; and such they find in music. You cannot delineate a feeling—at most you can but suggest it by delineation. But in music you can by intonation directly give the feeling. Thus related to the unseen soul, music is a voice for faith, which is itself the realization of things not seen. And waiting as the soul is amidst troubles and toils, looking upward from the earth, and onward out of time, for a better world or a purer life, in its believing and glad expectancy, music is the voice of its hope. In the depression and despondency of conviction; in the struggles of repentance; in the consolations and rejoicing of forgiveness; in the wordless calm of internal peace, music answers to the mood, and soothingly breaks the dumbness of the heart. For every charity that can sanctify and bless humanity, music has its sacred measures; and well does goodness merit the richest harmony of sound, that is itself the richest harmony of heaven. Sorrow, also, has its consecrated melody. The wounded spirit and the broken heart are attempered and assuaged by the murmurings of divine song. A plaintive hymn soothes the departing soul. It mingles with weeping in the house of death. It befits the solemn ritual of the grave. The last supper was closed with a hymn, and many a martyr for Him who went from that supper to his agony, made their torture jubilant in songs of praise.

An essay equal to the subject on the vicissitudes and varieties of sacred music, would be one of the most interesting passages in the history of art. In their long wanderings to the land of promise, sacred music was among the hosts of Israel; and in that great temple of nature, floored by the desert, and roofed by the sky, they chanted the song of Miriam and of Moses. It was in their Sabbath meetings—it resounded with the rejoicings of their feasts, and with the gladness of their jubilees. When Solomon built a house to the Lord, it was consecrated with cymbals, and psalteries, and harps, with the sounds of trumpets, and the swell of voices. As long as the temple stood, music hallowed its services; and that music must have been supremely grand which suited the divine poetry of the inspired and kingly lyrist. Israel was scattered—the temple was no more. Silence and desolation dwelt in the place of the sanctuary. Zion heard no longer the anthems of her Levites. A new word that was spoken first in Jerusalem had gone forth among the nations; and that too had its music. At first it was a whisper among the lowly in the dwellings of the poor. Stealthily it afterward was murmured in the palace of the Cæsars. In the dead night, in the depths of the catacombs, it trembled in subdued melodies filled with the love of Jesus. At length the grand cathedral arose, and the stately spire; courts and arches echoed, and pillars shook with the thunder of the majestic organ, and choirs, sweetly attuned, joined their voices in all the moods and measures of the religious heart, in its most exalted, most profound, most intense experience put into lyrical expression. I know that piety may reject, may repel this form of expression, still these sublime ritual harmonies cannot but give the spirit that sympathizes with them, the sense of a mightier being. But sacred music has power without a ritual. In the rugged hymn, which connects itself, not alone with immortality, but also with the memory of brave saints, there is power. There is power in the hymn in which our father’s joined. Grand were those rude psalms which once arose amidst the solitudes of the Alps. Grand were those religious songs, sung in brave devotion by the persecuted Scotch, in the depths of their moors and their glens. The hundredth psalm, rising in the fullness of three thousand voices up into the clear sky, broken among rocks, prolonged and modulated through valleys, softened over the surface of mountain-guarded lakes, had a grandeur and a majesty, contrasted with which mere art is poverty and meanness. And while thus reflecting on sacred music, we think with wonder on the Christian Church—on its power and on its compass. Less than nineteen centuries ago, its first hymn was sung in an upper chamber of Jerusalem; and those who sung it were quickly scattered. And now the Christian hymn is one that never ceases—one that is heard in every tongue; and the whisper of that upper chamber is now a chorus that fills the world.

Music is an essential element in social life and social culture, and our times have few better movements than the increasing introduction of vocal music into popular education. The higher kinds of music might be included in all the higher kinds of education for men as well as for women. Milton so teaches in his great tractate; and so the Greeks practiced, in whose training no faculty was wasted or overlooked. The music which is now most wanted, however, is music for the common heart. If education will give us the taste for such music, and give us the music, it will confer upon us a benefit, a blessing. It is not desired that music in the home, or in the friendly circle, should never wander out of the sphere of the home or the friendly circle, only let not these spheres of feeling be without any strains peculiarly suitable to themselves. Let the theatre have its music; let the camp have its music; let the dance-room have its music; let the church have its music; but let the home and the friendly gathering also have their music.

We have for the cultivated, music of rare powers and in great abundance; but we need a music for the people—and no music can be music for the people, but that which answers to simple and direct emotion. It is a most important need. The music of the opera, granting it were ever so pure, and had no resistance to encounter, can be had only in cities, and can never reach the scattered masses of the population. The music of the oratorio must have a limitation even still more restricted. Popular music must be domestic, social music. We have it not; therefore we are a silent people, and our writings have no lyrical inspirations. The finer and deeper elements of popular life have no true medium of exposition. These subtle, delicate, wordless idealities of the soul, which the rudest have, are without music; that alone, which can take them from the confining bosom, and give them to the vital air. Our rural life is gladdened by no song—is the subject of no song; and our social life is almost as silent as the rural. National music we have none: and our political songs are, generally, a shame to doggerel, and a libel upon tune. Complaining on the want of social and domestic music, will not, I am aware, supply it; and yet it is no less a want. We want it on the summer’s evening, when our work is done, to rest the spirit as we rest the body; and while the eye is filled with visible beauty, to bring the soul into harmony with invisible goodness. We want it in the winter’s night, by the winter fire, to cheer us while the hours pass, and to humanize in amusing us. We want it in our friendly re-unions, not for delight alone, but also for charity and peace, to exclude the demon of idle or evil speaking, and to silence the turbulence of polemical or political discussion. We want it in our churches. Christianity is the home-feeling and the social-feeling made perfect. The music of it should be the home-feeling and the social-feeling consecrated. As it is, our Protestant churches at least have either a drawling psalmody with the monotony of a lullaby, or they have patches of selections that want unity, appropriateness, or meaning. A music is wanted in our Protestant churches such as Christianity ought to have; a music, simple yet grand—varied but not capricious—gladsome with holy joy, not with irreverent levity, not sentimental, yet tender, solemn but not depressing—not intolerant to the beauties of art, and yet not scornful of popular feeling. If a true and natural taste for music should spring up and be cultivated through the country, not in cities only, but in every village and district, it would be an auspicious phenomenon. It would be a most vital and a most humanizing element in social life. It would break the dullness of our homes; it would brighten the hour of our meetings; would enliven our hospitality, and it would sublime our worship. “Let who that will make the laws of a people,” some one said, “but let me make their songs;” to which a great and patriotic composer might add, Let who that will supply the words of a people’s songs, if I shall be allowed to give these words to music.

* * * * *

SPRING LILIES.

’Neath their green and cool cathedrals,
In the garden lilies bloom,
Casting on the fresh spring zephyr
Peal on peal of sweet perfume;
Often have I, pausing near them
When the sunset flushed the sky,
Seen the coral bells vibrating
With their fragrant harmony.

But within my quiet dwelling
I have now a lily fair,
Whose young spirit’s sweet spring budding
Watch I with unfailing care.
God, in placing her beside me,
Made my being most complete,
And my heart keeps time forever
With the music of her feet.

I remember not whilst gazing
In her earnest eyes of blue,
That the earth holds aught of sorrow,
Aught less innocent and true.
And the restlessness and longing
Wakened by the cares of day,
With the burden and the tumult,
In her presence fall away.

Shield my Lily, Holy Father!
Shield her from the whirlwind’s might,
But protracted sunshine temper
With a soft and starry night;
’Neath the burning sun of summer
Scorched and shrunk the spring flower lies,
Human hearts contract when strangers
Long to clouds and tearful eyes.

Give her purpose strong and holy,
Faith and self-devotion high;
These Life’s common by-ways brighten,
Every hope intensify.
Teach her all the brave endurance
That the sons of earth require;
May she with a patient labor
To the great and good aspire.

Should some mighty grief oppress her
Heavier than she can bear,
Oh! sustain her by Thy presence,
Hear and answer Thou her prayer.
And whene’er the storms of winter
Round my precious Lily reign,
To a fairer clime transplant her
There to live and bloom again.
M. G. H.

* * * * *

THE EARTH.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

As one who walks with eyes upon the ground,
Arrested slow beside a dusty mound,
Where swarms of ants are bustling in the sand,
As if they had a Universe on hand,
Surveys their nothings with a quiet smile,
And stops to muse and meditate a while—
Even so the sage with philosophic mind
Looks down upon the earth and all mankind!
And yet withal this little orb is grand,
With its circumference of sea and land:
The Ocean girds it with a belt immense,
Heaving in billowy magnificence
Round Continents with all their subject lands,
A thousand sceptres in their giant hands!—
And mountains loom majestical on high,
And lift their foreheads in the blank of sky,
Bathed in its brightness, while their robes of snow
Trail o’er the tallest pines, and far below,
Poured from their urns, the streams divide the plain
And bear their tributes to the sounding main.
And the round hills and verdant solitudes
That slumber in the heart of trackless woods;
The broad champain, the hollow vale and mead,
And the green pastures where the cattle feed
Deep in the daisies; and the silver brooks,
And the long winding lanes, and grassy nooks,
All, all, are clothed in loveliness and light,
The various beauty of the day and night,
While the great Earth, as when its flight begun,
Wheels like a mighty eagle round the Sun!
Yes! Earth is beautiful in every phase,
Covered with glory and perpetual bays;—
What pomps and pageants fill the glowing east,
Hung like a palace on a bridal feast,
When clouds of purple standards are unrolled,
And morning lifts its diadem of gold!
What streams of radiance flood the azure field,
When the Noon marches with his shining shield
And scales the eternal steep of Heaven alone,
And looks o’er Nature from his burning throne!
What dreamy softness in the melting west
When Evening sinks in holiness to rest,
And the young crescent moon, an argent barque,
Drifts up the starry ocean of the dark!
And how sublime the black tempestuous cloud,
Where thunders shout their prophecies aloud
With tongues of fire, that flash from sphere to sphere,
While congregated nations quake in fear!
How glorious all! how changeless and serene
Where generations vanish from the scene.
Yet what is Earth in Nature’s wondrous whole,
Which mirrors dimly its Creative Soul?
Less than ant-hill, even the smallest one,
Whose gates thrown back exclude the summer sun.
A single grain of sand from out the sea,
The deep of Chaos and Eternity,
Whose bubbles are The Ages dim and vast,
Melting into the dark abysmal Past!
A mote in the cerulean space of air,
One of the innumerous myriads floating there,
Wafted of old from God’s eternal seat,
Where stars and suns lie thick as dust around his feet!

* * * * *

ALONE—ALONE!

BY MRS. I. W. MERCUR.

“Her friends had one after one departed, and in her mind
continually rang the monotonous words, alone, alone!”

I am alone, oh God! alone—alone!
Yet thousands round me crowd life’s busy mart,
Whose ceaseless hum is as a deathless moan
Forever falling on my weary heart—
I am alone!

I am alone—around me press the gay,
The light of heart, they who have never known
The blight of sorrow, or the sure decay
Of every joy the spirit here has known—
I am alone!

I am alone—yet memory oft doth bring
Back the sweet visions of life’s sunny day,
Of friends unchanged, who in my early spring
With smiles of love illumed my joyous way—
I am alone!

I am alone—alas! stern death has won
Hearts that I cherished, and fond eyes of light;
Kind tones are hushed, and brows I gazed upon
In life’s full glory greet no more my sight—
I am alone!

Alone—alone!—for unto me no more
The living turn with thought or feeling’s flow.
And joy for me I feel on earth is o’er—
I never more shall love or friendship know—
I am alone!

Alone and weary, yet I strive to wear
Ever a look of calm, serene repose,
And smiling seek to hide each galling care
And burning sorrow which my spirit knows—
I am alone!

I am alone—and far, oh! far away
From where my home of happy childhood lies,
From scenes beloved where fountains murmuring play
And smile beneath my own, my native skies—
I am alone!

Alone—alone!—and my crushed heart doth bear
Cold and neglect from those for whom I pour
My full soul forth—whose images I wear
Forever shrined in memory’s sacred store—
I am alone!

I am alone, but in my fevered dreams
Friends throng around me—voices loved I hear.
Light once again upon my pathway beams,
But I awake!—no forms beloved are near—
I am alone!

Alone—alone!—no more the star I see
Of Hope which once illumed my cloudless sky.
And naught is left on this wide earth to me,
Save but to look on Nature’s face and die—
I am alone!

* * * * *

PEDRO DE PADILH.

BY J. M. LEGARE.

(_Continued from page 148._)

SPAIN, AND TERCERA. }
AD. 1583. }

Meanwhile, the Marquis of Santa-Cruz with a hundred sail was steering from Lisbon to Tercera, bent upon reaching that island before the French fleet, and moreover settling it in his own mind to hang the Viceroy de Torrevedros, (who was at that moment taking wine with De Chaste to their mutual longevity,) for sticking to the landless and luckless King Anthony of Portugal, in preference to his own master Philip the Second, sometimes called the Prudent, but by the Protestants, whom he roasted and otherwise ill-treated, the Demon of the South.

Señor Inique’s vessel was the Doblon, and our acquaintance Don Pedro’s the Pez-de-mar, but on the day designated, the two maîtres-de-camp dined together in the Doblon, besides whom were at table some half dozen cavaliers of more or less note. At the close of the meal, Sir Pedro said—

“Gentlemen all, this is a day I never let pass without thought of the brave man whose head fell ten years ago this noon, at Brussels. I ask a _pater_ of the company here present for the rest of his soul.”

“If you mean Count Egmont,” answered one, “there never was truer knight. I was near him at the time of his death, and believe him to have been as loyal as you or I.”

“A doubtful comparison,” cried another, laughing, “since you question the king’s justice.”

“By no means,” returned the Constable of Castile. “The king acknowledged as much himself. I was present when the news arrived, and he said with his usual smile, ‘These two salmon heads are better off than three-score heads of frogs!’”

“Yes, and the French ambassador wrote to court, ‘I have seen a head fall which has twice made France quake.’”

“Well,” said the constable, “I was but a stripling at the time, but I well remember how the count led his lances at St. Quentin. There was not a—hush! what’s that?” he stopped suddenly and asked.

“What?” demanded most of his audience, who had heard nothing but the breaking of Don Pedro’s glass upset by his elbow. Perhaps Don Pedro, sitting next, was the only other who heard the smothered cry from a partition behind their host, for Don Inique’s face was as usual inflexible as a mask, and Padilh, turning to the constable, said—

“I interrupted you. You were saying?”

“Count Egmont rode so gallantly, there was not a man in the army had seen the like before; it was a ballad of the campeador acted to the life. Even the king, when he came down from the Escurial, praised his bravery, and afterward presented him a sword, upon which was engraved ‘St. Quentin.’”

The constable may have repeated the last word to satisfy a doubt in his mind, but if so he was disappointed in his purpose, for no response came from the partition, although a momentary silence followed the close of the sentence. I mention this little incident because it was the prelude to a singular conversation between the two camp-masters, the next morning, on board the Pez-de-mar.

“I cannot be mistaken, Padilh,” said the other, in his starched way. “You heard the exclamation yesterday at table, and endeavored to drown it. You saved me, sir, a pang—for which I am grateful,” he added, with the air of a man compelled to acknowledge a service.

“I did my best and quickest to forestall curiosity,” answered Sir Pedro kindly. “The Constable of Castile is the only gentleman in the fleet who suspects the presence of your—your—son. And that only since yesterday; he told me as much last evening. For your precautions in Portugal have been effectual in keeping a knowledge of the matter even from most of our comrades at St. Quentin.”

“A curse fall on the name,” muttered Inique bitterly. “It is the only touchstone his memory has, and at its utterance nothing but force can stay his screams. God pity me: I act it all over in mind whenever the boy cries out as he did on the field.”

Padilh knew his associate well enough to disguise what commiseration he felt, and without noticing the interruption continued—

“Thus, señor, your secret is safe still; for as you may readily believe, the constable got as little information from my tongue as by his own at table.”

“Do you think he pronounced the name with design?” cried the maître-de-camp, his brows contracting. “If I—”

“No,” returned honest Don Pedro decidedly, “the constable is a man of worth, and would pry into no one’s affairs systematically. But his chief defect is a tendency to say or do whatever comes into his head, and that he falls into difficulty less often is perhaps owing more to luck than consideration on his part. Don’t you remember hearing the answer he made his Holiness, while a mere lad?”

“No,” absently.

“Why,” persisted the knight, regardless of the doubtful attention of his auditor, and moved by a good-natured wish to lead away from the painful topic, “the brusquerie of the whole affair made it the talk at court; where were you that you failed to hear it? The constable was sent to congratulate his Holiness on his accession to St. Peter’s chair, but the Pope taking umbrage at the youth of the ambassador, exclaimed aloud—‘What! has the King of Spain no men in his dominions, that he sends us a face without a beard?’ Whereupon the fiery boy, stretching himself up and stroking with forefinger and thumb his upper lip, where a mustache should have been but was not, said with a frown—‘Sir, had my royal master known your Holiness measured wisdom by a beard, he would doubtless have sent a he-goat to honor you!’”

After a pause Inique said—(the capernian episode was evidently lost upon him)—

“I have no need of any mortal’s sympathy, Padilh, and the man that pities me openly must answer to my sword for it. You have done neither to my knowledge, yet you were not far off when I struck the boy,” (he dropped his voice here, as a weight on the conscience will make people do.) “If you choose to listen, the secret motives of a man who for fifteen years has had no thought for his second child, until moved to avenge her, because the first, an idiot, intervened, may startle your ears, Pedro Padilh.”

“The recital may ease your breast,” said our knight in some surprise.

“There is no likelihood of what you say,” answered Don Augustino, a shade of scorn crossing his moody face, “and I wish it otherwise. Why I choose you, a companion in arms, for confessor, you will learn in time; perhaps your long friendship and yesterday’s prompt action have their influence. These things you witnessed or know; the mad blows, their result, the measures I have taken to be constantly within reach of his voice? Why? have you, has any one, hesitated to give some cloak, some color, to so singular a course?”

Each of these interrogatories, rapidly put, Sir Pedro answered in turn by a slight token of assent; he was about to reply more fully to the last, when the other stopped him with a gesture.

“Never mind. I know what is said. That I hide away the living reminder of my crime from the world; that I am remorseful, or doing penance, or else crazed. Let them prate. Sir Pedro, by all the saints, the boy I struck is not my son!”

“Poor fellow!” thought the knight, compassionately; “his last plea is the right one.”

“Don Pedro Padilh, there was a man of good birth and great wealth, but little or no character, or care for character, whom I saved once from being hanged. He was grateful, after his headlong fashion, for the service, and in the end proposed to unite our infant children; he had one son, and I a son and daughter; and consolidate our joint estates. At first my soul revolted at the suggestion; an union between my own offspring and that of a redeemed felon, appeared to me monstrous. But while I debated the matter, difficulties softened. I knew better than any one the smallness of my fortune, which extravagance had reduced to the tatters of its former amplitude; but of this I said nothing, and the papers were signed in due form. That day was the last I could touch my breast proudly, and say, ‘Here is the abode of honor.’”

“And this is the soldier whose honor is held up to the world as a pattern!” Padilh mused.

“Still the degradation of such connection preyed upon my mind. I wanted the money to perpetuate the wealth of my house; but how be rid of the bad blood? And about this time my friend went abroad, leaving his boy in my charge. I confronted the temptation only to be overcome in the end; sent away my servants, and removing to the mountains chose others; and when these were assembled, I, myself, took occasion to call the names of the infants before them, that there might be no mistake—_no mistake_, you understand—as names may from what they have been. My own boy I called—”

“Speak, Sir Augustino!” ejaculated Padilh, sharply.

“Hilo de Ladron; the other—”

“Man, man!” cried the knight, rising and standing over against the speaker, “You have made an idiot of and imprison my own kin—the son of my half-brother. What reparation can you make?”

“Reparation! Look here, at these premature seams and wrinkles, grizzled hair and beard. Has that unsteady hand nothing to show of an iron temper shattered by sorrow?”

“Sir, your selfish sorrow blinds you. These are signs of retribution on you, not of reparation to the party injured. Don Augustino, I joined this expedition with the sole purpose of saving from ruin, if I might, a lad whom I despise for his vices; and do you think I will leave longer at your mercy the real Hilo, whom, in place of condemning, I can only pity.”

“That rests with me,” returned the maître-de-camp, with a slight sneer. “But listen to me, Don Pedro; you judge my case before it is stated.”

“Finish, sir,” answered Padilh, moodily, resuming his seat; “and heaven grant your conscience proves clearer than it seems to me likely to do.”

Inique, without comment, took up the word where the interruption occurred.

“My reasoning took this shape. My daughter is a puny thing—there is no probability of her surviving to even girlhood. What does it matter if the baby is betrothed to her brother? As for De Ladron, if he ever returns from the new world, how is he to recognize his boy, grown out of remembrance, if the child does not die—he seems pining away rapidly—before that time. Hernan Ladron I never saw again; but his infant grew strong and healthy in our change of climate, and this vexed me hourly. I had felt sure the weakly thing could not live, or the exchange would not have been made; and now, he was growing up a quiet, mild boy—pah! it made me sick to think he believed himself my son, as did all the world beside. The sense of this contrast pushed from my brain all other concern. I cursed the grasping folly which had tempted me to barter a gallant fellow, like my own boy, for an estate and this whey-faced child. However, he should go to war with me, and be cured of his girlishness. But when, at St. Quentin, he fled before the first charge of the French, cowering at my stirrup, I was frantic with rage and shame. I had no love for the boy; his very existence was a daily threat of exposure, and I beat him, as you all saw, with my sword hilt, to drive him a second time into the fight. What followed, too, you all knew. But, until this day, no mortal has learnt the yearning pity that mastered my passions and filled my breast with remorse. I believe my first resolution was to confess my infamy and restore the heir his wealth and name; but I waited until he should recover, and when I saw he was likely to remain an idiot, I changed my mind.”

“Don Augustino, you would have been less dishonored by confessing your dishonor,” cried our knight, here. “You proved yourself, in the sight of Heaven, a greater coward than your reputed son.”

“Sir,” replied the other, hotly, flushing red, “you forget I am your equal in point of rank, if not virtue, and wear a sword. You tax my forbearance heavily.”

“A horse in meadow neighs louder than a horse under saddle,” answered Padilh. “Overlook the reproach, Don Augustino, and pass on.”

“I set some value on your friendship, and will not consent to lose it for a hard word honestly spoken,” Inique said, not very contentedly.

“I altered my mind, but not altogether. I resolved not a fraction of his income should be used in the service of me or mine, and reduced the expenses of my household accordingly. Hilo, my real son, left to his own guidance at home, had become a ruinous spendthrift, and openly revolted at any curtailment of what he considered his rights. But against his wickedness I had, as a set off, the patience and affection of the supposititious son; the very qualities I had before despised now touched me most—his mildness of face and speech, and trustfulness in my protection—for the whole past seemed wiped out of his remembrance, and but a single word was capable of recalling any portion of it—the word the Constable of Castile spoke yesterday at table. Perhaps the cries and sounds of battle might recall my shame and his sorrow, but my care has hitherto proved successful in keeping such from his ears.”

“Yet there seems to me in all this, Don Augustino, no good reason for your becoming the boy’s jailor,” said Sir Pedro.

“Stay. If it was hard to resolve on publishing my infamy with my own mouth, was it easy to bear the thought that some day it must be realised in the growing likeness of my prisoner to his true father, Ladron? I watched this fast maturing resemblance with the anguish of one seeing his death warrant signed, understanding to the full how the crime which my voluntary confession might have softened in the eyes of the world, would grow in odium as time elapsed. I fancied it was only needful for you, or any one familiar with the father’s face, to catch a glimpse of the son’s to detect my secret; and I kept the sole evidence near my person, not because it was the safest, but the least harassing course it was possible to pursue.”

“The least harassing, Don Augustino,” the knight said, “would have been to acknowledge your criminality at first, and have made restitution openly as you did in private. Better do so now than never.”

“What! when the son of a felon in yonder ship must be disowned only to substitute a felon himself! No, sir; the most I can do is what I now purpose—to find this reckless youth and turn him from his vicious life by every means but that you propose. Only in the last extremity will I show him to be as penniless in the future as now, and that the girl he has exhausted his vileness to dishonor is his sister, and I the wretched father of both.”

“And only in such extremity will your words have weight with Hilo de Ladron, as I suppose, for your sake, he must yet be called, although I grudge him the name. But it seems to me, Don Augustino Inique, you prate more of dishonor than a man should who has committed felony to his own conscience and in God’s sight; and that the honor you esteem so highly is nothing better than the declamation of those who surround you.”

“A truce to your sarcasms,” cried Inique, pale with anger. “I am not here, Padilh, to listen to a sermon or be ordered a penance. If you will help me in this affair by your intervention, you will not find me ungrateful; and I know enough of my own nature, as you might, to feel assured that, left to my own resources, I may do that in the heat of passion which cannot be undone. What! am I so fallen in your eyes that you cannot afford me the time and occasion I need for amendment, or distrust my best designs?”

“No, by St. Jago,” cried our generous don, “that I will not, Inique. I have done you some wrong in thought, perhaps, but I will make amends by assisting you where I may with proper regard to my own views and affections. But, you understand, I annex a condition—the true Hilo must pass from your care into mine as soon as we effect a landing. As his nearest relative, I have a higher right to the charge of his person than the—than yourself, Don Augustino.”

“Don Pedro,” answered Inique, slowly, after a pause, “you have justice on your side, and I will not oppose the transfer if you insist. But I beg you earnestly to consider that I, from hating, have come to love the youth better—yes, better than my own children; and until the present adjustment succeeds or fails, you may do worse than leave him in my keeping, as before—only that the doors of his prison, as you seemed but now to consider it, are open to you from this hour. I pledge you my word, at all hazard or pain, to restore him to you at the close of this expedition.”

“Well, let it be so,” replied Don Pedro, surprised and pleased at the other’s words.

And the maître-de-camp, with a breast somewhat less burdened, betook himself to his ship again.

A couple of days later the peaked and thickly-wooded shores of Tercera were first visible, and the armada coasting along, to the mortal terror of the Portuguese, who were parceled out in companies to defend the accessible points, and miserably ignorant where the Spaniards would make their descent, came to anchor off St. Catherine, where about fifty French and twice as many Portuguese were drawn up to oppose the landing.

“It would be a pity to cross the humor of the French gentlemen, yonder,” Santa-Cruz said, with a grim smile. “But their allies will only embarrass their manœuvres, and had better be routed before hand. Don’t you think we can frighten them, Pòlvora?”

“Frighten them!” cried that cavalier; “I can see, at this distance, the finery of some glittering in the sunshine, as if the wearers were shaking all over. Let us try if they are not too frightened to run.”

So the signal was given, and a general discharge of cannon followed from the fleet, doing no special harm. I believe the widow Jean’s son was decapitated, and that young fool, Allain, who must needs leave his pretty sweetheart Annette in Floillé to pick up a little glory, that his marriage might come off with more eclat than any in his village, lost a leg or arm; but these were trifles nobody minds in a skirmish.

However, it was before the balls came bumping along the sands—indeed, while they were disporting, like great whales, in the outer surf, and casting up jets of water at each _ricochet_, that the brave rear-guard took to their heels—a piece of prudence for which I beg the indulgence of those military young men who are suffered by their employers to sport moustachios in their shops and counting-houses, and whose chief motive for advocating, in strong language, a dissolution of the Union, is supposed to lie in the admirable opportunity to be afforded of winning undying laurels in civil warfare; for I would intimate, however reprehensible cowardice may be on any occasion, and on this in particular, that watching the lively skipping from wave to wave of such iron globes as a 42-pounder debouches, while chatting with the officer of artillery, who has just sighted the piece at a hogshead anchored in the bay, is quite a different thing from doing the same when serving as the hogshead yourself.

“Yonder go a brave enemy!” cried Padilh, with a laugh, to his colleague in the next barge, the two maîtres-de-camp heading the flotilla with the landing party. “If any fall in your way hereafter, don’t forget they’re women; spare their lives, as you wear spurs, señor mine.”

To this Inique answered, standing erect in the stern and shading his eyes with his palm, quite another personage in voice and carriage from the penitent of two days back:

“But the line of the French has not a gap in it—yes, one, which they have just filled with a fresh man. There’ll be sharp work there, Padilh, although we are strong enough to surround and capture the whole detachment. Lay to your oars, men! Make prisoners of as many of the gallant fellows as you can.”

“What’s come over the master?” grumbled a sergeant to a crony. “Last time he marched against the French it was nothing but ‘keep your pikes level, my lads; the man that fails to spit his man, deserves to be cut over the head in return.’ And now it’s, ‘don’t hurt them, these fine fellows.’ You see, I like a man to be one thing.”

“Why, they say Señor Inique has a cousin, or a son-in-law, or something of the sort, who is no better than he should be, and at this moment in the French camp. Who knows if the señor hasn’t an idea of turning coat some day himself? It looks like it, don’t it, sergeant?”

“No; hang it, man, he wouldn’t do such a dirty thing. Why, don’t you know, you unbelieving Thomas, there ain’t a gentleman in all Spain with such a name for honor!”

“Well, may be; but I like to be sure of a thing of the sort. Honesty and uprightness is my motto.”

“Hey! what’s that Mig’s saying?” said a sailor who pulled the bow oar, with a grin, to his neighbor. “I lived near La Mécha myself, egad! and I know there wa’n’t a lamb sure of being raised so long as _he_ was about. May be he’s forgot my phiz, with the tip of my nose sliced off by that turbaned chap’s cim’tar.”