Part 2

The year rolled on without any harm befalling the Baron, and his spirits lightened as the time advanced. He had almost forgotten the circumstance, when on the day preceding that of the anniversary of the adventure just related, a grand hunting party was proposed, it being the birth-day of his son. We now return to the situation in which we left the Baron at the beginning of this legend.

The forest seemed to the exhausted Rudolf, almost interminable, and this provoking horn perplexed him sadly. On this night the dreaded twelve-months expired. The bare thought made him redouble his speed. The darkness seemed increasing, and the flapping of the bats and hoarse croaking of the night birds, disturbed by his progress through the branches, did not add to his comfort; when to his great joy, he felt a strong current of air, and found that he had at last apparently emerged from the thickest of the forest. The moon was now beginning to cast her "peerless light" over the scene, and Rudolf perceived he was in an extensive amphitheatre or opening of the trees, which he could not recollect ever having seen before, bounded at a short distance by what seemed a small lake, near the centre of which grew a large and solitary pine.

The moon had now fully risen. Hans who had been flagging for some time, fell suddenly lame. From this fresh misfortune the Baron was aroused by the well known baying of his gallant stag-hounds. "Aiglette and Caspar are not baying after nothing," thought he. He was not long in suspense. To his extreme amazement, the identical boar which had caused all his trouble and fatigue, appeared closely followed by both the dogs.

"Donner et blitzen," exclaimed the Baron, using the first oath that came uppermost, "but this exceeds belief." The boar no sooner perceived him than he turned upon him with the utmost fury. The Baron hastily dismounted under the aged tree, though he was stiff and fatigued, for Hans was now utterly incapable of exertion. His sword quickly glanced in the moonshine--"Time was" said he, "when this had been the very pastime I desired." The murderous animal attacked him with such impetuosity that his well-tried skill failed him, and he was the next moment thrown under its feet. The struggle now became desperate, for the animal had no common foe to contend with. Before it could wound him with its tusks, which seemed of unusual size, it required not an instant's thought in Rudolf to draw his dagger from his belt, and the next instant it was buried to its hilt in the throat of his adversary. At the same moment the tusks of the boar entered his side. Rudolf breathed a few words of an almost forgotten prayer, when the animal, uttering a dreadful yell, gave a convulsive spring into the air, and fell lifeless, half smothering the Baron with its gore.

Life was now fast ebbing from the side of Rudolf, when he was aroused by the sound of a voice, whose tones even at this dreadful moment thrilled through his soul with horror. Enveloped in a thick fog which had been gradually spreading around the scene of the combat, he could discern the fiend Heidelberger and his charmed circle; with an air of triumph they chanted the following lines:--

Mortal vain, thy course is run, Thou hast seen thy setting sun-- Told I not true when I saw thee last, That 'ere the circling year had passed, Under the greenwood thou should'st be dying, On the bloody greensward lying!

Deceived once, I tell thee never Shall my victim from me sever-- Thou hast dared to brave our hate, Rashly run upon thy fate! Thou art on the greensward dying, Underneath the greenwood lying!

The hounds bayed. The moon entered a dark cloud; and, when it emerged, its pale beams fell upon the green amphitheatre and the aged tree; but there was no one under its shade.

The following tradition is still related amongst the surrounding peasantry:--The Baron Rudolf, it is said, was enticed to sign over the bodies and souls of his future offspring to the fiend, Heidelberger, on condition that the latter would enable him to gain the person and possessions of the Lady Agatha. The contract, however, was obliged to be renewed at the birth of each child. Should he violate this convocation (which he signed with his own blood,) he granted similar power over himself; and the legend goes on to relate, that the whole of the members of the charmed circle were persons similarly enticed, who were doomed to a sort of perpetual labour, being compelled to chisel out their coffins in stone, which as soon as finished, were broken in pieces, when they were obliged to begin afresh.

The consequence of the Baron's non-fulfilment of his convocation have already been seen; his son is related to have died childless, and the property to have been dispersed into the hands of others, having never remained since his death more than two generations in one family; apparently blighting all its possessors. And the peasantry aver that the noise made by the continual labour of its victims, may still be heard by the adventurous at the close of day.

VYVYAN.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY.

* * * * *

_On Planting Poor Light Land_.

Besides paring and burning, and trenching the soil previous to making the plantation, Mr. Withers, (who received the large silver medal from the Society for the Encouragement of Arts, &c. London, for experiments conducted on the subject in Norfolk,) spreads on it marl and farmyard dung, as for a common agricultural crop, and at the same time keeps the surface perfectly free from weeds by hoeing till the young trees have completely covered the ground. The progress that they make under this treatment is so extremely rapid, as apparently to justify, in _an economical point of view_, the extraordinary expenses that attend it. In three years, even oaks and other usually slow growing forest trees have covered the land, making shoots by three feet in a season, and throwing out roots well qualified, by their number and length, to derive from the subsoil abundant nourishment, in proportion as the surface becomes exhausted.--_Trans. Soc. Arts_.

_The Air Plant_.

Prince Leopold has succeeded in bringing to perfection that extraordinary exotic, the air plant. It is suspended from the ceiling, and derives its nourishment entirely from the atmosphere.

_Potato Flour_.

The farina, or meal, obtained from potatoes is now regularly sold in the markets of Scotland. It is _stated_ to be quite equal to genuine arrow root; but this is quite a mistake, unless the nutritious properties of arrow root have been overrated. Sir John Sinclair has devoted much of his time to the preparation of the flour; but as we gave his process many weeks since, it is not necessary to repeat it here.

* * * * *

Kynaston's Cave.

We are indebted to the portfolio of an interesting lady correspondent for the original of the above engraving. The ingenious draughtswoman states the drawing to have been taken during a recent tour; and our readers will allow it to be _fair sketch_. By way of rendering it unique, we append the following description from the same fair hand:--

From Shrewsbury to the Ness Cliff, (on the road to Ceriogg Bridge,) there is in the scenery little worthy of remark, until we approach the latter place, when the cliff on the right hand, and the Brathyn mountains (Montgomeryshire) on the left of the traveller, produce a very picturesque effect; and the post-house of Ness Cliff commands an extensive and lovely view of mountainous and champagne country. At this place we were invited to see a curious cave cut in the rock, which was, in the sixteenth century, the residence of one Humphrey Kynaston, a notorious bandit. This, however, was not his own work, since Ness Cliff, having been worked as a quarry, the cave, either by accident or design, was wrought by the labourers, and used by them as _salle à manger_, dormitory, or tool-house, according to circumstances. We proceeded to it by a broad rising walk of red sand, delightfully wooded, and presenting an enchanting view of the Brathyn and Wrekin, as well as the country for some miles round. At the end of this walk is a gate, which opens into a small grove; proceeding a little into which, we saw the cave in the high red cliff immediately before us. We ascended by a considerable flight of narrow and rugged steps cut from the solid rock: the interior of this curious place is as black as a coal-mine, and a partition, more than half the way across, divides the part where Kynaston used to reside by day from that in which he slept and _kept his horse_, for he had actually the ingenuity to make the animal ascend and descend the stairs above-mentioned. The robber's initials, and the date of the year in which we may suppose he cut them, appear on the partition just opposite the entrance. The romance of the place was not a little augmented by the appearance of its inhabitant, (a blacksmith,) whose tall, thin figure, and whose pale, wild, and haggard countenance, well accorded with the singularity of his abode. He read for our amusement and _instruction_, I conceive, a few choice passages from a well-thumbed penny pamphlet, purporting to contain the veritable history of the adventurous Kynaston; from whence it appeared that Master Humphrey was a gentleman, like "that prince of thieves," Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the poor, avenging the innocent, and chivalrous where ladies, or the lure of plunder, called forth his prowess; that his depredations were numerous, even in the face of day, and in the teeth of his enemies; and yet that those who admired and sided with him were for a considerable period the terror of the whole legal force who were on the alert to seize him. This interesting memoir was recited by the son of Vulcan, with an enthusiasm and delectable pronunciation, that could only be appreciated by hearing it, and was altogether inimitable. Strange! thought I, that this cave, once the residence of a robber, should now have become that of a _forger_.

M.L.B.

* * * * *

The Selector;

and

Literary Notices of

_New Works_.

* * * * *

RIENZI.

In No. 335, we gave the outline of the story of Rienzi, principally from Gibbon, but interspersed from other authorities. Miss Mitford's tragedy has since been represented with considerable success, and published. In the preface, we are told, that in addition to the splendid narrative of Gibbon, recourse has been had to "the still more graphical and interesting account of Rienzi's eventful career," contained in _L'Abbé de Sade's_ Memoirs of Petrarque; and that, "as far as the female characters are concerned," the materials are entirely from invention. All this may appear well enough for the construction of the drama, and the female characters are drawn with peculiar grace and feeling; but we do not see why the character of Rienzi should be so essentially altered from history as it has been; neither do we think that any desirable effect has been gained by this change. In history, Rienzi is a master-spirit of reckless and atrocious daring, but in the drama, he is softened down to a fickle liberty brawler, and the sternest of his vices are glossed over with an almost inconsistent show of affection and tenderness. As he there stands, he is rather like an injured man, than one who so liberally dealt oppression and injustice around him.

Miss Mitford's tragedy will, however, be read with considerable interest in the closet, and fully to appreciate its beauties, every one who has witnessed it, ought to read it; for many of its "delicate touches" must be lost in the immense area of Drury Lane Theatre.[2] The plot is simple, and is effectively told; but as the newspapers, daily and weekly, have already detailed it, we shall confine ourselves to a few passages, which, in our reading, appeared to us among the many beauties of the drama.

[2] Indisposition has as yet prevented our witnessing the representation of _Rienzi_; but we have been told by our play-going friends that every scene is listened to with marked attention, and that many passages are judiciously applauded. We are glad to hear this, because it is strong encouragement for other dramatists, and leads us to hope that tragedy-writing may still be revived among us, and that with greater success than has attended many recent efforts.

PROGRESS OF RIENZI'S DISAFFECTION.

_Claudia_. He is changed, Grievously changed; still good and kind, and full Of fond relentings--crossed by sudden gusts Of wild and stormy passion. Then, he's so silent-- He once so eloquent. Of old, each show, Bridal, or joust, or pious pilgrimage, Lived in his vivid speech. Oh! 'twas my joy, In that bright glow of rapid words, to see Clear pictures, as the slow procession coiled Its glittering length, or stately tournament Grew statelier, in his voice. Now he sits mute-- His serious eyes bent on the ground--each sense Turned inward.

_Rienzi_. Claudia, in these bad days, When man must tread perforce the flinty path Of duty, hard and rugged, fail not thou Duly at night and morning to give thanks To the all-gracious power that smoothed the way For woman's tenderer feet.

_Colonna_. He hath turned A bitter knave of late, and lost his mirth, And mutters riddling warnings and wild tales Of the great days of heathen Rome; and prates Of peace, and liberty, and equal law, And mild philosophy, to us the knights And warriors of this warlike age, who rule By the bright law of arms. The fool's grown wise-- A grievous change.

* * * * *

Hatred-- And danger--the two hands that tightest grasp Each other--the two cords that soonest knit A fast and stubborn tie: your true love-knot Is nothing to it. Faugh! the supple touch Of pliant interest, or the dust of time, Or the pin-point of temper, loose, or not, Or snap love's silken band. Fear and old hate, They are sure weavers--they work for the storm, The whirlwind, and the rocking surge; their knot Endures till death.

RIENZI'S TRIUMPH.

Hark--the bell, the bell! The knell of tyranny--the mighty voice, That, to the city and the plain--to earth, And listening heaven, proclaims the glorious tale Of Rome reborn, and Freedom. See, the clouds Are swept away, and the moon's boat of light Sails in the clear blue sky, and million stars Look out on us, and smile.

[_The gate of the Capitol opens, and Alberti and Soldiers join the People, and lay the keys at Rienzi's feet_.]

Hark! that great voice Hath broke our bondage. Look, without a stroke The Capitol is won--the gates unfold-- The keys are at our feet. Alberti, friend, How shall I pay thy service? Citizens! First to possess the palace citadel-- The famous strength of Rome; then to sweep on, Triumphant, through her streets.

[_As Rienzi and the People are entering the Capitol, he pauses_.]

Oh, glorious wreck Of gods and Caesars! thou shalt reign again, Queen of the world; and I--come on, come on, My people!

_Citizens_. Live Rienzi--live our Tribune!

CLAUDIA'S LAMENT FOR HER HUMBLE HOME.

Mine own dear home! Father, I love not this new state; these halls, Where comfort dies in vastness; these trim maids, Whose service wearies me. Oh! mine old home! My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle Woven round the casement; and the cedar by, Shading the sun; my garden overgrown With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields; My pretty snow-white doves: my kindest nurse; And old Camillo!--Oh! mine own dear home!

AMBITION.

Alas! alas! I tremble at the height, Whene'er I think Of the hot barons, of the fickle people, And the inconstancy of power, I tremble For thee, dear father.

RIENZI'S WRONGS.

_One of the Ursini is condemned to death--his brother intercedes_.

_Rie_. And darest talk thou to me of brothers? Thou, Whose groom--wouldst have me break my own just laws, To save thy brother? thine! Hast thou forgotten When that most beautiful and blameless boy, The prettiest piece of innocence that ever Breath'd in this sinful world, lay at thy feet, Slain by thy pampered minion, and I knelt Before thee for redress, whilst thou--didst never Hear talk of retribution? This is justice, Pure justice, not revenge!--Mark well, my lords, Pure, equal justice. Martin Ursini Had open trial, is guilty, is condemned, And he shall die!

_Colonna_. Yet listen to us--

_Rie_. Lords, If ye could range before me all the peers, Prelates, and potentates of Christendom,-- The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee, And emperors crouching at my feet, to sue For this great robber, still I should be blind As justice. But this very day a wife, One infant hanging at her breast, and two, Scarce bigger, first-born twins of misery, Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid Her squalid form, grasped at my bridle-rein To beg her husband's life; condemned to die For some vile, petty theft, some paltry scudi: And, whilst the fiery war-horse chaf'd and sear'd, Shaking his crest, and plunging to get free, There, midst the dangerous coil, unmov'd, she stood, Pleading in piercing words, the very cry Of nature! And, when I at last said no-- For I said no to her--she flung herself And those poor innocent babes between the stones And my hot Arab's hoofs. We sav'd them all-- Thank heaven, we sav'd them all! but I said no To that sad woman, midst her shrieks. Ye dare not Ask me for mercy now.

THE USURPER.

He bears him like a prince, save that he lacks The port serene of majesty. His mood Is fitful; stately now, and sad; anon, Full of a hurried mirth; courteous awhile, And mild; then bursting, on a sudden, forth, Into sharp, biting taunts.

* * * * *

New power Mounts to the brain like wine. For such disease, Your skilful leech lets blood.

RIENZI ON HIS DAUGHTER'S MARRIAGE.

A bridal Is but a gilt and painted funeral To the fond father who hath yielded up His one sweet child. Claudia, thy love, thy duty, Thy very name, is gone. Thou are another's; Thou hast a master now; and I have thrown My precious pearl away. Yet men who give A living daughter to the fickle will Of a capricious bridegroom, laugh--the madmen! Laugh at the jocund bridal feast, and weep When the fair corse is laid in blessed rest, Deep, deep in mother earth. Oh, happier far, So to have lost my child!

FICKLE GREATNESS.

Thou art as one Perched on some lofty steeple's dizzy height, Dazzled by the sun, inebriate by long draughts Of thinner air; too giddy to look down Where all his safety lies; too proud to dare The long descent to the low depths from whence The desperate climber rose.

RIENZI'S ORIGIN.

There's the sting,-- That I, an insect of to-day, outsoar The reverend worm, nobility! Wouldst shame me With my poor parentage!--Sir, I'm the son Of him who kept a sordid hostelry In the Jews' quarter--my good mother cleansed Linen for honest hire.--Canst thou say worse?

_Ang_. Can worse be said?

_Rie_. Add, that my boasted schoolcraft Was gained from such base toil, gained with such pain, That the nice nurture of the mind was oft Stolen at the body's cost. I have gone dinnerless And supperless, the scoff of our poor street, For tattered vestments and lean, hungry looks, To pay the pedagogue.--Add what thou wilt Of injury. Say that, grown into man, I've known the pittance of the hospital, And, more degrading still, the patronage Of the Colonna. Of the tallest trees The roots delve deepest. Yes, I've trod thy halls, Scorned and derided midst their ribald crew, A licensed jester, save the cap and bells, I have borne this--and I have borne the death, The unavenged death, of a dear brother. I seemed, I was, a base, ignoble slave. What am I?--Peace, I say!--What am I now? Head of this great republic, chief of Rome-- In all but name, her sovereign--last of all, Thy father.

CIVIL WAR.

The city's full Of camp-like noises--tramp of steeds, and clash Of mail, and trumpet-blast, and ringing clang Of busy armourers--the grim ban-dog bays-- The champing war horse in his stall neighs loud-- The vulture shrieks aloft.

FEAR.

Terror, not love, Strikes anchor in ignoble souls.

THE CAPITOL BELL.[3]

[3] The passage between commas is omitted in the representation, but we know not why.

It is the bell that thou so oft hast heard Summoning the band of liberty--"the bell That pealed its loud, triumphant note, and raised Its mighty voice with such a mastery Of glorious power, as if the spirit of sound That dwells in the viewless wind, and walks the waves Of the chafed sea, and rules the thunder-cloud That shrouded him in that small orb, to spread Tidings of freedom to the nations."

RIENZI'S FALL.

And for such I left The assured condition of my lowliness,-- The laughing days, the peaceful nights, the joys Of a small, quiet home--for such I risked Thy peace, my daughter. Abject, crouching slaves! False, fickle, treacherous, perjured slaves!

* * * * *

Oh, had I laid All earthly passion, pride, and pomp, and power, And high ambition, and hot lust of rule, Like sacrificial fruits, upon the altar Of Liberty, divinest Liberty! Then--but the dream that filled my soul was vast As his whose mad ambition thinned the ranks Of the Seraphim, and peopled hell. These slaves! These crawling reptiles! May the curse of chains Cling to them for ever.

LIBERTY.

For liberty! Go seek Earth's loftiest heights, and ocean's deepest caves; Go where the sea-snake and the eagle dwell, 'Midst mighty elements,--where nature is. And man is not, and ye may see afar, Impalpable as a rainbow on the clouds. The glorious vision! Liberty! I dream'd Of such a goddess once--dream'd that yon slaves Were Romans, such as rul'd the world, and I Their tribune--vain and idle dream! Take back The symbol and the power.

We can well imagine the effect which Mr. Young gives to some of these eloquent passages. They are full of poetical and dramatic fire. Indeed, we know of no professor of the histrionic art who could give so accurate an embodiment of Rienzi--as Mr. Young, the most chaste and discreet, if not the most impassioned, actor on the British stage. Again, we can conceive the force of these lines in the manly tones of Mr. Cooper:

I know no father, save the valiant dead Who lives behind a rampart of his slain In warlike rest. I bend before no king, Save the dread Majesty of heaven, Thy foe, Thy mortal foe, Rienzi.

In reprinting _Rienzi_, we suggest a larger size; we fear people in a second row of either circle of boxes, will find the type of the present edition too small; besides, they do not want to be checking the performers, or to be puzzled with "stage directions."

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THE BOY'S OWN BOOK.

The sight of this little book, as thick as, and somewhat broader than, a Valpy's Virgil, will make scores of little Lord Lingers think of "bygone mirth, that after no repenting draws." It is all over a holiday book, stuck as full of wood-cuts as a cake is of currants, and not like the widely-thrown fruit of school plum puddings.

To begin with the exterior, which is one of the most ingenious specimens of block-printing we have yet seen. The medallion frontispiece contains the Publishers' Dedication to "the young of Great Britain," in return for which their healths should be drunk at the next breaking-up of every school in the empire.