Chapter 3

It would be unreasonable to expect analyses of Novel stories in a periodical sheet like our Miscellany. We rarely attempt the task of giving them; but prefer giving occasionally a running notice of a meritorious work of this class, and then leave the reader to indulge his taste at the nearest library, upon the strength of our recommendation. To let him into _the plot_ or thread of the story would be ill-judged: for one of the greatest delights of reading, of all ages, is to expect, hope, and despair, by turns, and thus become identified with the feelings and actions of all parties concerned in the narrative. Every lover of novel, tale, and romance must recollect the pleasure of reading Mr. Grattan's Highways and Byways, and how beautifully the scenes and incidents were grouped in those little series of _tales by the roadside_. The charming interest of one of them is worth a whole volume of lumbering history of a revolution or royal line. Mr. Grattan, too, has taken all the Low Countries to himself, and the literature of their life belongs to him. The other day he published a history of the Netherlands (noticed in the last volume of the _Mirror_, page 257); and here we have him again, with _The Heiress of Bruges_, a tale of the year 1600.

The main story needs not be told; but a scene may be easily detached, to show what spirit-stirring scenes may be expected throughout the work. It needs only be premised that Beatrice, in our extract, is the co-heroine of the _Heiress of Bruges_, and is sacrificed by the Inquisition in Brussels:--

A law of the Emperor Charles V., passed half a century before, had decreed the frightful punishment of living burial against female heretics, and many executions of the kind had varied by their bloodless atrocity the horrid butcheries committed all through the Low Countries during the tyranny of Alva. After that period such sacrifices had been less frequent; but as late as three years before the date of our story, an instance of this barbarity had publicly taken place in Brussels, by the orders of Albert, who at that time held the highest dignity of the Christian priesthood, next to that of its supreme head. A poor servant girl, named Anne Vanderhove, arrested on a charge of heresy, refused, in all the pride of martyrdom, to renounce her faith. She was condemned to the grave--not to the common occupancy of that cold refuge of the lifeless body, but to all the horrors of living contact and hopeless struggles with the suffocating clay. She suffered her punishment, in the midst of a crowd of curious fanatics; but such was the disgust inspired by the spectacle, that it was thought impolitic to hazard in the face of day another exhibition of the kind. Beatrice's judges, therefore, after a summary hearing, decreed that she too should be buried alive--but at night. She heard her sentence, in just sufficient exercise of reason to comprehend and shudder at it. But her mind, wandering and unsettled, had not force enough to dwell on the contemplation of what awaited her, and unconscious of her approaching fate gave her the semblance of indifference.

But Beatrice, with all her pride, and almost unfeminine force of character, was not proof against a fate so horrible. As the hour drew nigh when she was to be led forth to execution, the blood in her throbbing veins seemed suddenly frozen, like the hot streams of lava checked in its molten flow. Her blanched cheeks and starting eyeballs told that her fever was quenched, and her insensibility awakened to a full sense of her terror.

In darkness and silence the sad procession moved from the prison's most private door, on the night fixed for the execution, the third after the hapless girl's arrival in Brussels. The persons employed were few; no sympathizing crowd attended to strain the victim's pride and courage, and make her for very shame's sake brave the terrific scene. Lone and desolate, she was led along by two brutal men, with taunt and execration; they, dressed in the dark habits of their office: she, bare-footed, and clothed in the yellow garment called a _san benito_, her beautiful jet locks cut close, and her disfigured head and pallid face surmounted by the conical cap in which the inquisition decked its victims for sacrifice. Four masked men walked first in the procession, two carrying spades, and two bearing the insignia of the Holy Office. Next followed the secretary, with a book and materials for writing, ready to record the particulars of the execution. Then came Beatrice, dragged onwards by her supporters, and urged towards the closing scene by the odious voice of Dom Lupo, pouring a strain of pious blasphemies into her reluctant ears. He stepped close in her tract, and leant his head forward, determined that she should not have a moment's respite till the damp earth closed those ears for ever. A dozen armed men brought up the march; and no suspicion of the inquisitor's proceeding aroused the citizens, in the narrow and unlit streets through which it moved.

In less than half an hour, Beatrice's bruised and lacerated feet, felt a sudden relief that spread up refreshingly through her whole frame, on pressing a grass plot, moistened by the night dew. At the same moment, a gleam from a lantern opened by one of the men close to her, showed that she stood on the brink of a newly-dug grave. She started back at the appalling sight--and was upheld from falling by her attendants, on whose faces she saw a malignant grin; while the tones of Dom Lupo's voice seemed to hiss in her ears, like the serpent triumph of a fiend.

"Erring daughter of the only true and most merciful church," gloomed he, "unrepented sinner, on the verge of death--ere the grave close over thy living agony--ere the arm of Almighty wrath shove thee into the pit of hell, and eternal flames enfold thee--listen to the last offer of the mother thou hast outraged, of the faith thou hast defiled. Recant thy errors--renounce thy false Gods--confess thy crimes--and return into the blessed bosom of the church!"

Beatrice, rousing the whole force of her latent energy, pushed the inquisitor from her, with a look of scorn, burst from her keepers' arms, and sprang into the open grave.

"Lost and condemned for ever and ever--let the earth lie heavy on her head!" exclaimed the furious priest, stamping his foot with rage, and motioning to the familiars, who instantly commenced to shovel the earth into the grave. Not a sound was heard but the soft rustling of the leaves overhead, for this scene took place in the open ground above the Sablon, formerly mentioned as the scene of some earlier executions; and Beatrice's grave was dug at the very foot of the tree, where the Jews, in 1370, had expiated their imputed sacrilege.

Not a murmur, not a movement betrayed an instant's shrinking from her fate, as the cold heap of clay covered Beatrice to the very neck. Her face was still above ground, and the infuriated bigot, whose word was to save her or stifle her voice for ever, once more approached. He knelt beside her thrust his crucifix close to her still straining eyes, and in accents that faltered from rage, he cried out--

"Dost thou still dare refuse? Death is on thy lips--hell gapes for thee!--Wretched woman, say but one word--kiss the blessed relic, and thou art saved."

"There is but one God, and Mahomet is his prophet!" said Beatrice, in hollow and broken accents.

"It is done! Cover her quick! Let her perish in eternal fire!" cried the inquisitor.

The executioners heaped the earth still higher--the head was covered in--and only then a smothered scream burst upwards, while the struggles of natural agony shook the mound to and fro.--Still the legal and consecrated murderers went on, with trembling hands and quaking hearts; but as they hastily closed their work, a deep and heavy groan came upon the air from a not distant part of the waste ground; and the group looking round in guilty terror, saw a man close wrapped in a cloak, but struggling with another, of aged and decrepit stature, as if he would break from his hold, and rush upon their unholy labours. A weapon gleamed in his hand; and the whole group of guilt, inquisitor, familiars and guards, struck with panic, and imagining rescue and revenge from a hundred indignant arms, hastily fled from the scene with loud cries for help.

In a moment the grave was torn open, and Beatrice, still panting in the struggle between life and death, snatched from its re-opened jaws, and about to be borne off in the close-locked arms of her brother, when the insatiate inquisitor, his ardent vengeance overcoming his fears, turned from his flight to give one assuring glance upon his victim's grave. By the light of the lantern which streamed on the ground, he saw that, instead of the indignant crowd his apprehensions had imagined, only two men were on the spot, one of them old and diminutive, and the other encumbered with the exhumed body. In the glow of fanatic fury, he forgot all personal fears, and while his dastard creatures held on their terrified course, he sprang back alone to the burial-ground, and seizing the old man with one hand, he stretched forth the other to grasp from the Moriscoe's hold his still insensible burthen.

"Sacrilegious villains!" cried he, "give up your impious purpose, and resign the body of the recreant lost one. Let it rot in its earthy prison, till the last trumpet rouse it in resurged life to burn in eternal fire."

A deep and silent plunge of the Moriscoe's poignard struck the blaspheming bigot in the throat; another blow pierced his heart, as he fell into the imperfectly hollowed grave; and while he lay there, several strokes were dealt on him by the feeble hands of the old man with one of the spades, which he tremblingly seized. And then, in the instinct of terror at the deed, he shovelled the loose earth over the bleeding carcass, while the Moriscoe's pale profile looked stern and rigid in the expiring light. The work was soon complete; and the mound of earth thus hastily thrown up (soon covered with as rank weeds as ever sprang from a polluted soil) were long marked by shuddering superstition as "the grave of the Mahommedan girl." The fate of the inquisitor was quite unsuspected; and he might have been still believed to have disappeared supernaturally, or perished by some less awful visitation, had not unerring records thrown light on his fate.

The tottering steps of the old man quickly led the way across the thickly planted site of the little Sablon, and by many a winding lane and alley towards the hill of Caudenburgh, till the Moriscoe, with his beloved burthen, found a safe refuge in the old man's dwelling, in the narrow street on the side of the hill, not a hundred yards below the house of the Marquess of Assembourg.

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SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

MUSICAL LITERATURE IN NORTH AMERICA.

We have just received two numbers of a New York periodical, entitled the "Euterpeiad, a Musical Review and Tablet of the Fine Arts," published every fortnight, or, as our transatlantic fellow-labourers express it, "semi-monthly," and feel flattered at finding our opinions quoted, our columns referred to with acknowledgment, and, still more, our custom of giving good and _cheap_ music, followed, though on a smaller scale, by this critic of the new world. One of the two numbers before us contains Paisiello's delightful serenade from the Barber of Seville, as arranged by Bishop for two voices; and the other, a movement from Rossini's overture to William Tell; both very creditable, as well to the selector's taste as to the progress of American musical typography. The "Euterpeiad" is not confined to music, but embraces the whole circle of the fine arts, theatrical criticism, and even original tales. We are concerned, however, only with the musical part, and, as a specimen of the manner in which it is probable that department will be conducted, give the following extract from the editor's address:

"In regard to music, since the appearance of Weber, an almost new era has commenced. In the works of this celebrated composer, the proverb has been realized--the German Professor has given to his notes the power of language: emotions are almost imbibed from the sounds as from a visible transaction, or a well-told description. If the country which presents the highest or most generally approved attainments in singing, be demanded, perhaps the correct answer would be Italy. The contest afterwards for the highest eminence would lie between England, Germany, and France. The Scottish, Irish, and Welsh compositions, and English ballad music, must of course come under the aggregation of the English school, and availing itself of this union, and taking into view the circumstance of having for a considerable period steadily adopted, and engrafted upon its own stock, the beauty and excellence in the science manifested by the Germans and Italians, the claims of this school become formidable. And it is this which, through the medium of the same tongue, extends an immediate and irresistible influence over the United States.

"As this school is so interesting to the American public, we shall go into some particulars respecting it. To avoid tediousness, the eminent compositions of the English school may be reduced to two classes--lyrical and sacred; or, as some would divide it, into three, adding madrigalists. We can go back for the second class, as far as the time of Henry VIII. who was himself no mean composer in church music. Purcell, the well-known composer of the music for the Tempest, has stood the ordeal of nearly three centuries. He was also the author of the music of the Indian Queen, Arthur and Emmeline, and a variety of other pieces. It may be observed that these names are not clustering, but solitary, appearing at long intervals. Locke, the producer of the music in the incantation scene in Macbeth, as now sung and played, was the contemporary of Purcell. Dr. Arne next appears, the famous composer of Artaxerxes. Bishop, who has identified himself with almost every thing valuable in modern composition, is well known, as are also his works. It would be impossible to omit the name of Handel, the great _thorough bass_ of musical composition, to whom Mozart confessed that every subsequent composer had been signally indebted. He is, by adoption and patronage, the property of the English school. It may not be unacceptable to add, that he composed, besides his other numerous works, one hundred and fifty-eight pieces, of which thirteen were Italian operas, many of which were successful.[11] The famous contest between Handel and Buononcini in Italian composition was decided in favour of the former by public acclamation. Those who are sceptical on the score of his composing in Italian, are referred to the well-known air, 'Lord, remember David,' which is to be found in the opera of Sosarmes, commencing with the words, 'Rendi il sereno.'"[12]

The list of operas recently performed in New York might put our patent theatres a little to the blush, at least on the score of variety. Rokeby; the Tempest; John of Paris; the Barber of Seville; the Caliph of Bagdad, performed, and the Freisch├╝tz in preparation, at _one theatre_. The principal female singers are all English--Mrs. Austin, Mrs. Knight (formerly Miss Povey), and Madame Feron. The American editor's remarks on the two last named ladies, and on ballad singing in general, are so much in accordance with our own opinions, except the praise he bestows on Madame Feron's execution, that we cannot resist the temptation of extracting them.

"Mrs. Knight's worst ballads, aided by a drum beaten by Mr. Knight, seem to please the audience better than Mad. Feron's bravuras; indeed, we think the manager would gain more by the adoption of Mrs. K. than Madame F. We have remarked a listlessness on the part of Madame F., doubtlessly in consequence of feeling that her best efforts are not appreciated by the audience. We are not an ardent admirer of that lady's style: she has evidently studied to surmount difficulties, without sufficiently paying attention to the groundwork of singing; she fills you with admiration at the execution of a tremendous passage, and then disappoints you by singing a few sustained notes in a tremulous, uncertain manner. In making the above observations on ballads, let us not be supposed to throw discredit upon that style of composition. 'Robin Gray,' 'Oh no we never mention her,' 'The Soldier's Tear,' and such compositions, are a description of ballads, of which, with the Irish, Scotch, and Welsh melodies, we are proud; but if we admit that the drum and fife compositions of Mr. Lee and others, such as 'Bonnets of blue,' 'Blue bonnets,' 'Charley's over the water,' and 'Over the water to Charley,' are other than trash, fit only to amuse the gentlemen and ladies of colour in the gallery, we should be unworthy to be editor of the 'Euterpeiad.'"

_Harmonicon_.--No. 1.

[11] There are thirty-two Italian operas by Handel, in MS. in his Majesty's collection, and he composed eleven others--making forty-three in all.--( _Editor of Harmonicon_.)

[12] How many more might the American writer have added to this solitary one, had his list of Handel's Italian songs been at hand. This great German composer was nearly as well acquainted with the Italian language as with his own, and often not only wrote letters in it, but employed it in many of his private memorandums.--(_Ib_.)

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HENRY MACKENZIE, ESQ.

We regret to announce the death of this eminent literary character, and venerable citizen, so well known as the author of _The Man of Feeling_, and many other productions. Mr. Mackenzie had been confined almost to his room for a considerable time past by the general decay attending old age, and expired, we understand, on the evening of Friday the 14th. There will no doubt in time come from his friends a biographical account of so distinguished and excellent a man; and although it might not be proper to enter into detail at present, we cannot but with feelings of regret notice the departure of almost the last of that eminent class of literary men, who, above fifty years ago, cast such a lustre on our city. They were succeeded, indeed, by a more stern, and probably more philosophical class of writers, as displayed in the papers of the _Edinburgh Review_, and similar productions; but in that delicate perception of human character and human manners, so correctly, so elegantly, and often so humourously delineated in the numbers of the _Mirror_ and _Lounger_, where Mr. Mackenzie was the chief contributor, as well as in his other works, and in his general views of the great principles of moral conduct, there have been few authors more distinguished. The elegant society in Edinburgh, well known in former days by the name of the "Mirror Club," consisted, besides Mr. Mackenzie, of several gentlemen who were afterwards Judges in the Court of Session--viz. Lord Bannatyne, Lord Cullen, Lord Abercrombie, Lord Craig, and also Mr. George Home and Mr. George Ogilvie. The first, now Sir William Bannatyne, a venerable and most accomplished gentleman of the old school, is the only survivor. Mr. Mackenzie was in his 86th year, having been born in 1745. His eldest son is Lord Mackenzie, at present an eminent Judge in the Courts of Session and Justiciary.

--_Edinburgh Evening Courant._

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THE GATHERER.

A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.

SHAKSPEARE.

ARCH POETRY.

Pope Leo X. was particularly fond of Querno, a poet, the author of "The Alexiad," and who, at an entertainment given by some young men of rank, had been dignified with the appellation of "The Arch Poet." Leo used occasionally to send him some dishes from his table; and he was expected to pay for each dish with a Latin distich. One day, as he was attending Leo at dinner, and was ill of the gout, he made this line:

_Archi-poeta facit versus pro mille poetis:_

What pains for others the arch poet takes, He for a thousand poets verses makes.

As Querno hesitated for the next line, the good-humoured Pontiff replied--

_Et pro mille aliis Archi-poeta bibit:_

If for a thousand he's obliged to think, He chooses for as many more to drink.

Querno, willing to make up for his former deficiency, exclaimed--

_Porrige, quod facient mihi carmina docta Falernum:_

To aid my genius, and my wit refine, Most Holy Pontiff, pour Falernian wine.

The Pope immediately replied--

_Hoc vinum enervat debilitatque pedes:_

I shall supply that wine with sparing hand, Which from the feet takes off the power to stand.

J.G.B.

* * * * *

DOUBTING.

The mind that never doubts shall learn nothing; the mind that ever doubts shall never profit by learning. Our doubts only stir us up to seek truth; our resolution settles us in the truth we have found. There were no pleasure in resolution, if we had not been formerly troubled with doubts; there were nothing but discomfort and disquietness in doubts, if it were not for the hope of resolution. It is not good to let doubts dwell too long upon the heart; there may be good use of them as passengers, but dangerous as inmates.

HALL.

* * * * *

CURIOUS ANECDOTE OF A PICTURE.

In Windsor Castle is the celebrated painting representing "_The Interview of Henry the Eighth with Francis the First_," between Guisnes and Ardres, near Calais, in the year 1520, on an open plain, since denominated _Le Champ de Drap d'or_. "After the execution of Charles the First," says Britton, "the parliament appointed commissioners to dispose of his effects, and an agent from France began a treaty with them for this painting. Philip, Earl of Pembroke, an eminent admirer of the arts, who considered the picture as a valuable appendage to an English palace, resolved, if possible, to prevent the bargain being concluded, and went privately to the royal apartments, cut out the head of King Henry from the canvass, placed it in his pocket-book, and retired unnoticed. The agent, finding the picture so materially mutilated, declined to purchase; and it remained in its station till Cromwell, having obtained the supreme command, prevented any further disposal of the collection. On the Restoration, the then Earl of Pembroke delivered the dissevered fragment to Charles the Second, who ordered it to be reinserted in its place. By looking sideways at the picture in a proper light, the reparation becomes visible."

P.T.W.

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MEMORY.

It is reported of the Emperor Claudius, that he retained in memory all Homer, Sallust, Demosthenes, Avicen, and Aristotle's Metaphysics.

Tully and Seneca never heard any thing material but it was imprinted in their memory.

Scaliger said he learned Homer in twelve days, and all the Greek poets in four months.

Seneca, the philosopher, could repeat two thousand names in the exact order in which they were rehearsed to him.

Themistocles, when he was promised to be taught the art of memory, said, "I had rather be taught the art of forgetfulness, for I remember those things I would not, and I cannot forget those things I would."

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ROYAL PLEASURE.