Je ne conçois qu'une manière de voyager plus agréable que d'aller
à cheval; c'est d'aller à pied. On part à son moment, on s'arrête à
sa volonté, on fait tant et si pen d'exercise qu'on veut.

Quand on ne veut qu'arriver, on peut courir en chaise de poste; mais
quand on veut voyager, il fant aller à pied.

[figure description] Blank Leaf.[end figure description]

Beside the murmuring Loire,
Where shading elms along the margin grew,
And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew.
Goldsmith.

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

In the melancholy month of October I
made a foot-excursion along the banks of the
Loire, from Orleans to Tours. This luxuriant
region is justly called the Garden of France.
From Orleans to Blois the whole valley of the
Loire is one continued vineyard. The bright
green foliage of the vine spreads, like the undulations
of the sea, over all the landscape; with
here and there a silver flash of the river,—
a sequestered hamlet,—or the towers of an old
chateau, to enliven and variegate the scene.

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

The vintage had already commenced. The
peasantry were busy in the fields,—the song
that cheered their labor was on the breeze, and
the heavy wagon tottered by, laden with the
clusters of the vine. Every thing around me
wore that happy look, which makes the heart
glad. In the morning I arose with the lark;
and at night I slept where sunset overtook me.
The healthy exercise of foot-travelling,—the
pure, bracing air of Autumn, and the cheerful
aspect of the whole landscape about me, gave
fresh elasticity to a mind not over-burdened
with care, and made me forget, not only the
fatigue of walking, but also the consciousness
of being alone.

My first day's journey brought me at
evening to a village, whose name I have forgotten,
situated about eight leagues from
Orleans. It is a small, obscure hamlet, not
mentioned in the guide-book, and stands upon
the precipitous banks of a deep ravine, through
which a noisy brook leaps down to turn the
ponderous wheel of a thatch-roofed mill. The
village inn stands upon the high-way; but the
village itself is not visible to the traveller as

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

he passes. It is completely hidden in the lap
of a wooded valley; and so embowered in
trees, that not a roof nor a chimney peeps out
to betray its hiding place. It is like the nest
of a ground-swallow, which the passing footstep
almost treads upon, and yet it is not seen.
I passed by without suspecting, that a village
was near; and the little inn had a look so
uninviting, that I did not even enter it.

After proceeding a mile or two farther, I perceived,
upon my left, a village spire, rising over
the vineyards. Towards this I directed my footsteps;
but it seemed to recede as I advanced,
and at last quite disappeared. It was evidently
many miles distant; and as the path I followed
descended from the highway, it had gradually
sunk beneath a swell of the vine-clad landscape.
I now found myself in the midst of an extensive
vineyard. It was just sunset; and the last
golden rays lingered on the rich and mellow
scenery around me. The peasantry were still
busy at their task; and the occasional bark of
a dog, and the distant sound of an evening bell
gave fresh romance to the scene. The reality
of many a day-dream of childhood,—of many a

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

poetic revery of youth was before me. I stood at
sunset amid the luxuriant vineyards of France!

The first person I met was a poor old
woman, a little bowed down with age, gathering
grapes into a large basket. She was
dressed like the poorest class of peasantry;
and pursued her solitary task alone, heedless of
the cheerful gossip, and the merry laugh,
which came from a band of more youthful
vintagers, at a short distance from her. She
was so intently engaged in her work, that she
did not perceive my approach, until I bade her
good evening. On hearing my voice, she
looked up from her labor, and returned the
salutation: and on my asking her if there were
a tavern, or a farm-house in the neighborhood,
where I could pass the night, she showed
me the pathway through the vineyard, that led
to the village, and then added, with a look of
curiosity;

“You must be a stranger, Sir, in these
parts.”

“Yes; my home is very far from here.”

“How far?”

“More than a thousand leagues.”

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

The old woman looked incredulous.

“I came from a distant land, beyond the
sea.”

“More than a thousand leagues!” at
length repeated she; “And why have you
come so far from home?”

“To travel;—to see how you live in this
country.”

“Have you no relations in your own?”

“Yes; I have both brothers and sisters; a
father, and—”

“And a mother?”

“Thank heaven, I have.”

“And did you leave her!”

Here the old woman gave me a piercing
look of reproof; shook her head mournfully,
and, with a deep sigh, as if some painful recollection
had been awakened in her bosom,
turned again to her solitary task. I felt
rebuked; for there is something almost prophetic
in the admonitions of the old. The eye
of age looks meekly into my heart! the voice
of age echoes mournfully through it! the hoary
head and palsied hand of age plead irresistibly
for its sympathies! I venerate old age; and

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

I love not the man, who can look without
emotion upon the sundown of life, when the
dusk of evening begins to gather over the watery
eye, and the shadows of twilight grow
broader and deeper upon the understanding!

I pursued the path-way which led toward
the village, and the next person I encountered
was an old man stretched lazily beneath the
vines upon a little strip of turf, at a point
where four paths met, forming a cross-way in
the vineyard. He was clad in a coarse garb
of gray, with a pair of long gaiters or spatter-dashes.
Beside him lay a blue cloth cap, a
staff, and an old weather-beaten knapsack. I
saw at once, that he was a foot-traveller like
myself, and, therefore, without more ado,
entered into conversation with him. From his
language, and the peculiar manner in which he
now and then wiped his upper lip with the back
of his hand, as if in search of the mustache,
which was no longer there, I judged that he
had been a soldier. In this opinion I was not
mistaken. He had served under Napoleon,
and had followed the imperial eagle across the
Alps, and the Pyrenees, and the burning sands

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

of Egypt. Like every vieux moustache, he
spake with enthusiasm of the Little Corporal,
and cursed the English, the Germans, the
Spanish, and every other race on earth, except
the great nation—his own.

“I like,” said he, “after a long day's march,
to lie down in this way upon the grass, and
enjoy the cool of the evening. It reminds me
of the bivouacs of other days, and of old
friends, who are now up there.”

Here he pointed with his finger to the sky.

“They have reached the last étape before
me, in the long march. But I shall go soon.
We shall all meet again at the last roll-call.
A soldier has a heart,—and can feel like other
men. Sacré nom de—! There's a tear!”

He wiped it away with his sleeve.

Here our colloquy was interrupted by the
approach of a group of vintagers, who were
returning homeward from their labor. To this
party I joined myself, and invited the old soldier
to do the same; but he shook his head.

“I thank you; my path-way lies in a different
direction.”

“But there is no other village near, and the
sun has already set.”

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

“No matter. I am used to sleeping on the
ground. Good night.”

I left the old man to his meditations, and
walked on in company with the vintagers.
Following a well-trodden path-way through the
vineyards, we soon descended the valley's slope,
and I suddenly found myself in the bosom of
one of those little hamlets, from which the laborer
rises to his toil, as the sky-lark to his song.
My companions wished me a good night, as
each entered his own thatch-roofed cottage,—
and a little girl led me out to the very inn,
which an hour or two before, I had disdained
to enter.

When I awoke in the morning, a brilliant
Autumnal sun was shining in at my window.
The merry song of birds mingled sweetly with
the sound of rustling leaves, and the gurgle of
the brook. The vintagers were going forth to
their toil; the wine-press was busy in the
shade, and the clatter of the mill kept time to
the miller's song. I loitered about the village
with a feeling of calm delight. I was unwilling
to leave the seclusion of this sequestered hamlet;—
but at length, with reluctant step, I took

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

the cross-road through the vineyard, and in a
moment the little village had sunk again, as if
by enchantment, into the bosom of the earth.

I breakfasted at the town of Mer; and
leaving the high-road to Blois on the right,
passed down to the banks of the Loire, through
a long, broad avenue of poplars and sicamores.
I crossed the river in a boat, and in the after
part of the day, found myself before the high
and massive walls of the chateau of Chambord.
This chateau is one of the finest specimens of
the ancient Gothic castle to be found in Europe.
The little river Cosson fills its deep and
ample moat, and above it, the huge towers and
heavy battlements rise in stern and solemn
grandeur, moss-grown with age, and blackened
by the storms of three centuries. Within, all
is mournful and deserted. The grass has overgrown
the pavement of the court-yard,—and
the rude sculpture upon the walls is broken and
defaced. From the court-yard I entered the
central tower, and ascending the principal
stair-case, went out upon the battlements. I
seemed to have stepped back into the precincts
of the feudal ages; and as I passed

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

along through echoing corridors, and vast, deserted
halls, stripped of their furniture, and
mouldering silently away, the distant past came
back upon me, and the times when the clang
of arms, and the tramp of mail-clad men, and
the sounds of music, and revelry and wassail
echoed along those high-vaulted and solitary
chambers!

My third day's journey brought me to the
ancient city of Blois, the chief town of the department
of Loire-et-Cher. This city is celebrated
for the purity with which even the lower
classes of its inhabitants speak their native
tongue. It rises precipitously from the northern
bank of the Loire; and many of its streets
are so steep as to be almost impassible for carriages.
On the brow of the hill, overlooking
the roofs of the city, and commanding a fine
view of the Loire and its noble bridge, and the
surrounding country, sprinkled with cottages
and country-seats, runs an ample terrace,
planted with trees, and laid out as a public
walk. The view from this terrace is one of
the most beautiful in France. But what most
strikes the eye of the traveller at Blois is an

[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]

old, though still unfinished chateau. Its huge
parapets of hewn stone stand upon either side
of the street; but they have walled up the
wide gate-way, from which the colossal draw-bridge
was to have sprung high in air, connecting
together the main towers of the chateau,
and the two hills, upon whose slope its
foundations stand. The aspect of the vast pile
is gloomy and desolate. It seems as if the
strong hand of the builder had been arrested in
the midst of his task by the stronger hand of
death; and the unfinished fabric stands a lasting
monument both of the power and weakness
of man,—of his vast desires,—his sanguine
hopes,—his ambitious purposes,—and of the
unlooked-for conclusion, where all these desires,
and hopes, and purposes are so often arrested.—
There is also at Blois another ancient
chateau, to which some historic interest is attached,
as being the scene of the massacre of
the Duke of Guise.

On the following day I left Blois for Amboise,
and after walking several leagues along
the dusty highway, crossed the river in a boat
to the little village of Moines, which lies amid

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

luxuriant vineyards upon the southern bank of
the Loire. From Moines to Amboise the
road is truly delightful. The rich lowland
scenery by the margin of the river is verdant
even in October; and occasionally the landscape
is diversified with the picturesque cottages
of the vintagers, cut in the rock along
the road-side, and overhung by the thick foliage
of the vines above them.

At Amboise I took a cross-road, which
led me to the romantic borders of the Cher, and
the chateau of Chernanceau. This beautiful
chateau, as well as that of Chambord, was
built by the gay and munificent Francis the
First. One is a specimen of strong and massive
architecture—a dwelling for a warrior;—
but the other is of a lighter and more graceful
construction, and was destined for those soft
languishments of passion, with which the fascinating
Diane de Poitiers had filled the bosom
of that voluptuous monarch.

The chateau of Chernanceau is built upon
arches across the river Cher, whose waters are
made to supply the deep moat at each extremity.
There is a spacious court-yard in front,

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

from which a draw-bridge conducts to the outer
hall of the chateau. There the armor of Francis
the First still hangs upon the wall:—his
shield, and helm and lance as if the chivalrous
but dissolute prince had just exchanged
them for the silken robes of the drawing-room.
From this hall a door opens into a long gallery,
extending the whole length of the building
across the Cher. The walls of the gallery are
hung with the faded portraits of the long line of
the descendants of Hugh Capet; and the windows
looking up and down the stream, command
a fine reach of pleasant river scenery.
This is said to be the only chateau in France, in
which the ancient furniture of its original age
is preserved. In one part of the building, you
are shown the bed-chamber of Diane de Poitiers,
with its antique chairs covered with faded
damask and embroidery, her bed, and a portrait
of the royal favorite hanging over the mantel-piece.
In another, you see the apartment of
the infamous Catherine de Medici;—a venerable
arm-chair, and an autograph letter of Henry
the Fourth;—and in an old laboratory,
among broken crucibles, and neckless retorts,

[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]

and drums and trumpets, and skins of wild
beasts, and other ancient lumber of various
kinds, are to be seen the bed-posts of Francis
the First!—Doubtless the naked walls and
the vast, solitary chambers of an old and desolate
chateau inspire a feeling of greater solemnity
and awe; but when the antique furniture of
the olden time remains—the faded tapestry on
the walls—and the arm-chair by the fire-side,
the effect upon the mind is more magical and
delightful. The old inhabitants of the place,
long gathered to their fathers, though living
still in history, seem to have left their halls for
the chace or the tournament; and as the heavy
door swings upon its reluctant hinge, one almost
expects to see the gallant princes and
courtly dames enter those halls again, and sweep
in stately procession along the silent corridors.

Wrapt in such fancies as these, and gazing
on the beauties of this noble chateau, and the
soft scenery around it, I lingered unwilling to
depart, till the rays of the setting sun, streaming
through the dusty windows, admonished
me that the day was drawing rapidly to a close.
I sallied forth from the southern gate of the

[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]

chateau—and crossing the broken drawbridge,
pursued a pathway along the bank of the river,
still gazing back upon those towering walls,
now bathed in the rich glow of sunset, till a
turn in the road, and a clump of woodland at
length shut them out from my sight.

A short time after candle-lighting I reached
the little tavern of the Boule d'Or, a few
leagues from Tours, where I passed the night.
The following morning was lowering and sad.
A veil of mist hung over the landscape, and ever
and anon a heavy shower burst from the
over-burdened clouds, that were driving by before
a high and piercing wind. This unpropitious
state of the weather detained me until
noon; when a cabriolet for Tours drove up,
and taking a seat within it, I left the hostess of
the Boule d'Or in the middle of a long story
about a rich countess, who always alighted
there when she passed that way. We drove
leisurely along through a beautiful country, till
at length we came to the brow of a steep hill,
which commands a fine view of the city of
Tours and its delightful environs. But the
scene was shrouded by the heavy, drifting mist,

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

through which, I could trace but indistinctly
the graceful sweep of the Loire, and the spires
and roofs of the city far below me.

The city of Tours and the delicious plain
in which it lies, have been too often described
by other travellers, to render a new description
from so listless a pen as mine, either necessary
or desirable. After a sojourn of two cloudy
and melancholy days, I set out on my return to
Paris, by the way of Vendôme and Chartres.
I stopped a few hours at the former place, to
examine the ruins of a chateau, built by Jeanne
d'Albret, mother of Henry the Fourth. It
stands upon the summit of a high and precipitous
hill, and almost overhangs the town beneath.
The French Revolution has completed
the ruin, that time had already begun; and
nothing now remains but a broken and crumbling
bastion, and here and there a solitary
tower dropping slowly to decay. In one of
these is the grave of Jeanne d'Albret. A marble
entablature in the wall above contains the
inscription, which is nearly effaced, though
enough still remains to tell the curious traveller,
that there lies buried the mother of the

[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]

“Bon Henri.” To this is added a prayer,
that the repose of the dead may be respected;—
a prayer, which has been shamefully disregarded.

Here ended my foot-excursion. The object
of my journey was accomplished, and delighted
with this short ramble through the Valley
of the Loire, I took my seat in the Diligence
for Paris, and, on the following day, was
again swallowed up in the crowds of the metropolis,
like a drop in the bosom of the sea.

[figure description] Blank Leaf.[end figure description]

THE ANCIENT LYRIC POETRY OF THE NORTH OF FRANCE.

Quant recommence et revient biaux estez,
Que foille et flor resplendit par boschage,
Que li froiz tanz de l'hyver est passez,
Et cil oisel chantent en lor langage,
Lors chanterai
Et envoisiez serai
De cuer verai.
Jaques de Chison.

[figure description] Blank Leaf.[end figure description]

Quant voi la glaie meure,
Et le rosier espanir,
Et sur la bele verdure
La rousée resplendir,
Lors soupir
Pour cele que tant désir.
Raoul de Soissons.

[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]

The literature of France is peculiarly rich
in poetry of the olden time. We can trace
up the stream of song until it is lost in the
deepening shadows of the Middle Ages. Even
there it is not a shallow, tinkling rill; but
it comes like a mountain stream, rushing and
sounding onward through the enchanted regions
of romance, and mingles its voice with
the tramp of steeds and the brazen sound of
arms.

[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]

The glorious reign of Charlemagne 1 at the
close of the eighth and the commencement of
the ninth century, seems to have breathed a
spirit of literature as well as of chivalry
throughout all France. The monarch established
schools and academies in different parts
of his realm; and took delight in the society
and conversation of learned men. It is amusing
to see with what evident self-satisfaction
some of the magi, whom he gathered around

[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]

him, speak of their exertions in widening the
sphere of human knowledge, and pouring in
light upon the darkness of their age. “For
some,” says Alcuin, the director of the school
of St Martin de Tours, “I cause the honey of
the holy scriptures to flow; I intoxicate others
with the old wine of ancient history; these I
nourish with the fruits of grammar, gathered
by my own hands; and those I enlighten by
pointing out to them the stars, like lamps
attached by the vaulted ceiling of a great palace!”

Beside this classic erudition of the schools,
the age had also its popular literature. Those
who were untaught in scholastic wisdom, were
learned in traditionary lore; for they had their
ballads, in which were described the valor and
achievements of the early kings of the Franks.
These ballads, of which a collection was made
by order of Charlemagne, animated the rude
soldier as he rushed to battle, and were sung in
the midnight bivouacs of the camp. “Perhaps
it is not too much to say” observes the literary
historian Schlegel, “that we have still in our
possession, if not the original language and

[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]

form, at least the substance of many of those
ancient poems, which were collected by the
orders of that prince;—I refer to the Nibelungen
Lied, and the collection which goes by the
name of the Heldenbuch.”

When at length the old Tudesque language,
which was the court language of Charlemagne,
had given place to the Langue d'Oil, the
Northern dialect of the French romance, these
ancient ballads passed from the memories of
the descendants of the Franks, and were succeeded
by the romances of Charlemagne and his
Twelve Peers,—of Roland, and Oliver, and
the other Paladins, who died at Roncesvalles.
Robert Wace, a Norman Trouvère of
the twelfth century, says in one of his poems,
that a minstrel named Taillefer, mounted on a
swift horse, went in front of the Norman army
at the battle of Hastings, singing these ancient
poems.

These chansons de geste, or old historic
romances of France, are epic in their character,
though without doubt they were written to
be chaunted to the sound of an instrument.
To what period many of them belong in their

[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]

present form has never yet been fully determined;
and should it finally be proved by phylological
research, that they can claim no higher
antiquity than the twelfth or thirteenth
century, still there can be little doubt that in
their original form many of them reached far
back into the ninth or tenth. The long prevalent
theory, that the romances of the Twelve
Peers of France all originated in the fabulous
chronicle of Charlemagne and Roland, written
by the Archbishop Turpin in the twelfth
century, if not as yet generally exploded, is
nevertheless fast losing ground.

To the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, also,
belong most of the Fabliaux, or metrical tales
of the Trouvères. Many of these compositions
are remarkable for the inventive talent they
display; but as poems they have, generally
speaking, little merit, and at times exhibit
such a want of refinement, such open and
gross obscenity as to be highly offensive.

It is a remarkable circumstance in the literary
history of France, that whilst her anti-quarians
and scholars have devoted themselves
to collecting and illustrating the poetry of the

[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]

Troubadours, the early lyric poets of the
South, that of the Trouvères, or Troubadours
of the North, has been almost entirely neglected.
By a singular fatality, too, what little time and
attention have hitherto been bestowed upon the
fathers of French poetry, have been so directed
as to save from oblivion little of the most valuable
portions of their writings, whilst the more
tedious and worthless parts have been brought
forth to the public eye, as if to deaden curiosity
and put an end to farther research. The
ancient historic romances of the land have, for
the most part, been left to slumber on unnoticed;
whilst the obscene and tiresome Fabliaux
have been ushered in to the world as fair specimens
of the ancient poetry of France. This
has created unjust prejudices in the minds of
many against the literature of the olden time,
and has led them to regard it as nothing more
than a confused mass of coarse and vulgar fictions,
adapted to a rude and inelegant state of
society.

Of late, however, a more discerning judgment
has been brought to the difficult task of
ancient research; and in consequence of this

[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]

the long established prejudices against the
crumbling monuments of the national literature
of France during the Middle Ages is fast disappearing.
Several learned men are engaged
in rescuing from oblivion the ancient poetic
romances of Charlemagne and the Twelve
Peers of France, and their labors seem destined
to throw new light not only upon the
state of literature, but upon the state of society,
during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.

Among the voluminous remains of Troubadour
literature, little else has yet been discovered
save poems of a lyric character. The
lyre of the Troubodour seems to have responded
to the impulse of momentary feelings only,—to
the touch of local and transitory circumstances.
His song was a sudden burst of excited feeling:—
it ceased when the passion was subdued,
or rather when its first feverish excitement
passed away; and as the liveliest feelings are
the most transitory, the songs, which embodied
them are short, but full of spirit and energy.
On the other hand the great mass of the poetry
of the Trouvères is of a narrative or epic character.
The genius of the North seems always

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

to have delighted in romantic fiction; and whether
we attribute the origin of modern romance
to the Arabians or to the Scandanavians,—
this at least is certain, that there existed marvellous
tales in the nothern languages, and from
these, in part at least, the Trouvères imbibed
the spirit of narrative poetry. There are no
traces of lyric compositions among their writings,
till about the commencement of the thirteenth
century; and it seems probable that the
spirit of song-writing was imbibed from the
Troubadours of the South.

Unfortunately the neglect which has so
long attended the old historic and heroic romances
of the North of France has also befallen
in some degree its early lyric poetry. Little
has yet been done to discover and bring forth
its riches; and doubtless many a sweet little
ballad and melancholly complaint lies buried in
the dust of the thirteenth century. It is not
however my object, in this paper to give an
historical sketch of this ancient and almost forgotten
poetry, but simply to bring forward a
few specimens, which shall exhibit its most
striking and obvious characteristics.

[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]

In these examples it would be in vain to look
for high-wrought expression, suited to the prevailing
taste of the present day. Their most
striking peculiarity, and perhaps their greatest
merit, consists in the simple and direct expression
of feeling, which they contain. This feeling,
too, is one which breathes the langor of that
submissive homage, which was paid to beauty
in the days of chivalry; and I am aware that in
this age of masculine and matter-of-fact thinking,
the love-conceits of a more poetic state of
society are generally looked upon as extremely
trivial and puerile. Nevertheless I shall venture
to present one or two of these simple ballads,
which by recalling the distant age wherein
they were composed, may peradventure please
by the power of contrast.

I have just remarked, that one of the greatest
beauties of these ancient ditties is naïveté of
thought and simplicity of expression. These I
shall endeavor to preserve as far as possible in
the translation, though I am fully conscious
how much the sparkling beauty of an original
loses in being filtered through the idioms of a
foreign language.

[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]

The favorite theme of the ancient lyric poets
of the North of France is the wayward passion
of love. They all delight to sing les douces
dolors et li mal plaisant de fine amor.
With such feelings the beauties of the opening
Spring are naturally associated. Almost every
love ditty of the old poets commences with
some such exordium as this; “When the
snows of winter have passed away, when the
soft and gentle spring returns, and the flower
and leaf shoot in the groves, and the little
birds warble to their mates in their own sweet
language,—then will I sing my lady-love!

Another favourite introduction to these little
rhapsodies of romantic passion, is the approach
of morning and its sweet-voiced herald,
the lark. The minstrel's song to his lady-love
frequently commences with an allusion to
the hour,


`When the rose-bud opes its e'en,
And the blue-bells droop and die,
And upon the leaves so green
Sparkling dew-drops lie.'

The following is at once the simplest and
prettiest piece of this kind which I have met

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with among the early lyric poets of the North
of France. It is taken from an anonymous
poem entitled “The Paradise of Love.” A
lover having passed the “live-long night in
tears, as he was wont,” goes forth to beguile
his sorrows with the fragrance and beauty of
morning. The carol of the vaulting sky-lark
salutes his ear, and to this merry musician he
makes his complaint.

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Beside the “woful ballad made to his mistress'
eyebrow,” the early lyric poet frequently
indulges in more calmly analyzing the
philosophy of love, or in questioning the object
and destination of a sigh. Occasionally these
quaint conceits are prettily expressed, and the
little song flutters through the page like a butterfly.
The following is an example.

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The ancient lyric poets of France are
generally spoken of as a class, and their beauties
and defects referred to them collectively
and not individually. In truth there are few
characteristic marks by which any individual
author can be singled out and ranked above the
rest. The lyric poets of the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries stand upon nearly the same
level. But in the fifteenth century there were
two, who surpassed all their contemporaries
in the beauty and delicacy of their sentiments;
and in the sweetness of their diction, and the
structure of their verse, stand far in advance
of the age in which they lived. These are
Charles d'Orléans and Clotilde de Surville.

Charles, Duke of Orleans, the father of
Louis the Twelfth, and uncle of Francis the
First, was born in 1391. In the general tenor
of his life, the peculiar character of his mind,
and his talent for poetry, there is a striking
resemblance between this noble poet and James

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the First of Scotland, his contemporary. Both
were remarkable for learning and refinement;—
both passed a great portion of their lives in
sorrow and imprisonment; and both cheered
the solitude of their prison walls with the
charms of poetry. Charles d' Orléans was
taken prisoner at the battle of Agincourt in
1415, and carried into England, where he
remained twenty five years in captivity. It
was there, that he composed the greater part
of his poetry. In 1440 he returned to France,
where he died in 1467.

The poems of this writer exhibit a singular
delicacy of thought and sweetness of expression.
The following little Renouveaux, or
songs on the return of Spring, are full of delicacy
and beauty.

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The second upon the same subject presents
a still more agreeable picture of the
departure of Winter and the sweet return of
Spring.

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The only person of that age who can
dispute the laurel with Charles d' Orléans is
Clotilde de Surville. This sweet poetess was
born in the Bas-Vivarais in the year 1405.
Her style is singularly elegant and correct, and
the reader who will take the trouble to decipher
her rude provincial orthography, will find
her writings full of quiet beauty. The following
sweet lines, which breathe the very soul of
maternal tenderness, are part of a little poem
to her first born.

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But upon this theme I have written
enough,—perhaps too much.

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I have touched upon the subject before me
in a brief and desultory manner, and have purposely
left my remarks unincumbered by learned
reference and far-sought erudition; for these
are ornaments which would ill become so trivial
a pen as this wherewith I write, though
perchance the want of them will render my essay
unsatisfactory to the scholar and the critic.
But I am emboldened thus to skim with a light
wing over this poetic lore of the past, by the
reflection that the greater part of my readers
belong not to that grave and serious class, who
love the deep wisdom, which lies in quoting
from a quaint, forgotten tome, and are ready
on all occasions to say, “Commend me to the
owl.”

THE BAPTISM OF FIRE A LEAF FROM HISTORY.

It is a maxim among us Christians, that we cannot possibly suffer any
real hurt, if we cannot be convicted of doing any real evil. You may kill,
indeed, but you cannot hurt us.

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The more you mow us down, the thicker we rise; the Christian
blood you spill is like the seed you sow;—it springs from the earth again
and fructifies the more.

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As day was drawing to a close, and the
rays of the setting sun climbed slowly up the
dungeon wall, the prisoner sat and read in a
tome with silver clasps. He was a man in the
vigor of his days, with a pale and noble countenance,
that wore less the marks of worldly
care than of high and holy thought. His temples
were already bald; but a thick and curling
beard bespoke the strength of manhood,
and his eye, dark, full, and eloquent, beamed
with all the enthusiasm of a martyr.

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The book before him was a volume of the
early Christian Fathers. He was reading the
Apologetic of the eloquent Tertullian, the oldest
and ablest writer of the Latin Church. At
times he paused, and raised his eyes to heaven
as if in prayer, and then read on again in
silence. At length a passage seemed to touch
his inmost soul. He read aloud;

“Give us, then, what names you please,
from the instruments of cruelty you torture us
by, call us Sarmenticians and Semaxians, because
you fasten us to trunks of trees, and
stick us about with faggots to set us on fire;
yet let me tell you, when we are thus begirt and
dressed about with fire, we are then in our most
illustrious apparel. These are our victorious
palms and robes of glory; and mounted on
our funeral pile we look upon ourselves in our
triumphal chariot. No wonder, then, such
passive heroes please not those they vanquish
with such conquering sufferings. And therefore
we pass for men of despair, and violently
bent upon our own destruction. However,
that which you are pleased to call madness and
despair in us, are the very actions, which under

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virtue's standard lift up your sons of fame and
glory, and emblazon them to future ages.”

He arose and paced the dungeon to and
fro, with folded arms and a firm step. His
thoughts held communion with eternity.

“Father, which art in Heaven!” he exclaimed;
“give me strength to die, like those
holy men of old, who scorned to purchase life
at the expense of truth. That truth has made
me free; and though condemned on earth, I
know that I am absolved in heaven!”

He again seated himself at his table, and
read in that tome with silver clasps.

This solitary prisoner was Anne Du Bourg,
a man, who feared not man. Once a merciful
judge in that august tribunal, upon whose voice
hung the life and death of those, who were
persecuted for conscience' sake, he was now
himself an accused,—a convicted heretic, condemned
to the baptism of fire, because he
would not unrighteously condemn others. He
had dared to plead the cause of suffering humanity
before that dread tribunal, and in the
presence of the king himself to declare, that it
was an offence to the majesty of God to shed

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man's blood in his name. Six weary months,—
from June to December,—he had lain a
prisoner in that dungeon, from which a death
by fire was soon to set him free. Such was
the clemency of Henry the Second!

As the prisoner read, his eyes were filled
with tears. He still gazed upon the printed
page, but it was a blank before his eyes. His
thoughts were far away amid the scenes of his
childhood, amid the green valleys of Riom,
and the Golden Mountains of Auvergne. Some
simple word had called up the vision of the
past. He was a child again. He was playing
with the pebbles of the brook,—he was shouting
to the echo of the hills,—he was praying
at his mother's knee, with his little hands clasped
in hers.

This dream of childhood was broken by
the grating of bolts and bars, as the jailor
opened his prison door. A moment afterwards,
his former colleague De Harley stood at his
side.

“Thou here!” exclaimed the prisoner, surprised
at the visit. “Thou in the dungeon of
an heretic! On what errand hast thou come?”

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“On an errand of mercy,” replied De Harley.
“I come to tell thee—”

“That the hour of my death draws near?”

“That thou mayst still be saved.”

“Yes; if I will bear false witness against
my God—barter heaven for earth—an eternity
for a few brief days of worldly existence. Lost,
thou shouldst say,—lost, not saved!”

“No! saved!” cried De Harley with
warmth; “saved from a death of shame and
an eternity of wo! Renounce this false doctrine—
this abominable heresy—and return
again to the bosom of the church, which thou
dost rend with strife and dissention.”

“God judge between thee and me, which
has embraced the truth.”

“His hand already smites thee.”

“It has fallen more heavily upon those who
so unjustly persecute me. Where is the king?—
he who said, that with his own eyes he
would behold me perish at the stake?—he, to
whom the undaunted Du Faur cried, like
Elijah to Ahab, It is thou, who troublest Israel!
Where is the king?—called through a
sudden and violent death to the judgment-seat

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of heaven!—Where is Minard, the persecutor
of the just?—Slain by the hand of an assassin!
It was not without reason, that I said to
him, when standing before my accusers, Tremble!
believe the word of one, who is about to
appear before God; thou likewise shalt stand
there soon,—thou, that sheddest the blood of
the children of peace.—He has gone to his account
before me.”

“And that menace has hastened thine own
condemnation. Minard was slain by the Huguenots,
and it is whispered, that thou wert
privy to his death.”

“This at least might have been spared a
dying man!” replied the prisoner, much agitated
by so unjust and so unexpected an accusation.
“As I hope for mercy hereafter, I am
innocent of the blood of this man, and of all
knowledge of so foul a crime. But tell me,
hast thou come here only to embitter my last
hours with such an accusation as this? If so,
I pray thee, leave me. My moments are precious.
I would be alone.”

“I came to offer thee life, freedom, and
happiness.”

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