p355-012 EPISTLE PREFATORY TO MY LADY. [figure description] Page 011.[end figure description]

DEAR LADY,

Were these days of fiction, rather than of fact, and
could the popular sense be persuaded to regard that
period of exciting circumstance in past history, called
the era of romance, in any other light than that of a
pleasant dream about to be forgotten, your charms
might once again bring into exercise, not merely the
lay of the minstrel, but the valour of the knight. Instead
of the goosequill, spear and sword might, with
sufficient reason, be lifted in your service. Alas! however,
for the time—it brings forth no such offering. As
an especial rebuke to such glorious errantries as made
the middle ages the prime period of romantic adventure;
state prisons and penitentiaries frown upon us
from every quarter—instead of the warlike and stirring
blasts of the bugle, calling the watchful warder to the
turret, and arousing the sleeping porter to the approach
of the visiter, the tintinnabulary house-bell presents
itself conveniently at the portals, and the liveried servitor
opens the door at the first friendly summons. Romance
knows none of these comforts, and well may

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adventure sigh after a period which left something for
achievement to do, in scaling walls and mounting windows.
Had we, my lady, been born in such a period,
doubt not that I should have done something worthy to
be named along with the daring doings of the time.
Doubt not that lance had been lifted, and bugle wound,
and battle done gallantly, in your behalf and for your
love. As the times are, however, this may not be the
case; and all that chivalry may now proffer to his ladylove,
is some little tribute of romance like this,—its
relic and remembrance—comprised in a tiny volume,
quite unworthy of your genius, but all that I can yield
from mine. Pardon me, then, dear lady, that these
pages—many of which have been already uttered in
your ears—have received a name, which, though not
fairly identified with yourself or yours, must nevertheless,
and necessarily, refer to you for that countenance and
favour, which is more than popular applause to me.
May they not prove altogether unworthy your acceptance,
nor seem to be altogether ungracious in your
sight.

p355-014 A DREAM OF THE EARTH.

“I had a dream, which was not all a dream.”

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My mood is somewhat German—that is to say, it
inclines prodigiously to diablerie; and with a faculty,
which, if not dangerous, is at least troublesome, at
times, it conjures spirits from the vasty deeps of my
imagination, whenever I please to call them up. I can
have an assortment of them at, and for, my pleasure;
and though not over pleasant as companions, nor over
obedient as servants, I find them sufficiently docile for
all temporary purposes. I have my sprightly elves,
dancing for me of a summer night—my fairies of the
evening on the pleasant hill side, and sometimes when
the bell tolls at midnight, I turn suddenly in my elbowchair
to behold a very pleasant looking sort of Mephistopheles,
peeping over my left shoulder. Of course, I
wish not to be understood to say that I behold these
images with a literal and bona-fide vision. God forbid.
I only mean to give an idea of those things that sometimes
come to the half-shut eye, at that peculiar moment,
which is sometimes permitted to most men, when,
without losing any of our individual and personal identity,
we have a sort of dim consciousness of another state of
existence, and of having other company than that to
which we are usually accustomed. This condition of
mental excitation, I am not unwilling to admit, may be

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exaggerated by a coal fire—a bottle of London porter,
and the silence—the whispering silence—of the midnight
hour, in your old library in the northeast corner.

There is something delightful to me in a mood of
this description. I may safely say, that, bating some
solitary hours, my greatest pleasures have come to me
at such a period, and while under such an influence.
I know not how it is with other men. They answer
for themselves. I would not pretend for a moment that
my habits, frenzies, or whatsoever they merit to be
called, shall go for a moment in illustration of theirs.
But with me, what I say, I not only religiously and seriously
say, but I most seriously and religiously believe.
To me that state of dreamy existence, which is aptly
and beautifully designated by the poet, that of the
“half-shut eye,” is full of delights and delightful images.
I have often thought it the kind of mental intoxication
for which men frequently resort to opium, and the influence
of which may be best ascertained in the torpid
felicity which the Turks, as a nation, exhibit, and which
they have already frequently acknowledged. The Confessions
of an Opium Eater will better describe what I
mean and what I would say; and, as the book is not
only an instructive, but a truly pleasant one, I recommend
it to the reader to supply any deficiencies at this
stage of my narrative.

My arm-chair is, of itself, highly inspiriting. It, no
doubt, contributes wonderfully to that state of general
preparedness which adds to the force of any invocation.
It is of the true oriental make. The reader will not
suppose me luxurious when I describe it. It is of mahogany—
of a most solid structure. The legs are

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capacious, and like the seat, calculated for the contingency
of any burden. Falstaff would not have filled, though
he might have fitted it. A soft velvet flowered cushion
of purple, inclines greatly to the sense of repose, which
the whole fabric is calculated to instil into him who
makes use of it. The arms are rendered inviting by
the use of a like material, and the back receives any
impression. Five degrees of the circle thrown under
the feet, give, with the slightest effort, an undulatory
motion to the whole, which contributes, like an orthodox
sermon, or the opium already referred to, to a
slumberous quietude, that, of a long summer afternoon,
is wonderfully pleasant and becoming.

As evening wears, propped up in this “not at home,”
I laugh at the weather without, eschew visiters within,
place my feet on the fender, and survey the panorama
of creation through the crackling and half-burnt embers
of an excellent sea-coal fire. Numberless are the
images—various the pictures—wide the prospects—glorious
the views—and delightful the companions, that rise
to my view in that survey. I never use the poker;—it is
a horrible—an ungraceful engine—and destroys many a
pleasant illusion. Coal after coal sinks from sight—
others take their places, forming newer combinations;
and, as in a kaleidoscope, presenting infinite varieties
of well-adjointed and corresponding objects and associations.
If I behold in one huge mass of the black
pile just smitten by the flame, a gloomy and turreted
castle, manned with men in armour and ready for the
fight—in another I perceive beneath its walls a hostile
and invading arry getting ready for the onset. The
occasional hiss of the escaping air answers all the

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purposes of a trumpet; and as the masses respectively
flame and fall, I behold the overthrow of this or that
armament—the invading or invaded. This, every body
will admit, is a very pleasant mode of passing away
those hours, which, with most men go unemployed; but
this is not all. As I have already said, the world of
spirits contributes also to my accommodation; and at
such a period, fancy becomes a recruiting officer, and
my senses are all severally supplied with what they
respectively require. Images from the natural and
spiritual world alike await my bidding; and without
describing a circle, filling it with skulls and scorpions,
making a contract with my blood in a manner most
horribly German, and invoking his arch majesty, the
devil, I command the creatures of the four elements,
and they come when, and sometimes before, I call for
them. The subtle Zephyr, the gloomy Gnome, the
skipping Hamadryad, the old Cyclops, the dewy and
plaintive Naiad, all throng about me, and manifold are
the adventures which I glean from their several recitals.
They make me the depository of their secrets and
mysteries; but, as they have no doubt told the same
secrets to thousands besides, I shall perhaps do them
but little injury, and betray a confidence without value,
as it is so much divided, by occasionally whispering to
others what they sometimes whisper to me. As I have
made no contracts with the creatures, I am not much
concerned about offending them, and if they play me
no pranks in mid-summer, by moonlight, I shall not
fear other inconveniences at their hands.

I remember a conversation, which, while under a
mood and in a situation like that described, I once

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had with our great original—under the Deity—the
Earth. “'Twas on a summer evening,” in my chair,
as aforesaid—dinner being over, and the bottle under,
that had once been on, the table—that I was favoured
with the presence of this terrestrial personage. Of
his make, person, feature, and so forth, I say nothing.
Let him speak for himself. So, taking a seat comfortably
in the corner opposite, with a grave countenance
and paternally solemn accent, in reply to some of my
obliquitous enquiries, he went on as follows. If the
reader thinks it likely he will find the old one as
tedious as I did, he will be wise and go no farther.

“You are right,” said he, “in coming to me for information
on the subject of my history. Nobody so
well as one's self can tell one's story; so that now,
having fairly entrusted yourself to me, you will be so
good as to forget every thing which you have previously
heard on this matter, and believe only that
which I shall tell you. I know you will think me
rather vain and self-complacent when I say this. I
know that among the miserable mass which make up
your species, it is quite a common belief that you are
au fait on all topics, and that it is quite common for
each of you to know more of his neighbour's business
than he can possibly know of it himself. Still, I look
upon you as grievously in the dark on all that concerns
me. Of me and mine you know nothing; it will depend
upon the patience and propriety which you may
now exhibit, whether I make you any wiser. The
good opinion which you generally entertain of your
own capacities has, in most cases, shot infinitely beyond
your compass; and you are neither able to teach

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yourselves nor others on some points, on which it is,
nevertheless, necessary you should be taught. All
your accounts, therefore—those in particular which
relate to me—are mere absurdities, wild and erroneous.
Disposed to speculate and analyse, from the
atom of the immortal principle within him, man is yet,
however, but too little regulated in his conclusions by
the foresight and knowledge which should belong to
and describe it, to benefit himself very greatly by its
possession. He ate too little of the apple to be wise,
too much of it to be happy: enough for presumption,
too little for that fine taste and perception which,
having brought wisdom, teaches humility.

“You will yourself have perceived, if I have not
greatly mistaken your character, that the process of
life in those portions of my body which have come
more immediately under your observation, is not dissimilar
to the same process, as it is carried on in your
own animal condition. We are not seriously unlike
in all vital matters, and though you may think it in no
wise complimentary on my part to say so, our wants
and necessities, our qualities and our feelings, do not
perceptibly differ. We depend for life, and health,
and vigour, upon the same influences. We need alike
the same generous sunshine, the same refreshing
showers, the same grateful dews, the same cold and
heat, and we alike live and laugh under a common
Providence. Our moral resemblances are also striking.
Have we not our revolutions, our ups and downs? and
have we not both of us permitted our several poles to
be flattened? There is, certainly, but little difference
between us; and whether we look at the one state or

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the other, we must feel assured that the many varieties
of fortune and condition which make up our existence,
tend greatly to its comfort and the excellent working
of the contrivance. Nor is our healthful state the
only object in this variety. The sense of enjoyment,
nearly the same with both of us, where our ignorance
and discontent do not blind us wholly to its perception,
appears in this to have been most graciously
consulted. The two grand seasons of the year, from
which the lesser and more minute and uncertain divisions
arise, winter and summer, are made admirably
to relieve the duties and neutralise the influences of
one another. As the warmth of summer departs, the
cool, sharp, and bracing winds of October strengthen
and invigorate; and when winter, in turn, grows troublesome
and fretful, its snows are agreeably broken in
upon and dissipated by its noisy departure in March;
while April and May, genially, by the balmy blossoms
which they bring, and the fresh zephyrs and showers
which attend on them, atone, like the gentle children
of an ungentle sire, for the severities of their rugged
predecessor, and cheer the languid spirits of man and
of myself. Is there not, in this, strong sympathy
between us? Do we not even clothe ourselves, with
a reference to feelings shared in common, under the
prevailing influences of these changing seasons? Your
winter woollens are not more thick and warm than
the snows which in the same seasons I wrap about me;
and do I not, in the pleasant spring-time, dress myself
in the very same variety of leafy flowers, which garland
the beautiful girl whom I beheld you emb—”

Here I put my hand upon the old fellow's mouth.

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What a tell-tale! He promised to say nothing further
about that, and I suffered him to proceed.

“Still further,” said he, “and the analogy here is
of the most striking description. The decay of the
plants, the flowers, leaves, and trees, stores my bosom
with a rich, renewed, and second principle of life; as
with you the death of the animal man gives freedom
and full exercise to the hitherto confined principle of
immortality, which makes all that is worthy or valuable
in his original formation.

“To say that I am supported in a pure and healthy
habit by the employment of the same or similar means
with yourself, would be, perhaps, only to remind you
of some among your early studies. Your researches,
allowing you to have been an industrious student, may
have taught you that, as in your own system, I must
become impure and diseased were there not a free and
general circulation of blood through my system. To
know that the blood lives, there is no necessity to
refer to Dr. Charles Bell, who has gone to considerable
pains to establish the fact; while Dr. John Bell, with
desperate silliness, labours to prove a doctrine directly
the reverse. These are discordant bells, and you will
give no heed to them. The blood has life, and having
it, I live. I have veins and arteries, the streams of
which intersect each other, and perpetually supply my
overgrown frame with the same animating principle,
and strengthen and invigorate me in much the same
manner as, in your smaller and microscopic formation
and structure, the attenuated ducts and channels provide
your life with the sustaining fluids. To your eye,
it is true, the material possesses not precisely the

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same external appearance; but the difference is of
indifferent note, when we know that the effect of both
is the same; that, deprived of the one, you perish;
and, like myself, bereft of the other, are resolved to
dust, and dispersed in the fine and subtile element.
This difference between your blood and mine is,
therefore, purely nominal, and beneath the consideration
of a sober intellect. That I am not similarly
constructed with yourself, mere bodily outline considered,
is perhaps true; though you, perhaps, are but
little calculated, from your native capacities, to determine
on this particular. It is not pretended that we
resemble each other in shape, nor would it have been
a wise arrangement to have had us do so. How should
I have been enabled to carry my huge body with your
legs? I might, it is true, have had a much better
standing; but, like most people cursed with being
lifted out of their proper element, I certainly should
have lost more in ease and repose than I had acquired
in pride of place and elevated station. As it is, my
structure is by no means deficient in grace and symmetrical
arrangement. Beneath your eyes I am but a
heavy and elaborate mass—a great beast—without any
of those nicer adaptation of parts to that fineness of
proportion, which are your modelling standards, and
to which you are in the habit of cutting, carving, and
squaring every thing—virtue, truth, religion, faith,
and probity, being all regulated, as I am informed, by
a pert, froward, selfish, calculating, conceited, and
most wofully ignorant and ill-advised creature, called
Fashion. If I have a protuberance or depression, you
term it mountain or valley, with a sang froid, not less

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ungracious than peculiar, without for a moment reflecting
that you speak of a living, moving, and feeling
creation. Should I not have life, who bring it forth?
Is not the hidden spring of all vitality in me? Do
not my waters (to employ your own phraseology, that
I may be the better understood) leap within me; my
hills tremble; my flowers and plants and trees bud,
blossom, bear, and prove their claim to every peculiarity
in your life, by perishing at last? Do they
spring at your command, and do I not bring them
forth? In what, then, so far as vitality is concerned,
will we be found to differ? In our shape, you will
say; but are you able to determine upon the proportions
of that which you cannot see?

“Could you, in a glance, and but for a moment, survey
my gigantic frame to its utmost extremities—
could I be extended before your vision as a perfect
whole, laid out by an omniscient and particular eye—
could you behold and determine upon my vast and
various undulations—my hills swelling into grace—
my vales, the delicate retreatings of a frame, each part
accommodated to its fellow, and chiselled into gentle
featurings—all parts beneath your glance, and the
symmetry of the whole beheld as you need never expect
to behold it—then would you at once discover
and readily admit, that mere bulk is not alone the
characteristic of my person, and that I am in no wise
deficient in those features of evenness and grace, and
that delicacy of proportion, which your miserable
vanity will seldom permit you to recognise in the
make of any but your own species. I have my deformities,
it is true, for which I shall account hereafter;

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but it will be quite time enough, when you have
removed your own `warts and tumours,' to trouble
yourself about mine.

“Of my birth, like all other children, I know little
or nothing. I believe—further to establish and confirm
the analogy between us—that, before reaching
my present elaborated, though even now incomplete
and still increasing bulk, I passed through several
stages of being and condition. There was an ordeal
term of infancy and imbecility—of childhood, youth,
age, with all their faculties of wind and vapour, as
known to yourself, through which I had to pass—pain,
and labour, and sweat, not forgotten—before reaching
my present advanced, though still immature condition.
I believe, like yourself, I was called up in distinct
atoms from the boundlessness of space, the darkness
and the confusion of chaos—that I gathered, and continue
to gather newer additions from the same source,
momentarily—not as your philosophy presumes to
suppose, from the natural determination to the centre,
but from the operation and influence of the mighty
will—the destiny—the great spirit which had gone
forth, the propelling energies of whose cloudy wings
drove them onwards to the vast work of my creation.
Created thus, I swung blackly and heavily in the eternal
sphere—blind, confused, wandering and imbecile;
until that period of time, when, all things having been
prepared, the immortal Spirit covered me with his
wings, and life, animation, feeling, was the consequence;
and I leaped, with a blind and impulsive
determination, into the place which I now occupy.
Still all was darkness, and vacancy, and solitude, about

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me—in proportion to what I knew and felt, was my
desire to know and feel yet more; and I writhed in
ungovernable anguish for that light which I knew not
as yet how to have or comprehend. Like angels and
men, I too struggled against the mandate that made
and fixed me in the sphere I occupied. I, too, rebelled
with a stiff-necked determination, arising from
my ignorance of the power I dared to defy. I leaped,
and struggled, and strove, but was bound down at last
to my office.

“I was not, however, long condemned to remain
rolling in my huge sphere without companionship.
The heavy and solid darkness that weighed upon and
pressed me down with a presence, felt but unseen,
gradually began to dissipate. Sounds came swelling
mysteriously and faintly in the distance. Music, the
most ravishing and exquisite, came breathing and
wrapping itself about me. I became fixed—chained
into stillness: a spell was upon me—a languid delight—
every tumult was hushed—every rebellious discontent
quieted, and every thing forgotten in that first
song of the spheres, as they hailed and ushered in the
new-born light. How can you hope to understand,
or I detail, the character, or give you any idea of that
choice harmony which mingled with and made up the
sublime mysteries attending upon the creation of the
dependent elements, now first starting into life and
sound? How gradually and sweetly arose that melody—
swelling on its nearer approach into a mighty and
ear-piercing burst—a diapason of heavenly and myriad
voices; then, falling into a fine depression of faint
murmurings, giving forth sounds, such as might be

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supposed to arise when immortal hands were wheeling
the throne of the Eternal over the golden floors of
heaven. In a moment every thing was hushed into a
deep silence—the very breathings of the infant Time
were unheard. But other sounds—other melodies
succeeded—musical and melodious, and yet not music.
You have heard such strains—fine, spiritual, and commanding—
in the winds by night—on the wild waters—
in the forests. The tempest and the calm—day
and night—even I, with my plants, and flowers, and
streams—have all conveyed them to your several
senses. It was the Spirit—itself a voice and a music—
that bespoke the presence of the awful I am—and
we trembled and shrunk into nothing and quietude
before it. It had—not to compare it with any thing
of or in human life—just such an effect upon me, as a
deep-toned bell would have upon you in the stillness
and solitude of the desert. It was thunder, and majesty,
and power—but how sweet, how finely attenuated.
A pause, and then arose once again the delicious
melodies which had preceded it; and, in obedience to
the spell, the arches of heaven were unfolded, and
huge volumes of light, that mysterious agent of the
Deity, poured forth upon and around me. I grew dim
and blinded with excessive bright—I luxuriated—I
leaped, and was maddened. Light was born, and for
the first time I beheld myself—I beheld the world of
which I was a portion. Vacancy was no longer the
occasion of my dread and doubt. I could now look
up, no longer crowded in upon and by the darkness,
and survey the unveiled heavens—the mysterious sanctuary,
glorious yet awful, thrown open, while the pure

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streams of new-born light came rushing forth in solid
bodies upon each other. What a vision—it flew to
my embrace—I grasped, I hid it in all my recesses—
it was mine, all mine, and I leaped and bounded with
a delirious transport! How grateful was its presence!
I surveyed myself as in a mirror, and grew in love
with myself and with every thing around me. Then
could I see glorious and innumerable agencies directing
their flight upon their appointed offices—wheeling
away, within the vestments of a golden light, and a
plumage borrowed from the land of Paradise, far upon
the verge of my horizon—others in immediate attendance
upon the eternal throne—for

`They also serve, who only stand and wait'—

“Voices were all about me—voices of power! Images
of beauty—figures of light and glory descended upon
me, while, insensible as regards my own capacity of
motion, they performed a multitude of offices which I
could not comprehend. But all things were commanded
by a voice whose authority I felt and beheld. It was
about, above, around, and within me, at the same moment,
and at each utterance I thrilled and trembled in
every portion of my huge frame. Then rose a song of

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gladness and of triumph; of thanksgiving, rejoicing,
and praise; so rich, so mellow, that, bound down, as it
were, in a charm, I lay wrapt, unconscious of all things
beside, till the melody had passed again into the azure
gates, from which it seemed to descend. The excess
of light and splendour—the glory, late almost oppressive,
was now mellowed down into softer hues and
more delicate featurings. The skies, no longer flaming
with gorgeous radiance, now became tinged only here
and there with the richer gleams—through which the
sweet cerulean flashed gently at frequent intervals; and
though the appearance of the world about me became
at this period more truly beautiful, I perceived, with
deep anxiety and fear, that my enjoyment was unstable,
and the rich floods of living light were evidently, though
gradually, departing. Not so rapidly, indeed, as when
it had bounded forth and enveloped me, but in a procession
of slow and sweetly mournful bodies, seeming
to regret, as they re-entered their rich abodes, the fair
freedom to which they had lately fallen inheritors. I
struggled to grasp and to retain the still fleeting deceptions,
but in vain. Column after column gathered and
disappeared, till at length all had departed, leaving me
to the horrible vacancy of condition, almost enhanced
in misery by my knowledge of a sense of enjoyment,
rather productive of pain than pleasure, since it had
proved so fleeting and evanescent. I shuddered in terror,
when I recollected the chilling blackness which
had before enveloped me in its embrace. I grew convulsed—
I was maddened by my excessive emotion.
Coldness and vacancy came rapidly over me, and I
trembled at my own wide, extensive, and unprotected

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bulk. Unknown evils seemed to threaten me in the
coming time, the more terrible as they were unknown.
I dreaded the doubtful but fearful dangers, and shuddered
and shrunk and writhed in a thousand contortions.
Then, on a sudden, I heard a rushing and fearful
noise, as of two mighty hosts of wings and weapons
in battle. Roaring and foaming, it approached with
an increasing fury, to which I could liken nothing that
I had yet been conscious of. This confirmed my worst
apprehension—I knew not what to dread, and dreaded
every thing. Now bellowing, now clashing and fretting,
then moaning with a melancholy terror, as of evil
spirits in mortal agonies, I did not long remain in
doubt as to the character of my new danger. It was
not long before I felt my extremities covered completely
by an immense body of rushing waters—momentarily
mounting higher, and threatening, by increasing power
and violence, my very existence. I now, for the first
time, was taught to know my deadly enemy, the ocean.
In vain did I seek to rid myself of the assailant—vain
were all my struggles and contortions—vainly did I
shrink from the deluging power. I was covered and
pressed down by the pitiless masses, that all the while
kept up their infernal ravings and plungings above me,
yelling throughout their gambols, with a savage triumph,
and mocking the efforts which I made to escape them.
Finding all exertion fruitless, I gave up my short dream
of delightful enjoyment, with a sort of resignation to
that fate, which I apprehended to be close at hand. I
felt myself almost enveloped by the wild and interminable
waters; and though still a creature of perception,
I had now none of those hopes of a long and happy

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life which I had promised myself on commencing my
existence. I now discovered that there was no eternity
in pleasure—no truth in hope; and that being, with
myself as well as man, was liable to fearful vicissitudes.
Yet why should I moralise? You are all sufficiently
ready in the inculcation of truth—it might be better for
you, were all as ready to receive it.

“Still, I survived—I did not then perish—my time
had not yet come. Many were the hours—how long
and weary did they seem to me—that I lay in this condition.
At length, however, I began to feel a larger
relaxation in the burden upon me. The weight appeared
to diminish—my joints were released, in great
part, from the power which had cramped and stiffened
them; and how inexpressible was my delight, when, by
these and other signs, I was assured that I was once
more about to regain my liberty. The departure of
my enemy was yet protracted. The waters rolled from
me gradually, and with little, if any, of that noise and
turbulence which had accompanied their first appearance.
Several hours had elapsed, ere they had left me
to the perception and enjoyment of the glorious day
that succeeded a night so sorrowful and dismal. But
they went at last, and again, to my remotest members,
I felt, as on the day before, the floods of refreshing light
and heat, rolling over me in their place. With a mellowed
influence at first they gathered around me, till,
entirely descended from the gates of heaven, they concentrated
themselves into a full orbed splendour, the
glow and glory of which I felt, but dared not looked
upon. What a life was that one day to me! My whole
frame was awakened—enkindled. I was all one

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perception—every member, every muscle and vein, leapt
with enjoyment; and flowers, and fruits, and trees, and
shrubs, generated by that first embrace with the vital
principle, sprung forth from my bosom, shielding me
from the consuming heat which had called them into
existence. How richly beautiful—how winning was
then my appearance! With what a grace, admitted
into the dances of the spheres, did I ascend the whirling
axle, and become a member of that all-perfect system,
which, in its harmonious and unvarying revolutions,
at once indicates the nature, while it offers a true
homage to the handiworks, of God! All this day was
one of wonder and delirium. How did I spread myself
forth beneath the heavens, to catch every gracious
smile and odour and breeze, that came therefrom;
while the blaze, that, like living waters, gushed from its
bosom, filled and enwreathed me with the richest splendour!
With delight I could now behold myself in my
remotest regions. I could see and luxuriate in the fine
though gigantic symmetry of my proportions—the graceful
undulation of muscle and matter here—the fine and
speaking elevation of feature there. Nor did I confine,
with undue vanity, my attention solely to my own person.
I looked long and delightedly to the many choice
images of wonder—the unique creations floating gracefully
in gold and vermillion, and azure orbs, about,
around, and above me. Beautiful images descended
upon me; troops of spiritual forms leapt playfully into
the skies; pursuing each other with songs and sport,
and mingling together with a habit of joy, that savoured
of a frenzied and most unlimited delight. All things
were under a spell—a sun—a glory—a high life of

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

beautiful images, and gentle and winning endearments.—
But yet another change was at hand. The images
began to fade and depart. The forms of light and fairy
grew less frequent. The wings darted upward—the
glow and the glory became mellowed into hues and
beauties, not less brilliant and captivating, but less
warm and bright—and, as at length I beheld the burning
globe descend and heard it hiss in the dark waters,
which, now, as if recovering a withheld spirit, began
again to roar and ramp and rise above my extremities;
and as my own body began to grow less and less each
moment in my sight, all my fears and apprehensions returned—
all my emotions of rapture took their departure.
The night I had already spent was too well remembered,
and too sullenly endured, not to occasion many terrible
misgivings as to its return; and with a shuddering horror,
which neither the past pleasures of the day, nor
the hope, now strong within me, of its return, could
dissipate, I resigned myself to that destiny from which
I had no prospect of escape. But with what a pleasurable
disappointment did I find, after some hours of
dreadful apprehension, that my limbs were yet free
from the waters—that the darkness and coldness of the
preceding night had failed to return; and while deploring,
however, the absence of that strong blaze,
which was now my chief privation, how was I gladdened
to behold, of a sudden, a broad and beautiful
stream of spendour, like a transparent pillar from the
heavens, equally bright, far more beautiful, though without
the heat, which marked and came with the day,
looking down immediately upon me. It grew as it approached,
in power and expansion, sending its pale and

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

silvery glances in every direction, illuminating all, and
resting with a smile of beautiful attraction, even upon the
billows of my mortal enemy. Shall I tell you that this
was the moon—making her first maiden ascent into the
blue world, of which she is so beautiful and well-beloved
a tenant—alone, and proud in her unapproachable
brightness. No songs of triumph ushered in her approach.
Her attendants were Silence and Quiet, and
they, like herself, and the Night to which they minister,
were born dumb. With what a feeling of delighted
awe, aided by her light, and emboldened by the placidity
of all around me, did I look upon the fierce waters I
had so much dreaded. There, in grim repose, stretched
out like myself in a slumbering quiet, did they rest beneath
her spells. Not a billow stirred—not a breath
came from them; and, but for the perpetual heavings
of their breasts, I should now have regarded them, and
all the terrors they had made me undergo, as a mere
dream, a delusion. But she—that gentle spirit—towards
morning began also to decay. She looked no
longer down with an eye all brightness and beauty;
slumber seemed to fall upon her, a film passed over her
brows; and now, I discovered, for the first time, the
numerous lesser lights that came in her train, the
brightness and beauty of which had been hitherto
merged entirely in her own. What a fairy picture of
sweetness and sublimity! There was not a shadow
upon me—there was not a cloud in the firmament;
and even the waters that howled fitfully in their sleep
at intervals, were wrapt in a garment of thin and fretted
silver. But when this Queen of Faery, scared by the
approaching day, had veiled her face in a dun mantle,

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

and the stars, following her example, to avoid the absorption
of the greater splendour, had done likewise,
what new wonders were before me! There was yet
another change, and newer inconveniences. Sounds
unheard and unconceived before, were in my ears—
the only strong feature of which was their utter discordance
one with the other. As far as I could see,
my whole body had been taken possession of by a troop
of as disagreeably incongrous creatures as you might
by any stretch of imagination conceive. Some were
horned and unhorned, tailed and untailed, winged and
unwinged, four-footed, two-footed, and no footed—
beast, bird, and reptile, flesh and fowl; the whole variety
as you know them now: all were there, making
as perfectly free with my system, as if it were purely
and entirely their own. Some were nipping the plants
and grass—some reposing their limbs upon my own;
and, not a few inconsiderately burrowing into my body
with their sharp horns, and taking other troublesome
and indecent liberties with the body they had so audaciously
invaded. I was indignant, as well I might be;
and strove, with a degree of vigour and violence which
merited to have been much more successful, to extricate
myself from their impertinence, but in vain. Some, indeed,
I did succeed in shuffling into the embraces of my
neighbour, the sea; but though I tumbled and twisted
in every possible direction, I failed to dislodge the great
mass, or persuade them into any civilities. While, as
if in punishment of my discontent, my limbs were
chained and fixed into the several positions in which I
had thrown them—lumps and depressions were the
consequence; and a body, otherwise superbly and

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

symmetrically beautiful, was now shaped to distortion.
These undulations in my animal make, your sages have
denominated valleys and mountains, and have spoken
of, and acted towards them, as if they had been in
reality the insensate masses, the names thus given them
are used to signify. I am thus suffering perpetual injuries,
bruises, and beatings from your people, in resentment
of which, I sometimes, (for I am slow to anger,)
with a contraction of a knee, overthrow a territory,
and with the upheaving of my chest or side,
swallow up a city or an empire, and perform other
feats of a like irregularity. One ambitious fool among
you, did, in cutting through what he called a mountain,
difigure terribly my left nostril, but I revenged myself
upon him in a corresponding style. I destroyed his
fleet by a breath, and sent him to his own dominions, a
fugitive, as he had left them, a fool. Others again, before
and since, not liking, it would seem, such elevations,
though in the formation of my frame actually
essential to symmetry, have levelled various of my
members, to an insipid evenness, and elevated, in
turn, many of my depressions, into positive deformities.
Some, not content with working their own advantage
at my expense, have allied themselves to my ancient
enemy, the sea—with whom I am continually at war,
and from whom I daily wrest and rescue some of my
members—cutting trenches in my very bosom to admit
his billows; and endeavouring, in this wanton manner,
not merely to disencumber me of my component parts,
but, with a species of cruelty, purely Turkish, actually
to disembowel me. There are other incursions, equally
barbarous, which your people are in the habit of making

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

into my person; which, as I have already told, I sometimes
revenge in lifting or relaxing a leg or an arm, by
which I have lodged a city or a state under the water.
It is by these changes (when fatigued in one position)
which I sometimes make, that your travellers have met
with new continents—thus, too, may you account for
the rising and falling of a lake or an islandin the progress
of a single night. In stating my many wrongs at
your hands, I may charge you with numerous robberies.
Not content with what I place on my surface for your
good and at your free disposal, you penetrate with pickaxe
and spear, into my very entrails, to pilfer my possessions.
Spoils which your fathers knew not of, or, if
they did, which they did not venture to touch, you now
grope into my treasuries for, lay violent hands on, and
pocket without acknowledgment, and without scruple.

“I have little else to say, but should not omit,
though it does not very greatly enter into the materials
of my own history, to speak of some things which
more immediately concern yourself. I will return.
I had scarcely become familiar with the presence of
beast and bird, as already spoken of, when I was made
conscious of other objects. Two fair creatures were
before, and dwelling above me. They dwelt in the
bosom of a rich star, that hung at a small distance
above my horizon. Beauty, and youth, and innocence
were about, and enveloped and was a part of them—
and from the moment I beheld, I loved—I worshipped
them. Their looks were love—their words were
music—their smiles were peace. Nor was I alone in
my adoration. The most savage of the wild tribes
that were about me bowed and humbled themselves

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

before them. They walked unharmed by the tiger—
the serpent crawled into his cavern as they went by,
and the doves met in their pathway, in amorous discourse.
Scarcely less beautiful—not less perfectly
made—though less perfect as it would seem from subsequent
events—than the glorious forms and images
which came down from heaven, walking and conversing
with them, how could we refuse our homage?
These were your parents, boy. Alas! how very unlike
their children, then, though made to resemble
them, at last, as well in feature as in fortune—driven
from that habitation of delight—a flaming sword set
behind and waving over them—unknown dangers
assailing and threatening, and the first proof of their
fall from that high estate, and of their present deformity,
the relaxed homage of the brute—the increased
insolence of the snake—the timid fluttering of the
dove—the one growling and the other hissing, the
third flying before them in terror, as they passed to
their new abode. But it is time to pause.

“If I have not confined myself in this narrative entirely
to the circumstances of my own creation, I have
not, at least, extended my account to that of objects
not relevant thereto. Of the subsequent revolutions
in my life I need say nothing. The history might be
troublesome for me to relate, and somewhat fatiguing,
certainly, for you to hear. Still it might instruct you.
It consists, and in this respect differs not from your
own, of many vicissitudes, changes, shadows and sunshine,
hopes and apprehensions. Not the least of my
annoyances is the knowledge that I am at the mercy
of your race, the victim of all your caprice and

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

extravagance. The destiny which makes me your victim,
now, however, with a spirit of retributive justice,
which marks all heaven's judgments, revenges me on
you hereafter. You will all, your great and low, lofty
and despised, alike, come and lie down in my bosom,
restoring me at last that which had been taken from
me at your formation. Of this you may not complain,
if, like me, you have been taught to know how many
are the trials of life, and how sweet is the slumber
that its close brings with it. You have other hopes,
than myself, and in this respect our destinies part
company. You dream of a high ascent into other
spheres—you put on a new life—you re-ascend that
pure and perfect star, from which your ancestors so
haplessly descended. This hope is not for me—yet
shall I be satisfied, if once again permitted to behold
that glory—their glory and my own, of which I so
freely partook—in which I so joyously luxuriated,
when the stars first sung their pæans, and the ponderous
spheres, in compliance with their high destiny,
uttered their full concerted harmonies, in token of
their common existence.”

The spirit had departed. I had been listening to
our common Parent. I had heard a story, such as one
may gather from the leaves and the plants, in the city
and in the forest, if disposed to listen to those messengers
of the eternal Providence, sent wisely for his
solace and instruction—illuminating his pathway, and
directing his feet.

p355-039 CHATELARD.

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

The account which history gives us of this daring
and unhappy adventurer, is of as much interest and
quite as sadly romantic as that of Rizzio—who, with
far less pretension, suffered martyrdom for a like error.
The first notice we have of Chatelard places him on
board the vessel which bore Mary of Scotland to her
unstable empire. The events of that voyage need here
no recital. We are told by the historians, who have dwelt
upon this particular in the fortunes of Mary with far more
precision than distinguishes their narrative throughout,
that, with a measure of grief, which, to most persons,
would appear highly exaggerated and artificial, “La
Reine Blanche,”—as, from her white mourning, the
French had at that time designated her—took her departure
from the shores of that fair country, in which her
education had been acquired, and which her heart could
never, at any period in her life, entirely leave. Nor
was this feeling at all abated by the other circumstances
attending her departure. Various and striking were
the omens of ill which marked her sailing, and filled
her melancholy spirit with apprehensions not unwarranted
by the result; and when advised of the English
fleet sent by her bitter enemy and rival, Elizabeth, to
intercept her, not even the pledges of true faith from
her gallant but small retinue, could materially diminish

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

or alter the countenance of despair, with which, uttering
a thousand exclamations of “farewell!” she kept
looking back upon the land which her eyes were so
rapidly losing. The strains of the young Chatelard,
served up to her senses with a spirit of corresponding
tone with hers, soothed, however, the gloomy temper
of the princess, and possibly prevented those wild and
violent paroxysms, which usually mark the more extravagant
sorrows of the sex. In nature's exhaustion at
last, weeping herself to slumber, she sunk down upon
the couch prepared for her upon the deck of her vessel;
while, with a spirit more and more enamoured from the
subject of his contemplation, the daring boy who sung
above her, filled with hopes as delightful as they were
illusory, fell into dreams not less cheering than those
of his mistress were sorrowful.

The dawn of the morning found them in the most
perilous situation. They were surrounded by the English
fleet, and no possible chances appeared for their
escape. In that hour the devotion of those about the
beleaguered princess was finely tried; and none were
more ready in their willingness to die in her defence,
than the young and accomplished poet. Indeed, as the
nephew of the celebrated Bayard, the knight, sans peur,
sans reproche—educated in France, skilled in arts,
arms, and the required duties of a court the most refined
of Europe—less than devotion to death, and firmness
amidst torture, could not have been expected
from the youth. His eyes flashed defiance as the tall
masts of the approaching and overwhelming force loomed
out upon the horizon; and, throwing aside the harp,
to the strains of which through the night his fine voice

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

had formed at intervals a fitting accompaniment, he
drew his sword, and bending on his knee to his queen,
proffered it in gallant language, and begged to use it
in her service. Mary smiled through her tears upon
the boy, and, with a compliment which came with added
sweetness from her lips, gave him permission—a permission
which made him happy—to die in her defence.
But the watchful Providence had them in charge, and
at the moment of their discovery, a thick fog overspread
the seas. A bold hand was upon the helm, and guided
unwavering and silently on their course, they escaped,
by passing through the gathering prows of their enemy.

Chatelard was a favourite, and had the power of
maintaining that ground in the estimation of the queen
which his many accomplishments and warm devotion to
her service had long before won. Amidst opposing
claims he suffered nothing from rivalship, and while
other courtiers were exposed to the alternations of a
cloudy day, all was sunshine and smiles for him. A
poetess herself, Mary delighted in all those professing the
gay science; and though we have no remains of Chatelard
by which his pretensions might be estimated, it
appears, from her regard, that his claims were at once
agreeable and peculiar. He wrote in all living languages.
He read with a voice and manner that improved
what he read. He was ready and fluent in
composition, and her smiles so encouraged him, that,
at length, she herself became his muse, and he learned
in a little time to forget all others. Nor was his daring
unsanctioned by the circumstances attending it. She
seemed, perhaps unconsciously, to encourage his madness.
She replied to his verses in a strain equally

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

amatory; and the rapt bard forgot entirely his poetical
existence in the feelings of the man. Accustomed to
every species of adulation, the tender verses of Chatelard
did not offend the young princess; and she smiled
at his more extravagant flights, as at the flatteries peculiar
to, and pardonable in, the poet. But her condescension
was fatal to the lover. “Her smiles tempted
him,” says Brantome, “to aspire, like Phaeton, at ascending
the chariot of the sun.” He grew mad in his
hope, and thinking of little beside, and caring for nothing
else, the youth had no life but in the wild love
which he entertained for his sovereign.

It was at the close of one of those evenings which
Mary, freeing herself from the council and the counsellors
alike, usually reserved to herself, her “four Maries,”
and such other of her household, as were classed with
her especial favourites—that Chatelard, while performing
to the queen, had drunk in his richest draughts of
delicious enjoyment. Though always gentle and indulgent,
she had been to the young poet, on this occasion,
particularly so; and there was that in his heart which
could not and would not be controlled. He had just
sung the words of a new poem, in which, as usual, her
praises had been embodied; the conceits of which, borrowed
in part from the Italian, had won largely of her
admiration. The “four Maries,” not so fond as their
mistress of the divine art, had, one by one, fallen into
that species of torpor, which, if not sleep, is wonderfully
like it, and which is not unusual to those kept long
in attendance upon a superior. The queen had not
ceased in her admiration, when the fertile genius of the
poet suggested a still richer conceit which his lips had

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

carried into song, and which at once called for another
acknowledgement from the gratified and royal listener.
She, at length, roused by his inspiration, catching a
portion of its influence, struck the harp which she bade
him place beside her, and sung, with great tenderness
and much effect, a little response to his strains, in which,
with a like conceit, she requited him.

The words were those of love, of deep feeling,
and though most probably they were dictated only in
that spirit of compliment and gallantry which distinguished
the age, in that country in which both of them
had been educated, the adventurous poet regarded them
as reciprocating in every essential the mad passion of
his own spirit. Falling upon his knee, therefore, he
seized her hand, and fervently carrying it to his lips,
perceived with renewed delight that she did not rebuke
him—that she allowed him to retain it for a second, and
only did not permit a repetition of his offence. He
spoke to her with a soul which infused itself into every
syllable which gathered upon his lips. What he said,
he, himself, knew not. His heart was wild, and all his
senses in rebellion against his reason. He breathed
forth the adoration which he felt, and only offended
when, in the simplicity of his spirit, he dared to hope.

The queen rose, and for a moment she spoke not.
There was something of a sweet confusion in her eye,
which gave a moment's encouragement to the rash and
enamoured minstrel. It is not impossible, indeed,
that young, ardent, gentle, highly intellectual, having
a spirit attuned like his who addressed her, to the high
converse of the muse, and warmed to corresponding
sympathies, the pretension of the bard had been far

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

less heinous in her eye than, under other circumstances,
it might have appeared. Her manner was
not stern, though grave; and her accents, though not
encouraging, were neither severe nor frigid. Looking
around upon her attendants, who had, without
much difficulty, worked themselves into the profoundest
sleep—with resumed calmness she spoke to the
still kneeling and still entreating youth. His fine
and graceful figure—his wild, penetrating, and impassioned
eye—the free and bold gesture of his action—
the eloquence of his language—the warmth of his
love—were all so many advocates, not merely for
forgiveness, but for a corresponding love. That, in a
less elevated station, Mary of Scotland might have
nourished the flame she had enkindled, may not so
well be denied, and is far from improbable. But she
was a woman of strong good sense—a moment's reflection
convinced her of the madness of any thought
on the subject, and pitying the youth, with a gentleness
of spirit not unwarmed by a due estimate, and a
proper admiration of his pretensions, she found it
necessary to silence them.

“This must not be, Chatelard—this must not be.
You forget yourself—you forget me, and presume
upon that favour, already a subject of complaint in my
court, which I have been fain, and it seems foolish,
to bestow upon you. What take you me for, young
man? Think you I am a child, and would you teach
me to forget the vast difference and distance between
us, as you yourself have forgotten it? Be advised in
time, ere the lesson comes too harshly and from

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

another tutor than I, who have been, and am, quite too
indulgent to you now.”

“There can be no sterner tutor to my heart, sweet
sovereign,” was the unhesitating response of the poet,
“than your own brow thus frowning upon me; and
the only death which I dare not encounter is that
which comes with your anger. Say then, that you
forgive me—that you grow not again wroth with me,
or I care not to leave this spot, though now so gloomy
with your frown. I am ready to perish here, and now—
now, at your feet.”

“The vain flattery of your speech does not blind
me, Chatelard, to the presumption of your spirit; but
I forgive and pity your delusion, believing as I do,
that you do not feign, and seek not dishonestly to
practise upon me. Still, this kind of language must
be forborne. You must not be permitted to indulge
in thoughts so far above your condition, and so injurious
to mine. You should remember that I am the
sovereign, to whom your allegiance is due, not the
fellow subject, with whose fortunes your own might
couple, and suffer neither rebuke nor contamination.

“And, are you less my sovereign, sweet princess,
because I love as well as obey? Does the passion
which now speaks in my spirit, and warms it into devotion
for thine, make me lose sight of the homage
which it thus doubly secures to thee? I know you for
my queen—one graciously forgiving for my faults—
one too indulgent to my merits. But not merely as
my sovereign do I know you. It is not as the painted
authority alone, whom the voice of a people, or the
rights of inheritance, have invested with power, that

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

the soul of Chatelord regards the person of Mary
Stuart. It is not the bauble of sovereignty and vain
sway which I have adored—it is not these which have
dazzled my eyes and misled my spirit. I have not
been won away from my homage by such as these;
and I regarded you, my princess, as too far above the
sex to which you by nature belong, to have much regarded
them yourself. I know that you esteem not
royalty as the silly crowd who gather in its blaze. I
have not watched and lingered when all were gone,
and loved devotedly when all were hollow and insincere,
to doubt that your soul was as much above the
vain trappings of your state, as mine that dared, and
still dares, to despise them. And how shall we regard
those toys of human arrangement which make the free
spirit a reined and fettered thing, and would enslave
and bind affections and high passions, according to
chartered limits? I have not cared—I shall not care
for such restraints, and well I am assured that you are
beyond their dictation and control. If you are not—
if, with that frailty, which the familiar speech of old
time, hath laid to your sex, you have deceived me in
this,—I have, indeed, and deeply, offended. But I
will not thus imagine, I dare not think, my princess,
that a spirit, so finely wrought as yours, can find a
difference in the state with which human laws hedge
around authority, giving it superiority over a mind
and affections, having no consciousness of aught by
which it might suffer in a comparison with authority
of the highest.”

“And granting, young man, that I thought as you
suppose. Granting, that in my mind, there was

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

nothing in the state itself which should prevent a queen
from bestowing herself on the meanest of her subjects
who had found favour in her sight—by what art come
you to know that such an one are you? What divination
provides you with this goodly assurance? Why
hast thou taken, it for true, that, having such a free
doctrine as that thou hast so plainly imagined, I have
chosen to illustrate it to my subjects, with your aid in
especial?”

The mortification of the poet he did not seek to suppress.
As the queen spoke, the colour came and
went on his cheeks, and as his words were uttered in
reply, they fell from his lips tremulously and only
with great effort.

“Sharply, my sovereign, have you rebuked my folly,
but my pride in this suffers far less than the poor
heart in which it abides. It has been my thought,
that there were some spirits as sovereign by nature as
they were so by human creation; and my further
thought has been, that such a spirit was thine. Nor
can I yet think otherwise, though thou hast chosen to
reprove me for my wild love, not as it offends thy own
nature, but as it ill accords with the wonted usage of
that vain state with which the pageantry of ancient
folly has girt thee in. I love thee not less, however,
even now, hopeless as thou hast declared my passion
to be, and all humbled as thou hast endeavoured to
make that pride, which, till this hour—assured as it has
been of no semblance of aught that was not high and
honourable—was never humbled before man—nor,
whatever be my fate, can I cease to make the same
bold, and, as it appears to thee, most audacious and

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

offensive avowal. I cannot school the nature which I
have from heaven, to its own violation, because of
any earthly dictation. If it be criminal to love thee, I
am thus criminal; and fear me, if I know myself rightly,
that each future hour of my life, will somewhat
increase the crime for which the heavy penalty of
your stern frown and bitter speech is now gathering
in its reproof.”

“You are bold, Chatelord—over bold, to your
queen, and, but that I deem you the honest subject
that you have always appeared, and now avow yourself,
I should be something more than offended. I
forgive you this boldness, and think not when I warn
you to greater prudence, and chide you for the forwardness
of present speech, that I overlook and am
insensible to those gifts of nature and of art which so
present themselves in you, and make you, as I have
often said and thought, one of the fairest gentlemen
of my court. I am well delighted with your skill in
the divine art of poetry, and would be loth to lose
that sweet minstrelsy which hath soothed so many of
my saddest hours, and which thy skill so cunningly
awakens. But thou must be chary of thy speech and
thoughts in this foolish matter of which thou hast
permitted thy lips to prattle something too freely.
Thou hast marked the jealous scrutiny of those, who,
calling themselves my subjects, are yet my sovereigns,
and whom I dare not offend. Thou hast seen for thyself
the malignant spirit with which this gross zealot,
whom they call Knox, inveterately watches over and
vapours at all that concerns me. Pursue not, therefore,
this madness, for, whatever my woman heart

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

might teach, my calm reason assures me it is nothing
less,—and be as thou hast heretofore been, and I have
been glad to see thee, the noble friend rather than
subject, and make me not less, by thy future bearing,
than thine, as I would be.”

The manner of the queen was even more gentle
than her words, but the parental character of both was
thrown away upon the infatuated youth. He was mad
enough to conceive this speech a full sanction for,
rather than rebuke of, his passion; and under an impulse,
the consequence of that unregulated play of the
passions which had him for some time before in mastery,
he dared to embrace the now terrified and
retreating Mary, while imprinting a fervent kiss upon
her lips. The maids of honour, awakened at her
cries, came to her rescue. The queen retired to her
chamber, and Chatelard was about to leave the little
ante-room in which this scene had taken place, when
a strong arm was laid upon his shoulder, and the Regent
Murray stood before him. The poet was as
fearless in strife as he was daring in love, but resistance
was hopeless. A score of serving men were at
the back of the earl, by whom he was immediately
taken into custody, and that very night committed to
a close prison.

The trial of Chatelard, by the proper legal authorities,
followed in due and rapid course under the
direction of the regal council. The great favour
which the poet had enjoyed, had procured for him not
a few enemies; and the jealous hate of Murray, against
all and every thing that stood for an instant between
himself and the supreme rule, which he always desired,

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and at that time almost affected, furnished a spur, on
this occasion, to the active measures which were
adopted. The trial was had, and the misguided youth
was condemned to death. The gentle spirit of Mary
revolted when this sentence was delivered. She laboured,
though vainly, for its commutation; and the
stern temper of that stern people, or many among
them, over whom she reigned, set down that interest
and sympathy, which she now exhibited, to the worst
of all criminal attachments. As, with tears in her
eyes, and an eloquence not often surpassed even
among men, she rose in the council, if possible, to affect
the decision by her own entreaties, and the
unhesitating forgiveness which she offered to the captive,
the rigid reformer, Knox, throwing aside all
sense of propriety, presumed to insinuate a guilty
interest in her prayer which did not exist, and never
had existed. It was then, that—as the queen, disdaining
all reply, sunk back pained and exhausted upon
the cushions from which she had risen—the victim,
for the first time, rose to address the council.

“I do not speak,” said he, “that I may not perish.
I am guilty of all that you allege, and, since I may
not dare to live, why should I scruple to die? I have
no fears of death, and, at this moment, but little love
of life. But for that malignant slanderer, who, not
daring to speak out his malice, yet meanly leaves it to
the sense of conjecture,—I would speak to his shame.
It is false as he affirms it. I am the criminal in this—
the only criminal—if it be a crime to love, and with
adoration, not less warmly, though perhaps less acceptably
offered, than that which I have entertained for

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heaven. Let me,” said he, turning to the queen,
“let me, oh, most beautiful and well beloved princess,
do this poor atonement for my offence to you. It is
but meagre justice to your heavenly innocence, that I
say to this people who now sit over me in justice, that
my rash passion was no less ungracious in your eyes
than it has proved criminal in theirs. This, indeed,
is my sorrow—since the chains with which they have
loaded these once free and undishonoured limbs, and
the insolent speech and suspicion which they have
poured within these ears that had hitherto refused to
hearken to any sounds that were not noble and sweet—
and the ignominious death which is in reserve for
me—would have all been as nothing—ay, would have
been sought for earnestly and anxiously, as a rich boon
and blessing, so that thou hadst felt some of that wild
passion in thy breast which thou hast so fatally awakened
in mine.”

With a refinement of cruelty, which seems to have
attended Mary through life, she was compelled to sit
in a latticed chamber overlooking the place of the
poet's execution. This measure was deemed necessary,
in order the more fully to exonerate her from the
suspicion urged by her enemies, that, having first
tempted, she had afterwards betrayed, the criminal.
It was thought necessary that she should seem to
rejoice in his just punishment. The unfortunate
youth was brought to execution on the 22d February,
1653. His conduct on the altar of death and degradation,
was marked by the most enthusiastic bravery.
He rejected the aid of the confessor; and, having first
read aloud Ronsard's celebrated hymn on death, he

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turned to the chamber, through the lattice of which
the outline of the queen's form might be seen imperfectly,
and after a moment's pause exclaiming, “Farewell,
loveliest and most cruel princess that the world
contains”—knelt firmly and gracefully down before
the block. A single shriek from the window announced
the moment of execution; and the queen fell into a
swooning fit, as the dismembered head rolled from the
gory trunk along the scaffold.

p355-053 THE FOREST MAIDEN.

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The subject of this little sketch is familiar enough to all American
readers, and consequently needs nothing by way of preface.
As some additions, however, have been made to the history of the
event, as given by our historians, it may be as well to say, that
the personal feeling, which, in the poem, is made to prompt the
sanguinary passion of Powhatan, is purely gratuitous; and for
which there is no authority in the fact. Smith's life was attempted,
after he was in custody, by an Indian whose son he had
wounded or slain; and he was preserved with difficulty. Powhatan
had two sons, at the period referred to, both of whom were
unharmed in this adventure. The addition here made, was
intended to place in a stronger light the amiable spirit of Pocahontas,
and the great sacrifice, by her father, of his personal
feeling and native impulse, in his compliance with her entreaties.
The description of the chief incident in the narration is, in all
substantial particulars, historically correct.

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