very quiet, with his head raised up upon one hand and his elbow sunk in the soft turf. And as the sunlight struck through the leaves upon his glittering hair, and his face like marble, I could not but pause to gaze on him, so noble looked he. But his eyes were far away, and his thoughts with them. It was for this that he did not hear my lady coming, until she stood beside him, and her white gown brushed his cheek. But seeing her, he leaped to his feet, and the blood ran along his face, and then seemed all to settle in the long wound, leaving him more pale than before. And she said to him, "Nay, do not rise, for thou art weak yet;" but he would not be seated, so they stood there, side by side in the fair morning light. And presently she puts out her hand (no one ere reached out their hand as did my lady), and she just lays it on his sleeve, and saith she, "I am come to thank you, - to thank you with all my heart and soul". there a sob chokes her, and she can say no more. and Again the blood swept up across his brow. And he said, "For God's love, say no more." But she answered, saying, "Nay, I have so much to say." And she came nearer to him for a little space. And her head drooped downward like a flower full of rain. And she did knit and unknit her white fingers as they hung before her. And she saith, "There is no guerdon worthy such a knight, but an if thou " Then all on a sudden did she reach out both arms towards him, and her fair hands palms upwards, and the scarlet leaped to her very brow; but she lifted her little head proudly, albeit her eyes were dropped downward, and she said unto him, "I do love thee." And he trembled from head to foot, and parting his lips as though to speak, reached out his arms and clasped her. And when I realized what I had done, I did drop my cross-bow and took to my heels like one followed by goblins. Now even as I hope to be saved, I but just come to recognize that this was my second eavesdropping. So be it. I have vowed, and must keep my vow. It was all made clear to me that night, when Marian did relate to me how that the Spanish woman had slain herself by swallowing flame. At which (though mightily pleased, God forgive me, on account of my lady and the earl) I was more than ever thankful that Lord Robert had escaped alive and unwed out o' th' clutches o' th' Spanish wench. And here it occurreth to me that I have not yet told that Marian did know from the first of my lady's going up to town dressed as her brother. This I record more on account of its being a marvelous instance of a woman's keeping her tongue than to shame Marian, who hath often read how that wives should submit themselves unto their husbands as unto the Lord. Howbeit, all ended so happily that I had not the heart to scold her. With the first frosts of October my lady and the earl were wed. Methought the queen herself could not have had a finer wedding, and certes no woman could have had a nobler spouse. He was yet pale from his wounds, but most soldierly of bearing and proud of carriage. He was clad all in white, like my lady. A more beauteous apparel I have never seen. His doublet was of cloth of silver, with a close jerkin of white satin embroidered in silver and little pearls. His girdle and the scabbard of his sword were of cloth of silver with golden buckles. His poniard and sword were hilted and mounted in gold, together with many blazing orders and richer devices that I know not how to enumerate. My lady's gown was all of white satin, sewn down the front with little pearls like those on my lord's jerkin. And her ruff was of soft lace, not stiff, as was the fashion, but falling about her bosom most modestly and becomingly. Lord Robert, methinks, was eke as goodly, after his way, as either his sister or Lord Denbeigh; being close clad from head to foot in crimson sarcenet, slashed all with cloth of gold. My lady had given me some suiting clothes for the occasion; and as for Marian, methought in her new gown of sea-green taffetas, with her new ruff and head-gear, that she looked as fair a matron as any mother of fine lads in all England. IV. Seven months they had been wed, and it was May again. Methought such love had never been on earth since Eden. 'Twas gladness but to see them. And all, moreo'er, was so well with Lord Robert, who, folks did say, was in mighty great favor at court, and like to become a shining light in the land. 'T was on a May morning. The trees were a-lilt with birds, and the sound of waters set all the winds a-singing. All at once comes my lord and sets his hand on my shoulder. Then know I that something dire hath happened. And he saith, "Friend, where is thy mistress?" So my lady comes in, with her gold hair blowing and her white kirtle full of red roses, and seeing her lord goes to meet him. But when she noted the soldierly fashioning of his dress and the sword girt at his thigh, she opened her lips as though to cry out, but no sound scaped them. And her kirtle slipped from her hold, and the red roses lay between them like a pool of blood. Then she saith unto him, “Tell me. And I tell him that she is out among Quick, quick!" her roses. Then saith he all at once, "The Queen hath sent for me, I must to war." And I could do naught but stare at him. And he said to me, "In an hour I must be gone. Say naught to thy mistress. I will go don a suiting dress, and do thou bring me my sword and give it into my hand." And he went, returning shortly, and I gave him the sword. It was then that we heard the voice of my lady without, and she sang a song of the spring-tide. The words I have ne'er forgot, though I did but hear them once: And he lifts her to him, and saith, "Sweetheart, my Queen hath bidden me come fight for her and for my country." And she saith naught, only clasps him. But by and by she cries out, saying, "Go not! Go not! Else wilt thou kill me." And so speaking, falls like one dead at her lord's feet. Then I, running like one distraught to fetch Marian, do tilt pell-mell into Lord Robert, who hath come down to Amhurste for a week or so of rest. 66 Hey-dey!" quoth he. "What Jacka-lent hath frighted thee?" And I told him all. Never a word said he, but went straightway and got upon his horse, and clapped spurs to its sides, and so out of sight. And all that night my lady lay nigh to death, so that there was ne'er a thought in the breast of any for another soul. Therefore Lord Robert was not missed. Ere two days were past came a man with dispatches, and we found out how that Lord Robert had substituted himself for the earl (having acquainted the Queen with the circumstances, and he being, moreover, so great a favorite); and how the Queen had granted Lord Denbeigh leave to remain in England a while longer. And so his lordship was with his lady when their child was born, but Lord Robert was killed in the wars. They grieved sore for him, and for many weeks would not be comforted. And even it was said that the Queen mourned for him, and did banish all festivities from court for the space of several days. But like as the stars do pale in the morning sky, so pales the orb of sorrow before the rays of the great sun, happiness. And though he was ne'er forgotten, and though the tears would spring to my lady's eyes heard she but his name mentioned, yet she did smile again and was happy. It chanced but this morning that Marian and I, leaning from the window that overlooks the east terrace, did see a most winsome sight. "T was a fair morning and May again, and on such mornings as these my lady would go forth on the east terrace with the child. And there grow all such sweet flowers as my lady loves, the red mule-pinks, and dame-violets, such as are sweet o' evenings, but marvelous fair to look upon both by sunlight and moonlight. And the south wall was all thick with the yellow violets, so that my lady's head looked like the head o' a saint against a golden platter. And there did my lady sit, on a quaintly wrought bench, and with the little lord. And this morning, when she was seated, and the babe curled against her bosom, and Marian and myself thinking o' the pictures o' the Virgin Mary and the blessed Jesus (saving that my lady's kirtle was all of white and gold, like the lilies knotted in her waistband), she looked up on a sudden, and lo! there was the master coming along over the grass towards her. When he saw who it was that sat there, he doffed his plumed hat like as though it had been the Virgin Mary for very truth; and he paused a minute, but then came on. When my lady saw him who he was, there came a fair red o'er all the white o' her throat and face; ay, and withal over her very bosom. And she put up one white hand, with her wedding-ring on 't, and made as though she would shield the sun from the babe's eyes. And all this time my lord came slowly over the grass, as though the sweet sight did pleasure him both far and near. And when he was approached, he stood, still with his hat in his hand, and looked down at the babe and its mother, and was silent. Then the child, feeling mayhap that its father was near, did twist over towards him, reaching out its waxen arm, and smiled right knowingly. Then my lord, plucking the great plume out o' his hat, lay it across my lady's bosom. And moreover, he knelt and put an hand on the babe, but his arm he lay about his wife. Then did she draw both my lord and the child to her, and pressed them against her, but her face she lifted Godwards. And something spoke within our hearts that we turned and left the window. CLASSIC AND ROMANTIC. TOWARD the close of the eighteenth century there appeared in Germany, under the lead of Tieck, Novalis, and the Schlegels, a class of writers and of writings known as the Romantic School. The appellation gave rise to wide discussion of what, precisely, is meant by that phrase, and what distinguishes "romantic" from "classic" to which it is opposed. Goethe characterized the difference as equivalent to healthy and morbid. Schiller proposed "naive and sentimental." The greater part regarded it as identical with the difference between ancient and modern, which was partly true, but explained nothing. None of the definitions given could be accept ed as quite satisfactory. What do we mean by "romantic"? The word, as we know, is derived from the old Romanic or Romance languages which formed, in mediæval times, the transition from the Latin to the dialects of modern Southern Europe. The invaders of Italy found a patois called Romana rustica, thus distinguished from the pure Latin of the cultivated Roman. Romance is a fusion of this Romana rustica with the native speech of barbarous tribes. It attained its most perfect development in Southern France, in the country of Provence, where it became the langue d'oc; that is, the language in which "yes" is oc (German auch), while, in the Romance of Northern France, "yes" is oil, in modern French oui. Poems and tales in the Romance language took the name Roman, in English, "romance 66 or romaunt." Originally, then, "romantic" meant simply writings in the Romance language as distinguished from writings in the Latin tongue, the better sort of which were called classic, from classici, that is, first-class. But the difference was not one of language merely. There was manifest in those Romance compositions, as compared with the classic, a difference of tone, of spirit, and even of subject matter, which has given to the term "romantic" a far wider significance than that of literary classification. We speak of romantic characters, romantic situations, romantic scenery. What do we mean by this expression? Something very subtle, undefinable, but felt by all. If we analyze the feeling we shall find, I think, that it has its origin in wonder and mystery. It is the sense of something hidden, of imperfect revelation. The woody dell, the leafy glen, the forest path which leads one knows not whither, are romantic; the public highway is not. Moonlight is romantic as contrasted with daylight. The winding, secret brook, "old as the hills that feed it from afar," is romantic as compared with the broad river rolling through level banks. The essence of romance is mystery. But now a further question. What caused the Romance writings more than the classic to take on this charm of mystery? Something perhaps is due to the influence on the writers of sylvan surroundings, of wild nature, as contrasted with the civic life which seems to have been the lot of the Latin classic authors. But mainly it was the influence of the Christian religion, which deepened immensely the mystery of life, suggesting something beyond and behind the world of sense. The word "classic" is more commonly employed in the sense of style. It denotes the manner of treatment irrespective of the topic. The peculiarity of the classic style is reserve, self-suppression of the writer. The romantic is self-reflecting. In the one the writer stands aloof from his theme, in the other he pervades it. The classic treatment draws attention to the matter in hand, the romantic to the hand in the matter. The classic is passionless presentation, the romantic is impassioned demonstration. The classic narrator tells his story without comment; the romantic colors it with his reflections, and criticises while he narrates. "Homer," says Landor, "is subject to none of the passions, but he sends them all forth on their errands with as much precision as Apollo his golden arThe hostile gods, the very Fates, must have wept with Priam before the tent of Achilles; Homer stands unmoved." rows. Schiller draws a parallel between Homer and Ariosto in their treatment of the same subject, an agreement between two enemies. In the Iliad, Glaucus and Diomed, a Trojan and a Greek, encountering each other in battle, and discovering that they are mutually related by the binding law of hospitality, agree to avoid each other in the fight, and in token thereof exchange with each other their suits of armor. Glaucus, without hesitation, gives his gold suit worth a hundred oxen for Diomed's steel suit worth nine. Schiller thinks that a modern poet would have expatiated on the moral beauty of such an act, but Homer simply states it without note or comment. Ariosto, on the other hand, having related how two knights who were rivals, a Christian and a Saracen, after mauling each other in a hand-to-hand combat, make peace and mount the same steed to pursue the fugitive Angelica, in whom both are interested, breaks forth in admiring praise of the magnanimity of ancient knight hood: : "Oh, noble minds by knights of old possessed! Two faiths they knew, one love their hearts professed. Through winding paths and lonely woods they go, Yet no suspicion their brave bosoms know." There is no better illustration of the reserve, the passionless transparency and naïveté, of the classic style of narrative than that which is given us in the Acts of the Apostles; not the work of a recognized classic author, but beautifully classic in its pure objectivity, its absence of personal coloring, In that wonderful narrative of Paul's shipwreck the narrator closes his account of an anxious night with these words: "Then fearing lest they should have fallen upon rocks, they cast four anchors out of the stern, and wished for the day." Fancy a modern writer dealing with such a theme! How he would enlarge on the racking suspense, the tortures of expectation, endured by the storm-tossed company through the weary hours of a night which threatened instant destruction! How he would dwell on the momentary dread of the shock which should shatter the frail bark and engulf the devoted crew, the angry billows hungering for their prey, eyes strained to catch the first glimmer of returning light, etc.! All which the writer of the Acts conveys in the single phrase, " And wished for the day." Clear, unimpassioned, impartial pre-, sentation of the subject, whether fact or fiction, whether done in prose or verse, is the prominent feature of the classic style. The modern writer gives you not so much the things themselves as his impression of them. You are compelled to see them through his eyes: that is, through his feelings and reflections. The ancients present them in their own light, without coloring. They would seem to have possessed other powers of seeing than the modern, who, as Jean Paul says, stands with an intellectual spyglass behind his own eyes. Certainly they possessed the art of so While still their limbs the smarting anguish placing their object as not to have their feel Of strokes inflicted by the hostile steel, own shadow fall upon it. |