THE SCAFFOLD AND BATTLEFIELD. 215 "That they should take who had the power, they were in fact, what the dear Fatherland in his homely phrase denominates, Raubritters; but as the Franconian Chief-magistrate did not happen to coincide in their sentiments, our friend, after seeing two of his followers led away half naked to the Rod and the Wheel, and sensibly anticipating a similar disagreeable result to himself, began to feel his fortitude deserting him, at the precise moment when he had most need of it. The Raubritter was a gallant fellow to look at, and both by look and gesture had continued to menace the prince who had condemned him, even while they were stripping his shirt below his breast, and pulling off his cap from his bright Saxon hair; while the very executioners seemed to handle tenderly the muscular frame they were so soon to mangle and destroy. He now approached the old Roman Gate Tower; and as he beheld through its arch, the reeking quarters of his companions, exposed on the scaffold beyond its gloomy vista, his firmness gave way. There have been, and always will be, brave men, who have dared the front of Battle, with all its horrible contingencies of wounds, maiming, and death. The antagonistic energy, which sets man against man, utterly obliterates every feeling but that of blind and deadly wrath-the master 216 THE ARCHER AND THE VANE. ful desire to die upon his foe. But it is a very different thing, when a man has lain in a cold weltering Dungeon, brooding in solitude "On promised pangs to sentenced Guilt foreshown:" a promise, alas! of which those iron walls guarantee the performance. When the high heart and the gallant blood is compelled to creep, inch by inch, to the goal of its career; and that goal, Shame and Torment ;—the bared body first, and then the Scourge, and the Wheel, and the Axe, to complete the solemn pomp of agony. This said pomp, however, the Raubritter was full fain to decline. He did not promise like Johnnie Armstrong "Grant me my life, my Liege, my King! I'll gie thee a' thae milk-white steids, And as muckle gude English gilt As four o' their braid backs dow bear." -but he looked up to the central Spire of the Tower, whose summit, rising superior to the rest, waved its gonfannon to the gusts, and offered its glitter to the stormy sunlight, and promised (if they would give him a bow and arrow, and his life,) to pierce its centre! They consented,—he did pierce the centre, and his Life was the prize of his Skill. LETTERS from England! O, what do they contain. I have heard and experienced much of the wonderful power of the Drama, of the Epic, of the Ballad, and of the Romance, in startling the passions and awakening the sympathies of human nature; but I know not the Tragedy, however powerful, or the Novel or the Poem, however pathetic, that possesses the spell of that little sheet, with its waxen lock, called a Letter. There is a noble passage in Shirley's Cardinal, where the Duchess Rosaura is opening a letter in the presence of an attendant,-whose painful truth too many of us can testify. [opens the letter. "Duchess. Wait at some more distance, My heart, that call'd my blood and spirits to Defend it from the invasion of my Fears, Must keep a guard about it still, lest this [reads. Strange and too mighty Joy crush it to nothing!" No Gem is there, however precious, privy to such passions, such reverses, such mysteries as the Seal. Not the Cabalistic jewels of King Solomon boasted more dark sayings than the various sigillary impresses, that, with their mystic motto or device, form at once the clasp and frontispiece to this volume of a single sheet. What joys and loves-what upbraidings and endearments do we find at once poured forth by the permission of this painted Portcullis. The virgin's secret sigh—the anguish of the neglected wife-the child's affection, the mother's care-the dependent's just remonstrance-the patron's protracted evasions;-the guilty flame of the seducer-the calculating greediness of the usurer-the glad summons to hospitality-the harsh menaces of a gaol. The advice of those we love, given but to be slighted-the anger of those we fear, inflicted to be defied-the betrayal of secrets-the detection of crimes-the warning, the disgust, and the final abandonment—the tidings of death, or (worse!) of sins that are the sting of death,-are among the million stirring topics of a Letter! And the productions of the sublimest or most pathetic Genius that ever wasted the midnight lamp in devising incidents of pity, of horror, or of marvel, are outdone by these unpremeditated effusions. While their prodigies task the toil of months or years, these spring forth, the spontaneous produce of every day, nay, every hour, but, breathing ages of anguish in a sentence, and committing guilt and ruin, the very thunderbolts of the Soul to the governance of that pretty smooth innocent looking piece of Wax! THE DISMAL DAWN. 219 Fair Bee! that singest in thy three piled livery of black and tawny velvet, thou lover of the bright hour, thou Artisan of the Garden!-who does not rejoice that, in spite of dear Imogen's blessing upon thy toils, thou art not the manufacturer of a material which imprisons the earthquake and lets loose the whirlwind! Who does not felicitate thy delicious labour-pursued in the straw hive under its yew hedge with thyme and lavender and marigold beneath, by the calm cottage at the forest side-that it has never been made the Warder of tidings that plunge the Palace in dismay and fill the Prison house with unheard groans. Würtzburg, 17th November, 1844. AFTER a midnight departure from Frankfurt, which resembled the weird Steeple-chase of Lenora and Wilhelm, in all but its preternatural speed, we embarked, (Diligence, Passengers, Luggage, and all) upon the Main, just as the faint colours of day succeeded to the dim and spectral dawn. Daughter of Chaos, who so fair didst come From the old Negro's darksome womb, Which, when it saw the lovely child, The melancholy mass put on smooth looks and smiled."* * Cowley's Hymn to Light. |