Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 17, No. 476, February 12, 1831», страница 6
THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS
ROMANCE OF HISTORY
France. By Leitch Ritchie
The design of moulding the romantic annals of different countries into so many series of Tales—is one of unquestionable beauty. It originated, we believe, with the late Mr. Henry Neele, who was in every sense well qualified for so poetical an exercise of ingenuity. He commenced with "England;" but, unfortunately, did not live to complete a Second Series; neither had he the gratification of seeing his design fully appreciated by the public. The "Romantic Annals of England," on their first appearance, made but slow progress in popularity: the author trusted, and the publisher hoped, and, to use a publishing phrase, the work gradually made its way—slow but sure—if we may judge from the wished-for "new editions." How unlike is this course of favour to the blaze of fashionable annals, or novels of high life, that are born and die in a day, or with one reading circle of a subscription library. They strut and fume in the publisher's newspaper puffs; but their light is put out within a few brief hours, and they are laid to sleep on the capacious shelves of the publisher's warehouse. Not so with the Tales of Historical Romance: they have fancy enough to embellish sober fact.
The second series—Spain—is from a Spanish hand of some pretension, but less power than that of Mr. Neele.
The third series—France—by another hand, is now before us. In his advertisement, the author says, when he undertook the present series, "he proposed to himself to fulfil what 'the Romance of History' seemed to require, by presenting a succession of romantic pictures illustrative of the historical manners of the French Nation." We incline to his conception of the task. He further notes that "he has taken pains to go for information to the original sources of French History. These he found in reasonable abundance, in the old Collegiate Library of Caen, and in the British Museum." There are in the Series nineteen Tales, with historical summaries where requisite for their elucidation. The titles are irresistible invitations—as Bertha, or the Court of Charlemagne—Adventures of Eriland—the Man-Wolf—the Phantom Fight—the Magic Wand—the Dream Girl, &c. Their style may be called spirit-stirring, while it has much of the graceful prettiness of love-romance.—The author, too, has caught the very air of chivalric times, and his pages glitter with the points of their glories;—not unseasonably mixed with the delightful quaintnesses and descriptive minuteness of the old chroniclers.
To condense either of the stories would be neither advantageous to the author nor reader. We therefore extract a scene or two from "the Bondsman's Feast," and an exquisite portrait of "the Dream Girl:"—
The Bondsman's Feast
Arthault's only child was a son, who owed nothing to his father but the prospect of a fair inheritance, for he was little like him in form, and not at all in mind: he was a fine, manly, generous, and high-spirited youth—such as would have been thought too early born, had his appearance been made before the hereditary servility of his family was forgotten. The knight, too, had an only child, a daughter; who, in personal appearance and moral qualities, contrasted in as remarkable a manner with her father. She was little almost to a fault, in the standard of beauty, if there be such a thing; her form was moulded with a delicacy, which gave the idea of one of those aërial shapes that dance in the beam of poesy: and there was that gentle and refined playfulness of expression in her fair countenance, which artists have loved to picture in the nymphs of some silvan goddess, whose rudest employment is to chase one another on the green bank, or sport in the transparent wave.
Guillaume loved the beautiful bourgeoise before he knew that such love was a condescension; and Amable, when, on being desired by her father to refuse her heart to Guillaume, she thought of inquiring whether she possessed such a thing at all, started with surprise to find that she had given it away to the knight's son long ago. But where was the use of repining? Guillaume was young, and handsome, and generous, and brave; and what harm could befall her heart in such keeping? Amable turned away from her father with a light laugh, and a light step, and stealing skippingly round the garden wall—for already the paternal prohibitions had gone forth—bounded towards a grove of wild shrubs at the farther end.
The trees were bathed in sunlight; the air was filled with the song of birds; the face of heaven was undimmed by a single spot of shade, and the earth was green, and sparkling, and beautiful beneath. Such was the scene around her; but in Amable's mind, a warmer and brighter sun shed its light upon her maiden dreams, and the voice of the sweet, rich singer Hope drowned the melody of the woods. "Away!" she thought; "it cannot be that this strange, unkindly mood can endure; my father loves his friend in spite of all, and the noble and generous knight could not hate if he would. They shall not be a week apart when they will both regret what has passed; and when they meet again, I will laugh them into a confession that they have done so. Then the two friends will embrace; and then Guillaume and I will sing, and dance, and read together again—and then—and then—and then—" It seemed as if her thoughts had run her out of breath; for at this point of the reverie she paused, and hung back for a moment, while a sudden blush rose to her very eyes. Soon, however, she recovered; she threw back her head gaily, and yet proudly; legends of happy love crowded upon her memory, and minstrel songs echoed in her ear; she bounded lightly into the wood, and as some one, darting from behind a tree, caught her while she passed, Amable, with the stifled scream of alarm, which maidens are wont to give when they wish it unheard by all save one, found herself in the arms of Guillaume. * * * *
This was a proud and a happy day for Arthault. His head was in the clouds; he scarcely seemed to touch the earth with his feet; but yet, with the strong control which worldly men are wont to exercise over their feelings, he schooled his aspect into the bland and lowly expression of grateful humility. When, in the early part of the morning, the echoes of Nogent (the chateau) were awakened by a flourish of trumpets, which proclaimed the approach of the Count, instead of waiting to receive him in the arcade under the belfry, according to the common usage of lords at that period,4 he walked bare-headed to the gate of the outer court, and, kneeling, held the prince's stirrup as he dismounted.
The breakfast was served in cups and porringers of silver, set on a magnificent gold tray, and consisted chiefly of milk made thick with honey, peeled barley, cherries dried in the sun, and preserved barberries. The bread was of the mias cakes, composed of rye-flour, cream, orange-water, and new-laid eggs;5 and the whole was distributed among the guests by Guillaume; the host himself having been compelled to take his seat at table by the Count.
The morning was spent in viewing the improvements of the place, and riding about the neighbourhood; and at ten o'clock the company partook of a dinner served in the same style of tasteful magnificence. The viands included, among other things, a lamb roasted whole, the head of a wild boar covered with flowers, fried trouts, and poached eggs, which were eaten with boiled radishes, and peas in their shells.6
A profusion of the precious metals graced the table, more especially in drinking cups; those of horn, which were formerly in general use, having about this period gone out of vogue. The luxury of forks, it is true, had not yet been invented; but when it is remembered that the hands were washed publicly, before and after meals, not as a fashionable form, but in absolute earnest, it will not be feared that any indelicacy in the feasters contrasted with the taste and splendour of the feast.7
The wines filled by Guillaume, who waited particularly on the Count, besides the fashionable vin d'Aï of the district,8 included the vin de Beaume of Burgundy, the vin d'Orleans, so much prized by Louis le Jeune, and the powerful vin de Rebrechien (another Orleans wine) which used formerly to be carried to the field by Henry I. to animate his courage.9
After dinner the guests partook of the amusement of the chase, which afforded Arthault an opportunity of exhibiting, in all its extent, his newly-acquired estates—and which, indeed, comprehended a great part of the family property of Sansavoir; although the Count did not observe, and therefore no one else was so ill-bred as to do so, an old blackened building mouldering near the garden-wall, which Sir Launcelot had still preserved, and where he continued to reside in a kind of dogged defiance of his enemy.
The festivities of the day were closed by a splendid supper, attended by music and minstrel songs; and when the sleeping cup had passed round, the Count Henri retired to the chamber prepared for him, which he found to be not at all inferior to his own in luxury and magnificence. Vessels of gold, filled with rose-water, were placed on his dressing-table; the curtains of the ample bed were ornamented with partridge plumes, supposed to ensure to the sleeper a long and peaceful life; and, in short, nothing was wanting that might have been deemed pleasing either to the taste or superstition of the age.
We halt for the present with this foretaste of the gratification we may calculate on receiving from nearly every page of the whole Series. By the way, "the references to authorities for manners, &c. have been introduced throughout the work, and occasionally, illustrative and literary notes," at the request of the publisher; and we must not lose this opportunity of complimenting the sense and good taste of the suggestion.
