"Are you going to Chantilly?' was the next question of my spectre neighbour. 666 'Yes.' "Will you give me the vacant seat in your carriage?' "I glanced my eye at the irresistible sabre, and answered, 'Willingly, sir.' "As he opened the door to enter, he said, 'I have been too abrupt, I should have given the reason for my request. I command a detachment of cavalry, which is stationed at Chantilly, for the protection of public carriages, and of travellers generally, from a banditti who infest the forest, and have lately committed several atrocious robberies. I have been into Paris this morning, on business, and have lamed my favourite horse, which will be ruined if I ride him any further. I must not be absent from my post a night, and had been watching some time for the arrival of some traveller, from whom I might ask a ride, when you drove up, and I thank you for your kindness.' "I breathed more freely. He took his seat, and appeared a plain blunt soldier. "You will stop at Chantilly?' said he. "It is not my intention; I am in haste, and mean to travel post, night and day.' "You are an Englishman?' "No, an American of the United States.' "But your carriage is English; you are going to London?' "True, and impatient to get on.' "You cannot go on to-night: you must stop at Chantilly, and sup with me, for the forest is dangerous, and my men are harassed, so that I cannot give you an escort until morning.' 'Again my heart beat quick. I was completely in the power of this man-there was no possibility of escape-he would execute his commission at his leisure, and search me in his own quarters, surrounded by his troops. We drove on, and after a short silence he abruptly asked, ' Do you know the Prince de Poix in London ?' "I have seen him.' "He is a great fool,' exclaimed he. He commanded a company of the royal guard, in which I was a private soldier; he emigrated, and I command in his place. Was not that folly?' 66 Again I began to be reassured, and to believe that he was indeed an honest, blunt, heels-over-head soldier." After a continuance of alternate excitement and allayment of fears, the American was allowed to embark for London. Mr. Trumbull died at a very advanced age. ( THE MONTHLY REVIEW. AUGUST, 1842. Frithiof's Saga, or the Legend of Frithiof. By ESAIAS TEGNER. THE dearth of new publications which we at present experience shows that the book-trade is participating in the depression of the times; and therefore we may be excused for travelling back in order to throw together some observations upon a subject, which while in a great measure having an antiquarian character, can never become so old as to be deprived of a deep interest. Indeed, the frequency with which Tegner's Legend of Frithiof has been translated, proves that Scandinavian literature and story have a strong hold on the European mind, and that works, written in any of the kindred dialects distinguished by the name, whether these be ancient or modern, are deserving of repeated attention. It has been remarked by an eloquent writer, that the soul of the modern Skald has been baptized with the same baptism that consecrated the ancient poets of the North. He dwells in that land, where the sound of the sea and the midnight storm are voices of tradition, and the great forests beckon to him, and in mournful accents seem to say, Why hast thou tarried so long?" These ancestral voices have not spoken in vain; for in this spirit do the Scandinavian sons of song contrive still to smite the strings of their harps. 66 Almost primeval simplicity reigns over the Northern land,—almost primeval solitude and stillness. And yet there are relics in which the gods of the old mythology were worshipped. In every mysterious sound that fills the air, the peasant too still hears the trampling of Odin's steed, which many a century ago took fright at the sound of a church bell. But we shall first speak of the poetry, the Scandinavian bards having possessed no less than one hundred and thirty-six different forms of verse for their songs; most of them highly artificial. We need, however, hardly mention, that the real value of that poetry is entirely independent of the strange ars poetica in its structure. Its fables and legends are spread over all the Teutonic north; nay, its flowers have unfolded themselves in various forms, and through VOL. II. (1842.) NO. IV. K K different centuries, in all the regions where the Northmen carried their victorious arms. There is also no doubt that previously and contemporary with the artificial compositions of the initiated bards, popular songs existed in the Scandinavian language, which were partly devoted to the same subjects. Some are preserved in the Edda; some, although in an altered form, in the ancient Swedish and Danish ballads. They passed into these two languages gradually as these latter formed themselves from their mother-tongue; while with the grandeur and the glory of the Icelanders, the only nation who remained in possession of the original idiom, they gradually perished in their original shape. In Iceland, no trace is any longer to be found of them, with the exception of the portion contained in the ancient written Sagas. How much these venerable relics of antiquity are respected and loved by the present Icelandic peasantry is generally known. Their usual evening reading during the long nights of their almost everlasting winters, consists of some old saga, or such other histories as are to be obtained on this island. Dr. Henderson, in his valuable work on Iceland, gives a most delightful description of such an Icelandic winter evening, when the great lamp is lighted, and all the family assemble to sit down to some useful work; and the head of the house or an intelligent member, advances to the seat near the lamp and commences the reading, which is frequently interrupted by remarks and explanations for the benefit of the children and servants. "In some houses," this writer adds, "the sagas are repeated by such as have got them by heart; and instances are not uncommon of itinerating historians, who gain a livelihood during the winter by staying at different farms, till they have exhausted their stock of literary knowledge." The custom just described appears to have existed among the Scandinavians from time immemorial. With regard to popular poetry, it is throughout Denmark and Sweden pretty nearly alike in body and in spirit. More than twothirds of the ballads of these two nations, are said to be possessed by them in common; often with very few deviations; and to ascertain which is the original would be impossible. The Swedes have been particularly rich in popular productions in every age; these exhibiting more variety and completeness in their measures than what characterize the Danish effusions. And then there is no lack of Swedish bards distinguished in the ranks of learning, and who build the lofty rhyme. Esaias Tegner is an example, having been born in 1782. În 1799, he entered the University of Lund, and in 1812, was appointed professor of Greek in that institution. In 1824, he was made a bishop. As a poet he possesses a grand and gorgeous imagination, and genius of a high order. And here, at least, the prophet is not without honour in his own country. It may be urged against him, with some show of truth, that he is too profuse and elaborate in his use of figurative language; and that the same figures are sometimes repeated with little variation. But the reader must bear in mind, that the legend named at the top of our paper is written in the spirit of the past; in the vein of that old poetry of the North, in which the same images and expressions often recur, and when the age was credulous,-when demons rode the ocean like a weary steed, and the gigantic pines flapped their sounding wings to smite the spirit of the storm. Stagnelius was another truly poetic being. He is remarkable for a strain of deep melancholy, a profound mystical intuition of life and nature, and a longing for the moment when the imprisoned soul might burst the earthly tenement. He wrote epics, dramas, and didactic poems, together with a great number of elegies, idyls, sonnets, religious lyrics, translations, &c. We shall quote a specimen from one of his tragedies, "The Martyrs," and which the author himself designated a romantic poem. In this piece, religious enthusiasm, Christian fortitude, and unsullied poetic sentiment are expressed in language suited to the subject, which is throughout sublime and pure. It abounds in flowery yet simple beauty of style. The heroine is Perpetua, a noble Roman lady, who, according to the legend, was put to death by the satellites of a pagan emperor, for her inflexible adherence to Christianity, which was proof against the allurements of her kindred, as well as the threatenings and intrigues of the proconsul. Our specimen contains a well-known story, related by one of the Christian presbyters to his audience. Marcion. In the vale of Tiber, Near to the gates of high and awful Rome, A Maid she was as daylight chaste and fair, The sun of all creation's systems gave To her a glorious growth, and yet in Spring, The plant bore golden fruits, purpureal blooms! And ever, when upon the eastern hills The ev'ning star-lamp trembled in the west, That cruel world of darkness and of crime, In Love's wide ocean, heedless of the world! The Emperor beheld her steal along A Voice. Who was this Emperor? He who governs now? Yet duty bids me tell you all. Know, then, 'Twas cruel Commodus, Aurelius' son, He, who, all-clothed like Hercules, was seen To drench the sand of amphitheatres With streams of blood from elephants and slaves. Several Voices. Speak! Speak! Our eager bosoms beat to learn The triumph of a Christian's piety. Mar. Two sceptres have the lords of earth, wherewith Their slaves to sway-with promises and threats; On earth is praised by man's inebriate mind- Then furiously the tyrant turu'd to threats. O wrath most impotent! The heart whose strength Is proof 'gainst Pleasure's overpowering smiles, Can ne'er be conquer'd by the throb of pain; For, manacled with heavy chains, within The dungeon's depth was Theodora plung'd. Eubulus. All hail! all hail! ye dungeons, bonds, and death! |