Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 71, No. 436, February 1852

Artists and authors travelling in Spain may, for some time to come, give their brushes and pens a holiday, so far as bull-fights go. There remains little that is new to be written or painted concerning them. Every phase and incident of the contest has been correctly seized and vividly portrayed by Mr Price, who has fairly exhausted his subject. As regards description, that given by Mr Ford is exactly what is needed to accompany an artistical work. It tells us all that is wanted, and, in conjunction with the pictures, gives to fire-side travellers as good an idea of what a bull-fight really is, as can possibly be obtained without actually witnessing one. It has not suited our purpose, in the present brief paper, to extend our examination of "Spain as it is" beyond the fourth chapter of the second volume; but it is only fair to say, lest it should be supposed the merit of the book is also confined to that chapter, that Mr Hoskins' volumes contain a mass of useful information and clever criticism on the public and private picture-galleries of Spain.

CUPID IN THE CABINET

AN ATTIC LEGEND

[The incidents upon which the following little poem is founded, are amusingly related by John Lydgate, monk of Bury, who flourished about the year 1430. Warton has done full justice to his poetical genius; but his prose works, though comparatively less known, deserve equal attention.

"I will tell you now of a plesaunt story recorded by Plotinus. One daye a certaine man of the cytie of Athens going forthe into an olde foreste, wherein was many dyuers of byrdes synging, did hear, nye unto a brokken Tempill, that tyme afore was dedicat unto a hethen Godde, a voice as of a yonge chylde that was carolying swetely. How be it, the man knew not the tonge wherein the lyttel chylde did synge. Astonied at thys maruyl, for the place was not nighe unto the cytie, so that chylderne colde furthlie passe thereunto, he looked ovir the walle, and soughte al aboute what this myght mene. Than sawe he sytting amonge the herbes, a fayre yonge boie, with winges besprent with fetheris, behynde his sholderis, and noghte lyving thynge besyde. Than sayde he: 'What doest thow here, chylde?' but the chylde answered noght, but smyled. Soe the man, being in perplexitie, for he knew not what it mycht bee, yet lyking not to leeve so yonge a chylde in the wodes, where wylde bestes were manie, did have him up into his mantill, and convaied him home until his awn duellynge. There, in defaulte of anie cage, he did putte the chylde into an olde Cabynett, that afore tyme stode longe there, and dyd give hym mete and drynke. Yet the chylde waxed not, but sange contynuously, soe that al the pepill of Athens maruyled at hys mynstrelsye. But what was grete wonder, the Cabynett wherein he was, which afore was brast in dyuers places, wherein chinkis and riftis dyd appere, semed to become of a sodaine newe and stronge, and was couered with gemmis and jowellis of grete prys, yet colde no man telle whens they did come. And the lyttel chylde had hys duellynge there, lyke unto an byrdis neste, and dyde synge rychte swetely, so that manie cam from afar to see the wonder. So dyd he manie yeris. At the last, deceisit the master of the house, and he that cam after hym loued nat musike, but was given up to thochtes of merchaunsedyse, and was of an ille fauour, regardynge nocht but his own gettynges. Soe one daye, heryng the chylde synge euer, he wox angery, and did command hym to holde his pees. Howe be it the chylde wolde nat. Than thys man, being wrothe, caused to bringe leveris, and to brak open the Cabynett, and take forth the chylde, and to put hym to the wyndowe. But the chylde sayd, 'Ye will curse the tyme ye put me forth;' and with those wordes vanyshed the chylde away, and was neuer sene a geyne. From that tyme the Cabynett was rent, and fall asonder in peces, Dyuers were angery with the man for his myssedede, but he sayd, 'The deuyll satysfye you, for I dyd it for the beste; but I shall neuer more medyll.' And he dyd nat, but sone after departed that cytie. And Plotinus sayth that thys chylde was estemit to be Cupido, and so was called in hys daies."]

– Lydgate's Boke of Tradycion.Pray you, gentle ladies, hearkenTo a tale of ancient time:Let no doubt your bosoms darken,Love is always in his prime.Young, and fair, and gladly singingAs he did in days of yore,O'er the bright blue ocean wingingTo the sweet Idalian shore.Cupid is not dead, dear ladies!You may hear him even nowAt the early dawn of May-days,Singing underneath the bough.But beware, for he deceiveth;Tempt him not within the door,For the house that Cupid leavethShall not prosper evermore.Old Plotinus, now in glory,Hath bequeathed to us a story,Which perhaps may sound as new —And 'tis neither long nor stupid —Of a man who captured Cupid;If you please, I'll tell it you.Wandering through the forests wide,Rising from Cephisus' side,Went a stout Athenian Archon,With a vacant listless eye,Till he heard a little cry,That made him stop and hearken.From a ruined temple near,Came a voice both soft and clear,Singing in some foreign tongueSweeter strains than e'er were sung,Till the birds forbore their call,Wondering who the wight might beThat in forest minstrelsyOvercame them, one and all.Slowly went the Archon on —Peered above the broken stone —There, within the waste enclosure,On a bed of myrtle wild,Lay a little yearling child,Who smiled and sung, and sung and smiled,In innocent composure.From his chubby shoulders, wingsSprouted outwards; tender things,Hardly fledged, as are the callowNestlings of the household swallow.And the Archon, gazing there,Thought that never child so fairHad he looked on, anywhere."Whence art thou, my pretty boy?But the infant nought replied,Turning to the other sideWith an unknown song of joy."Can it be," the Archon pondered,"That some little god hath wanderedFrom his home within the skies,To a dreary spot like this?Ever welcome to the wiseSuch a rare occasion is;So within my cloak I'll fold him!"Little trouble was to hold him —Calm and still the infant lay,Smiling ever, singing ever,Till the Archon crossed the riverJust above Piræus' bay."In what place to lodge my darling!"Mused the much-bewildered sage,"He might dwell within a cageSafe as any finch or starling;But an infant god to hold,All the wires should be of gold.Ha! I see – the very thing!This will give him room to play,Yet so far restrain his wingThat he cannot fly away.Therefore come, my pretty pet,I'll put thee in my Cabinet!"Crazy was that CabinetWhen he let the Cupid in,Loosely were the joinings setBoth without it and within:You had sworn in any weatherThat it could not hold togetherLonger than a year or so.But no sooner was the godUshered to his new abode,Than he wrought a change; for, lo!Bright and fresh the place became,Renovated in its frame.With a lustre shone the woodAs it were from opal hewed;And the vases twain, that stoodOn its top, both cracked and grey,Glistened with metallic ray,As if golden jars were they.Every thing grew bright and fair,For the God of Love was there.As a bird within a cageSo that it be tended well,Careth not elsewhere to dwell;Will not leave its hermitage,Even for the wild and freeChorus of the greenwood tree —So the god, though famed for changing,Never seemed to think of ranging.Were the seasons dry or wet —Rose the sun, or did it set —Still he kept his Cabinet.And he sang so loud and clear,That the people clustered roundIn the hope that they might hearSomething of that magic sound;Though the words that Cupid sungNone could fathom, old nor young.Sometimes, listening from afar,You might catch a note of war,Like the clarion's call; and oftenWould his voice subside, and softenTo a tone of melancholy,Ending in a long-drawn note,Like that from Philomela's throat —'Twas, "Proto-proto-proto-colly!"But at last the Archon died,And another filled his place —He was a man of ancient race,But jaundiced all with bitter pride,Oppressed with jealousy and care;Though quite unfitted to excel,Whate'er the task, he could not bearTo see another do it well!No soul had he for wanton strains,Or strains indeed of any kind:To nature he was deaf and blind,His deepest thoughts were bent on drains.Yet in his ear were ever ringingThe notes the little god was singing."Peace, peace! thou restless creature – peace!I cannot bear that voice of thine —'Tis not more dulcet, sure, than mine! —From thy perpetual piping cease!Why come the people here to hearken?The asses, dolts! both dull and stupid!Why listen to a silly Cupid,Preferring him to me, their Archon?Hush, sirrah, hush! and never more,While I am here, presume to sing!"Yet still, within the mystic door,Was heard the rustling of the wing,And notes of witching melancholy,Called – "Proto-proto-proto-colly!"In wrath the furious Archon rose —"Bring levers here!" he loudly cried,"If he must sing – though Pallas knowsHis voice is tuneless as a crow's —E'en let him sit and sing outside!"They burst the door. The bird was caught,And to the open window brought —"Now get thee forth to wood or spray,Thou tiresome, little, chattering jay!"Paused the fair boy, ere yet he raisedHis wing to take his flight;And on the Archon's face he gazed,As stars look on the night.No woe was there – he only smiled,As if in secret scorn,And thus with human speech the childAddressed the nobly born, —"Farewell! You'll rue the moment yetYou drove me from your Cabinet!"He sped away. And scarce the windHad borne him o'er the garden wall,Ere a most hideous crash behindAnnounced an unexpected fall.The Cabinet was rent in twain!The wood was broken into splinters,As though for many hundred wintersIt had been dashed by wind and rain.Golden no more, the jars of clayWere dull and cracked, and dingy grey.Down fell a beam of rotten oak;The chair beneath the Archon broke;And all the furniture aroundAppeared at once to be unsound.Now have I nothing more to say!Of Cupid's entrance all beware:But if you chance to have him there,'Tis always wise to let him stay.And, ladies, do not sneer at me,Or count my words without avail;For in a little time you'll seeThere is a moral to my tale.What has been done in days of yoreMay well again be acted o'er,And other things have been upsetBy Cupid, than a Cabinet!

THE OLD SOLDIER. – IN THREE CAMPAIGNS

BY THOMAS AIRD

CAMPAIGN THE FIRST

"Glory of War, my heart beat time to thee,In my young day; but there – behold the end!"The Old Soldier said: 'twas by his evening fire —Winter the time: so saving, out he jerkedHis wooden leg before him. With a lookHalf comic, half pathetic, his grey headTurned down askance, the pigtail out behindStiff with attention, saying nothing more,He sat and eyed the horizontal peg.Back home the stump he drew not, till with forceDisdainful deep into the slumbering fireHe struck the feruled toe, and poking rousedA cheery blaze, to light him at his work.The unfinished skep is now upon his knee,For June top-swarmers in his garden trim:With twists of straw, and willow wattling thongs,Crooning, he wrought. The ruddy flickering firePlayed on his eye-brow shag, and thin fresh cheek,Touching his varying eye with many a gleam.His cot behind, soldierly clean and neat,Gave back the light from many a burnished point.His simple supper o'er, he reads The Book;Then loads and mounts his pipe, puffing it slow,Musing on days of yore, and battles old,And many a friend and comrade dead and gone,And vital ones, boughs of himself, cut offFrom his dispeopled side, naked and bare.Puffs short and hurried, puff on puff, betrayHis swelling heart: up starts the Man, to keepThe Woman down: forth from his door he eyesThe frosty heaven – the moon and all the stars."Peace be with hearts that watch!" thus, heaven forgot,And all its hosts, true to the veins of blood,Thoughtful his spirit runs: – "'Tis now the hourWhen the lone matron, from her cottage door,Looks for her spouse into the moonlit ways;But hears no foot abroad in all the night.Then turns she in: the tale of murder done,In former days, by the blue forest's edge,Which way he must return – why tarries he? —Comes o'er her mind; up starting quick, she goesTo be assured that she has barred her door;Then sits anew. Her little lamp of oilIs all burnt out; the wasting embers whiten;And the cat winks before the drowsy fire.What sound was that? 'Tis but her own heart beating.Up rises she again; her little onesAre all asleep, she'll go and waken them,And hear their voices in the eerie night;But yet she pauses, loth to break their rest.God send the husband and the father home!"No one looks out for me in all this world,No one have I to look for! Ah poor me!Well, well!" he murmurs meek. Turning, he locksHis lonely door, and stumps away to bed.

CAMPAIGN THE SECOND

How fresh the morning meadow of the spring,Pearl-seeded with the dew: adown its path,Bored by the worms of night, the Old Soldier takesHis wonted walk, and drinks into his heartThe gush and gurgle of the cold green stream.The huddled splendour of the April noon;Glancings of rain; the mountain-tops all quickWith shadowy touches and with greening gleams;Blue bent the Bow of God; the coloured clouds,Soaked with the glory of the setting sun, —These all are his for pleasure: his the Moon,Chaste huntress, dipping, o'er the dewy hills,Her silver buskin in the dying day.The summer morn is up: the tapering treesAre all a-glitter. In his garden forthThe Old Soldado saunters: hovering onBefore him, oft upon the naked walkRests the red butterfly; now full dispread;Now, in the wanton gladsomeness of life,Half on their hinges folding up its wings;Again full spread and still: o'erhead away,Lo! now it wavers through the liquid blue.But he intent from out their straw-roofed hivesWatches his little foragers go forth,Boot on the buds to make, to suck the depthsOf honey-throated blooms, and home return,Their thighs half smothered with the yellow dust.Dibble and hoe he plies; anon he propsHis heavy-beaded plants, and visits roundHis herbs of grace: the simple flowerets hereOpen their infant buttons; there the flowersOf preference blow, the lily and the rose.Fast by his cottage door there grows an oak,Of state supreme, drawn from the centuries.Pride of the old man's heart, in many a walk.Far off he sees its top of sovereignty,And with instinctive loyalty his capSoldierly touches to the Royal Tree —King of all trees that flourish! King revered!Trafalgars lie beneath his rugged vest,And in his acorns is The Golden Age!Summer the time; thoughtful beneath his treeThe Veteran puffs his intermittent pipe,And cheats the sweltering hours; yet noting oftThe flight of bird, and exhalation farQuivering and drifting o'er the fallow field,And the great cloud rising upon the noon,The sultry smithy of the thunder-forge.Anon the weekly journal of eventsConning, he learns the doings of the world,And what it suffers – justice-loosened wrathFalling from Heaven upon unrighteous states,Famine, and plague, earthquake, and flood, and fire;Lean Sorrow tracking still the bread-blown Sin;A spirit of lies; high-handed wrong; the curseOf ignorance crass and fat stupidity;Glib demagogue tongues that sow the dragon-teethOf wars along the valleys of the earth;And maddened nations at their contre-danceOf revolutions, when each bloody hourComes staggering in beneath its load of crimes,Enough to bend the back of centuries.The sun goes down the western afternoon,Lacing the clouds with his diverging rays:Homeward the children from the village schoolCome whooping on; but aye their voices fall,As aye they turn unto the old man's door —So much they love him. He their progress notesIn learning, and has prizes for their zeal,Flowers for the girls, and fruit, hooks for the boys,Whistles, and cherry-stones; and, to maintainThe thews and sinews of our coming men,He makes them run and leap upon the green.The nodding wain has borne the harvest home,And yellowing apples spot the orchard trees:Now may you oft the Old Soldado seeStumping relieved against the evening skyAlong the ferny height – so much he lovesIts keen and wholesome air; nor less he lovesTo hear the rustling of the fallen leaves,Swept by the wind along the glittering road,As home he goes beneath the autumnal moon.Thus round the starry girdle of the yearHis spirit circles thankfully. Not grievedWhen winter comes once more, with chosen booksHe sits with Wisdom by his evening fire;Puff goes his cheerful pipe; by turns he works;And ever from his door, before he sleeps,He views the stars of night, and thinks of HimWhose simplest fiat is the birth of worlds.

CAMPAIGN THE THIRD

Lo! yonder sea-mew seeks the inland moss:Beautiful bird! how snowy clean it showsBehind the ploughman, on a glinting day,Trooping with rooks, and farther still relievedAgainst the dark-brown mould, alighting half,Half hovering still; yet far more beautifulIts glistening sleekness, when from out the deepSudden and shy emerging on your lee,What time through breeze, and spray, and freshening brine,Your snoring ship, beneath her cloud of sail,Bends on her buried side, carried it ridesThe green curled billow and the seething froth,Turning its startled head this way and that,Half looking at you with its wild blue eye,Then moves its fluttering wings and dives anew!Smoking his pipe of peace, wearing awayThe summer eve, the old Soldado sitsBeneath his buzzing oak, and eyes the bird,With many a thought of the suggested sea.The veering gull came circling back and near:"What! nearer still?" the Veteran said, and rose,And doffed his bonnet, and held down his pipe:"Give me her message, then! O be to meHer spirit not unconscious from the deepOf how I mourn her lost! Ah! bird, you're gone.Vain dreamer I! For every night my soulKnocks at the gates of the invisible worldBut no one answers me, no little handComes out to grasp at mine. Well, all is good:Even, bird, thy heart-deceiving change of flight,To teach me patience, was ordained of old."Yes, all is ordered well. Aimless may seemThe wandering foot; even it commissioned treadsThe very lines by Providence laid down,Sure though unseen, of all-converging good.Look up, old man, and see: —Along the roadCame one in sailor's garb: his shallow hat,Of glazed and polished leather, shone like tin.A fair young damsel led him by the hand —For he was blind: and to the summer sun,Fearless and free, he held his bronzed face.An armless sleeve, pinned to his manly breast,Told he had been among the "Hearts of Oak."The damsel saw the old man of the tree,His queue of character, and wooden leg,And smiling whispered to the tar she led.Near turned, both stood. Down from her shoulder thenThe maid unslung a mandolin, and played,High singing as she played, a battle-pieceOf bursts and pauses: keeping time the while,Now furious fast, now dying slow away,His pigtail wagging with emotion deep,The Old Soldier puffed his sympathetic pipe.The minstrel ceased; he drew his leathern purse,With pension lined, and offered guerdon due."Nay," said the maiden, smiling, "for your tyeAlone I played, and for your wooden leg;Yea, but for these, the symbols of the thingsYou've done and suffered – like my father here.""Well, then, you'll taste my honey and my bread?"The Soldier said, and from his cot he broughtSeats for the strangers; him the damsel helped,Bearing the bread and honey; and they ate,The damsel serving, and she ate in turn.When various talk had closed the simple feast,The strangers rose to go: "My head! my head!"The sailor cried, and fell in sudden pangs.They bore and laid him on the Soldier's bed.Forth ran the lass, and from the neighbouring townBrought the physician; but his skill was vain,For God had touched him, and the man must die.His mind was clear: "Give me that cross, my child,That I may kiss it ere my spirit part,"He said. And from her breast the damsel drewA little cross, peculiar shaped and wrought,And gave it him. It caught the Soldier's eyeAnd when the girl received it back, he tookAnd looked at it."This cross, O dying man,Was round my daughter's neck, when in the deepShe perished from me, on that fatal nightThe 'Sphinx' was burnt, forth sailing from the Clyde.Her dying mother round the infant's neckThis holy symbol, with her blessing, hung.Friendless at home, I took my only child,Bound to the Western World, where we had friends.Scarce out of port, up flamed our ship on fire,With crowding terrors through the umbered night.O! what a shout of joy, when through the gloomThat walled us round within our glaring vault,Spectral and large, we saw the ships of help.Our boats were lowered; the first, o'ercrowded, swamped;Down to the second, as it lurched away,I flung my child: the monstrous waves went byWith backs like blood: the sudden-shifting boatIs off with one, another has my babe.I sprung to save her – all the rest is drear,Grisly confusion, till I found me laid,On some far island, in a fisher's hut.Me, as they homeward scudded past the fire,Those lonely farmers of the deep picked up,Floating away, and rubbed to vital heat;And through the fever-gulf that had me next,With simple love they brought my weary life.The shores and islands round, for lingering newsOf people saved from off that burning wreck,O! how I haunted then; but of my childNo man had heard. Hopeless, and naked poor,To war I rushed. This cot received me next;And here, I trust, my mortal chapter ends.But say, O say! how came you by this cross?"The dying man upon his arm had risen,Ere ceased the Soldier's tale: "She is thy child,Take her," he said; "and may she be to thee,As she to me has been, a daughter true,A child of good, a blessing from on high!"So saying, back he fell. Around his neckHer arms of love the sobbing damsel threw,And kissed him many a time. And then she rose,And flung herself upon the Soldier's breast —For he's her father too. And many tears,Silent, the old man rained upon her neck."O wondrous night!" the dying tar went on,"Who could have thought of this! I am content.The Lord be praised that she has found a friend,Since I must go from her! That night of fire,Our brig of war bore down upon your ship,And sent her boats to save you from the flame.Near you we could not come; so forth I swam,And to your crowded stern I fixed a rope,To take the people off. Back as I slidAlong the line, to show them how to come,A child, upheaved upon the billow top,Was borne against my breast; I snatched her up;Fast to my neck she clung; none could I findTo claim and take her: she was thus mine own.That night she wore the cross which now she wears.Why need I tell the changes of my life?In war I lost an arm, and then an eye;My other eye went out from sympathy,And home I came a blind and helpless man.But I had still one comforter, my child —My young breadwinner, too! From wake to wakeShe led me on, playing her mandolin,Which I had brought her from the south of Spain.She'll tell you all the rest when I am gone.Bury me now in your own burial-place,That still our daughter may be near my dust.And Jesus keep you both!" he said, and died.They buried him in their own burial-place.And many a flower, heart-planted by that maidAnd good Old Soldier, bloomed upon his grave.And many a requiem, when the gloaming came,The damsel played above his honoured dust.Not less, but all the more, her heart was knitUnto her own true father. He, the while,How proud was he to give her up his keys,Mistress installed of all his little stores;And introduce her to his flowers, and bees,Making the sea-green honey – all for her;And sit beside her underneath the oak,Listening the story of her bygone life.In turn she made him of her mother tell,And aye a tear dropped on her needlework;And all his wars the old campaigner told.And God was with them, and in peace and loveThey dwelt together in their happy home.

RESULTS OF REVOLUTION IN EUROPE

The fall of Napoleon completed the first drama of the historical series arising out of the French Revolution. Democratic ambition had found its natural and inevitable issue in warlike achievement; the passions of the camp had succeeded those of the forum, and the conquest of all the Continental monarchies had, for a time, apparently satiated the desires of an insatiable people. But the reaction was as violent as the action. In every warlike operation two parties are to be considered – the conquerors and the conquered. The rapacity, the insolence, the organised exactions of the French proved grievous in the extreme, and the hardship was felt as the more insupportable when the administrative powers of Napoleon gave to them the form of a regular tribute, and conducted the riches of conquered Europe, in a perennial stream, to the imperial treasury. A unanimous cry of indignation arose from every part of the Continent; a crusade commenced, in all quarters, from the experienced suffering of mankind; from the east and from the west, from the north and from the south, the liberating warriors came forth, and the strength of an injured world collected by a convulsive effort at the heart, to throw off the load which had oppressed it. Securely cradled amidst the waves, England, like her immortal chief at Waterloo, had calmly awaited the hour when she might be called on to take the lead in the terrible strife. Her energy, when it arrived, rivalled her former patience in privation, her fortitude in suffering; and the one only, nation which, throughout the struggle, had been unconquered, at length stood foremost in the fight, and struck the final and decisive blow for the deliverance of the world.