The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 2, August, 1862

Analogous to the story of Circe and Ulysses is a myth which forms the foundation of some of the most beautiful and pathetic ballads of Sweden, Denmark and Norway. The mountain king bears to his cavern in the hill-side a fair maiden, and with him

'For eight long years, I ween, she lived in the mountain there,And sons full seven she bore him, and eke a daughter fair.'

And here the resemblance ceases, and the Northern legend assumes a more beautiful tone. The maiden longs for her mother and her old home, and goes from the mountain king with the promise not to mention her seven sons. She tells her tale, however, and the elf-king straightway appears, and strikes her till the life-blood flows. She then says:

'Farewell, dear father, and farewell, dear mother, too,Farewell, my sister dear, and dear brother, farewell to you.Farewell, thou lofty heaven, and the fresh, green earth, farewell!Now wend I to the mountain where the mountain king doth dwell.'

And so they ride to the mountain, through the long, wild, black wood, the mother weeping bitter tears, while the elf-king smiles. Her little daughter reaches her a golden chair:

'Oh! rest thee, my poor mother, so sad and woe-begone.'

She takes the foaming mead in her hand,

'And scarce from out the mead-glass bright the first draught does she take,    (The hour goes heavy by,)Her eyes were sudden closed, and her weary heart it brake,    (Ah! well sorrow's burden know I.)'

That the Greeks had similar ballads and legends can not be doubted, but to revive them from their present destruction is a task beyond the power of science and antiquarianism. Hardly more than a quarter of a century has elapsed since the first important steps were taken in the North of Europe to preserve these ballads which had thus been orally handed down from ages that vanish in the darkness of the past, and which in a few years more, with the gradual disappearance of primitive simplicity in Sweden and Norway, might have been, for the greater part, lost to us forever. Who knows but that in some remote corner of Greece, in spite of the revolutions and shocks which have convulsed it, there may still lurk an occasional shadow at least of some good old popular song?

The refrains which accompany the Northern ballads, and which are, in fact, found among all nations whose ballad poetry has been preserved, merit some attention. Sometimes melancholy and sad, sometimes gay and joyous, they impart character wonderfully to the piece. There is something peculiarly mournful in the recurring of these sad, touching thoughts and words, and as the interest of the ballad deepens, their touching simplicity grasps more deeply into the soul, and affects us in a manner which nothing else could. When they are joyous—a rarer form, however—they impart to us also their own buoyancy and gayety. Sometimes they convey the moral of the piece, some simple yet profound reflection, which marks by itself the feeling that pervades the whole ballad; at other times they are merely descriptive of nature, and borrow their enlivening or heart-rending character from the assimilation or contrast they present with the groundwork of the poetry. The origin of this kind of refrain is evidently due to the manner in which the ballads were composed. Mainly extemporized, both words and music, by wandering scalds or minstrels, the refrain was a pause to enable the singer to compose the next line. The utter disregard of rhyme, alliterations the most slight and imperceptible, and words of no similarity of sound almost always taking their place, rendered this a very easy task. A thorough knowledge and mastery of legendary lore, and a little power and concentration of thought and imagery, were the only qualities requisite for a ballad-monger. Some of them bear the marks of superior minds, both by their wonderful vividness of description and by the tone of deep, genuine feeling which pervades them throughout.

There is a wonderful affinity between the Scotch and the Norwegians and Swedes, especially in their traditionary literature, which marks a common origin and common customs at some remote period. We find among the genuine Scotch ballads many that are almost literal versions of the same Scandinavian legends no less indigenous in their own land. A large number of the most beautiful Scotch ballads plainly point to an extraneous Northern origin, and their exact counterparts in form, ideas, and words, we find circulating as popular songs among the Swedish, Danish, and Norwegian peasantry. These may often be traced back centuries, at the end of which they seem still to be as old and as thoroughly implanted in their native soil as they now seem. They have been sung from mouth to mouth, with the same wild old melodies and the same quaint language, as they were sung centuries ago among the scenes they so faithfully depict.

The characteristics we have so briefly alluded to as marking the two classes of nations, namely, mysterious grandeur among the Northmen, and among the Greeks ideality, grandness, and vividness of conception, might by skillful hands be traced in more modern times under the influence of an ever-changing and growing civilization. I will only allude, in passing, to a few prominent points.

The literature of Greece, as we know it, had already reached its hight, two thousand years before our time. It was already gray with years before the North had begun its infancy. Homer is the boundary which is insurmountably opposed to our further retrospection, and Homer is already the beginning of perfection in Greek letters. Of earlier periods we can but conjecture that there must have been such, bearing a character analogous to the relics of those nations whose fabulous history is better known to us. Northern literature can hardly be said to have had an existence till within the last hundred years. Before that time we must look for all phases of progress and germs of progress in the physical and animal character of the nation, their social and political features and relations. The vividness and ideality of the ancients find their natural change in the more purely impassioned style of more modern Southern poetry. Their creations have naturally lost with the fall of paganism, the supernatural endowments they had, and retaining in some their ideality, they have hightened and fired the human nature they depict by the addition of wilder and more flaming passions, of love that consumes, and ambition, revenge, and hatred that destroy. Thus we again obtain consistent characters governed by human laws, but raised above the ordinary mass of men by different qualities from those which ennobled ideal creations among the ancients. Repose still constitutes greatness in some instances; but the inner man is made all fire, and seething metal, ever-burning and quenchless. Elevation and subtlety of ideas naturally follow these causes, they are another natural growth of the simple ideality of conception.

The Northern character at the present day has very different qualities. Though renowned for philosophical and metaphysical prose, yet their poetry they require to deal with realities and not with ideas; it must be clear as a fountain, and any opaqueness is an inexcusable flaw. They are yet in the infancy of literature, and the imagination is still more sensuous than acute and subtle. However much they court abstractions in prose, in verse they love only the actual, the real, the tangible. Nature, and not metaphysics, are the subjects of their poetry, and they still preserve a freshness and simplicity reminding of more ancient and ruder days, delightful amidst the hair-splitting of most modern poetry. Their infancy is like the infancy of all national literatures, peculiarly modified by the advanced state of civilization in which their birth was thrown. At first sight there seems something unnatural and unaccountable in this apparent contradiction in the character of the nation, manifested respectively in their prose and their poetry. But on farther examination all becomes clear as a spring day. Their prose was, as their whole literature might and should have been, contemporary with their civilization through its various phases. Metaphysics is the last refinement, or rather, corruption, which national literature undergoes. Their prose had naturally arrived at this stage when the true poetic feeling woke for the first time. And in spite of the rational tendencies of the age, it assumed that character of warm, bodily imagination which marks all early literatures. The tendency to the mysterious and the superhuman has mostly vanished, and more vivid conceptions of every thing have, under their Christian development, taken the place of dim magic and weird creations. Northern poets still delight in dealing with those wonderful poetical inventions of their own ancient mythology, and revel among the elves and dwarfs that surround the bosoms of mountains and woods. Lif, with her golden hair, Gerda, with cheeks like auroras, the cunning Loke, with his mixture of guile, wickedness and deceit, Thor's mighty Mjölner, and the mead-horns of Walhalla—from among these wonderful beings, they have culled with a careless hand, and every sprig and flower is radiant with poetic beauty. The taste for old legends and traditions has revived within a few years, and scholars and antiquarians are now laying open unknown mines of treasure.

A TRUE ROMANCE

Among my friends at Rome, during a few weeks that I spent there, was one old resident of the 'Eternal City' whom I had often begged to give me some authentic narrative of Catholic experience. He was naturally reserved, jealously truthful, a 'know-nothing' upon religious controversy, not at all the man to invent an exciting story, not fond of legends, Romish or Genevan, not a violent partisan of republicanism in church or state, and not familiar enough with American thought to suspect the use that might be made in the United States of such an incident as I am now to repeat. In fact, as I compare him with other sources of intelligence open to travelers, sure as I am that no one could question his belief of whatever he told, every weight that character, intelligence, years, experience, could confer, rests upon the only monkish secret which he professed to know. One night he invited me to a subterranean restaurant, famous for its excellent creature-comforts, and there over some royal English beer, without any graces of style or attempts to exaggerate the incidents, he unfolded what I believe to be a true record of unblessed love.

General readers are familiar with the fact that many a nun immures herself for life under a sort of moral compulsion, because her high-born family has become too indigent to maintain its stately style of living, because the lady herself is in danger of contracting some degrading alliance, declines peremptorily such connection as her relations approve, or has committed some imprudence that clouds over her future prospects. The secret influences which entangle men in the Catholic orders correspond to this. It would be arrant bigotry to doubt that some offer up an unstained heart, in aspirations for usefulness or sighs for holiness; but many times a youth is led blindfold to the altar by ambitious relatives, like Talleyrand, and discovers too late his perfect unfitness for the vow he has assumed. And these last are they whose lives become a scandal to their profession, whose levity shocks so many Protestant observers, whose consciences have no true peace, who die sometimes in open unbelief and, living, are the worst enemies of the cause they advocate.

As my story goes, at nearly the same time that a gallant young man of high family disappeared from the gay circles of Rome, a lovely girl of distinguished parentage had suffered her blonde tresses to be shorn, her graceful limbs draped in forlorn russet, her merry meetings with girlish spirits like herself exchanged for the tears of the confessional, the lengthened prayers of the cloister, the frequent fastings and sometimes scourgings of monastic life. The cause of this contemporaneous disappearance was known only to the most intimate friends of two celebrated but no longer wealthy families, who deemed the sacrifice necessary, and so recked not of the wounds it might make, the perjuries it might tempt, the life-struggle of duty with feeling it might cause.

Time passed on. Forgotten by society, it was supposed these victims of artificial life had forgotten the circles they were wont to charm, forgotten almost themselves in a system most ingeniously arranged to blot out one's individuality and to make its subject a perfectly ordered part of a grand machine. But, unsuspected by their friends, unknown to their superiors, these two pledged hearts had met. Love will break through even convent-walls, will speak amidst monastic silence, will rise unbidden under ascetic discipline. No one can tell, very few can imagine how they agreed upon their trysting hour. Through a neglected drain, from some underground apartment, where she had been imprisoned for negligence, the slender form of the delicate maiden worked its way into the free air where her lover awaited her in the eagerness of a stolen pleasure; and the hours supposed to be given to prayer or repose flew fast in the worship of the 'winged god.' If I recollect rightly, there were deeply-shaded groves not far from their place of meeting, in which they felt secure from observation during the night season.

But Love has always been blind to its own peril: a prudent lover would be indeed a black swan; if such there have been, these were not. And one night, when the beautiful nun would return through the friendly passage in season, that her absence might not be detected when the sisters were summoned to their matin service, the rain, whose torrents she had not noticed while her lover's arm sheltered her, had filled up the only pathway to her cell, and not even by the hazard of life could she recover her room once more. A few hours more, and her absence would inevitably come to light, would be fearfully punished, if not by a death such as Scott portrays in one of his poetical legends, by a disgrace far worse than physical suffering, from which nothing but the grave could give her relief. The alternative, flight, where no provision had been made, with no possible help from any friend, with the likelihood of treachery where they might least expect it, seemed impossible.

In despair rather than hope, the forlorn lady recollected that her uncle, who had some spiritual supervision over the Roman convents, though he was sure to be more outraged by her misstep than any one else, had (besides the motive of shielding a family name from disgrace) perhaps some remaining affection for his favorite niece. At any rate, if she were to die, she thought it would be a satisfaction to die humanely, by the speedy stroke of offended honor than by such cruel penances as would slowly wear life away. And, what might she not hope, if there were still one humane drop in that aged bosom, one indulgent memory of youthful passion beneath that austere cowl, one fond thought of a childhood which seemed to herself a dream of paradise, when his hand blessed her curling head, and his lips gave a parting kiss, returned so heartily by herself.

There was not a moment to lose—they hardly knew how time had sped, but they had never found his wings slow when they were together. So, hand in hand they hastened to the presence which was to be either deliverance or condemnation to them both; and when at last they reached the palace, and after some delay were admitted to kneel before his eminence, no words can paint the horror with which he exchanged his dreams of the papal chair for a sight of the apostate priest and self-doomed nun confessing in one breath that they had 'loved not wisely, but too well'—that God once brought together those whom cruel relatives tore asunder—that he was their only escape from double ruin, and infamy worse than death.

The moments seemed hours while he who had approved the punishment of other celibates for no greater sins, sought how he might ward off a blow that struck so near his own bosom—that was to crush one the grace of whose childhood had not been more marked than her affection for himself—than the earnestness of the tone with which she was wont to declare herself 'his little daughter.' He had not the courage to hazard his position by espousing her cause or undertaking her escape. He felt that she had been more sinned against than sinning, in having been forced into a vow of perpetual virginity when she had already made another vow which her loving nature had rejoiced to keep.

And yet, the preservation of his dignity was of infinite moment to his peace—nor could he help seeing that a flood of disgrace would sweep over the Church were such breaches widened by the public protection of the offenders, and, of course, the enemies of monastic institutions would seize upon the opening for fiercer assaults.

Suddenly he dismissed the erring brother in too much trouble to bestow the admonition which the other was in too great anxiety to heed—threw over the trembling girl the cloak and hat of a common citizen—summoned his household servants together as quickly as possible, and hastened in the twilight of early dawn to the sleeping convent with as large an attendance as such hot haste would permit.

For some time no admittance could be obtained; and the rain seemed to pour down in sheets, as if all the windows of heaven were open. But his orders were peremptory, his authority was ample, his excuse ingenuity itself: 'He had just heard that a man was secreted within those consecrated walls; he was determined to see for himself, if he had to tear one stone from another; under his supervision no such infamy should be so much as suspected.' And so, making a virtue of necessity, the panic-struck lady abbess yielded her dignity, and the posse of pretended inspectors stood within the drowsy walls before one rose-tint in the East threatened their secret with exposure.

So responsible an official could not be satisfied with seeing the nuns together, or witnessing their earliest chapel-service; he must enter every room, survey every cranny, and leave no possibility of deception, no corner for concealment. And posting some of his servants—whose excessive watchfulness might prove a little inconvenient—at the two principal entrances, with his remaining attendants he proceeded orderly from room to room, the superior refusing, as was expected, to sanction by her presence such an invasion of the sacred privacy of her institution. When they reached the cell adjoining that where our tale properly ends, the disguised nun was far enough in the rear of the feebly-lighted party, and they too busy in the pretended search, for her disappearance to be noticed—her uncle had made her see that this was the only chance—so, flinging the coat and hat through an open window into the yard, she glided with ghost-like tread into her own apartment, and when the drowsy servitors opened her door, she was seen upon her knees before the crucifix, praying more fervently than ever the jubilant prayer of a newly-rescued soul.

The trouble threatened to lead to some farther difficulties. For these ladies were of the Roman aristocracy, and their honor had been impeached, their sanctuary invaded, their solemn asseverations had been disregarded, their protector had become their accuser. It might have gone hard with the father who had planned this ingenious device to save his name from disgrace and shield his niece from suffering. But, just before the party turned from the convent-gate, a keen eye detected the fallen mantle; and the trophy was exhibited to the agitated superior, in proof that some of the forbidden sex had been lurking around, and had stolen away in terror from so formidable a search; she was warned to new vigilance, and offered every assistance for the future which the papal guards could bestow.

And so ends all that my informant knew of the love-lost girl. Her accomplice in guilt, who did not desert her till he saw there was hope in her uncle's face, was hurried away as a missionary to South-America; and, as the waves of the sea rolled between him and his only object of affection, he must have 'rejoiced with trembling' that the crimson waves of death had not mingled her and him in a common doom. He wanted the independence to detect the injustice of a system which made a pure attachment guilt, and its discovery condemnation; so he raised no protesting voice against it. Truly, the day of strange stories in Italy is not yet over.

HUGUENOTS OF NEW-YORK CITY

Governor Stuyvesant was among the earliest to encourage the emigration of the Huguenots to New-York, and whose descendants for generations have ranked with our best and most honorable citizens. On the twenty-fourth of January, 1664, N. Van Beck, a merchant in New-Amsterdam, received letters from Rochelle, stating the wish of some French Protestants to settle in New-Netherland, as their religious rights had been invaded and their churches burned. The Governor and Council resolved to receive them kindly, and grant them lands gratuitously. In a letter of M. de Denonville to the French government, dated sixteenth November, 1686, he reports that fifty or sixty 'men, Huguenots,' arrived at New-Amsterdam, 'who are establishing themselves at Manat, (New-Amsterdam,) and its environs. I know that some have arrived at Boston, from France.' Although the waves of the Atlantic divided the two countries, the French King does not seem to have forgiven his banished subjects in America. In his instructions to Count De Frontenac, respecting the expedition from Canada against New-York, and dated seventh June, 1689, he directs him to 'send to France the French refugees, whom he will find there, particularly those of the pretended Reformed Religion,' or Huguenots. His royal but remorseless spirit was not gratified, however, as the French did not venture to attack New-York, and instead of their Protestant brethren being sent back to France, a few years afterward they erected a church for their own religious services. This was Du Saint-Esprit, and built on Pine street, directly opposite to the present Custom-House, by the Huguenots and Walloon settlers, the last of whom were a part of the French Protestants, although they emigrated to America from the river 'Wael.' An earlier French chapel had been erected on Marketfield street, then called Petticoat Lane, near the Battery. It was an humble edifice, but hither, every Lord's day, the Huguenots from the city, Staten Island, the Wallabagh, and New-Rochelle, by wagons, in which they lodged, were wont to assemble to worship God, without the fear of royal, persecuting edicts, or armed bands. L'Eglise Saint-Esprit was founded in the year 1704, with a cemetery adjoining. It was a plain, neat, stone building, and nearly square—its bell the gift of Sir Henry Ashurst, of London. On its tablet in front was inscribed: ÆDES SACRA GALLOR PROT. REFORM. FONDA. 1704. PENITUS REPAR. 1741. In our day its sacred walls have been taken down, the dead removed, and the venerable spot, like many others in our busy city, is now devoted to Mammon. The successors of Saint-Esprit long since united with the Episcopalians, and erected the beautiful marble church in Leonard street, where the doctrines of the ever-blessed Reformation continue to be declared in the same language in which they were so eloquently preached two centuries ago, by Claude, Laurin, and other Reformed French Ministers.

The Rev. James Laboire was the first pastor of the Saint-Esprit, which soon numbered a flourishing congregation. Some of its members would walk from New-Rochelle, on Saturday night, to worship God in this place, and thus spending the holy day, would return home again in the evening, joyfully singing Marot's old French hymns to cheer them by the way. The Staten-Island Huguenots would make the same pious journey in their light skiffs and boats. For some years Mr. Laboire, the pastor, toward his support was 'allowed a yearly sallary of twenty pounds per ann. out of ye Revenue of this Province.' The religious services were here performed in the primitive manner of the French Calvinistic churches; but after the sovereignty of the English was established over the Dutch, the forms of their church worship were gradually introduced, until at length the Huguenot congregation united with the Protestant Episcopal, in this diocese.

In the Documentary History of New-York, vol iii. p. 427, may be found an old curious article, entitled, 'A Full and Just Discovery of the weak and slender foundation of a most Pernicious Slander, raised against the French Protestant Refugees, inhabiting the Province of New-York, generally, but more particularly affecting Captain Benjamin Fanuel, a person of considerable note amongst them. Printed and published by license of his Excellency Edward Viscount Cornbury, Captain-General and Governor-in-Chief of the said Province, in favor of Justice.'