66 lyrical effort the poet has poured a flood of difference which it manifested to every song, drawn from other sources of inspira- thing but the souvenirs of its own achievetion than such as supplied the greater and ments; the sympathies of the Restoration, the lesser classical copyists,-the pure imi- on another hand, would revert rather to the tators and the mixed herd of imitators of pure classic" glories of Louis XIV., or, imitation. A bolder grasp of measures, a at furthest, to the Caussades and Candales, more ample sweep of language, a greater and the Gabrielles of his father and his freedom of thought, a finer play of imagina- grandfather. To avow, therefore, before a tion, and an immeasurably deeper intensity Parisian public a mediæval flight of imagiof feeling by the introduction into that nation, was rather a daring attempt at reacheretofore cold and formal style, that dis- tion in poetic sympathies; albeit the essay tant, and, so to say, objective life, of a per- was made during the restoration of an anvading passion, a natural earnestness of cient dynasty, and under the blessed rule sentiment, a vivid personality of emotion,- of a "roi chevalier." We might dispute these have been the contributions of Vic- the successful realization of the author's tor Hugo to the Ode of France; endow- design, but we are content to take them ments of which there was so much need, under the name he has given them in his qualities whose absence was so felt, that first volume--Ballads; and embracing in the contemplation of the otherwise well- our notice others which come under the executed compositions became as distaste- same head, without pretending to the same ful to the poetic student as to the lonely purpose, shall endeavor to give our readers husband in his Spartan halls was the as- a notion of Hugo's ability in this departpect of the fair proportioned statues, want- ment. One, and a splendid one, among ing the tenderness and the fire, the melting those which profess a troubadour character and kindling glance of vitality Εὐμόρφων δὲ κολοσσῶν Εῤῥει πᾶσ' 'Αφροδίτα. Ascn. Agam. So great and so novel in their character are, we again repeat, the merits of our author with reference to the higher lyrical poetry of his country. Without claiming for him so high a meed of praise, we can hardly regard his productions under the head of ballads as forming a less striking contrast with their predecessors ejusdem nominis. Although a taste for antiquarian research, and a tendency to reproduce the characteristics of the olden times of their history, have now been for some time conspicuous in the literature of our accomplished neighbors, it was not a little startling to hear a young poet announce, twenty years ago, that his ballads were an deavor to give some idea of what might be the poems of the first troubadours of the middle ages,- -of those Christian rhapsodists who had nothing in the world but their sword and their guitar, and who went about from château to château, requiting hospitality with songs." This was certainly a novel announcement, and a bold one; for if, on one part, from "liberal" France was to be expected nothing but contempt for those dark ages of knightly courtesy and religious enthusiasm; or from the remnants of imperial France, only that in en -La Fiancée du Timbalier-is known to the readers of FRASER by the admirable translation in "The Relics of Father Prout." We select another, as excelling by its touching simplicity, and as presenting-if not exactly a specimen of what the troubadours themselves would have sungat all events, a coloring of imagination drawn from those times of popular credence with their countless and picturesque superstitions. Few can fail to be struck, we think, with the beautiful picture contained in the sixth stanza :— Dead, and when thou speakest to us, deaf and [One who pass'd that door half-open'd those two silent in our turnlittle ones espied, Then, how great will be your sorrow! then you'll With the holy book before them kneeling at the cry for us in vain; lone bedside. Call upon your saint and patron for a long, long time and fain, And a long, long time embrace us, ere we come to life again! Only feel how warm our hands are; wake, and place thy hands in ours Wake, and sing us some old ballad of the wand'ring troubadours. Tell us of those knights whom fairies used to help to love and fame, Knights who brought, instead of posies, spoils and trophies to their dame, And whose war-cry in the battle was a lady's gentle name. Tell us what's the sacred token wicked shapes and sprites to scare! And of Lucifer-who was it saw him flying through the air? What's the gem that's on the forehead of the King of Gnomes display'd? Does Archbishop Turpin's psalter, or Roland's enormous blade, Daunt the great black King of Evil?-Say, which makes him most afraid? To quit troubadours and trouvères, Provençals or Picards, here is a snatch from the Romancer General. Who, native or foreign, has ever ventured to compete with Lockhart in the handling of a Spanish ballad? The following "Romance Mauresque" stands in the middle of the Orientales; Spain is a ground that Victor delights to tread over again. We place the English version of this, one of the many ballads on the infants of Lara, beside that of our author, and we think the Frenchman must here cede the palm. His version is gallant and easy in parts, but it wants the total spirit and the dash of Lockhart's bounding lines; it has not the resolute compression, the masterly abruptness of the Scot's handiwork: VICTOR HUGO. "Romance Mauresque. "Don Rodrigue est à la chasse, Sans épée et sans cuirasse, Un jour d'été, vers mudi, Sous la feuillée et sur l'herbe Il s'assied, l'homme superbe, Don Rodrigue le hardi. La haine en feu le dévore, Les sept infans de Lara. Pour le trouver eu campagne, De Figuère à Setuval, L'un des deux mourrait sans doute, En ce moment sur la route Il passe un homme à cheval. · Chevalier, chrétien ou maure, Qui dors sous la sycamore, Dieu te guide par la main !' 'Que Dieu répande ses grâces Sur toi, l'écuyer qui passes, Qui passes par le chemin!' 'Chevalier, chrétien ou maure, Qui dors sous la sycamore, Parmi l'herbe du vallon, Dis ton nom, afin qu'on sache Si tu portes le panache D'un vaillant ou d'un félon.' Si c'est là ce qui t'intrigue, On m'appelle Don Rodrigue, Don Rodrigue de Lara; And now for a painful confession. Among some pieces at the end of the volume of the Orientales is an awful ballad, "La Légende de la Nonne," which would have gladdened the soul of Monk Lewis, and-better than his own "Cloud-kings and Water-kings" -better than Southey's "Old Women of Berkeley" and "Painters of Florence ". better than Sir Walter's contributions to that collection-would, with its grim German conception, clothing itself in the fierce colors of Spanish passion and the dark light of Spanish scenery, its reckless rapidity of verse contrasting with the solemn horror of the tale, its bizarre refrain ring ing ever and anon amid the recounted crime and the recorded punishment-would, we say, have made the fortune of the Tales of Wonder. We confess, with confusion of face, that it has baffled our powers of "oversetting." Our limits forbid us to extract it, with its four-and-twenty stanzas of eight lines a-piece; but we freely offer a couple of uncut copies of REGINA to whoever shall worthily execute its traduction. But let him who attempts it beware what he is about. It well-nigh drove us to an act of the last desperation. For the life of us, we could not succeed in rendering, with safe gravity, the singular refrain,-which,| by the bye, while perfectly in character with the land of the toreador, is decidedly of the northern ballad, by its want of connexion with the current of the story, "Enfans, voici des bœufs qui passent, To alter it would be to take the tale into another country, and thus destroy one-half of its effect. To console ourselves for our incapacity in the terrible line, we have had recourse to the pathetic. Under the unassuming title of "Guitare," Victor slips into our hand a bit of ballad poetry of that rich and rare quality, in which exquisite Art vindicates to itself the grace and charm of Nature. Listen and judge: "'Twas Gastibelza, ranger bold, And thus it was he sung, O who doth here Sabina know, Dance on the while! On Mount Faloù Die the last streaks of day ; The wind that 'thwart the mountain comes Will witch my wits away. Doth any my señora know, Who shriek'd at night in the great tow'r, The wind that 'thwart the mountain comes Will witch my wits away. Dance on the goods the hour bestows O she was fair; her bright black eye Now to this greybeard with his child The wind that 'thwart the mountain comes The queen beside her had been plain, When, on the bridge at eve, At fair Toledo, you beheld Her lovely bosom heave, 'Neath bodice black, and chaplet old Upon her neck that lay. The wind that 'thwart the mountain comes Will witch my wits away. The king unto his nephew said, 'But for a kiss, a smile of her, Trust me, Don Ruy, I'd give broad Spain, I'd give Peru's rich sway!' The wind that 'thwart the mountain comes Will witch my wits away. I know not if I loved this dame, That for one look from out her soul Right gladly had I gone, 'Neath bolt and chain to work the oar, For ten long years to stay. The wind that 'thwart the mountain comes One summer's day, one sunny day, To sport her in the rivulet, That bright and beauteous dame! The wind that 'thwart the mountain comes When, simple shepherd, I beheld The wind that 'thwart the mountain comes Dance, villagers, the night draws down? Did sell her love, did sell her all, The wind that 'thwart the mountain comes Now let me lean on this old seat, I tell you with this Count she fled, The wind that 'thwart the mountain comes I saw her pass my dwelling by, O the wind that 'thwart the mountain comes And now, adieu, Victor! Peer though thou be, forget not thine other designation: | faring town; the saltest, roughest, most pifor all the green-braided badge of thy new ratical little place that ever was seen. order, see that thou discard not the Muse's Great rusty iron rings and mooring-chains, livery and, in the intervals of senatorial capstans, and fragments of old masts and session, give us yet another of those de- spars, choke up the way; hardy roughlightful volumes of thine, with their quaint, weather boats, and seamen's clothing, flutfantastic, arabesque, crepuscular, enigmati- ter in the little harbor or are drawn out on cal titles. the sunny stones to dry; on the parapet of the rude pier, a few amphibious-looking fellows lie asleep, with their legs dangling over the wall, as though earth or water were all one to them, and if they slipped TRAVELLING LETTERS, WRITTEN ON in, they would float away, dozing comfort THE ROAD. BY CHARLES DICKENS. XII. TO ROME BY PISA AND SIENA. THERE is nothing in Italy, more beautiful to me, than the coast-road between Genoa and Spezzia. On one side: sometimes far below, sometimes nearly on a level with the road, and often skirted by broken rocks of many shapes: there is the free blue sea, with here and there a picturesque felùca gliding slowly on; on the other side, are lofty hills, ravines besprinkled with white cottages, patches of dark olive woods, country churches with their light open towers, and country houses gaily painted. On every bank and knoll by the way side, the wild cactus and aloe flourish in exuberant profusion; and the gardens of the bright villages along the road, are seen, all blushing in the summer-time with clusters of the Belladonna, and are fragrant in the autumn and winter with golden oranges and lemons. ably among the fishes; the church is bright with trophies of the sea, and votive offerings, in commemoration of escape from storm and shipwreck. The dwellings not immediately abutting on the harbor are approached by blind, low archways, and by crooked steps, as if in darkness and in difficulty of access they should be like holds of ships, or inconvenient cabins under water; and every where, there is a smell of fish, and seaweed, and old rope. The coast-road whence Camoglia is descried so far below, is famous, in the warm season, especially in some parts near Genoa, for fire-flies. Walking there, on a dark night, I have seen it made one sparkling firmament by these beautiful insects; so that the distant stars were pale against the flash and glitter that spangled every olive wood and hill-side, and pervaded the whole air. It was not in such a season, however, that we traversed this road on our way to Rome. The middle of January was only just past, and it was very gloomy and dark weather; very wet besides. In crossing the fine Pass of Bracco, we encountered such a storm of mist and rain, that we Some of the villages are inhabited, al- travelled in a cloud the whole way. There most exclusively, by fishermen; and it is might have been no Mediterranean in the pleasant to see their great boats hauled up world, for any thing we saw of it there, on the beach, making little patches of except when a sudden gust of wind clearshade, where they lie asleep, or where the ing the mist before it, for a moment, showwomen and children sit romping and look-ed the agitated sea at a great depth below, ing out to sea, while they mend their nets upon the shore. There is one town, Camoglia, with its little harbor on the sea, hundreds of feet below the road: where families of mariners live, who, time out of mind, have owned coasting-vessels in that place, and have traded to Spain and else where. Seen from the road above, it is like a tiny model on the margin of the dimpled water, shining in the sun. Descended into, by the winding mule-tracks, it is a perfect miniature of a primitive sea lashing the distant rocks, and spouting up its foam furiously. The rain was incessant; every brook and torrent was greatly swollen; and such a deafening leaping, and roaring, and thundering of water, I never heard the like of in my life. Hence, when we came to Spezzia, we found that the Magra, an unbridged river on the high-road to Pisa, was too high to be safely crossed in the Ferry Boat, and were fain to wait until the afternoon of next day, when it had, in some degree, sub |