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About A Friend of the family. (Savannah, Ga.) 1849-1??? | View Entire Issue (Jan. 5, 1850)
OcuotcD to CUcraturc, Science, anc tl)c -Sous of iftcmpevaitce, ©sft jfellcrojsljip., iflasonrn, anb (General intelligence. VOLUME I OSI ©ISA 8s gill, MINSTREL and his ladye-love. by MISS SUSAN A. STUART. PART I. „ \ form more active, light and strong, Vp’ er shot the ranks of war along ; The modest, yet the manly mien, Mi edit grace the court of maiden queen.” It was moonlight, most pure and lovely, bathing mountain and valley, river and plain ; smoothing off the iaaged nnd harsh outlines that daylight brought in S la . rin S deformity, and shading into softness, with its veil of silver, beauties that were almost too brilliant when seen by the light of the sun. . . . ’Twas a lover s evening —-just such a time as find hearts speak best of love, with the pale planet looking down upon them as she had ever clone before and since. It was now beaming upon two beings, with hearts as leal and true as ever heat beneath her rays. The gentle Alice, old Sir Robert’s fair daughter, had stolen out with her maiden to keep her tryste with her lover here, in the greenwood. And the timid maiden started every now and then, as the rustle of the foliage stirred by the night breeze came upon her ear, and her sweet lip trembled, though he who stood at her side, holding the little hand in his fond clasp, was a stalwart form, who seemed fully ca pable to do his duty in protecting the young maiden. “ I must haste, or my good father will awaken,” said her sweet trembling voice, “ oh ! how 1 wish that he loved you, and then you could come ’’ncatli his own roof, for 1 like not these forbidden meetings.” Tis our last, gentle Alice, at least for a long, longtime,” sighed the young man, “ and ere 1 again shall behold you, my feet must travel over many a league ; so give me some moments yet, whilst 1 swear beneath this pure light, to love the ever as now, and to cling to your memory whether in court or camp —on the battle field or at tour nament, and to hold it as precious as are now the moments you so grudgingly grant me ! ” “Not grudgingly ! do not say it, for you know how angered my father is with you. You know well, that though I he his only child, that he would send me forth from his love as iugrate, were he aware that I met Blondel, the minstrel. Oh, you know all this gentle Sir, hut you cinnot say his hatred to one of your calling ; furthermore, he declares that no vassel of France shall ever wed bis Saxon Alice.” “And vet our noble king Richard, he of the bon heart, for whom your father still mourns and si<dis to see him on his rightful throne, to the crushing of the usurper Sack laud —even he, my friend, my master is of Normandy, his mother a princess of France. But I blame not you my Alice, for an old man’s predjudiee is ever strong. Only promise to love trie, and to keep faith will) me whilst I wander forth on my pilgrimage ot love. Smile on me gentle one and bid our Lady and the holy Saints to have me in their keeping. Say m your own homed tones, “ hasten back to your Alice for she will not be light ot love.” “Ido hid you hasten back when you have ful filled your noble mission ; and I need not speak it, that my orisons shall ever he to the Holy Mother and the Blessed Saints, that you may come back safely to our fair country, alas, merry England no longer. But in the many lands you must, traverse you will see fairer maidens, who will gladly smile on the gallant minstrel —the devoted friend of England’s captive king.” “\\ hen die sun shines we see not the stars, so will mv love for you keep bright the memory of vour gentle loveliness, and hinder me horn bestowing thought or glance, save in courtesy, upon other maiden, whether she he fair or homely the palace dame or the peasant damsel. Nay, nav, nay own Alice you well know that I shall cber idt your memory both fondly and proudly, and that through all my dreary pilgrimage my thoughts **l turn to your love as my star ot hope, wishing no higher or happier reward than the right of claiming this little hand, when England, again the merry, shall see her lion on his throne.” . Lod grant it,” softly murmured the maiden. “ Bless you dear Alice for the prayer, and now will cq.]] Margery and go with you to the pos , n °, you must not go. It were safer by fai 0 ‘ et us speed alone, for my father’s huntsmen are lurklnf g about, and should they see thee I dread the Let us say farewell even now, n dl Pra v we may soon meet under happier au- ; pices * If ’twill cheer you on your pilgrimage, I,QUr that you will carry every hope and every of Alice of Branteyne along with you ; the most joyful sound she can hear vvi c .’ v oice when thou returnesthack to my country. i [id the loving, sorrowing maiden bent er in tears on her lovers breast as they t ius bade each other farewell in that old forest ’nealh the moons mellow rays. PART 11. “ Tlie troubadour o’er many a plain Hath roam’d unwearied, but in vain; O’er many a rugged mountain scene, And forest wild his track hath been ; Beneath Calabria’s glowing sky He hath sung the songs of chivalry; His voice hath swelled on the Alpine breeze, And rung through the snowy Pyrenees ; From Ebro’s banks to Danube’s wave, He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave ; Oh monarch of the lion heart ! And yet, if still on Earth thou art, The faithful spirit, which distress But heightens to devotedness, By toil andjtrial vanquished not, Shall guide thy minstrel to this spot. The sun was sinking behind the vine-clad hills of Germany, when a traveller weary', and foot sore, stood within the shadow of a huge, battle mented pile, where no shield hung over the gate as an invitation to him, the weary, to enter and refresh himself. The heart of the pilgrim sank sadly within him as he gazed around on the fair scene, now gorgeous with the hues of the dying day; and the rose-lints thrown o’er the water only served to remind him of a home far distant, as lovely, and oh how longed for. He had wan dered full many a mile seeking for him whom he had not found as yet ; and now toil worn, weary and spiritless he stood, as I said before, in the shadow of the old frowning castle. A horn hung near the gate, and resting before he could sum mon sufficient breath to wind it, he blew a blast— another—still another. No answer comes to his summons, and he throws it far from him, as almost exhausted he sinks on a rock, just bathed in the sun’s parting beams. “ Oh Richard my master, what have I encoun tered for the !—what have 1 abandoned !—and yet, ’tis in vain. Through the fair plains of my own native Provence, in the hostile land of France, have I sought tidings, but without success, and now my heart is sinking hopeless within me, and I feel as if I could lay me down here, aye, even here ! beside these inhospitable walls, and die, were it not for the thought of my fair haired Alice. Sadly, most sadly comes into my mind the remembrance of our happy days ere your heart bowed to the stately and queenly Berenga ria, and I knelt in homage at the feet of my gentle ladye-love, Alice of Brante\ ne. Ah joy ous indeed were those days, when tired with our more manly sports, we seized the harp and made the old walls echo with songs of battle and of knightly deed. Even now, exhausted and de spairing, one of our old familiar airs is straying through my brain, as if it would fain have words.” And the minstrel unstrung from his back the small, dust covered harp, o’er which his fingers wandered in melody wild, yet beautiful, till at last breaking forth in fuller and more inspiring notes, he joined to the accompaniment the music of his mellow voice : “Thine hour is come, nnd the stnke is set, The Soldnn cried to the captive knight — And the sons of the Prophet in throngs arc met To gaze on the fearful sight; But be our faith, by your lips professed, The faith of Mecca’s shrine, Cast down the red cross that marks thy rest, And life shall yet be thine.” The minstrel paused in the song, and swept the strings in a melodious minore, for it was the part where his king was accustomed to chime in with the refrain. Hark! what sounds come to his ear? Is it the sighing of the evening breeze, that pitying his loneliness thus brooding over the memory of the heart, has shaped its sympathy into the following faintly echoed words, that he hears borne on the quiet summer air: “ l have seen the flow of my bosom’s blood, And gazed with undaunted eye ; I have borne the bright cross thro’ fire and sword, And tliink’st thou I fear to die ? 1 have stood where thousands by Salem’s towers Have fallen for the faith divine, And the faith that cheer’d their closing hours, Shall be the light of mine.” << Holy Mary ! ” gasped Bondel, now pale and trembling with, the renewal of hope, “ Can it be ! Is it my king thiit lat last have discovered ? and grasping with neV ardor, and chanting forth with renewed strength the third stanza, in order to bung forth the refrain and give certainty to his awakened hope. “ Art thou the son of a noble line, In a land that is fair and blest ? And doth not thy spirit proud captive pine A"in on its shores to rest ? Tbitm own is the choice to hail once more, The soil of thy father’s birth, Or to sleep when thy lingering pangs are o er, Forgotten in foreign earth. He paused ; again is the strain caught up This time so loud and distinctly to his expectant ear, that he cannot think it the sighing of the breeze or his own imagination : SAVANNAH, GA„ SATURDAY, JANUARY 5, “ There are hearts that still through all the past, Unchanging, have loved me well ; There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast When I bade my home farewell. Better they wept o’er the warrior’s bier, Than the apostate’s living stain ; There’s a land where those who loved when here, •Shall meet to love again.” “ ’Tis he thank God ! my prince my king !” And could Alice have seen him in thankfulness prostrate himself, she would have still better loved the noble heart in whom she trusted. Now with his whilome weary eyes radiant with joy, he tore a scrap of parchment from his scroll, upon which he tremblingly traced words of hope and cheer; then attaching it to the arrow, (before provided,) he sent it whirling through the air, now so still, into the casement from whence he heard the song, whence he had seen the scarf waving. Again came that sign forth as he stood gazing with his heart on his lips. No sooner did his catch the first flutter of the silk* than he turned towards the north, and began speeding on with renewed strength, and a heart nerved to any en durance for England. On the scrip he had penned : “If thou art Richard my king, but wave thy scarf and I will back to England at once, to ransom thee with broad pieces, or stir up thy mourning people to redeem thee with the sword. In haste, Thy faithful servant, Blondel.” part 111. • The festal board shall be richly crowned, While knights and chieftains revel round, And a thousand harps with joy shall ring, When merry England hails the king.” Once more in the dim old woods where the lov ers met; but this time ’tis not to witness how those fond hearts speak, but to see how old Sir Robert of Branteyne greets his king, and much loved sovereign, Richard Plantagenet, surnamed the lion heart. He approaches the old baronial mansion wilh a chosen retiuue ot brave hearts, and true, that have scarcely left his side since his arrival from his prison keep deep in the forests of Germany. On his right rides an old noble, full of years and of honors ; on his left his faithful minstrel friend Blondel ; behind ride other no blemen with his men-at-arms. Not now, do we see the troubabour in his tat tered, travel-stained doublet, and worn-out san dals, but cased bravely in purple and gold, with his laces, his jewels, his plumes and perfumes, for he comes decked out thus finely to woo for his bride, the fair Alice. Nor comes he empty-handed to do bis wooing, for his grateful and ever gener ous king has given him broad lands, and rich, and now rides side by side with him to speed him in his suit. And there, in the covered gateway, by the side of her father, stands the gentle lady of his love, with smiles and blushes flitting o’er her sweet face as she stands to greet her sovereign. The quick eye of love has noted Blondel as he thus rides, and her little heart is beating raptu rously at the thought of this meeting. Though in courtesy and fealty her knee is bowed toiler king, yet her woman’s heart is bent in humbleness to welcome her minstrel back to England and her love. Yes, though Richard is well beloved, and claims the first, words from those coral lips, yet her blushes and her smiles of welcome are the meed of her love. “ My own Alice,” he lias whispered, in tones the ocha of an iEolian strain, so soft, so sweet, “ Dost thou indeed joy to see me back in 3 oul fair land, and may 1 now claim thy little hand as my re ward?” *• Most welcome art thou, the trust3 r and sincere to England and my home ; but thou well knowest that though I love thee entirely, I cannot bid 3011 take that which is my father’s to bestow. But see the king is moving on, we must follow.” And into the wide old hall did they ail go, with its roaring fires piled high and cheeiingly, and where the king seated himself in the chair of state, arranged by the hospitable old knight. “My old friend,” said the king, addressing the old man, who stood b3 r his chair, “ it gives me much jo3’to be under th3 r goodly roof once again, our lady and the good Blondel be thanked, and if thou would’st still add to the measure ot my con tent grant me one request. See, I do not com mand from thee as a king, butentreatas afiiend. “ Ob, my liege speak not thus! depiecated the knight as he essa3 r ed to bend his knee, but was prevented by Richard, “ 1 hou knowest full well that I, and all that I have, belongeth to thee, to do with as thou wilt, now, and at all times. “ Savest thou this in good soothe,” replied the king, “ Then be not angered that I dispose of one parcel, according to my wishes. Ho there! someone summon the lady Alice of Brante3 T ne, and come hither also my good Blondel, for I have a debt of gratitude I would fain pay, even though it be by poaching on other people’s property.” Here the rustling of silk and the light, quick step of timid lbve,and the lady Alice is bending before the king, with her white curls floating around, veiling her fair, blushing face, and by he r side kneels the dark hued but handsome minstrel of Provence, whose noble form in its pride and strength seems like the oak to the tendril; when compared with the fragile, shrinking maiden. The king rising joins together their hands and speaks the words of betrothal ere the enraged old father, has the power to interrupt him. And then, how could he remain in anger with that gentle girl whose dove-like, pleading eyes, swimming in tears of happiness and hope, as she looks up to him. He looks at Blondel, he allows to pass in review through his mind, his constancy to his petted Alice, his leaving her to fulfill with zeal his noble pilgrimage, voluntarily seeking his king, despairing, yet still cling with the tenacity devotion to some shadow of hope. Yes, even he will say, most richly does he deserve his reward, and shall be, Robert of Branteyne, always foremost in fealty and homage, shall he be unwilling to give his part in recompense to his sovereign’s deliverer! He again looks upon the minstrel, and his heart softens as he catches his looks of tender devotion cast on his betrothed. — Acting from the impulse of this good feeling, he places the hand of Alice anew in that of Blondel, saying : “ Take then the reward of thy devotion to thy ‘king, and thy constancy to thy ladye-love. My predjudices must all vanish before the weight ol my gratitude. May the pra3 r er ot her lather be answered, that henceforth you may both be as happy as you deserve to be.” And the old hall echoed again and again with a glad sbo ut, and many a wassail bow 1 was drain< and that day to the health of the brave minstrel and his fair ladye-love, Alice of Branteyne. Colonel’s Island, Jan. 1850. A YANKEE. An American not long since visited the Louvre gallery in Paris, and was accompanied by an of ficious Englishman, who proffered bis service to point out the most remarkable paintings. “ There,” said he, “there is one of the finest pictures in Paris,” pointing to the celebrated female portrait by Titian. “ That is an original by that great master. Now look at it and improve your judge ment and taste.” Our Yankee friend looked intently at the pic ture, and then turned bis eye upon a very accu rate copy of the same standing near, to which a modest young artist was just putting some finish ing touches. “ 1 like that new one best,” says brother Jonathan, “It looks fresher and younger, and if the artist will sell it I’ll buy it. As you speak French and I don’t, please do me the favor to ask him if he will sell it, and at what price.”— “ What, that copy,” replied John Bull with ap parent astonishment, “do } T ou admire that copy? It is good for nothing, it is only a copy .” “But,” says brother Jonathan, “ if 1 like the copy best, how then ? Now, I think that copy is better than the original, and I would rather have it than the original. At any rate, do you ask the artist what he will take for it.” The Englishman “ poohed ’’ and “ pshawed ; ” but, being thus pressed, he put the question to the young artist as directed, in French. Now, all the foregoing conversation was in the direct presence of the artist himself, who heard every word as clearly as if he had been a party to it; but beseemed to heed it not. On being asked in French what he would take for the pic ture he was just finishing, he quietly and modestly answered : “ This picture is not for sale, gentle men. I painted it for my own private collection.” Arid this was said in as plain, good English as either of the gentlemen had used in their previ ous conversation. John seemed abashed ; but brother Jonathan as is hiswont, when in an agree able corner, “ bawhawed ” right out, and offering his hand with a friendly shake told the young ar tist to “go ahead,” and beat the originals, as we had done in the United States in many other things that claimed “ originality ” in the old coun tries. • A few days after this a box containing this iden tical “ copy ” was found in the apartments of our American friend, with a neat note from the artist, requesting his acceptance of the same,and thanked him for his courtesy at the gallery. In reply, this free-will offering was frankly and thankfully accepted ; not however, till brother Jonathan had found out that the artist had a widowed mother entirely dependent on him for support, to whom our friend sent a sum of money fully equivalent to the value of the picture, re questing her acceptance of the same in consider ation of the high appreciation he entertained for the talent of her son, and of an excellent copy of Titian, which he still contended “ beat the origi-. mil.” NUMBER 44
