66

THE days of chivalry are born again! the Spirit of Romance has arisen from the hiding place of oblivion, the feats of erst live once more, and again does the Crusader gird on his sword and his buckler,-again does the field of the tournament sparkle with beauty and valour,-again does the spirit of old England warm with the remembrance of her ancient glory! The Knight of Scotland hath converted his pen into a lance, and hath run a tilt with time; the joust is over, the guerdon is won, and the lady of his love shall acknowledge the devoir by crowning his brows with the long-wished-for laurel of immortality. But staywhere are we running to?-we had clenched our grey goose quill ” with as much earnestness as if it had been a spear, and we had entered the lists the avowed champions of the Knight of Abbottsford. He needs not such humble heralds as ourselves to proclaim his glory; the fame that his preceding tournaments have conferred on him is not tarnished by his present encounter with that mail-encircled and almost invulnerable knight-errant, the Public. His pilgrimage is past-he has entered the lists with the untamable resolution of a true knight of the cross; he has lifted his lance-the shock is over-and he rides off triumphant. In sober criticism, the Great Unknown is again himself-the Author of Waverley and Ivanhoe;-Saint Ronan's Well and Redgauntlet are already forgotten. The "Tales of the Crusaders" have already taken root in the garden of evergreens, and every leaf is a laurel on his brows.

We shall pass over the first tale, the "Betrothed," which, though it would not disgrace any name, however high in literature, is in comparison to the "Talisman," what the first faint streak on the horizon is to the succeeding orb, which is to give light and life to the world. The tale opens with a description of the pilgrimage of a northern knight, (Sir Kenneth) towards the shrine of some holy saint; in his way he is met by a Saracen cavalier, with whom he lifts a lance, and after a desperate battle the combatants separate, and amicably repose by the side of a fountain, where they agree to desist from further hostilities, The Saracen (Ilderim) hearing it to be the intention of the Knight of the Leopard (Sir Kenneth) to visit the shrine of the Hermit of Engaddi, we shall, with one movement of our magical (i. e. editorial) wand, transport them to that holy spot. It should be understood that Sir Kenneth has a mission to that sacred place from the council of the Crusaders, on a subject which the author and ourselves intend, as yet, to keep secret. Sir Kenneth is the hero of the piece, and by all the rules of romance, ancient and modern, he could not be a hero were he not in love. Though represented as poor and not of courtly degree, the object of his enthusiasm is Edith, of Plantagenet, the cousin of Richard, king of England.

At the cell of the hermit we find the Crusader and his late antagonist, Ilderim the Saracen. Both are retired to rest, when the anchorite, a

*By the Author of Waverley, and Quentin Durward. 4 vols. Edinburgh, Constable and Co.

wild and half insane devotee, awakens Kenneth, and mysteriously desires him to follow his footsteps. After the hermit has blindfolded his eyes, as if unworthy of the sight Kenneth is about to enjoy, they enter a small but beautiful chapel, hewn out of the solid rock. Here, after fervid devotion, they are welcomed by the most ravishing melody, from the lips of unseen choristers. Presently a train of noble damsels appear, all veiled, but one of which excites a sympathy in the breast of Kenneth, that he cannot account for, further than that he is under the influence of some supernatural spell. We must make room for the following exquisitely imagined and chastely written passage.

Such was the knight's first idea, as the procession passed him, moving neither foot nor hand, save just sufficiently to continue their progress; so that, seen by the shadowy and religious light, which the lamps shed through the clouds of incense which darkened the apartment, they appeared rather to glide than to walk.

But as a second time, in surrounding the chapel, they passed the spot on which he kneeled, one of the white-stoled maidens, as she glided by him, detached from the chaplet which she carried a rose-bud, which she dropped from her fingers, perhaps unconsciously, on the foot of Sir Kenneth. The knight started as if a dart had suddenly struck his person; for, when the mind is wound up to a high pitch of feeling and expectation, the slightest incident, if unexpected, gives fire to the train which imagination has already laid. But he suppressed his emotion, recollecting how easily an accident so indifferent might have happened, and that it was only the uniform monotony of the movement of the choristers, which made the incident in the slightest degree remarkable. Still, while the procession, for the third time, surrounded the chapel, the thought and the eyes of Kenneth followed exclusively her among the novices who had dropped the rose-bud. Her step, her face, her form, were so completely assimilated to the rest of the choristers, that it was impossible to perceive the least marks of individuality, and yet Kenneth's heart throbbed like a bird that would burst from its cage, as if to assure him, by its sympathetic suggestions, that the female who held the right file on the second rank of the novices, was dearer to him, not only than all that were present, but than the whole sex besides. The romantic passion of love, as it was cherished, and indeed enjoined, by the rules of chivalry, associated well with the no less romantic feelings of devotion; and they might be said much more to enhance than to counteract each other. It was, therefore, with a glow of expectation, that had something even of a religious character, that Sir Kenneth, his sensations thrilling from his heart to the end of his fingers, expected some signal sign of the presence of one, who, he strongly fancied, had already bestowed on him the first. Short as the space was, during which the procession again completed a third perambulation of the chapel, it seemed an eternity to Kenneth. At length the form, which he had watched with such devoted attention, drew nigh-there was no difference betwixt that shrouded figure aud the others, with whom it moved in concert and in unison, until, just as she passed for the third time the kneeling crusader, a part of a little and well-proportioned hand, so beautifully formed as to give the highest idea of the perfect proportions of the form to which it belonged, stole through the folds of the gauze, like a moon-beam through the fleecy cloud of a summer night, and again a rose-bud lay at the feet of the Knight of the Leopard.

This second intimation could not be accidental-it could not be fortuitous the resemblance of that half-seen, but beautiful female hand, with one which his lips had once touched, and while they touched it, had internally sworn allegiance to the lovely owner. Had farther proof been wanting, there was the glimmer of that matchless ruby ring on that snow-white finger, whose invaluable worth Kenneth would have prized less than the slightest sign which that finger could have made-and, veiled too as she was, he might see, by chance, or by favour, a stray curl of the dark tresses, each hair of which was dearer to him an hundred times than a chain of massive gold. It was the lady of his love! But that she should be here-in the savage and sequestered desert-among vestals, who rendered themselves habitants of deserts and of caverns, that they might perform in secret those Christian rites which they dared not assist in openly-that this should be so-in truth and in reality-seemed too incredible-it must be a dream-a delusive trance of the imagination. While these thoughts passed through the mind of Kenneth, the same passage, through which the procession had entered the chapel, received them on their return. The young sacristans, the sable nuns, vanished succes

sively through the open door-at length she, from whom he had received this double intimation, passed also-yet, in passing, turned her head, slightly indeed, but perceptibly towards the place where he remained fixed as an image. He marked the last wave of her veil-it was gone-and a darkness sunk upon his soul, scarce less palpable than that which almost immediately enveloped his external sense; for the last chorister had no sooner crossed the threshold of the door, than it shut with a loud sound, and at the same instant the voices of the choir were silent, the lights of the chapel were at once extinguished, and Sir Kenneth remained solitary, and in total darkness. But to Kenneth, solitude, and darkness, and the uncertainty of his mysterious situation, was as nothing he thought not of them-cared not for them-cared for nought in the world save the flitting vision which had just glided past him, and the tokens of her favour which she had bestowed. To grope on the floor for the buds which she had droppedto press them to his lips-to his bosom-now alternately, now together to rivet his lips to the cold stones on which, as near as he could judge, she had so lately stept-to play all the extravagances which strong affection suggests and vindicates to those who yield themselves up to it, were but the tokens of passionate love, proper to all ages. But it was peculiar to the times of chivalry, that in his wildest rapture the knight imagined of no attempt to follow or to trace the object of such romantic attachment; that he thought of her as of a deity, who, having deigned to show herself for an instant to her devoted worshipper, was again returned to the darkness of her sanctuary—or as an influential planet, which, having darted in some auspicious minute one favourable ray, wrapped itself again in its veil of mist. The motions of the lady of his love were to him those of a superior being, who was to move without watch or control, rejoice him by her appearance, or depress him by her absence, animate him by her kindness, or drive him to despair by her cruelty-all at her own free will, and without other importunity or remonstrance than that expressed by the most devoted services of the heart and sword of the champion, whose sole object in life was to fulfil her commands, and, by the splendour of his own achievements, to exalt her fame.

Such were the rules of chivalry, and of the love which was its ruling principle. But Sir Kenneth's attachment was rendered romantic by other and still more peculiar circumstances. He had never even heard the sound of his lady's voice, though he had often beheld her beauty with rapture. She moved in a circle which his rank of knighthood permitted him indeed to approach, but not to mingle with; and highly as he stood distinguished for warlike skill and enterprize, still the poor Scottish soldier was compelled to worship his divinity at a distance, almost as great as divides the Persian from the sun which he adores. But when was the eye of woman too lofty to overlook the passionate devotion of a lover, however inferior in degree? Her eye had been on him in the tournament, her ear had heard his praises in the report of the battles which were daily fought; and while count, duke, and lord contended for her grace, it flowed, unwillingly perhaps at first, or even unconsciously, towards the poor Knight of the Leopard, who, to support his rank, had little besides his sword. When she looked, and when she listened, the lady saw and heard enough to encourage her in a partiality, which had at first crept on her unawares. If a knight's personal beauty was praised, even the most prudish dames in the military court of England would make an exception in favour of the Scottish Kenneth; and it oftentimes happened, that notwithstanding the large largesses which princes and peers bestowed on the minstrels, an impartial spirit of independence would seize the poet, and the harp was swept to the heroism of one who had neither palfries nor garments to bestow in guerdon of his applause.

The moments when she listened to the praises of her lover became gradually more dear to the high-born Edith, relieving the flattery with which her ear was weary, and presenting to her a subject of secret contemplation more worthy, as he seemed by general report, than those who surpassed him in rank and in the gifts of fortune. As her attention became constantly, though cautiously, fixed on Sir Kenneth, she grew more and more convinced of his personal devotion to herself, and more and more certain in her mind, that in Kenneth of Scotland she beheld the fated knight doomed to share with her through weal and woe-and the prospect looked gloomy and dangerous -the passionate attachment to which the poets of the age ascribed such universal dominion, and which its manners and morals placed nearly on the same rank with devotion itself.

The lady Edith is amongst the train who have accompanied the Queen of England, to this holy shrine, from the camp of her royal consort, he of the lion heart, who is there lying consuming in a fever. We

must again make use of one word, and our readers will acknowledge its power by finding themselves in the royal camp, by the side of the British Achilles. Here Kenneth, though by a longer route, has arrived before us in company with a Moorish physician, sent expressly by Saladin, the great enemy of the Crusaders, for the magnanimous and heroic purpose of restoring to health his formidable rival. The cure is to be wrought by means of a TALISMAN, in possession of the physician; and here the tale begins to assume an appearance of interest. After some doubt and suspicion, Richard consents to make use of the medicine, though conveyed from the hands of an enemy. It has a sucsessful effect; and while the king is in the enjoyment of a refreshing slumber, two members of his court, the Master of the Knights Templars, a proud and arrogant soldier and priest, and Conrade the Marquis of Montserrat, mutually confide in each other their ambitious and treasonable views. They agree to inflame Leopold the Duke of Austria, who is one of the princes that join the Crusade, to shake off the subjection he has hitherto paid to Richard, and plant his own standard above that of England. Their design is carried into execution. Scarcely has the banner of Austria supplanted that of England, when Richard, who has just past the crisis of his disorder, heedless of the supplication of his courtiers and El Hakim, the physician, rushes with tremendous rage to the spot, tears down the banner, tramples on it, and hurls the German headlong down the mound, where the standard had been waving. Philip, king of France, who has also joined the Crusade, arrives and restores tranquillity; the royal standard of England is reinstated; and Sir Kenneth, as a reward for his zeal in bringing the physician, is left to guard the sacred trophy, which he vows to protect and answer for with his life. He is true to the post until midnight, when he is summoned by a little dwarf, whom he had seen in his adventure at Engeddi, to attend for a few minutes in the queen's tent, by command of the lady Edith. The knight doubts the truth of his mission; but the dwarf shows him the ruby ring which he had seen on the fair finger of Edith, in the rocky chapel. Sir Kenneth, distracted between the dictates of honour and the intensity of his love, the commands of his royal leader and the commands of his mistress, reluctantly consents at last-on seeing that the queen's tent is but little removed from the base of the mount-to repair thither. And by the side of the banner he leaves, as his substitute, his faithful stag greyhound, considering, that if any attempt should be made upon the frontier in his absence, the barking of the hound will announce it to his ear, and he shall be able to return in time. Arrived at the queen's tent, he has the mortification of discovering, that he has been withdrawn from his post and his duty, merely to gratify the desire of Berengaria, of Sicily, (Richard's queen,) to ascertain whether the ring of the lady Edith, which had been taken from her without her knowledge for this purpose, would tempt him to such an excessive proof of his attachment. Edith herself becomes apprised of what has happened her indignation, and sorrow, and alarm are unbounded; she is alive to all the consequences of a discovery by the king of such remissness of duty on the part of Sir Kenneth; and Edith, with mingled firmness and delicacy, sees him, excuses herself from all participation in the trick which had been so inconsiderately put upon him, and dismisses

him. On his return, musing on the almost confessions of partial attachment which he had heard the queen impute to Edith, and Edith, in effect, protest for him, he is aroused from his abstraction by the groans of his dog. He runs onward, and finds, that the standard is vanished, the spear to which it was attached broken on the ground, and his gallant hound apparently in the agonies of death. The distracted knight vainly seeks in every direction the lost standard, and giving vent to the execrations of despair, takes the desperate resolution of presenting himself before Richard, and, acknowledging his offence, to declare himself ready to undergo the punishment. This terrible interview is excellently given :-after several times determining to immolate him on the spot, the amazed and fiery Richard, scarcely crediting Kenneth's own acknowledgments, (for he offers no explanation, and carefully conceals a defence that might, to the jealous monarch, appear to impugn Edith his niece's honour,) gives order for his execution. When he has been led to his prison, and is with his confessor, Berengaria, accompanied by the loftier-minded Edith and their ladies, present themselves before the lion-hearted, and with many entreaties supplicate for the knight's life. Richard solemnly protests that he shall die. Edith then remonstrates with him as a Plantagenet may be supposed to have remonstrated-fearlessly, undauntedly, despite of the frowns and anger of the most impetuous monarch in the world. She makes an ingenuous confession of the queen's folly, but proudly exempts herself from all imputation; and finding appeals to Richard's justice or mercy to be equally fruitless, she leaves him in despair. The hermit of Engeddi then presents herself before the king with a similar purpose, and similar bad success. But El Hakim, the noble and learned, who had refused all the treasure in the camp for his services, extorts from Richard's gratitude, that which he had denied to all other considerations, and even to his affection for his queen. He remits Sir Kenneth to El Hakim; and the Arab and his bondsman, the degraded knight, set out on their journey to the camp of the soldan Saladin. In a magnificent oriental palace, we find Sir Kenneth and the Moorish physician, whom he not only discovers to be the Saracen Emir, Ilderim, whom, at the commencement of the tale, it will be remembered, he fought and conquered, but also the magnanimous and heroic Saladin; who, although an emperor, and his rival in love, (he having also made proposals for the hand of Edith,) treats him with the most princely hospitality and fraternal affection. During this time, an occurrence has taken place, which promises to clear the odium that is shed on the name of the Scottish knight. The life of Richard is attempted, and, he conjectures, by the same hand as stole his standard, which lost Sir Kenneth his honourable name. At the suggestion of a confidential adviser, he ordered a grand review, where the whole army march in procession under the flag of England, where Kenneth's hound, which was wounded in its defence, is placed. The knights and soldiers pass under, without any notice from the animal, till Conrade, the ambitious and intriguing Marquis of Montserrat approaches, when the dog seizes and nearly destroys him. Great consternation and suspicion is excited; and in order that the Marquis may have every opportunity afforded him, a tournament is appointed, and the Scottish knight is named as the