"The child was alone, one arm out of its cradle. One of its little arms was hanging out, the other was gathered under its head."

"Its little heart lay bare.........Alas! poor mother, you shall weep."

This is the intimation we get of the ruthless deed. After giving us this tender picture of the sleeping child, the poet could not and would not bid us look on at his murderer. Explaining nothing, and allowing us to divine all, the poet proceeds:

"And the clerk went up again and wrote in black and red. Straight he wrote to the lord: 'Make haste and return...... Your dog is dead, and so is your white horse; but it is not that grieves me most.

Not that is it that will most grieve you: alas! your little child is dead.

"The sow devoured it whilst your wife was at the ball with the miller her lover.'"

The baron was returning to the joyous sound of the trumpet when he got this letter. He read it, tore it with his teeth, cast the fragments under his horse's hoofs, then rode furiously home, and struck three such blows at the castle gate that all who heard trembled. The clerk ran to open and got his welcome.

"Accursed clerk, had I not confided my wife to thee!' and in the clerk's open mouth he thrust his lance, which came out at the nape of his neck. Then he went up the staircase and broke into his wife's room, and before she could speak, he pierced her with his sword."

This is the drama, on which follows an epilogue as dramatic in its opening, but exquisitely tender towards its close.

"Sir priest, tell me what you saw at the castle?" "I saw grief such as never was upon earth. I saw a martyr die and her murderer ready to expire with grief.' Sir priest, tell me what you saw where the cross roads

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It is needless to point out how beautiful is this gathering of all the innocent and suffering creatures, the hound, the steed, the child, and its mother in one fold of peace and happiness, listening all alike to the songs of Paradise Indeed these ballads are not more remarkable for dramatic power than for pathos, of the most concise kind it is true, such pathos as a taciturn, grave people can indulge in, but all the more effective for its brevity. Delicacy and sweetness mark the close of the "Clerk of Rohan" 'spite its tragic cast; the pathos there is full of tenderness; there is a holy calmness in the priest's vision of the white-clad lady sitting on her new-made grave with her child on her knees, whilst the stars are shining in the sky and the nightingale is singing sweetly, until all fades away with the dawn of day. But sombre and desolate indeed is the end of one of the finest ballads-"Bran." The ballad itself is made up of simple matter, common enough in the days of chivalry. It bears a striking likeness to several of the same cast, and one of the chief incidents, the black sail, is as old as mythology, and can be found in the old romance of Sir Tristrem. Bran, the knight, whose name meant raven in Breton speech, has been wounded.

"He has been wounded in the fight of Kerloan. In the fight of Kerloan by the sea was wounded the grandson of Bran the Great.

"He was made prisoner spite our victory, and taken beyond the seas.'

The captive knight sickens and sends a messenger to his mother requesting her to redeem him. If she can pay his ransom, let the sails of the vessel be white, and black if she cannot. A cruel warder, who sees the ship coming with her white sails outspread to the wind, deceives his prisoner. The sail is black, he says; the captive's heart breaks, and with a sigh he expires as his mother lands on shore.

"And the lady said to the people of the town as she landed: What news is there? I hear the bells tolling.' "An old man answered the lady: A captive knight whom we had here is dead.'

"He had scarcely spoken when the lady went up to the tower,

"Running and weeping, her white hair loose,

"So that the people of the city marvelled much to see her:

"To see a strange lady thus mourning in the streets; "So that every one inquired, 'Who is she, and from what country?'

"As she reached the foot of the tower, the poor lady said to the warder,

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'Quick, open quickly, that I may see my son.' "And, when the door was open, she cast herself on the body of her son.

"She pressed him in her arms, and rose no more."

Here the ballad might have ended, for the story is told. It is told so far as this life is concerned: but whereas in "the Clerk of Rohan" we had after the death of the injured wife and all the gentle harmless creatures who shared her fate, the beautiful and consoling vision of their happiness, here we are tormented with a sorrow beyond the grave, with an exile's pining for native land which survives death itself. After telling us how the grieving mother sank by the dead body of her heart-broken son, the poet proceeds, without transition or explanation, to place before us the following wild and bleak picture:

"On the battle field of Kerloan there is a tree that commands the shore;

"There is an oak on the spot where the Saxons fled before the face of Evan the Great.

On that oak, when the moon shines, birds gather every night;

Sea birds, with black and white plumage, and a sınall stain of blood on their forehead.

"With them an old grey crow; with her a young raven.

They are very weary, both of them, and their wings are wet. They come from afar beyond the seas.

"And the birds sang so beautiful a song that the great sea was silent.

"They sang it all together, all, save the crow and the

raven;

"And the raven said, 'Sing ye little birds, sing! "Sing, little birds of the country, ye did not die away from Brittany!'"

Nothing is forgotten in that dreary picture that can make it more dreary. The battle-field by the seashore and its solitary tree suggest only the most desolate images. The sea-birds that gather on its boughs when the moon shines, the sea-birds signed with blood remind one of some ancient belief old enough to have become vague and dim; we feel at once that they are not birds, but strange eerie creatures. Childish though it may seem, the appearance of the old grey crow and the young raven in this ghost-like company, has something unearthly. They come with wet and weary wing, and we know them, even thus disguised; we know them though the poet condescends to no other explanation than that afforded by the pathetic address of the raven: "Sing: ye did not die away from Brittany."

Not to die, but to die away from Brittany, then, was the great sorrow. It was this which broke the rest of the grave, which brought the exile back to the fatal battle-field of Kerloan, and there doomed him to mourn for ever a life ended on a foreign shore.

The scenery of Brittany is wild and sad, and the character of the people is neither open nor joyous. The best ballads are all tragic or melancholy, and even when they are not sorrowful, they utterly fail in geniality. They are essentially the songs of a people who knew better how to suffer and to sacrifice than how to enjoy. The passion so characteristic of our Irish songs is here austerely conquered, and the love of good cheer, the merry woodland life of "merrie England" seem unknown. That subjection of the heart is well shown in the story of poor Jannik,

"As I neared Pen-al-Lenn going also to mass, I saw a crowd of people running terrified.

"Old woman, tell me, is mass over then?' "Mass is begun, but he could not end it; "He could not end it with weeping for Genevieve; Three large books has he wet with his tears.' "And the young girl came and fell at the feet of the priest.

"Stop Jann, in the name of God, you cause my death.""

And how does this sad love drama end? The poet will tell us in a few short words, and with remarkable delicacy:

VI.

"Sir Jann Flécher is now rector in the burgh of Nison, and I who composed this song, I have often seen him weep. ing near the tomb of Genevieve."

The same refinement is shown in the concluding stanza of another ballad-"The Marriage Girdle," in which moreover we find a striking coincidence with one of the most beautiful and favourite passages in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. A knight must go with his licge lord to help Owen Glendower against the English; before going he bids his betrothed farewell.

"What would become of me if you were to die? heart would break not to hear from you. I should go all along the shore from dwelling to dwelling, saying: Ye seamen, have ye heard news of my betrothed?'

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The young girl wept; he endeavoured to comfort her. "Hush, hush, Aloïda, weep not for me; from beyond the sea I will bring you back a wedding girdle, purple and sparkling with rubies.'

"And you might have seen the knight seated near the fire, his beloved on his knees, her head bent, her two arms twined around his neck, weeping silently, whilst she waited for the day that was to take him away from her.

"When day broke the knight said to her: The cock is crowing, my fair one; it is day.' 'It cannot be, sweet friend, it cannot be; he deceives us. It is the moon that is shining, the moon that is shining on the hill.'

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- Save your grace, I see the sun through the chinks of the door; it is time to leave you, it is time to sail away.' "And he went; and on his path the magpies chattered: If the sea is treacherous, women are more treacherous still.'

Is Aloïda gifted with second sight, that from the mountains of Arèz she sees the ship in which her lover is returning miserably wrecked? She for him, she weeps proclaims his death, and, before the year is out, she is married to another. The wedding day is not over, however, and, according to the ancient custom, the bride and bridegroom wait on the poor. For in Brittany the poor are "the cousins of the lord;" they are our dear brothers," and their presence must hallow the wedding feast. The bride selects one to dance with, for that is the custom too. We know who is the strange taciturn beggar, and Aloïda soon learns it to her sorrow :

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"And whilst they danced, bending towards her, he murmured in her ear, laughing a green laugh: What have you done with the ring of gold you got from me on the threshold of this very hall, a year ago, day for day?"

"She clasped her hands, and with uplifted eyes she cried : 'My God! I had lived till now without sorrow; I thought myself a widow-and behold I have two husbands!' "You err, my fair one, you have none !'

"And, drawing forth a dagger from beneath his vest, he so stabbed her to the heart, that she sank on her knees and bowed her head: My God!' she said, 'my God!' and she died."

VOL. II.

IV.

"In the church of the Abbey of Daoulaz there is a statue of the Virgin; it wears a girdle sparkling with rubies, and come from beyond the sea. Wouldst thou know the giver? Ask the penitent monk kneeling before it."

We do not find this significant brevity in the historical ballads of recent date. Yet surely the terrible wars of the Chouans and the Bleus were made to inspire many a strain; but as the language sank in public esteem, so the grade of the poets became lower, and their number at least more restricted. Yet all the old hatred of the Frank and all the old energy too revive in the ballad of the Bleus-the name by which the Republican soldiers were known in Brittany. There is aversion and fear in the very first stanza:

"I hear the dogs howl! here are the French soldiers. Fly to the woods; drive on the flocks before ye."

They have wasted the valleys of lower Brittany, so fat and so green of yore. The voice of men and of herds is no longer heard in them.

"If at least our eyes could weep freely; but when the man of cities sees tears flow, he sheds blood.

"If at least we would find a cross, and kneel before it to ask of God the strength that fails us; but O my God, thy holy cross has been destroyed everywhere."

The cross has been broken and desecrated, and God's image in man has been defaced. The nobles, tho priests, the peasants "with the lofty brow," have been persecuted "because they were Christians." Angels weep in heaven at the triumph of the Evil One over the land. "Rejoice, child of hell,' exclaims the indignant bard, "for thou hast substituted the law of demons to the law of God; thou hast killed the priests, the nobles, and the king. Thou hast killed the queen, and made her head roll with the fair head of Elizabeth, the holy lady, her sister!"

But from royal woes, though great, the poet soon turns to the special wrongs of Brittany, that religious persecution which, with the conscription, roused her peasants to fury, and made them strive and die like heroes.

"Farewell Jesus and Mary, your statues have been broken; the Blues have paved the streets of cities with them.

"Farewell ye baptismal fonts, where we found of yore the strength of suffering, rather endure the yoke of the wicked."

"Farewell ye holy bells, that rang over our heads. No more shall we hear ye calling us to church on Sundays and holydays."

The bells have been melted to coin money for their oppressors, the statues have been torn from their shrines to pave the hated city, the old foe of the peasant, and now the last wrong is added to the count; he is called upon to become a soldier, to fight the battles of the Frank, the citizen, the Republican,-of all he has detested for ages. His parents weep over him; but ho soon cheers and supports them.

1

Weep not; I shall stay with you, to defend Lower Brittany,"

There is sorrow in oppression, he tells them, but no shame; the only shame lies in submitting to thieves like culprits and cowards. If he must fight he will, if he must die let him, but it shall be for the cause he loves-not for that he hates. He will not fall in the ranks of the impious Blues, though he may help to send them where, as he adds, with significant energy: "They shall learn whether there is a God."

"Life for life, he adds; to kill or to be killed; God himself had to die to conquer the world."

But with these gloomy forebodings which the events of a long war justified, mingle triumphant prophecies of a happier time, "when God shall return to his altars and the king to his throne." Then the lovely valleys shall be green again, and the heart of men shall open to gladness with the wheat in bloom; then the cross of the Lord Jesus shall beam gloriously above the world, and at its foot shall blossom the fairest of lilies-" lilies watered with the blood of the Bretons."

This is the Breton's last epic song. In that sad, martyr strain, he embodied his old hatred for the Frank, at whose approach the dogs howl, who lays the green valleys waste; his passion for independence, which, spite his vigour and bravery-" a heart of steel in a body of iron," said Napoleon-makes this indomitable Celt one of the worst soldiers in the French army; and above all, that love for his faith, which makes him exult joyously in the thought of its final triumph, and be humbly content to have given his heart's blood to the beautiful lilies that blow so sweetly at the foot of the divine cross.

And yet it is somewhat singular that though a fine religious feeling pervades all these ballads, the number of the purely religious one should be limited, and their merit comparatively inferior. Veneration perhaps forbade the poet all flights of fancy, and confining himself to his subject, he thought it glory enough to relate it in all humility. We find significant allusions to Ireland in several of these legends, though mingled with some geographical mistakes. Thus we are told:

"The blessed Ronan was born of illustrious chieftains; he was born in the island of Hibernia, in the land of the Saxons, beyond the blue sea.'

[June,

"When the moon rose he saw a cask holed and tossed by the waves.

This perilous skiff the saint boldly enters, and he safely reaches Brittany, where he meets with King Arthur, who appears with Merlin in other ballads, delivers the land from a dragon, and builds himself á hermitage in a forest. Here he is soon joined by his faithful wife, who reaches him in the following manner.

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Strangely surprised was Enora the next morning when she wakened, asking what had happened, and what had befallen her husband.

"As water flows in streams, so did tears flow from her eyes, forsaken as she was, alas, by her friend and her hus band.

She weeps, and none could comfort her; she wept the whole day and the whole night long, until from very weariness she fell asleep. In her sleep she dreamed, and she had a vision beautiful and strange; she saw her husband standing by her "beautiful as day."

"And he said to her, 'Follow me, if you will not lose your soul; follow me in solitude to work out your salvation.'

And she answered in her sleep: 'I will follow you, my friend, where you please; I will become a nun to work out my salvation.

"The old men have told how angels bore her sleeping in their arms beyond the great sea, and laid her on the thres hold of her husband's hermitage."

Enore knew where she was when she woke ; three times she knocked gently at her husband's door, softly saying: "I am your wife and your sweet one whom God has brought here." Saint Efflamm knows her voice, and rising hastily, he goes out to her," and with beautiful words about God," he lays his hands in hers.

Then we are told how he reared her a home near his, close to the fountain, sheltered by the green broom, behind the green rock, and there they remained years, Eflamm and Enora working miracles, and filling the land with the fame of their sanctity.

"One night the men out at sea saw the heavens open, and they heard melody that filled them with delight. "The next morning a poor woman who had lost her milk came to Enora, carrying her child that was near dying.

"But though she called at the door Enora did not open, then looking in through a chink she saw the lady lying dead. "Bright as the sun, and the whole cabin was lit; and near her knelt a child clad in white."

Then she ran to tell the blessed Efflamm, but the door of his hermitage was wide open, and he was dead

like his wife.

"That these things which have never been put in a book may not be forgotten, they have been put in verses to be sung in the churches."

And that they were sung in churches accounts, no doubt, for the sobriety of the narrative. Besides these legendary poems, there are hymns, some terrible like that on hell, that gloomy abode, locked by God himself, and of which the key is lost for ever; others sweet and consoling like that on Paradise, which a poor beggar woman who could scarcely restrain her tears, sang to

"When my chains are broken I shall rise aloft like a lark. "I shall pass the moon to go to glory; sun and stars shall be beneath my feet.

"When I shall be far from earth, that valley of tears, I shall look down on my own Brittany."

Heaven itself cannot make that beloved Brittany be forgotten; and in the same feeling all the glories of that seat of bliss where angels hover over the blest, "like a swarm of bees over a field of flowers," cannot weaken the delight of the released souls at meeting, full of grace and glory, "our fathers, our mothers, our brothers, and the people of our country."

But though that country is still beloved, her poeti cal faculty, if it has not declined, has at least become more restricted. The bards and their survivors have long been gone; ballad-making has descended to the ignorant and the poor. Of styles, the test of refined art, foreigners cannot be judges, but they can of thought and feeling; and in those qualities the charming song of "the Swallows," composed by the two sisters, to whom we owe the lament over poor Jeffik, is certainly not deficient. It shall be our last quotation

"There is a little path that leads from the manor to my village';

"A white path, with a hawthorn bush on the edge of it; "Laden with flowers that please the lord of the manor. "I wish I were a hawthorn blossom that he might gather me with his white hand;

"That he might gather me with his little white hand, whiter than the blossom of the thorn.

"I wish I were a hawthorn blossom that he might wear me near his heart.

"He leaves us when winter comes in the house; "He goes towards the French country, like the flying swallow."

"When spring comes back, he also returns to us. "When the blue corn flowers are born in the fields, and the oats blossom;

"When the goldfinch and the linnets sing,

"He returns with the festivals, he returns with our par-, dons.

"Oh! that we had flowers and festivals in every season. "That we might ever see the swallows; that I might ever see them hover around the eaves."

Ay, there is the sore point. There was a time when Brittany was equally dear to all her sons, when the peasant and the lord of the manor never left her for the French country. Now that things are changed, that the old language is forsaken, like the old land, we must not be surprised if the gift of poetry has declined. For who are the poets of Brittany now? Not always delicate, though ignorant peasant girls, like the two

sisters. The tailor of the village, whom nothing escapes; the miller, who sees everything on his rounds; the cloarec, or the young student who aspires to holy orders, and stands half hesitating on the threshold of the world and of a pastor's austere life; these are the modern poets. Their songs may be beautiful, but we do not know them; they are not included in the collection. The omission is significant. Brittany has many a noble, tender, and heroic strain, but it is in the past, in her conquered language, that we must seek them.

EXILES.

BY CAVIARE.

GRAY, wrinkled wanderers, on shores remote,

And lands forlorn, where the swallow's wing Drops on the skirts of Summer; and the throat Of the green linnet bubbleth not to Spring;

Brown toilers, fugitives from fairer skies,
The star-vaults of the meeting west and north,
Inheritors of mournful histories,

Whose sweat has colonised the teeming earth;

Rare women, beautiful and sad and chaste

As twilight dews upon your native heaths, What time the April blows with rainy haste,

And the swart cowslip in the hedges breathes;

From many lands, from myriad willow glooms,
From the cold rivers of captivity-

From monuments, from households, and from tombs,
Your faint, sweet voices float across the sea.

I hear them not in many broken wails, But in one wild funereal orison Gathered, as a hundred separate sails

Mass to a single snow-cloud in the sun.

I hear them rising like a choral woe,
Rolled along battle-fields beside the main-
A breathing misery, chaunted loud and low,
From the great torture of a people's brain.

For unto you and me belong no more,

The swords and cymbals of a victor race ; The seething craftsmen on the humming shore, The powers that terrify, the arts that grace.

We live on bleared traditions of old days

Vast fables builded on the sands of truth, From which shine out, through immemorial haze, Gleams of our broken strength and faded youth.

We couch at sunset around burial mounds

Girt with the solemn presences of death; In holy kirks and consecrated grounds,

Whose stones are testimonies to our faith.