University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

A wild and plaintive note had been sounded on
a horn far in the valley towards the hill of Limburg.
This melodious music was of common occurrence,
for of all that dwell in Europe, they who inhabit
the banks of the Rhine, the Elbe, the Oder, and the
Danube, with their tributaries, are the most addicted
to the cultivation of sweet sounds. We hear much
of the harshness of the Teutonic dialects, and of
the softness of those of Latin origin; but, Venice
and the regions of the Alps excepted, nature has
amply requited for the inequality that exists between
the languages, by the difference in the organs of
speech. He who journeys in those distant lands
must, as a rule, expect to hear German warbled and
Italian in a grand crash, though exceptions are certainly
to be found in both cases. But music is far
more common on the vast plains of Saxony than on
the Campagna Felice, and it is no uncommon occurrence
to be treated by a fair-haired postilion of the
former country, as he slowly mounts a hill, with airs
on the horn that would meet with favor in the orchestra
of a capital. It was one of these melancholy
and peculiar strains which now gave the signal
to the spies of Count Emich, that his clerical
guests had quitted the convent.

“Heard ye aught, brothers?” demanded Father
Bonifacius of the companions who rode at his side,
nearly at the same moment that the Lord of Leiningen
put the same question in his hold; “that horn
spoke in a meaning strain!”

“We may be defeated in our wish to reach the
castle suddenly,” returned the monk, already known

to the reader as Father Siegfried; “but though we
fail in looking into Count Emich's secret with our
own eyes, I have engaged one to do that office for
us, and in a manner, I trust, that shall put us on the
scent of his designs. Courage, most holy Abbot,
the cause of God is not likely to fail for want of
succor. When were the meek and righteous ever
deserted?”

The Abbot of Limburg ejaculated, in a manner to
express little faith in any miraculous interposition in
behalf of his cure, and he drew about him the mantle
that served in some degree to conceal his person,
spurring the beast he rode only the quicker, from a
feverish desire, if possible, to outstrip the sounds,
which he intuitively felt were intended to announce
his approach. The prelate was not deceived, for
no sooner did the wild notes reach the castle, than
the signal, which had caught the attention of its
owner, was communicated to those within the walls.

At the expected summons there was a general
movement among the idlers of the courts. Subordinate
officers passed among the men, hurrying
those away to their secret lodging places who were
intractable from excess of liquor, and commanding
the more obedient to follow. In a very few minutes,
and long before the monks, who however pricked
their beasts to the utmost, had time to get near the
hamlet even, all in the hold was reduced to a state
of tranquil repose; the castle resembling the abode
of any other powerful baron, in moments of profound
security. Emich had seen to this disposition
of his people in person, taking strict caution that no
straggler should appear, to betray the preparations
that existed within his walls. When this wise precaution
was observed, he proceeded, with his two
companions, to take a station near the door of the
building more especially appropriated to the accommodation

of himself and his friends, in order to
await the arrival of the monks.

The moon had ascended high enough to illuminate
the mountain-side, and to convert the brown towers
and ramparts of Hartenburg into picturesque forms,
relieved by gloomy shadows. The signals appeared
to have thrown all who dwelt in the hamlet, as well
as they who inhabited the frowning hold which
overhung that secluded spot, into mute attention.
For a few minutes the quiet was so deep and general,
that the murmuring of the rivulet which meandered
through the meadows was audible. Then
came the swift clattering of hoofs.

“Our churchmen are in haste to taste thy Rhenish,
noble Emich,” said Albrecht of Viderbach, who
rarely thought; “or is it a party of their sumpter
mules that I hear in the valley?”

“Were the Abbot about to journey to some other
convent of his order, or were he ready to visit his
spiritual master of Spires, there is no doubt that
many such cattle would be in his train; for of all
lovers of fat cheer, Wilhelm of Venloo, who has
been styled Bonifacius in his baptism of office, is he
that most worships the fruits of the earth. I would
he and all his brotherhood were spiritually planted
in the garden of Eden! They should be well watered
with my tears!”

“The wish hath a saintly odor, but may not be
accomplished without mortal aid—unless thou hast
favor with the Prince Elector of Koeln, who might
haply do thee that service, in the way of miracle.”

“Thou triflest, knight, in a matter of great gravity,”
answered Emich roughly, for, notwithstanding
his inherited and deadly dislike of the particular
portion of the church which interfered with his own
power, the Count of Hartenburg had all the dependence
on superior knowledge that is the unavoidable
offspring of a limited education. “The Prince Elector

hath served many noble families in the way thou
namest, and he might do honor to houses less deserving
of his grace, than that of Leiningen. But
here cometh the Abbot and his boon associates.
God's curse await them for their pride and avarice!”

The clattering of hoofs had been gradually increasing,
and was now heard even on the pavement
of the outer court; for in order to do honor to his
guests, the count had especially ordered there should
be no delay or impediment from gate, portcullis, or
bridge.

“Welcome, and reverence for thy churchly office,
right holy Abbot!” cried Emich, from whose lips
had just parted the malediction, advancing officiously
to aid the prelate in dismounting—“Thou art welcome,
brothers both; worthy companions of thy
respected and honored chief.”

The churchmen alighted, assisted by the menials
of Hartenburg, with much show of honor on the
part of the Count himself, and on that of his friends.
When fairly on their feet, they courteously returned
the greetings.

“Peace be with thee, son, and with this cavalier
and servitor of the Church!” said Father Bonifacius,
signing with the rapid manner in which a Catholic
priest scatters his benedictions. “St. Benedict and
the Virgin take ye all in their holy keeping! I trust,
noble Emich, we have not given thee cause of vexation,
by some little delay?”

“Thou never comest amiss, father, be it at morn,
or be it at even; I esteem Hartenburg more than
honored, when thy reverend head passeth beneath
its portals.”

“We had every desire to embrace thee, son, but
certain offices of religion, that may not be neglected,
kept us from the pleasure. But let us within; for
I fear the evening air may do injury to those that
are uncloaked.”

At this considerate suggestion, Emich, with much
show of respect to his guests, ushered them into the
apartment he had himself so lately quitted. Here
recommenced the show of those wily courtesies
which, in that semi-barbarous and treacherous age,
often led men to a heartless and sometimes to a blasphemous
trifling with the most sacred obligations, to
effect their purposes, and which, in our times, has
degenerated to a deception, that is more measured
perhaps, but which is scarcely less sophisticated and
vicious. Much was said of mutual satisfaction at
this opportunity of commingling spirits, and the
blunt professions of the sturdy but politic baron,
were more than met by the pretending sanctity and
official charity of the priest.

The Abbot of Limburg and his companions had
come to the intended feast with vestments that partially
concealed their characters; but when the
outer cloaks and the other garments were removed,
they remained in the usual attire of their order, the
prelate being distinguished from his inferiors by
those symbols of clerical rank, which it was usual
for one of his authority to display, when not engaged
in the ministrations of the altar.

When the guests were at their ease, the conversation
took a less personal direction, for though rude
and unnurtured as his own war-horse, as regards
most that is called cultivation in our bookish days,
Emich of Hartenburg wanted for none of the courtesies
that became his rank, more especially as
civilities of this nature were held to be worthy of
a feudal lord, and in that particular region.

“'Tis said, reverend Abbot,” continued the host,
pushing the discourse to a point that might favor his
own secret views, that our common master, the
Prince Elector, is sorely urged by his enemies, and
that there are even fears a stranger may usurp the
rule in the noble Castle of Heidelberg. Hast thou

heard aught of his late distresses, or of the necessities
that bear upon his house?”

“Masses have been said for his benefit in all our
chapels, and there are hourly prayers that he may
prevail against his enemies. In virtue of a concession
made to the abbey, by our common father at
Rome, we offer liberal indulgences, too, to all that
take up arms in this behalf.”

“Thou art much united in love with Duke Friedrich,
holy prelate!” muttered Emich.

“We owe him such respect as all should willingly
pay to the strong temporal arm that shields them;
our serious fealty is due alone to heaven. But how
comes it that so stout a baron, one so much esteemed
in warlike exercises, and so well known in dangerous
enterprises, rests in his doublet, at a time when
his sovereign's throne is tottering? We had heard
that thou wert summoning thy people, Herr Count,
and thought it had been in the Elector's interest.”

“Friedrich hath not of late given me cause to
love him. If I have called my vassals about me,
'tis because the times teach every noble to be wary
of his rights. I have consorted so much of late
with my cousin of Viederbach, this self-denying
Knight of Rhodes, that martial thoughts will obtrude
even on the brain of one, peaceful and homebred as
thy poor neighbor and penitent.”

The Abbot bowed and smiled, like one who gave
full credit to the speaker's words, while a by-play
arose between the wandering and houseless knight,
the abbé, and the brothers of Limburg. In this
manner did a few minutes wear away, when a
flourish of trumpets announced that the expected
banquet awaited its guests. Menials lighted the
party to the hall in which the board was spread,
and much ceremonious form was observed in assigning
to each of the individuals the place suited
to his rank and character. Count Emich, who in

common was of a nature too blunt and severe to
waste his efforts in superfluous breeding, now
showed himself earnest to please, for he had at
heart an object that he knew was in danger of
being baffled by the more practised artifices of the
monks. During the preliminary movements of the
feast, which had all the gross and all the profuse
hospitality which distinguished such entertainments,
he neglected no customary observance. The robust
and sensual Abbot was frequently plied with
both cup and dish, while the inferior monks received
the same agreeable attentions from Albrecht
of Viederbach, and Monsieur Latouche, who, notwithstanding
it suited his convenience to pass
through life under the guise of a churchman, was
none the worse at board or revel. As the viands
and the generous liquors began to operate on the
physical functions of the brothers, however, they insensibly
dropped their masks, and each discovered
more of those natural qualities, which usually lay
concealed from casual observation.

It was a rule of the Benedictines to practise hospitality.
The convent door was never closed
against the wayfarer, and he who applied for
shelter and food was certain of obtaining both, administered
more or less in a manner suited to the
applicant's ordinary habits. The practice of a virtue
so costly was a sufficient pretence for accumulating
riches, and he who travels at this day in
Europe will find ample proofs that the means of
carrying into effect this law of the order were
abundantly supplied. Abbeys of this particular
class of monks are still of frequent occurrence in the
forest cantons of Switzerland, Germany, and in
most of the other Catholic states. But the gradual
and healthful transfer of political power from clerical
to laical hands, has long since shorn them of
their temporal lustre. Many of these abbots were

formerly princes of the empire, and several of the
communities exercised sovereign sway over territories
that have since taken to themselves the character
of independent states.

While the spiritual charge and the mortifications
believed to characterize a brotherhood of Benedictines,
were more especially left to a subordinate
monk termed the prior, the abbot, or head of the
establishment, was expected to preside not only
over the temporalities, but at the board. This frequent
communication with the vulgar interests of
life, and the constant indulgence in its grosser gratifications,
were but ill adapted to the encouragement
of the monastic virtues. We have already remarked
that the intimate connexion between the interests of
life and those of the church is destructive of apostolical
character. This blending of God with Mammon,
this device of converting the revealed ordinances
of the Master of the Universe into a species
of buttress to uphold temporal sway, though habit
has so long rendered it familiar to the inhabitants
of the other hemisphere, and even to a large portion
of those who dwell in this, is, in our American eyes,
only a little removed from blasphemy; but the triumphs
of the press, and the changes made by the
steady advances of public opinion, have long since
done away with a multitude of still more equivocal
usages, that were as familiar to those who existed
three centuries ago, as our own customs to us at
this hour. When prelates were seen in armor,
leading their battalions to slaughter, it is not to be
supposed that the other dignitaries of this privileged
class, would be more tender of appearances than
was exacted by the opinions of the age.

Wilhelm of Venloo, known since his elevation as
Bonifacius of Limburg, was not possessed of all
that temporal authority, however, which tempted so
many of his peers to sin. Still he was the head of

a rich, powerful, and respected brotherhood, that
had many allodial rights in lands beyond the abbey
walls, and which was not without its claims to the
fealty of sundry dependants. Of vigorous mind
and body, this dignified churchman commanded
much influence by means of a species of character
that often crosses us in life, a sturdy independence
of thought and action that imposed on the credulous
and timid, and which sometimes caused the bold
and intelligent to hesitate. His reputation was far
greater for learning than for piety, and his besetting
sin was well known to be a disposition to encounter
the shock between the powers of mind and matter,
as both were liable to be affected by deep potations
and gross feeding—a sort of degeneracy to which
all are peculiarly liable, who place an unnatural
check on the ordinary and healthful propensities of
nature—just as one sense is known to grow in
acuteness as it is deprived of a fellow. The abbot
loosened his robe, and threw his cowl still farther
from his neck, while Emich pledged him in Rhenish,
cup after cup; and by the time the meats were removed,
and the powers of digestion, or we might
better say of retention, would endure no more, his
heavy cheeks became flushed, his bright, deeply-seated,
and searching gray eyes flashed with a species
of ferocious delight, and his lip frequently quivered,
as the clay gave eloquent evidence of its enjoyment.
Still his voice, though it had lost its rebuked
and schooled tones, was firm, deep, and authoritative,
and ever and anon he threw into his
discourse some severe and pointed sarcasm, bitingly
scornful. His subordinates, too, gave similar proofs
of the gradual lessening of their caution, though in
degrees far less imposing, we had almost said less
grand, than that which rendered the sensual excitement
of their superior so remarkable. Albrecht
and the abbé also betrayed, each in his own manner,
the influence of the banquet, and all became garrulous,
disputative, and noisy.

Not so with Emich of Hartenburg. He had
eaten in a manner to do justice to his vast frame
and bodily wants, and he drank fairly; but, until
this moment, the nicest observer would have been
puzzled to detect any decrease of his powers. The
blue of his large leaden eyes became brighter, it is
true, but their expression was yet in command, and
their language courteous.

“Thou dost but little compliment to my poor fare,
most holy Abbot,” cried the host, as he witnessed a
lingering look of the prelate, whose eye followed
the delicious fragments of a wild boar from the hall
—“If the knaves have stinted thee in the choice of
morsels, by St. Benedict! but the mountains of my
chase can still furnish other animals of the kind—
How now—”

“I pray thee, mercy, noble Emich! Thy forester
hath done thee fair justice with his spear; more
savory beast never smoked at table.”

“It fell by the hand of young Berchthold, the
burgher of Deurckheim's orphan. 'Tis a bold youth
in the forest, and I doubt not, his will one day be a
ready hand in battle. Thou knowest him I mean,
father, for he is often at thy abbey confessionals.”

“He is better known to the prior than to one so
busied with worldly cares as I. Is the youth at
hand? I would fain render him thanks.”

“Hear ye that, varlet! Bid my head forester
appear. The reverend and noble Abbot of Limburg
owes him grace.”

“Didst thou say the youth was of Deurckheim?”

“Of that goodly town, reverend priest; and,
though reduced by evil chances to be the ranger of
my woods, a lad of mettle in the chase, and of no
bad discourse in moments of ease.”

“Thou claimest hard service, Cousin of Hartenburg,

of these peaceful townsmen! Were they left
freely to choose between the ancient duty of our
convent, and this stirring life thou leadest the
artisans, we should have more penitents within our
walls.”

The feality of Deurckheim was a long mooted
point between the corporation of Limburg and the
house of Leiningen, and the allusion of the monk
was not thrown away upon his host. Emich's
brow clouded, and for a moment it threatened a
storm; but, recovering his self-command, he answered
in a tone of hilarity, though with sufficient
coolness:—

“Thy words remind me of present affairs, reverend
Bonifacius, and I thank thee that thou hast put
a sudden check on festivities which were getting
warm without an object.” The Count arose, and
filled to the brim a cup of horn, elaborately ornamented
with gold, drawing the attention of all at
table to himself by the action. “Nobles and reverend
servants of God,” he continued, “I drink to the
health and happiness of the honored Wilhelm of
Venloo, the holy Abbot of Limburg, and my loving
neighbor. May his brotherhood never know a
worse guide, and may the lives and contentment of
all that now belong to it, be as lasting as the abbey
walls.”

Emich concluded the potent cup at a single
draught. In order to do honor to the mitred monk,
there had been placed by the side of Bonifacius, a
vessel of agate richly decorated with jewelry, an
heir-loom of the house of Leiningen. While his
host was speaking, the looks of the latter watched
every expression of his countenance, through gray,
overhanging, shaggy brows, that shaded the upper
part of his face like a screen of shrubbery planted
to shut out prying eyes from a close; and he paused

when the health was given. Then, rising in his
turn, he quaffed a compliment in return.

“I drink of this pure and wholesome liquor,” he
said, “to the noble Emich of Leiningen, to all of his
ancient and illustrious house, to his and their present
hopes, and to their final deliverance. May this
goodly hold, and the happiness of its lord, endure as
long as those walls of Limburg of which the Count
has spoken, and which, were his loving wishes consulted,
would doubtless stand for ever.”

“By the life of the emperor, learned Bonifacius!”
exclaimed Emich, striking his fist on the table with
force, “you as much exceed one of my narrow wit
in wishes, as in godliness and other excellencies!
But I pretend not to set limits to my desires in
your behalf, and throw the fault of my imperfect
speech on a youth that had more to do with the
sword than with the breviary. And now let us to
serious concerns. It may not be known to you,
Cousin of Viederbach, or to this obliging churchman
who honors Hartenburg with his presence,
that there has been subject of amicable dispute between
the brotherhood of Limburg and my unworthy
house, touching the matter of certain wines,
that are believed by the one party to be its dues,
and by the other to be a mere pious grace accorded
to the church—”

“Nay, noble Emich,” interrupted the Abbot, “we
have never held the point to be disputable in any
manner. The lands in question are held of us in
soccage; and, in lieu of bodily service, we have
long since commuted for the produce of vines that
might be named.”

“I cry you mercy; if there be dues at all, they
come of naught else than knight's service. None
of my name or lineage ever paid less to mortal!”

“Let it be thus,” Bonifacius answered more

mildly. “The question is of the amount of liquor,
and not of the tenure whence it comes.”

“Thou sayest right, wise Abbot, and I cry mercy
of these listeners. State thou the matter, reverend
Bonifacius, that our friends may know the humor
on which we are madly bent.”

The Count of Hartenburg succeeded in swallowing
his rising ire, and made a gesture of courtesy
towards the Abbot, as he concluded. Father Bonifacius
rose again, and notwithstanding the physical
ravages that excess was making within, it was still
with the air of calmness and discipline that became
his calling.

“As our upright and esteemed friend has just
related,” he said, “there is truly a point, of a light
but unseemly nature to exist between so dear neighbors,
open between him and us servants of God.
The Counts of Leiningen have long considered it a
pleasure to do favor to the Church, and in this just
and commendable spirit, it is now some fifty years
that, at the termination of each vintage, without
regard to seasons or harvest, without stooping to
change their habits at every change of weather,
they have paid to our brotherhood—”

“Presented, priest!”

“Presented,—if such is thy will, noble Emich,—
fifty casks of this gentle liquor that now warms our
hearts towards each other, with brotherly and
praiseworthy affection. Now, it has been settled
between us, to avoid all future motive of controversy,
and either the better to garnish our cellars,
or to relieve the house of Hartenburg altogether of
future imposition, that it shall be decided this night,
whether the tribute henceforth shall consist of one
hundred casks, or of nothing.”

“By're Lady! A most important issue, and one
likely to impoverish or to enrich!” exclaimed the
Knight of Rhodes.

“As such we deem it,” continued the monk, “and
in that view, parchments of release, with all due
appliances and seals, have been prepared by a
clerkly scholar of Heidelberg. This indenture, duly
executed,” he added, drawing from his bosom the
instruments in question, “yieldeth to Emich all the
Abbey's rights to the vines in dispute, and this
wanteth but his sign of arms and noble name, to
double their present duty.”

“Hold!” cried the Chevalier of the Cross, whose
faculties began already to give way, though it was
only in the commencement of the debauch: “Here
is matter might puzzle the Grand Turk, who sits in
judgment in the very seat of Solomon! If thou
renderest thy claims, and my cousin Emich yieldeth
double tribute-money, both parties will be the worse,
and neither possessed of the liquor!”

“In a merry mood, it hath been proposed that
there shall be the trial of love and not of battle, between
us, for the vines. The question is of liquor,
and it is agreed,—St. Benedict befriend me, if there
be sin in the folly! to try on whose constitution the
disputed liquor is the most apt to work good or evil.
Let the Count of Hartenburg give to his parchment
the virtue that hath already been given to this
of ours, and we shall leave both in some place of
observation;—then, when he alone is able to rise
and seize on both, let him give the victor's cry; but
should he fail of that power, and there be a servant
of the Church ready, and able to grasp the instruments,
why let him go, and think no more of land
that he hath right merrily lost.”

“By St. John of Jerusalem, but this is a most unequal
contest—three monks against one poor baron,
in a trial of heads!”

“Nay, we think more of our honor, than to permit
this wrong. The Count of Hartenburg hath full
right to call in equal succor, and I have taken thee,

gallant cavalier of Rhodes, and this learned Abbé,
to be his chosen backers!”

“Let it be so!” cried the two in question,—“We
ask no better service than to drain Count Emich's
cellars to his honor and profit!”

But the lord of the hold had taken the matter, as
indeed it was fully understood between the principals,
to be a question on which depended a serious
amount of revenue, for all futurity. The wager
had arisen, in one of those wild contests for physical
and gross supremacy, which characterize ages and
countries of imperfect civilization; for next to deeds
in arms and other manful exercises, like those of the
chase and saddle, it was deemed honorable to be
able to undergo the trials of the festive board with
impunity. Nor should it occasion surprise to find
churchmen engaged in these encounters; for, independently
of our writing of an age when they appeared
in the field, there is sufficient evidence that
our own times are not entirely purified from so
coarse abuses of the gown. But Bonifacius of Limburg,
though a man of extensive learning and
strong intellectual qualities, had a weakness on this
particular point, for which we may be driven to
seek an explanation in his peculiar animal construction.
He was of a powerful frame and sluggish
temperament, both of which required strong excitement
to be wrought up to the highest point of physical
enjoyment; and neither the examples around
him, nor his own particular opinions, taught him to
avoid a species of indulgence that he found so
agreeable to his constitution. With these serious
views of a contest, to which neither party would
probably have consented, had not each great confidence
in himself as a well-tried champion, both
Emich and the Abbot required that the instruments
should be openly read. The discharge of this duty
was assigned to Monsieur Latouche, who forthwith

proceeded to wade through a torrent of unintelligible
terms, that were generated in the obscurity of
feudal times for the benefit of the strong, and which
are continued to our own period through pride of
professional knowledge, a little quickened by a
view to professional gain. On the subject of the
true consideration of the respective releases, the
instruments themselves were silent, though nothing
material was wanting to give them validity, especially
when supported by a good sword; or the
power of the Church, to which the parties looked
respectively in the event of flaws.

Count Emich listened warily as his guest the
Abbé read clause after clause of the deed. Occasionally
his eye wandered to the firm countenance
of the Abbot, betraying habitual distrust of his
hereditary and powerful enemy, but it was quickly
riveted again on the heated features of the reader.

“This is well,” he said, when both papers had
been examined: “These vines are to remain for
ever with me and mine, without claim from any
grasping churchman, so long as grass shall grow
or water run, or henceforth they pay double tribute,
a tax that will leave little for the cellar of their
rightful lord.”

“Such are our terms, noble Emich. But to confirm
the latter condition, thy seal and name are
wanting to the instrument.”

“Were the latter to be written by a good sword,
none could do the office better than this poor arm,
reverend Abbot; but thou knowest well, that my
youth was too much given to warlike and other
manly exercises befitting my rank, to allow much
time for acquiring clerkly skill. By the holy Virgins
of Koeln! It were, in sooth, a shame to confess, that
one of my class in these stirring times had leisure
for such lady games! Bring hither an eagle's
feather—hand of mine never yet touched aught

from meaner wing—that I may do justice to the
monks.”

The necessary implements being produced, the
Count of Hartenburg proceeded to execute the instrument
on his part. The wax was speedily
attached and duly impressed with the bearings of
Leiningen, for the noble wore a signet-ring of massive
size, ready at all times to give this token of his
will. But when it became necessary to subscribe
the name, a signal was made to a domestic, who
disappeared in quest of the Count's man of charge.
This individual manifested some reluctance to perform
the customary office, but, as there was just
then a clamorous dialogue among the party at
table, he seized the moment to examine into the
nature of the document, and the consideration that
was to decide the ownership of the vineyard. Grinning
in satisfaction, at a species of payment in
which he held it to be impossible Lord Emich could
fail to acquit himself honorably, the dependant took
the hand of his master, and, accustomed to the
duty, he so guided it as to leave a very legible and
creditable signature. When this had been done,
and the papers were properly witnessed, the Count
of Hartenburg glanced suspiciously from the deed
in his hand to the indomitable face of the Abbot, as
if he still half repented of the act. “Look you,
Bonifacius,” he said, shaking a finger,—“Should
there be flaw, or doubt of any intention in this our
covenant, sword of mine shall cut it!”

“First earn the right, Count of Leiningen. The
deeds are of equal virtue, and he who would lay
claim to their benefits must win the wager. We
are but poor brothers of St. Benedict, and little
worthy to be named with warlike barons and devoted
followers of St. John, but we have an humble
trust in our patron.”

“By St. Benedict, it shall pass for a miracle, if

thou prevailest!” shouted Emich, yielding the deed
in a burst of delight. “A way with these cups of
agate and horn, and bring forth vessels of glass,
that all may see we deal fairly by each other, in
this right manly encounter. Look to your wits,
monks.—By the word of a cavalier, your Latin will
do little service in this dispute.”

“Our trust is in our patron,” answered Father
Siegfried, who had already done so much honor to
the banquet, as to give reason to believe, that, in
his case, the fraternity leaned upon a fragile staff.
“He never yet deserted his children, when fairly enlisted
in a good cause.”

“You are cunning in reasons, fathers,” put in the
knight—“and I doubt not that sufficient excuses
would be forthcoming, were you pushed to justify
service to the devil.”

“We suffer for the church,” was the Abbot's answer,
after taking a bumper in obedience to a signal
from his host. “We hold it to be commendable to
struggle with the flesh, that our altars may flourish.”

As soon as executed, the two deeds had been
placed on a high and curiously wrought vessel of
silver, that contained cordials, and which occupied
the centre of the board, and more fitting cups having
been brought, the combatants were compelled to
swallow draught after draught, at signals from
Emich, who, like a true knight, saw that each man
showed loyalty. But, as the conflict was between
men of great experience in this species of contention,
and as it endured hours, we deem it unworthy
of the theme to limit its description to a single chapter.
Before closing the page, however, we shall digress
for a moment, in order to express our opinions
concerning the great human properties involved in
this sublime strife.

It has been the singular fortune of America to be
the source of numberless ingenious theories, that,

taking their rise in the other hemisphere, have been
let loose upon the world to answer ends that we
shall not stop to investigate. The dignified and
beneficed prelate maintains there is no worship of
God within our land, probably because there are no
dignified and beneficed prelates; a sufficiently logical
conclusion for all who believe in the efficacy of that
self-denying class of Christians; while the neophyte,
in some lately invented religion, denounces us all in
a body, as so many miserable bigots, devoted to
Christ! In this manner is a pains-taking and plain-dealing
nation of near fourteen millions of souls kept,
as it were, in abeyance in the opinions of the rest
of mankind, one deeming them as much beyond, as
another fancies them to be short of, truth. In the
fearful catalogue of our deadly sins, is included a
propensity to indulge in excesses similar to that it is
now our office to record. As we are confessedly
democrats, dram-drinking in particular has been pronounced
to be a “democratic vice.”

It has been our fortune to have lived in familiarity
with a greater variety of men, either considered in
reference to their characters or their conditions, than
ordinarily falls to the lot of any one person. We have
visited many lands, not in the capacity of a courier,
but staidly and soberly, as becomes a grave occupation,
setting up our household gods, and abiding
long enough to see with our eyes and to hear with
our ears; and we feel emboldened to presume on
these facts, in order to express a different opinion,
amid the flood of assertions that has been made by
those who certainly have no better claim to be heard.
And, firstly, we shall here say that, as in the course
of justice, an intelligent, upright, single-minded, and
discriminating witness is, perhaps, the rarest of all
desirable instruments in effecting its sacred ends, so
do we acknowledge a traveller, entitled to full credit,

to be the mortal of all others the least likely to be
found.

The art of travelling, we apprehend, is far more
practised than understood. To us it has proved
a laborious, harassing, puzzling, and oftentimes a
painful pursuit. To divest oneself of impressions
made in youth; to investigate facts without referring
their merits to a standard bottomed on a foundation
no better than habit; to analyze, and justly to
compare the influence of institutions, climate, natural
causes, and practice; to separate what is merely
exception from that which forms the rule; or even
to obtain and carry away accurate notions of physical
things, and, most of all, to possess the gift of imparting
these results comprehensively and with
graphical truth, requires a combination of time, occasion,
previous knowledge, and natural ability, that
rarely falls to the lot of a single individual. One assumes
the task prepared by acquaintance with established
opinions, which are commonly no more than
prejudices, the result of either policy, or of the very
difficulties just enumerated; and he goes on his way,
not only ready but anxious to receive the proofs of
what he expects, limiting his pleasure to the sort of
delight, that dependent minds feel in following the
course pointed out by those that are superior. As
the admitted peculiarities of every people are sufficiently
apparent, he converts self-evident facts into
collateral testimony, and faithfully believes and imagines
all that is concealed on the strength of that
which is obvious. For such a traveller time wears
away men and things in vain; he accords his belief
to the last standard opinion of his sect, with a
devotion to convention that might purchase salvation
in a better cause. To him Vesuvius is just as
high, produces the same effect in the view, and has
exactly the same outline as before the crater fell;
and he watches the workmen disinterring a house

at its base, and goes away rejoicing at having witnessed
the resurrection of a Roman dwelling after
eighteen hundred years of interment, simply because
it is the vulgar account that Pompeii was lost for
that period. If he should happen to be a scholar,
what is his delight in following a cicerone (a title
assumed by some wily servitore di Piazza) to the
little garden that overlooks the Roman Forum, and
in fancying that he stands upon the Tarpeian Rock!
His faith in moral qualities, his graduation of national
virtue, and his views of manners, are equally the
captives of the last popular rumor. A Frenchman
may roll incontinently in the gras de Paris, filled
with an alcohol inflammable as gunpowder, and in
his eyes it shall pass for pure animal light-heartedness,
since it is out of all rule for a Frenchman to
be intoxicated, while the veriest tyro knows that the
nation dances to a man! The gallant general, the
worshipful alderman, the right honorable adviser of
the king, may stammer around a subject for half an
hour, in St. Stephen's, in a manner to confound all
conclusion, and generalize so completely as to baffle
particularity, and your hearer shall go away convinced
of the excellence of the great school of
modern eloquence, because the orator has been
brought up at the “feet of Gamaliel.” When one
thoroughly imbued with this pliant faculty, gets into
a foreign land, with what a diminished reverence
for his own does he journey! As few men are endowed
with sufficient penetration to pierce the mists
of received opinion, fewer still are they that are so
strong in right as to be able to stem its tide. He who
precedes his age is much less likely to be heard,
than he who lingers in its rear; and when the unwieldy
body of the mass reaches the eminence on
which he has long stood the object of free comment,
it may be assumed as certain, that they who were
his bitterest deriders when his doctrine was new,
will be foremost in claiming the honors of the advance.
In short, to instruct the world, it is necessary
to watch the current, and to act on the public
mind like the unseen rudder, by slight and imperceptible
variations, avoiding, as a seaman would express
it, any very rank sheer, lest the vessel should
refuse to mind her helm and go down with the
stream.

We have been led into these reflections, by frequent
opportunities of witnessing the facility with
which opinions are adopted concerning ourselves,
because they have come from the pens of those who
have long contributed to amuse and instruct us, but
which are perfectly valueless, both from the unavoidable
ignorance of those who utter them, and
from the hostile motives that gave them birth. To
that class which would wish to put in a claim to bon
ton, by undervaluing their countrymen, we have nothing
to say, since they are much beyond improvement,
and are quite unable to understand all the high
and glorious consequences dependent on the great
principles of which this republic is the guardian.
Their fate was long since settled by a permanent
and wise provision of human feeling; but, presuming
on the opportunities mentioned, and long habits
of earnest observation in the two hemispheres, we
shall conclude this digression by merely adding, that
it is the misfortune of man to abuse the gifts of God,
let him live in what country or under what institutions
he may. Excess of the description in question
is the failing of every people, nearly in proportion
to their means; nor are there any certain preventives
against a vice so destructive, but absolute
want, or a high cultivation of the reasoning faculties.

He who has accurately ascertained how far the
people of this republic are behind or before the inhabitants
of other lands, in mental improvement and

moral qualities, will not be far from the truth in assigning
to them a correspondent place in the scale
of sobriety. It is true that many foreigners will be
ready enough to deny this position, but we have had
abundant opportunities of observing, that all those
who visit our shores do not come sufficiently prepared,
by observation at home, to make just comparisons,
and what we have here said has not been
ventured without years of close and honest investigation.
We shall gladly hail the day when it can
be said, that not an American exists, so lost to himself
as to trifle with the noblest gift of the Creator;
but we cannot see the expediency of attaining an
end, desirable even as this, by the concession of
premises that are false.