Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13)

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  It is very far from my intention to utter any sweeping denunciation against the divine arts of painting and sculpture, as employed in the exhibition of Scriptural scenes and personages. These I esteem meet ornaments for the house of God; though, as I have already said, their execution cannot equal the high conceptions of an ardent imagination, yet, whenever the hand of a master is visible, — when the marble almost moves before you, and the painting starts into life from the canvass, — the effect upon an enlightened mind will generally, if not universally, be to quicken its sensibilities and excite to more ardent devotion, by carrying the thoughts beyond the representations of bodily suffering, to the contemplation of the intenser mental agony, — the moral sublimity exhibited by the martyr. The impressions produced, however, will not be the same in all minds; they will necessarily vary according to the prevailing temper and complexion of the mind which receives them. As there is no sound where there is no ear to receive the impulses and vibrations of the air, so is there no moral impression, — no voice of instruction from all the works of nature, and all the imitations of art, — unless there be within the soul itself a capacity for hearing the voice and receiving the moral impulse. The cause exists eternally and universally; but the effect is produced only when and where the cause has room to act, and just in proportion as it has room to act. Hence the various moral impressions, and the several degrees of the same moral impression, which an object may produce in different minds. These impressions will vary in kind and in degree according to the acuteness and the cultivation of the internal moral sense. And thus the representations spoken of above might exercise a very favorable influence upon an enlightened and well regulated mind, and at the same time a very unfavorable influence upon an unenlightened and superstitious one. And the reason is obvious. An enlightened mind beholds all things in their just proportions, and receives from them the true impressions they are calculated to convey. It is not hoodwinked, — it is not shut up in a gloomy prison, till it thinks the walls of its own dungeon the limits of the universe, and the reach of its own chain the outer verge of all intelligence; but it walks abroad; the sunshine and the air pour in to enlighten and expand it; the various works of nature are its ministering angels; the glad recipient of light and wisdom, it developes new powers and acquires increased capacities, and thus, rendering itself less subject to error, assumes a nearer similitude to the Eternal Mind. But not so the dark and superstitious mind. It is filled with its own antique and mouldy furniture, — the moth-eaten tome, the gloomy tapestry, the dusty curtain. The straggling sunbeam from without streams through the stained window, and as it enters assumes the colors of the painted glass; while the half-extinguished fire within, now smouldering in its ashes, and now shooting forth a quivering flame, casts fantastic shadows through the chambers of the soul. Within, the spirit sits, lost in its own abstractions. The voice of nature from without is hardly audible; her beauties are unseen, or seen only in shadowy forms, through a colored medium, and with a strained and distorted vision. The invigorating air does not enter that mysterious chamber; it visits not that lonely inmate, who, breathing only a close, exhausted atmosphere, exhibits in the languid frame and feverish pulse the marks of lingering, incurable disease. The picture is not too strongly sketched; such is the contrast between the free and the superstitious mind. Upon the latter, which has little power over its ideas, — to generalize them, to place them in their proper light and position, to reason upon, to discriminate, to judge them in detail, and thus to arrive at just conclusions; but, on the contrary, receives every crude and inadequate impression as it first presents itself, and treasures it up as an ultimate fact, — upon such a mind, representations of Scripture-scenes, like those mentioned above, exercise an unfavorable influence. Such a mind cannot rightly estimate, it cannot feel, the work of a master; and a miserable painting, or a still more miserable caricature carved in wood, will serve only the more to drag the spirit down to earth. Thus, in the unenlightened mind, these representations have a tendency to sensualize and desecrate the character of holy things. Being brought constantly before the eye, and represented in a real and palpable form to the external senses, they lose, by being made too familiar, that peculiar sanctity with which the mind naturally invests the unearthly and invisible.

  It is curious to observe the influence of the circumstances just referred to upon the devotional poetry of Spain.*

  * The following beautiful little hymn in Latin, written by the celebrated Francisco Xavier, the friend and companion of Loyola, and from his zeal in the Eastern missions surnamed the Apostle of the Indies, would hardly have originated in any mind but that of one familiar with the representations of which I have spoken above.

  O Deus! ego amo te:

  Nec amo te, ut salves me,

  Aut quia non amantes te

  Aeterno punis igne.

  Tu, tu, mi Jesu, totum me

  Amplexus es in cruce.

  Tulisti clavos, lanceam,

  Multamque ignominiam:

  Innumeros dolores,

  Sudores et angores,

  Ac mortem: et hsec propter me

  Ac pro me peccatore.

  Cur igitur non amem te,

  O Jesu amantissime?

  Non ut in cœlo salves me,

  Aut ne seternum damnes me,

  Nec prœmii ullius spe:

  Sed sicut tu amasti me,

  Sic amo et amabo te:

  Solum quia rex meus es,

  Et solum quia Deus es.

  Amen.

  O God! my spirit loves but thee:

  Not that in heaven its home may be,

  Nor that the souls which love not thee

  Shall groan in fire eternally.

  Sometimes it exhibits itself directly and fully, sometimes indirectly and incidentally, but always with sufficient clearness to indicate its origin. Sometimes it destroys the beauty of a poem by a miserable concéit; at other times it gives it the character of a beautiful allegory.

  The following sonnets will serve as illustrations. They are from the hand of the wonderful Lope de Vega: —

  Shepherd! that with thine amorous sylvan song

  Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me,

  That madest thy crook from the accursed tree

  On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long, —

  Lead me to mercy’s ever-flowing fountains,

  For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be,

  I will obey thy voice, and wait to see

  Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains.

  Hear, Shepherd! — thou that for thy flock art dying,

  O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou

  Rejoicest at the contrite sinner’s vow.

  O, wait! — to thee my weary soul is crying, —

  Wait for me! — yet why ask it, when I see,

  With feet nailed to the cross, thou art waiting still for me?

  Thy blessed approach! and O, to Heaven how lost,

  If my ingratitude’s unkindly frost

  Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet!

  How oft my guardian angel gently cried,

  “Soul, from thy casement look without and see

  How he persists to knock and wait for thee!”

  And O, how often to that voice of sorrow,

  “To-morrow we will open!” I replied;

  And when the morrow came, I answered still, “To-morrow!”

  The most remarkable portion of the devotional poetry of the Spaniards is to be found in their sacred dramas, their Vidas de Santos and Autos Sacramentales. These had their origin in the Mysteries and Moralities of the dark ages, and are indeed monstrous creations of the imagination. The Vidas de Santos, or Lives of Saints, are representations of their miracles, and of the wonderful traditions concerning them. The Autos Sacramentales have particular reference to the Eucharist and the ceremonies of the Corpus Christi. In these theatrical pieces are introduced upon the stage, not only angels and saints, but God, the Sa
viour, the Virgin Mary; and, in strange juxtaposition with these, devils, peasants, and kings; in fine, they contain the strangest medley of characters, real and allegorical, which the imagination can conceive. As if this were not enough, in the midst of what was intended as a solemn, religious celebration, scenes of low buffoonery are often introduced.

  The most remarkable of the Autos which I have read is “La Devocion de la Cruz,” The Devotion of the Cross. It is one of the most celebrated of Calderon’s sacred dramas, and will serve as a specimen of that class of writing. The piece commences with a dialogue between Lisardo, the son of Curcio, a decayed nobleman, and Eusebio, the hero of the play and lover of Julia, Lisardo’s sister. Though the father’s extravagance has wasted his estates, Lisardo is deeply offended that Eusebio should aspire to an alliance with the family, and draws him into a secluded place in order to settle their dispute with the sword. Here the scene opens, and in the course of the dialogue which precedes the combat, Eusebio relates that he was born at the foot of a cross, which stood in a rugged and desert part of those mountains; that the virtue of this cross preserved him from the wild beasts; that, being found by a peasant three days after his birth, he was carried to a neighbouring village, and there received the name of Eusebio of the Cross; that, being thrown by his nurse into a well, he was heard to laugh, and was found floating upon the top of the water, with his hands placed upon his mouth in the form of a cross; that the house in which he dwelt being consumed by fire, he escaped unharmed amid the flames, and it was found to be Corpus Christi day; and, in fine, after relating many other similar miracles, worked by the power of the cross, at whose foot he was born, he says that he bears its image miraculously stamped upon his breast. After this they fight, and Lisardo falls mortally wounded. In the next scene, Eusebio has an interview with Julia, at her father’s house; they are interrupted, and Eusebio conceals himself; Curcio enters, and informs Julia that he has determined to send her that day to a convent, that she may take the veil, Clpara ser de Cristo esposa.” While they are conversing, the dead body of Lisardo is brought in by peasants, and Eusebio is declared to be the murderer. The scene closes by the escape of Eusebio. The second act, or Jornada, discovers Eusebio as the leader of a band of robbers. They fire upon a traveller, who proves to bè a priest, named Alberto, and who is seeking a spot in those solitudes wherein to establish a hermitage. The shot is prevented from taking effect by a book which the pious old man carries in his bosom, and which he says is a “treatise on the true origin of the divine and heavenly tree, on which, dying with courage and fortitude, Christ triumphed over death; in fine, the book is called the ‘Miracles of the Cross.’”They suffer the priest to depart unharmed, who in consequence promises Eusebio that he shall not die without confession, but that wherever he may be, if he but call upon his name, he will hasten to absolve him. In the mean time, Julia retires to a convent, and Curcio goes with an armed force in pursuit of Eusebio, who has resolved to gain admittance to Julia’s convent. He scales the walls of the convent by night, and silently gropes his way along the corridor. Julia is discovered sleeping in her cell, with a taper beside her. He is, however, deterred from executing his malicious designs, by discovering upon her breast the form of a cross, similar to that which he bears upon his own, and “Heaven would not suffer him, though so great an offender, to lose his respect for the cross.” To be brief, he leaps from the convent-walls and escapes to the mountains. Julia, counting her honor lost, having offended God, “como à Dios, y como à esposa” pursues him, — descends the ladder from the convent-wall, and, when she seeks to return to her cell, finds the ladder has been removed. In her despair, she accuses Heaven of having withdrawn its clemency, and vows to perform such deeds of wickedness as shall terrify both heaven and hell.

  The third jornada transports the scene back to the mountains. Julia, disguised in man’s apparel, with her face concealed, is brought to Eusebio by a party of the banditti. She challenges him to single combat; and he accepts the challenge, on condition that his antagonist shall declare who he is. Julia discovers herself; and relates several horrid murders she has committed since leaving the convent. Their interview is here interrupted by the entrance of banditti, who inform Eusebio that Curcio, with an armed force, from all the neighbouring villages, is approaching. The attack commences. Eusebio and Curcio meet, but a secret and mysterious sympathy prevents them from fighting; and a great number of peasants, coming in at this moment, rush upon Eusebio in a body, and he is thrown down a precipice. There Curcio discovers him, expiring with his numerous wounds. The dénouement of the piece commences. Curcio, moved by compassion, examines a wound in Eusebio’s breast, discovers the mark of the cross, and thereby recognizes him to be his son. Eusebio expires, calling on the name of Alberto, who shortly after enters, as if lost in those mountains. A voice from the dead body of Eusebio calls his name. I shall here transcribe a part of the scene.

  Eusebio. Alberto!

  Alberto. Hark! — what breath

  Of fearful voice is this,

  Which uttering my name Sounds in my ears?

  Eusebio. Alberto!

  Alberto. Again it doth pronounce

  My name: methinks the voice

  Came from this side: I will Approach.

  Eusebio. Alberto!

  Alberto. Hist! more near it sounds.

  Thou voice, that ridest swift

  The wind, and utterest my name,

  Who art thou?

  Eusebio. I am Eusebio.

  Come, good Alberto, this way come,

  Where sepulchred I lie;

  Approach, and raise these branches:

  Fear not.

  Alberto. I do not fear.

  Discovers the body.

  Now I behold thee.

  Speak, in God’s holy name,

  What wouldst thou with me?

  Eusebio. — In his name,

  My faith, Alberto, called thee,

  That previous to my death

  Thou hearest my confession.

  Long since I should have died,

  For this stiff corpse resigned The disembodied soul;

  But the strong mace of death

  Smote only, and dissevered not

  The spirit and the flesh. — [Rises.

  Come, then, Alberto, that I may

  Confess my sins; for, O, they are

  More than the sands beside the sea,

  Or motes that fill the sunbeam!

  So much with Heaven avails

  Devotion to the cross!

  Eusebio then retires to confess himself to Alberto; and Curcio afterward relates, that, when the venerable saint had given him absolution, his body again fell dead at his feet. Julia discovers herself, overwhelmed with the thoughts of her incestuous passion for Eusebio and her other crimes, and as Curcio, in a transport of indignation, endeavours to kill her, she seizes a cross which stands over Eusebio’s grave, and with it ascends to heaven, while Alberto shouts, “Gran milagro!” and the curtain falls.

  Thus far I have spoken of the devotional poetry of Spain as modified by the peculiarities of religious faith and practice. Considered apart from the dogmas of a creed, and as the expression of those pure and elevated feelings of religion which are not the prerogative of any one sect or denomination, but the common privilege of all, it possesses strong claims to our admiration and praise. I know of nothing in any modern tongue so beautiful as some of its finest passages. The thought springs heavenward from the soul, — the language comes burning from the lip. The imagination of the poet seems spiritualized; with nothing of earth, and all of heaven, — a heaven, like that of his own native clime, without a cloud, or a vapor of earth, to obscure its brightness. His voice, speaking the harmonious accents of that noble tongue, seems to flow from the lips of an angel, — melodious to the ear and to the internal sense, — breathing those.”

  Effectual whispers, whose still voice

  The soul itself more feels than hears.”

  The following sonnets of Fr
ancisco de Aldana, a writer remarkable for the beauty of his conceptions and the harmony of his verse, are illustrations of this remark. In what glowing language he describes the aspirations of the soul for its paternal heaven, its celestial home! how beautifully he portrays in a few lines the strong desire, the ardent longing, of the exiled and imprisoned spirit to wing its flight away and be at rest! The strain bears our thoughts upward with it; it transports us to the heavenly country; it whispers to the soul, — Higher, immortal spirit! higher!

  Clear fount of light! my native land on high,

  Bright with a glory that shall never fade!

  Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade,

  Thy holy quiet meets the spirit’s eye.

  There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence,

  Gasping no longer for life’s feeble breath;

  But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence

  With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not death.

  Beloved country I banished from thy shore,

  A stranger in this prison-house of clay,

  The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee!

  Heavenward the bright perfections I adore

  Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way,

  That whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be.

  O Lord! that seest from yon starry height

  Centred in one the future and the past,

  Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast

  The world obscures in me what once was bright!

  Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou hast given