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They have no more idea of the respect that is due to a gentleman, than had Oliver Cromwell when he threw a bomb into the parlour at Castlecliff, as my great-great-grandfather and the priest were over their tenth tumbler. I'm led into these melancholy reflections by a little incident which happened this afternoon in Regent Street. I was walking leisurely along, indulging in a little swagger, indigenous to Connaught, thinking of nothing in particular, when all of a sudden I got a cursedly familiar tap on the shoulder, and, wheeling about, I was confronted by a gentleman who, while I adorned the senate, viewed my capture only as a thing to be hoped for against hope, and who has ever since evinced the most acute anxiety to make my acquaintance. He was proceeding to favour me with the perusal of a document which he drew from his pocket, when, just to save him trouble, I knocked two of his teeth out, and made a race that would have blown Thunderbolt. This untoward event has hastened another little matter which I have on hand. Chance has thrown in my way a very good-looking brunette, with a pair of eyes that I never expected to see east of Athlone. But my astonishment was great when, on mentioning my royal patronymic, she replied,

"There's a shocking person of your name, sir, in Ireland." "Indeed," I returned." I have little doubt that there are several." "But there's one who owes my papa such a lot of money." "And to many another, I'll go bail," I replied.

"And do you know, sir, when papa went to Ireland to see him, a mob of savages persuaded him that he was mad, and carried him away on a cart."

Oh!" thought I, "is this the end of my new affaire? There have been less grounds for concluding a gentleman mad," said 1, "than the fact of his going to Connaught to get payment of a large debt."

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And here I changed the subject, and that with so much effect, that, shaking off my natural bashfulness, I obtained her promise to meet me next day. I need not detail to you how I pressed my suit, and what a high opinion she has of my chivalry and devotion, and how she confounds me with the O'Rourke of Tom Moore, and the other respectable gentleman, whose

"noble feast will ne'er be forgot

By those who were there and those who were not," the latter division, namely, "those who were not," I having assured her constituted a very large company indeed. To sum up, father, she elopes with me to-night; and if we escape my unlucky planets, old Morgan, and the New Police, you may hear from me; but if my usual good fortune attends me in this exploit, run your eye over the police reports, and you will undoubtedly hear of your persecuted parishioner, 'RODERIC O'ROURKE.'

It was about a fortnight after the receipt of the above that I read in the Dublin Pilot, On Sunday last, at the Roman Catholic Chapel, Southampton, by the Rev. Dominic O'Rourke, Roderic O'Rourke, of Castlecliff, Mayo, and Ballyricketty Abbey, Galway, Esq., Captain 11th Austrian Yagers, Knight of the Tower and Sword, late M.P., to Julia, only child of Israel Morgan, Esquire, Solicitor.' Roderic still sometimes visits his paternal ruin; but all his efforts have failed to induce his father-in-law to make one of the party.

'B.'

LEAVES OF LEGENDRAY LORE.

BY COQUILLA SERTORIUS, BENEDICTINE ABBOT OF GLENDALOUGH.

THE LEGEND OF ROLAND.

A GIGANTIC Norman, called Taillefer,' say the authors of the Pictorial History of England, in their description of the battle of Hastings, who united the different qualities of minstrel, champion, and juggler, spurred his horse to the front of the van of the Norman army, and sung with a loud voice the popular ballads which immor. talized the valour of Charlemagne and Roland, and all that flower of chivalry that fell in the great fight of Roncesvalles. The Normans enthusiastically repeated the burden of the song.'

The authority for this statement is Wace, whose

Roman de Rose or Metrical History of the Norman Conquest,' is one of the most valuable historical romances of the twelfth century, and who mentions the bold advance of Taillefer, the Jongleur, or minstrel, in verse, which may be thus rendered, somewhat after his own style:

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Then Taillefer of the mighty voice,
Who rode upon a steed of choice,
The song of gallant Roland rais'd,
Of Charles worthy to be prais'd,
Of Oliver and those who fell
In Roncesvalles' fatal dell.

Chateaubriand and others have expressed their surprise and regret for the loss of the Chanson de Roland,' which was the war-song of the French during the middle ages, and was sung by their vaunting hosts in the field of Agincourt; but from Wace's description it is evident that the song was one of those ballad-romances so popular in the twelfth century, which described the valour of Charlemagne and his peers, and the fate of his bravest paladins in the unfortunate battle of Roncesvalles. These romances were usually from twelve to fifteen hundred lines in length, and were, therefore, only recited by professional minstrels; but very popular passages probably imprinted themselves on the minds of the soldiers, and gradually assumed the form of a modern song. Thus a few stanzas from the long 'Confession of Golias,' written by Walter Mapes, became the most popular bacchanalian ditty throughout Europe, and has not yet lost its celebrity among those who combine merriment with the study of the classics.

Only a few fragments of the original song of Roland have been preserved they were collected by Alexander Duval, who from them, and the traditions which described the general purpose of the chanson, framed what may be called a re-production rather than a modern version of this celebrated song. After having compared it with the ancient fragments, we feel justified in saying that it is one of the most perfect instances of poetic restoration with which we

are acquainted. It is hoped that its spirit has not evaporated in the following translation:

Say, whither are bound these illustrious knights,
The pride and the glory of France?

In defence of his country, its laws, and its rights,
Each paladin takes up his lance;

And foremost is Roland, whose scimitar keen
The harvest of war prostrate leaves,
While, led to the slain by its glittering sheen,
Death gathers them up in his sheaves.
Shout! comrades, shout!

Roland famous in story,
And your war-cry give out

For our country and glory!

On our frontier the Saracen armies extend

Their legions in splendid array;

The unnumber'd bands from the hills that descend

Their menacing banners display.

'Tis the foe! 'tis the foe! Sons of France, spring to arms

And drive back their barbarous hordes.

To them, not to us, will the fight bring alarms:
Brave Roland has ask'd for his sword.

Shout! comrades, shout! &c.

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Although Roland is the hero of romances rather than of chroni cles, there are authentic documents to rescue him from the class of fabulous heroes, and to prove that he was a real historical character.

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Thus, we have an ordinance issued by Charlemagne, in the year 776, (Præceptum Caroli Imperatoris, &c.), in which he is called the Emperor's 'right trusty and well-beloved friend and faithful counsellor.' Eginhart alo names him among the illustrious chiefs who fell at Roncesvalles, and he slightly notices the warning note to which Sir Walter Scott alludes in his account of the battle of Flodden.

'Oh! for a blast of that same horn
On Fontarabian echoes borne,

That to King Charles did come,
When Roland brave, and Oliver,
And every paladin and peer,

On Roncesvalles died.'*

The legendary account of Roncesvalles, and its fatal fight, has enough of historical truth to give importance to the fiction. According to the romances, Charlemagne, in a war which lasted more than seven years, had nearly completed the subjugation of Spain. The Saracen, or rather Moorish, monarch, Marsiles, in dread of total ruin, held a council of his principal emirs and nobles, who advised him to conciliate Charles by submission. A Saracen ambassador was accordingly sent to the Christian camp, who addressed the Emperor in the following

words:

'God protect you! Behold, here are presents which my master sends you; and he engages, if you withdraw from Spain, to come and do you homage at Aix-la-Chapelle.'

The Emperor immediately summoned his paladins to council; Roland strenuously opposed peace; but Ganelon, and the Duke Naimes maintained that it was contrary to the rules of chivalry to refuse grace to a suppliant enemy. A discussion then arose to know which of the barons should bear a reply to King Marsiles. Ganelon offered his services; but Roland contemptuously declared him unfit for such a duty, and offered himself in his stead.

Ganelon, irritated by this scorn, said, 'Take care that some mischief does not overtake you.'

Roland, who was far from being a mirror of courtesy, replied, 'You speak like a fool! We want men of sense to carry our messages; if the Emperor pleases, I will go in your place.' 'You shall not go,' cried Ganelon.

I submit myself to his will.'

Charles is commander here:

At these words Roland burst into laughter; his discourtesy gave great offence, and Ganelon was chosen ambassador. This, however, did not alleviate his rage for the insult he had received. He allowed the Saracens to gain him over to treason; though at his first interview with Marsiles he maintained the pride and dignity of a French chevalier. When the Saracen monarch said to him, Charles is old now;

Scott has reproduced these lines in 'Rob Roy' with such little variation that he seems to have designed the passage as a hint to the discovery of the authorship of the Waverley Novels.

'O for the voice of that wild horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,

The dying hero's call,

That told imperial Charlemagne
How Paynim sons of swarthy Spain

Had wrought his champion's fall.'

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he must be close upon a hundred years of age. Does he not think of taking some repose?' Ganelon replied, No, no! Charles is ever powerful. So long as he has round him the twelve peers of France, but particularly Oliver and Roland, Charles need not fear a living man.' Yet soon after this conversation the traitor Ganelon agreed to lead the Saracens through the mountain-defiles to attack the rear-guard of the Christians, amounting to twenty thousand men, who, under the command of Roland, were wending their way back to France through the passes of Roncesvalles.

The old romance enumerates at great length the number of Saracen kings in Spain, Barbary, and Morocco, who sent auxiliary forces to Marsiles, and adds a graphic description of their various arms, reminding us of a similar passage in Mrs. Hemans' 'Songs of the Cid :'

'There were men from the wilds where the death-wind sweeps,
There were spears from the hills where the lion sleeps,
There were bows from the sands where the ostrich runs,
For the wild horn of Afric had call'd her sons

To the battles of the West.'

The legend states that Oliver, perceiving the Saracens closing up the passes through which the Christians had to march, climbed up a tree in order to discover if possible the number of the enemy. Perceiving that their hosts were vastly superior to the French, he called out to Roland,

'Brother in arms! the Pagans are very numerous, and we Christians are few if you sounded your horn, the Emperor Charles would bring us succour.'

Roland replied, God forbid that my lineage should be dishonoured by such a deed! I will strike with my good sword, Durandal, and the Pagans, falling beneath my blows, will discover that they have been led hither by their evil fate.'

'Sound your horn, companion in arms!' reiterated Oliver; the enemies hem us in on every side.'

'No,' repeated Roland; our Franks are gallant warriors; they will strike heavy blows, and cut through the hosts of the foul Paynim.' He then prepared his troops for action. Archbishop Turpin, perceiving that the fight would be desperate and bloody, commanded all the soldiers to kneel, and join in a general confession of faith; after which he bestowed upon them absolution and his episcopal benediction.

A similar circumstance is recorded of the Scottish army at the commencement of the battle of Bannockburn, which Sir Walter Scott has turned to good account in the 'Lord of the Isles,' noticing particularly the mistake into which it led the English King Edward:

'Upon the Scottish foe he gazed,-
At once before his sight amazed

Sunk banner, spear, and shield;

Each weapon point is downward sent,
Each warrior to the ground is bent.
"The rebels, Argentine, repent,—

For pardon they have kneel'd."—
Ay,-but they bend to higher powers,
And other pardon seek than ours.
See where yon barefoot abbot stands,
And blesses them with lifted hands!

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