Lady Alda. It is related in Bernard's History of Chivalry that, while the Moors held possession of North Spain, a short time before the reign of Alphonso, they made an incursion into the southern part of France, and besieged an important castle. This was, for some time, bravely defended by Roland de Faulconbridge, a Norman knight, but at last he was traitorously inveigled into an ambush, and slain. Abdallah, the general of the Moors, sent his body into the castle, with a message that, if it was not surrendered upon the next day, no quarter should be given to the defenders. The latter, disheartened by the death of their leader, were willing to comply. The body of Sir Roland was taken into the Chapel, and, while the funereal ceremonies were proceeding, they were interrupted by the entrance of Lady Alda, the widow of the dead. She was attired in a suit of armor, and held her husband's bloody sword in her hand. She upbraided the astonished vassals for their cowardice, and called upon them to revenge the death of their Lord. Animated by this address, they flew to arms. In the morning a sally was made, headed by Lady Alda herself. Though the number of the Normans did not exceed three hundred, and the Moorish army amounted to several thousands, the bravery of the former was so astonishing, that the besiegers were repulsed with great loss, and Abdalla slain in single combat with the woman whose husband he had murdered. The castle bells are tolling! The culv'rins sternly rolling! The white-robed priests are singing, The solemn dirge is ringing! The cathedral walls are crowded with brave lord and lovely dame- And the good Bishop's prayer rises clear on the air, And the dirge has ceased awhile- And art thou friend or foe?" The visor's raised, and the holy priest Well may the Bishop start back in dismay, Full in the glare of the deep red flame, He beholds lady Alda, the knight's haughty dame ! Sternly she spoke-" Is it meet to be said That the line of the Faulconbridge buried its dead While the murderer's taunt was still loud on the air? I hold in this hand the good sword that he bore- And every voice joined in one echoing shout- And the culverins pealed till the stout walls reeled And the dying shout of the Turk rang out Through the long and bloody night! There yonder lies the Moorish camp-a stern yet gorgeous sight Beneath them lie ten thousand swords-ten thousand warriors bold, For he thinks to rend the Christians as the falcon rends the jay! Her white, rounded arm to the shoulder is bare! From beneath the bright helm streams her long glossy hair, Grasp the hilt of a sabre, once terribly plied- With the blood that its edge hath but recently spilt! Her face was still lovely, but fearfully changed, Like those spirits who first through infernal realms ranged! With features obscured by hate, stern and fell, The form seemed of Heaven, but the spirit of Hell! Now, for revenge, ye noble knights! Saint Denis strike for France! For God, and king, and vengeance!"-fair levelled every lance, Each vantayle down! each pennon up! across the plain they go, Where fiercest raved the wild turmoil-where sabres flashed like flame! Like Heaven's avenging spirit, the Lady Alda came! No Moor dared stay that haughty form, or meet that flashing eye, But hark! that shout--" Abdalla !" The ranks are opened wide, As the steed that bears the Paynim Sweeps on with rapid stride! "Yield, Christian! while thou mayest" The fierce Abdalla cries "The sword of the believer Is the gate of Paradise!" His hand struck Roland Faulconbridge! And of the knights that fell with him, It slew full twenty more! But Abdalla's javelin shivers From Alda's steel-clad breast! The brand, that once Sir Roland bore, I ween such stroke was never dealt Through turbaned head, and neck, and breast, The tempered steel makes way! * Again it is morning-the earliest beams E. P. C. Good Taste. OUR estimation of men and things ought never to be formed without an intimate knowledge of the circumstances with which they are connected. If it is, we are in great danger of mistake, such as cannot be fostered without injury, nor amended without mortification. If the acts of a military hero were related to us just as they took place, but with no further account of the emergencies in which he acted, the times, the places, the odds against which he contested, we could frame no opinion of his generalship, and hardly of his personal bravery. Least of all, with any of these circumstances could we decide him a patriot, a tyrant, or only a military enthusiast. In like manner, if we attempt to judge of a man from his political course, his writings, or his speeches, without a knowledge of the country and the condition of the people among whom he figured, we are liable to be misled in every one of our conclusions. And the same is true, though perhaps not quite so obvious, in judging of literary merit without an acquaintance with the subjects treated and the occasion on which they were presented. When these things were unfolded to us, that which we before pronounced eloquence might seem disgusting bombast; pathos, the lack of manly resolution; and erudition, the merest pedantry. Or, if real merit were therein contained, the ill opinions we had formed might undergo as remarkable a change in the contrary direction. It seems, then, that circumstances form an absolutely essential condition to a correct judgment in these and all such like cases. And so universally is this principle established, that those who make estimate wisely and satisfactorily to themselves, always investigate those circumstances with the utmost care. There is then hardly any thing more important than a wise adaptation of effort, of whatever kind, to the circumstances which call it into exercise. This power, when applied to writing and speaking, perhaps more usually in their higher departments, is called good taste. But good taste has more intimate connection, in the common view, with the fine arts, the elegancies of life, the pleasing and the ornamental. The term may be applied, however, without reasonable objection, to the power in all its varied exertion, and we shall find it far more admirable and useful as we trace it through higher subjects and more important relations. taste, like the talents, or perhaps as a talent, must be founded in nature and cultivated by education. And neither can well supply that which the other should have bestowed. But it is not my purpose to talk learnedly about its nature, but rather, in a very practical manner to enumerate some of its advantages, and extol the possessor of so rich a gift. Good In order rightly to estimate its value, we will first consider the effects, so disastrous to success, which its absence produces, or, which is the same thing, the ill effects of bad taste in any case whatever. For true taste does not consist in high ornament or display. It is rather the avoiding of all incongruity or unfitness, of all that is discordant or disagreeable to the observer, and therefore, in its perfection, comprehends the best arrangement of all the materials that are brought into service. Its absence, then, cannot be merely a negative fault, but must include that which is in itself really ill-proportioned and unseemly. Having viewed the subject in this light, we may be better prepared to describe the beauties which its presence adds, although it may be found difficult to sustain these divisions. It is no rash statement to say that the want of good taste destroys our estimation of the whole object presented to our view. If that want pervade it entirely, we turn from it with disgust. The greatest wealth, the rarest and most valuable possessions, will lose even that intrinsic value which they would possess, were we viewing them as separate from any general design. But place them in absurd or distasteful connection, and the higher their value the more conspicuous appears the disproportion, till we become sickened at heart. But that want may not be so entire. It may extend to but a small portion of the plan, some one division which may without great difficulty be forgotten in the review. Yet it is evident that so far as that part is concerned, all beauty and value is lost. If that be a principal part, the loss will be great; if inferior, it may be very trifling; but, nevertheless, it must fully equal the importance of all that portion to which it extends. And more than this, there are some minds in whose view even this single failure would constitute a blemish that would affect the whole. They could not pass by the faults they discovered, to observe, much less to appreciate, any existing merit in the rest. Nay, the very beauty of all else would render the single fault more painfully conspicuous. Now it is not necessary to show that such a tendency to discover faults sooner than excellencies, is praiseworthy or indicative of fine intellect. You might call such an one a mere fault-finder. Others might style him the possessor of a refined sensibility. But, suffice it to say, that many such minds exist, and that it is perhaps quite as important to gratify these as others. For besides the loss of their own favor, the opinions they form must have considerable weight in the decisions of others. Now all this unfavorable estimate, this criticism undeserved, if you will call it so, is nevertheless made in perfect honesty and good feeling. But there is a criticism, always to be feared and expected, which arises from party feeling, from malice or rivalry, and which of course will be much more unsparing. It will name its bitter censure nice discrimination, the product of delicate feeling; and the arguments it makes use of will often wholly eradicate the good opinion another may have formed. In every effort we must regard the object. If it be in writing to influence or gratify, we must make our attempt worthy of some admiration, else we can accomplish neither. That good taste has no definite standard, is not strictly true; though authoritative rules for all cases are not to be found. But every person should have some ideal |