THE FALCON. [Giovanni Boccaccio, born in Paris, 1313, died at Certaldo, Val d'Elsa, 21st December, 1375. He was the son of a merchant of Florence, and in that city he was educated. He may be regarded as the father of Italian prose; and he was the author of the first romantic and chivalrous poem written in the Italian language, La Teseide, the subject being the fabulous adventures of Theseus. From the Teseide Chaucer borrowed the materials of his Knight's Tale. The most important of Boccaccio's prose works is the Decameron, which was written at the desire of Queen Joan of Naples. It is a series of one hundred tales, supposed to be narrated by seven ladies and three gentlemen, who have fled to a country house to escape the plague which visited Florence in 1348. The intrigues of lovers form the chief element of the stories, and the details of the greater number display a licentious freedom of manners. Several of the tales, however, are pure and interesting. One of the important labours which Boccaccio accomplished was the collection of a valuable library of Greek and Latin classics. The library was unfortunately destroyed by fire about a century after his death.] There lived in Florence a young man, called Federigo Alberigi, who surpassed all the youth of Tuscany in feats of arms, and in accomplished manners. He (for gallant men will fall in love) became enamoured of Monna Giovanna, at that time considered the finest woman in Florence; and that he might inspire her with a reciprocal passion, he squandered his fortune at tilts and tournaments, in entertainments and presents. But the lady, who was virtuous as she was beautiful, could on no account be prevailed on to return his love. While he lived thus extravagantly, and without the means of recruiting his coffers, poverty, the usual attendant of the thoughtless, came on apace; his money was spent, and nothing remained to him but a small farm, barely sufficient for his subsistence, and a falcon, which was however the finest in the world. When he found it impossible therefore to live longer in town, he retired to his little farm, where he went a birding in his leisure hours; and disdaining to ask favours of any one, he submitted patiently to his poverty, while he cherished in secret a hopeless passion. It happened about this time that the husband of Monna Giovanna died, leaving a great fortune to their only son, who was yet a youth; and that the boy came along with his mother to spend the summer months in the country (as our custom usually is), at a villa in the neighbourhood of Federigo's farm. In this way he became acquainted with Federigo, and began to delight in birds and dogs, and having seen his falcon, he took a great longing for it, but was afraid to ask it of him when he saw how highly he prized it. This desire, however, so much affected the boy's spirits, that he fell sick; and his mother, who doated upon this her only child, became alarmed, and to soothe him, pressed him again and again to ask whatever he wished, and promised, that if it were possible, he should have all that he desired. The youth at last confessed, that if he had the falcon he would soon be well again. When the lady heard this, she began to consider what she should do. She knew that Federigo had long loved her, and had received from her nothing but coldness; and how could she ask the falcon, which she heard was the finest in the world, and which was now his only consolation? Could she be so cruel as to deprive him of his last remaining support?-Perplexed with these thoughts, which the full belief that she should have the bird if she asked it, did not relieve, she knew not what to think, or how to return her son an answer. A mother's love, however, at last prevailed; she resolved to satisfy him, and determined, whatever might be the consequence, not to send, but to go herself and procure the falcon. She told her son, therefore, to take courage, and think of getting better, for that she would herself go on the morrow, and fetch what he desired; and the hope was so agreeable to the boy, that he began to mend apace. On the next morning Monna Giovanna, having taken another lady along with her, went as if for amusement to the little cabin of Federigo, and inquired for him. was not the birding season, and he was at work in his garden; when he heard, therefore, that Monna Giovanna was calling upon him, he ran with joyful surprise to the door. She, on the other hand, when she saw him coming, advanced with delicate politeness; and when he had respectfully saluted her, she said, "All happiness attend you, Federigo; I am come to repay you for the loss you have suffered from loving me too well, for this lady and I intend to dine with you in an easy way this forenoon." To this Federigo humbly answered: "I do not remember, Madam, having suffered any loss at your hands, but on the contrary, have received so much good, that if ever I had any worth, it sprung from you, and from the love with which you inspired me. And this generous visit to your poor host, is much more dear to me than would be the spending again of what I have already spent." Having said this, he invited them respectfully into the house, and from thence conducted them to the garden, where, having nobody else to keep them com It pany, he requested that they would allow the labourer's wife to do her best to amuse them, while he went to order dinner. Federigo, however great his poverty, had not yet learned all the prudence which the loss of fortune might have taught him; and it thus happened, that he had nothing in the house with which he could honourably entertain the lady for whose love he had formerly given so many entertainments. Cursing his evil fortune, therefore, he stood like one beside himself, and looked in vain for money or pledge. The hour was already late, and his desire extreme to find something worthy of his mistress; he felt repugnant, too, to ask from his own labourer. While he was thus perplexed, he chanced to cast his eyes upon his fine falcon, which was sitting upon a bar in the ante-chamber. Having no other resource, therefore, he took it into his hand, and finding it fat, he thought it would be proper for such a lady. He accordingly pulled its neck without delay, and gave it to a little girl to be plucked; and having put it upon a spit, he made it be carefully roasted. He then covered the table with a beautiful cloth, a wreck of his former splendour; and everything being ready, he returned to the garden, to tell the lady and her companion that dinner was served. They accordingly, went in and sat down to table with Federigo, and ate the good falcon without knowing it. When they had finished dinner, and spent a short while in agreeable conversation, the lady thought it time to tell Federigo for what she had come. She said to him, therefore, in a gentle tone, "Federigo, when you call to mind your past life, and recollect my virtue, which perhaps you called coldness and cruelty, I doubt not but that you will be astonished at my presumption, when I tell you the principal motive of my visit. But had you children, and knew how great a love one bears them, I am sure you would in part excuse me; and although you have them not, I who have an only child, cannot resist the feelings of a mother. By the strength of these am I constrained, in spite of my inclination, and contrary to propriety and duty, to ask a thing which I know is with reason dear to you, for it is your only delight and consolation in your misfortunes: that gift is your falcon, for which my son has taken so great a desire, that unless he obtain it, I am afraid his illness will increase, and that I shall lose him. I beseech you to give it me, therefore, not by the love which you bear me (for to that you owe nothing), but by the nobleness of your nature, which you have shown in nothing more than in your generosity; and I will remain eternally your debtor for my son's life, which your gift will be the means of preserving." When Federigo heard the lady's request, and knew how impossible it was to grant it, he burst into tears, and was unable to make any reply. The lady imagined that this arose from grief at the thought of losing his favourite, and showed his unwillingness to part with it; nevertheless she waited patiently for his answer. He at length said, "Since it first pleased Heaven, Madam, that I should place my affections on you, I have found fortune unkind to me in many things, and have often accused her; but all her former unkindness has been trifling compared with what she has now done me. How can I ever forgive her, therefore, when I remember, that you, who never deigned to visit me when I was rich, have come to my poor cottage to ask a favour which she has cruelly prevented me from be stowing. The cause of this I shall briefly tell you. When I found that in your goodness you proposed to dine with me, and when I considered your excellence, I thought it my duty to honour you with more precious food than is usually given to others. Recollecting my falcon, therefore, and its worth, I deemed t worthy food, and accordingly made it be roasted and served up for dinner; but when I find that you wished to get it in another way, I shal never be consoled for having it not in my power to serve you." Having said this, he showed them the wings, and the feet, and the bill, as evidences of the truth of what he had told them. When the lady had heard and seen these things, she chided him for having killed so fine a bird as food for a woman; ba admired in secret that greatness of mind which poverty had been unable to subdue. Then, seeing that she could not have the falcon, and becoming alarmed for the safety of her child. she thanked Federigo for the honourable enter tainment he had given them, and returned home in a melancholy mood. Her son, on the other hand, either from grief at not getting the falcon, or from a disease occasioned by it. died a few days after, leaving his mother plunged in the deepest affliction. Monna Giovanna was left very rich, and when she had for some time mourned her loss, being importuned by her brothers to marry again, she began to reflect on the merit of Federigo, and on the last instance of his generosity displayed in killing so fine a bird to do her honour. She told her brothers, therefore, that she would marry since they desired it, but that her only choice would be Federigo Alberigi. They laughed when they heard this, and asked her how she could think of a man who had nothing; but she answered, that she would rather have a man without money, than money without a man. When her brothers, who had long known Federigo, saw therefore how her wishes pointed, they consented to bestow her upon him with all her wealth; and Federigo, with a wife so excellent and so long beloved, and riches equal to his desires, showed that he had learned to be a better steward, and long enjoyed true happiness. THE KING OF THULE.1 There was a king in Thule Was faithful till the grave, To whom his mistress, dying, A golden goblet gave. Naught was to him more precious; When came his time of dying, The towns in his land he told, Naught else to his heir denying Except the goblet of gold. He sat at the royal banquet With his knights of high degree, In the lofty hall of his fathers, In the castle by the sea. There stood the old carouser, And drank the last life-glow; And hurled the hallowed goblet Into the tide below. He saw it plunging and filling, And sinking deep in the sea; Then fell his eyelids for ever, And never more drank he! 1 From the new translation of Goethe's Faust, by Bayard Taylor, published in Boston and London, 1871. Mr. Taylor, born in Chester county, Pennsylvania, 11th January, 1825, has earned renown as poet, traveller, novelist, and now as one of the ablest translators of Goethe. His aim was to reproduce in English the metrical peculiarities of the original German, whilst keeping faithful to the text; and the general verdict is that the attempt has been in every respect successful. THREE SONNETS. [William Drummond, of Hawthornden, born 13th December, 1585; died 4th December, 1649. He was educated in Edinburgh and studied civil law in France. On the death of his father, 1610, he retired to Hawthornden, and devoted himself to literary pursuits The lady he loved died on the eve of the day appointed for their marriage, and to that circumstance is attri buted the melancholy strain of his sonnets, three of which we give here. Philips, the nephew of Milton, edited Drummond's works, and pronounced him equal to Tasso.] I. That learned Grecian, who did so excel In knowledge passing sense, that he is named And others see, know, love, in heaven's great height; II. My lute! be as thou wert when thou did'st grow Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve, Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above, What art thou but a harbinger of woe? Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, III. What doth it serve to see the sun's bright face, The sport of floods, which would themselves embrace? THE STORY OF CRAZY MARTHA. FROM THE PROVENÇAL OF JACQUES JASMIN. the sky itself. Her whole appearance was so refined that, on the plains, peasant as she was, she was regarded as a born lady by her peasant companions. And well did she know all this, for beside her little bed there hung a bright little mirror. But to-day she has not once looked into it. Most serious matters absorb her thoughts; her soul is strangely stirred; at the slightest sound she changes suddenly from marble hue to violet. Some one enters; she looks up; it is her friend and neighbour, Annette. At the first glance you could not fail to see that she too was in trouble, but at a second you would say [Jacques Jasmin, born at Agen, department of Lotet-Garonne, died there 6th October, 1864. As the "last of the troubadours" he has won for himself a permanent place in literature. He was the son of a poor tailor, and was himself a barber, like Allan Ramsay. He continued to work at his trade to the end, despite many inducements to abandon it and to quit his rural home for the city. His answer to all who wished him to change his mode of life, was:-"I shave for a living and I sing for pleasure." His poems became popular in spite of the fact that they were written in a language which has been long disused except by the peasantry of the south of France. The Provençal was the language of the troubadours, and its popularity was revived for a brief space by Jasmin in his songs of the pastoral delights and traditions of his compatriots. The following is an admirable translation of one of his most pathetic stories (Maltro L'Inoucento) by Professor Henry Coppee, of the escaped? is he free?" Pennsylvania University. The incidents in this little drama commenced in 1798, at Lafitte, a pretty hamlet situated on the banks of the Lot, near Clairac, and ter minated in 1802. At this last period, Martha, bereft of her reason, escaped from the village, and was often after wards seen in the streets of Agen, an object of public pity, begging her bread, and flying in terror from the children, who cried out after her:-"Maltro, un souldat!" (Martha, a soldier!) The author confesses that more than all others, in his childhood he pursued poor Martha with his sarcasms: he little dreamed that one day his muse, inspired by the wretched lot of the poor idiot, would owe to her one of his most exquisite creations. Martha died in 1834.] I. "It is very manifest that the evil, whatever it is, only circles around her heart, and does not take root there." "You are happy, Annette," said Martha; "speak; have the lots been drawn? have they "I know nothing yet," replied Annette: "but take courage, my dear; it is already noon; we shall very soon know. You tremble like a jonquil, your face frightens me. Suppose the lot should fall upon Jacques, and he should be obliged to go away; you would die, perhaps?" "Ah! I cannot tell." "You are wrong, my friend. Die! What a baby you are. I love Joseph. If he has to go, I should be sorry; I should shed a few tears; I would wait for his return, without dying. No young man ever dies for a girl; not a bit of it; and they are right. There is truth in Drawing the lot.-Two different hearts.-The cards the coupletnever lie.-The conscript.-The oath. Not far from the banks which the pretty little river Lot bathes with the cool kisses of its transparent waters, there lies, half-concealed by the feathering elms, a small cabin. There, on a beautiful morning in April, sat a young girl in deep thought; it was the hour when in the neighbouring town of Touneins a band of robust young men were awaiting in suspense the result of the army draft which was to decree their fate. For this the young girl waited too. With uplifted eyes, she breathed a prayer to the good God; then, not knowing what to do with herself, how to contain her impatience, she sat down; she got up, only to sit down again. One might see that she was in an agony of suspense; the ground seemed to burn the soles of her feet. What did it all mean? She was beautiful; she had everything that heart could wish; she possessed a combination of charms not often seen in this lower world-delicate erect figure, very white skin, hair, and, with these, an eye as blue as "My lover, when he goes away, Loses far more than I who stay.' A truce to your grief, then. Come, if you feel equal to it, let us try our luck by the cards. I did this morning, and it all came out right for me; so it will for you. See how calm I am; come, to console you, let us see what the lucky cards will say.' So the buoyant young girl makes her friend sit down, checks for a moment her own wild spirits, gracefully spreads a small piece of shining taffeta, and takes the cards in her hands. The suffering heart of Martha stops for a season its fierce throbs. She gazes with eager eyes; she ceases to tremble; she is inspired with hope. Then, both girls-the lighthearted Annette and the loving Martha-repeat together the well-known refrain— "Cards so beautiful and fair, One after another the cards are turned up, placed in piles, then put together and shuffled. Cut them three times; it is done. Ah! a good sign, first comes a king. The girls are a perfect picture two mouths breathless and speechless, four eyes, smiling and yet awe-struck, follow closely the motion of the fingers. Upon the lips of Martha a sweet smile slowly rests, like a fairy flower. The queen of hearts is turned up; then the knave of clubs. If now no black malignant spade appears, Jacques will be saved. Seven spades are already out; only one remains in the pack; there is nothing to fear. The beautiful dealer is smiling, is joking-stop! like a grinning skull cast into the midst of a festive crowd, the queen of spades comes up to announce some dire misfortune! Hark on the highway the noisy drum strikes in like a mocking laugh, mingled with the strains of the shrill fife and wild bursts of song. It is easy to guess that these are the happy fellows who have escaped the draft, whom the great Moloch of war, with a lingering touch of pity, is going to leave to the country. Here they come in two long lines, dancing, leaping, each one wearing in his hat his lucky number. Soon a crowd of mothers gathers around them, many weeping for joy, and some for grief. What a moment for the two young girls whom the cards have just smitten with sorrow! The noisy group comes nearer still. Martha, wishing to put an end to the torturing suspense, flies to the little window, but immediately recoils, utters a faint cry, and falls cold and fainting beside Annette, who is herself shivering with fear. The cards had not deceived them. In the midst of the lucky crowd whose lives are saved to their country stands Joseph. Jacques was not there; he had drawn "number 3." Two weeks pass, and the light-hearted Annette steps out at the threshold of the flowerbedecked church, fast married to Joseph; while in the house of mourning, Jacques, the unhappy conscript, with tears in his eyes, and a knapsack on his shoulders, bids farewell to his betrothed in touching words as she stands overwhelmed with grief. "Martha," he says, "they compel me to depart; happiness deserts ns, but take courage; men come back from the wars. You know I have nothing, no father, no mother; I have only you to love. If death spares my life, it belongs to you. Let us hope, still hope for the happy day when I shall lead you to the marriage altar like a gift of loveflowers." II. A great sorrow.—Martha snatched from the tomb. — The handsome girl-merchant.-Jacques will find a rival. The beautiful month of May, whose new birth brings universal pleasure, king of all the months, let it wear the crown, and surround itself with joys!-The month of May has come again. Upon the hill-side and in the valleys happy hearts unite to chant its praises; it comes softly and sweetly, and like lightning it is gone. But, while it lasts, everywhere is heard the sound of melodious song; everywhere you behold happy festive groups entwining in the joyous dance. At length the spring is past, and while its pleasures still linger in the groves and fields, in yonder little cabin, one sweet and lonely voice thus moans in a song of sorrow: "The swallows have come back; up there are my two in their nest; they have not been parted as we have. Now they fly down; see, I can put my hand upon them. How sleek and pretty they are; they still have upon their necks the ribbons which Jacques tied there on my last birthday, when they came to peck from our united hands the little golden flies we had caught for them. They loved Jacques. Their little eyes are looking for him just where I am sitting. Ah! you may circle round my chair, poor birds, but Jacques is no longer here. I am alone, without a friend, weeping for him, weary too, for the friendship of tears fatigues itself. But stay with me; I will do everything to make you love me. Stay, dear birds that Jacques loved; I want to talk to you of him. They seem to know how their presence consoles me. They kiss each other, happy little things. Kiss, a long kiss; your joy is balm to my heart. I love them, for they are faithful to me, as Jacques also is. But no one kills swallows; men only kill each other. Why does he write no more? Mon Dieu! who knows where he is; I always feel as if some one is going to tell me that he is dead. I shudder; that terrible fear chokes my heart. Holy Virgin, take it away; the fever of the grave is burning me up; and oh! good Mother of God, I want to live if Jacques still lives! Where are you, beautiful swallows? Ah! my grief has been too noisy; I have frightened you away. Come back, and bring me happiness; I will mourn more softly. Stay with me, birds whom Jacques loved, for I must talk to you of him." Thus, day after day, mourned the orphan girl her lover's absence. Her old uncle, her |