The Truce of God | Page 6

that strong presentation of character which of all things are so necessary for the stage. Yet in other plays, notably in "_Se?or Valiente_" and especially in "_De Soto_," and "Mary's Birthday," Miles showed that in him the dramatic note was not lacking, and in both he scored remarkable successes.
From Baltimore, after he had left the pursuit of the law, and from Thornbrook, close to the academic halls in which from 1859 he passed his entire life, Miles seldom emerged into public notice. Twice he visited Europe, his impressions of the second journey (1864) being recorded in "Glimpses of Tuscany." In 1851 President Fillmore sent him on a confidential mission to Madrid. That same year, John Howard Payne, the loved singer of "Home, Sweet Home," was reinstated in his consulship of Tunis. Like Miles, that wandering bard was a convert to the Catholic Faith. But unlike Miles, he did not enter the Church until the very end of his life, practically on his death bed. Catholics will be glad to know that the song, "Home, Sweet Home," whose underlying melody Payne caught from the lips of an Italian peasant girl, was written by one who, after many strange wanderings, found "Home" at last in that Church which is the mistress and inspirer of art. Like Payne, Miles captured the fancy of his countrymen with one song, "Said the Rose," which at one time was the most popular song in the United States. It has not the depth and the melting tenderness of "Home, Sweet Home," but its quaint fancy and melodious verse struck a responsive chord. In his "Inkerman," a stirring ballad, which every American boy of a former age knew by heart, there was an echo of the "Lays of Ancient Rome," of the "Lays" of Scott and Aytoun, while in the more ambitious "Christine" (1866), there was the accent of the genuine poet, something that recalled the "Christabel" of Coleridge. Miles had projected a series of studies on the characters and plays of Shakespeare. Judging from two remaining fragments, "Hamlet" and "Macbeth," the latter a mere outline, we regret that the writer was not able to finish the task. To beauty of language his study of "Hamlet" adds keen analytical powers and original views. ("An American Catholic Poet," The Catholic World. Vol. XXXIII, p. 145 ff.)
In the quiet churchyard on the slope of his beloved Mountain, in a simple grave, over which the green hills of Maryland keep guard, not far from the class-rooms and the chapel he loved, rest the mortal remains of the author of "The Truce of God." It is not necessary to describe him. Those who read this simple but romantic and stirring tale of the eleventh century which he wrote three-quarters of a century ago, cannot fail to catch the main features of the man. They will conclude that in George Henry Miles, religion and art, the purest ideals of the Catholic faith and the highest standards of culture and letters, are blended in rare proportion.
JOHN C. REVILLE, S.J., _Editor-in-chief_.

THE TRUCE OF GOD

CHAPTER I
Of ancient deeds so long forgot; Of feuds whose memory was not; Of forests now laid waste and bare; Of towers which harbor now the hare; Of manners long since changed and gone; Of chiefs who under their gray stone So long had slept, that fickle fame Hath blotted from her rolls their name.
SCOTT.
Reader! if your mind, harassed with the cares of a utilitarian age, require an hour of recreation; if a legend of a far different and far distant day have aught that can claim your sympathy or awaken your attention; if the "Dark Ages" be to you Ages of Faith, or even lit with the gray morning-light of civilization, come wander back with me beyond the experimental revolution of the sixteenth century, to the time when the Gothic temples of the living God were new.
It was the eleventh century: the sun shone as brightly then as now; ay, and virtue too, though sympathy for a lustful tyrant has stamped the age with infamy. Through an extensive forest in Suabia, as the old chronicle from which I copy relates, a gallant youth was urging on, with voice and rein, a steed that seemed as bold and fiery as his rider. The youth's flashing eye, and the spear in his hand, told clearly enough that the boar was before him. On he went, as if the forest were his element, now bending low beneath the knotted bough, now swerving aside from the stern old trunk which sturdily opposed his progress, and seemed to mock him as he passed. On he went, as if danger were behind and safety before him; as if he galloped to save his own life, not to risk it in taking a boar's. An angry bark and