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THK OIFT OF 

Elizabeth R.Dean 




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1 



OUTRE-MER, 



PILGRIMAGE BEYOND THE SEA 



BY 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGrELLOW. 



I hart puMd many UadM aod many* 7IM and eontrata, and eharebad manj« 
fttlla atraang* plaeaa, and bave ben in aaayt a folia ftfia lipnoaiablt eompaaja. 
Mow I am eomen boma to reite. And tbaa reeordjnfa tba tyma paaMd* 1 bava ful- 
fiUad tbaie Uqmfaa and putta bam wiytan in tbia boka, u it woulda coma into my 
mynda.— SSr John MaundtPilU, 



THIRD EDITION. 



BOSTON: 
WILLIAM D. TICKNOR & CO. 

184 8. 



%2g 

&4t 



Entered according to Act of Congress^ in tlie year 1846| by 

H. W. LOMOFBLLOW, 

in the Clerk*a Office of the Dlitrict Court of the District of Manachueetu. 



CJlMBRIOOEi 

RBRSOTTPBD Ain> PKINTBD BT 

METCALF AND COMPANY, 

PBINTBBS TO JHB amVBRBITT. 






CONTENTS. 



% 

PAAB 

The Epistlx Dedicatort 7 

The Pilgrim of Ovtre-Mer 9 

FRANCE. 

The Norman Diligence 15 

The Golden Lion Inn 23 

Martin Franc and the Monk of St. Anthont . . 29 

The Village of Avteuil 50 

Jacqueline 63 

The Sexagenarian . . , 73 

Perx la Chaise 81 

The Valley of the Loire 95 

The Trovv^res ' 110 



The Baptism of Fire 127 

Co«-a-l*Ane 138 

The Not art of P£rigueux 150 



SPAIN. 

The Journet into Spain 165 

Spain 179 



VI CONTENTS. 

A Tailor's Drawer 187 

Ahcibitt Spanish Ballads 901 

Thr Villaos of El Pardillo . ^ 296 

The Devotional Poetry of Spair 943 

The Pilgrim's Brbviart 973 



ITALY. 

The Jourrbt into Italt 305 

Rome in Midsummer 319 

The Village of La Riccia 349 

NOTE-BOOK. 

Note-book 363 

The Pilgrim's Salutation 370 

Colophon 373 



THE 

EPISTLE DEDICATORY, 



The cheerful breeze sets fair ; we fill our sail. 
And scud before it. When the critic starts, 
And angrily unties his bags of wind. 
Then we lay to, and let the blast go by. 

HVRDIS. 



Worthy ^d' gentle Reader, 

I dedicate this little book to thee with many 
fears and misgivings of heart. Being a stranger 
to thee, and having never administered to thy 
wants nor to thy pleasures, I can ask nothing 
at thy hands, saving the common courtesies of 
life. Perchance, too, what I have written will 
be little to thy taste ; — for it is little in accord- 
ance with the stirring spirit of the present age. 
If so, I crave thy forbearance for having thought 
that even the busiest mmd might not be a stranger 
to those moments of repose, when the clock of 
time clicks drowsily behind the door, and trifles 
become the amusement of the wise and great. 

Besides, what perils await the adventurous au- 



8 THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 

thor who launches forth into the uncertain current 
of public favor in so frail a bark as this ! The 
very rocking of the tide may overset him ; or 
peradventure some freebooting critic, prowling 
about the great ocean of letters, may descry his 
strange colors, hail him through a gray goose- 
quill, and perhaps sink him without more ado. 
Indeed, the success of an unknown author is as 
uncertain as the wind. ^' When a book is first 
to appear in the world," says a celebrated French 
writer, ^' one knows not whom to consult to learn 
its destiny. The stars preside not mer its na- 
tivity. Their influences have no operation on 
it ; and the most confident astrologers dare not 
foretell the diverse risks of fortune it-must run." 
It is firom such considerations, worthy reader, 
that I would fain bespeak thy friendly offices at 
the outset. But, in asking these, I would not 
forestall thy good opinion too far, lest in the 
sequel I should disappoint thy kind wishes. I 
ask only a welcome and God-speed ; hoping, that, 
when thou hast read these ps^es, thou wilt say 
to me, in the words of Nick Bottom, the weaver, 
" I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good 
Master Cobweb." 

Very sincerely tlune. 

The Author. 



THE 



PILGRIM OF OUTRE-MER. 



I am a Palmer, as ye se, 

Whiche of my lyfe muche part have spent 

In many a fayre and farre cuntrie. 

As pilgrims do of good intent. 

Thk Foi7e Ps. 



<< LrsTENTTH, je godely gentylmen, and all 
that ben hereyn ! " I am a pilgrim benighted 
on my way, and crave a shelter till the storm is 
over, and a seat by the fireside in this honorable 
company. As a stranger I claim this courtesy 
at your hands; and will repay your hospitable 
welcome with tales of the countries I have passed 
through m my pilgrimage. 

This is a custom of the olden time. In the 
days of chivalry and romance, every baron bold, 
perched aloof in his feudal castle, welcomed the 
stranger to his halls, and listened with delight 
to the pilgrim's tale and the song of the trou- 
badour. Both pilgrim and troubadour had their 
tales of wonder from a distant land, embellished 



10 THE PILGRIM OF OUTRE-MER. 

with the magic of Oriental exaggeration. Their 
salutation was, 

** Lordyng lysnith to my tale, 
That is meryer than the nightingale." 

The soft luxuriance of the Eastern clime bloomed 
in the song of the bard ; and the wDd and ro- 
mantic tales of regions so far off as to be re- 
garded as almost a fairy land were well suited 
to the childish credulity of an age when what is 
now called the Old World was in its childhood. 
Those times have passed away. The world has 
grown wiser and less credulous ; and the tales 
which then delighted delight no longer. But man 
has not changed his nature. He still retains the 
same curiosity, the same love of novelty, the 
same fondness for romance and tales by the 
chimney-comer, and the same desire of wearing 
out the rainy day and the long winter evening 
with the illusioiis of fancy and the fairy sketches 
of the poet's imagination. It is as true now as 
ever, that 

" Off talys, and tryfulles, many man tellys ; 
Same byn trew, and same byn ellis ; 
A man may dryfe forthe the day that long tyme dwellis 
Wyth harpyng, and pipyng, and other mery spellis, 
Wyth gle, and wyth game." 

The Pays d'Outre-Mer, or the Land beyond 



THB PILGRIM OF OUTflB*MER. 11 

the Sea, is a name by which the piigrims and 
crusaders of old usually designated the Holy 
Land* I> too, in a certain sense, have been a 
pilgrim of Outre-Mer; for to my youthful im- 
agination the Old World was a kind of Holy 
Land, lying afar off beyond the blue horizon 
of the ocean ; and when its shores first rose upon 
my sight, looming through the hazy atmosphere 
of the sea, my heart swelled with the deep emo- 
tions of the pilgrim, when he sees afar the spire 
which rises above the shrine of his dev^otion. 

In this my pilgrimage, ^^ I have passed many 
lands and countries, and searched many full 
strange places." I have traversed France from 
Normandy to Navarre ; smoked my pipe m a 
Flemish mn ; floated through Holland in a Trek^ 
schuit ; trimmed my midnight lamp in a German 
university ; wandered and mused amid the clas- 
sic scenes of Italy ; and listentf to the gay 
guitar and merry castanet on the borders of the 
blue Guadalquivir. The recollection of many 
of the scenes I have passed through is still fresh 
in my mind ; while the memory of others is 
fast fading away, or is blotted out for ever. But 
now I will' stay the too busy hand of time, and 
call back the shadowy past. Perchance the old 



12 THE PILGRIM OF OUTRE-MEE. 

and the wise roaj accuse me of frivolity ; but I 
see m this fair company the bright eje and lis- 
tening ear of youth, — an age less rigid in its 
censure and more willing to be pleased. ^' To 
gendewomen and their loves is consecrated all 
the wooing language, allusions to love-passions, 
and sweet embracements feigned by the Muse 
'mongst hills and rivers ; whatsoever tastes of 
description, battel, story, abstruse antiquity, and 
law of the kingdome, to the more severe critic. 
To the one be contenting enjoyments of their 
auspicious desires ; to the other, a happj attend- 
ance of their chosen Muses." * 

And now, fair dames and courteous gende- 
men, give me attentive audience : — 

*' Lordjng lystnith to my tale, 
That is meryer than the Dightiogale." 

* Seidell's Prefatory Discourse to the Notes in Drayton's 
Poly-Olbion. % 



FRANCE. 



THE 



NORMAN DILIGENCE. 



The French guides, otherwUe called the postilians, have 
one most diabolicall custome in their travelling upon the 
wayes. Diabolicall it maybe well called; for, whensoever' 
their horses doe a little anger them, they will say, in their 
fury, ^Uons, diable^ — that is, Go, thou divel. This I know 
by mine own experience. 

C0RYAT*8 CrUDITIXS. 



It was early in the ^^ leafy month of June " 
that I travelled through the beautiful province 
of Normandy. As France was the first foreign 
coimtry I visited, every thing wore an air of 
freshness and novelty, which pleased my eye, 
and kept my fancy constandy busy. Life was 
like a dream. It was a luxury to' breathe again 
the free air, after having been so long cooped 
up at sea ; and, like a long-imprisoned bird let 
loose from its cage, I revelled in the .fireshness 
and sunshine of the morning landscape. 

On every side, valley and hill were covered 
with a carpet of soft velvet green. The birds 
were singing merrily in the trees, and the land- 



16 THE NORMAN DILIGENCE. 

scape wore that look of gajety so well described 
in the quaint language of an old romance, mak- 
ing the ^' sad, pensive, and aching heart to re- 
joice, and to throw off mourning and sadness." 
Here and there a cluster of chestnut-trees shaded 
a thatch-roofed cottage, and little patches of 
vmeyard were scattered on the slope of the 
hills, mingling their delicate green with the deep 
hues of the early summer grain. The whole 
landscape had a fresh, hreezy look. It was not 
hedged in from the highways, but lay open to 
the eye of the traveller, and seemed to welcome 
him with open arms. I felt less a stranger in 
the land ; and as my eye traced the dusty road 
winding along through a rich cultivated country, 
skirted on either side with blossoming fruit-trees, 
and occasionally caught glimpses of a little farm- 
house resting in a green hollow and lapped in 
the bosom of plenty, I felt that I was in a 
prosperous, hospitable, and happy land. 

I had taken my seat on top of the diligence, 
in order to have a better view of the country. 
It was one of those ponderous vehicles which 
totter slowly along the paved roads of France, 
laborii:^ beneadi a mountain of trunks and bales 
of all descripticms ; and, like the Trojan horse. 



THE NORMAN DILIGENCE. 17 

bearing a groaning multitude within it. It was 
a curious and cumbersome machine, resembling 
the bodies of three coaches placed upon one car- 
riage, with a cabriolet on top for outside passen- 
gers. On the panels of each door were painted 
the fleurs-de-lis of France, and upon the side 
of the coach emblazoned, in golden characters, 
^^ Exploitation Ginirale des Messageries Roy" 
ales des Diligences pour le Havre^ Rouen, ef 
Paris.'' 

It would be useless to describe the motley 
groups that filled the four quarters of this little 
world. There was the dusty tradesman, with 
green coat and cotton umbreUa ; the sallow in- 
valid, in skullcap and cloth shoes ; the priest 
in his cassock ; the peasant in his frock ; and a 
whole family of squalling children. My fellow- 
travellers on top were a gay subaltern, with 
fierce mustache, and a nut-brown village beauty 
of sweet sixteen. The subaltern wore a mil- 
itary undress, and a little blue cloth cap, in the 
shape of a cow-bell, trimmed smartly with silver 
lace, and cocked on one side of his head. The 
brunette was decked out with a staid white Nor- 
maili cap, nicely starched and plaited, and nearly 
three feet high, a rosary and cross about her 

2 



18 THE NORMAN DILIGENCE. 

neck, a linsey-woolsey gown, and wooden shoes. 
The personage who seemed to rtde this little 
world with absolute sway was a short, pursy man, 
with a busy, self-satisfied air, and the sonorous 
title of Monsieur It Condueteur. As msignia 
of ofiBce, he wore a little round fur cap and fur- 
trimmed jacket ; and carried in his hand a small 
leathern portfolio, containing his way-bill. He 
sat with us on top of the diligence, and with 
comic gravity issued his mandates to the postil- 
ion below, Uke some petty monarch speaking 
from his throne. In every dingy village we 
thundered through, he had a thousand commis- 
sions to execute and to receive ; a package to 
throw out on this side, and another to take in 
on that ; a whisper for the landlady at the inn ; 
a love-letter and a kiss for her daughter ; and 
a wink or a snap of his fingers for the chamber- 
maid at the window. Then there were so many 
questions to be asked and answered, while chang- 
ing horses ! Every body had a word to say. 
It was Monsieur It Condueteur! here ; Monsieur 
It Condueteur ! there. He was in complete bus- 
tle ; till at length crying. En route ! he ascended 
the dizzy height, and we lumbered away in a 
cloud of dust. 



THE NORMAN DILIGENCE. 19 

But what most attracted my attention was the 
grotesque appearance of the postilion and the 
horses. He was a comical-looking little fellow, 
already past the heyday of life, ;with a thin, sharp 
countenance, to which the smoke of tobacco and 
the fumes of wine had given the dusty look of 
parchment. He was equipped in a short jacket 
of purple velvet, set off with a red collar, and 
adorned with silken cord. T^t breeches of 
bright yellow leather arrayed his pipe-stem legs, 
which were swallowed up in a huge ,pair of 
wood^a boots, iron-fastened, and armed with 
long, rattling spmrs. His shirt-collar was of vast 
dimensions, and between it and the broad brim 
of his high, bell-crowned, varnished hat project* 
ed an eel-skin queue, with a little tuft of frizzled 
hair, like a powder-puff, at tlie end, bobbing up 
and down with the motion of the rider, and scat- 
tering a white cloud around him. 

The horses which drew the diligence were 
harnessed to it with ropes and leather thongs, 
in the most uncouth manner imaginable. They 
were five in number ; black, white, and gray, — » 
as various in size as in color. Their tails were 
braided and tied up with wisps of straw ; and 
when the postilion mounted and cracked his 



20 THE NORMAN DILIGENCE. 

heavj whip, off thej started ; one pulling this 
way, another that, — one on the gallop, another 
trottmg, and the rest draggmg along at a scram- 
bling pace, between a trot and a walk. No soon- 
er did the vehicle get comfortably in motion, than 
the postilion, throwing the reins upon his horse's 
neck, and drawbg a iSint and steel from one 
pocket and a short-stemmed pipe from another, 
leisurely struck fire, and began to smoke. Ever 
and anon some part of the rope-harness would 
give way ; Monsieur It ConducUur from on high 
.would thunder forth an oath or two; a head 
would be popped out at every window ; half a 
dozen voices exclaim at once, ^^ What 's the 
matter ? " and the postilion, apostrophizbg the 
diabh as usual, would thrust his long whip into 
the leg of his boot, leisurely dismount, and, draw- 
ing a handful of packthread from his pocket, qui- 
etly set himself to mend matters in the best way 
possible. 

In this manner we toiled slowly along the dusty 
highway. Occasionally the scene was enlivened 
by a group of peasants, driving before them a 
little ass, laden with vegetables for a neighbouring 
market. Then we would pass a solitary shep- 
herd, sitting by the road-side, with a shaggy dog 



THE NORMAN DILIGENCE^ 21 

at hii^ feet, guarding his flock, and making bis 
scanty meal on the contents of his wallet ; or 
perchance a little peasant-^rl, in wooden shoes, 
leadmg a cow by a cord attached to her boms, to 
browse along the side of the ditch. Then we 
would all alight to ascend some formidable hill 
on foot, and be escorted up by a clamorous group 
of sturdy mendicants, — annoyed by the cease* 
less importunity of worthless beggary, or moved 
to pity by the palsied limbs of the aged, and the 
sightless eyeballs of the blind. 

Occasionally, too, the poi^tilion drew up ia 
front of a dingy little cabaret, completely over- 
shadowed by wide-spreading trees. A lusty grape- 
vine clambered up beside the door ; and a pine- 
bough was thrust out from a hole in the wall, by 
way of tavern-bush. Upon the front of the house 
was generally inscribed m large black letters, 

^'ICI ON DONNE A BOIRE ET X MANGER ; ON 

LOGE X PIED ET X CHEVAL " ; a Sign which 
may be thus paraphra[sed, — " Good entertain- 
ment for man and beast '* ; but which was once 
translated by a foreigner, " Here they give to 
eat and drink ; they lodge on foot and on horse- 
back ! " 

Thus one object of curiosity succeeded an- 



22 THE NORMAN PILIGENCE* 

Other; hill, yalley, stream, and woodland iSitted 
by me like the shiftmg scenes of a magic lantern, 
and one train of thought gave place to another ; 
tin at length, in the after part of the day, we 
entered the broad and shady avenue of fine old 
trees which leads to the western gate of Rouen, 
and a few moments afterward were lost in the 
crowds and confusion of its narrow streets. 



THE 



GOLDEN LION INN. 



Monsieur Vinot. Je veux absolument un Lion d'Or; 
parce qu*on dit, Ob. allez-vous ? An Lion d'Or ! — D'oik 
venez-vous ? Du Lion d'Or ! — Ob irons-nous ? Au Lion 
d'Or ! — Oil y a-t-il de bon vin ? Au Lion d'Or ! 

La Rose Rouox. 



This answer of Monsieur Vinot must have 
been runmng in my head as the diligence stopped 
at the Messagerie ; for when the porter, who 
took my luggage, said : — 

" Oi alUz-vouB^ Monsieur ?" 

I answered, without reflection (for, be it said 
with all the veracity of a traveller, at that time 
I did not know there was a Golden Lion in the 
city),— 

'^AuLiond'Or.'' 

And so to the Lion d'Or we went. 

The hostess of the Golden Lion received 
me with a courtesy and a smile, rang the house- 
bell for a servant, and told him to take the gen- 
tleman's thmgs to number thirty-five. I fol- 



24 THE GOLDEN LION INN. 

lowed him up stairs. One, two, three, four, 
five, six, seven I Seven stories high, by Our 
Lady ! — I counted them every one ; and when 
I went down to remonstrate, I counted them 
again ; so that there wad no possibility of a mis* 
take. When I asked for a lower room, the host- 
ess told me the house was full ; and when I 
spoke of going to another hotel, she said she 
should be so very sorry,, so desoUe^ to have 
Monsieur leave her, that I marched up again to 
number thirty-five. 

After finding all the fault I could with the 
chamber, I ended, as is generally the case with 
most men on such occasions, by being very well 
pleased with it. The only thing I could pos- 
sibly complain of was my being lodged m the 
seventh story, and in the immediate neighbour- 
hood of a gentleman who was learning to play 
the French horn. But to remunerate me for 
these disadvantages, my window looked down 
into a market-place, and gave me a distant view 
of the towers of the cathedral, and the ruins of 
the church and abbey of St. Ouen. 

When I had fuDy prepared myself for a ram- 
ble through the city, it was already sunset ; 
and after the heat and dust of the day, the fresh- 



THE GOLDEIV LION INN. 35 

tiess of the long evening twilight was delight- 
ful. When I enter a new city, I cannot rest 
till I have satisfied the first cravings of curiosity 
by rambling through its streets. Nor can I en* 
dure a cicerone, with his eternal ^^ This way^ 
Sir." I never desire to be led durectly to an 
object worthy of a traveller's notice, but prefer 
a thousand times to find my own way, and come 
upon it by surprise. This was particularly the 
case at Rouen. It was the first European city 
of importance that I visited. There was an air 
of antiquity about the whole city that breathed 
of the Middle Ages; and so strong and de- 
lightful was the impression that it made upon my 
youthful imagination, that nothing which I after- 
ward saw could either equal or efface it. I 
have smce passed through that city, but I did 
not stop. I was unwilling to destroy an im- 
pression which, even at this distant day, is as 
firesh upon my mind as if it were of yesterday. 

With these delightful feelings I rambled on 
from street to street, till at length, after thread- 
mg a narrow alley, I unexpectedly came out m 
front of the magnificent cathedral. If it had 
suddenly risen from the earth, the efi^ect could 
not have been more powerful and instantaneous. 



36 THE GOLDEN LION imf. 

It completely overwhelmed mj imagiiudon ; and 
I stood for a long time motionless, gazmg en* 
tranced upon the stupendous edifice. I had 
before seen no specimen of Gothic architect- 
ure, save the remains of a little church at Havre ; 
and the massive towers before me, the lofty 
windows of stained glass, the low portal, with 
its receding arches and rude statues, all pro- 
duced upon my untravelled mmd an impression 
of awful sublimity. When I entered the church, 
the impression was still more deep and solemn. 
It was the hour of vespers. The religious 
twilight of the place, the lamps that burned on 
the distant altar, the kneeling crowd, the tink- 
ling bell, and the chant of the evening service 
that rolled along the vaulted roof in broken and 
repeated echoes, filled me with new and intense 
emotions. When I gazed on the stupendous 
architecture of the church, the huge columns that 
the eye followed up till they were lost in the 
gathering dusk of the arches above, the long 
and shadowy aisles, the statues of samts and mar- 
tyrs that stood in every recess, the figures of 
armed knights upon the tombs, the uncertain 
light that stole through the painted windows of 
each little chapel, and the form of the cowled 



THE OOLDEJf LlOlf INlf. 27 

and solitary monk, kneeling at the sfarine of his 
favorite samt, or passing between the lofty col-* 
lunns of the churchy-~all I had read of, but 
had not seen, — I was transported back to the 
Dark Ages, and felt as I can never feel agam. 

On the following day, I visited the remains 
of an old palace, built by Edward the Third, 
now occupied as the Palais de Justice, and the 
ruins of the church and monastery of Saint 
Antoine. I saw the hole in the tower where 
the ponderous beU of the abbey fell through ; 
and took a peep at the curious iUuminated man- 
uscript of Daniel d'Aubonne in the public library. 
The remamder of the morning was spent in visit- 
ing the ruins of the ancient abbey of St. Ouen, 
which is now transformed into the Hotel de Ville, 
and in strolling through its beautiful gardens, 
dreaming of the present and the past, and given 
up to '* a melancholy of my own." 

At the Table d^H6te of the Golden Lion, 1 
fell into conversation with an elderly gentleman, 
who proved to be a great antiquarian, and thor- 
oughly read in all the forgotten lore of the city. 
As our tastes were somewhat similar, we were 
soon upon very friendly terms ; and after din- 
ner we stroUed out to visit some remarkable 



28 THE OOLDEN LION INN. 

localities, and took the gloria together in the 
Chevalier Bayard. 

When we returned to the Golden Lion, he 
entertained me with many curious stories of the 
spots we had been visiting. Among others, he 
related the following singular adventure of a monk 
of the abbey of St. Antoine, which amused me 
so much that I cannot refrain from presenting 
it to my readers. I will not, however, vouch 
for the truth of the story ; for that the and* 
quarian himself would not do. He said he found 
it in an ancient manuscript of the Middle Ages, 
in the archives of the public library ; and I 
give it as it was told me, without note or com- 
ment. 



MARTIN FRANC 



AHD 



THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY.* 



Seignor, oiez udo merveille, 
C'onques n'oistes sa pareille, 
Que je Tos vaeil dire et conter ; 
Or metez cuer a I'escouter. 

Fabliau du Bouchier d'Abbetille. 

Lystyn Lordyngs to my tale, 

And ye shall here of one story, 
Is better than any wyne or ale. 

That ever was made in this cuntry. 

Ancient Metrical Romance 



In times of old, there lived in the city of 
Rouen a tradesman named Martin Franc, who, 

* The outlines of the following tale were taken from a 
Norman Fabliau of the thirteenth century, entitled Le Se- 
greUdn Moine, To judge by the numerous imitations of this 
story which still eiist in old Norman pOetry, it seems to have 
been a prodigious favorite of its day, and to have passed 
through as many bands as did the body of Friar Gui. It prob^ 
ably had its origin in ** The Story of the Little Hunchback,*' 
a tale of the Arabian Nights ; and in modern times has been 
imitated in the poetic tale of ** The Knight and the Friar,** 
by George Colman. 



30 MARTIN FRANC AND 

by a series of misfortunes, had been reduced 
from opulence to poverty. But poverty, which 
generally makes men humble and laborious, only 
served to make him proud and lazy ; and ip 
proportion as he grew poorer and poorer, he 
grew also prouder and lazier. He contrived, 
however, to live along from day to day, by now 
and then pawning a silken robe of his wife, or 
selling a silver spoon, or some other trifle saved 
from the wreck of his better fortunes ; and passed 
his time pleasantly enough in loitering about the 
market-place, and walking up and down on the 
sunny side of the street. 

The fair Marguerite, his wife, was celebrated 
through the whole city for her beauty, her wit, 
and her virtue. She was a brunette, with the 
blackest eye, the whitest teeth, and the ripest 
nut-brown cheek in all Normandy; her figure 
was tall and stately, her hands and feet most 
delicately moulded, and her swimming gait like 
the motion of a swan. In happier days she 
had been the delight of the richest tradesmen in 
the city, and the envy of the fairest dames. 

The friends of Martin Franc, like the friends 
of many a ruined man before and since, desert- 
ed him in the day of adversity. Of all that 



THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY. 31 

had eaten his dinners, and drank his i;rine, and 
flattered his wife, none sought the narrow alley 
and humble dwelling of the broken tradesman 
save one, and that one was Friar Gui, the sac- 
ristan of the abbey of Saint Anthony. He was 
a litde, jolly, red-faced friar, with a leer in his 
eye, and rather a doubtful reputation ; but as he 
was a kind of travelling gazette, and always 
brought the latest news and gossip of the city, 
and besides was the only person that condescend* 
ed to visit the house of Martin Franc, — in fine, 
for the want of a better, he was considered in 
the light of a friend. 

In these constant assiduities. Friar Gui had his 
secret motives, of which the single heart of 
Martin Franc was entirely unsuspicious. ^ The 
keener eye of his wife, however, sQpn discover- 
ed two faces under the hood ; but she persever- 
ed in misconstruing the friar's intentions, and in 
dexterously turning aside any expressions of gal- 
lantry that fell from his lips. In this way Friar 
Gui was for a long time kept at bay ; and Martin 
Franc preserved m the day of poverty and dis- 
tress that consolation of all this world's afflictions, 
— a friend. But, finally, things came to such 
a pass, that the honest tradesman opened his 



32 MARTIN FRANC AND 

ejes^ and wondered he had been asleep so long. 
Whereupon he was irreverent enough to thrust 
Friar Gui mto the street hj the shoulders. 

Meanwhile the times grew worse and worse. 
One family relic foUowed another, — the last silk- 
en robe was pawned, the last silver spoon sold ; 
until at length poor Martin Franc was forced to 
^^drag the devil by the tail" ; in other words, 
beggary stared him full in the face. But the fair 
Marguerite did not even then despair. In those 
days a belief in the immediate guardianship of the 
saints was much more strong and prevdent than 
in these lewd and degenerate times ; and as there' 
seemed no great probability of improving their 
condition by any lucky change which could be 
brought about by mere human agency, she deter- 
mined to try what could be done by intercession 
with the patron saint of her husband. Accord- 
ingly she repaired one evening to the abbey of 
St. Anthony, to place a votive candle and offer 
her prayer at the altar, which stood in the little 
chapel dedicated to St. Martin. 

It was already sunset when she reached the 
church, and the evening service of the Virgin had 
commenced. A cloud of incense floated before 
the altar of the Madonna, and the organ rolled its 



THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY. 33 

deep melody along the dim arches of the church. 
Marguerite mbgled with the kneeling crowd, and 
repeated the responses in Latin, with as much 
devotion as the most learned clerk of the convent. 
When the service was over, she repaired to the 
chapel of St. Martin, and, lighting her votive 
taper at the silver lamp which burned before his 
altar, knelt down in a retired part of the chapel, 
and, with tears in her eyes, besought the saint 
for aid and protection. While she was thus en- 
gaged, the church became gradually deserted, till 
she was left, as she thought, alone. But in this 
dhe was mistaken ; for, when she arose to depart, 
the portly figure of Friar Gui was standing close 
at her elbow ! 

^^ Good evening, fair Marguerite," said he. 
^' St. Martin has heard your prayer, and sent me 
to relieve your poverty." 

" Then, by the Virgm ! " replied she, " the 
good samt i3 not very fastidious in the choice of 
his messengers." 

" Nay, goodwife," answered the friar, not at 
all abashed by this ungracious reply, "if the 
tidmgs are good, what matters it who the messen- 
ger may be f And how does Martin Franc these 
days ? " 

3 



34 MARTIN FRANC AND 

^^ He is well," replied Marguerite ; ^^and were 
be present, I doubt not would tbank you beartily 
for the interest you still take in bim and bis poor 
wife." 

^^ He bas done me wrong," eontinued the fnar. 
^^ But it is our duty to forgive our enemies ; and 
so let the past be forgotten. I know that he is in 
want. Here, take this to bim, and tell bim I am 
still bis friend." 

So saying, be drew a small purse from tbe 
sleeve of his habit, and prolSered it to bis com^ 
panion. I know not whether it were a suggestion 
of St. Martin, but true it is tbat the fair wife of 
Martin Franc seemed to lend a more willing ear 
to the earnest whispers of the friar. At length 
she said, — 

" Put up your purse ; to-day I can neither de- 
liver your gift nor your message. Martin Franc 
has gone from home." 

" Then keep it for yourself." 

" Nay, Sir Monk," replied Marguerite, castmg 
down her eyes ; ^'I can take no bribes here in 
the church, and in tbe very chapel of my hus- 
band's patron saint. You shall bring it to me at 
my bouse, if you will." 

Tbe friar put up the purse, and the conver- 



THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONT. 35 

sadon which followed was in a low and indis- 
tinct undertone, audible only to the ears for which 
it was intended. At length the interview ceased ; 
and — O woman ! — the last words that the vir- 
tuous Marguerite uttered, as she glided from the 
church, were, — 

" To-night ; — when the abbey-clock strikes 
twelve ; — remember ! " 

It would be useless to relate how impatiently 
the friar counted the hours and the quarters as 
they chimed from the ancient tower of the ab- 
bey, while he paced to and fro along the gloomy 
cloister. At length the appomted hour approach- 
ed ; and just before the convent-bell sent forth 
its summons to call the friars of St. Anthony 
to their midnight devotions, a figure, with a cowl, 
stole out of a postern-gate, and, passing silently 
along the deserted streets, soon turned into the 
little alley which led to the dwelling of Martin 
Franc. It was none other than Friar Gui. He 
rapped softly at the tradesman's door, and cast- 
ing a look up and down the street, as if to assure 
himself that his motions were unobserved, slipped 
into the house. 

'^ Has Martin Franc returned ? " inquired he 
in a whispar. 



36 MARTIN FRANC AND 

" No," answered the sweet voice of his wife ; 
" he win not be back to-night." 

" Then all good angels befriend us ! " con- 
tbued the monk, endeavouring to take her hand. 

" Not so, good Monk," said she, disengagmg 
herself. " You forget the conditions of our 
meeting." 

The friar paused a moment ; and then, draw? 
ing a heavy leathern purse from his girdle, he 
threw it upon the table ; at the same moment 
a footstep was heard behind him, and a heavy 
blow from a club threw him prostrate upon the 
floor. It came from the strong arm of Martin 
Franc himself ! 

It is hardly necessary to vsay that his absence 
was feigned. His wife had mvented the story 
to decoy the monk, and thereby to keep her 
husband from beggary, and to relieve herself, 
once for all, from the importunities of a false 
friend. At first Martin Franc would not lis- 
ten to the proposition ; but at length he yielded 
to the urgent entreaties of his wife ; and the 
plan finally agreed upon was, that Friar Gui, 
after leaving his purse behind him, should be 
sent back to the convent with a severer disciplme 
than his shoulders had ever received from any 
penitence of his own. 



THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONT. 37 

The affair, however, took a more serious turn 
than was intended ; for, when they tried to raise 
the friar from the ground, — he was dead. The 
blow aimed at his shoulders fell upon his shaven 
crown ; and, in the excitement of the moment, 
Martin Franc had dealt a heavier stroke than he 
intended. Amid the grief and consternation 
which followed this discovery, the quick imagina- 
tion of his wife suggested an expedient of safety. 
A bunch of keys at the friar's girdle caught her 
eye. Hastily unfastening the ring, she gave the 
keys to her husband, exclaiming, — 

'' For the holy Virgin's sake, be quick ! One 
of these keys doubtless unlocks the gate of the 
convent-garden. Carry the body thither, and 
leave it among the trees ! " 

Martin Franc threw the dead body of the 
monk across his shoulders, and with a heavy 
heart took the way to the abbey. It was a clear, 
starry night ; and though the moon had not yet 
risen, her light was in the sky, and came re- 
flected down in a soft twilight upon earth. Not 
a sound was heard through all the long and soli- 
tary streets, save at intervals the distant crow- 
ing of a cock, or the melancholy hoot of an owl 
from the lofty tower of the abbey. The silence 



38 MARTIN FRANC AND 

weighed like an accusing spirit upon the guilty 
conscience of Martin Franc. He started at the 
sound of his own breathing, as he panted under 
the heavy burden of the monk's body ; and if, 
perchance, a bat flitted near him on drowsy 
wings, he paused, and his heart beat audibly with 
terror. At length he reached the garden-wall 
of the abbey, opened the postern-gate with the 
key, and, bearing the monk into the garden, seat- 
ed him upon a stone bench by the edge of 
the fountain, with his head resting against a col- 
umn, upon which was sculptured an image of 
the Madonna. He then replaced the bunch of 
keys at the monk's girdle, and returned home 
with hasty steps. 

When the prior of the convent, to whom the 
repeated delinquencies of Friar Gui were but too 
well known, observed that he was again absent 
from his post at midnight prayers, he waxed ex- 
ceedmgly angry ; and no sooner were the duties 
of the chapel finished, than he sent a monk in 
pursuit of the truant sacristan, summoning him 
to appear immediately at his cell. By chance 
it happened that the monk chosen for this duty 
was an enemy of Friar Gui ; and very shrewdly 
supposing that the sacristan had stolen out of the 



THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY. 39 

garden-gate on some midnight adventure, he 
took that direction in pursuit. The moon was 
just climbing the convent-wall, and threw its 
silvery light through the trees of the garden, 
and on the sparklmg waters of the fountain, that 
fell with a soft lulling sound into the deep ba- 
sin below. As the monk passed on his way, 
he stopped to quench his thirst with a draught 
of the cool water, and was turning to depart, 
when his eye caught the motionless fonn of the 
sacristan, sittbg erect in the shadow of the stone 
column. 

" How is this. Friar Gui i " quoth the monk. 
^^ Is this a place to be sleeping at midnight, when 
the brotlierhood are all at their prayers ? " 

Friar Gui made no answer. 

" Up, up ! thou eternal sleeper, and. do pen- 
ance for thy negligence. The prior calls for 
thee at his cell ! " continued the monk, grow- 
ing angry, and shaking the sacristan by the 
shoulder. 

But still no answer. 

" Then, by Samt Anthony, I 'U wake thee ! " 

And saying this, he dealt the sacristan a heavy 
box on the ear. The body bent slowly forward 
from its erect position, and, giving a headlong 



40 , MARTIN FRANC AND 

plunge, sank with a heavy splash into the basin 
of the fountam. The monk waited a few mo- 
ments in expectation of seeing Friar Gui rise 
dripping from his cold bath ; but he waited in 
vain ; for he lay motionless at the bottom of the 
basin, — his eyes open, and his ghasdy face dis- 
torted by the ripples of the water. With a beat- 
ing heart the monk stooped down, and, graspmg 
the skirt of the sacristan's habit, at length suc- 
ceeded in drawing him from the water. All 
efforts, however, to resuscitate him were unavail- 
ing. The monk was 611ed with terror, not doubt- 
ing that the friar had died untimely by his hand ; 
and as the animosity between them was no se- 
cret in the convent, he feared, that, when the 
deed was known, he should be accused of mur- 
der. He therefore looked round for an expe- 
dient to relieve himself from the dead body ; and 
the well known character of the sacristan soon 
suggested one. He determined to carry the 
body to the house of the most noted beauty of 
Rouen, and leave it on the door-step ; so that 
all suspicion of the murder might fall upon the 
shoulders of some jealous husband. The beauty 
of Martin Franc's wife had penetrated even the 
thick walls of the convent, and there was not a 



THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONT. 41 

friar in the whole abbey of Saint Anthony who 
had not done penance for his truant imagination. 
Accordingly, the dead body of Friar Gui was 
laid upon the monk's brawny shoulders, carried 
back to the house of Martin Franc, and placed in 
an erect position against the door. The monk 
knocked loud and long ; and then, gliding through 
a by-lane, stole back to the convent. 

A troubled conscience would not suffer Martin 
Franc and his wife to close their eyes ; but they 
lay awake lamenting the doleful events of the 
night. The knock at the door sounded like a 
death-knell in their ears. It still continued at 
mtervals, rap — rap — rap ! — with a dull, low 
sound, as if something heavy were swinging agamst 
the panel ; for the wind had risen durmg the night, 
and every angry gust that swept down the alley 
swung the arms of the lifeless sacristan against the 
door. At length Martin Franc mustered courage 
enough to dress himself and go down, while his 
wife followed him with a lamp in her hand ; but 
no sooner had he lifted the latch, than the ponder- 
ous body of Friar Gui fell stark and heavy into 
his arms. 

" Jesu Maria ! " exclaimed Marguerite, cross- 
ing herself; " hqre is the monk again ! " 



42 MARTIN FRANC AND 

^' Yes, and dripping wet, as if he had just been 
dragged out of the river ! " 

^^ O, we are betrayed ! " exclaimed Margue^ 
rite, in agony. 

^' Then the devil himself has betrayed us," re- 
plied Martin Franc, disengaging himself from the 
embrace of the sacristan ; ^' for I met not a living 
being ; the whole city was as silent as the grave." 

^' Saint Martin defend us ! " continued his 
terrified wife. ^^ Here, take this scapulary to 
guard you from the Evil One ; and lose no time. 
You must throw the body mto the river, or we 
are lost ! Holy Virgin ! How bright the moon 
shmes ! " 

Sajring this, she threw round his neck a scapu- 
lary, with the figure of a cross on one end, and an 
image of the Virgm on the other ; and Martin 
Franc again took the dead friar upon his should- 
ers, and with fearful misgivings departed on his 
dismal errand. He kept as much as possible in 
the shadow of the houses, and had nearly reached 
the quay, when suddenly he thought he heard 
footsteps behmd him. He stopped to listen ; it 
was no vain imagination ; they came along the 
pavement, tramp, tramp ! and every step grew 
louder and nearer. Martin Franc tried to quick 



THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY. 43 

en his pace, — but in vain ; his knees smote to- 
gether, and he staggered agamst the wall. His 
hand relaxed its grasp, and the monk slid from his 
back and stood ghastly and straight beside him, 
supported by chance against the shoulder of his 
bearer. At that moment a man came round the 
comer,* tottering beneath the weight of a huge 
sack. As his head was bent downwards, he did 
not perceive Martin Franc till he was close upon 
him ; and when, on looking up, he saw two 
figures standing motionless in the shadow of the 
wall, he thought himself waylaid, and, without 
waiting to be assaulted, dropped the sack from 
his shoulders and ran o£f at full speed. The sack 
fell heavily on the pavement, and directly at the 
feet of Martin Franc. In the fall the string was 
broken ; and out came the bloody head, not of 
a dead monk, as it first seemed ,to the excited 
imagination of Martin Franc, but of a dead hog ! 
When the terror and surprise caused by this 
singular event had a little subsided, an idea came 
into the mind of Martin Franc, very similar to 
what would have come mto the mind of almost 
any person in similar circumstances. He took 
the hog out of the sack, and, putting the body of 
the monk into its place, secured it well with the 



44 MARTIN FRANC AND 

remnants of the broken strmg, and then hurried 
homeward with the animal upon his shoulders. 

He was hardly out of sight when the man with 
the sack returned, accompanied by two others. 
They were surprised to find the sack still lying on 
the ground, with no one near it, and began to jeer 
the former bearer, telling him he had been firight- 
ened at his own shadow on the wall. Then one 
of them took the sack upon his shoulders, without 
the least suspicion of the change that had been 
made in its contents, and all three disappeared. 

Now it happened that the city of Rouen was at 
that time infested by three street robbers, who 
walked in darkness like the pestilence, and always 
carried the plunder of their midnight marauding 
to the Tete-de-Boeuf, a little tavern m one of the 
darkest and narrowest lanes of the city. The 
host of the Tete-de-Boeuf was privy to all their 
schemes, and had an equal share in the profits 
of their nightly excursions. He gave a helping 
hand, too, by the length of his bills, and by plun- 
dering the pockets of any chance traveller that 
was luckless enough to sleep under his roof. 

On the night of the disastrous adventure of 
Friar Gui, this little marauding party had been 
prowlmg about the city until a late hour, without 



THE MONK OF SAINT AMTHONT. 45 

finding any thing to reward their labors. At 
length, however, they chanced to spy a hog, 
hanging under a shed in a butcher's yard, in 
readiness for the next day's market ; and as they 
were not very fastidious in selecting their plunder, 
but, on the contrary, rather addicted to taking 
whatever they could lay their hands on, the hog 
was straightway purloined, thrust into a large sack, 
and sent to the Tete-de-Boeuf on the shoulders 
of one of the party, while the other two continued 
their nocturnal excursion. Tt was this person who 
had been so terrified at the appearance of Martin 
Franc and the dead monk ; and as this encounter 
had interrupted any further operations of the party, 
the dawn of day bemg now near at hand, they 
all repaired to their gloomy den in the Tete-de- 
Boeuf. The host was impatiently waiting their 
return ; and, askmg what plunder they had brought 
with them, proceeded without delay to remove it 
from the sack. The first thing that presented 
itself, Qp untying the string, was the monk's hood. 

" The devil take the devil ! " cried the host, 
as he opened the neck of the sack; "what's 
this ? Tour hog wears a cowl ! " 

" The poor devil has become disgusted with 
the world, and turned monk ! " said he who held 



46 MARTIN FRANC AND 

the light, a little surprised at seeing the head 
covered with a coarse gray cloth. 

'' Sure enough he has," exclaimed another, 
starting back in dismay, as the shaven crown and 
ghastly face of the friar appeared. '*• Holy St. 
Benedict he with us ! It is a monk stark dead ! " 

'' A dead monk, indeed ! " said a third, with 
an bcredulous shake of the head ; '^ how could a 
dead monk get into this sack ? No, no ; there is 
some diablerie in this. I have heard it said that 
Satan can take any shape he pleases ; and you 
may rely upon it this is Satan himself, who ha^ 
taken the shape of a monk to get us all hanged." 

^^ Then we had better kill the devil than have 
the devil kill us ! " replied the host, crossing him* 
self; ^^ and the sooner we do it the better ; for it 
is now daylight, and the people will soon be pass- 
ing in tlie street." 

" So say I," rejoined the man of magic ; " and 
my advice is, to take him to the butcher's yard, 
and hang him up m tlie place where we found the 
Iwg." 

This proposition so pleased the others that it 
was executed without delay. They carried the 
friar to tlie butcher's house, and, passing a strong 
cord roimd his neck, suspended him to a beam 
in the shade, and there left him. 



THE MONK OF SAINT AlfTHONT. 47 

Wb^ the night was at length past, and day- 
light began to peep into the eastern windows 
of the city, the butcher arose, and prepared 
himself for market. . He was castmg up b his 
mind what the hog would bring at his stall, when, 
looking upward, lo ! m its place be recognized 
the dead body of Friar Gui. 

" By St. Denis ! " quoth the butcher, " I 
always feared that this friar would not die quiet- 
ly in his cell ; but I nerer thought I should find 
him hanging under my own roof. This must 
not be ; it will be said that I murdered him, 
and I shall pay for it with my life. I must con- 
trive some way to get rid of him." 

So saying, he called his man, and, showing 
him what had been done, asked him how he 
should dispose of the body so that he might 
not be accused of murder. The man, who was 
of a ready wit, reflected a moment, and then 
answered, — 

^^ This is mdeed a difficult matter ; but there 
is no evil without its remedy. We will place 
the friar on horseback " 

"What! a dead man on horseback.^ — im- 
possible ! " bterrupted the butcher. " Who 
ever heard of a dead man on horseback ! " 



48 * MARTIN FRANC AND 

'^ Hear me out, ahd then judge. We must 
place the body on horseback as well as we may, 
and bind it fast with cords ; and then set the 
horse loose in the street, and pursue him, crying 
out that the monk has stolen the horse. Thus 
all who meet him will strike him with their staves 
as he passes, and it will be thought that he came 
to his death in that way." 

Though this seemed to the butcher rather a 
mad project, yet, as no better one offered itself 
at the moment, and there was no time for re- 
flection, mad as the project was, they determined 
to put it into execution. Accordingly the butch- 
er's horse was brought out, and the friar wap 
bound upon his back, and with much difficulty 
fixed in an upright position. The butcher then 
gave the horse a blow upon the crupper with 
his staff, which set him into a smart gallop down 
the street, and he and his man joined in pursuit, 
crymg, — 

"Stop thief! Stop thief! The friar has 
stolen my horse ! " 

As it was now sunrise, the streets were full 
of people, — peasants driving their goods to mar- 
ket, and citizens going to their daily avocations. 
When they saw the friar dashing at full speed 



THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY. 49 

down the street, they joined in the cry of " Stop 
thief ! — Stop thief ! " and many who endeav- 
oured to seize the bridle, as the friar passed them 
at full speed, were thrown upon the pavement, 
and trampled under foot ; others joined in the 
halloo and the pursuit ; but this only served 
to quicken the gallop of the frightened steed, 
who dashed down one street and up another 
like the wind, with two or three mounted cit- 
izens clattering m full cry at his heels. At length 
they reached the market-place. The people 
scattered right and left in dismay ; and the steed 
and rider dashed onward, overthrowing in their 
course men and women, and stalls, and piles 
of merchandise, and sweeping away Uke a whiri- 
wind. Tramp — tramp — tramp ! they clattered 
on ; they had distanced all pursuit. They reach- 
ed the quay ; the wide pavement was cleared at 
a bound, — one more wild leap, — and splash ! — 
both horse and rider sank into the rapid current 
of the river, — swept down the stream, — and 
were seen no more ! 



THE 



VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 



II n'est tel plaisir 
Que d'estre k g^sir 
Parmy les beaux champs, 
L'berbe verde choiair, 
Et prendre bon temps. 

Martial D'Auvxrovb 



The sultry heat of summer always brings with 
it, to the idler and the man of leisure, a long- 
ing for the leafy shade and the green luxuriance 
of the country. It is pleasant to interchange, the 
din of the city, die movement of the crowd, and 
die gossip of society, with the silence of the 
hamlet, the quiet seclusion of the grove, and the 
gossip of a woodland brook. As is sung in the 
old ballad of Robin Hood, — 

** In somer, wben tbe sbawes be sheyn, 

And leves be large and long, 
Hit b full mery in feyre foreste, 

To here the foulys song ; 
To se the dere draw to the dale 

And leve the hilles bee. 
And shadow hem in the leves grene, 

Voder the grene wode tre." 



THE TILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 5l 

It was a feeling of dus kind that prompted 
me, during rtij reindence in the Nordi of France, 
to pass one of tibe summer months at Auteuil, 
the pleasantest of the manf little Tillages that 
lie in the immediate Ticinity of the metropolb. 
It is situated on the. outskirts of the Bois de 
Boulogne, a wood of some extent, in whose 
green alleys the dusty cit enjoys the luxuiy of 
an eTenin^ driTe, and gentlemen meet m the 
mombg to giTe each other satisfaction in the 
usual way. A cross-road, skirted with green 
hedge-rows, and OTershadowed by tall poplars, 
leads you from the noisy highway of St. Oloud 
and Versailles to the still retirement of this sub- 
urban hamlet. On either side the eye discoT^rs 
old chateaux amid the trees, and green parks, 
whose pleasant shades recall a thousand images 
of La Fontaine, Racine, and Moliere ; and on 
an eminence, OTerlooking the windings of the 
Seine, and giTing a beautiful though distant Tiew 
of the dcHnes and gardens of Paris, rises the 
Tillage of Passy, long the residence of our coun- 
trymen Franklin and Count Rumford. 

I took up my abode at a mai$on de sarUi ; 
not that I was a Taletudinarian, but because I 
there found some one to whom I could whisper, 



52 THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 

" How sweet is solitude ! " Behind the house 
was a garden filled with fruit-trees of various 
kinds, and adorned with gravel-walks and green 
arbours, furnished with tables and rustic seats, 
for the repose of the invalid and the sleep of 
the indolent. Here the inmates of the rural 
hospital met on common ground, to breathe the 
invigorating air of morning, and while away the 
lazy noon or vacant evening with tales of the 
sick-chamber. 

The establishment was kept by Dr. Dentde- 
lion, a dried-up little fellow, with red hair, a 
sandy complexion, and the physiognomy and 
gestures of a monkey. His character corre- 
sponded to his outward lineaments ; for he bad 
all a monkey's busy and curious impertmence. 
Nevertheless, such as he was, the village -Sscu- 
lapius strutted forth the little great man of Au- 
teuil. The peasants looked up to him as to an 
oracle ; he contrived to be at the head of every 
thing, and laid claim to the credit of all public 
improvements in the village ; in fine, he was a 
great man on a small scale. 

It was within the dingy walls of this little 
potentate's imperial palace that I chose my coun- 
try residence. I had a chamber in the second 



THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 53 

stoiy, with a solitary window, which looked upon 
the street, and gave me a peep into a neighbour's 
garden. This I esteemed a great privilege ; 
for, as a stranger, I desired to see all that was 
passmg out of doora; and the sight of green 
trees, though growing on another's ground, is al- 
ways a blessmg. Within doors — had I been 
disposed to quarrel with my household gods — 
I might have taken some objection to my neigh- 
bourhood ; for, on one side of me was a con- 
sumptive patient, whose graveyard cough drove 
me from my chamber by day ; and on the other, 
an English colonel, whose mcoherent ravings, 
in the delirium of a high and obstinate fever, 
often broke my slumbers by night ; but I found 
ample amends for these mconveniences in the 
society of those who were so little indisposed 
as hardly to know what ailed them, and those 
who, in health themselves, had accompanied a 
friend or relative to the shades oiT the country 
in pursuit of it. To these I am mdebted for 
much courtesy ; and particularly to one who, 
if these pages should ever meet her eye, will 
not, I hope, be unwilling to accept this slight 
memorial of a former friendship. 

It was, however, to the Bois de Boulogne that 



54 THE TILLAGE Or AUTEUIL. 

I looked fof my principal recreation. There I 
took 1117 solitary walk, momiiig and evening ; or, 
mounted on a little mouse-ccdored donkej, paced 
demurely along the woodland padiway. I had 
a favorite seat beneath the shadow of a vener- 
able oak, one of the few hoary patriarchs of the 
wood which bad survived the bivouacs of the 
allied armies. It stood upon the brink of a lit- 
tle glassy pool, whose tranquil bosom was the 
image of a quiet and secluded life, and stretched 
its parental arms over a rustic b^ich, that had 
been constructed beneath it for the accommoda- 
tion of the foot-traveller, or, perchance, some idle 
dreamer like myself. It seemed to look round 
with a lordly air upon its old hereditary domain, 
whose stillness was no longer broken by the tap 
of the martial drum, nor the discordant clang of 
arms ; and, as the breeze whispered among its 
branches, it seemed to be holding friendly collo- 
quies with a few of its venerable contemporaries, 
who stooped from the opposite bank of the pool, 
nodding gravely now and then, and gazing at 
themselves with a sigh in the mirror below. 

In this quiet haunt of rurdi repose I used to sit 
at noon, hear the birds sing, and ^^ possess myself 
in much quietness." Just at my feet lay the litde 



THte VILLAGE or AUTfiUIIir. 55 

sOver pool, with the sky and the woods painted in 
its mimic vault, and occasionally the image of a 
bird, or the soft, watery outline of a cloud, floating 
silently through its sunny hollows. The water* 
lily spread its broad, green leaves on the surface, 
and rocked to sleep a litde world of insect life in 
its golden cradle. Sometimes a wandering leaf 
came floating and wavering downward, and set- 
tled on the water ; then a vagabond insect would 
break the smooth surface into a thousand rip^des, 
or a green-coated frog slide from the haxAiy and^ 
plump ! dive headlong to the bottom. 

I entered, too, with some enthusiasm, into aU 
the rural i^orts and merrimakes of the village^ 
The holydays were so many litde eras of mirth 
and good feelmg ; for the Fr^ch have that hap- 
py and sunshme temperament, — that merry-go- 
mad character, — which renders all thw social 
meetings scenes of enjoyment and hilarity. I 
made it a point never to miss any of the fite$ 
champitresy or rural dances, at the wood o( 
Boulogne ; though I confess it sc»netimes gave 
me a momentary uneasmess to see my rustic 
throne beneath the oak usurped by a noisy group 
of girls, the silence and decorum of my imaginary 
reahn broken by music and laughter, and, m a 



56 THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 

word, my whole kingdom turned topsy-turvy 
with rompmg, fiddlmg, and dancing. But I am 
naturally, and from principle, too, a lover of all 
those innocent amusements which cheer the labor- 
er's toil, and, as it were, put their shoulders to 
the wheel of life, and help the poor man along 
with his load of cares. Hence I saw with no 
small delight the rustic swain astride the wood- 
en horse of the carrousel^ and the village maiden 
whirling round and round in its diz2y car; or 
took my stand on a rising ground that over- 
looked the dance, an idle spectator in a busy 
throng. It was just where the village touched 
the outward border of the wood. There a little 
area had been levelled beneath the trees, sur- 
rounded by a painted rail, with a row of benches 
inside. The music was placed in a slight bal- 
cony, built around the trunk of a large tree in 
the centre ; and the lamps, hanging from the 
branches above, gave a gay, fantastic, and fairy 
look to the scene. How often in such moments 
did I recall the lines of Goldsmith, describing 
those " kinder skies " beneath which " France 
displays her bright domain," and feel how true 
and masterly the sketch, — 



THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 57 

" Alike all ages ; dames of ancient days 
Have led their children through the mirthful maze, 
And the gray grandnre, skilled in gestic lore, « 
Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore." 

Nor must I forget to mention the fUt patro- 
naky — a kind of annual fair, which is held at mid- 
summer, in honor of the patron saint of Auteuil. 
Then the principal street of the village is filled 
with booths of every description ; strolling play- 
ers, and rope-dancers, and jugglers, and giants, 
and dwarfs, and wild beasts, and all kinds of 
wonderful shows, excite the gaping curiosity of 
the throng ; and in dust, crowds, and confusion, 
the village rivals the capital itself. Then the 
goodly dames of Passy descend into the village of 
Auteuil ; then the brewers of Billancourt and the 
tanners of Sevres dance lustily under the green- 
wood tree ; and then, too, the sturdy fishmon- 
gers of Bretigny and Saint- Yon regale their fat 
wives with an airing m a swing, and their cus- 
tomers with eels and crawfish ; or, as is more 
poetically set forth in an old Christmas carol, — 

*' Vous eussiez vu venir tous ceux de Saint-Yon, 
£t ceux de Bretigny apportant du poisson, 
Les barbeaux et gardons, anguilles et carpettes 
Etoient k bon raarch6 

Croyez, 
A cette joum6e-Ui, 

La, Id, 
Et aussi les perchettes." 



58 THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 

« 

I found another source of amusement in ob* 
serving the various personages that daily passed 
and repassed beneath my window. The charac- 
ter which most of all arrested my attention was 
a poor blind fiddler, whom I first saw chanting a 
doleful ballad at the door of a small tavern near 
the gate of the village. He wore a brown 
coat, out at elbows, the firagment of a velvet 
waistcoat, and a pair of ti^t nankeens, so short 
as hardly to reach below his calves. A little for- 
aging cap, that had long since seen its best days, 
set off an open, good-humored countenance, 
bronzed by sun and wind. He was led about 
by a brisk, middle-aged woman, in straw hat 
and wooden shoes ; and a little barefooted boy, 
with clear, blue eyes and flaxen hair, held a tat- 
tered hat in his hand, in which he collected 
eleemosynaiy sous. The old fellow had a favor- 
ite song, which he used to sing with great glee 
to a merry, joyous air, the burden of which ran 
^' Chantons V amour et h plairir!^^ I often 
thought it would have been a good lesson for 
the crabbed and discontented rich man to have 
heard this renmant of humanity, ---poor, blind, 
and in rags, and dependent upon casual charity 
for his daily bread, smging in so cheerful a voice 



THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. &9 

the charms of existence, and, as it were, fiddling 
Mfe away to a merry tune. 

I was one morning called to my window by 
the sound of rustic music. I boked out and 
beheld a procession of villagers advancing along 
the road, attired m gay dresses, and marchii^ 
merrily on in the direction of the cfainrch. I 
soon perceived that it was a marriage-festival. 
The procession was led by a long orang-outang 
of a man, in a straw hat and white dimity bob- 
coat, playbg on an asthmatic clarionet, from 
which he contrived to blow unearthly sounds, 
ever and anon squeaking off at right angles from 
his tune, and wmding up with a grand flourish 
on the guttural notes. Behind him, led by his 
litde boy, came die blind fiddler, his honest fea- 
tures glowing with all the hilarity of a rustic bri- 
dal, and, as he stumbled along, sawing away upon 
his fiddle till he made all crack agam. Then 
came the happy bridegroom, dressed in his Sun- 
day suit of blue, with a large nosegay in his 
button-hole ; and dose beside him his blushing^ 
bride, with downcast eyes, clad in a white robe 
and slippers, and wearing a wreath of white roses 
m her hair. The friends and relatives brought 
up the procession ; and a troop of village urchins 



60 THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 

came shouting along in the rear, scrambling 
among themselves for the largess of sous and 
sugar-plums that now and then issued in large 
handfuls from the pockets of a lean man in black, 
who seemed to officiate as master of ceremonies 
on the occasion. I gazed on the procession till 
it was out of sight ; and when the last wheeze 
of the clarionet died upon my ear, I could not 
help thinking how happy were they who were 
thus to dwell together in the peaceful bosom of 
their native village, far from the gilded misery 
and the pestilential vices of the town. 

On the evening of the same day, I was sit- 
ting J)y the window, enjoying the freshness of 
the air and the beauty and stillness of the hour, 
when I heard the distant and solemn hymn of the 
Catholic burial-service, at first so famt and indis- 
tmct that it seemed an illusion. It rose mourn- 
fully on the hush of evening, — died gradually 
away, — tlien ceased. Then it rose again, near- 
er and more distinct, and soon after a funeral 
procession appeared, and passed direcdy beneath 
my window. It was led by a priest, bearing the 
banner of the church, and followed by two boys, 
holding long flambeaux ill their hands. Next 
came a double file of priests in their surplices, 



THE TILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 61 

with a missal in one hand and a lighted wax 
taper In the other, chanting the funeral dirge at 
intervals, — now pausing, and then again taking 
up the mournful burden of their lamentation, 
accompanied by others, who played upon a rude 
kind of bassoon, with a dismal and wailing sound. 
Then followed various symbols of the church, 
and the bier borne on the shoulders of four 
men. The coffin w^s covered with a velvet 
pall, and a chaplet of white flowers lay upon 
it, indicating that the deceased was unmarried. 
A few of the villagers came behind, clad in 
mourning robes, and bearing lighted tapers. The 
procession passed slowly along the same street 
that in the morning had been thronged by the 
gay bridal company. A melancholy train of 
thought forced itself home upon my mind. The 
joys and sorrows of this world are so strikingly 
mingled ! Our mirth and grief are brought so 
mournfully in contact ! We laugh while others 
weep, — and others rejoice when we are sad ! 
The light heart and the heavy walk side by side 
and go about together ! Beneath the same roof 
are spread the wedding-feast and the funeral-pall ! 
The bridal-song mingles with the burial-hymn ! 
One goes to the marriage-bed, another to the 



[. 



63 THE TILLAGE OF AVTEUIL. 

grave ; and aJl b mutable, uncertain^ and transi- 
tory. 

It is with sensations of pure delist that I 
recur to the brief period of my existence which 
was passed in the peaceful shades of Auteuil. 
There is one kind of wisdom which we learn 
from the world, aiid another kind which can be 
acquired in solitude only. In cities we study 
those around us ; but in the retirement of the 
country we learn to know ourselves. The voice 
within us is more distinctly audible in the still* 
ness of the place ; and the gender affections 
of our nature spring up more freshly in its tran* 
quillity and sunshine, — nurtured by the healthy 
principle which we inhale with the pure air, and 
invigorated by the genial influences which de- 
scend mto the heart from the quiet of the syl- 
van solitude around, and the soft serenity of the 
sky above. 



JACQUELINE. 



Death lies on her, like an untimely frost 
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. 

Sbakspears. 



<^ Dear mother, is it not die bell I hear ? " 

^^ Yes, my child ; the bell for morning prayers. 
It is Sunday to-day." 

^^I had forgotten it. But now all days are 
alike to me. Hark ! it sounds again, — louder,-^ 
louder. Open die window, for I love the sound. 
The sunshine and the fresh morning air revive 
me. And the church-bell, — O mother, — it 
reminds me of the holy Sabbath mornings by 
the Loire,-— so calm, so hushed, so beautiful! 
Now give me my prayer-book, and draw the 
curtam back, that I may see the green trees and 
the chinrch-spire. I feel better to-day, dear 
mother." 

It was a bright, cloudless morning in August. 
The dew still glistened on the trees ; and a slight 



64 JACQUELINE. 

breeze wafted to the sick-chamber of Jacque- 
line the song of the birds, the rustle of the 
leaves, and the solemn chime of the church- 
bells. She had been raised up in bed, and, re- 
clining upon the pillow, was gazing wistfully 
upon the quiet scene without. Her mother gave 
her the prayer-book, and then turned away to 
hide a tear that stole down her cheek. 

At length the bells ceased. Jacqueline cross- 
ed herself, kissed a pearl crucifix that hung 
around her neck, and opened the silver clasps 
of her missal. For a time she seemed wholly 
absorbed in her devotions. Her lips moved, but 
no sound was audible. At mtervals the solemn 
voice of the priest was heard at a distance, and 
then the confused responses of the congregation, 
dymg away in inarticulate murmurs. Ere long 
the thrilling chant of the Catholic service broke 
upon the ear. At first it was low, solemn, and 
indistinct ; then it became more earnest and en- 
treating, as if interceding and imploring pardon 
for sin ; and then arose louder and louder, full, 
harmonious, majestic, as it wafted the song of 
praise to heaven, — and suddenly ceased. Then 
the sweet tones of the organ were heard, — 
trembling, thrilling, and rising higher and higher, 



JACQUELINE. 65 

and filling the whole air with their rich, melo- 
dious music. What exquisite accords ! — what 
noble harmonies ! — what touching pathos ! The 
soul of the sick girl seemed to kindle into more 
ardent devotion, and to be rapt away to heaven in 
the full) harmonious chorus, as it swelled onward, 
doubling and redoubling, and rolling upward in a 
full burst of rapturous devodon ! Then all was 
hushed again. Once more the low sound of the 
bell smote the air, and announced the elevation 
of the host. The mvalid seemed entranced in 
prayer. Her book had fallen beside her, — her 
bands were clasped, -—her eyes closed, — her 
soul retired withm its secret chambers. Then a 
more triumphant peal of bells arose. The tears 
gushed from her closed and swollen lids ; her 
cheek was flushed ; she opened her dark eyes, 
and fixed them with an expression of deep adora- 
tion and penitence upon an image of the Saviour 
on the cross, which bung at the foot of her bed, 
and her Ups again moved in prayer. Her coun- 
tenance expressed the deepest resignation. She 
seemed to ask only diat she might die in peace, 
and go to the bosom of her Redeemer. 

The mother was kneeling by the window, ' 
with her face concealed in the folds of the cur^ 

5 



66 JACQUELINE. 

taiii. She arose, and, gomg to the bedside of 
her child, threw her arms around her and burst 
into tears. 

^' My dear mother, I shall not live long ; I 
feel it here. This piercmg pain, — at times it 
seizes me, and I cannot — cannot breathe." 

" My child, you will be better soon.'- 

^' Yes, mother, I shall be better soon. All 
tears, and pain, and sorrow will be over. The 
hymn of adoration and entreaty I have just heard, 
I shall never hear again on earth. Next 8ab« 
bath, mother, kneel again by that wmdow as 
to-day. I shall not be here, upon this bed of 
pain and sickness ; but when you hear the solemn 
hymn of worship, and the beseeching tones that 
wbg the spirit up to God, thmk, mother, that I 
am there, with my sweet sister who has gone be- 
fore us, — kneeling at our Saviour's feet, and 
happy, — O, how happy ! " 

The afflicted mother made no reply, — her 
heart was too full to speak. 

" You remember, mother, how caknly Amie 
died. She was so young and beautiful ! I al* 
ways pray that I may die as she did. I do not 
fear death as I did before she was taken firom 
us. But, O, — this pain, — this cruel pain ! — it 



JACQUELINE. 67 

seems to draw my mind back from heaven. 
When it leaves me, I shall die in peace." 

" My poor child ! God's holy will be done ! " 

The invalid soon sank into a quiet slumber. 
The excitement was over, and exhausted nature 
sought relief m sleep. 

The persons between whom this scene passed 
were a widow and her sick daughter, from the 
neighbourhood of Tours. They had left the 
banks of the Loire to consult the more expe- 
rienced physicians of the metropolis, and had 
been directed to the maison de santi at Au- 
teuil for the benefit of the pure air. But all 
in vain. The health of the uncomplaining pa- 
tient grew worse and worse, and it soon be- 
came evident that the closing scene was drawing 
near. 

Of this Jacquelbe herself seemed conscious ; 
and towards evening she expressed a wish to 
receive the last sacraments of the chtirch. A 
priest was sent for ; and ere long the tinkling 
of a little bell in the street announced his ap- 
proach. He bore in his hand a silver chalice 
containing the consecrated wafer, and a small 
vessel filled with the holy oil of the extreme 
unction hung from his neck. Before him walked 



68 JACaVELinE. 

a boy canyiiig a Utde beli, whose sound an« 
Dounced the passii^ of these sjinbols of the 
Catholic faith. In the rear, a few of the villa- 
gers, bearing lighted wax tapers, formed a short 
and melancholy procession. They soon entered 
the sick-chamber, and the glimmer of the tapers 
mingled with the red light of the setting sun 
that shot his farewell rays through the open win** 
dow. The vessel of oil and the silver chalice 
were placed upon the table in front of a crucifix 
that hung upon the wall, and all present, except* 
mg the priest, threw themselves upon their knees. 
The priest then approached the bed of the dy- 
ing girl, and said, in a slow and solemn tone, — 

^' The King of kings and Lord of lords has 
passed thy threshold. Is thy spirit ready to re* 
ceive him ? " 

" It is, father." 

" Hast thou confessed thy sins ? " 

" Holy fadier, no." 

" Confess thyself, then, that thy sins may be 
forgiven, and thy name recorded in the book 
of life." 

And, turning to the kneeling crowd around, 
he waved his hand for them to retire, and was 
left alone with the sick girl. He seated him- 



JACat^ELlNfi. 69 

self beside her piUow, and the subdued whisper 
of the confession mingled with the murmur aji 
the evening air, which lifted the heayj folds 
of the curtains, and stole in upon the holy scene. 
Poor Jacqueline had few sins to confess, -^ a 
secret thought or two towards the pleasures and 
delights of the world, — a wish to live^ uout- 
tered, but which, to the eye of her self-accusing 
spirit, seemed to resist the wise providence of 
God ; — no more. The confession of a meek 
and lowly heart is soon made. The door was 
again opened ; the attendants entered, and knelt 
around the bed, and the priest proceeded, -— 

^^ And now prepare thyself to receive with 
contrite heart the body of our blessed Lord and 
Redeemer. Dost thou believe that our Lord 
Jesus Christ was conceived by the Holy Spirit, 
and bom of the Virgb Mary ? " 

" I beKeve." 

And all present jomed in the solemn re- 
sponse, — 

" I believe." 

'^ Dost thou believe that the Father is God, 
that the Son is God, and that the Holy Spirit 
is God, —three persons and one God ? " 

" I believe." 



70 JACQUELINE. 

^' Dost tfaou believe that the Son is seated 
on the right hand of the Majesty on high, whence 
he shall come to judge the quick and the dead ? " 

'^ I beheve.'' 

" Dost thou believe that by the holy sacra-* 
ments of the church thy sms are forgiven thee, 
and that thus thou art made worthy of eternal 
life?" 

" I beheve." 

^^ Dost thou pardon, with all diy heart, all who 
have offended thee in thought, word, or deed ? " 

" I pardon them." 

^^ And dost thou ask pardon of God and thy 
neighbour for all offences thou hast committed 
against them, either in thought, word, or deed ? " 

" I do ! " 

*' Then repeat after me, — O Lord Jesus, I 
am not worthy, nor do I merit, that thy divine 
majesty should enter this poor tenement of clay ; 
but, according to thy holy promises, be my sms 
forgiven, and my soul washed white from all 
transgression." 

Then, taking a consecrated wafer from the 
vase, he placed it between the lips of the dying 
girl, and, while the assistant sounded the little 
silver bell, said, — 



I 



JACQUELINE. 71 

«< Corpus Domini nostri Jesu ChrisH custodial 
anitnam tuam in vitam eternam.^^ 

And the kneeling crowd smote tfaeir breasts 
and responded in one solemn voice, — 

" Amen ! " 

The priest then took a little golden rod, and) 
dipping it in holy oil, anointed the invalid upon 
the hands, feet, and breast, in the form of the 
cross. When these ceremonies were completed, 
the priest and his attendants retired, leaving the 
mother alone with her dying child, who, from 
the exhaus^on caused by the preceding scene, 
sank into a deathlike sleep. 

^ Between two worlds life hoTered like a star, 
*Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's yerge.** 

The long twilight of the summer evening stole 
on ; the shadows deepened without, and the night- 
lamp glimmered feebly in the sick-chamber ; but 
still she slept. She was lymg with her hands 
clasped upon her breast, — her pallid cheek rest- 
ing upon the pillow, and her bloodless lips apart, 
but motionless and silent as the deep of death. 
Not a breath interrupted the silence of her slum- 
ber. Not a movement of the heavy and sunk- 
en eyelid, not a trembling of the lip, not a 
shadow on the marble brow, told when the spirit 



73 JACQUELINE. 







took its flight. It passed to a better world than 
this: — 

** There 'a a perpetual spring, — perpetual youth ; 
No joint-benumbiDg cold, nor Korching heat, 
Famine, nor age, have any being there." 



THE 



SEXAGENARIAN. 



Do yon set down yoar name in the scroll of youth, that 

are written down old, with all the character! of age ? Hay« 

you not a moiat eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white 

beard, a decreasing leg ? 

Sbaxspiars. 



There he goes, in his long russet surtout, 
sweeping down jronder gravel-walk, beneath the 
trees, like a yellow leaf in autunm wafted along 
by a fitful gust of wind. Now he pauses,-^ 
now seems to be whirled round m an eddy, ^ 
and now rustles and brushes onward again. He 
is talking to himself in an under-tone, as usual, 
and flourishes a pinch of snuff between bis fore- 
finger and his thumb, ever and anon drumming 
on the cover of his box, by way of empha- 
sis, with a sound like die tap of a woodpecker. 
He always takes a morning walk in the garden, 
-^ in fact, I may say he passes the greater part 
of the day there, either strollbg up and down 
the gravel-walks, or sitting on a rustic bench in 



74 THE SEXAGENARIAN. 

one of the leafy arbours. He always wears that 
same dress, too ; a bell-crowned hat, a frilled 
bosom, and white dimity vest, soiled with snuff, -^ 
light nankeen breeches, and, over all, that long 
and flowing surtout of russet-brown Circassian, 
hanging in wrinkles round his slender body, and 
toying with his thin, rakish legs. Such is his 
constant garb, mommg and evening ; and it gives 
him a cool and breezy look, even m the heat of 
a noonday in August. 

The personage sketched in the preceding par- 
agraph is Monsieur D'Argentville, a sexagenarian, 
with whom I became acquainted during my res* 
idence at the maiion de sante of Auteuil. I 
found him there, and left him there. Nobody 
knew when he came, — he had been there from 
time immemorial ; nor when he was going away, 
— for he himself did not know ; nor what ailed 
him, — for though he was always complaining, yet 
he grew neither better nor worse, never con- 
sulted the physician, and ate voraciously three 
times a day. At table he was rather peevish, 
troubled his neighbours with his elbows, and 
utt^ed the monosyllable pish ! rather oftener than 
good-breeding and a due deference to the opin- 
ions of others seemed to justify. As soon as he 



THE SEXAGENARIAN. 75 

seated himself at table, he breathed into his turn- 
]bler, and wiped it out with a napkin ; then wiped 
his plate, his spoon, his knife and fork in succes- 
sion, and each with great care. After this he 
placed the napkm under his chin ; and, these prep* 
arations being completed, gave full swing to 
an appetite which was not inappropriately denom- 
inated, by one of our guests, ^'une faim ca^ 

The old gentleman's weak side was an afiecta* 
tion of youth and gaDantry. Though " written 
down old, with all the characters of age,'' yet 
at times he seemed to think himself in the hey- 
day of life ; and the assiduous court he paid to a 
fair countess, who was passmg the summer at 
the maison de santij was the source of no little 
merriment to all but himself. He loved, too, to 
recall the golden age of his amours ; and would 
discourse with prolix eloquence, and a faint 
twinkle in his watery eye, of his honnts fortunes 
in times of old, and the rigors that many a fair 
dame had suffered on his account. Indeed, his 
chief pride seemed to be to make his hearers 
believe that he had been a dangerous man in his 
youth, and was not yet quite safe. 

As I also was a peripatetic of the garden, we 



76 TBE 8CXAGENARIAN. 

encountered eacb other at every turn. At first 
our conversation was limited to the usual saluta- 
tions of the day ; but ere long our casual acquaint- 
ance ripened into a kind of intimacy. Step by 
step I won my way, — first into Us society, — • 
then into his muflf-box, -^ and then into his heart. 
He was a great talker, and he found in me what 
he found in no other mmate of the house,— r a 
good listener, who never interrupted his long sto- 
ries, nor contradicted his opinions. So he talked 
down one alley and up another, -^firom breakfast 
tOl dinner, — from dinner till midnight, — at all 
times and in all places, when he could catch 
me by the button, till at last he had confided to 
my ear all the important and unimportant events 
of a life of sixty years. 

Monsieur D'Argentville was a shoot firom a 
wealthy family of Nantes. Just before the Rev- 
olution, he went up to Paris to study law at the 
University, and, like many other wealthy schol- 
ars of his age, was soon involved in the intrigues 
and dissipation of the metropolis. He first es- 
tablished himself in the Rue de l'Universit6 ; 
but a roguish pair of eyes at an opposite win- 
dow soon drove from' the field such heavy tac-* 
ticians as Hugues Doneau and Gui Coquille. 



T«fi aSXAGEXVARIijr, 77 

A flirtation was commeiiced in due form ; and 
a flag of mioe, offering to capitulate, was sent 
in the shape of a bilIet*-doux. In the mean time 
be regularly amused bis leisure hours by blowbg 
kisses across the street with an old pair of bd* 
lows. One afternoon, as he was occupied in 
this way, a tall gentleman with whiskers stepped 
into the room, just as. he had charged the bel^ 
lows to the muzzle, fie muttered something 
about an explanation,*^ his sister, ^-^majriage,-^ 
and the satisfaction of a gentleman! Perhaps 
there is no situation in life so awkward to a man 
of real sensibility as that of being awed mto mat- 
rimony or a duel by the whiskers of a tall broths 
er. There was but one alternative ; and the 
next morning a placard at the window of the 
Bachelor of Love, with the words ^* Furnished 
Apartment to let," showed that the former oc- 
cupant had found it convenient to change lodg- 
ings. 

He next appeared in the Chaussee-d'Antin, 
where he assiduously prepared himself for fu- 
ture exigencies by a course of daily lessons in 
the use of the smalI-sword« He soon after 
quarrelled with his best j&ittid, about a httle ac- 
tress on the Boulevard, and had the satisfaction 



78 THE SEXAGENARIAN. 

of being jOted, and then run through the body 
at the Bois de Boulogne. This gave him new 
£clat in the fashionable world, and consequently 
he pursued pleasure with a keener relish than 
ever. He next had the grande pcutsion^ and 
narrowly escaped marrying an heiress of great 
expectations, and a coundess number of cha- 
teaux. Just before the catastrophe, however, 
he had the good fortune to discover that the 
lady's expectations were limited to his own pock- 
et, and that, as for her chiteaux, they were all 
Chateaux en Espagne. 

About this time \n3 father died ; and the hope- 
ful son was hardly well established in his inher- 
itance, when the Revolution broke out. Unfor- 
tunately, he was a firm upholder of the divine 
right of kings, and had the honor of bemg amoi^ 
the first of the proscribed. He narrowly es- 
caped the guillotme by jumping on board a ves- 
sel bound for America, and arrived at Boston 
with only a few francs in his pocket ; but, as he 
knew how to accommodate himself to circumstan- 
ces, he continued to live by teaching -fencing 
and French, and keeping a dancmg-school and 
a milliner. ^ 

At the restoration of the Bourbons, he returned 



THE SEXAGENARIAN. 79 

to France ; and from that time to the day of 
our acquaintance had been engaged in a series 
of vexatious hwsuits, in the hope of recovering 
a portion of his proper^, which had been in- 
trusted to a friend for safe keeping at the com- 
mencement of the Revolution. His friend, how- 
ever, denied all knowledge of the transaction, 
and the assignment was very difficult to prove. 
Twelve years of unsuccessful litigation had com- 
pletely soured the old gentleman's temper, and 
made him peevish and misanthrosic ; and he had 
come to Auteiiil merely to escape the noise of 
the city, and to brace his shattered nerves with 
pure air and quiet amusements. There he idled 
the time away, sauntering about the garden of 
the maison de sante^ talkbg to himself when 
he could get no other listener, and occasionally 
reinforcing his misanthropy with a dose of the 
Maxims of La Rochefoucauld, or a visit to the 
scene of his duel in the Bois de Boulogne. 

Poor Monsieur d'Argentville ! What a mis- 
erable life he led, — or rather dragged on, from 
day to day ! A petulant, broken-down old man, 
who had outlived his fortune, and his friends, 
and his hopes, — yea, every thing but the sting 
of bad passions and the recollection of a life 



80 THB SEXAQENARIAIV. 

ill*-spent ! Whether he still walks the earth or 
slumbers in its bosom, I know not ; but a lively 
recollection of him will always mingle with my 
reminiscences of Auteuil, 



P^RE LA CHAISE. 



Our fathen find their graves in oar short memories, and 
sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors. 

Oblivion is not to be hired. The greater part must be 
content to be as though they had not been, — to be found in 
the register of God, not in the record of man. 

Sir Thomas Biiown*s Urn Burial. 



The cemetery of Pere la Chaise is the West- 
minster Abbey of Paris. Both are the dweD- 
ings of the dead ; but in one they repose in 
green alleys and beneath the open sky, -r- in the 
other their resting-place is m the shadowy aisle, 
and beneath the dim arches of an ancient abbey. 
One is a temple of nature ; the other a temple 
of art. In one, the soft melancholy of the scene 
is rendered still more touchmg by the warble of 
birds and the shade of trees, and the grave re- 
ceives the gentle visit of the sunshme and the 
shower : in the other, no sound but the passing 
footfall breaks the silence of the place ; the twi- 
light steals in through high and dusky windows ; 
and the damps of tlie gloomy vault lie heavy on 

6 



82 PERE L4. CHAISE. 

the beart, and leave their stain upon the moulder- 
ing tracery of the tomb. 

Pere la Chaise stands just beyond the Barriire 
d'AuIney, on a hill-side, looking towards the 
city. Numerous gravel-walks, winding through 
shady avenues and between marble monuments, 
lead up from the principal entrance to a chapel 
on the summit. There is hardly a grave that 
has not its little inclosure planted with shrub- 
bery ; and a thick mass of foliage half conceals 
each funeral stone. The sighing of the wind, 
as the branches rise and fall upon it, — the oc- 
casional note of a bird among the trees, and the 
shifting of light and shade upon the tombs be- 
neath, have a soothing effect upon the mind ; and 
I doubt whether any one can ent^ that inclosure, 
where repose the dust and ashes of so many great 
and good men, without feeling the religion of 
the place steal over him, and seeing something 
of the dark and gloomy expression pass off from 
the stem countenance of death. 

It was near the close of a bright summer after- 
noon that I visited this celebrated spot for the 
first time. The first object that arrested my at- 
tention, on entering, was a monument in the form 
of a small Gothic chapel, which stands near the 



PEKE LA. CHAISE. 83 

-entrance, in the avenue leadbg to the right hand. 
On the marble couch within are stretched two 
.figures, carved in stone and dressed in the an- 
tique garb of the Middle Ages. It is the tomb 
of Abelard and Heloise. The history of these 
unfortimate lovers is too well known to need 
recapitulation ; but perhaps it is not so well 
known how often their ashes were disturbed in 
the slumber of the grave. Ab61ard died in the 
monastery of Saint Marcel, and was buried in 
the vaults of the church. His body was after- 
ward removed to the convent of the Paraclet, 
at the request of Heloise, and at her death her 
body was deposited in the same tomb. Three 
centuries they reposed together ; after which they 
were separated to different sides of the church, 
to calm the delicate scruples of the lady-abbess 
of the convent. More than a century afterward, 
they were again united b the same tomb ; and 
when at length the Faraclet was destroyed, their 
mouldering remains were transported to the 
church of Nogent-sur-Seine. They were next 
deposited in an ancient cloister at Paris ; and 
now repose near the gateway of the cemetery 
of Pere la Chaise. What a singular destiny was 
theirs ! that, after a life of such passionate and dio- 



84 PERE h^ CHAISE. 

astrous love, — such sorrows, and tears, and pen- 
itence, — their very dust should not be suffered 
to rest quietly in the grave ! — that their death 
should so much resemble their life in its changes 
and vicissitudes, its partings and its meetbgs, 
its inquietudes and its persecutions ! — diat mis- 
taken zeal should follow them down to the very 
tomb, — as if earthly passion could glimmer, 
like a funeral lamp, amid the damps of the char- 
nel-house, and ^^ even in their ashes bum their 
wonted 6res ! " 

As I gazed on the sculptured forms before 
me, and the little chapel, whose Gothic roof 
seemed to protect their marble sleep, my busy 
memory swung back the dark portals of the 
past, and the picture of their sad and eventful 
lives came up before me in the gloomy distance. 
What a lesson for those who are endowed with 
the fatal gift of genius ! It would seem, bdeed, 
that He who ^^ tempers the wind to the shorn 
lamb" tempers also his chastisements to the 
errors and infirmities of a weak and simple 
mind, — while the transgressions of him upon 
whose nature are more strongly marked the in- 
tellectual attributes of the Deity are followed, 
even upon earth, by severer tokens of the di- 



PERG LA CHAISE. 85 

vme displeasure. He who sms in the darkness 
of a benighted mtellect sees not so clearly, through 
the shadows that surround him, the countenance 
of an offended God ; but he who sms in the 
broad noonday of a clear and radiant mind, 
when at length the delirium of sensual passion 
has subsided, and the cloud flits away from be- 
fore the sun, trembles beneath the searching eye 
of that accusmg power which is strong in the 
strength of a godlike intellect. Thus the mind 
and the heart are closely linked together, and 
the errors of genius bear with them their own 
chastisement, even upon earth. The history 
of Ab^lard and H61oise is an illustration of this 
truth. But at length they sleep well. Their 
lives are like a tale that is told ; their - errors 
are '^ folded up like a book " ; and what mortal 
hand shall break the seal that death has set upon 
them ? 

Leaving this interesting tomb behind me, I 
took a pathway to the left, which conducted me 
up the hill-side. I soon found myself in the 
deep shade of heavy foliage, where the branches 
of the yew and willow mingled, mterwoven with 
the tendrils and blossoms of the honeysuckle. 
I now stood in the most populous part of this 



86 PERE LA CHAISE. 

city of tombs. Every step awakened a new 
train of thrilling recollections ; for at every step 
my eye caught the name of some one whose 
glory had exalted the character of his native 
land, and resomided across the waters of the 
Atlantic. Philosophers, historians, musicians, 
warriors, and poets slept side by side around 
me ; some beneath the gorgeous monument, and 
some beneath the simple headstone. But the 
political intrigue, the dream of science, the his- 
torical research, the ravishing harmony of sound, 
the tried courage, the inspiration of the Ijrre, — 
where are they ? With the Kving, and not with 
the dead ! The right hand has lost its cunning 
in the grave ; but the soul, whose high volitions 
it obeyed, still lives to reproduce itself in ages 
yet to come. 

Among these graves of genius I observed here 
and there a splendid monument, which had been 
raised by the pride of family over the dust of 
men who could lay no claim either to the grat- 
itude or remembrance of posterity. Their pres- 
ence seemed like an intrusion .into the sanctuary 
of genius. What had wealth to do there ? Why 
should it crowd the dust of the great ? That 
was no thoroughfare of business, —no mart of 



PI^RB LA CHAISE. 87 

gain ! There were no costly banquets there ; 
no silken garments, nor gaudy liveries, nor ob- 
sequious attendants ! '^ What servants," says 
Jeremy Taylor, " shall we have to wait upon 
us in the grave ? what friends to visit us ? 
what officious people to cleanse away the moist 
and unwholesome cloud reflected upon our faces 
from the sides of the weepmg vaults, which are 
the longest weepers for our funerals ? " Material 
wealth gives a factitious superiority to the* living, 
but the treasures of intellect give a real supe- 
riority to the dead ; and the rich man, who would 
not deign to walk the street with the starving 
and penniless man of genius, deems it an honor, 
when death has redeemed the fame of the neg- 
lected, to have his own ashes laid beside him, 
and to claim with him the silent companionship 
of the grave. 

I continued my walk through the numerous 
winding paths, as chance or curiosity directed 
me. Now I was lost in a little green hollow, 
overhung with thick-leaved shrubbery, and then 
came out upon an elevation, from which, through 
an opening in the trees, the eye caught glimpses 
of the ci^, and the little esplanade, at the foot 
of (be hill, where the poor lie buried. There 



88 PEKfi LA CHAISE. 

poverty hires its grave, and takes but a short 
lease of the narrow house* At the end of a 
few months, or at most of a few years, the ten- 
ant is dislodged to give place to another, and 
he in turn to a third. " Who," says Sir Thom- 
as Browne, ''knows the fate of his bones, or 
how often he is to be buried ? Who hath the 
oracle of his ashes, or whither they are to be 
scattered ? " 

Yet, even in that neglected comer, the hand 
of affection had been busy in decoratmg the 
hired house. Most of the graves were surround- 
ed with a slight wooden paling, to secure them 
from the passing footstep ; there was hardly 
one so deserted as not to be marked with its 
little wooden cross, and decorated with a gar- 
land of flowers ; and here and there I could 
perceive a solitary mourner, clothed in black, 
stooping to plant a shrub on the grave, or sitting 
in motionless sorrow beside it. 

As I passed on, amid the shadowy avenues 
of the cemetery, I could not help comparing 
my own impressions with those which others have 
felt when walking alone among the dwellings 
of the dead. Are, then, the sculptured urn and 
storied monument nothing more than symbols 



PERE LA CHAISE, 89 

of family pride ? Is all I see around me a me- 
morial of the living more than of the dead, ^ an 
^mpty show of sorrow, which thus vaunts itself 
in mournful pageant and funeral parade ? Is 
it indeed true, as some have said, that the simple 
wild-flower, which springs spontaneously upon 
the grave, and the rose, which the hand of afiee- 
tion plants there, are fitter objects wherewith 
to adorn the narrow house ? No ! I feel that 
it is not so ! Let the good and the great be 
honored even in the grave. Let the sculptured . 
marble direct oiur footsteps to the scene of their 
long sleep ; let the chiselled epitaph repeat their 
names, and tell us where repose the nobly good 
and wise ! It is not true that all are equal m 
the grave. There is no equality even there. 
The mere handful of dust and ashes, — the mere 
distinction of prince and beggar, — of a rich 
winding-sheet and a shroudless burial, — of a sol- 
itary grave and a family vault, — were this all, -— 
then, indeed,, it would be true that death is a 
common leveller. Such paltry distinctions as 
those of wealth and poverty are soon levelled 
by the spade and mattock; the damp breath 
of the grave blots them out for ever. But there 
are other distmctions which even the mace of 



90 PERE hk GHAISB. 

death connot level or obliterate. Can it break 
down the distinction of virtue and vice ? Can 
it confound the good \iith the bad ? the noble 
THth the base ? all that is trulj great, and pure, 
and godlike, with all that is scorned, and sinful, 
and degraded ? No ! Then death is not a 
common leveUer ! Are all alike beloved in death 
and honored m their burial ? Is that ground holy 
where the bloody hand of the murderer sleeps 
from crime ? Does every grave awaken the 

• same emotions in our hearts ? and do the foot- 

• 

steps of the stranger pause as long beside each 
funeral*-stone ? No ! Then all are not equal 
in the grave ! And as long as the good and 
evil deeds of men Hve after them, so long will 
there be distinctions even in the grave. The 
superiority of one over another is in the nobler 
and better emotions which it excites ; in its more 
fervent admonitions to 'virtue; in the livelier 
recollection which it awakens of the good and 
the great, whose bodies are crumbling to dust 
beneath our feet ! 

If, then, there are distinctions in the grave, 
surely it is not unwise to designate them by the 
external marks of honor. These outward ap- 
pliances and memorials of respect, — the mourn- 



PBRE LA CHAISE. 91 

fill urn, — the sculptured bust, — 'tbe epitaph 
eloquent b praise, — cannot indeed create these 
distinctions, but they serve to mark them. It 
is only when pride or wealth builds them to honor 
the slave of manmion or the slave of appetite, 
when the voice from the grave rebukes the false 
and pompous epitaph, and the dust and ashes 
of the tomb seem struggling to maintain the su- 
periority of mere worldly rank, and to cany 
into the grave the bawbles of earthly vanity, — 
it is then, and then only, that we feel how ut-. 
terly worthless are all the devices of sculpture, 
and the empty pomp of monumental brass ! 

After rambling leisurely about for some time, 
reading the inscriptions on the various monuments 
which attracted my curiosity, and giving way 
to the different reflections they suggested, I sat 
down to rest myself on a sunken tombstone. 
A winding gravel-walk, overshaded by an avenue 
of trees, and lined on both sides with richly 
sculptured monuments, had gradually conducted 
me to the summit of the hill, upon whose slope 
the cemetery stands. Beneath me in the dis- 
tance, and dim-discovered through the misty and 
smoky atmosphere of evening, rose the countless 
roofs and spires of the city. Beyond, throwmg 



93 PKRE LA CHAISE. 

his level rays athwart the dusky landscape, sank 
the broad red sun. The distant murmur of the 
city rose upon my ear ; and the toll of the even- 
ing bell came up, mingled with the rattle of the 
paved street and the confused sounds of labor. 
What an hour for meditation ! What a con* 
trast between the metropolis of the living and 
the metropolis of the dead ! I could not help 
calling to my mind that allegory of mortality ,~ 
written by a hand which has been many a long 
year cold : — 

^* Earth goeth upon earth as man upon mould, 
Like as, earth upon earth never go should, 
Earth goeth upon earth as glistening gold, 
And yet shall earth unto earth rather than he would. 

« 

'* Lo, earth on earth, consider thou may. 
How earth cometh to earth naked alwaj, 
Why shall earth upon earth go stout or gay, 
Since earth out of earth shall pass in poor array." * 

* I subjoin this relic of old English verse entire, and in its 
antiquated language, for those of my readers who may have 
an antiquarian taste. It is copied from a book whose title 
I have forgotten, and of which I have but a single leaf, con- 
taining the poem. In describing the antiquities of the church 
of Stratford-upon-Avon, the writer gives the following ac- 
count of a very old painting upon the wall, and of the poem 
which served as its motto. The painting is no longer visible, 
having been effaced in repairing the church. 



FERE LA CHAISE. 93 

Before I left the graveTard the shades of even- 

ing had fallen, and the objects around me grown 

I I I I Ill .III . . .1 . ■ ^ 

** Against the west wall of the naye, on the south side 
of the arch, was painted the martyrdom of Thomas-ii-Becket, 
while kneeling at the altar of St. Benedict in Canterbury 
cathedral ; below this was the figure of an angel, probably 
St. Michael, supporting a long scroll, upon which were seven 
stanzas in old English, being an allegory of mortality : — 

" Erthe oute of Erthe ys wondurly wroght 
Erth hath gotyn uppon erth a dygnyte of noght - 
Erth ypon erth hath sett all hys thowht 
How erth apon erth may be hey browght 

*' Erth apon erth wold be a kyng 
But how that e^h gott to erth he thyngkys nothyng 
When erth byddys erth hys rentys whom bryng 
Then schall erth apon erth have a hard ptyng 

** Erth apon erth wynnys castellys and towrys 
Then seth erth unto erth thys ys all owrys 
When erth apon erth hath bylde hys bowrys 
Then schall erth for erth suffur many hard schowrys 

'* Erth goth apon erth as man apon mowld 
Lyke as erth apon erth never goo schold 
Erth goth apon erth as gelsteryng gold 
And yet schall erth unto erth rather than he wold 

^* Why that erth loveth erth wondur me thynke 
Or why that erth wold for erth other swett or swynke 
When erth apon erth ys broght wt.yn the brynke 
Then schall erth apon erth have a fowll stynke 



94 PJbRE hA CHAISE. 

dim and indistinct. As I passed the gateway, I 
turned to take a parting look. I could dbtin- 
guish only the chapel on the summit of the hill, 
and here and there a lofty obelisk of snow-white 
marble, rismg from the black and heavy mass 
of foliage around, and pointing upward to the 
gleam of the departed sun, that still lingered in 
the sky, and mingled with the soft starlight of 
a sunmier evening. 

*' Lo erth on erth consedur thow may 
How erth comyth to erth nakyd all way 
Why schall erth apoo erth goo stowte or gay 
Seth erth owt of erth schall passe yn poor aray 

^ I cooDiill erth apon erth that ys wondorly wrogt 
The whyl yt. erth ys apon erth to torne hys thowht 
And pray to god upon erth yt. all erth wroght 
That all crystyn soullys to ye. blys may be broght 

^'BiBneath were two men, holding a scroll over a body 
wrapped in a winding-sheet, and covered with some emblems 
of mortality/' &c. 



THE 



VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 



Je ne coD^ois qu'une maniire de vojager plus agitable 
que d*aller k cheval) c'est d'aller k pied. On part k son 
moment, on s'arrdte k aa volont^, on fait tant et n pea d*exer- 
ciae qu'on veut. 

Quand on ne veut qu*arriver, on pent courir en chaise de 
potte ; maia quand on Tout voyager, il &ut aller a pied. 

Rousseau. 



In the beautiful month of October, I made a 
foot excursion along the banks of the Loire, 
from Orleans to Tours. This luxuriant re^on 
b justly called the garden of France. From 
Orleans to Blois, the whole valley of the Loire 
is one continued vineyard. The bright green 
foliage of the vine spreads, like the undulations 
of the sea, over all the landscape, with here 
and there a silver flash of the river, a seques- 
tered hamlet, or the towers of an old chateau, 
to enliven and variegate the scene. 

The vintage had already commenced. The 
peasantry were busy in the fields, — the song 
that cheered their labor was on the breeze, and 



96 THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 

the heavy wagon tottered by, laden with the clus- 
ters of the vine. Every thing around me wore 
that happy look which makes the heart glad. 
In the morning I arose with the lark ; and at 
night I slept where sunset overtook me. The 
healthy exercise of foot-travelling, the pure, 
bracing air of autumn, and the cheerful aspect 
of the whole landscape about me, gave fresh 
elasticity to a mind not overburdened with care, 
and made me fo^et not only the fatigue of 
walking, but also the consciousness of being 
alone. 

My first day^s journey brought me at evening 
to a village, whose name I have forgotten, sit-^ 
uated about eight leagues from Orleans. It is a 
smaU, obscure hamlet, not mentioned in the 
guide-book, and stands upon the precipitous 
banks of a deep ravine, through which a noisy 
brook leaps down to turn the ponderous wheel 
of a thatch-roofed mill. The village inn stands 
upon the highway ; but the village itself is not 
visible to the traveller as he passes. It is comr 
pletely hidden in the lap of a wooded valley, 
and so embowered in trees that not a roof nor a 
chimney peeps out to betray its hiding-place. 
It is Uke the nest of a ground-swallow, which 



TH& YALLEt OF THfi L0IRB« 97 

the passing footstep almost treads upon, and yet 
it is not seen. I passed by without suspecting 
that a village was near ; and the little inn had 
a look so uninviting that I did not even enter it. 

After proceeding a mile or two farther, I per« 
ceived, upon my left, a village spire rising over 
the vineyards. Towards this I directed my foot- 
steps ; but it seemed to recede as I advanced^ 
and at last quite disappeared. It was evidently 
many miles distant ; and as the path I followed 
descended from the highway, it had gradually 
sunk beneath a swell of the vine-clad landscape. 
I now found myself in the midst of an extensive 
vineyai'd. It was just sunset ; and the last gold- 
en rays lingered on the rich and mellow scenery 
around me. The peasantry were still busy at 
their task ; and the occasbnal bark of a dog, 
and the distant sound of an evening bell, gave 
fresh romance to the scene. The reality of 
many a day*dream of childhood, of many a 
poetic revery of youth, was before me. I stood 
at sunset amid the luxuriant vineyards of France ! 

The 6rst person I met was a poor old woman, 
a litde bowed down with age, gathering grapes 
into a lai^e basket. She was dressed like the 
poorest class of peasantry, and pursued her sol- 

7 



98 THE VALLKT OF THE LOIRE. 

itary task alone, heedless of the cheerful gossip 
and the merry laugh which came from a band 
of more youthful vintagers at a short distance 
from her. She was so mtently engaged in her 
work, that she did not perceive my approach until 
I bade her good evening. On hearing my voice, 
she looked up from her labor, and returned the 
salutation ; and, on my asking her if there were 
a tavern or a farm4iouse m the neighbourhood 
where I could pass the night, she showed me 
the pathway through the vineyard that led to 
the village, and then added, with a look of cu- 
riosity, — 

'^ You must be a stranger. Sir, m these parts." 
" Yes ; my home is very far from here." 
" How far ? " 

" More than a thousand leagues." 
The old woman looked incredulous. 
^' I came from a distant land beyond the sea." 
^' More than a thousand leagues ! " at length 
repeated she ; '^ and why have you come so 
far from home ? " 

"To travel; — to see how you Hve in this 
country." 

" Have you no relations m your own ? " 
" Yes ; I have both brothers and sisters, a 
father and " 



THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 99 

" And a mother ? " 

" Tbank Heaven, I have. " 

" And did you leave her ? " 

Here the old woman gave me a piercing look 
of reproof; shook her head mournfully, and, with 
a deep sigh, as if some painful recollection^ had 
been awakened in her bosom, turned again to her 
solitary task. I felt rebuked ; for there is some- 
thmg almost prophetic m the admonitions of the 
old. The eye of age looks meekly into my 
heart ! the voice of age echoes mournfully tfarougli 
it ! the hoary head and palsied hand of age plead 
irresistibly for its sympathies ! I venerate old 
age ; and I love not the man who can look with- 
out emotion upon the sunset of life, when the 
dusk of evemng begins to gather over the wa- 
tery eye, and the shadows of twilight grow broad- 
er and deeper upon the understanding ! 

I pursued the pathway which led towards the 
village, and the next person I encountered was 
an old man, stretched lazily beneath the vines 
upon a litde strip of turf, at a point where four 
paths met, forming a crossway in the vineyard. 
He was clad in a coarse garb of gray, with a 
pair of long gaiters or spatterdashes. Beside 
him lay a blue cloth cap, a staff, and an old 



100 THB TALLET OF THE LOIRE. 

weather-beaten knapsack. I saw at once that 
he was a foot-traveller £ke mjself, and therefore, 
without more ado, entered into conversation with 
him. From his language, and the peculiar man- 
ner in which he now and then wiped his upper 
lip with the back of hb hand, as if in search 
of the mustache which was no longer there, I 
juiced that he had been a soldier. In this opin- 
ion I was not mistaken. He had served under 
Napoleon, and had followed the imperial eagle 
across the Alps, and the Pyrenees, and' the 
burning sands of Egypt. Like every vieilk 
mofutaehe^ he spake with enthusiasm of the Little 
Corporal, and cursed the English, the Germans, 
the Spanish, and every other race on earth, ex- 
cept the Great Nation, -^hb own. 

^^ I like,'' said he, ^^ after a long day's march, 
to lie down in this way upon the ^ass, and en- 
joy the cool of the evening. It reminds me of 
the bivouacs of other days, and of old friends 
who are now up there." 

Here he pomted with his finger to the sky. 

'^ They have reached the last itape before 
me, in the long march. But I shall go soon. 
We shall all meet agam at the last roll-call. 
Sacre nom de -— ! There 's a tear ! " 



THS YALLIiY OF TBfi LOIKC 101 

He wiped it awajr with fab sleeve^ 

Here our colloquy was interrupted by the tpf 
I»poach of a group of vintagers, who were re- 
turning homeward from their labor. To this 
party I joined myself, and invited the old soldier 
to do the same ; but be shook his head. 

^' I thank you ; my pathway lies in a difiiorent 
direction." 

^^ But there is no other village near, and the 
sun has already set«" 

^^'No matter. I am used to sleeping on the 
ipround. Good night." 

I left the old man to his meditations, and 
walked on in company with the vintagers. Fol* 
lowing a well trodden pathway through the vine* 
yards, we soon deseeded the valley's slope, and 
I suddenly found myself in the bosom of one 
of those little hamlets from which the laborer 
rises to his toil as the skylark to his song. My 
companions wished me a good night, as each 
entered his own thatch-roofed cottage, and a 
little girl led me out to the very inn which an 
hour or two before I had disdained to enter. 

When I awoke in the morning, a brilliant au^ 
tumnal sun was shining in at my window. The 
merry song of birds mbgled sweetly with the 



102 TBE VALLBT OF TBE LOIRE. 

sound of rustling leaves and the gurgle of the 
brook. The vintagers were going forth to their 
toil ; the wine-press was busy in the shade, and 
the clatter of the mill kept time to the miller's 
song. I loitered about the village with a feeling 
of calm delight. I was unwilling to leave the 
seclusion of this sequestered hamlet ; but at length, 
with reluctant step, I took the cross-road through 
the vineyard, and in a moment the little village 
had sunk again, as if by enchantment, into the 
bosom of the earth. 

I breakfasted at the town of Mer ; and, leaving 
the high-road to Blois on the right, passed down 
to the banks of the Loire, through a long, broad 
avenue of poplars and sycamores. I crossed the 
river in a boat, and in the after part of the day I 
found myself before the high and massive walls 
of the chateau of Chambord. This chateau is 
one of the finest specimens of the ancient Goihic 
castle to be found in Europe. The little river 
Cosson fills its deep and ample moat, and above 
it the huge towers and heavy battlements rise 
in stem and solemn grandeur, moss-grown with 
age, and blackened by the storms of three cen- 
turies. Within, all is mournful and deserted. 
The grass has overgrown the pavement of the 



THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 103 

cburtjard, and the rude sculpture upon the walls 
is broken and defaced. From the courtyard 
I entered the central tower, and, ascending ihe 
principal staircase, went out upon the battlements. 
I seemed to have stepped back into the pre- 
cincts of the feudal ages ; and, as I passed along 
through echoing corridors, and vast^ deserted 
halls, stripped of their furniture, and mouldering 
silently away, the distant past came back upon 
me ; and the times when the clang of arms, and 
the tramp of mail-clad men, and the sounds of 
music and revehry and wassail, echoed along 
those high-vaulted and solitary chambers ! 

My third day's journey brought me to the 
ancient city of Blois, the chief town of the de- 
partment of Loire-et-Cher. This city is cel- 
ebrated for the purity with which even the lower 
classes of its inhabitants speak their native tongue. 
It rises precipitously from the northerii bank 
of the Loire ; and many of its streets are so 
steep as to be almost impassable for carriages. 
On the brow of the hill, overlooking the roofs 
of the city, and commanding a fine view of the 
Loire and its noble bridge, and the surrounding 
country, sprinkled with cottages and chateaux, 
runs an ample terrace, planted with trees, and 



104 THB YALLET OF THE LOIRE. 

laid out as a public walk. The view from tfak 
terrace is one of the most beautiful in France. 
But what most strikes the eye of the traveller 
at Blois is an old, though still unfinbhed, castle. 
Its huge parapets of hewn stone stand upon either 
side of the street ; but they have walled up the 
wide gateway, from which the colossal drawbridge 
was to have sprung high in air, connecting to- 
gether the main towers of the building, and the 
two hiUs upon whose slope its foundations stand. 
The aspect of this vast pile is gloomy and des- 
olate. It seems as if the strong hand of the 
builder had been arrested in the midst of his 
task by the stronger hand of death ; and the 
unfinished fabric stands a lasting monument both 
of the power and weakness of man, — of his vast 
desires, his sanguine hopes, his ambitious pur- 
poses, — and of the unlooked-for conclusion, 
where all these desires, and hopes, and purposes 
are so often arrested. There is also at Blois 
another ancient chateau, to which some historic 
interest is attached, as being the scene of the 
massacre of the Duke of Guise. 

On the following day, I left Blois for Amboise ; 
and, after walking several leagues along the dus^ 
highway, crossed the river in a boat to the little 



TBE TALLET OF THE LOIRE, lOS 

viUage of Moines^ which lies amid Iiauriant 
vineyards upon the southern bank of the Loire. 
From Moines to Amboise the road is truly de* 
Kghtful. The rich lowland scenery> by the mar* 
gin of the river, is verdant even in October ; 
and occasionally the landscape is diversified msb 
the picturesque cottages of the vintagers, cut in 
the rock along the road-side, and overhung by 
the thick foli^^e of the vines above them. 

At Amboise I took a cross-road, which led me 
to the romantic borders of the Cher and the 
chateau of Chemanceau. This beautiful chateau, 
as well as that of Chambord, was built by the 
gay and munificent Francis the First. One is a 
specimen of strong and massive architecture, -^ 
a dwelling* for a warrior ; but the other is of a light-* 
er and more graceful construction, and was des- 
tbed for those soft languishments of passion with 
which the fascinating Diane de Poitiers had filled 
the bosom of that voluptuous monarch. 

The chateau of Chemanceau is built upon 
arches across the river Cher, whose waters are 
made to supply the deep moat at each extremity* 
There is a spacious courtyard in firont, from 
which a drawbridge conducts to the outer hall 
of the casde. There the armor of Francis the 



106 THE VALLET OF THE LOIRE. 

First still hangs upon the wall, — his shield, and 
helm, and lance, — as if the chivalrous but disso- 
lute prince had just exchanged them for the silken 
robes of the drawing-room. From this hall a 
door opens mto a long gallery, extending the 
whole length of the building across the Cher. 
The walls of the gallery are hung with the faded 
portraits of the long Ime of the descendants of 
Hugh Capet; and the windows, looking up and 
down the stream, command a fine reach of pleas* 
ant river scenery. This is said to be the only 
ch&teau in France in which the ancient furniture 
of its original age is preserved. In one part 
of the building, you are shown the bed-chamber 
of Diane de Poitiers, with its antique chairs 
covered with faded damask and embroidery, her 
bed, and a portrait of the royal favorite hanging 
over the mantelpiece. In another you see the 
apartment of the infamous Catherine de' Medici ; 
a venerable arm-chair and an autograph letter 
of Henry the Fourth ; and in an old laboratory, 
among broken crucibles, and neckless retorts, and 
drums, and trumpets, and skins of wild beasts, 
and other ancient lumber of various Idnds, are to 
be seen the bed-posts of Francis the First. 
Doubtless the naked walls and the vast solitary 



THE YALLET OF THE LOIEE. 107 

• 

chambers of an old and desolate chateau inspire a 
feeling of greater solemnity and awe ; but when 
the antique furniture of the olden time remains, — 
the faded tapestiy on the walls, and the arm-chair 
by the fireside, — the effect upon the mind is 
more magical and delightful. The old inhabitants 
of the place, long gathered to their fathers, though 
living still in history, seem to have left their halls 
for the chase or the tournament; and as the 
heavy door swings upon its reluctant hinge, one 
almost expects to see the gallant princes and 
courtly dames enter those halls agam, and sweep 
in stately procession along the silent corridors. 

Rapt in such fancies as these, and gazing on 
the beauties of this noble edifice, and the soft 
scenery around it, I lingered, unwilling to depart, 
till the rays of the setting sun, streaming through 
the dusty wmdows, admonished me that the day 
was drawing rapidly to a close. I sallied forth 
from the southern gate of the ch&teau, and, 
crossing the broken drawbridge, pursued a path- 
way along the bank of the river, still gazing back 
upon those towering walls, now bathed in the 
rich glow of sunset, till a turn b the road and a 
clump of woodland at length shut them out from 
my sight. 



108 TBS YALLST OF THS LOI»B, 

A short time after candle-ligbtu^, I reached 
the little tavern of the Bode d'Or, a few lei^ues 
from Tours, where I passed the night. The 
following morning was lowering and sad. A vdl 
of mist hung over the landscape, and ever and 
anon a heavy shower burst from the overburdened 
clouds, that were driving by before a Ugh and 
piercbg wind. This unpropitious state of the 
weather detained me until noon, when a ca* 
briolet for Tours drove up ; and taking a seat 
within it, I left the hostess of the Boule d'Or 
in the middle of a long story about a rich count- 
ess, who always alighted there when she passed 
that way. We drove leburely along through 
a beautiful country, liU at lei^h we came tor 
the brow of a steep hiU, which commands a fin^ 
view of the city of Tours and its delightful egor 
virons. But the scene was shrouded by the 
heavy drifting mist, through which I could trace 
but mdistmctly the graceful sweep of the Loire^ 
and the spires and roofs of the city far below me. 

The city of Tours and the delicious plain in 
which it lies have been too often described by 
other travellers to render a new description, 
from so listless a paa as mine, either necessaiy 
or desirable. After a sojourn of two cloudy 



THE YALLET OF THE LOIRE. 109 

and melancholy days, I set out on my return 
to Paris, by the way of Vendome and Chartres. 
I stopped a few hours at the former place, to 
examine the ruins of a ch&teau buih by Jeanne 
d'Albret, mother of Henry the Fourth. It stands 
upon the summit of a high and precipitous hill, 
and almost overhangs the town beneath. The 
French Revolution has completed the ruin that 
time had already begun ; and nothing now remains, 
but a broken and crumblbg bastion, and here 
and there a solitary tower dropping slowly to 
decay. In one of these is the grave of Jeanne 
d'Albret. A marble entablature in the wall 
above contains the mscription, which is nearly 
effaced, though enough still remains to tell the 
curious traveller that there lies buried the mother 
of the " Bon Henri." To this is added a 
prayer that the repose of the dead may be re- 
spected. 

Here ended my foot excursion. The object 
of my journey was accomplished ; and, delighted 
with this short ramble through the valley of the 
Loire, I took my seat m the diligence for Paris, 
and on the following day was again swallowed 
up in the crowds of the metropolis, like a drop 
in the bosom of the sea* 



THE TROUVi]RES. 



duant recommence et reyient biaux estez, 
Q,ue foille et flor resplendit par boechage, 
due li froiz tanz de TfajTer est passez, 
£t cil oisel chantent en lor langage, 
Lors chanterai 
Et enyoiaiez serai 
De cuer verai. 

Ja^ues de Chisov. 



The literature of France is peculiarly rich in 
poetry of the olden time. We can trace up the 
stream of song until it is lost in the deepening 
shadows of the Middle Ages. Even there it is 
not a shallow tinkling rill ; but it comes like a 
mountain stream, rushing and sounding onward 
through the enchanted regions of romance, and 
mingles its voice with the tramp of steeds and the 
brazen sound of arms. 

The glorious reign of Charlemagne,* at the 

* The following amusing description of this Restorer of 
Letters, as his biographers call him, is taken from the fab- 
ulous Chronicle of John Turpin, Chap. XX. 

^ The emperor was of a ruddj complexion, with brown 



THE TROUVERES. Ill 

close of the eighth and the commencement of the 
ninth century, seems to have breathed a spirit of 
learning as well as of chivalry throughout all 
France. The monarch established schools and 
academies in different parts of his realm, and took 
delight in the society and conversation of learned 
men. It is amusing to see with what evident self- 
satisfaction some of the magi whom he gathered 
around him speak of their exertions in widening 
the sphere of human knowledge, and pouring in 
light upon the darkness of their age. ^^ For 

hair ; of a well made, handsome form, but a stern yisage. 
His height was about eight of his own feet, which were very 
long. He was of a strong, robust make ; his legs and thighs 
very stout, and his sinews firm. His face was thirteen inch- 
es long ; his beard a palm ; his nose half a palm ; his fore- 
head a foot over. His lion-like eyes flashed fire like car- 
buncles ; his eyebrows were half a palm over. When he 
was angry, it was a terror to look upon him. He required 
eight spans for his girdle, besides what hung loose. He ate 
sparingly of bread ; but a whole quarter of lamb, two fowls, 
a goose, or a large portion of pork ; a peacock, a crane, or a 
whole hare. He drank moderately of wine and water. He 
was so strong, that he could at a single blow cleave asunder 
an armed soldier on horseback, from the head to the waist, 
and the horse likewise. He easily vaulted over fi>ur horses 
harnessed together ; and could raise an armed man fi^m the 
ground to his head, as he stood erect upon his hand." 



113 THE TftOVTIBEKS. 

some," says AlcuiO) the director of the school 
of St. Martin da Tours, ^^ I cause the honey 
of the Holy Scriptures to flow ; I mtoxicate 
others with the old wine of ancient history ; these 
I nourish with the fruits of grammar, gathered 
by my own hands ; and those I enlighten by 
pointing out to them the stars, like lamps attached 
by the vaulted ceiling of a great palace ! " 

Besides this classic erudition of the schoolS) 
the age had also its popular literature. Those 
who were untaught in scholastic wisdom were 
learned in traditionary lore; for they had their 
ballads, in which were described the valor and 
achievements of the early kings of the Franks^ 
These ballads, of which a collection was made 
by order of Charlemagne, animated the rude 
soldier as he rushed to battle, and were sung in 
the midnight bivouacs of the camp. ^' Perhaps 
it is not too much to say," observes the literary 
historian Schlegel, " that we have still in our 
possession, if not the original language and form, 
at least the substance, of many of those ancient 
poems which were collected by the orders of that 
prince ; — I refer to the Nibelungenlied, and 
the collection which goes by the name of the 
Heldenbuch." 



THE TE0UTERE8. 113 

When at length the old Tudesque language, 
which was the court language of Charlemagne, 
had given place to the Langue d'Oil, the northern 
dialect of the French Romance, these ancient bal- 
lads passed from the memories of the descendants 
of the Franks, and were succeeded by the roman- 
ces of Charlemagne and his Twelve Peers,— 
of Rowland, and Olivir, and the other paladins 
who died at Roncesvalles. Robert Wace, a 
Norman Trouvere of the twelfth century, says 
in one of his poems, that a mmstrel named Tail- 
lefer, mounted on a swift horse, went in front 
of the Nonnan afmy at the batde of Hastings, 
smgii^ these ancient poems. 

These Chansom de Gestt^ or old historic n> 
mances of France, are epic in their character, 
though, without doubt, they were written to be 
chanted to the sound of an instrument. To what 
period many of them belong, in their present 
form, has never yet been fully determined ; and 
should it finally be proved by philological research 
that they can claim no tugher antiquity than the 
twelfth or thirteenth century, still there can be 
little doubt that in their original form many of 
them reached &r back into the ninth or tenth. 
The long prevalent theory, that the romances of 

8 



114 THE TEOUYEREB. 

the Twelve Peers of France all origiiiated in 
the fabulous chronicle of Charlemagne and Row- 
land, written bjr the Archbishop Turpin in the 
twelfth century, if not as yet generally exploded, 
is nevertheless fast losing ground. 

To the twelfth and thirteenth centuries also be- 
long most of the Fabliaux, or metrical tales of the 
Trouveres. Many of these compositions are re- 
markable for the inventive talent they display, but 
as poems they have, generally speaking, little 
merit, and at times exhibit such a want of refine- 
ment, such open and gross obscenity, as to be 
highly offensive. 

It is a remarkable circumstance in the literary 
history of France, that, while her antiquarians and 
scholars have devoted themselves to collecting 
and illustrating the poetry of the Troubadours, 
the early lyric poets of the South, that of the 
Trouveres, or Troubadours of the North, has 
been almost entirely neglected. By a sbgular 
fatality, too, what little time and attention have 
hitherto been bestowed upon the fathers of French 
poetry have been so directed as to save from 
oblivion little of the most valuable portions of 
their writings ; while the more tedious and worth- 
less parts have been brought forth to the public 



THE TR0UYERE8. 115 

eye, as if to deaden curiosity, and put an end 
to further research. The ancient historic roman- 
ces of the land have, for the most part, been left 
to slumber unnoticed ; while the obscene and 
tiresome Fabliaux have been ushered into the 
world as fair specimens of the ancient poetry 
of France. This has created unjust prejudices 
in the minds of many against the literature of the 
olden time, and has led them to regard it as noth- 
ing more than a confused mass of coarse and 
vulgar fictions, adapted to a rude and inelegant 
state of society. 

Of late, however, a more discerning judgment 
has been brought to the difficult task ot ancient 
research ; and, m consequence of this, the long- 
established prejudices agamst the crumbling mon- 
uments of the national literature of France during 
the Middle Ages is fast disappearing. Several 
learned men are engaged in rescuing from ob- 
livion the ancient poetic romances of Charle- 
magne and the Twelve Peers of France, and 
theu: labors seem destined to throw new light, 
not only upon the state of literature, but upon the 
state of society, during the twelfth and thirteenth 
centuries. 

Among the voluminous remains of Troubadour 



116 THE TROUVEREB. 

literature, little else has yet been discovered than 
poems of a lyric character. The lyre of the 
Troubadour seems to have responded to the im- 
pulse of momentary feehngs only, -<— to the touch 
of local and transitory circumstances. His song 
was a sudden burst of excited feeling ; — it ceased 
when the passion was subdued, or rather when 
its 6rst feverish excitement passed away ; and 
as the liveliest feelings are the most transitory, 
the songs which embodied them are short, but 
fuU of spirit and energy. On the other hand, the 
great mass of the poetry of the Trouveres is 
of a narrative or epic character. The genius of 
the Norm seems always to have delighted in ro* 
mantic fiction ; and whether we attribute the or- 
igin of modem romance to the Arabians or to 
the Scandinavians, this at least is certain, that 
there existed marvellous tales m the Northern 
languages, and from these, in part at least, the 
Trouveres imbibed the spirit of narrative poetry. 
There are no traces of lyric compositions among 
their writings, till about the commencement of the 
thirteenth century ; and it seems probable thajt 
the spirit of song-writmg was imbibed from the 
Troubadours of the South. 
Unfortunately, the neglect which has so long 



THE TROVViRES. 117 

attended tbe old historic and heroic romances 
of the. North of France has also befallen in some 
degree its earty lyric poetry. Little has yet been 
done to discover and bring forth its riches ; and 
doubtless many a sweet little ballad and melan- 
choly complaint lies buried in the dust <^ the thii- 
teenth century. It is not, however, my object, 
in this paper, to give a historical sketch of this 
ancient and almost forgotten poetry, but sim- 
ply to bring forward a few specimens which shaU 
exhibit its most striking and obvious character- 
istics. 

In these examples it would be in vaii)^to look 
for high-wrought expression suited to the pre- 
vailing taste of the present day. Their most 
striking peculiarity, and perhaps their greatest 
merit, consists in the simple and direct expression 
of feeling which they contain. This feeling, 
too, is one which breathes the languor of that 
subnussive homage which was paid to beauty 
in the days of chivalry ; and I am aware, that, in 
this age of masculine and matter-of-fact thinking, 
the lovc-conceits of a more poetic state of society 
are generally looked upon as extremely trivial 
and puerile. Nevertheless I shall venture to 
present one or ti^o of these simple ballads, whicb^ 



118 THE TROUvtRES. 

by recalling the distant age wherein they were 
composed, may peradventure please by the power 
of contrast. 

I have just remarked that bne of the greatest 
beauties of these ancient ditties is naVvet^ of 
thought and simplicity of expression. These I 
shall endeavour to preserve as far as possible in 
the translation, though I am fully conscious how 
much the sparkling beauty of an original loses in 
being filtered through the idioms of a foreign 
language. 

The favorite theme of the ancient lyric poets 
of the North of France is the wayward passion 
of love. They all delight to sing " les doucea do- 
lors et li mal plaisant define amor.^^ With such 
feelings the beauties of the opening spring are 
naturally associated. Almost every love-ditty 
of the old poets commences with some such 
exordium as this : — " When the snows of winter 
have passed away, when the soft and gentle spring 
returns, and the flower and leaf shoot in the 
groves, and the little birds warble to their mates 
in their own sweet language, — then will I sing 
my lady-love ! " 

Another favorite mtroduction to these little 
rhapsodies of romantic passion is the approach 



THE TROUVERES. 119 

of morning and its sweet-voiced herald, the lark. 
The minstrel's song to his lady-love frequently 
commences with an allusion to the hour 

" When the rose-bud opes its een, 
And the bluebells droop and die, 
And upon the leaves so green 
Sparkling dew-drops lie." 

The following is at once the simplest and pret- 
tiest piece of this kind which I have met with 
among the early lyric poets of the North of 
France. It is taken from an anonymous poem, 
entitled " The Paradise of Love." A lover, 
havbg passed the ^ livelong night m tears, as 
he was wont," goes forth to heguile his sorrows 
with the fragrance and beauty of morning. The 
carol of the vaultmg skylark salutes his ear, and 
to this meny musician he makes his complaint. 

Hark! hark! 

Pretty lark ! 
Little heedest thou my pain 1 
But if to these longing arms 
Pitying Love would yield the charms 

Of the fair 

With smiling air, 
Blithe would beat my heart again. 



130 THE TROUYEESS. 

Hark! bark! 

Pretty lark ! 
Little heedest thou my pain ! 
Lore may force me still to bear, 
While he lists, consuming care ; 

But in anguish 

Though I languish. 
Faithful shall my heart remain. 

Hark! hark! 

Pretty lark ! 
Little beedest thou my pain ! 
Then cease, Love, to torment me so ; 
But rather than all thoughts forego 

Of thefiur 

With fhixen hair, 
GiTe me back her frowns again. 

Hark ! hark ! 
Pretty lark I 
Little keedest thou my pain ! 

Besides the ^^wofi^l balhd made to his mis- 
tress's eyebrow," the early lyric poet frequently 
indulges in more calmly analy:dng the philosophy 
of love, or in questioning the object and des* 
tination of a sigh. Occasionally these quaint 
conceits are prettily expressed, and the little 
song flutters through the page like a butterfly. 
The following is an example. 



THE TROUT^RSS. 121 

And whither goest thcni, geiill« sigh, 

Breathed so softly in my ear ? 

Say, dost thou bear his fate severe 
To Love's poor martyr doomed to die ? 
Come, tell me qnidsly, — do not lie ; ^ 

What secret message bring'st thou here ? 
And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, 

Breathed so softly in my ear ? 

May Heaven conduct thee to thy will. 
And safely speed thee on thy way ; 
This only I would humbly pray, — 

Pierce deep, — but, O ! forbear to kill. 

And whither goest thou, gentle sigh. 
Breathed so softly in my ear ? 

The ancient lyric poets of France are gener^ 
ally spoken of as a class, and their beauties and 
defects referred to them collectively, and not 
individually. In truth, there are few charac- 
teristic marks by which any mdividual author 
can be smgled out and ranked above the rest. 
The lyric poets of the thirteenth and fourteenth 
centuries stand upon nearly the same level. But 
in the fifteenth century there were two who sur- 
passed aU their contemporaries in the beauty and 
delicacy of their sentiments ; and in the sweet- 
ness of their diction, and the structure of their 
verse, stand far in advance of the age m which 



122 THE TftOUTERES. 

tbey lived. These are Charles d'Qrleans and 
ClotOde de Sunrille. 

Charles, Duke of Orleans, the father of Louis 
the l^welfth, and uncle of Francis the First, was 
bom in 1391. In the general tenor of his life, 
the peculiar character of his mind, and his talent 
for poetry, there is a striking resemblance be- 
tween this noble poet and James the First of 
Scotland, his contemporary. Both were re- 
markable for learning and refinement ; both passed 
a great portion of their lives in sorrow and 
imprisonment; and both cheered the solitude 
of their prison-walls with the charms of poetry^ 
Charles d'Orl6ans was taken prisoner at the battle 
of Agmcourt, m 1415, and carried mto England, 
where he remamed twenty-five years in captivity. 
It was there that he composed the greater part 
of his poetry. 

The poems of this writer exhibit a singular 
delicacy of thought and sweetness of expres- 
sion. The following little Renouveaux, or songs 
on the return of spring, are full of delicacy and 
beauty. 

Now Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. 
And clothes him in the embroidery 
Of glittering son and clear blue sky. 



THE TROUYERES. 123 

With beaflt and bird the forest rings, 
Each in his jargon cries or sings ; 
And Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. 

River, and fount, and tinkling brook 

Wear in their dainty livery 

Drops of silver jewelry ; 
In new-made suit they merry look ; 

And Time throws off his cloak again 

Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. 

The second upon the same subject presents a 
still more agreeable picture of the departure of 
winter and the return of spring. 

Gentle spring ! — in sunshine clad, 
Well dost thou thy power display ! 

For winter maketh the light heart sad, 
And thou, — thou makest the sad heart gay. 

He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train. 

The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain; 

And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, 
When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter giveth the fields and the trees so old 

Their beards of icicles and snow ; 
And the rain, it raineth so &st and cold. 

We must cower over the embers low ; 
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather. 
Mope like birds that are changing feather. 
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear. 
When thy merry step draws near. 



124 THE TROVTKRXS. 

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky 
Wrap him lound in a mantle of cloud:; 
But, Hearen be praised, thy atep is niflt; 
Thou teareit away the mournful shroud, 
And the earth looks bright, — and winter surly. 
Who has toiled for naught both late and early, 
Is banished afar by the new-bom year. 
When thy merry step drawa near. 

The only person of that age who can dispute 
the laurel with Charles d'Orleans is Clotilde de 
Sunrille. This poetess was bom in the Bas-Vi- 
varais, in the year 1405. Her style is singularly 
elegant and correct ; and the reader who will take 
the trouble to decipher her rude provincial or- 
thography, will find her writings full of quiet 
beauty. The following lines, which breathe the 
very soul of maternal tenderness, are part of a 
poem to her first-bom. 

Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy &ther's face. 
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed ! 

Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast ! 

Upon that tender eye, my little friend. 
Soft sleep shall come that cometh not to me ! 

1 watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; — - 
*T is sweet to watch for thee, — alone fbr thee ! 



THE TROmriEfiS* 125 

His arms fall dewn ; sleep aits upon kit brow ; 

His «ye is closed ; he sleeps, — liow still and c^lm ! 
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, 

Would you not say he slept on death's cold arm ? 

Awake, my boy ! — I tremble with afiright ! 

Awake, and chase this fatal thought t — unclose 
Thine eye but for one moment on the light ! 

Even at the price of tlune, giv« me repose t 

Sweet error ! — he but slept ; — I breathe again ; — 
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile ! 

O, when shall he for whom I sigh in vain 
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ? 



But upon this theme I have written enough, 
perhaps too much. 

'* * This may be poetry, for aught I know. 

Says an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning 
Over my shoulder as I write, — * although 
I can't exactly comprehend its meaning.' " 

I have touched upon the subject before me 
b a brief and desultory manner, and have pur- 
posely left my. remarks unencumbered by learned 
reference and far-sought erudition ; for these are 
ornaments which would ill become so trivial a 
pen as this wherewith I write, though, perchance, 
the want of them will render my essay unsat- 



126 THE TROUYERES. 

isfactory to the scholar and the critic. But I 
am emboldened thus to skim with a light wing 
over this poetic lore of the past, bj the reflec- 
tion, that the greater part of mjr readers belong 
not to that grave and serious class who love 
the deep wisdom which lies in quoting from a 
quaint, forgotten tome, and are ready (» all occa- 
sions to say, ^^ Commend me to the owl ! " 



THE 



BAPTISM OF FIRE 



The more you mow us down, the thicker we rise ; the 
Christian blood you spill is like the seed you som — it 
springs from the earth again and fructifies the more. 

Tertullian. 



As day was drawing to a close, and tbe rays 
of the setting sun climbed slowly up the dungeon 
wall, the prisoner sat and read in a tome with 
silver clasps. He was a man in the vigor of his 
days, with a pale and noble countenance, that 
wore less the marks of worldly care than of high 
and holy thoug]}t. His temples were already 
bald ; but a thick and curling beard bespoke the 
strength of manhood ; and his eye, dark, full, and 
eloquent, beamed with all the enthusiasm of a 
martyr. 

The book before him was a volume of the 
early Christian Fathers. He was reading the 
Apologetic of the eloquent Tertullian, the oldest 
and ablest writer of the Latin Church. At times 
he paused, and raised his eyes to heaven as if in 



138 THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 

prayer, and then read on again in silence. At 
length a passage seemed to touch his inmost soul. 
He read aloud : — 

^^ Give us, then, what names you please ; from 
the instruments of cruelty you torture us by, call 
us Sarmenticians and Semaxians, because you 
fasten us to trunks of trees, and stick us about 
witl^ fagots to set us on fire ; yet let me tell you, 
when we are thus begirt and dressed about with 
fire, we are then in our most illustrious apparel. 
These are our victorious palms and robes of 
glory ; and, mounted on our funeral pile*, we look 
upon ourselves in our triumphal chariot. No 
wonder, then, such passive heroes please not 
those they vanquish with such conquering sufifer- 
ings. And therefore we pass for men of de- 
spair, and violently bent upon orn^ own destruction. 
However, what you are pleased to call madness 
and despair in us are the very actions which, 
under virtue's standard, lift up your sons of fame 
and glory, and emblazon them to future ages." 

He arose and paced the dungeon to and fro, 
with folded arms and a firm step. His thoughts 
held communion with eternity. 

^^ Father which art in heaven ! " he exclaimed, 
^^ ^ve me strength to die like those holy men 



THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 129 

of old, who scorned to purchase life at the ex- 
pense of truth. That truth has made me free ; 
and though condemned on earth, I know that I 
am absolved in heaven ! " 

He again seated himself at his table, and read 
in that tome with silver clasps. 

This solitary prisoner was Anne Du Bourg ; 
a man who feared not man; once a merciful 
judge in that august tribunal upon whose voice 
hung the Ufe and death of those who were per- 
secuted for conscience's sake, he was now him- 
self an accused, a convicted heretic, condemned 
to the baptism of fire, because he would not un- 
righteously condemn others. He had dared to 
plead the cause of suffering humanity before 
that dread tribunal, and, in the presence of the 
king himself, to declare that it was an offence 
to the majesty of God to shed man's blood in 
his name. Six weary months, — from June to 
December, — he had lain a prisoner in that dun- 
geon, from which a death by fire was soon to set 
him free. Such was the clemency of Henry the 
Second ! 

As the prisoner read, his eyes were filled with 
tears. He still gazed upon the printed page, but 
it was a blank before his eyes. His thoughts 

9 



130 THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 

were far away amid tbe scenes of his childhood, 
amid the green valleys of Riom and the Golden 
Mountains of Auvergne. Some simple word 
had called up the vision of the past. He was a 
cluld again. He was playing with the pebbles 
of the brook, — he was shouting to the echo 
of the hills, — he was praying at his mother's 
knee, with his little hands clasped in hers. 

This dream of childhood was broken by the 
grating of bolts and bars, as the jailer opened his 
prison-door. A mcmient afterward, his former 
colleague, De Harley, stood at his side. 

" Thou here ! " exclaimed the prisoner, sur^ 
INised at the visit. ^^ Thou in the dungeon of a 
heretic ! On what errand hast thou come ? '' 

" On an errand of mercy," replied De Har- 
ley. ' " I come to teD thee " 

" That the hour of my death draws near ? " 

« 

" That thou mayst still be saved." 

** Yes ; if I will bear false witness against my 
God, — barter heaven for earth, — an eternity 
ibr a few brief days of worldly existence. Lost, 
thou shouldst say, — lost, not saved ! " 

" No ! saved ! " cried De Harley with warmth ; 
*^ saved from a death of shame and an eternity 
of woe ! Renounce this false doctrine, — this 



THK BAPTISM OF FIRE. 131 

abominable heresy^ — and return agaia to the 
bosom of the church which thou dost rend with 
strife and dissension." 

^^ God judge between thee and me, which has 
onbraced the truth." 

^^ His band abeady smites thee." 

^' It has fallen more heavily upon those who 
so unjusdy persecute me. Where is the king .^— 
be who said that with his own eyes he would 
behold me perish at the stake ? — he to whom 
the undaunted Du Faur cried, like Elijah to 
Ahab, * It is thou who troublest Israel ! ' — 
Where is the king ? Called, through a sudden 
and violent death, to the judgm^t-seat of Heav- 
en ! — Where is Minard, the persecutor of the 
just ? Slain by the hand of an assassin ! It 
was not without reason that I said to him, when 
standing before my accusers, ^ Tremble ! believe 
tlfe word of one who is about to appear before 
God ; thou likewise shalt stand there soon, — * 
thou that sfaeddest the blood of the children 
of peace.' He has gone to his account be<- 
fore me." 

^^ And that menace has hastened thine own 
condemnation. Minard was slain by the Hi^ue* 
nots, and it is whispered that thou wast privy to 
his death." 



132 THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 

^^ This, at least, might have been spared a dying 
man ! " replied the prisoner, much agitated by so 
unjust and so unexpected an accusation. ^^ As 
I hope for mercy hereafter, I am innocent of 
the blood of this man, and of all knowledge 
of so foul a crime. But, tell me, hast thou come 
here only to embitter my last hours with such 
an accusation as this ? If so, I pray thee, leave 
me. My moments are precious. I would be 
alone." 

^* I came to offer thee life, freedom, and hap- 
piness." 

" Life, — freedom, — happmess ! At the price 
thou hast set upon them, I scorn them all ! Had 
the apostles and martyrs of the early Christian 
church listened to such paltry bribes as these, 
where were now the faith in which we trust } 
These holy men of old shall answer for me. 
Hear what Justin Martyr says, in his earnest 
appeal to Antomne the Pious, in behalf of the 
Christians who in his day were unjusdy loaded 
with public odium and oppression." 

He opened the volume before him and read : — 

^' I could wish you would take this also into 
consideration, that what we say is really for your 
own good ; for it is in our power at any time to 



THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 133 

escape your torments by denying the faith, when 
you question us about it : but we scorn to pur- 
chase life at the expense of a lie ; for our souls 
are wmged with a desire of a life of eternal dura- 
tion and purity, of an immediate conversation 
with God, the Father and Maker of all things. 
We are in haste to be confessing and finishing 
our faith ; being fully persuaded that we shall 
arrive at this blessed state, if we approve our- 
selves to God by our works, and by our obedi- 
ence express our passion for that divine life wliich 
is never interrupted by any clashing evil." 

The Cathohc and the Huguenot reasoned long 
and earnestly together ; but they reasoned in vam. 
Each was firm in his belief ; and they parted to. 
meet no more on earth. 

On the following day, Du Bourg was sum- 
moned before his judges to receive his final sen- 
tence. He heard it unmoved, and with a prayer 
to God that he would pardon those who had con- 
demned him according to their consciences. 
He then addressed his judges in an oration full 
of power and eloquence. It cjosed with these 
words : — 

" And now, ye judges, if, indeed, you hold the 
sword of God as ministers of his wrath, to take 



134 THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 

vengeance upon those who do evil, beware, I 
charge you, beware how you condemn us. Con- 
sider well what evD we have done ; and, before all 
tilings, decide whether it be just that we should 
listen unto you rather than unto God. Are you 
so drunken with the wine-cup of the great sor- 
ceress, that you drink poison for nourishment ? 
Are you not those who make the people sin, 
by tummg them away from the service of God ? 
And if you regard more the opinion of mmi 
than that of Heaven, in what esteem are you 
held by other nations, and • principalities, and 
powers, for the martyrdoms you have caused 
in obedience to this blood-stained Phalaris ? 
God grant, thou cruel tyrant, that by thy miser- 
able death thou mayst put an end to our groans ! 

** Why weep ye ? What means tWs delay ? 
Your hearts are heavy within you,— your con- 
sciences are haunted by the judgment of God. 
And thus it is that the condemned rejoice m the 
fires you have kindled, and think they never live 
better than in the midst of consuming flames. 
Torments af&igbt them not, *- insults enfeeble 
them not ; their honor is redeemed by death, — 
he that dies is the conqueror, and the conquered 
he that mourns. 



THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 139 

^^ No ! wfaateyer snares are spread for usi 
whatever suffering we endure, you cannot separ- 
ate us from the love of Christ. Strike, then, --* 
slay, — grind us to powder! Those that did 
in the Lord shall live again ; we shall all be raised 
together. Condemn me as you will, — I am a 
Christian ; yes, I am a Christian, and am ready 
to die for the glory of our Lord, — for the truth 
of the Evangelists. 

^^ Quench, then, your fires ! Let the wicked 
abandon his way, and return unto the Lord, 
and he will have compassion on him. Live, -^ 
be happy, — and meditate on God, ye judges ! 
As for me, I go rejoicing to my death. What 
wait ye for ? Lead me to the scaffold ! " 

They bound the prisoner's hands, and, leading 
him forth from the council^chamber, placed him 
upon the cart that was to bear him to the Place 
de Gr^ve. Before and behbd marched a guard 
of five' hundred sofdiers ; for Du Bourg was 
beloved by the people, and a popular tumult was 
apprehended. The day was overcast and sad ; 
and ever and anon the sound of the tolling bell 
mingled its dismal clang with the solemn notes 
of the funeral march. They soon reached the 
place of execution, which was already filled 



136 THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 

with a dense and s3ent crowd. In the centre 
stood the gallowsy with a p3e of fagots beneath 
it, and the hangman with a burning torch in his 
hand. But this funeral apparel inspired no terror 
in the heart of Du Bourg. A look of triumph 
beamed from his eye, and his countenance shone 
like that of an angel. With his own hands he 
divested himself of his outer garments, and, gaz- 
ing round upon the breathless and sympathizmg 
crowd, exclaimed, — 

*^ My friends, I come not hither as a thief or a 
murderer ; but it is for the Gospel's sake ! " 

A cord was then fastened round his waist, 
and he was drawn up into the air. At the same 
moment the burning torch of the executioner 
was applied to the fagots beneath, and the thick 
volumes of smoke concealed the martyr from 
the horror-stricken crowd. One stifled groan 
arose from all that vast multitude, like the moan 
of the sea, and all was hushed again ; save the 
crackling of the fagots, and at intervals the fu- 
neral knell, that smote the very soul. The 
quivering flames darted upward and around ; and 
an agonizmg cry broke from the murky cloud, — 

" My God ! my God ! forsake me not, that I 
forsake not thee ! " 



THE BAPTISM OF TIRE. 137 

The wind lifted the reddening smoke like a 
veil, and the form of the martyr was seen to 
fall mto the fire beneath. In a moment it rose 
again, its garments all in flame ; and again the 
faint, half-smothered cry of agony was heard, — 

^^ My God ! my God ! forsake me not, that I 
forsake not thee ! " 

Once more the quivering body descended mto 
the flames ; and once more it was lifted into the 
air, a blackened, bummg cinder. Again and 
again this fiendish mockery of baptism was re- 
peated ; till the martyr, with a despairing, sufl!b- 
cating voice, exclaimed, — 

" O God ! I cannot die ! '' 

The chief executioner came forward, and, 
either in mercy to the dying man or through 
fear of the populace, threw a noose over his neck, 
and strangled the almost lifeless victim. At the 
same moment the cord which held the body was 
loosened, and it fell into the fire to rise no more. 
And thus was consummated the martyrdom of the 
Baptism of Fire. 



COQ-A-L'ANE. 



My brain, methinks, is like an hour-glass, 

Wherein my imaginations ran like sands, 

Filling up time ; but then are turned, and turned, 

So that I know not what to stay upon. 

And leas to put in art. 

BxH Joirsoir. 



A RAINY and gloomy winter was just drawing 
to its close, when I left Paris for the South of 
France. We started at sunrise ; and as we 
passed along the solitary streets of the vast and 
silent metropolis, drowsily one by one its clang- 
ing horologes chimed the hour of six. Beyond 
the city-gates the wide landscape was covered 
with a silvery network of frost ; a wreath of 
vapor overhung the windings of the Seine ; and 
every twig and shrub, with its sheath of crystal, 
flashed in the level rays of the rising sun. The 
sharp, frosty air seemed to quicken the sluggish 
blood of the old postilion and his horses ; — a 
fresh team stood ready in harness at each stage ; 



coq-I-l'ane. 139 

and notwithstanding the slippery pavement of the 
causeway, the long and tedious climbing the hill- 
side upward, and the equally long and tedious 
descent with chained wheels and the drag, just 
after nightfall the lumbering vehicle of Vincent 
Caillard stopped at the gateway of the " Three 
Emperors," m the famous city of Orleans. 

I cannot pride myself much upon being a good 
travellmg-companion, for the rocking of a coach 
always lulls me into forgetfulness of the present ; 
and no sooner does the hollow, monotonous rum* 
bling of the wheels reach my ear, than, like Nick 
Bottom, '^ I have an exposition of sleep come 
upon me." It is not, however, the deep, sono* 
rous slumber of a laborer, ^^ stuffed with db- 
tressful bread," but a kind of day-dream, where- 
in the creations of fancy seem realities, and the 
real world, which swims dizzily before the half- 
shut, drowsy eye, becomes mingled with the 
imaginary world within. This is doubdess a 
very great failing in a traveller ; and I confess, 
with all humility, that at times the line of demar- 
kation between truth and fiction is rendered there- 
by so indefinite and indistbct, that I cannot al- 
ways determine, with unerring certainty, whether 
an event really happened to me, or whether I 
only dreamed it. 



140 COQ-i-L'iNE. 

On this account I shall not attempt a detailed 
description of my journey from Paris to Bor- 
deaux. I was travelling like a bird of passage ; 
and five weary days and four weary nights I 
was on the way. The diligence stopped only 
to change horses, and for the travellers to take 
their meals ; and by night I slept with my head 
under my wing in a snug comer of the coach. 

Strange as it may appear to some of my read- 
ers, this night-travelling is at times far from be- 
ing disagreeable ; nay, if the country is flat and 
uninteresting, and you are favored with a moon, 
it may be very pleasant. As the night advances, 
the conversation around you gradually dies away, 
and is imperceptibly given up to some garrulous 
traveller who finds himself belated in the midst 
of a long story ; and when at length he puts 
out his feelers in the form of a question, dis- 
covers, by the silence around him, that the 
breathless attention of his audience is owing to 
their beii^ asleep. All is now silent. You let 
down tlie window of the carriage, and the fresh 
night-air cools your flushed and burning cheek. 
The landscape, though in reality dull and unin- 
teresting, seems beautiful as it floats by in the 
soft moonshine. Every rumed hovel is changed 



coq-a-l'ane. 141 

by the magic of night to a trim cottage, every 
straggling and dilapidated hamlet becomes as 
beautiful as those we read of in poetry and ro- 
mance. Over the lowland hangs a silver mist ; 
over the hills peep the twinkling stars. The 
keen night-air is a spur to the postilion and hb 
horses. In the words of the German ballad, — 

" Halloo ! halloo I away they go, 
Unheeding wet or dry, 
And hone and rider snort and blow. 

And sparkling pebbles fly. 
And all on which the moon doth shine 
Behind them flees afar, 
" And backward sped, scud overhead. 
The sky and every star." 

Anon you stop at the relay. The drowsy hostler 
crawls out of the stable-yard ; a few gruff words 
and strange oaths pass between him and the pos- 
tilion, — then there is a coarse joke in patoUj 
of which you understand the ribaldry only, and 
which is followed by a husky laugh, a sound 
between a hiss and a growl ; — and then you 
are off again in a crack. Occasionally a way- 
traveller is uncaged, and a new-comer takes the 
vacant perch at your elbow. Meanwhile your 
busy fancy speculates upon aU these things, and 



142 coq-a*l'ai?e. 

you fell asleep amid its thousand vagaries. Soon 
you wake i^ain, and snuff the mombg air. It 
was but a moment, and yet the night is gmie. 
The gray of twil^lit steals mto the window, and 
ghres a ^sity look to the countenances of the 
deepmg group around you. One sits bolt vpri^ 
in a comer, offending none, and stiff and motion- 
less as an Egyptian mummy ; another sits equally 
straight and immovable, but snores like a priest ; 
the head of a third is dangling over his shoulder, 
and the tassel of his nightcap tickles his neigh- 
bour's ear ; a fourth has lost his hat, — his wig 
is awry, and his under-lip hangs lolling about 
like an idiot's. The whole scene is a living 
caricature of man, presenting human nature in 
some of the grotesque attitudes she assumes, 
when that pragmatical schoolmaster, propriety, 
has fallen asleep in his chair, and the unruly 
members of his charge are freed from the thral- 
<kmi of the rod. 

On leavmg Orleans, instead of following the 
great western mail-route through Tours, Poitiers, 
and AngoulSme, and thence on to Bordeaux, 
I struck across the departments of the Indre, 
the Haute-Vienne, and the Dordogne, pass- 
ing through the provincial capitals of Chateau- 



COQ'iL-L'AIfB* 143 

roux, Limoges, and P£rigaeuz. South of the 
Loire the countiy assumes a more mouDtainous 
aspect, and the landscape is broken by long 
sweepbg hills and fertile valleys. Many a fair 
scene invites the traveller's foot to pause ; and 
his eye roves with delight over the picturesque 
landscape of the valley of the Creuse, and the 
beautiful highland scenery near P^rigueux. There 
are also many objects of art and antiquity winch 
arrest his attention. Argenton boasts its Roman 
amphitheatre, and the ruins of an old castle 
built by King Pepin ; at Chalus the tower be« 
Death which Richard Cceur-de-Lion was slain 
is still pointed out to the curious traveller ; and 
P6rigueux is full of crumbling monuments of the 
Middle Ages. 

Scenes like these, and the constant chatter 
of my fellow-travellers, served to enliven the \ 
tedium of a long and fatiguing journey. The 
French are preeminendy a talking pe<q>le ; and 
every new object afforded a topic for light and 
animated discussion. The afiairs of church and 
state were, however, the themes oftenest touched 
upon. The bill for the suppression of the lib- 
erty of the press was then under discussion in 
the Chamber of Peers, and excited the most 



144 coq-1-l'1ne. 

lively mterest through the whole kingdonf. Of 
course it was a subject not likely to be forgotten 
in a stage-coach. 

^^ Ah ! mon Dieu ! '' said a brisk little man, 
with snow-white hair and a blazing red face, at 
the same time drawing up his shoulders to a level 
with his ears ; ^' the ministry are determined to 
carry their pomt at all events. They mean to 
break down the liberty of the press, cost what 
It wUl." 

^' If they succeed," added the person who sat 
opposite, ^' we may thank the Jesuits for it. It 
is all their work. They rule the mind of our 
imbecile monarch, and it is their miserable policy 
to keep the people in darkness." 

" No doubt of that," rejoined the first speaker. 
" Why, no longer ago than yesterday I read in 
the Figaro that a printer had been prosecuted 
for publishing the moral lessons of the Evangelists 
without the miracles." 

"Is it possible?" said I. "And are the 
people so stupid as thus patiently to offer their 
shoulders to the pack-saddle ? " 

" Most certainly not ! We shall have another 
revolution." 

" If history speaks true, you have had revolu- 



tions enough^ diiriDg the last centorjr or two, to 
satisfy the most mercurial nation on earth. Yo» 
hare hardly been quiet a moment since the day 
of the Barricades and the memorable war of the 
potS'de'chambreinlile times of the Grand Conde." 

" You are pleased to speak lightly of our rev- 
olutions, Sir," rejoined the politician, growing 
warm. ^' You must, however, confess that each 
successive one has brought us nearer to our ob- 
ject. Old institutions, whose foundations lie: deep 
in the prejudices of a great nation, are not to be 
toppled down by the springing of a single mme. 
You must confess, too, that our national char*^ 
acter is muck improved since the days you speak 
of. The youth of the present century are not 
so frivolous as those of the last. They have no 
longer that unbounded levity and light-heartedness 
so generally ascribed to them. From this cir- 
cumstance we have every thing to hope. Our 
revolutions, likewise, must necessarily changer 
their character, and secure to us more solid ad- 
vantages than heretofore." 

^^Luck makes pluck, as the Germans say. 
You go on bravely ; but it gives me pain to see 
religion and the church so disregarded." 

" Superstition and the church, you mean," 
10 



146 coq-a-l'anb. 

said the gray-headed man. ^^ Why, Sir, the 
church is nothing now-a-days but a tumble-down, 
dilapidated tower for rooks and daws, and such 
silly birds, to build their nests in ! " 

It was now very evident that I had unearthed a 
radical ; and there is no knowing when his ha- 
rangue would have ended, had not his voice been 
drowned by the noise of the wheels, as we en- 
tered the paved street of the city of Limoges. 

A breakfast of boiled capon stuffed with truf- 
fles, and accompanied by a p&U de Pirigueuxj 
a dish well known to French gourmands, restored 
us all to good-humor. While we were at break- 
&st, a personage stalked into the room, whose 
strange appearance arrested my attention, and 
gave subject for future conversation to our parQr. 
He was a tdl, thin figure, armed with a long 
whip, brass spurs, and black whiskers. He wore 
a bell-crowned, varnished hat, a blue frock-coat 
with standing collar, a red waistcoat, a paur of 
yellow leather breeches, and boots that reached 
to the knees. I at first took him for a postilion,' 
or a privsite courier ; but, upon inquiry, I found 
that he was only the son of a notary public, and 
that he dressed in this strange fashion to please 
his own fancy. 



As soon as we were comfortably seated in the 
diligence, I made some remark on the singular 
costume of the personage whom I had just seen 
at the tavern. 

^^ These thmgs are so common with us," said 
the politician, '^ that we hardly notice them." 

" What you wknt in liberty of speech, then, 
you make up m liberty of dress ? " 

"Yes ; in this, at least, we are a free people." 

" I had not been long in France, before I dis- 
covered that a man may dress as be pleases, 
without bemg stared at. The most opposite 
styles of dress seem to be in vogue at the same 
moment. No strange garment nor desperate hat 
excites either ridicule or surprise. French fash- 
ions are known and imitated all the world over." 

" Very true, indeed," said a litde man in gos- 
ling-green. "We give fashions to all other 
nations." 

" Fashions ! " said the politician, with a kmd 
of growl, — "fashions! Yes, Sir, and some 
of us are simple enough to boast of i% as if we 
were a nation of tailors." 

Here the littie man in gosling-green pulled up 
the horns of his cotton shirt-collar. 

" I recollect," said I, " that your Madame 



148 coq-Ihl'ane^ 

de Fompadour in ooe of her letters says some- 
tlimg to this effect, — ^ We furnish our ^leimes 
with hair-dressers, ribands, and fashions;, and 
they furnish us with kws.' " 

^^ That is not the only silly thing she said in 
her lifetime. Ah !. Sir, these Pompadours, and 
Maihtenons, and Montespans A>rere the authors 
of much woe to France. Their follies and ex- 
travagances exhausted the public treasury, and 
made the nation poor. They built palaces, and 
covered themselves with jewels, and ate froxa 
golden plate ; while the people who toiled for 
them had hardly a crust to keep their own child^ 
ren from starvaticn ! And yet they preach to ua 
the divine right of kings I " 

My radical had got upon his high horse again ; 
and I know not: whither it would have carried 
him, had not a thin man with a black, seedy coat, 
who sat at his elbow, at that moment crossed 
bis path, by one of those abrupt and sudden 
transitions which leave you aghast at the strange 
association of ideas in the speaker's mind. 

" Apropos de boUes ! " exclaimed he, " speak" 
ii^ of boots, and notaries public, and such mat- 
ters, — excuse me. for interrupting you, Sir, — a 
little story has just popped into my head which 



COQ-A-L'ilTE. 149 

may amuse the company ; and as I am not very 
fond of political discussions, — no offence, Sir, — 
I will tell it, for the sake of changmg the conver- 
sation." 

Whereupon, without further preamble or apol- 
ogy, he proceeded to tell his story in, as nearly 
as may be, the following words. 



THE 

NOTARY. OF Pi:RIGUEUX. 



Do not trust thy body with a phyncian. He '11 make 

thy foolish bones go without flesh in a fortnight, and thy soul 

walk without a body a sennight after. 

Shirlet. 



You must know, Gentlemen, that there lived 
some years ago, in the city of Perigueux, an 
honest notary public, the descendant of a very 
ancient and broken-down family, and the occu- 
pant of one of those old weather-beaten tene- 
ments which remind you of the times of your 
great-grandfather. He was a man of an unof- 
fending, quiet disposition ; the father of a family, 
though not the head of it, — for in that family 
" the hen over-crowed the cock," and the neigh- 
bours, when they spake of the notary, > shrugged 
their shoulders, and exclaimed, " Poor fellow ! 
his spurs want sharpening." In fine, — you un- 
derstand me, Gendemen, — he was hen-pecked. 

Well, finding no peace at home, he- sought 
it elsewhere, as was very natural for him to do ; 



THE NOTARY OF PERI6UEUX. 151 

and at length discovered a place of rest, far be- 
yond the cares and clamors of domestic life. 
This was a little cafi estaminet^ a short way out 
of the city, whither he repaired every evening 
to smoke his pipe, drink sugar-water, and play 
his favorite game of domino. There he met 
the boon companions he most loved ; heard aU 
the floating chitchat of the day; laughed when 
he was in merry mood ; found consolation when 
he was sad ; and at all times gave vent to his 
opinions, without fear of being snubbed short by a 
flat contradiction. 

Now, the notaiy's bosom-friend was a dealer 
in claret and cognac, who lived about a league 
from the city, and always passed his evenings at 
the estaminet. He was a gross, corpulent fel- 
low, raised from a full-blooded Gascon breed, 
and sired by a comic actor of some reputation 
in his way. He was remarkable for nothing but 
his good-humor, his love of cards, and t strong 
propensity to test the quality of his own liquors 
by comparing them with those sold at other 
places. 

As evil communications corrupt good man- 
ners, the bad practices of the wine-dealer won 
insensibly upon the worthy notary; and before 



152 THK NOTAKT 0<F PEAIGVEUX. 

he was aware of it, he found himself weaiied 
from domino and sugar-water, and addicted to 
piquet .and spiced wine. Indeed, it not uofre- 
quently happened, that, after a long session at die 
tstaminet^ the two friends grew so urbane, that 
they would waste a full half-*hour at the door 
in friendly (Sspute which should conduct the other 
home. 

Though this course of Bfe agreed well enough 
wjdi the sluggish, phlegmatic temperament of the 
wine-dealer, it soon began to play the very deuse 
with die more sensitive organization of the no- 
tary, and finally put his nenrous system com- 
pletely out of tune. He lost his aj^etite, be- 
came gaunt and haggard, and could get no sleep. 
Legions of Uue^devils haunted him by day, and 
by night strange faces peeped throu^ his bed- 
curtains and the nightmare snorted in his ear. 
The worse he grew, the more he smoked and 
tippled ; and the more be smoked and tippled, <— 
why, as a matter of course, the worse he grew. 
His wife alternately stormed, remonstrated, en- 
treated ; but all in vain. She made the house 
too hott for him, — he retreated to the tavern ; 
she broke his long-stemmed pipes upon the an- 
dirons, — be substituted a short-stemmed one. 



TSE NOTARY OV P£RIGtJEUX^ 15S 

which, {(X safe keeping, he carried in his vrnst* 
coat«pocket. 

Thus the unhappy notary ran gradually down 
at the heel. What with his bad habits and hk 
domestic grievances, he became completely hip- 
ped. He imagined that he was going to die ; 
mid suffered in quick succession all the diseases 
that ever beset mortal man. Every shooting 
pain was an alarmbg sympton, — every uneasy 
feeling after dinner a sure prognostic of some 
mortal disease. In vain did his friends endeav- 
our to reason, and then to laugh him out of his 
e^ange velums ; for when did ever jest or reason 
^me a sick imagination ? His only answer was, 
^^ Do let me alone ; I know better |han yon 
what ails me." 

Well, Gendemen, things were in this state, 
when, one afternoon in December, as he sat mop- 
ing in his office, wrapped in an overcoat, with 
R cap on his head and his feet thrust into a pair 
of furred slippers, a cabriolet stopped at the , 
door, and a loud knocking without aroused bim 
ftom his gloomy revery. It was a message from 
his friend the wine-dealer, who had been sud- 
ileriy attacked with a viol^it fever, and, growing 
worse and worse, had now sent in the greaitest 



154 THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUZ. 

haste for the notary to draw up his last will and 
testament. The case was urgent, and admitted 
neither excuse nor delay ; and the notary, tying 
a handkerchief round his face, and buttoning up 
to the chin, jumped into the cabriolet, and suf- 
fered himself, though not without some dismal 
presentiments and misgivings of heart, to be driv- 
en to the wine-dealer^s house. 

When he arrived, he found ever}*- thing in the 
greatest confusion. On entering the house, he 
ran against the apothecary, who was coming down 
stairs, with a face as long as your arm ; and a few 
steps farther he met the housekeeper — for the 
wine-dealer was an old bachelor — running up 
and dowp, and wrbging her hands, for fear that 
the good man should die without making his 
will. He soon reached the chamber of his sick 
friend, and found him tossing about in a paroxysm 
of fever, and calling aloud for a draught of cold 
water. The notary shook his head ; he thought 
-this a fatal symptom ; for ten years back the 
wine-dealer had been suffering under a species 
of hydrophobia, which seemed suddenly to have 
left him. 

When the sick man saw who stood by his bed- 
side, he stretched out his hand and exclaimed, — 



THE NOTART OF PERiaUEUX. 155 

^^ Ah ! mj dear friend ! have you come at 
last ? You see it is all over with me. You 
have arrived just in time to draw up that — that 
passport of mine. Ah, grand diable ! how hot 
it is here ! Water, — water, — water ! Will 
nobody give me a drop of cold water ? " 

As the case was an urgent one, the notary 
made no delay m getting his papers in readiness ; 
and in a short time the last will and testament 
of the wine-dealer was drawn up in due form, 
the notary guiding the sick man's hand as be 
scrawled his signature at the bottom. 

As the evening wore away, the wine-dealer 
grew worse ai)d worse, and at length became 
delirious, mingling in his incoherent ravmgs the 
phrases of the Credo abd Paternoster with the 
shibboleth of the dram-shop and the card-table. 

**Take care! take care! There, now — 
Credo in — Pop ! ting-a-ling-ling ! give me some 
of that. Cent-e-dize ! Why, you old publican, 
this wine is poisoned, — I know your tricks ! 
— Sanctam ecchriam CathoKcam — Well, well, 
we shall see. Imbecile ! to have a tierce-major 
and a seven of hearts, and discard the seven! 
By St. Anthony, capot ! You are lurched, — 
ha ! ha ! I told you so. I knew very well, — 



156 THE KOTART OF PERIGUEUX. 

Aera, — tbere^ — don't iatemqpt me — CamU 
reiurreetionem et nUarn etemam ! " 

With diese words upon his lips, the poor wine- 
dealer expired. Meanwhile the notary sat cow- 
eiing over the fire, aghast at the fearful scene that 
was passing before him, and now and then striv* 
ing to keep up his courage by a glass of cognac. 
Already his fears were on the alert ; and the idea 
oi contagion iSitted to and fro through his nund. 
In order to quiet these thoughts of evil import, 
lie lighted his pipe, and began to prepare for re- 
turning home. At that moment the apoCbecary 
tamed round to him and said, — 

^^ Dreadful sickly time, this ! The disorder 
seems to be spreadbg." 

^^ What disorder ? " exclaimed the notary, 
with a ipovement of surprise. 

" Two died yesterday, and three to-day^" con- 
tinued the apothecary, without answering the 
question. " Very sickly time. Sir, — very." 

^^ But what disorder is it ? What disease has 
carried off my friend here so suddenly ? " 

" What disease ? Why, scarlet fever, to be 



sure." 



^' And is it contagious ? " 
« Certainly ? " 



THTir rroTARY OP piRravEtTX. 167 

^^ Then I am a dead man f " exclaimed the 
notary, putting his pipe into his waistcoat-pockety 
and beginning to walk up and down the room in 
despair. ^^ I am a dead man ! Now doo't 
deceive me, — don't, will you? What — what 
are the symptoms ? " 

'^ A sharp burning pain in the right side," said 
the apothecary. 

" O, what a fool I was to come here ! " 

In vain did the housekeeper and the apothecaxy 
strive to pacify him ; — he was not a man to be 
reasoned with ; he answered that he knew his 
own constitution better dian they did, and uisisted 
upon going home without delay. Unfortunately, 
the vehicle he came bs had' returned to the city ; 
Bud die whole neighbourhood was abed and 
asleep. What was to be. done ? Nothing in the 
world but to take the apothecary's horse, which 
stood hitched at the door, patiently waiting his 
master's will. 

Well, Gendemen, as there was no remedy, our 
notary mounted this raw-boned steed, and set 
forth upon his homeward journey. The night 
was cold and gusly, and the wind right in hi» 
teeth. Overhead the leaden clouds were beat- 
ing to and fro, and through them die newly risen 



158 THE NOTART OF PERIGUEUX. 

moon seemed to be tossing and drifting along like 
a cock-boat in the surf ; now swallowed up in a 
huge billow of cloud, and now lifted upon its 
bosom and dashed with silvery spray. The 
trees by the road-side groaned with a sound of 
evil omen ; and before him lay three mortal miles, 
beset with a tliousand imaginary perils. Obedient 
to the whip and spur, the steed leaped forward 
by fits and starts, now dashing away in a tre- 
mendous gaUop, and now relaxing into a long, 
hard trot ; while the rider, filled with symptoms 
of disease and dire presentiments of death, urged 
him on, as if he were fleeing before the pesti- 
lence. 

In this way, by dmt of whistling and shouting, 
and beadng right and left, one mile of the fatal 
three was safely passed. The apprehensions of 
the notary had so far subsided, that he even suf- 
fered the poor horse to walk up hill ; but these 
apprehensions were suddenly revived again with 
tenfold violence by a sharp pain in the right side, 
which seemed to pierce him like a needle. 

^^ It is upon me at last ! " groaned the fear- 
stricken man. ^^ Heaven be merciful to me, the 
greatest of sinners ! And must I die in a ditch, 
after all i He ! get up, — get up ! " 



THE NOTARY OF PERI6UEUX. 159 

And away went horse and rider at full speed, 
— hurry-scurry, — up hill and down, — panting 
and blowing like a whirlwind. At every leap, 
the pain in the rider's side seemed to increase. 
At first it was a little point like the prick of a 
needle, — then it spread to the size of a half- 
franc piece, — then covered a place as large as 
the palm of your hand. It gained upon him 
fast. The poor man groaned aloud in agony ; 
faster and faster sped the horse over the frozen 
ground, — farther and farther spread the pain over 
his side. To complete the dismal picture, the 
storm commenced, — snow mingled with ram. 
But snow, and rain, and cold were naught to 
him ; for, though his arms and legs were frozen 
to icicles, he felt it not ; the fatal symptom was 
upon him ; he was doomed to die, — not of cold, 
but of scarlet fever ! 

At length, he knew not how, more dead than 
alive, he reached the gate of the city. A band 
of ill-bred dogs, that were serenading at a comer 
of the street, seeing the notary dash by, jomed 
in the hue and cry, and ran barkmg and yelping 
at his heels. It was now late at night, and only 
here and there a solitary lamp twinkled from an 
upper story. But on went the notary, down 



160 THE NOTAET OF PERI6UEUX* 

tfaas street and up that, liU at last he reached 
his own door. There was a light in his wife's 
bed-chamb^. The good woman came ton the 
window, alarmed at such a kaocking, and howl- 
bg, and clattering at her door so late at night ;. 
and the notary was too deeply absorbed in his 
own sorrows to observe that the lamp cast the 
shadow of two heads on the window-curtain. 

^^ Let me in ! let me in ! Quick ! quick ! " he 
exclaimed, almost breadiless from terror and 
fatigue. 

^^ Who are you, that come to disturb a lone 
woman at this hour of the night ? " cried a sharp 
voice from above. " Begone about your busi- 
ness, and let quiet people sleep." 

^' O, diabhy diable ! Come down and let me 
in ! I am your husband. Don't you know my 
voice ? Quick, I beseech you ; for I am dying 
here in the street ! " 

After a few moments of delay and a few more 
words of parley, the door was opened, and the 
notary stalked into his domicil, pale and haggard 
in aspect, and as stiff and straight as a ghost. 
Cased from head to heel in an armor of ice, as 
the glare of the lamp fell upon him, he looked 
like a knight-errant mailed in steel. But in one 



THE KOTART OF PERIOtTEUX. 161 

place his armor was broken. On his right side 
was a circular spot, as large as the crown of your 
hat, and about as black ! 

" My dear wife ! " he exclaimed, with more 
tenderness than he had exhibited for many years, 
^^ reach me a chair. My hours are numbered* 
I am a dead man ! " 

Alarmed at these exclamations, his wife strip- 
ped off his overcoat. Something fell from be- 
neath it, and was dashed to pieces on the hearth. 
It was the notary's pipe! He placed his hand 
upon his side, and, lo ! it was bare to the skin ! 
Coat, waiscoat, and linen were burnt through and 
through, and there was a blister on his side as 
large over as your head ! 

The mystery was soon explamed, symptom 
and all. The notary had put his pipe into his 
pocket, without knocking out the ashes ! And 
so my story ends. 



^^ Is that all ? " asked the radical^ when the 
story-teller had finished. 

"That is all." 

" Well, what does your story prove ? " 

" That is more than I can teU. All I know is 
that the story is true.'^ 

11 



162 THE IfOTABT OF PEEIOUBU3L. 

^^ And did he die ? " said the nice little man 
in goslbg-green, 

" Yes ; he died afterward/^ replied the story- 
teller, rather annoyed by the question. 

** And what did he die of ? '* continued gos- 
ling-green, following him up. 

" What did he die of? why, he died — of a 
sudden ! " 



SPAIN. 



THE 



JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 



A risflue de Tyver que le joly temps de primavire com- 
mence, et qu'on voit arbres verdoyer, fleam espanouir, et 
qu'on oh lea oinllonB chanter en toute joie et doulceur, tant 
que lea veita bocagea retentisaent de lenra aona et que cceura 
triates penaifa y dolena a'en esjouiaaent, a'^meuvent k delaia- 
aer deuil et toute triatesae, et ae parfbrcent k valoir mieux. 
La Plaisantx Histoirx dx Gvi&iv dx Monolatx. 



Soft-breathing Spnng! how many pleasant 
thoughts, how many delightful recollections, does 
thy name awaken in the mind of a traveller ! 
Whether he has followed thee by the banks of the 
Loire or the Guadalquivir, or traced thy foot- 
steps slowly climbing the sunny slope of Alp or 
Apennine, the thought of thee shall summon up 
sweet visions of the past, and thy golden sun- 
shine and soft vapory atmosphere become a por- 
tion of his day-dreams and of him. Sweet im- 
ages of thee, and scenes that have oft inspired 
the poet's song, shall mingle in his recollections 
of the past. The shooting of the tender leaf, — 
the sweetness and elasticity of the air, — the 



166 THE JOURNET INTO SPAIN. 

blue sky, — the fleet-driftiDg cloud, — and the 
flocks of w3d fowl wheeling in long-drawn pha- 
lanx through the air, and screanung from their 
dizzy hdght, — all these shaQ pass like a ^eam 
before his imagination. 

** And gently o*er hU memory come at times 
A glimpee of joys that had their birth in tfaee^ 
Like a brief strain of some forgotten tune." 

It was at the opening of this deEgbtful season 
of the year that I passed through the South of 
France, and took the road of St. Jean de Luz 
for the Spanish frontier. I left Bordeaux amid 
all the noise and gayety of the last scene of Car- 
nival. The streets and public walks of the city 
were fiill of merry groups in masks, — at every 
comer crowds were listening to the discordant 
music of the wandering ballad-singer ; and gro- 
tesque figures, mounted on high stilts, and dressed 
in the garb of the peasants of the Landes of 
Gascony, were stalking up and down like so 
many long-legged cranes ; others were amusing 
themselves with the tricks and grimaces of little 
monkeys, disguised like little men, bowing to the 
ladies, and figuring away in red coats and ruffles ; 
and here and there a band of chimney-sweeps 



TBE JOITBIfET IHTO BPAIST. 167 

were staring in stupid wonder at the miracl^ of 
a showman's box. In a word, a9 was so full of 
mirth and merrimake, that even beggary seemed 
to have forgotten that it was wretched, and glo- 
ried in the ragged masquerade of one poor holy- 
day. 

To this scene of noise and gayety succeeded 
the sflence and solitude of the Landes of Gas- 
cony* The road from Bordeaux to Bayonne 
winds along through immense pine-forests and 
sandy plains, spotted here and there with a dmgy 
little hovel, and the silence is interrupted only 
by the dismal hollow roar of the wind among the 
melancholy and majestic pines. Occasionally, 
however, the way is enlivened by a market-town 
or a stragglmg village ; and I still recollect the 
feelings of delight which I experienced, when, 
just after sunset, we passed through the romantic 
town of Roquefort, built upon the sides of the 
green valley of the Douze, which has scooped 
out a verdant hollow for it to nesde in, amid 
those barren tracts of sand. 

On leaving Bayonne, the scene assumes a char- 
acter of greater beauty and sublimity. To the 
vast forests of the Landes of Gascony succeeds 
a scene of picturesque beauty, delightful to the 



168 THE JOURIIET INTO SPAIN. 

trafeller's eye. Before him rise the snowy Pyr- 
enees, — a long line of undulating hills, — 

(< Bounded afar by peak aflpiring bold, 
Like giant capped with helm of barnighed gold." 

To the left, as far as the eye can reach, stretch 
the delicious valleys of the Nive and Adour; 
and to the right the sea flashes along the pebbly 
margin of its silver beach, formbg a thousand 
little bays and inlets, or comes tumbling in among 
the cliffs of a rock-bound coast, and beats agEiinst 
its massive barriers with a distant, hollow, con- 
tinual roar. 

Should these pages meet the eye of any solita- 
ry traveller who is journeying into Spain by the 
road I here speak of, I would advise him to 
travel from Bayonne to St. Jean de Luz on 
horseback. At the gate of Bayonne he will 
find a steed ready caparisoned for him, with a 
dark-eyed Basque girl for his companion and 
guide, who is to sit beside him upon the same 
horse. This style of travelling is, I believe, 
peculiar to the Basque provinces ; at all events, 
I have seen it nowhere else. The saddle is 
constructed with a large frame-work extending 
on each side, and covered with cushions ; and 



THE JOURIfET INTO SFAIIT. 169 

the traveller and his guide, bebg placed on the 
opposite extremities, serve as a balance to each 
other. We overtook many travellers mounted 
in this way, and I could not help thinking it a 
mode of travelling far preferable to being cooped 
up in a diligence. The Basque girls are gener- 
ally beautiful ; and there was one of these meny 
guides we met upon the road to Bidart, whose 
image haunts me still. She had large and ex- 
pressive black eyes, teeth like pearls, a rich and 
sunburnt complexion, and hair of a glossy black- 
ness, parted on the forehead, and falling down 
behind in a large braid, so long as almost to touch 
the ground with the litde riband that confined 
it at the end. She wore the common dress of 
the peasantry of the South of France, and a large 
gypsy straw hat was thrown back over her shoul- 
der, and tied by a riband about her neck. There 
was hardly a dusty traveller in the coach who 
did not envy her companion the seat he occupied 
beside her. 

Just at nightfall we entered the town of St. 
Jean de Luz, and dashed down its narrow streets 
at iiill gallop. The little madcap postilion crack- 
ed his knotted whip incessantly, and the sound 
echoed back from the high dingy walls like the 



170 THB JOUBNET INTO SPAIN. 

report of & pistol. The ooach-^heels oearlj 
touched the houses on each side of us ; the idlers 
m the street jumped right and left to save theii>- 
selves ; window-shutters flew open in all direo- 
tbns ; a thousand heads popped out from cellar 
and upper stoty; ^'Sacr-^^ri moHn!^^ shouted 
the postilion, --^and we ratded on like an earth- 
quake. 

St. Jean de LuaS is a smoky little fishii^ 
town, situated on the low grounds at the mouth 
of the Nivdle, and a bridge connects it witfi the 
faubourg of Siboume, which stands on the op- 
posite bank of the river* I had no time, how- 
ever, to note the peculiarities of the place, for 
I was whirled out of it with the same speed and 
confusion with which I had been whirled in, and 
I can only recollect the sweep of the road across 
the Nivelle, — the church of Siboume by the 
Water's edge, — the narrow streets, — the smoky- 
looking houses with red window-shutters, and 
" a very ancient and fish-like smell." 

I passed by moonlight the Utde river Bidasoa, 
which forms the boundary between France and 
Spain ; and when the morning broke, found my- 
self far up among the mountains of San Salva- 
dor, the most westerly links of the great Pyr- 



THK JOUEIfET INTO 8PAIK. 171 

F 

eoean chain. The mountains around me were 
neither rugged nor precipitous^ but th^ rose one 
abo^e another in a long) majestic swoU, and the 
trace of the ploughshare was occasionally visible 
to their summits. They seemed entirely dea-* 
titute of forest-scenery ; and as the season of 
▼fetation had not yet commenced, their hi]^e 
outlines lay black, and barren, and desolate against 
the sky. But it was a glorious morning, and the 
sun rose up into a cloudless heaven, and poured 
a flood of gorgeous splendor over the mountain 
landscape, as if proud of the realm he shone 
upon. The scene wad enlivened by the dashii^ 
of a swollen mountam-brook, whose course we 
followed for miles down the valley, as it leaped 
onward to its journey's end, now breaking into 
a white cascade, and now foammg and chafing 
beneath a rustic bridge. Now and then we rode 
through a dilapidated town, with a group of idlers 
at every comer, wrapped in tattered brown cloaks, 
and poking their little paper cigars in the sun ; 
then would succeed a desolate tract of country, 
cheered only by the tinkle of a mule-bell, or the 
song of a muleteer ; then we would meet a sol* 
itary traveller mounted on horseback, and wrap- 
ped in the ample folds of his cloak, with a gun 



172 THE JOURNET INTO SPAIN. 

hanging at the pommel of his saddle. Occasion- 
ally, too, amoi^ the bleak, inhospitable hills, we 
passed a rude litde chapel, with a cluster of 
ruined cottages around it ; and whenever our 
carriage stopped at the relay, or loitered slowly 
up the hill-side, a crowd of children would gather 
around us, with little images and crucifixes for 
sale, curiously ornamented with ribands and little 
bits of tawdry finery. 

A day's journey from the firontier brought us 
to Vitoria, where the diligence stopped for the 
night. I spent the scanty remnant of daylight 
in rambling about the streets of the city, with 
no other guide but the whim of the moment. 
Now I plunged down a dark and narrow alley, 
now emerged into a wide street or a spacious 
market-place, and now aroused the drowsy ech- 
oes of a church or cloister with the sound of my 
intrudmg footsteps. But descriptions of churches 
and public squares are dull and tedious matters 
for those readers who are in search of amuse- 
ment, and not of instruction ; and if any one has 
accompanied me thus far on my fatiguing journey 
towards the Spanish capital, I will readily excuse 
him from the toil of an evening ramble through 
the streets of Vitoria. 



THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 173 

On the following monimg, we left the town, 
long before daybreak, and during our forenoon's 
journey the postilion drew up at an inn, on the 
southern slope of the Sierra de San Lorenzo, 
in the provmce of Old Castile. The house was 
an old, dilapidated tenement, built of rough stone, 
and coarsely plastered upon the outside. The 
tiled roof had long been the sport of wind and 
rain, the motley coat of plaster was broken and 
time-worn, and the whole building sadly out of 
repair ; though the fanciful mouldings under the 
eaves, and the curiously carved wood-work that 
supported the litde balcony over the principal 
entrance, spoke of better days gone by. The 
whole building reminded me of a dilapidated 
Spanish Don, down at the heel and out at el- 
bows, but with here and there a remnant of for- 
mer magnificence peeping through the loopholes 
of his tattered cloak. 

A wide gateway ushered the traveller into the 
interior of the building, and conducted him to a 
low-roofed apartment, paved with round stones, 
and servmg both as a court-yard and a stable. 
It seemed to be a neutral ground for man and 
beast, — a litde republic, where horse and rid- 
er had conmipn privileges, and mule and mu« 



174 THS JOUENEY INTO SPAIN. 

leteer lay cheek by jowl. In one corner a poor 
jackass was patiently devouring a bundle of musty 
straw, — in anodier, its master lay sound asleep, 
with his saddle-cloth for a pillow ; here a group 
of muleteers were quarrelling over a pack of dir* 
tj cards, — and there the village barber, with a 
self-important air, stood laving the alcalde's chin 
from the hehnet of Mambrino. On the wall, a 
little taper glimmered feebly before an image 
of St. Anthony ; directly opposite these a leath-* 
em wine-bottle bung by the neck from a pair 
of ox-homs ; and the pavement below was cov- 
ered with a curious medley of boxes, and bags, 
and cloaks, and pack-saddles, and sacks of grain, 
and skins of wine, and all kinds of lumber. 

A small door upon the right led us into the 
inn-kitchen. It was a room about ten feet square, 
and literally all chimney ; for the hearth was in 
the centre of the floor, and the walls sloped up- 
ward in the form of a long, narrow pjrramid, 
with an opening at the top for the escape of the 
smoke. Quite round this little romn ran a row 
of benches, upon which sat one or two grave 
personages smokmg paper cigars. Upon the 
hearth blazed a handful of fagots, whose bright 
flame danced merrily among a motley congrega- 



THE JOUENET INTO SPAIN* 175 

tion of pots and kettles, and a long wreath of 
smoke wound laaaly up through the huge tunnel 
of the roof ahove. . The walls were black with 
soot, and ornamented with sundry legs of bacon 
and festoons of sausages ; and as there were no 
wmdows in this dingy abode, the only light which 
cheered the darkness within came flickering from 
the fire upon the hearth, and the smoky sun* 
beams that peeped down the long->necked chimney. 
I had not been long seated by the fire, when 
the tinkling of mub'>bells, the clatter of hoofisK, 
and the hoarse voice of a muleteer in the outer 
Apartment, announced the arrival of new guests* 
A few moments afterward the kitchen-door open* 
ed, and a person entered, whose appearance 
strongly arrested my attention. It was a tall, 
athletic figure, with the majestic carriage of a 
grandee, and a dark, sunburnt countenance, that 
indicated an age of about fifty years. His dress 
was singular, and such as I had not before seen. 
He wore a round hat with wide, flapping brim, 
from beneath which his long, black hair hung 
in curls upon his shoulders ; a leather jerkin, 
with cloth sleeves, descended to his hips ; 
around hb wabt was closely buckled a leather 
belt, with a cartouch-box on one side ; a pair 



176 THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 

of loose trousers of black serge hung in ample 
folds to the knees, around which they were close- 
ly gathered by embroidered gaiters of blue silk ; 
and black broadcloth leggins, buttoned close to 
the calves, and strapped over a pair of brown 
leather shoes, completed the singular dress of the 
stranger. He doffed his hat as he entered, and, 
saluting the company with a ^^ Dios guarde a 
Ustedes, caballeros^^ (God guard you, Gentle- 
men), took a seat by the fire, and entered into 
conversation with those around him. 

As my curiosity was not a little excited by the 
peculiar dreds of this person, I mquired of a 
travelling companion, who sat at my elbow, who 
and what this new-comer was. From him I 
learned that be was a muleteer of the Maraga- 
teria, — a name given to a cluster of small towns 
which lie in the mountainous country between 
Astorga and yillafi*anca, m the western comer 
of the kingdom of Leon. 

"Nearly every province in Spain," said he, 
" has its peculiar costume, as you will see, when 
yo^ have advanced farther into our country. 
For instance, the Catalonians wear crimson caps, 
hanging down upon the shoulder like a sack ; 
wide pantaloons of green velvet, long enough 



THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 177 

in the waistband to cover the whole breast ; and 
a little strip of a jacket, made of the same ma- 
terial, and so short as to bring the pocket directly 
under the armpit. The Valencians, on the con- 
trary, go almost naked : a Imen shirt, white linen 
trousers, reaching no lower than the knees, and 
a pair of coarse leather sandals complete their 
simple garb ; it is only in mid-wbter that they 
indulge in the luxiu:y of a jacket. The most 
beautiful and expensive costume, however, is 
that of Andalusia : it consists of a velvet jacket, 
faced with rich and various-colored embroidery, 
and covered with tassels and silken cord ; a waist- 
coat of some gay color ; a silken handkerchief 
round the neck, and a crimson sash round the 
waist ; breeches that button down each side ; 
gaiters and shoes of white leather ; and a hand- 
kerchief of bright-colored silk wound about the 
head like a turban, and surmounted by a velvet 
cap or a little round hat, with a wide band, and 
an abundance of silken loops and tassels. The 
Old Castilians are more grave in their attire : they 
wear a leather breastplate instead of a jacket, 
breeches and leggins, and a montera cap. This 
fellow is a Maragato ; and in the villages of the 

12 



178 THE JOITRNET INTO SPAIN. 

Maragftteiit the costume Taries a little frcHii the 
rest of Leon and Castile." 

^' If he is indeed a Maragato," said I, jesting- 
Ij, ^^wfao knows but he may be a descendant 
o[ the muleteer who behaved sa nai^htily at 
Cacabelos, as related in the second chapter of the 
raracious history of Gil Bias de Santillana ? " 

" i Qwten sabe 9 " was the reply. ** Not- 
withstanding the pride which even the meanest 
Castilian feels in counting over a long line of 
good-for-nothing ancestors, the science of gene- 
alogy has become of late a very intricate study 
m Spain." 

Here our conversation was cut short by the 
mayoral of the diligence, who came to teB us 
that the mules were waiting ; and before many 
hours had elapsed, we were scrambling through 
the square of the ancient city of Burgos. On 
the morrow we crossed the river Duero and the 
Guadarrama Mountains, and early in the after- 
noon entered the "Her6ica Villa" of Madrid, 
by the Puerta de Fuencarral. 



SPAIN. 



Santiago y eiorra Eapana ! 

Spanish War-cry, 



It is a beaudfid morning in June ; — so beau* 
tiful, that I almost fancy myself in Spain. Tbe 
tessekted shadow of the honeysuckle lies mo* 
ttonless upon the floor, as if it were a figure io 
the carpet » and through the open window comm 
the fragrance of the wild*brier and the mock- 
orange, reminding me ot that soft, sunny clime 
where tbe very air is laden, like the bee, with 
sweetness, and the south wind 

^ Come* over gardemi, and tb« fiowera 
That kiflsod it are betrayed.'* 

The burds are carolfing in the trees, and th» 
shadows ffit across the window as they dart to 
and fro in the sunshine ; wtnle the murmur of the 
bee, the cooing of doves from the eaves, and 
the whirrbg of a little hunmiiing-birdi thai has 
its nest m the honeysuckle, send up a souad 



180 8PAIK. 

of joy to meet the rismg sun. How like the 
climate of the South! How like a summer 
mormng b Spam ! 

My recoUections of Spain are of the most 
lively and delightful kind. The character of the 
soil and of its inhabitants, — the stormy moun- 
tains and free spirits of the Nordi, — the prodigal 
luxuriance and gay voluptuousness of the South, 
— the history and traditions of the past, resem- 
bling more the fables of romance than the solemn 
chronicle of events, — a soft and yet majestic 
language that falls like martial music on the ear, 
and a literature rich in the attractive lore of po- 
etry and fiction, — these, but not these alone, 
are my reminiscences of Spain. With these I 
recall the thousand litde circumstances and en- 
jo}rments which always give a coloring to our 
recollections of the past; the clear sky, — the 
pure, balmy air, — the delicious fruits and flow- 
ers, — the wild-fig and the aloe, — the palm-tree 
and the olive by the wayside, — all, all that makes 
existence so joyous, and renders the sons and 
daughters of that cUme the children of impulse 
and sensation. 

As I write these words, a shade of sadness 
steals over me. When I think what that glorious 



SPAIN. 181 

land might be, and what it is, — what Nature 
intended it should be, and what man has made 
it, — my very heart sinks within me. My mind 
instinctively reverts from the degradation of the 
present to the glory of the past ; or, looking for- 
ward with strong misgivings, but with yet stronger 
hopes, interrogates the future. 

The burnished armor of the Cid stands in 
the archives of the royal museum of Madrid, 
and there, too, is seen the armor of Ferdinand 
and Isabel, of Guzman the Good and Gonzalo 
de C6rdova, and of other early champions of 
Spain ; but what hand shall now wield the sword 
of the Campeador, or lift up the banner of Leon 
and Castile i The ruins of Christian castle and 
Moorish alcazar still look forth from the hills of 
Spain ; but where, O, where b the spirit of free- 
dom that once fired the children of the Goth ? 
Where is the spirit of Bernardo del Carpio, 
and Perez de Vargas, and Alonzo de Aguilar ? 
Shall it for ever sleep ? Shall it never again 
beat high in the hearts of their degenerate sons ? 
Shall the descendants of Pelayo bow for ever 
beneath an iron yoke, ^' like cattle whose despair 
is dumb ? " 

The dust of the Cid lies mingling with the 



182 SPAIN. 

dust of Old Castile ; but bis spirit is not buried 
widi his ashes. It sleeps, but b not dead. The 
day will come, when the foot of the tyrant shall 
be shaken from the neck of Spain ; when a brare 
and generous people, though now ignorant, de- 
graded, and much abused, shall ^^ know their 
rights, and knowbg dare maintam." 

Of the national character of Spain I have 
brought away this impression ; that its prominent 
traits are a generous pride of birth, a supersti* 
tious devotion to the dogmas of the Church, and 
an innate dignity, which exhibits itself even ia 
die common and every-day employments of life. 
Castilian pride is proverbial. A beggar wraps his 
tattered cloak around him with all the dignity of 
a Roman senator ; and a muleteer bestrides his 
beast of burden with the air of a grandee. 

I have thought, too, that there was a tinge of 
sadness in the Spanish character. The national 
music of the land is remarkable for its melan- 
choly tone ; and at times the voice of a peasant, 
singing amid the silence and solitude of the moun- 
tains, falls upon the ear like a fimeral chant. 
Even a Spanish holyday wears a look of sad- 
ness, — a circumstance which some writers at- 
tribute to the cruel and -overbearing spirit of the 



spAiic. 183 

municipal kws. ^' On the greatest festivals," 
sajs JovellanoS) '' instead of that boisterous mer* 
riment and noise which should bespeak the joy 
of the inhabitants, there reigns throughout the 
streets and market-places a slothful inactivity, 
a gloomy stilbess, which cannot be remarked 
without mingled emotions of surprise and pity* 
The few persons who leave their houses seem 
to be driven from them by listlessness, and drag* 
ged as far as the threshold, the market, or the 
church'door ; there, muffled in their cloaks, lean- 
ing against a comer, seated on a bench, or loung* 
ing to and fro, without object, aim, or purpose, 
they pass their hours, their whole evenings, with- 
out mirth, recreation, or amusement. When you 
add to this picture the dreariness and filth of the 
villages, the poor and slovenly dress of the m* 
habitants, the gloominess and silence of their air, 
the laziness, the want of concert and union so 
striking everywhere, who but would be astonished, 
who but would be afflicted by so mournful a phe- 
nomenon ? This is not, indeed, the place to ex*- 
pose the errors which conspire to produce it ; but, 
whatever those errors may be, one point is clear, 
— that tjiey are all to be found in the laws ! " * 

* Informe dado d la Real Academia de Historia sobre 
Juegos, Espectaculos, y Diversiones Pjiblicas. * 



184 SPAIN. 

Of the same serious, sombre character is the 
favorite national sport, — the bull-fight. It is a 
barbarous amusement, but of all others the most 
excitbg, the most spirit-stirring ; and in Spain, 
the most popular. '^ If Rome lived content 
with bread and arms," says the author I have 
jus.t quoted, in a spirited little discourse entitled 
Pan y ToroSj ^' Madrid lives content with bread 
and bulls." 

Shall I describe a Spanish bull-fight ? No. 
It has been so often and so well described by 
other pens that mine shall not undertake it, though 
it is a tempting theme. I cannot, however, re« 
fiise myself the pleasure of quoting here a few 
lines from one of the old Spanish ballads upon 
this subject- It is entitled " The Bull-fight of 
Ganzul." The description of the bull, which 
is contained in the passage I here extract, is 
drawn with a master's hand. It is rather a par- 
aphrase than a translation, by Mr. Lockhart. 

*' From Gaadiana comes be not, be comes not from Xenil, 
From Gaadalarif of tbe plain, nor Barveg of the bill ; 
But wbere from out the forest burst Xarama's waters clear, 
Beneath tbe oak-trees was he nursed, this proud and state- 
ly steer. 



SPAIN* 185 

''Dark is his hide on either aide, bat the blood within doth 

boil, 
And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the 

turmoil. 
His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow ; 
But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the 

foe. 

^ Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and 

near. 
From out the broad and wrinkled skull like daggers they 

appear; 
His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old, knotted 

tree, 
Whereon the monster's shaggy mane, like billows curled, 

ye see. 

" His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black 

as night ; 
Like a strong flail he holds his tail, in fierceness of his 

might ; 
Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from fi>rth the 

rock, 
Harpado of Xarama standi, to bide the Alcayde's shock. 

^ Now stops the drum, — close, close they come ; thrice meet 

and thrice give back ; 
The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's breast 

of black ; 
The white foam of the charger on Harpado's front of dun ; — 
Once more advance upon his lance, — once more, thou 

fearless one ! *' 



186 SPAIN. ^ 

There are various circumstances closely con- 
nected with the train of thought I have here 
touched upon ; but I forbear to mention them, 
for fear of drawing out this introductory chapter 
to too great a length. Some of them will nat- 
urally find a place hereafter. Meanwhile let us 
turn the leaf to a new chapter, and to subjects 
of a livelier nature. 



A TAILOR'S DRAWER. 



Nedyb, threde, thymbell, shen, and all snche knackes. 

Tux Four Ps. 



A tailor's drawer, did you say ? 

Yes; a tailor's drawer. It is, indeed, rather 
a quaint rubric for a chapter in the pilgrim's brev- 
iary ; albeit it well befits the motley character 
of the following pages. It is a title which the 
Spaniards give to a desultory discourse, wherein 
various and discordant themes are touched upon, 
and which is crammed full of little shreds and 
patches of erudition ; and certainly it is not inap« 
propriate to a chapter whose contents are of every 
shape and hue, and ^^ do no more adhere and 
keep pace together than the hundreth psalm to 
the tune of Green Sleeves." 



188 A tailor's drawer. 



II. 

It is recorded in the Adventures of Gil Bias 
de Santillana, that, when this renowned personage 
first visited the city of Madrid, he took lodgings 
at the house of Mateo Melandez, in the Puerta 
del Sol. In choosing a place of ahode in the 
Spanish court, I followed, as far as practicable, 
this illustrious example ; but, as the kind-hearted 
Mateo had been long gathered to his fathers, I 
was content to take up my residence in the hired 
house of Valendn Gonzalez, at the foot of the 
Calle de la Montera. My apartments were in 
the third story, above the dust, though not be- 
yond the rattle, of the street ; and my balconies 
looked down into the Puerta del Sol, the heart 
of Madrid, through which circulates the livii^ 
current of its population at least once eveiy 
twenty-four hours. 

The Puerta del Sol is a public square, from 
which diverge the five principal streets of the 
metropolis. It is the great rendezvous of grave 
^d &7j — o^ priest and layman, — of gentle and 
simple, — the mart of business and of gossip, — 
the place where the creditor seeks his debtor, 
where the lawyer seeks his client, where the 



A tailor's drawer. 189 

stranger seeks amusement, where tBe friend seeks 
his friend, and the foe his foe ; where the idler 
seeks the sim in winter, and the shade in sum- 
mer, and the busybody seeks the daily news, and 
picks up the crumbs of gossip to fly away with 
them in Ms beak to the tertulia of Dona Faquita ! 
TeD me, ye who have sojourned in foreign 
lands, and know in what bubbl.es a traveDer's 
happiness consists, — is it not a blessing to have 
yoxu: window overlook a scene like this ? 

III. 

There, — take that chair upon the balcony, 
and let us look down upon the busy scene beneath 
us. What a continued roar the crowded thor- 
oughfare sends up ! Though three stories high, 
we can hardly hear the sound of our own voices ! 
The London cries are whispers, when compared 
with the cries of Madrid. 

See, — yonder, stalks a gigantic peasant of 
New Castile, with a montera cap, brown jacket 
and breeches, and coarse blue stockings, forcmg 
his way through the crowd, and leading a donkey 
laden with charcoal, whose sonorous bray is in 
unison with the harsh voice of his master. Close 
at his elbow goes a rosy-cheeked damsel, selling 



190 ▲ tailor's dbaweb. 

calico. She "is an Asturian from the mountains 
of Santander. How do you know ? By ba 
short yellow petticoats^ — her blue bodice, ^ her 
coral necklace and earrings. Throu^ the nud- 
die of the square struts a peasant of Old Casttle, 
with his yellow leather jerkin strapped about his 
waist) — his brown leggins and his Uue garters, — 
driving before Urn a flock of gabbling turkeysi 
and crjring, at the top oS. Ins voice, ^'Paoy pao^ 
pavitos^ pao9 ! " Next comes a Valenciaii, with 
his loose Imen trousers and sandal shoon, holdmg 
a huge sack of watermelons upon his shoulder 
with his left hand, and with tns right balancing 
high m air a specimen of his luscious fruit, upon 
which is perched a litde pjrramid of the erimsc»i 
pulp, while he tempts the passers-by with ^^ Ji 
cob, y ealando ; uf%a sandia pendo-O'O. Si t^o 
t8 iangre /" (By the slice, — come and try it, 
— watermelon for sale. This is the real blood!) 
His companion near him has a pair of scales 
thrown over his shoulder, and holds both arms 
full of muskmelons. He chimes into the har- 
monious ditty with ^^ Meh — meh-o-a-^-'imlon'' 
dtai ; aqui esta el az&ear ! '' (Melons, m^ns ; 
hiore is the real sugar!) Bdiind them creeps 
a slow-movii^ Asturian, in heavy wooden shoes. 



▲ tailor's drawer. 191 

crying watercresses ; and a peasant woman from 
the Guadarrama Mountains, with a montera cock- 
ed ap in front, and a bhie kerchief tied under her 
chin, swings in each hand a bunch of live chick- 
ens, -*- that hang by the claws, head downwards, 
fluttering, scratching, crowing with all their m^t, 
while the good woman tries to drown thehr rcHces 
in the discordant cry of ^^ ^ Qvten me compra toi 
gaUoy — tin par de gallinas ? " (Who buys a 
cock, — a pair of fowb ? ) That tall fellow in 
blue, with a pot ct flowers jxpan. his shoulder, is a 
wi%, bejTtmd all dispute. See how cunningly he 
cocks his eye up at us, and cries, ^^ Si ya ttwiera 
bakan ! " (If I only had a balcony !) 

What next ? A Manchego with a sack of o3 
under his arm ; a Gallego with a huge water-jar 
upon his shoulders ; an Italian pedler with images 
of saints and madonnas ; a razor-grinder with his 
wfaed ; a mender of pots and kettles, making 
music, as he goes, with a shovel and a frying-pum ; 
and, in fine, a noisy, patchwork, ever-changing 
crowd, whose discordant cries mingle with the 
rumbling of wheels, the clatter of hoofs, and the 
clang of church-bells ; and make the Puerta del 
Sol, at certain hours of the day, like a street in 
Babylon the Great. 



192 A tailor's drawer. 



IV. 



Chiton ! A beautiful girl, with flaxen hair, 
blue eyes, and the form of a fairy in a midsum- 
mer night's dream, has just stepped out on the 
balcony beneath us ! See how coquettishly she 
crosses her arms upon the balcony, thrusts her 
dainty little foot through the bars, and plays 
with her slipper! She is an Andalusian, from 
Malaga. Her brother is a bold dragoon, and 
wears a long sword ; so beware ! and ^^ let not 
the creaking of shoes and the rustling of silks 
betray thy poor heart to woman." Her mother 
is a vulgar woman, " fat and forty " ; eats gar- 
lic in her salad, and smokes cigars. But mind ! 
that is a secret ; I tell it to you in confidence. 

V. 

The following little ditty I translate from the 
Spanish. It is as delicate as a dew-drop. 

" She is a maid of artless grace, 
Gentle in form, and fair of face. 

" Tell me, thou ancient mariner, 
That sailest on the sea, 
If ship, or sail, or evening star 
Be half so fair as she ! 



▲ tailor's drawer. 193 

" Tell me, thou gallant cavalier. 
Whose shining arms I see, 
If steed, or sword, or battle-field 
Be half so fair as she ! 



'* Tell me, thou swain, that guarcl'st thy flock 
Beneath the shadowy tree, 
If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge 
Be half so &ir as she ! " 

VI. 

A MILLER has just passed by, covered with 
flour from head to foot, and perched upon the 
tip end of a little donkey, crying " ndirre hor^ 
rico!^^ and at every cry swinging a cudgel in 
his hand, and giving the ribs of the poor beast 
what in the vulgar dialect is called a cachipor^ 
razo. I could not help laughing, though I felt 
provoked with the fellow for his cruelty. The 
truth is, I have great regard for a jackass. His 
meekness, and patience, and long-suffering are 
very amiable qualities, and, considering his sit- 
uation, worthy of all praise. In Spain, a don- 
key plays as conspicuous a part as a priest or a 
village alcalde. There would be no getting along 
without him. And yet, who so beaten and 
abused as he i 

13 



194 A tailor's drawer. 

VII. 

Here comes a gay gallant, with white kid 
gloves, a quizzing-glass, a black cane, with a 
white ivojy pommel, and a little hat, cocked 
pertly on one side of his head. He is an ex- 
quisite fop, and a great lady's man. You will 
always find him on the Prado at sunset, when 
the crowd and dust are thickest, ogling through 
his glass, flourishing his cane, and hummbg be- 
tween his teeth some favorite air of tlie Semi- 
ramis, or the Barber of Seville. He is a great 
amateur, and patron of the Italian Opera, — 
beats time with his cane, — nods his head, and 
cries. Bravo ! — and fancies himself in love with 
the Prima Donna. The height of his ambition 
is to be thought the gay Lothario, — the gal- 
lant Don Cortejo of his little sphere. He is 
a poet withal, and daily besieges the heart of 
the cruel Dona Inez with sonnets and madri- 
gals. She turns a deaf ear to his song, and is 
inexorable : — 

** Mas que no sea mas piadosa 
A dos escudos en prosa, 
No puede ser." 



▲ tailor's drawer. 195 

VIII. 

What a contrast between this personage and 
the sallow, emaciated being who is now crossing 
the street! It is a barefooted Carmelite, — a 
monk of an austere order, — wasted by midnight 
vigils and long penance. Abstinence is written 
on that pale cheek, and the bowed head and 
downcast eye are in accordance with the meek 
profession of a mendicant brotherhood. 

What is this world to thee, thou man of pen- 
itence and prayer ? What hast thou to do with 
all this busy, turbulent scene about thee, — with 
all the noise, and gayety, and splendor of this 
thronged city ? Nothmg. The wide world gives 
thee nothing, save thy daily crust, thy crucifix, 
thy convent-cell, thy pallet of straw ! Pilgrim 
of heaven ! thou hast no home on earth. Thou 
art journeying onward to ^^ a house not made with 
hands " ; and, like the first apostles of thy faith, ' 
thou takest neither gold, nor silver, nor brass, 
nor scrip for thy journey. Thou hast shut thy 
heart to the endearments of earthly love, — thy 
shoulder beareth not the burden with thy fellow- 
man, — in all this vast crowd thou hast no friends, 
no hopes, no sympathies. Thou standest aloof 



196 A tailor's drawer. 

from man, — and art thou nearer God ? I know 
not. Thy motives, thy intentions, thy desires 
are registered in heaven. I am thy fellow-man, 
— and not thy judge. 

" Who is the greater ? " says the German 
moralist ; ^' the wise man who lifts himself above 
the storms of time, and from aloof looks down 
upon them, and yet takes no part therein, — or 
he who from the height of quiet and repose throws 
himself boldly into the battle-tumult of the world } 
Glorious is it, when the eagle through the beat- 
ing tempest flies into the bright blue heaven up- 
ward ; but far more glorious, when, poising in the 
blue sky over the black storm-abyss, he plunges 
downward to his aerie on the cliff, where cower 
his unfledged brood, and tremble." 

IX. 

Sultry grows the day, and breathless ! The 
lately crowded street is silent and deserted, — 
hardly a footfall, — hardly here and there a sol- 
itary figure stealing along m the narrow strip 
of shade beneath the eaves ! Silent, too, and 
deserted is the Puerta del Sol ; so silent, that 
even at this distance the splashing of its fountain 
is distinctly audible, — so deserted, that not a 



▲ tailor's drawer. 197 

living thing is visible there, save the outstretched 
and athletic form of a Galician water-carrier, who 
lies asleep upon the pavement in the cool shad- 
ow of the fountain ! There is not air enough 
to stir the leaves of the jasmine upon the bal- 
cony, or break the thin column of smoke that 
issues from the cigar of Don Diego, master of 
the noble Spanish tongue, y hombre de tnuchos 
dingolondangos. He sits bolt upright between 
the window and the door, with the collar of his 
snuff-colored frock thrown back upon his shoul- 
ders, and his toes turned out like a dancing- 
master, poring over the Diario de Madrid, to 
learn how high the thermometer rose yesterday, — 
what patron saint has a festival to-day, — and at 
what hour to-morrow the " Kmg of Spain, Je- 
rusalem, and the Canary Islands " will take his 
departure for the gardens of Aranjuez. 

You have a proverb in your language, Don 
Diego, which says,- 

** Despues de comer 
Ni un sobrescrito leer " ; — 

after dinner read not even the superscription of 
a letter. I shall obey, and indulge in the exqui- 
site luxury of a siesta. I confess that I love 



198 A tailor's draweh. 

tbis after-dinner nap. If I have a gift, a voca- 
tion for any thing, it is for sleeping ; and from 
mj heart I can say with honest Sancho, ^' Blessed 
be the man that first invented sleep ! " In a 
sultry clime, too, where the noontide heat un-> 
mans you, and the cool starry night seems made 
or any thing but slumber, I am willmg to barter 
an hour or two of intense daylight for an hour 
or two of tranquil, lovely, dewy night ! 
Therefore, Don Diego, hasta la vista ! 

It is evening ; the day is gone ; fast gather 
and deepen the shades of twilight ! In the words 
of a German allegory, ^' The babbling day has 
touched the hem of night's garment, and, weary 
and still, drops asleep in her bosom." 

The city awakens from its slumber. The con- 
vent-bells ring solemnly and slow. The streets 
are thronged again. Once more I hear the shrill 
cry, the rattling wheel, the murmur of the crowd. 
The blast of a trumpet sounds from the Puerta 
del Sol, — then the tap of a drum ; a mounted 
guard opens the way, — the crowd doff their 
hats, and the king sweeps by in a gilded coach 
drawn by six horses, and followed by a long train 
of uncouth, antiquated vehicles drawn by mules. 



A tailor's drawer. 199 

The living tide now sets towards the Prado, 
9nd the beautiful gardens of the Retiiro. Beau- 
tiful are they at this magic hour! Beautiful, 
with the almond-tree in blossom, with the broad 

green leaves of the sycamore and the chestnut, 

* 

with the fragrance of the orange and the lemon, 
with the beauty of a thousand flowers, with the 
soothing cabn and the dewy freshness of evening ! 

XI. 

I LOVE to linger on the Prado till the crowd is 
gone and the night far advanced. There musing 
and alone I sit, and listen to the lulling fall of 
waters in their marble fountains, and watch the 
moon as it rises over the gardens of the Retire, 
brighter than a northern sun. The beautiful 
scene lies half in shadow, half in light, — almost 
a fairy land. Occasionally the sound of a gui- 
tar, or a distant voice, breaks in upon my revery. 
Then the form, of a monk, from the neighbouring 
convent, sweeps by me like a shadow, and dis- 
appears in the gloom of the leafy avenues ; and 
far away from the streets of the city comes the 
voice of the watchman telling the midnight hour. 

Lovely art thou, O Night, beneath the skies 
of Spain ! D^, pantmg with heat, and laden 



200 A tailor's drawer. 

with a thousand cares, toils onward like a beast 
of burden ; but Night, cafan, silent, holy Night, 
is a ministering angel that cools with its dewy 
breath the toil-heated brow ; and, like the Ro- 
man sisterhood, stoops down to bathe the pil- 
grim's feet. How grateful is the starry twilight ! 
How grateful the gentle radiance of the moon ! 
How grateful the delicious coolness of ^^ the om- 
nipresent and deep-breathing air ! " Lovely art 
thou, O Night, beneath the skies of Spain ! 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 



I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter 

merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed, and sung 

lamentably. 

Wibter's Tale. 



How universal is the love of poetry ! Every 
nation has its popular songs, the offspring of a 
credulous simplicity and an unschooled fancy. 
The peasant of the North, as he sits by the even- 
ing fire, sings the traditionary ballad to his chil- 
dren, — 

'* Nor wants he gleeful tales, while round 
The nut-brown bowl doth trot." 

The peasant of the South, as he lies at noon in 
the shade of the sycamore, or sits by his door 
in the evening twilight, sings his amorous lay, and 
listlessly, 

" On hollow quills of oaten straw, 
He pipeth melody." 



202 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

The muleteer of Spain carols with the early lark, 
amid the stormy mountains of his native land. 
The vintager of Sicily has his evening hymn ; 
the fisherman of Naples his boat-song ; the gon- 
dolier of Venice his midni^t serenade. The 
goatherd of Switzerland and the Tyrol, — the 
Carpathian boor, — the Scotch Highlander, — the 
English ploughboy, singing as he drives his team 
afield, — peasant, — serf, — slave, — all, all have 
their ballads and traditionary songs. Music is the 
universal language of mankind, — poetry their 
universal pastime and delight. 

The ancient ballads of Spain hold a prominent 
rank in her literary history. Their number is 
truly astonishing, and may well startle the most 
enthusiastic lover of popular song. The Ro- 
mancero General "^ contains upwards of a thou- 
sand ; and though upon many of these may justly 
be bestowed the encomium which honest Izaak 
Walton pronounces upon the old English ballad 
of the Passionate Shepherd, — " old-fashioned 
poetry, but choicely good," — yet, as a whole, 
they are, perhaps, more remarkable for their 
number than for their beauty. Every great his- 

* Romancero General, en que se contiene todoa los Ro- 
mances que andan impresos. 4to. Madrid, 1604. 



APfCIEMT SPANISH BALLADS, 303 

toric event, every marvellous tradition, has its 
popular ballad. Don Roderick, Bernardo del 
Carpip, and the Cid Campeador are not more 
the heroes of ancient chronicle than of ancient 
song ; and the imagmary. champions of Christen- 
dom, the twelve peers of Charlemagne, have 
found a historian in the wandering ballad-singer 
no less authentic than the good Archbishop Tur- 
pin. 

Most of these ancient ballads had their origin 
durmg the dominion of the Moors in Spain. 
Many of them, doubtless, are nearly as old as 
the events they celebrate ; though in their present 
form the greater part belong to the fourteenth 
century. The language in which they are now 
preserved indicates ho higher antiquity ; but who 
shall say how long they had been handed down 
by tradition, ere they were taken from the lips 
of the wandering minstrel, and recorded in a 
more permanent form ? 

The seven centuries of the Moorish sover- 
eignty in Spain are the heroic ages of her his- 
tory and her poetry. What the warrior achieved 
with his sword the minstrel published in his song. 
The character of those ages is seen in the char- 
acter of their literature. History casts its shad- 



204 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

ow far into the land of song. Indeed, the most 
prominent characteristic of the ancient Spanish 
ballads is their warlike spirit. They shadow 
forth the majestic lineaments of the warlike ages ; 
and through every line breathes a high and pe- 
culiar tone of chivalrous feeling. It is not the 
piping sound of peace, but a blast, — a loud, 
long blast from the war-horn, — 



^ A tramp with a Btern breath, 
Which is cleped the tramp of death. 



»i 



And with this mingles the voice of lamentadon, — 
the requiem for the slain, with a melancholy 
sweetness : — 

Rio Verde, Rio Verde ! 

Many a corpse is bathed in thee, 
Both of Moors and eke of Christians, 

Slain with swords most craelly. 

And thy pure and crystal waters 

Dappled are with crimson gore ; 
For between the Moors and Christians 

Long has been the fight and sore. 

Dukes and counts fell bleeding near thee, 
Lords of high renown were slain, 

Perished many a brave hidalgo 
Of the noblemen of Spain. 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 205 

Another prominent characteristic of these an- 
cient ballads is their energetic and beautiful sim- 
plicity. A great historic event is described in 
the fewest possible words ; there is no ornament, 
no artifice. The poet's intention was to narrate, 
not to embellish. It is truly wonderful to ob- 
serve what force, and beauty, and dramatic pow- 
er are given to the old romances by this single 
circumstance. When Bernardo del Carpio leads 
forth his valiant Leonese against the hosts of 
Charlemagne, he animates their courage by allud- 
ing to their battles with the Moors, and exclaims, 
^' Shall the lions that have bathed their paws in 
Libyan gore now crouch before the Frank ? " 
When he enters the palace of the treacherous 
Alfonso, to upbraid him for a broken promise, 
and the king orders him to be arrested for con- 
tumely, he lays his hand upon his sword and 
cries, ^^ Let no one stir ! I am Bernardo ; and 
my sword is not subject even to kings ! " When 
the Count Alarcos prepares to put to death his 
own wife at the king's command, she submits 
patiently to her fate, asks time to say a prayer, 
and then exclaims, ^^ Now bring me my infant 
boy, that I may give him suck, as my last fare- 
well ! " Is there in Homer an incident more 
touching, or more true to nature ? 



206 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

The ancient Spanish ballads naturally divide 
themselves into three classes : — the Historic, 
the Romantic, and the Moorish. It must be 
confessed, however, that the line of demarkation 
between these three classes is not well defined ; 
for many of the Moorish ballads are historic, 
and many others occupy a kind of debatable 
ground between the historic and the romantic. 
I have adopted this classification for the sake of 
its convenience, and shall now make a few hasty 
observations upon each class, and illustrate my 
remarks by specimens of the ballads. 

The historic baUads are those which recount 
the noble deeds of the early heroes of Spain : 
of Bernardo del Carpio, the Cid, Martin Pelaez, 
Garcia Perez de Vargas, Alonso de Aguilar, 
and many others whose names stand conspicuous 
in Spanish history. Indeed, these baUads may 
themselves be regarded in the liglit of historic 
documents ; ,they are portraits of long-departed 
ages, and if at times their features are exaggerated 
and colored with too bold a contrast of light and 
shade, yet the free and spirited touches of a 
master's hand are recognized in all. They are 
msdnct, too, with the spirit of Castilian pride, 
with the high and dauntless spirit of liberty that 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 307 

burned so fiercely of old in the heart of the 
brave hidalgo. Take, for example, the ballad 
of the Five Farthings. King Alfonso the Eighth, 
having exhausted his treasury m war, wishes to 
lay a tax of five farthmgs upon each of the Cas- 
tilian hidalgos, in order to defray the expenses 
of a journey from Burgos to Cuenca. This 
proposition of the king was met with disdain by 
the noblemen who had been assembled on the 
occasion : — 

Don Nuno, Count of Lara, 

In anger and in pride, 
Forgot all reverence for the king, 

And thus in wrath replied : — 

* Our noble ancestors,' quoth he, 

* Ne*er such a tribute paid ; 
Nor shall the king receive of us 
What they have once gainsaid. 

* The base-born soul who deems it just 

May here with thee remain ; 
But follow me, ye cavaliers. 
Ye noblemen of Spain.* 

Forth followed they the noble count, 
They marched to Glera's plain ; 

Out of three thousand gallant knights 
Did only three remain. 



• 



208 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS, 

They tied the tribute to their spears, 

They raised it in the air, 
And they sent to tell their lord the king 

That his tax was ready there. 

* He may send and take by force,' said they, 

* This paltry sum of gold ; 
But the goodly gift of liberty 

Cannot be bought and sold.' 

The same gallant spirit breathes through all 
the historic ballads ; but, perhaps, most fervently 
in those which relate to Bernardo del Carpio. 
How spirit-stirring are all the speeches which 
the ballad-writers have put into the mouth of this 
valiant hero ! " Ours is the blood of the Goth,'' 
says he to Kmg Alfonso ; " sweet to us is lib- 
erty, and bondage odious ! " — " The king may 
give his castles to the Frank, but not his vassals ; 
for kings themselves hold no dominion over the 
free will ! " He and his followers would rather 
die freemen than hVe slaves ! If these are the 
common watchwords of liberty at the present 
day, they were no less so among the high-bom 
and high-souled Spaniards of the eighth century. 

One of the finest of the historic ballads is that 
which describes Bernardo's march to, Ronces- 
valles. He sallies forth '^ with three thousand 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. Sitif 

Leonese and more,'' to protect the glory and 
freedom of his native land. From all sides, the 
peasantry of the land flock to the hero's stand- 
ard: — 

The peasant leaves his plough afield, 

The reaper leaves his hook, 
And from his hand the shepherd-boy 

Lets fall the pastoral crook. 

The joung set up a shout of joj. 

The old forget their jears, 
The feeble man grows stout of heart, 

No more the craven fean. 

All rush to Bernard's standard, 

And on liberty they call ; 
They cannot brook to wear the yoke. 

When threatened by the Gaul. 

* Free were we born,' 't is thus they cry, 

< And willingly pay we 
The duty that we owe our king. 

By the divine decree. 

*■ But God forbid that we obey 

The laws of foreign knaves. 
Tarnish the glory of our sires. 

And make our children slaves. 

*■ Our hearts have not so craven grown. 

So bloodless all our veins. 
So vigorless our brawny arms. 

As to submit to chains. 

14 



310 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

* Has the audacious Frank, ibnooth, 

Subdued these seas and lauds ? 
Shall he a bloodless victory have ? 
No ; not while we have hands. 

* He shall learn that the gallant Leonese 

Can bravely fight and fall ; 
But that they know not how to yield ; 
They are Castilians all. 

*Was it for this the Roman power 

Of old was made to yield 
Unto Numantia's valiant hosts, 

On many a bloody field ? 

* Shall the bold lions, that have bathed 

Their paws in Libyan gore. 
Crouch basely to a feebler foe, 
And dare the strife no more ? 

' Let the false king sell town and tower. 

Bat not his vassals firee ; 
For to sabdue the free-born soul 

No royal power hath he ! ' 

These short specimens will suffice to show the 
spirit of the old heroic ballads of Spain ; tlie 
Romances del Cid, and those that rehearse the 
gallant achievements of many other champions, 
brave and stalwart knights of old, I must leave 
unnoticed, and pass to another field of chivalry 
and song. 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 211 

The next class of the ancient Spanish ballads 
is the Romantic, including those which relate to 
the Twelve Peers of Charlemagne and other im- 
aginary heroes of the days of chivalry. There is 
an exaggeration in the prowess of these heroes of 
romance which is in accordance with the warmth 
of a Spanish imagination ; and the ballads which 
celebrate their achievements still go from mouth 
to mouth among the peasantry of Spain, and are 
hawked about the streets by the blind ballad- 
monger. 

Among the romantic ballads, those of the 
Twelve Peers stand preeminent ; not so much 
for their poetic merit as for the fame of their 
heroes. In them are sung the valiant knights 
whose history is written more at large in the prose 
romances of chivalry, — Orlando, and Oliver, and 
Montesmos, and Durandarte, and the Marques 
de Mantua, and the other paladins, '^ que en una 
mesa comian pan,^^ These ballads are of dif- 
ferent length and various degrees of merit. Of 
some a few lines only remain ; they are evidently 
fragments of larger works ; while others^ on the 
contrary, aspire to the length and dignity of epic 
poems ; — witness the ballads of the Conde de 
Irlos and the Marques de Mantua, each of which 



313 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

consists of nearly a thousand long and sonorous 
hexameters. 

Among these ballads of the Twelve Peers 
there are many of great beauty ; others possess 
little merit, and are wanting in vigor and concise- 
ness. From the structure of the versi6cation, I 
should rank them among the oldest of the Span- 
ish ballads. They are all monrhythmic, with fuU 
consonant rhymes. 

To the romantic ballads belong also a great 
number which recount the deeds of less celebrat'* 
ed heroes ; but among them all none is so curious 
as that of Virgil. Like the old French romance- 
writers of the Middle Ages, the early Spanish po- 
ets introduce the Mantuan bard as a knight of 
chivalry. The ballad informs us that a certain 
king kept him imprisoned seven years, for what 
old Brantome would call outrecuydance with a 
certain Dona Isabel. But being at mass on Sun- 
day, the recollection of Virgil comes suddenly 
into his mmd, when he ought to be attending to 
tlie priest ; and, turmng to his knights, he asks 
them what has become of Virgil* One of them 
replies, ^' Your Highness has him imprisoned in 
your dungeons " ; to which the king makes an- 
swer with the greatest coolness, by telling them 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 313 

that the dinner is waiting, and that after they have 
dmed they will pay Virgil a visit m his prison*. 
Then up and spake the queen like a true heroine ; 
quoth she, '^ I will not dine without him " ; and 
straightway they all repaired to the prison, wher« 
they find the incarcerated knight engaged in the 
pleasant pastime of combing his hair and arrang* 
in^ his beard. He tells the king very coolly that 
on that very day he has been a prisoner seven 
years , to this the king replies, '^ Hush, hush, 
Virgil ; it takes three more to make ten." 
*^ Sire," says Virgil, with the same philosophical 
eomposiire, '^ if your Highness so ordains, I will 
pass my whole life here." '^ As a reward for 
your patience, you shall dine with me to-day," 
says the king. " My coat is torn," says Virgil ; 
*^ I am not in trun to make a leg." But this 
difficulty is removed by the promise of a new suit 
from the king ; and tiiey go to dinner. Virgil 
delights both knights and damsels, but most of all 
Dona Isabel. The archbishop is called in ; they 
are married forthwith, and the ballad closes like 
a scene in some old play : — '^ He takes her by 
the hand, and leads her to the garden." 

Such is this curious ballad. 

I now turn to one of the most beautifiil of 



214 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

these ancient Spanish poems ; — it is the Ro- 
mance del Conde Alarcos ; a ballad full of b- 
terest and of touching pathos. The stoiy is 
briefly this. The Count Alarcos, after being 
secretly betrothed to the Infanta Solisa, forsakes 
her and weds another lady. Many years after- 
ward, the princess, sitting alone, as she was wont, 
and bemoaning her forsaken lot, resolves to tell the 
cause of her secret sorrow to the king her father ; 
and, after confessing her clandestine love for Count 
Alarcos, demands the death of the countess, to 
heal her wounded honor. Her story awakens the 
wrath of the king ; he acknowledges the justness 
of her demand, seeks an interview with the count, 
and sets the case before him in so strong a light, 
that finally he wrings from him a promise to put 
his wife to death with his own hand. The count 
returns homeward a grief-stricken man, weeping 
the sad destiny of his wife, and saying within 
himself, " How shall I look upon her smile of 
joy, when she comes forth to meet me ? '* The 
countess welcomes his return with affectionate 
tenderness ; but he is heavy at heart, and discon- 
solate. He sits down to supper with his children 
around him, but the food is untasted ; he hides 
his (ace in his hands, and weeps. At length thejr 



AI9CIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 215 

retire to their chamber. In the language of Mr. 
Lockhart's translation, — 

** They came together to the bower, where they were used to 

rest,— 
None with them but the Httle babe that was upon the breast : 
The count had barred the chamber-doors, — they ne'er 

were barred till then : 

* Unhappy lady,' he began, * and I most lost of men ! ' 

** * Now speak not so, my noble lord, my husband, and my life I 
Unhappy never can she be that is Alarcos' wife ! ' 

* Alas ! unhappy lady, *t is but little that you know ; 

For in that very word you 've said is gathered all your woe. 

** * Long since I loved a lady, — long since I oaths did plight 
To be that lady's husband, to love her day and night ; 
Her father is our lord the king, ^-r to him the thing is known ; 
And now — that I the news should bring ! — she claims me 
for her own. 

** * Alas ! my love, alas ! my life, the right is on their side ; 
Ere I had seen your face, sweet wife, she was betrothed 

my bride ; 
But — O, that I should speak the word ! — since in her 

place you lie. 
It is the bidding of our lord that you this night must die.* 

" ' Are these the wages of my love, so lowly and so leal ? 
O, kill me not, thou noble Count, when at thy foot I kneel ! 
But send me to my father's house, where once I dwelt in 

glee ; 
There will I live a lone, chaste life, and rear my children 

three.' 



316 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS, 

** * It may not be,— mine oath ia atrong, — ere dawo of day 
you die.' 

* O, well *t ia aeen how all alone upon the earth am I ! — 
My fiithar ia an old, frail man ; my mother 'a in her pave ; 
And dead ia atout Don Garci, — alaa ! my brother brave ! 

** ^ 'T waa at thia coward king'a command they slew my broth- 
er dear, 
And now I *m helploM in the land ! — it ia not death I fear. 
But loth, loth am I to depart, and leave my children bo ; — 
Now let me lay them to my heart, and kiaa them, ere I go.' 

^ * Kiaa him that liea upon thy breaat,-— the reat thou mayat 
not aee.' 

* I fiun would aay an Ave.' * Then say it speedily.* 

She knelt her down upon her knee, •— ' O Lord, behold 

my case ! 
Judge not my deeda, bat look on me in pity and great graee ! ' 

** When she had made her orison, up firom her knees she 
rose: — 

* Be kind, Alarcoa, to our babes, and pray ibr my repose ; 
And now give me my boy once more, upon my breaat to 

hold. 
That he may drink one farewell drink before my breaat be 
cold.' 

'^'Why would you waken the poor child? you see he ia 

asleep; 
Prepare, dear wife, there is no time, the dawn begins to 

peep.' 
' Now, hear me, Count Alarcos ! I give thee pardon free ; 
I pardon thee for the love's sake wherewith I 've loved 

thee] — 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 317 

^ * Bat tbey have not my pardon, — the king and his proncl 

daughter ; 
The curse of God be on them, for this unchristian slaughter ! 
I charge them with my dying breath, ere thirty days be gone, 
To meet me in the realm of death, and at God's awfhl 

throne ! * " 

The count then strangles her with a scarf, and 
the ballad concludes with the fulfilment of the 
dying lady's prayer, in the death of the king and 
the Infanta within twenty days of her own. 

Few, I think, will be disposed to question the 
beauty of this ancient ballad, though the refined 
and cultivated taste of many may revolt from the 
seemingly unnatural incident upon which it is 
founded. It must be recollected that this is a 
scene taken fi*om a barbarous age, when the life 
of even the most cherished and beloved was held 
of little value in comparison with a chivalrous but 
false and exaggerated point of honor. It must be 
borne in mind also, that, notwithstanding the boast- 
ed liberty of the Castilian hidalgos, and their fre- 
quent rebellions agamst the crown, a deep rever- 
ence for the divme right of kings, and a conse- 
quent disposition to obey the mandates of the 
throne, at almost any sacrifice, has always been 
one of the prominent traits of the Spanish char- 
acter. When taken in connection with these cir- 



318 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

cumstances, the story of this old ballad ceases to 
be SO grossly improbable as it seems at first sight ; 
and, indeed, becomes an illustration of pational 
character. In all probability, the story of the 
Conde Alarcos had some foundation m fact.* 

The third class of the ancient Spanish ballad^ 
is the Moorish. Here we enter a new world, 
more gorgeous and more dazzling than that of 
Gothic chronicle and tradition. The stem spirits 
of Bernardo, the Cid, and Mudarra have passed 
away ; the mail-clad forms of Guarinos, Orlan- 
do, and Durandarte are not here ; the scene is 
changed ; it is the bridal of Andalla ; the bull- 
fight of Ganzul. The sunshine of Andalusia 
glances upon the marble halls of Granada, and 
green are the banks of the Xenil and the Darro. 
A band of Moorish knights gayly arrayed in gam- 
besons of crimson silk, with Scarfs of blue and 
jewelled tahalies, sweep like the wind through the 
square of Vivarambla. They ride to the Tour- 
nament of Reeds ; the Moorish maiden leans 
from the balcony ; bright eyes glisten from many 

* This exaggerated reverence for the person and preroga- 
tives of the king has furnished the groundwork of two of the 
best dramas in the Spanish language ', La Estrella de SevUla^ 
by Lope de Vega, and Del Rey abajo Ifingvnoy by Francisco 
de Rojas. 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 219 

a lattice ; and the victorious knight receives the 
prize of valor from the hand of her \^ose beauty 
is like the star-lit night. These are the Xarifas, 
the Celindas, and Lindaraxas, — the Andallas, 
Ganzules, and Abenzaydes of Moorish song. 

Then comes the sound of the silver clarion, and 
the roll of the Moorish atabal, down from the 
snowy pass of the Sierra Nevada and across the 
gardens of the Vega. Alhama has fallen ! woe is 
me, Alhama ! The Christian is at the* gates of 
Granada ; the banner of the cross floats from the 
towers of the Alhambra ! And these, too, are 
themes for the minstrel, — themes sung alike by 
Moor and Spaniard. 

Among the Moorish ballads are included not 
only those which were originally composed in 
Arabic, but all that relate to the manners, cus- 
toms, and history of the Moors in Spain. In 
most of them the influence of an Oriental taste is 
clearly visible ; their spirit is more refined and ef- 
feminate than that of the historic and romantic 
ballads, in which no trace of such an influence is 
perceptible. The spirit of the Cid is stem, un- 
bending, steel-clad ; his hand grasps his sword 
Tizona ; his heel wounds the flank of his steed 
Babieca. 



330 AlfCIENT SPAIVI8H BALLADS, 

** La mano aprieta A TizoiMi 
Y el talon fiere A Babieca." 

But the spirit of Arbolan the Moor, though reso- 
lute in camps, is efieminatein cqurts ; he is a 
diamond among scymitars, yet graceful in the 
dance; — 

** Diamante entre Ids alfanges, 
Gracioeo en baylar las zambraa.** 

The ancient ballads are stamped with the charac* 
ter of dieir heroes. Abundant illustrations of this 
could be given, but it is not necessary. 

Among die most spirited of the Moorish ballads 
are those which are interwoven in the History of 
the Civil Wars of Granada. The following, en- 
tided ^^ A very mournful Ballad on the Siege and 
Conquest of Alhama," is very beautiful ; and such 
was the effect it produced upon the Moors, that it 
was forbidden, on pain of death, to sing it within 
the walls of Granada. The translation, which is 
executed with great skill and fidelity, is from the 
pen of Lord Byron. 

** The Moorish king rides up and down, 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on be goes. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 



4 

ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 221 

'* Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama's city fell ', 
In the fire the icroU he threw. 
And the messenger he slew. 
' Woe is me, Alhama ! 

4 

** He quits his mulei and mounts his homs, 
And through thestreet directs his course ', 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Aibambn^ spurring in. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

'* When the Alhambra's walls he gained, 
On the moment he ordained 
That the trumpet straight should souttd 
With the silver clarion round. 
Woe is me,- Alhama ! 

" And when the hollow drums of fnt 
Beat the loud alarm alar. 
That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain, >«*• 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

" Then the Moors, by this aware 
That bloody Mars recalled them there. 
One by one, and two by two, 
To a mighty squadron grew. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! .* 

^ Out then spake an aged Mocv 
In these words the king bbfbre : •*— 
* Wherefore call on us, O king f 
What may mean this gathering ? ' 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 



222 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

'* * Friends ! ye faaye, alas ! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow ; 
That the Christians, stern and bold, 
Hare obtained Albania's hold.' 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

** Oat then spake old Alfaqui, 
With his beard so white to see : — 
* Good king, thou art justly served ; 
Good king, this thou ha^t deserved. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

^ * By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; 
And strangers were received by thee 
Of C6rdova the chivalry. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

^ * And for this, O king ! is sent 
On thee a double chastisement ; 
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm. 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 
Woe is me, Alhama .' 

" ' He who holds no laws in awe. 
He muM perish by the law ; 
And Granada must be won, 
And thyself with her undone.' 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

** Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes ; 
The monarch's wrath began to rise. 
Because he answered, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 223 

" * There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings ! ' 
Thus, snorting with his c holer, said 
The Moorish king, and doomed him dead. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! " 

Such are the ancient ballads of Spain ; poems 
which, like the Gothic cathedrals of the Middle 
Ages, have outlived, the names of their builders. 
They are the handiwork of wandering, homeless 
minstrels, who for their daily bread thus "built 
the lofty rhyme " ; and whose names, like their 
dust and ashes, have long, long been wrapped in 
a shroud. " These poets," says an anonymous 
writer, " have left behind them no trace to which 
the imagination can attach itself ; they have ^ died 
and made no sign.' We pass from the infancy 
of Spanish poetry to the age of Charles, through 
a long vista of monuments without inscriptions, as 
the traveller approaches the noise and bustle of 
modem Rome through the lines of silent and un- 
known tombs that border the Appian Way." 

Before closing this essay, I must allude to the 
unfavorable opinion which the learned Dr. South- 
ey has expressed concerning the merit of these 
old Spanish ballads. In his preface to the Chron- 
icle of the Cid, he says, — *' The heroic ballads of 



324 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

« 

the Spaniards have been overrated in tbis country ; 
thej are infinitely and every way inferior to our 
own ; there are some spirited ones in the Guerras 
Civiles de Granada, from which the rest have 
been estimated ; but, excepting these, I know none 
of any value among the many hundreds which I 
have perused." On this field I am willing to do 
battle, thou^ it be with a veteran knight who 
bears enchanted arms, and whose sword, like that 
of Martin Antolinez, ^^ illumines all the field." 
That the old Spanish ballads may have been over- 
rated, and that as a whole they are inferior to the 
English, I concede ; that many of the hundred 
ballads of the Cid are wanting m interest, and that 
many of those of the Twelve Peers of France 
are languid, and drawn out beyond the patience 
of the most patient reader, I concede ; I willingly 
confess, also, that among them all I have found 
none that can rival in graphic power the short but 
wonderful ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, wherein 
the mariner sees "the new moon with the old 
moon in her arm," or the' more modem one of the 
Battle of Agmcourt, by Michael Dra3rton, begin- 
nbg,— 

^ Fair itood the wind for Frtnoe, 
As we «ur sails advance, 
Nor now to prove our chance 
Longer will tarry ; 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 225 



• 



But putting to the main, 
At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train, 
Landed King Harry." 

All this I read3y concede ; but that the old Span- 
ish ballads are infinitely and every way inferior to 
the English, and that among them all there are none 
of any value, save a few which celebrate the civil 
wars of Granada, — this I deny. The March 
of Bernardo del Carpio is hardly inferior to Chevy 
Chase ; and the ballad of the Conde Alarcos, in 
simpUcity and pathos, has no peer in all English 
balladry, — it is superior to Edem o' Gordon. 

But a truce to criticism. Already, methinks, I 
hear the voice of a drowsy and prosaic herald 
proclainung, in the language of Don Quixote to 
the puppet-player, " Make an end, Master Peter ; 
for it grows toward supper-time, and I have some 
symptoms of hunger upon me." 



15 



THE 



VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 



When the lawyer is swallowed up with business, and the 
statesman is preventing or contriving plots, then we sit on 
cowslip banks, hear the birds sing, and possess ourselves in 
as much quietness as these silent silver streams we now see 
glide so quietly by us. 

IZAAK WaLTOIT. 



In that delicious season when the C07 and ca- 
pricious maidenhood of spring is swelling into the 
warmer, riper, and more voluptuous womanhood 
of summer, I left Madrid for the village of El 
Pardillo. I had already seen enough of the vil- 
lages of the North of Spain to know that for the 
most part they have few charms to entice one 
from the city ; but I was curious to see the peas- 
antry of the land in their native homes, — to see 
how far the shepherds of Castile resemble those 
who sigh and sing in the pastoral romances of 
Montemayor and Gaspar Gil Polo. 

I love the city and its busy hum ; I love that 
glad excitement of the crowd which niakes the 



THE TILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 227 

puise beat quick, the freedom from restraint, the 
absence of those cm'ious eyes and idle tongues 
which persecute one* in villages and provincial 
towns. I love the country, too, in its season ; 
and there is no scene over which my eye roves 
with more delight than the face of a summer 
landscape dimpled with soft sunny hollows, and 
smiling in all the freshness and luxuriance of 
June. There is no book in which I read sweet- 
er lessons of virtue, or find the beauty of a quiet 
life more legibly recorded. My heart drinks in 
the tranquillity of the scene ; and I never hear 
the sweet warble of a bird from its native wood, 
without a silent wish that such a cheerful voice 
and peaceful shade were mine. There is a beau- 
tiful moral feeling connected with every thing in 
rural life, which is not dreamed of in the phi- 
losophy of the city ; the voice of the brook and 
the language of the winds and woods are no po- 
etic fiction. What an impressive lesson is there 
in the opening bud of spring ! what an eloquent 
homily in the fall of the autumnal leaf! How 
well does the song of a passing bird represent 
the glad but transitory days of youth ! and in 
the hollow tree and hooting owl what a melan- 
choly image of the decay and imbecility of old 



228 THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 

age ! In the beautiful language of an English 
poet,— ^ 

" Your yoicelen lips, O flowers, are living preachers, 
Each cop a pulpit, every leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers. 
From loneliest nook. 

** *Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingetfa, 
And tolls its perfume on the passing air. 
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer ; 

'* Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
But to that fane most catholic and solemn 
Which God hath planned ; 

**• To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply, — 
Its choir the winds and waves, — its organ thunder, — 
Its dome the sky. 

** There, amid solitude and shade, I wander 
Through the green aisles, and, stretched upon the sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God." 

But the traveller who journeys through the 
northern provinces of Spain will look in vain 
for the charms of rural scenery in the villages 



THE TILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 229 

be passes. Instead of trim cottages, and gar- 
dens, and the grateful shade of trees, he will 
see a cluster of stone hovels roofed' with red 
tiles and basking in the hot sun, without a single 
tree to lend him shade or shelter ; and instead 
of green meadows and woodlands vocal with the 
song of birds, he will find bleak and rugged 
mountains, and vast extended plains, that stretch 
away beyond his ken. 

It was my good fortune, however, to find, not 
many leagues from the metropolis, a village which 
could boast the shadow of a few trees. El Par- 
dillo is situated on the southern slope of the 
Guadarrama Mountains, just where the last brok- 
en spurs of the sierra stretch forward into the 
vast table-land of New Castile. The village 
itself, like most other Castilian villages, is only 
a cluster of weather-stained and dilapidated hous- 
es, iiuddled together without beauty or regular- 
ity ; but the scenery around it is picturesque, — 
a mingling of hill and dale, sprinkled with patch- 
es of cultivated land and clumps of forest-trees ; 
and in the background the blue, vapory outline of 
the Guadarrama Mountains melting into the sky. 

In this quiet place I sojourned for a season, 
accompanied by the publican Don Valentin and 



2S0 THE TILLAGE OW EL PAEDILLO. 

his fair daughter Florencia. We took up our 
abode in the cottage of a peasant named Lucas, 
an honest tiller of the soil, sinaple and good** 
natured; or, in the more emphatic language of 
Don Valentin, ^^un hombre muy infelizj y tin 
malieia ninguna.^^ Not so his wife Martina ; 
she was a Tartar, and so mettlesome withal, that 
poor Lucas skulked dc^edly about his own 
premises, with his head down and his tail be« 
tween his legs. 

In this litde village my occupations were few 
and simple. My morning's walk was to the 
Cross of Espalmado, a large wooden crucifix 
in the fields ; die day was passed with books, 
or with any idle companion I was lucky enou^ 
to catch by the button, and bribe with a cigar 
into a long story, or a litde village gossip ; and 
I whiled away the evening in peeping round 
among the cottagers, studying the beautiful land- 
scape that spread before me, and watching the 
occasional gathering of a storm about the blue 
peaks of the Guadarrama Mountains. My fa* 
vorite haunt was a secluded spot in a little wood* 
land valley, through which a crystal brook ran 
brawling along its pebbly channel. There, stretch- 
ed in the shadow of a tree, I often passed, the 



THE TILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 231 

hours of noontide heat, now reading the ma^c 
numbers of Garcilaso, and anon listening to the 
song of the nightingale overhead ; or watching 
the toil of a patient ant, as he rolled his stone, 
like Sisyphus, up-hill, or the flight of a bee dart- 
ing from flower to flow^, and ^^ hiding his mur^ 
murs in the rose." 

Blame me not, thou studious nioralist, — blame 
me not unheard for this idle dreaming ; such mo- 
ments are not wholly thrown away. In the lan- 
guage of Goethe, '^ I lie down m the grass near 
a falling brook, and close to the earth a thou- 
sand varieties of grasses become perceptible. 
When I listen to the hum of the little world 
between the stubble, and see the countless in- 
describable forms of ipsects, I feel the presence 
of the Almighty who has created us, — the 
breath of the All-benevolent who supports us in 
perpetual enjoyment." 

The village church, too, was a spot around 
which 1 occasionally lingered of an evenmg, when 
m pensive or melancholy mood. And here, gen- 
tle reader, thy ima^nation will straightway con- 
jure up a scene of ideal beauty, — a village church 
with decent white-washed walls, and modest spire 
just peeping forth from a ekimp of trees ! No ; 



332 THE TILLAGE OW EL PARDILLO. 

I will not deceive thee; — the church of £1 Par- 
dillo resembles not this picture of thjr well tutored 
fancy. It is a gloomy little edifice, standii^ 
upon the outskirts of the yiilage, and built of 
dark and unhewn stone, with a spire like a sugar- 
.loaf. There is no grass-plot in front, but a little 
esplanade beaten hard by the footsteps of the 
church-going peasantry. The tombstone of one 
of the patriarchs of the village serves as a door- 
step, and a single solitary tree throws its friendly 
shade upon the portals of the little sanctuary. 

One evening, as I loitered around this spot, 
the sound of an organ and the chant of youth- 
ful voices from within struck my ear ; the church- 
door was ajar, and I entered. There stood the 
priest, surrounded by a group of children, who 
were singing a hymn to the Virgin : — 



'* Aye, Regina coBlorum, 
Aye, Domina angelorum. 



tf 



There is somethmg exceedingly thrilling in the 
voices of children singing. Though their music 
be unskilful, yet it finds its way to the heart with 
wonderful celerity. Voices of cherubs are they, 
for they breathe of paradise ; clear, liquid tones, 
that flow from pure lips and innocent hearts, like 



THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 233 

the sweetest notes of a flute, or the falling of 
water from a fountain ! When the chant was 
finished, the priest opened a little book which 
he held in his hand, and began, with a voice as 
solemn as a funeral bell, to question this class 
of roguish little catechumens, whom he was in- 
itiating into the mysterious doctrmes of the moth- 
er church. Some of the questions and answers 
were so curious, that I cannot refrain from repeat- 
ing them here ; and should anjr one doubt their 
authenticity, he will find them in the Spanish 
catechisms. 

" In what consists the mystery of the Holy 
Trinity ? " 

*^ In one God, who is three persons ; and three 
persons, who are but one God." 

"But tell me, — three human persons, are 
they not three men ? " 

« Yes, father." 

" Then why are not three divine persons three 
Gods ? " 

" Because three human persons have three 
human natures ; but the three divine persons have 
only one divine nature." 

" Can you explain this by an example ? " 

" Yes, father ; as a tree which has three 



334 THE TILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 

branches is still but one tree, since all the three 
branches spring from one trunk, so the three di- 
vine persons are but one God, because thejr all 
have the same divine nature." 

^^ Where were these three divine persons be- 
fore the heavens and the earth were created ? " 

" In themselves." 

^^ Which of them was made man ? " 

" The Son." 

^^And after the Son was made man, was he 
still God ? " 

^' Yes, father ; for in becoming man he did 
not cease to be God, any more than a man when 
he becomes a monk ceases to be a man." 

^' How was the Son of God made flesh ? " 

" He was bom of the most holy Virgin Mary." 

^' And can we still call her a virgin ? " 

" Yes, father ; for as a ray of the sun may 
pass through a pane of glass, and the glass re- 
main unbroken, so the Virgin Mary, after the 
birth of her son, was a pure and holy virgin as 
before." * 

* This illustratioii was also made use of during the dark 
ages. Pierre de Corbiac, a Troubadour of the thirteenth cen- 
tury, thus introduces it in a poem entitled Prayer to the Vir- 
gin:— 



THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 235 

" Who died to save and redeem us ? " 

^^ The Son of God : as man, and not as God." 

^^ How could he suffer and die as man only, 
being both God and man, and yet but one per- 
son ? " 

^^ As in a heated bar of iron upon which water 
is thrown, the heat only is affected and not the 
iron, so the Son of God suffered in his human 
nature and not in his divine." 

^^ And when the spirit was separated from his 
most precious body, whither did the spirit go ? " 

^^ To limbo, to glorify the souls of the holy 
fathers." 

« And the body ? " 

** It was carried to the grave." 

^^ Did the divinity remam united with the spirit 
or with the body ? " 

^' With both; As a soldier, when he unsheathes 

his sword, remains united both with the sword and 

I ii 

** Domna, verges pur* e fina 
Ans que fbs V enfantamena, 
£t apres tot eissameDs, 
De Yos trais sa cam hnmana 
Jhesu-Christ oostre salvaire ; 
Si com sea trencamens faire 
Intra'l bel rais quan solelha 
Per ]a fenestra veirina.'* 



236 THE VILLAGE OW EL PARDILLO. 

the sheath, though they are separated from each 
other, so did the divinity remain united both with 
the spirit and body of Christ, though the spirit 
was separated and removed from the body." 

I did not quarrel with the priest for having 
been bom and educated in a dilSerent faith from 
mme ; but as I left the church and sauntered 
slowly homeward, I could not help asking my- 
self, in a whisper, Why perplex the spirit of a 
child with these metaphysical subtUties, these 
dark, inysterious speculations, which man in aU 
his pride of intellect cannot fathom or explain ? 

I must not forget, in this place, to make honor- 
able mention of the litde great men of El Par- 
dillo. And first in order comes the priest. He 
was a short, portly man, serious in manner, and 
of grave and reverend presence ; though at the 
same time there was a dash of the joUy-fat-friar 
about him ; and on hearing a good joke or a sly 
innuendo, a smile would gleam in his eye, and 
play over his round face, like the light of a glow- 
worm. His housekeeper was a brisk, smiling 
litde woman, on the shady side of thirty, and a 
cousin of his to boot. Whenever she was men- 
tioned, Don Valentin looked wise, as if this 
cousinship were apocryphal ; but he said noth- 



THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO* 237 

ing, — not he ; what right had he to be peeping 
into other people's business, when he had only 
one eye to look after his own withal ? Next in 
rank to the Dominie was the Alcalde, justice 
of the peace and quorum ; a most potent, grave, 
and reverend personage, with a long beak of a 
nose, and a pouch under his chin, like a pelican. 
He was a man of few words, but great in author- 
ity ; and his importance was vastly increased in 
the viUage by a pair of double-barrelled specta- 
cles, so contrived, that, when bent over his desk 
and deeply buried in bis musty papers, he could 
look up and see what was going on around him 
without moving his head, whereby he got the 
reputation of seeing twice as much as other peo- 
ple. There was the village surgeon, too, a tall 
man with a varnished hat and a starved dog ; he 

ft 

had studied at the University of Salamanca, and 
was pompous and pedantic, ever and anon quot- 
ing some threadbare maxim from the Greek phi- 
losophers, and embellishing it with a commentary 
of his own. Then there was the gray-headed Sac- 
ristan, who rang the church-bell, played on the 
organ, and was learned in tombstone lore ; a Pol- 
itician, who talked me to death about taxes, lib- 
erty, and the days of the constitution ; and a 



338 THE VILLAGE OF EL FARDILLO. 

Notary Public, a poor man with a large family, 
who would make a paper-cigar last half an hour, 
and who kept up his respectability in the village 
by keeping a horse. 

Beneath the protecting shade of these great 
men full many an inhabitant of El Pardillo was 
bom and buried. The village continued to flour- 
ish, a quiet,' happy place, though all unknown 
to fame. The inhabitants were orderly and in- 
dustrious, went regularly to mass and confession, 
kept every saint's day in the calendar, and de- 
voutly hung Judas once a year in effigy. On 
Sundays and all other holydays, when mass was 
over, the time was devoted to sports and recre- 
ation ; and the day passed off in social visiting, 
and athletic exercises, such as running, leaping, 
wrestling, pitching quoits, and heaving the bar. 
When evening came, the merry sound of the 
guitar summoned to the dance ; then every nook 
and alley poured forth its youthfid company, — 
light of heart and heel, and decked out in all the 
holyday finery of flowers, and ribands, and crim- 
son sashes. A group gathered before the cot- 
tage-door ; the signal was given, and away whirl- 
ed the merry dancers to the wild music of voice 
and guitar, and the measured beat of castanet 
and tambourine. 



THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 239 

I love these rural dances, — from my heart I 
love them. This world, at best, is so full of care 
and sorrow, — the life of a poor man is so stained 
with the sweat of his brow, — there is so much 
toU, and strugglbg, and anguish, and disappoint- 
ment here below, that I gaze with delight on a 
scene where all these are laid aside and forgotten, 
and the heart of the toil-worn peasant seems to 
throw off its load, and to leap to tlie sound of 
music, when merrily, 

^* beneath soft eve*s consenting star, 
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet." 

Not many miles from the village of El Par- 
dillo stands the ruined castle of Villafranca, 
an ancient strongliold of the Moors of the fif- 
teenth century. It is built upon the summit of a 
hiU, of easy ascent upon one side, but precipitous 
and inaccessible on the other. The front pre- 
sents a large, square tower, constituting tiie main 
part of tlie castle ; on one side of which an 
arched gateway leads to a spacious court-yard 
within, surrounded by battlements. The comer 
towers are circular, with beetling turrets ; and 
here and there, apart from the main body of the 
castle, stand several circular basements, whose 



340 THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 

towers have fallen and mouldered into dust. 
From the balcony in the square tower, the eye 
embraces the level landscape for leagues and 
leagues around ; and beneath, in the depth of 
the valley, lies a beautiful grove, alive with the 
song of the nightingale. The whole castle is in 
ruin, and occupied only ks a hunting-lodge, bebg 
inhabited by a solitary tenant, who has chaise 
of the adjacent domain. 

One hblyday, when mass was said and the 
whole village was let loose to play, we made a 
pilgrimage to the ruins of tliis old Moorish al* 
cazar. Our cavalcade was as modey as that of . 
old, — the pilgrims " that toward Canterbury 
wolden ride " ; for we had the priest, and the 
doctor of physic, and the m^ of laws, and a 
wife of Bath, and many more whom I must leave 
unsung. Merrily flew the hours and fast ; and 
sitting after dinner in the gloomy hall of that old 
castle, many a tale was told, and many a legend 
and tradition of the past conjured up to satisfy 
the curiosity of the present. 

Most of these tales were about the Moors who 
built the castle, and the treasures they had buried 
beneath it. Then the priest told the story of a 
lawyer who sold himself to the devil for a pot 



THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 241 

of money, and was burnt by the Holy Inquisi- 
tion therefor. In his confession, he told how 
he had learned from a Jew the secret of raising 
the devil ; how he went to the castle at midnight 
with a book which the Jew gave him, and, to 
make the charm sure, carried with him a load* 
stone, six nails from the coffin of a child of three 
years, six tapers of rosewax, made by a child 
of four years, the skin and blood of a young 
kid, an iron fork, with which the kid had been 
killed, a few hazel-rods, a flask of high-proof 
brandy, and some lignum-vits charcoal to make 
a fire. When he read in the book, the devil 
appeared in the shape of a man dressed in flesh- 
colored clothes, with long nails, and large fiery 
eyes, and he signed an agreement with him writ- 
ten in blood, promising never to go to mass, and 
to ^ve him his soul at the end of eight years ; 
in return for this, he was to have a million of 
dollars in good money, which the devil was to 
bring to him the next night ; but when the next 
night ,came, and the lawyer had conjured firom 
his book, instead of the devil, there appeared, — 
who do you think ? — the alcalde with half the 
village at his heels, and the poor lawyer was 

16 



242 THE TILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 

hancled over to the Inquisition, and burnt for 
dealing in the black art. 

I intended to repeat here some of the many 
tales that were told ; but, upon reflection, they 
seem too frivolous, and must therefore give place 
to a more serious theme. 



THE 

DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 



Heaven's dove, when highest he flies, 
Flies with thy heavenly wings. 

Crashaw. 



There is hardly a chapter in literary history 
more stroogly marked with the pecuUarities of 
national character than that which contains the 
moral and devotional poetry of Spain. It "would 
naturally be expected that in this department of 
Eterature all the ferv^oicy and depth of national 
feeling would be exhibited. But still, as the 
spirit of morality and devotion is the same, 
wherever it exists, — as the enthusiasm of virtue 
and religion is everywhere essentially the same 
feeling, though modified in its degree and in its 
action by a variety of physical causes and local 
circumstances, — and as the subject of the di- 
dactic verse and the spiritual canticle cannot be 
materially changed by the change of nation and 
elimate, it might at the first glance seem quite 



244 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRT OF SPAIN. 

as natural to expect that the moral and devotional 
poetry of Christian countries would never be 
very strongly marked with national peculiarities. 
In other words, we should expect it to corre- 
spond to the warmth or coldness of national feel- 
ing, for it is the external and visible expression 
of this feeling ; but not to the distinctions of 
national character, because, its nature and' object 
being everywhere the same, these distinctions 
become swallowed up in one universal Christian 
character. 

In moral poetry this is doubtless true. The 
great principles of Christian morality being eter- 
nal and invariable, the verse which embodies 
and represents them must, from this very cir- 
cumstance, be the same in its spirit through all 
Christian lands. The same, however, is not 
necessarily true of devotional or religious poetry. 
There, the language of poetry is something more 
than the visible image of a devotional spirit. It 
is also an expression of religious faith ; shadow- 
ing forth, with greater or less distinctness, its 
various creeds and doctrines. As these are dif- 
ferent in different nations, the spirit that breathes 
in religious song, and the letter that gives utter- 
ance to the doctrine of faith, will not be univer-^ 



THE DEVOTIONAL POETRT OF SPAIN. 245 

sally the same. Thus, Catholic nations sing the 
praises of the Virgb Mary in language in which 
nations of the Protestant faith do not unite ; and 
among Protestants themselves, the difference of 
interpretations, and the consequent belief or dis- 
belief of certain doctrines, give a various spirit 
and expression to religious poetry. And yet, 
in all, the devotional feeling, the heavenward vo- 
lition, is the same. 

As far, then, as peculiarities of religious faith 
exercise an influence upon intellectual habits, and 
thus become a part of national character, so far 
will the devotional or religious poetry of a coun- 
try exhibit the c*haracteristic peculiarities result- 
ing from this influence of faith, and its assim- 
ilation with the national mind. Now Spain is 
by preeminence the Catholic land of Christen- 
dom. Most of her historic recollections are 
more or less intimately associated with the tri- 
umphs of the Christian faith; and many of her 
warriors — of her best and bravest — were mar- 
tyrs in the holy cause, perishing in that war 
of centuries which was carried on within her 
own territories between the crescent of Mahomet 
and the cross of Christ. Indeed, the whole 
tissue of her history is interwoven with mirac- 



246 THE DETOTIOHAL POBTET OF 8PAIN. 

ulous tradition. The intenrendon of her patron 
saint has saved her honor in more than one dan* 
gerous pass ; and the war^shout of ^^ SanHago^ 
y derra Espaha!^^ has worked like a charm 
upon the wavering spirit of the soldier. A re- 
liance on the guardian ministry of the saints p«. 
vades the whole people, and devoti<Hial offerings 
for signal preservation in times of danger and 
distress cover the consecrated walls of churches. 
An enthusiasm of religious feeling, and of ex- 
ternal ritual observances, prevails throughout the 
land. But more particularly is the name of the 
Yiiffn honored and adored. JStve JUaria is the 
salutation of peace at the friendly threshold, and 
the God-speed to the wayfarer. It is the even- 
ing orison, when the toils of day are done ; and 
at midnight it echoes along the solitary streets 
in the voice of the watchman's cry. 

These and similar peculiarities of religious 
faith are breathing and moving throi^h a large 
portion of the devotional poetry of Spain. It 
is not only instinct with religious feeling, but in- 
corporated with ^^the substance of thmgs not 
seen." Not only are the poet's' lips touched 
with a coal from the altar, but his spirit is folded 
m the cloud of incense that rises before the 



THE DEVOTIONAL POETRT OF SPAIN. 247 

shrines of the Virgin Mother, and the glorious 
company of the sabts and martjrrs. His soul 
is not wholly swallowed up in the contemplation 
of the sublime attributes of the Eternal Mind ; 
but, with its lamp trimmed and burning, it goeth 
out to meet the bridegroom, as if he were coming 
in a bodily presence. 

The history of the devotional poetry of Spain 
commences with the legendary lore of Maestro 
Gonzalo de Berceo, a secular priest, whose life 
was passed m the cloisters of a Benedictine con* 
vent, and amid the shadows of the thirteenth cen- 
tory* The name of Berceo stands foremost on 
the catalogue of Spanish poets, for the author 
of the Poem of the Cid is unknown. The old 
patriarch of Spanish poetry has left a monument 
of his existence in upwards of thirteen thousand 
alexandrines, celebrating the lives and miracles 
of saints and the Virgin, as he found them written 
in the Latin chronicles and dusty legends of his 
monastery. In embodying these in rude verse 
m roman paladino^ or the old Spanish romance 
tongue, intelligible to the common people, Fray 
Gonzalo seems to have passed his life. His 
writmgs are just such as we should expect from 
the pen of a monk of the thirteenth century. 



248 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 

They are more ghosdy than poetical ; and through- 
out, unction holds the place of bspiration. Ac- 
cordingly, they illustrate very fuUy the preeeding 
remarks ; and the more so, j^iasmuch as they are 
written with the most ample and childish credu- 
lity, and the utmost singleness of faith touching 
the events and miracles described. 

The following extract is taken from' one of 
Berceo's poems, entitled ^^ Vida de San Mil" 
lan.^^ It is a description of the miraculous 
appearance of Santiago and San Millan, mounted 
on snow-white steeds, and fightmg for the cause 
of Christendom, at the battle of Simancas in the 
Campo de Toro. 

And when the kings were in the field, — their squadrons in 

array, — 
With lance in rest they onward pressed to mingle in the fiiiy ; 
But soon upon the Christians fell a terror of their foes, — 
These were a numerous army, — a little handful those. 

And while the Christian people stood in this uncertainty. 
Upward to heaven they turned their eyes, and fixed their 

thoughts on high y 
And there two figures they beheld, all beautifiil and bright, 
Even than the pure new-fallen snow their garments were more 

white. 

They rode upon two horses more white than crystal sheen. 
And arms they bore such as before no mortal man had seen ; 



THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 249 

The one, he held a crosier, — a pontiff*8 mitre wore ; 
The other held a crucifix, — such man ne'er saw before. 

Their faces were angelical, celestial forms had they, — 
And downward through the fields of air they urged their 

rapid way ; 
They looked upon the Moorish host with fierce and angry 

look. 
And in their hands, with dire portent, their naked sabres 

shook. 

The Christian host, beholding this, straightway take heart 

- again; 
They fail upon their bended knees, all resting on the plain. 
And each one with his clenched fist to smite his breast begins. 
And promises to God on high he will forsake his sins. 

And when the heavenly knights drew near unto the battle- 
ground. 

They dashed among the Moors and dealt unerring blows 
around ; 

Such deadly haroc there they made the foremost ranks along, 

A panic terror spread unto the hindmost of the throng. 

Together with these two good knights, the champions of the 

sky. 
The ChristianB rallied and began to smite full sore and high ; 
The Moors raised up their roices and by the Koran swore 
That in their lives such deadly fray they ne'er had seen 

before. 

Down went the misbelieTera, — flat sped the bloody fight, — 

« 

Some ghastly and dismembered lay, and some half dead with 
fright: 



350 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIK. 

Full sorely .they repented that to the field they came, 
For they eaw that fiom the battle they should retreat with 
shame. 

Another thing befell them, — they dreamed not of such woes, — 
The very arrows that the Moors shot from their twanging bows 
Turned back against them in their Bight and wounded them 
full sore, 

And every blow they dealt the foe was paid in drops of gore. 

• • • • • 

Now he that bore the crosier, and the papal crown had on. 
Was the glorified Apostle, the brother of Saint John ; 
And he that held the crucifix, and wore the monidsh hood, 
Was the holy San Millan of Cogolla's neighbourhood. 

Berceo's longest poem is 'entitled "JMtrocZos 
de J^uestra Sefiora,^^ Miracles of Our Lady. 
It consists of nearly four thousand lines, and con- 
tains the description of twenty-five miracles. 
It is a complete homily on the homage and de- 
votion due to the glorious Virgin, Madre de Jhu 
XtOy Mother of Jesus Christ; but it is written 
in a low and vulgar style, strikingly at variance 
with the elevated character of the subject. Thus, 
in the twentieth miracle, we have the account 
of a monk who became intoxicated in a wine- 
cellar. Having lain on the floor till the vesper- 
bell aroused him, he staggered off towards die 
church m most melancholy plight. The Evil 



THE DETOTIONAL POETET OF SPAIN. 251 

One besets faim on the way, assuming the various 
shapes of a bull, a dog, and a lion ; but from 
all these perils he is miraculously saved by the 
timely intervention of the Virgin, who, finding 
him still too much intoxicated to make his way 
to bed, kindly takes him by the hand, leads him 
to his pallet, covers him with a blanket and a 
counterpane, smooths his pillow, and, after mak- 
ing the sign of the cross over him, tells him to 
rest quietly, for sleep will do him good. 

To a certain class of minds there may be 
something interesting and even affecting b de- 
scriptions which represent the spirit of a departed 
saint as thus assuming a corporeal shape, in order 
to assist and console human nature even in its 
baser infirmities ; but it ought also to be con- 
sidered how much such descriptions tend to strip 
religion of its peculiar sanctity, to bring it down 
from its heavenly abode, not merely to dwell 
among men, but, like an imprisoned culprit, to 
be chained to the derelict of principle, ipanacled 
with the base desire and earthly passion, and 
forced to do the menial offices of a slave. In 
descriptions of this kind, as in the representa- 
tions of our Saviour and of sainted spirits in 
a human shape, execution must of necessity fall 



252 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRT OF SPAIN. 

far short of the concepdon. , The handiwork 
cannot equal the glorious archetype, which is vis^ 
ible only to the mental eye. Painting and sculp- 
ture are not adequate to the task of embodying 
in a permanent shape the glorious visions, the 
radiant forms, the glimpses of heaven, which 
fill the imagination, when purifi^ed and exalted 
by devotion. The hand of man unconsciously 
inscribes upon all his works the sentence of im- 
perfection, which the finger of the invisible hand 
wrote upon the wall of the Assyrian monarch. 
From this it would seem to be not only a natural 
but a necessary* conclusion, that all the descrip- 
tions <^ poetry which borrow any thing, either 
directly or indirectly, from these bodily and im- 
perfect representations, must partake of their 
imperfection, and assume a more earthly and 
material character than those which come glowing 
and bummg from the more spiritualized percep- 
tions of the internal sense. 

It is very far from my intention to utter any 
sweeping denunciation against the divine arts of 
pamting and sculpture, as employed in the exhibi- 
tion of Scriptural scenes and personages. These 
I esteem meet ornaments for the house of God ; 
though, as I have already said, their execution 



THE DEVOTIONAL POETRT OF SPAIN. 253 

cannot equal the high conceptions of an ardent 
imagination, yet, whenever the hand of a master 
is visible, — when the marble almost moves be- 
fore you, and the painting starts into life from 
the canvass, — the effect upon an enh'ghtened 
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 con- 
templation of the intenser mental agony, — the 
moral sublimity exhibited by the martyr. The 
impressions produced, however, will not be the 
same in aU minds ; they will necessarily vaiy 
i^ccording to the prevailing temper and com- 
plexion of the mind which receives them. As 
there is no sound where there is no ear to re- 
ceive the impulses and vibrations of the air, so 
is there no moral impression, — no voice of in- 
struction from all the works of nature, and all 
the imitations of art, — unless there be within the 
soul itself a capacity for hearing tlie voice and 
receiving the moral impulse. The cause exists 
eternally and universally ; but the effect is pro- 
duced 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 



354 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRT OF SPAIN. 

the several degrees of the same moral impression^ 
which an object may produce in different minds.. 
These impressions will vary in kmd and in de- 
gree accordbg to the acuteness and the cultiva- 
tion of the mtemal 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 unenlight- 
ened and superstitious one. And the reason is 
obvious. An enlightened mind beholds all things 
m their just proportions, and receives from them 
the true impressions they are calculated to con- 
vey. 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 in- 
telligence ; 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 Eter- 
nal Mind. But not so the dark and supersti- 
tious mind. It is filled with its own antique and 



THE DEVOTIONAL POETRT OF SPAIlf. 255 

mouldy furniture^ — the moth-eaten 'tome, the 
gloomy tapestry, the dusty curtam. The strag- 
gling sunbeam from without streams through the 
stained window, and as it enters assumes the col- 
ors of the painted glass; while the half-extin- 
guished 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 ab- 
stractions. 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 stramed and distorted vision. 
The invigorating* air does not enter that myste- 
rious chamber; it visits not that lonely inmate, 
who, breathing only a close, exhausted atmos- 
phere, exhibits in the languid frame and fever- 
ish pulse the marks of lingering, incurable dis- 
use. The picture is not too strongly sketched ; 
such is the contrast between the free and the su- 
perstitious 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 



256 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRT' OF SPAIN. 

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 unfavor- 
able influence. Such a mind cannot rightly es- 
timate, 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 con- 
stantly before the eye, and represented in a real 
and palpable form to the external senses, they 
lose, by being made tpo familiar, that peculiar 
sanctity with which the mind naturally mvests the 
unearthly and mvisible. 

It is curious to observe the influence of the 
circumstances just referred to upon the devo- 
donal poetry of Spain.* Sometimes it exhibits 



* The following beautiful little hymn in Latin, written by 
the celebrated Francisco Xayier, the fKend and companion 
of Loyola, and from hie zeal in the EaBtern missions sur- 
named the Apostle of the Indies, would hardly have origi- 
nated in any mind but that of one fiimiliar with the repre- 
sentations of which I have spoken above. 



THE DEVOTIONAL POETRT OP SPAIN. 257 

itself directly and fuUy, sometimes indirectly and 
incidentally, but always with sufficient clearness 



O Deae ! ego amo te : 

Nee amo te, ut salves me, 
Aut quia non amantes te 
^terno 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 hsc propter me 
Ac pro me peccatore. 

Cur igitur non amem te, 
O Jesu amantissime ? 
Non ut in cobIo salves me, 
Aut ne sternum damnes me, 
Nee prcemii uilius spo : 
Sed sicut tu amasti me, 
Sic amo et amabo te : 
Solum quia rex mens es, 
£t 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. 

17 



258 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 

to bdicate its origin. Sometimes it destroys 
the beauty of a poem by a miserable conceit ; 
at other times it gives it the character of a beau- 
tiful allegory.* 

But thou on the accursed tree 
In mercj hast embraced me. 
For me the cruel nails, the spear, 
The ignominious scoff, didst bear, 
Countless, unutterable woes, — 
The bloody sweat, — death's pangs and throes, — 
These thou didst bear, all these for me, 
A sinner and estranged from thee. 

And wherefore no affection show, 
Jesus, to thee that lov'st me so ? 
Not that in heaven my home may be. 
Not lest I die eternally, — 
Nor from the hopes of joys aboye me : 
But even as thou thyself didst love me. 
So love I, and will ever love thee : 
Solely because my King art thou. 
My God fi>r evermore as now. 

Amen. 

* I recollect but few instances of this kind of figurative 
poetry in our language. There is, however, one of moat 
exquisite beauty and pathos, far surpassing any thing I haye 
seen of the kind in Spanish. It is a passage from Cowper. 

*^ I was a stricken deer, that left the herd 
Long since : with many an arrow deep infixt 



THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OP SPAIN. 269 

The following sonnets will serve as iDustra- 
tions. They are from the band of the wonderful 
Lope de Vega : — 

Shepherd ! that with thine amoroug sylvan song 

Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me, 

That madest thy crook from the accursed trep 

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 ? 



Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care 
Thou didst seek afler me, — that thou didst wait, 
Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate. 
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there ? 
O strange delusion ! — that I did not greet 

My panting side was charged, when I withdrew 
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
There was I fbund by one who had himself 
Been hurt by archers ; in his side he bore, 
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. 
With gentle force soliciting the darts, 
He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live. 



260 TH£ DEYOTIONAL POETRT OF SPAIN. 

Th J blcffed approaeh ! and O, to HeaTen how lost, 

Ifm7ii>g»titad«'.aDkuidl7ih)rt 

Hat chilled the bleeding woonda apon thy feet ! 

How oft mj guardian angel gentl j cried, 

" Soul, fiom thy eaaement look without and fee 

How he peniati to knock and wait fi>r thee ! " 

And O, how often to that Toice of aonow, 

M To-morrow we will open ! " I replied ; 

And when the morrow came, I anawered atill, ^ To-moffrow ! *' 

The most remarkable porUon of the devotional 
poetry of the Spaniards is to be found in their 
sacred dramas, their Vidas de Santos and •Sutos 
SticramerUales, 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 won- 
derful traditions concerning them. The Jlutos 
Sacramentales have particular reference to the 
Eucharist and the ceremonies of the Corpus 
Christi, In diese theatrical pieces are intro- 
duced upon the stage, not only angels and saints, 
but God, the Saviour, thie Virgin Mary ; and, 
in strange juxtaposition with these, devils, peas- 
ants, and kings ; in fine, they contain the strang- 
est medley of characters, real and allegorical, 
which the imagination can conceive. As if this 



THE DEVOTIONAL POETRT OF SPAIN. 261 

were not enough, in the midst of what was in-* 
tended as a solemn, religious celebration, scenes 
of low buffoonery are often introduced. 

The most remarkable of the •SttUos which I 
have read is ^^ La Devocion de la Cruzj^^ The 
Devotion of the Cross. It is one of the most 
celebrated of CaMerc»i's sacred dramas, and will 
serve as a specimen of that class of writing. The 
piece commences with a dialogue between Lisar- 
do, 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 extrav- 
agance 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 re- 
lates that he was bom 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 car- 
ried to a neighbomring village, and there received 
the name of Eusebio of the Cross ; that, being 
thrown by his nurse into a well, he was heard 



262 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRT OF SPAIN. 

to laugb, and was found floating upon the top of 
the water, with his hands placed upon lus mouth 
in the form of a cross ; that the house in which 
he dwelt being consumed by fire, he escaped un- 
harmed amid the flames, and it was found to be 
Corpus Christi day; and, in fine, after relating 
many other similar miracles, worked by the pow- 
er of the cross, at whose foot be was bom, he 
says that he bears its image miraculously stamped 
upon his breast. After this they fight, and Li- 
sardo falls mortally wounded. In the next -scene, 
Eusebio has an interview with Julia, at her fath- 
er'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, 
^^para ser de CrUto 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 jomada^ dis- 
covers Eusebio as the leader of a band of rob- 
bers. They fire upon a traveller, who proves 
to be a priest, named Alberto, and who is seek- 
ing a spot in those solitudes wherein to establish 
a hermitage. The shot is prevented firom taking 



THE DEVOTIONAL POETRT OF SPAIN. 263 

^ect hj a book which the pious old man car- 
ries in his bosom, and which he says is a '^ trea- 
tise 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 con- 
sequence 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 dis- 
covered 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-waUs and escapes to the 
mountains. Julia, counting her honor lost, hav- 
ing offended God, ^^ como & Dios^ y como & es- 



364 THE DETOTFONAL POETKT OF SPAIR. 

jwra," pursues him, -— descends the hdder 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 jomada transports the scene back 
to die moimtains. Jdia, disguised in man's ap- 
parel, with her &ee concealed, is brought to 
Eusebio by a party of the banditti. She chal- 
lenges him to single cojnbat ; and he accepts the 
chall^ige, 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 mterrupted by the entrance of banditti, who 
inform Eusebio that Curcio, widi an armed force, 
ftom all the neighbouring villages, is approach- 
ing. The attack conmiences. Eusebio and Cur- 
cio meet, but a secret and mysterious S3rmpathy 
prevents them {rem fighting ; and a great num- 
ber of peasants, coming in at this moment, rush 
upon Eusebio in a body, and he is thrown down 
a precipice. There Curcio discovers him, ex- 
piring with his numerous wounds. The dinouc" 



THE DETOTIONAX POETRY OF SPAflT. 385 

mtnt 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 ! 

Jilberto. Again it doth pronounce 

My name : methinks the yoice 

Came from this side : I will 

Approach. 
Eusebio. Alberto ! 

Hi§t ! more near it sounds. 

Thou Yoiee^ that ridest swift 

The wind, and utterest my name, 

Who art thou ? 

I am Husebio. 

Gome, good Alberto, this way come. 

Where sepulchred I lie ; 

Approach^ and raise these branches : 

Fear not. 
Jilberto. I do not fear. 

IDiseooers the body. 



266 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRT OF SPAIN. 

Now I behold thee. 
Speak, in God^ii holy name, 
What wouldst thou with me ? 
Eusdno, Id his name, 

My fiiith, Alberto, called thee, 

That preYJous to my death 

Thou hearest my confeasion. 

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. IRises, 

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 Alber- 
to ; 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 indig- 
nation, 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. 



THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 267 

Thus far I hare spoken of the devotional po- 
etry of Spam as modified by the peculiarities 
of religious faith and practice. Considered apart 
from the dogmas of a creed, and as the expres- 
sion of those pure and elevated feelings of re- 
ligion which are not the prerogative of any one 
sect or denommation, but the common privilege 
of all, it possesses strong claims to. our admira- 
tion and praise. I know of nothing in any mod- 
em tongue so beautiful as some of its finest pas- 
sages. The thought sprmgs heavenward from 
the soul, — die language comes burning from the 
lip. The imagination of the poet seems spirit- 
ualized ; with nothing of earth, and all of heav- 
en, — 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 harmo- 
nious 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 Francisco de Alda- 
na, a writer remarkable for the beauty of his 
conceptions and the harmony of his verse, are 
illustrations of this remark. In what glowing 



268 THB DETOTIOHAL POBTRT OP SPAIK. 

language he describes the aspirations of the soul 
for its paternal heaven, its celestial home! bow 
beautifully he portnqrs in a few lines the strong 
desire, the ardent lon^ng, of the exOed and im- 
prisoned spirit to wing its flight away and be 
at rest ! The stram bears our thoughts upward 
with it ; it transports us to the heavenfy^ country ; 
it whispers to the soul, — Higher, immortal spirit ! 
Ug^r ! 

Clear fbont of lif bt ! m j natiTe land on high. 

Bright with a glory that shall never fiule ! 

Mansion of troth ! without a yell or shade, 

Thj holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. 

There dwells the son! in its ethereal essence. 

Gating no longer for life's feeble breath ; 

But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence 

With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not death. 

BeloTed country ! baoished 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 fiom 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 ! 



THE DEVOTIONAL POETRT OF SPAIN. 369 

Eternal Sun ! the wannth which thou hast given 

To cheer life's flowery April fast decays ; 

Yet in the hoary winter of my days. 

For ever green shall be my trust in Heaven. 

Celestial King ! O, let thy presence pass 

Before my spirit, and an image fair 

Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, 

As the reflected image in a glass 

Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there. 

And owes its being to the gazer's eye. 

The prevailing characteristics of Spanish de- 
votional poetry are warmth of imagination, and 
depth and sincerity of feeling. The conception 
is always striking and original, and, when not de* 
graded by dogmas, and the poor, puerile con* 
ceits arising from them, beautiful and sublime. 
This results from the frame and temperament 
of the mind, and is a general characteristic of 
the Spanish poets, not only in this department 
of song, but in all others. The very ardor of 
imagination which, exercised upon minor themes, 
leads them into extravagance and hyperbole, 
when left to act in a higher and wider sphere 
conducts them nearer and nearer to perfection. 
When ima^ation spreads its wings in the bright 
regions of devotional song, — in the pure empy- 
rean, — judgment should direct its course, but 



270 THE DETOTIONAL POETRT OF SPAIlf. 

there is no danger of its soaring too high. The 
heavenly land still lies heyond its utmost flight. 
There are heights it cannot reach ; there are 
fields of air which tire its wing ; there is a splen- 
dor which dazzles its vision ; — for there is a 
glory " which eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, 
nor hath it entered into the heart of man to con- 
ceive." 

But perhaps the greatest charm of the devo- 
tional poets of Spain is their sincerity. Most 
of them were ecclesiastics, — men who had in 
sober truth renounced the realities of this life 
for the hopes and promises of another. We are 
not to suppose that all who take holy orders are 
saints ; but we should be still farther from be- 
lieving that all are hypocrites. It would be even 
more absurd to suppose that none are sincere 
in their professions than that all are. Besides, 
with whatever feelings a man may enter the mo- 
nastic life, there is somethmg in its discipline and 
privations which has a tendency to wean the mmd 
from earth, and to fix it upon heaven. Doubt- 
less many have seemmgly renounced the world 
from motives of worldly aggrandizement ; and 
others have renounced it because it has renounc- 
ed them. The former have carried with them 



THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF SPAIN. 271 

to the cloister their earthly ambitioir, and the 
latter their dark misanthropy ; and though many 
have daily kissed the cross and yet grown hoary 
in iniquity, and shrived their souls that they 
might sm more gayly on, — yet solitude works 
miracles in the heart, and many who enter the 
cloister from worldly motives find it a school 
wherein the soul may be trained to more holy 
purposes and desires. There is not half the 
corruption and hypocrisy within the convent's 
walls that the church bears the shame of hiding 
there. Hermits may be holy men, though knaves 
have sometimes been hermits. Were they all 
hypocrites, who of old for their souls' sake ex- 
posed their naked bodies to the bummg sun of 
Syria ? Were they, who wandered houseless 
in the solitudes of Engaddi ? Were they, who 
dwelt beneath the palm-trees by the Red Sea ? 
O, no ! They were ignorant, they were de- 
luded, they were fanatic, but. they were not 
hypocrites ; if there be any smcerity in human 
professions and human actions, they were not 
hypocrites. During the Middle Ages, there was 
corruption in the church, — foul, shameful cor- 
ruption ; and now also hypocrisy may scourge 
itself in feigned repentance, and ambition hide 



272 THE DEVOTIONAL POETRT OF SPAIIT. 

Hs face beneath a hood ; yet all is not therefore 
rottenness that wears a cowL Many a pore 
spirit, through heavenly-mindedness and an ar« 
dent though mistaken zeal, has fled from the 
temptations of the world to seek in solitude and 
self-communion a closer walk with God. And 
not in vain. They have found the peace they 
sought. They have felt, indeed, what many pro* 
fess' to feel, but do not feel, — that they are 
strangers and sojourners here, travellers who are 
bound for their home in a fiir country. It is 
this feeling which I speak of as giving a pecu* 
liar charm to the devotional poetry of Spain. 
Compare its spirit with the spirit which its au- 
thors have exhilNted m their lives. They speak 
of having given up die wwld, and it is no po- 
etical hyperbole ; they speak of lon^g to be 
free from the weakness of the flesh, that they 
may commence their conversation in heaven,— 
and we feel that they had already begun it in 
lives of penitence, meditation, and prayer. 



THE 



PILGRIM'S BREVIARY. 



If thou vouchsaie to read this treatise, it shall seem no 
otherwise to thee than the way to an ordinary traveller,—- 
sometimes &ir, sometimes foul ; here champaign, there en* 
closed; barren in one place, better soyle in another; by 
woods, groves, hills, dales, plains, I shall lead thee. 

BuRToir's Anatohie o^ Melaitcholt. 



The glittering spires and cupolas of Madrid 
have sunk behind me. Again and again I have 
turned to take a parting look, till at length the 
last trace of the city has disappeared, and I gaste 
only upon the sky above it. 

And now the sultry day is passed ; the fresh-* 
ening twilight falls, and the moon and the even^ 
ing star are in the sky» This river is the Xara*- 
ma. This noble avenue of trees leads to Aran- 
juez. Already its lamps begin to twinkle in the 
distance. The hoofs of our weary mules clatter 
upon the wooden bridge ; the public square opens 
before us ; yonder, in the moonlight,^ gleam the 

18 



274 THE pilgrim's bretiart. 

walls of the royal palace, and near it, with a 
rushing sound, fall the waters of the Tagus. 



We have now entered the vast and melan- 
choly plains of La Mancha, — a land to which 
the genius of Cervantes has given a vulgo-classic 
fame. Here are the windmills, as of old ; every 
village has its Master Nicholas, — every venta 
its Maritomes. Wondrous strong are the spells 
of fiction ! A few years pass away, and his- 
tory becomes romance, and romance, history. 
To the peasantry of ^pain, Don Quixote and 
his squire are historic personages ; and woe be- 
tide the luckless wight who unwarily takes the 
name of Dulcbea upon his lips within a league 
of El Toboso ! The traveller, too, yields him- 
self to the delusion ; and as he traverses the 
arid plains of La Mancha, pauses with willing 
credulity to trace the footsteps of the mad Hi- 
dalgo, with his "velvet breeches on a. holy day, 
and slippers of the same." The high-road from 
Aranjuez to C6rdova crosses and recrosses the 
knight-errant's path. Between Manzanares and 
Valdepenas stands the inn where he was dubbed 
a knight ; to the northward, the spot where he 



THE pilgrim's BREVIAR7. 275 

encountered the # windmills ; to the westward, the 
Inn where he made the balsam of Fierabras, the 
scenes of his adventures with the fullmg-mills, 
and his tournament with the bisurber: and to the 
southward, the Sierra Morena, where he did pen- 
ance, like the knights of olden time. 

For my dwn part, I confess that there are 
seasons when I am willing to be the dupe of my 
imagination ; and if this harmless foQy but lends 
its wings to a dull-paced hour, I am even ready 
to believe a fairy tale. 



On the fourth day of our journey we dmed 
at Manzanares, in an old and sombre-looking 
inn, which, I think, some centuries back, must 
have been the dwelling of a grandee. A ^vide 
gateway admitted us into the inn-yard, which 
was a paved court, in the centre of the edifice, 
surrounded by a colonnade, and open to the sky 
above. Beneath this colonnade we were shaved 
by the viUage barber, a supple, smooth-faced 
Figaro, with a brazen laver and a gray montera 
cap. There, too, we dined in the open air, 
with bread as white as snow, and the rich red 
wine of Valdepenas ; and there, in the listless- 



276 THE PILOKIM't BKI 

ness c^ afler-dinner, smoked 
cigar, while in the court-yard 
leteers danced a fandango n 
the inn, to Biicli music ai thr 
could draw from a' vitdin, a 
inet. When this scene Wi 
blind men had groped their wi 
I fell into a delicious slurob 
was soon awakened hy music 
It was a clear, youthful voice, 
song to the sound of a guiti 
eyes, and near me stood a ta 
leaning against one of the pillars oi me colon- 
nade, in the atdtude of a serenader. His dress 
was that of a Spanish student. He wore a black 
gown and cassock, a pair of shoes made of an 
ex-pair of boots, and a hat in the shape of A 
half-moon, with the handle of a wooden spoon 
sticking out on one side like a cockade. When 
he bad Gnlshed his song, we invited him to the 
remnant of a Vieh sausage, a botde of Valde- 
penas, bread at his own discretion, and a pure 
Havana cigar. The stranger made a leg, an<f 
accepted these signs of good company with the 
easy au* of a man who is accustomed to flam 
bis livelihood by hook or by crook ; and ni 



LGKIH'b BRETIIRT. 377 

that stark and genQrous kmd 
\QeadB one into the brain," our 
I half'CQooD bat grew garrulous 
>te, and soon UM us his own 
ith fai9 birth «nd parentage, hke 
Bias. 

Qf a ba^r," quoth be ; " and 

acme twQQt^ years ago, m the 

irid. At a very early age, I 

sontethii^ for myself, and be- 

gtUD by carrying a slow-match 

r the gentlemen to light iheir 

viguB wiui, Biiu catching the wax that dropped 

ftom tbe friars' tapers at funerals and other re- 

li^ous procesuons. 

" At school I was noisy and unruly ; and was 
ftnally espelled fot booking tbe master's sod with 
a pair of ox-homs, which I had tied to my head, 
b order to personate the bull in a mock bull- 
fi^t. Soon after this my father died, and I 
went to lire with my maternal uncle, a curate 
in Fuencarral. He was a man of learning, and 
resolved that I should be Uke him. He set his 
heart upon making a physician of me ; and to 
this end taught me Latin and Greek. 

" In due time I was sent to the University 



278 THE pilgrim's breviart. 

of Alcal&. Here a new world opened before 
me. What novelty, — what variety, — what ex- 
citement ! But, alas ! three months were hardly 
gone, when news came that my worthy uncle 
had passed to a better world. I was now left 
to shift for myself. I was penniless, and lived 
as I could, not as I would. I became a sopista^ 
a soup-eater, — a knight of the wooden spoon. 
I see you do not understand me. In other words, 
then, I became one of that respectable body 
of charity scholars who go armed with their 
wooden spoons to eat the allowance of eleemosy- 
nary soup which is daily served out to them 
at the gate of the convents. I had no longer 
house nor home. But necessity is the mother 
of invention. I became a hanger-on of those 
who were more fortunate than myself; studied 
in other people's books, slept in other peo- 
ple's beds, and breakfasted at other people's 
expense. This course of life has been demor- 
alizmg, but it has quickened my wits to a won- 
derful degree. 

" Did you ever read the life of the Gran Ta- 
caiio, by Quevedo ? In the first book you have 
a faithful picture of life in a Spanish university. 
What was true in his day is true in ours. O 



THE pilgrim's bretiart. 279 

Alcald, ! Alcalai ! if your walls had tongues as 
well as ears, what tales could they repeat ! what 
midnight frolics ! what mddcap revelries ! what 
scenes of merriment and mischief ! How merry 
is a student's life, and yet how changeable ! 
Alternate feastmg and fasting, — alternate Lent 
and Carnival, — alternate want and extravagance ! 
Care given to the wmds, — no thoi^ht beyond 
the passing hour ; yesterday, forgotten, — to-mor- 
row, a word in an unknown tongue ! 

^^Did you ever hear of raising the dead? not 
literally, — but such as the student raised, when 
he dug for the soul of the licentiate Pedro Gar- 
cias, at the fountain between Pefiafiel and Sal- 
amanca, — money ? No ? Well, it is done after 
this wise. GambUng, you know, is our great 
national vice ; and then gamblers are so dishon- 
est ! Now, our game is to cheat the cheater. 
We go at night to some noted gammg-house, — 
five or six of us in a body. We stand around 
the table, watch those that are at play, and oc- 
casionally put In a trifle ourselves to avoid sus- 
picion. At length the favorable moment ar- 
rives. Some eager player ventures a large stake. 
I stand behind his chair. He wins. As quick 
as thought, I stretch my arm over his shoulder 



and seize the gUttering prixe, saying very coolly, 
^ I have w(Hi at last.' My gendeman tums round 
m a passion, and I meet his indignant ^ance 
with a look of surprise. He storms, and I ez« 
postulate; he menaces, ---I heed his menaces 
no more than the buzztog of a fly that has humt 
his wings in mj lamp. He calls the whole table 
to witness ; but the whole table is Imkj, each 
with his own g«n or loss, and there stand my 
comrades, all loudly asserting that the stake was 
mine. What can he do ? there was a mistake ; 
he swallows the affiroot as best he may, and we 
bear away the booty. T^ we caQ rabmg the 
dead. You say it is disgraceful, — dishonest. 
Our maxim is, that all is fair among sharp- 
ers : Baylar al son que se toeay — Dance to any 
tune that is fiddled. Besides, as I said before, 
poverty is demoralizing. One loses the nice 
distinctions of right and wrong, of taeutn and 

^^ Thus menily pass the hours of term-time. 
When the summer vacations come round, I sling 
my guitar over my shoulder, and with a light 
heart, and a lighter pocket, scour the country, 
like a strolling piper or a mendicant friar. Like 
the industrious ant, in summer I provide for win- 



THE riLORIM's B&BTURT. 381 

ter ; for in racatioii we have time for reflection, 
and make the great discovery, that there is a 
portion of time called the future. I pick up a 
trifle here and a trifle there> in all the towns 
and villages through which I pass, and before 
the end of my tour I find myself quite rich-<- 
ibr the son of a barber. This we call the vida 
tttnofife^ca, "-*- a rag*tag-and-bobtail sort of life. 
And yet the vocation is as honest as that of a 
b^ging Franciscan, Why not ? 

^' And now, g^itlemen, having dined at your 
expense, with your leave I will put this loaf 
of bread and the remains of this excellent Vich 
sausage into my pocket, and, thanking you for 
your kind hospitality, bid you a good afternoon. 
God be with you, gentlemen I " 



In genera], the aspect of La Mancha is des- 
olate and sad. Around you lies a parched and 
sunburnt plain, which, l^e the ocean, has no 
limits but the sky ; and straight before you, for 
many a weary league, runs the dusty and level 
road, without the shade of a single tree. The 
villages you pass through are poverty-stricken 
and half-depopulated ; and the squalid inhab- 



282 THE pilgrim's bretiart. 

itants wear a look of misery that makes the 
heart ache. Every league or two, the ruins of a 
post-house, or a roofless cottage with shattered 
windows and blackened walls, tells a sad tale 
of the last war. It was there that a Utde band 
of peasantry made a desperate stand against the 
French, and perished by the bullet, the sword, 
or the bayonet. The lapse of many years has 
not changed the scene, nor repaired the bat- 
tered wall ; and at almost every step the trav- 
eller may pause and exclaim : — 

^ Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host ; 
Here the bold peasant stormed the dragon* s nest." 

From Valdepenas southward the country wears 
a more lively and picturesque aspect. The land- 
scape breaks into hill and valley, covered with 
vineyards and olive-6eIds ; and before you rise 
the dark ridges of the Sierra Morena, lifting 
their sullen fronts into a heaven all gladness and 
sunshine. Ere long you enter the wild moun- 
tain-pass of Despena-Perros. A sudden turn 
in the road brings you to a stone column, sur- 
mounted by an iron cross, marking the boundary 
line between La Mancha and Andalusia. Upon 
one side of this column is carved a sorry-look- 



THE pilgrim's bkeyiart. 283 

ing fac6, not unlike the death's-heads on the 
tombstones of a country church-yard. Over it 
is written this inscription : — "El Verdadero 

ReTRATO DE la SANTA CARA DEL DiOS DE 

Xaen," — The true portrait of the holy coun- 
tenance of the God of Xaen ! I was so much 
struck with this strange superscription that I stop- 
ped to copy it. 

" Do you really believe that this is what it 
pretends to be } " said I to a muleteer, who was 
watching my movements. 

" I don't know," replied he, shrugging his 
brawny shoulders ; " they say it is." 

" Who says it is } " 

«' The priest, — the Padre Cura." 

" I supposed so. And how was this portrait 
taken } " 

He could not tell. The Padre Cura knew 
all about it. 

When I joined my companions, who were a 
little in advance of me with the carriage, I got 
the mystery explained. The Catholic church 
boasts of three portraits of our Saviour, mi- 
raculously preserved upon the folds of a hand- 
kerchief, with which St. Veronica wiped the 
sweat from his brow, on the day of the cruci- 



284 THE pilgrim's brbtiart. 

fixioQ. Qna of these is at Toledo, another b 
the kingdom of Xaen, and the third at Rome. 



Thb ifflpressloQ which tUs monum^it of 8u<^ 
perstition made upon my mind was soon effaced 
by the magnificent scene which now burst upon 
me. The road winds up the mountain-side with 
gradual asc^it ; wild, shapeless, gigantic crags 
overhang it upon the right, and upon the left 
the wary foot starts back from the brink of a 
fearful chasm hundreds of feet in depth. Its 
sides are black with ragged pines, and rocks 
that have toppled down from above ; and at the 
bottom, scarcely visible, wind the sflvery waters 
of a little stream, a tributary of the Guadal- 
quivir. The road skirts the ravme for miles, -^ 
now climbing the banren rock, and now sliding 
gently downward into shadowy hollows, and 
crossing some rustic bridge thrown over a wild 
mountam-brook. 

At length the scene changed. We stood upon 
the southern slope of the Sierra, and looked 
down upon the broad, luxuriant valleys of An- 
dalusia, bathed b the gorgeous splendor of a 
southern sunset. The landscape had already as- 



THE PlLGftlM^S BREVIAlir. 28& 

sumed thd ^^ burnished lively" of autumn; but 
the air I breathed was the soft and balmy breath 
of springs -— the eternal spring of Andalusia. 

If ever you should be fortunate enough to visit 
this part of Spam, stop for the night at the vil** 
lage of La Carolina. It is indeed a model for 
^11 villages, -^ With its broad streets, its neat; 
white houses, its spacious market-place sur- 
rounded with a colonnade, and its public walk 
ornamented with fountams and set out with lux- 
uriant trees. I doubt whether all Spain can 
show a village more beautiful than this. 



The approach to C6rdova from the east is 
enchanting. The sun was just rising as we 
crossed the Guadalquivir and drew near to the 
city; and, alighting from the carriage, I pur- 
sued my way on foot, the better to enjoy the 
scene and the pure morning air. The dew still 
glistened on every leaf and spray ; for die burn- 
ing sun had not yet climbed the tall hedge-row 
of wild fig-tree and aloes which skirts the road" 
side. The highway wound along through gar- 
dens, orchards, and vineyards, and here and 
there above me towered the glorious palm in 



286 THE pilgrim's breyiart. 

all its leafy magnificence. On my right, a swell- 
ing mountain-ridge, covered with verdure and 
sprinkled with little white hermitages, looked 
forth towards the rismg sun ; and oa the left, 
in a long, graceful curve, swept the bright wa- 
ters of the Guadalquivir, pursuing their silent 
journey through a verdant reach of soft lowland 
landscape. There, amid all the luxuriance of 
this sunny clime, arises the ancient city of C&r- 
dova, though stripped, alas ! of its former mag- 
nificence. All that reminds you of the past 
is the crumbling wall of the city, and a Saracen 
mosque, now changed to a Christian cathedral. 
The stranger, who is familiar with the history 
of the Moorish dominion m Spain, pauses with 
a sigh, and asks himself. Is this the imperial city 
of Alhakam the Just, and Abdoulrahman the 
Magnificent ? 



This, then, is Seville, that "pleasant city, 
famous for oranges and women." After all I 
have beard of its beauty, I am disappointed in 
finding it less beautiful than my imagination had 
pamted it. The wise saw, — 



THE pilgrim's brevurt. 287 

** QrUien no ha yisto Sevilla, 
No ha visto maravilla, " — 

He who has not seen Seville has seen no mar- 
vel, — is an Andalusian gasconade. This, how- 
ever, is the judgment of a traveller weary and 
wayworn with a journey of twelve successive 
days m a carriage drawn by mules ; and I am 
well aware how much our opinions of men and 
things are colored by these trivial ills. A sad 
spirit is like a rainy day ; its mists and shadows 
darken the brightest sky, and clothe the fairest 
landscape in gloom. 

I am, likewise, a disappomted man in another 
respect. I have come all the way from Madrid 
to Seville without being robbed ! And this, 
too, when I journeyed at a snail's pace, and had 
bought a watch large enough for the clock of a 
village church, for the express purpose of hav- 
ing it violently torn from me by a fierce-whis- 
kered highwayman, with his blunderbuss and his, 
" Boca abajo^ ladronea!^^ If I print tliis in a 
book, I am undone. What ! travel in Spain 
and not be robbed ! To be sure, I came very 
near it more than once. Almost every village 
we passed through had its tale to tell of atro- 
cities committed in the neighbourhood. In one 



388 THE pilgrim's brbtiart. 

place, the stage-coach had been stopped and 
plundered ; in another, a man had been mur- 
dered and thrown into the river ; here and there 
a rude wooden cross and a shapeless pile of 
stones marked the spot where some unwaiy trav- 
eller had met his fate ; and at night, seated around 
the blazing hearth of the inn-kitchen, my fellow- 
travellers would converse in a mysterious under- 
tone of the dangers we were to pass through 
on the morrow. But the morrow came and 
went, and, alas ! neither saUeadorj nor raUro 
moved a finger. At one place, we were a day 
too late ; at.another, a day too early. 

I am now at the Fonda de los Americanos. 
My chamber-door opens upon a gallery, beneath 
which is a little court paved with marble, having 
a fountain in the centre. As I write, I can just 
disdi^msh the tinklmg of its tiny jet, falling into 
the circular basin with a murmur so gende that 
it scarcely breaks the silence of the night. At 
day-dawn I start for Cadiz, promising myself a 
pleasant sail down the Guadalquivir. All I shall 
be able to say of Seville is what I have written 
above, — that it is "a pleasant city, famous for 
oranges and women." 



THE pilgrim's breviart. 389 

I AM at length in Cadiz. I came across the 
bay yesterday morning in an of&a boat from 
Santa Maria, and have established myself in 
very pleasant rooms, which look out upon tb^ 
JPlaza d^ San Jlntonio, the public square of the 
city. The morning sun awakes me, and at even* 
ing the sea-breeze comes in at my wmdow. At 
night the square is lighted by lamps suspended 
from the trees, and thronged with a brilliant crowd 
of the young and gay. 

Cadiz is beautiful almost beyond imagination.. 
The cities of our dreams are not mor^ enchant*' 
ing. It lies like a delicate sea-shell upon the 
brmk of the ocean, so wondrous fair that it seems 
not formed for man. In sooth, the Paphian 
queen, bom of the feathery sea-foam, dwells 
here. It is the city of beauty and of love. 

The women of Cadiz are world-renowned for 
dieir loveliness. Surely eartii has none more 
dazzling than a daughter of that bright, burning 
clime. What a fauldess figure ! what a dainty 
feot ! what dignity ! what matchless grace ! 

** What eyes, — what lips, — what every thing about her ! 
How like a swan she swims her pace, and bears 
Her silver breasts ! " % 

The Gaditana is not ignorant of her charms. 
19 



I 

290 TH£ pilgrim's breviary. 



She knows full well the necromancy of a smile. 
You see it in the flourish of her fan, — a magic 
wand, whose spell is powerful ; you see it in 
her steady gaze, the elastic step, 

"The veil, 
Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand, 
While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale, 
Flaahes into the heart." 

When I am grown old and gray, and sit by 
the fireside wrapped in flannels, if, in a listless 
moment, recalling what is now the present, but 
will then be the distant and almost forgotten 
past, I turn over the leaves of this journal till 
my watery eye falls upon the page I have just 
written, I shall smile at the enthusiasm with 
which I have sketched this portrait. And where 
will then be the bright forms that now glance 
before me, like tlie heavenly 'creations of a 
dream ? All gone, — all gone ! Or, if per- 
chance a few still linger upon earth, the silver 
cord will be loosed, — they will be bowed with 
age and sorrow, saying their paternosters with 
a tremulous voice. 

Old age is a Pharisee ; for he makes broad 
his phylacteries, and wears them upon his brow, 



THE pilgrim's breviart. 291 

inscribed with prayer, but in the ^' crooked auto- 
graph " of a palsied hand. ^^ I see with pain," 
says Madame de Pompadour, ^' that there is 
nothing durable upon earth. We bring into the 
world a fair face, and lo ! in less than thirty 
years it is covered with wrinkles ; after which 
a woman is no longer good for any thing." 

Were I to translate these sombre reflections 
into choice Castilian, and read them to the bright- 
eyed houri who is now leaning over the balcony 
opposite, she would laugh, and laughing say, 
^^Cuando el demonio ea viejo^ se mete frayle.^^ 



The devotion paid at the shrme of the Vir- 
gin is one of the most promment and charac- 
teristic features of the Catholic religion. In 
Spain it is one of its most attractive features. 
In the southern provinces, in Granada and in 
Andalusia, which the inhabitants call '^ La tierra 
de Maria Santirima^^^ — the land of the most 
holy Mary, — this adoration is ardent and enthu- 
siastic. There is one of its outward observan- 
ces which struck me as peculiarly beautiful and 
impressive. I refer to the Ave Maria, an even- 
ing service of the Virgin. Just as the evening 



392 THE pilgrim's bretiart. 

twilight commences, the bell tolls to prayer. 
In a moment, throughout the crowded city, the 
hum of business is hushed, the thronged streets 
are still ; the gay multitudes that crowd the pub-* 
lie walks stand motionless ; the angry dispute 
ceases ; the laugh of merriment dies away ; life 
seems for a moment to be arrested m its career, 
and to stand still. The multitude uncover their 
heads, and, with the sign of the cross, whisper 
their evening prayer to the Virgin. Then the 
bells ring a merrier peal ; the crowds move again 
in the streets, and the rush and turmoil of busi- 
ness recommence. I have always listened with 
feelings of solemn pleasure to the bell that sound- 
ed forth the Ave Maria. As it announced the 
close of day, it seemed also to call the soul 
from its worldly occupations to repose and devo- 
tion. There is something beautiful in thus meas- 
uring the march of time. The hour, too, nat- 
urally brings the heart into unison with the feel- 
ings and sentiments of devotion. The close of 
the day, the shadows of evening, the calm of 
twilight, inspire a feeling of tranquillity; and 
though I may differ from the Catholic in regard 
to the object of his supplication, yet it seems 
to me a beautiful and appropriate solenmity, that, 



TBE pilgrim's BREVIARY. 293 

at the close of each daily epoch of life^ — which, 
if it hare not been fruitful in incidents to our- 
selves, has, nevertheless, been so to many of 
the great human family, — the voice of a whole 
people, an4 of the whole world, should go up 
to heaven in praise, and supplication, and thank-* 
fulness. 



** The Moorish king rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From £lvira*B gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! " 

Thus commences one of the fine old Span- 
ish ballads, commemorating the downfall of the 
city of Alhama, where we have stopped to rest 
our horses on their fatiguing march from Velez-^ 
Malaga to Granada. Alhama was one of the 
last strongholds of the Moslem power in Spain. 
Its fall opened the way for the Christian army 
across the Sierra Nevada, and spread conster- 
nation and despair through the city of Granada. 
The description in the old ballad is highly graph- 
ic and beautiful ; and its beauty is well preserved 
in the spirited English translation by Lord B]n*on. 



294 THE pilgrim's breviary. 

As we crossed the Sierra Nevada, the snowy 
mountains that look down upon the luxuriant 
Vega of Granada, we overtook a solitary rider, 
who was singing a wild national song, to cheer 
the loneliness of his journey. He was an ath- 
letic man, and rode a spirited horse of the Arab 
breed. A black bearskin jacket covered his 
broad shoulders, and around his waist was wound 
the crimson faja^ so universally worn by the 
Spanish peasantry. His velvet breeches reached 
below his knee, just meeting a pair of leather 
gaiters of elegant workmanship. A gay silken 
handkerchief was tied round his head, and over 
this he wore the little round Andalusian hat, 
decked out with a profusion of tassels of silk 
^nd bugles of silver. The steed he mounted 
was dressed*^ no less gayly than his rider. There 
was a silver star upon his forehead, and a bright- 
colored woollen tassel between his ears ; a blanket 
striped with blue and red covered the saddle, 
and even the Moorish stirrups were ornamented 
with brass studs. 

This personage was a contrahandistay — a 
smuggler between Granada and the seaport of 
Velez-Mdlaga. The song he sung was one of 
the popular ballads of the country. 



f 



THE pilgrim's bretiart. 395 

Worn with speed is my good steed. 

And I march me hurried, worried ; 

Onward ! caballito mio. 

With the white star in thy forehead ! 

Onward ! here comes the patrol, 

And I hear their rifles crack ! 

Ay, jaleo ! Ay, ay, jaleo ! 

Ay, jaleo ! they cross our track ! * 

The air to which these words are sung is wild 
and high ; and the prolonged and mournful ca- 
dence gives it the sound of a funeral wail, or a 
cry for help. To have its full effect upon the 
mind, it should be heard hy night, in some wild 

* I here transcribe the original of which this is a single 
stanza. Its only merit is simplicity, and a certain grace 
which belongs to its provincial phraseology, and which 
would be lost in a translation. 

** Yo que soy contrabandista, 

Y campo por mi respeto, 
A todos los desafio, 
Porque & naide tengo mieo. 

j Ay, jaleo ! \ Muchachas, jaleo ! 
i Owen me compra jilo negro ? 

'* Mi caballo estd cansao, 

Y yo me marcho corriendo. 
i Anda, caballito mio, 
Caballo mio careto ! 



296 THE filgbim's beitiax^t. 

mountain-pass, and from a distance. Then the 
harsh tones come softened to the ear, and, in 
unison with the hour and the scene, produce a 
pleasing melancholy* 

The contrabaodista acconqianied us to Gra- 
nada. The sun had already set when we en- 
tered the Vega, — those luxuriant meadows which 
stretch away to the south and west of the city, 
league after league of rich, unbroken verdure. 
It was Satitfday night; and, as the gatheriiq; 
twilight fell around us, and one by one the larnp^ 
of the cky twinkled in the distimce, suddenly 
kindling here and there, as the stars start to their 
places in the evening sky, a loud peal of bells 
rang forth its gkd welocMne to the day of rest^ 



i Anda, que riene la ronda, 
Y «e mueve el tiroteo ! 
I Ay, jalee ! j Ay, ay^ jalco ! 
i Ay, jaleo, que noa cortan ! 
SacaoM d» aqueato aprieto. 

«( Hi oaballo ya no corre, 
Ya mi caballo par6. 
Todo para en este mundo, 
Tambien he de parar yo. 
j Ay, jaleo ! ; Muchachaa, jaleo ! 
i Quien me compra jilo negro? " 



THC PlX«eilIM's BRBTIART. 397 

orer the meadows to the distant hiUs^ ^^swu^* 
ing s]ow» with solemn roar." 



Is this reality wad not a dream ? Am I in* 
deed in Granada ? Am I indeed within the 
walls of that earthly paradise of the Moorish 
hings ? How my spuit is stirred within me ! 
How my heart is lifted up ! How my thoughts 
are rapt away in the visions of other days ! 

Jlv4f Maria puriuima ! It is midnight. The 
b^ has tolled the hour 'from the watchtower 
of the Alhambra ; and the silent street echoes 
only to the watchman's cry^ A)ej Maria pm* 
fimma ! I am alone m my chamber, — sleejdess, 
•—spell-bound by the genius of the^ place, — en- 
tranced by the beauty of the star-fit night. As 
I gaze from my window, a sudden radiance 
brightens m the east. It is the moon, rising 
behind the Alhambra. I can faintly cBscem the 
dusky and indistinct outline of a massive tower, 
!^andii^ annd the uncertam twilight, like a ^- 
gantie shadow. It changes with the rising moon, 
as a palace in the clouds, and other towers aod 
battlements arbe, — every moment more distinct, 
more palpidile, till now they stand between me 



298 THE pilgrim's bretiart. 

and the sky, with a sbarp outline, distant, and jet 
so near that I seem to sit within their shadow. 

Majestic spirit of the night, I recognize thee ! 
Thou hast conjured up this glorious vision for 
thj votary. Thou hast baptized me with thy 
baptism. Thou hast nourished my soul with 
fervent 'thoughts and holy aspirations, and ar- 
dent longings after the beautiful and the true. 
Majestic spirit of the past, I recognize thee ! 
Thou hast bid the shadow go back for me upon 
the dial-plate of time. Thou hast taught me 
to read in thee the present and the future, — a 
revelation of man's destiny on earth. Thou hast 
taught me to see in thee the principle that un- 
folds itself from century to centiny in the pro- 
gress of our race, — the germ in whose bosom 
lie unfolded the bud, the leaf, the tree. Gen- 
erations perish, like the leaves of the forest, 
passing away when their mission is completed ; 
but at each succeeding spring, broader and high- 
er spreads the human mind unto its perfect stat- 
ure, unto the fulfilment of its destiny, unto the 
perfection of its nature. And in these high rev- 
elations, thou hast taught me more, — thou hast 
taught me to feel that I, too, weak, humble, and 
unknown, feeble of purpose and irresolute of 



THE pilgrim's BREYIART; 399 

good, have something to accomplbh upon earth, 
—like the fallmg leaf, like the passmg wind, 
like the drop of rain. O glorious thought ! that 
lifts me above the power of time and chance, 
and tells me that I cannot pass away, and leave 
no mark of my existence. I may not know the 
purpose of mj bemg, — the end for which an 
all-wise Providence created me as I am, and 
placed me where I am ; but I do know — for in 
such tiungs faith is knowledge — that mj bemg 
has a purpose in the omniscience of my Creator, 
and that all my actions tend to the completion, 
to the full accomplishment of that purpose. Is 
this fatality ? No. I feel that I am free, though 
an infinite and invisible power overrules me. Man 
proposes, and God disposes. This is one of the 
many mysteries in our being which human reason 
cannot find out by searching. 

Yonder towers, that stand so huge and massive 
in the midnight air, the work of human hands 
that have long smce foi^otten their cunning in 
the grave, and once the home of human beings 
immortal as ourselves, and filled like us with 
hopes and fears, and powers of good and ill, — 
are lasting memorials of their builders ; inanimate 
material forms, yet Uvmg with the impress of a 



900 THE filgrih's BRETimr* 

creative mind. These are hndmarks of other 
times. Thus firom the distant past the histCNry 
of the faamao race is telegraphed from generation 
to generatioD, through the present to all succeed* 
ing ages. These are manifestatioiis of the ho* 
man mind at a remote period of its fabtory, and 
among a people who came from another clime, — > 
the cfaikiren of the desert. Their mission is 
accomplished) and tbqr are gone ; jet kaving 
behind them a thousand records of themselves 
and of their ministry, not as yet fully manifest, 
but '< seen through a ^ass darkly," dimly shad* 
owed forth in the language, and character, and 
manners, and history of the nation, that was by 
turns the conquered and the conquering. The 
Goth sat at the Arab's feet ; and athwart the 
cloud and storm of war, streamed the light of 
Oriental learning upon the Weston world,—* 

*' As when the autumnal sun, 
Through travelling rain and mist, 
Shines on th« eTening hills." 



This morning I visited the Alhambra ; an 
enchanted palace, whose exquisite beauty baffles 
the power of language to describe. Its outlmes 



THE pilgrim's B]t£TIART. SOI 

may be drawn, -— its halls and galleries,, its courts 
jBids and its fountains, numbered ; but what skil- 
ful limner shall portraj in words its curious ar- 
chitecture, the grotesque ornaments, the quaint de- 
vices, the rich tracery of the walls, the ceilmgs 
mlaid with pearl and tortoise-shell ? what Ian* 
guage paint the magic hues of light and shade, 
the shimmer of the sunbeam as it falls upon the 
marble pairement, and the brilliant panels inlaid 
with mAy-colored stones ? Vague recollections 
fiU my mind, — images dazzling but undefined, 
like the memory of a goi^eous dream. They 
crowd my brain confusedly, but they will not 
stay ; they change and mingle, like the trem- 
ulous sunshine on the wave, till imagination itself 
is dazzled, -r- bewildered, — ov^owered ! 

What most arrests the stranger's foot within 
the walls of the Alhambra is the refinement of 
luxury which he sees at every step. He lin- 
gers in the deserted bath, — he pauses to gaze 
upon the now vacant saloon, where, stretched 
upon his gilded couch, the effeminate monarch 
of the East was wooed to sleep by softly breath- 
ing music. What more delightful than this se- 
cluded garden, green with the leaf of the myrtle 
and the orange, and freshened with the gush of 



302 THE pilgrim's breviart. 

fountains, beside whose basin the nightingale still 
wooes the blushing rose ? What more fanciful, 
more exquisite, more like a creation of Oriental 
magic, than the lofty tower of the Tocador, — its 
air7 sculpture resembling the fretwork of wintry- 
frost, and its windows overlooking the romantic 
vallej of the Darro ; and the city, with its gar- 
dens, domes, and spires, far, far below ? Cool 
through this lattice comes the summer wind, from 
the icy summits of the Sierra Nevada.^ Sofdy 
in yonder fountain falls the crystal water, drip- 
pmg from its marble vase with never-ceasing 
sound. On eveiy side comes up the fragrance 
of a thousand flowers, the murmur of innumer- 
able leaves ; and overhead is a sky where not 
a vapor floats, — as soft, and blue, and radiant 
as the eye of childhood ! 

Such is the Alhambra of Granada ; a fortress, 
— a palace, — an eartlily paradise, — a rum, 
wonderful in its fallen greatness ! 



ITALY. 



\ 



THE 

JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 



What 1 catch is at present only sketch-ways, as it were ; 
but I prepare myself betimes for the Italian journey. 

GoETBs's Faust. 



On the afternoon of the fifteenth of Decem*- 

ber, in the. year of grace one thousand eight 

• 

hundred and twenty-seven, I left Marseilles for 
Genoa, taking the sea-i^ore road through Tou* 
Ion, Draguignan, and Nice. This journey is 
written in my memory with a sunbeam. We 
were a company whom chance had thrown to- 
gether, — different in ages, humors, and pursuits, 
— and yet so merrily the days went by, in sun- 
shine, wind, or rain, that methinks some lucky 
star must have ruled the hour that brought us 
five so auspiciously together. But where is now 
that merry company f One sleeps b- his youth- 
ful grave ; two sit in their fatherland, and ^^ coiii 
their brain for their daily bread " ; and the oth- 

20 



306 THE JOURNEY INTO ITALT. 

ers, — where are they ? If stiD among the Bv- 
iog, I beg them to remember in their prayers the 
humble historian of their journey from Marseilles 
to Genoa. 

At Toulon we took a private carriage, in 
order to pursue our journey more leisurely and 
more at ease. I weD remember the strange, out- 
landish vehicle, and our vetturino Joseph, with 
his blousCy his short-stenomed pipe, his limping 
gait, his comical phiz, and the lowland dialect 
his mother taught him at Avignon. Every scene, 
every incident of the journey is now before me 
as if written in a book. The sunny landscapes 
of the Var, — the peasant girls, with their broad- 
brimmed hats of straw, — the inn at Draguignan, 
with its painting of a lady on horseback, under- 
written in French and English, " Unejeune dame 
a la promenade^ — A young ladi taking a walk," 
— the mouldering arches of the Roman aqueducts 
at Frejus, standing in the dim twilight of morning 
like shadowy apparitions of the past, — the woodi 
ed bridge across the Var, — the glorious amphi- 
theatre of hills that half encircle Nice, — the mid- 
night scene at the village inn of Monaco, — the 
mountain-road overhanging the sea at a dizzy 
height, and its long, dark passages cut through 



THE JOURNEY INTO ITALT. 307 

the solid rock, — the tumbling mountain- torrent, 
— and a fortress perched on a jutting spur of the 
Alps ; these, and a thousand varied scenes and 
landscapes of this journey, rise before me, as if 
still visible to the eye of sense, and not to that 
of memory only. And yet I will not venture 
upon a minute description of them. I have not 
colors bright enough for such landscapes ; and 
besides, even the most determined lovers of the 
picturesque grow weary of long descriptions ; 
though, as the French guide-book says of these 
scenes, ^^ Tout cela fait sans doute un spectacle 
admirtJfk ! " 



On the tenth day of our journey, we reached 
Genoa, the city of palaces, — the superb city. 
The writer of an old book, called " Time's 
Storehouse," thus poetically describes its sit- 
uation: — " This cittie is most proudly built upon 
^the seacoast and the downefall of the Appenines, 
at the foot of a mountaine ; even as if she were 
descended downe the mount, and come to repose 
berselfe uppon a plaine." 

It was Christmas eve, — a glorious night ! I 
stood at midnight on the wide terrace of our 



908 THE JOURKET INTO ITkhY. 

hotel, which overlooks die sea, and, gazuig on 
the tiny and crisping waves, that broke in pearly- 
light beneath the moon, sent back my wandering 
thoughts far over the sea, to a distant home. 
The jangling music of church-bells aroused me 
from my dream. It was the sound of jubilee 
at the approaching festival of the Nativity, and 
summoned alike the pious devotee, the curious 
stranger, and the gallant lover to the church of 
the Annunziata. 

I descended from the terrace, and, groping my 
way through one of the dark and narrow lanes 
which intersect the city in all directions, soon 
found myself in the Strada Nuova. The long 
line of palaces lay half in shadow, half in light, 
stretching before me in magical perspective, like 
the long, vapory openbg of a cloud i« tlie sum- 
mer sky. Following the various group^ that 
were passing onward towards the public square, 
I entered the church, where midnight mass was 
to be chanted. A dazzling blaze of light from 
the high altar shone upon the red marble columns 
which support the roof, and fell with a solemn 
effect upon the kneeling crowd that filled the 
body of the church. All beyond was in dark- 
ness ; and from that darkness at intervals burst 



THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 309 

forth the deep voice of the organ and the chant* 
ing of the choir, filling the soul with solemnity 
and awe. And yet, among that prostrate crowd, 
how many had been drawn thither by unworthy 
motives, — motives even more unworthy than 
mere idle curiosity ! How many sinful purposes 
arose in souls unpurified, and mocked at the 
bended knee ! How many a heart beat wild 
with earthly passion, while the unconscious lip 
repeated the accustomed prayer ! Immortal 
spirit ! canst thou so heedlessly resist the im- 
ploring voice that calls thee from thme errors 
and pollutions ? Is not the long day long 
enough, is not the wide world wide enough, has 
not society frivolity enough for thee, that thou 
shouldst seek out this midnight hour, this holy 
place, this solemn sacrifice, to add irreverence to 
thy folly ? 

In the shadow of a column stood a young man 
wrapped in a cloak, earnestly conversing in a 
low whisper with a female figure, so veiled as 
to hide her face from the eyes of all but her 
companion. At length they separated. The 
young man continued leaning against the column, 
and the girl, gliding silently along the dimly light- 
ed aisle, mingled with the crowd, and threw her- 



310 THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 

self upon her knees. Beware, poor girl, thought 
I, lest thy gentle nature prove thy undoing ! 
Perhaps, alas ! thou art already undone ! And 
I almost heard the evil spirit whisper, as in the 
Faust, " How different was it with thee, Marga- 
ret, when, still full of innocence, thou earnest 
to the altar here, — ^out of the weD worn little 
book lispedst prayers, half child-sport, half God 
in the heart ! Margaret, where is thy head ? 
What crime in thy heart ! " 

The city of Genoa is magnificent in parts, 
but not as a whole. The houses are high, and 
the streets in general so narrow that m many 
of them you may almost step across from side 
to side. They are built to receive the cool sea- 
breeze, and shut out the burning sun. Only 
three of them — if my memory serves me — 
are wide enough to admit the passage of car- 
riages ; and these three form but one continuous 
street, — the street of palaces. They are the 
Strada Nuova, the Strada Novissima, and the 
Strada Baibi, which connect the Piazza Amo- 
rosa with the Piazza dell' Annunziata. These 
palaces, the Doria, the Durazzo, the Ducal Pal- 
ace, and others of less magnificence, — with their 
vast halls, their marble staircases, vestibules, and 



THE JOURNET INTO ITALY. 311 

terraces, and the aspect of splendor and mu- 
nificence they wear, — have given this coramer- 
cial city the title of Genoa the Superb. And, 
as if to humble her pride, some envious rival 
among the Italian cities has launched at her a 
biting sarcasm in the well known proverb, ''Mare 
stnza peace y uomini senza fede^ e donne senza 
vergogna^^^ — A sea without fish, men without 
probity, and women without modesty ! 



The road firom Genoa to Lucca strongly re- 

• 

sembles that from Nice to Genoa. It runs along 
the seaboard, now dippmg to the water's edge, 
and now climbing the zigzag mountain-pass, 
with toppling crags, and yawning chasms,^ and 
verdant terraces of vines and olive-trees. Many 
a sublime and many a picturesque landscape 
catches the traveller's eye, now almost weary 
with gazing ; and still brightly painted upon my 
mind lies a calm evening scene on the borders 
of the Gulf of Spezia, with its broad sheet 
of crystal water, — the blue-tinted hills that jprm 
Its oval basm, — the crimson sky above, and its 
bright reflection, — 



313 THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 

•« Where it lay 
Deep boflomed in the vtill and quiet baj, 
The sea reflecting all that glowed above, 
Till a new sky, softer but not so gay. 
Arched in its bosom, trembled like a dove." 



Pisa, the melancholy city, with its Leaning 
Tower, its Campo Santo, its bronze-gated ca* 
thedral, and its gloomy palaces, — Florence the 
Fair, with its magniGcent Duomo, its gallery of 
ancient art, its gardens, its gay society, and its 
delightful environs, — Fiesole, Camaldoli, Val- 
kxnbrosa, and the luxuriant Val d' Amo ; — these 
have been so often and so beautifully described 
by others, that I need not repeat the twice-told 



At Florence I took lodgmgs in a house which 
looks upon the Piazza Novella. In front of my 
windows was the venerable church of Santa Ma- 
ria Novella, in whose gloomy aisles Boccaccio 
ba^placed the opening scene of his Decamerone. 
There, when the plague was ragmg in the city, 
one Tuesday morning, after mass, the '' seven 
ladies, young and fair," held counsel together. 



THE J0UR5EY INTO ITALT. 313 

asd resolved to leave the infected city, and flee 
to their rural villas in the environs, where they 
might '^ hear the birds sing, and see the green 
hills, and the plains, and the fields covered with 
grain and undulating like the sea, and trees of 
species mai^ifold.^' 

In ttie Florentine museum is a representation 
in wax of some of the appalling scenes of the 
plague which desolated this city about the mid- 
dle of the fourteenth century, and which Boc-* 
caccio has described with such simplicity and 
power in the introduction of his Decamerone. 
It is the work of a Sicilian artist, by the name 
of Zumbo. He must have been a man of the 
most gloomy and saturnine imagination, and more 
akin to the worm than most of us, thus to have 
revelled night and day in the hideous mysteries 
of death, corruption, and the charnel-house. It 
is strange how this representation haunts one. 
It is like a dream of the sepulchre, with its loath- 
some corses, with "the blackening, the swell- 
ing, the bursting of the trunk, — the worm, the 
rat, and the tarantula at work." You breajhe 
more freely as you step out into the open air 
again; and when the bright sunshine and the 
crowded, busy streets next meet your eye, you 



S14 THE JOURNEY INTO ITALT. 

are ready to ask, Is tbis indeed a representation 
of reality ? Can this pure air have been laden 
mih pestilence ? Can tbis gay city bave ever 
been a city of tbe plague ? 

Tbe work of tbe Sicilian artist is admirable 
as a piece of art ; the description of tbe Flo- 
rentine prose-poet equally admirable as a piece 
of eloquence. ^' How many vast palaces," he 
exclaims, ^' bow many beautiful bouses, bow 
many noble dwellings, aforetime filled with lords 
and ladies and trains of servants, were now un- 
tenanted even by tbe lowest menial ! How many 
memorable families, bow many ample heritages, 
bow many renowned possessions, were left with- 
out an heir ! How many valiant men, bow many 
beautiful women, bow many gende youths break- 
fiisted in the morning with their relatives, com- 
panions, and friends, and, when the evening came, 
supped with their ancestors in tbe other world ! " 



I MET with an odd character at Florence, — a 
complete humorist. He was an Englishman of 
some forty years of age, with a round, good- 
humored countenance, and a nose that wore the 
livery of good company. He was making the 



THE JOURNET INTO ITALY. 315 

• 

grand tour through France and Italy, and home 
again by the way of the Tyrol and the Rhine. 
He travelled post, with a double-barrelled gun, 
two pair of pistols, and a violin without a bow. 
He had been in Rome without seeing St. Peter's, 
— he did not care about it ; he had seen St. 
Paul's in London. He had been in Naples with- 
out visiting Pompeii, because " they told him it 
was hardly worth seeing, — nothing but a parcel 
of dark streets and old walls." The principal 
object he seemed to have in view was to com- 
plete the grand tour. 

I afterward met with his counterpart in a coun- 
tryman of my own, who made it a point to see 
every thing which was mentioned in the guide- 
books ; and boasted how much he could accom- 
plish in a day. He would despatch a city in an 
incredibly short space of time. A Roman aque- 
duct, a Gothic cathedral, two or three modem 
churches, and an ancient ruin or so, were only a 
breakfast for him. Nothmg came amiss ; not a 
stone was left unturned. A city was like a Chi- 
nese picture to him, — it had no perspective. 
Every object seemed of equal magnitude and im- 
portance. He saw them all ; they were all won- 
derful. 



316 THE JOUINEY INTO ITALY. 

Life is short, and art b long ; yet spare mQ 
from thus travelling with the speed of thought, 
and trotting, from daylight until dark, at the heels 
of a cicerone, with an umbrella in one hand, and 
a guide-book and plan of the city in the other. 



I COPIED the following singular inscription from 
a tombstone in the Protestant cemetery at Leg- 
horn. It is the epitaph of a kdy, written by 
herself, and engraven upon her tomb at her own 
request. 

** Under this stone lies the victim of aorrow. 
Fly, wandering stranger, from her mouldering dust, 
Lest the rude wind, conveying a particle thereof unto thee, 
Should communicate that venom melancholy 
That has destroyed the strongest frame and liveliest spirit. 
With Joy of heart has she resigned her breath, 
A living martyr to sensibility ! " 
• 

How inferior in true pathos is this inscription to 
one in the cemetery of Bologna ; — 

" Lucrezia Picini 
Implora etema pace." 

Lucretia Picini implores eternal peace ! 

From Florence to Rome I travelled with a 



THE JOURNEY II7T0 ITAI.T. 317 

retturino, hy the way of Siena. We were six 
days upon the road, and, like Peter Rugg in the 
story-book, were followed constantly by clouds 
and rain. At times, the sun, not all'^forgetful oi 
the world, peeped from beneath his cowl of mist, 
and kissed the swarthy face of his beloved land ; 
and then, like an anchorite, withdrew agam (rooi 
earth, and gave himself to heaven. Day after 
day the mist and the rain were my fellow-ti^v* 
eUers ; and as I sat wrapped in the thick folds 
of my Spanish cloak, and looked out upon the 
misty landscape and the leaden sky, I was contin- 
uaBy saying to myself, " Can this be Italy ? " 
and smiling at the untravelled credulity of those 
who, amid the storms of a northern winter, give 
way to the illusions of fancy, and dream of Italy 
as a sunny land, where no wintry tempest beats, 
and where, even in January, the pale invalid may 
go about without his imibrella, or his India-rubber 
walk-in-the-waters. 

Notwithstanding all this, with the help of a 
good constitution and a thick pair of boots, I con- 
trived to see all that was to be seen upon the 
road. I walked down the long hillside at San 
Lorenzo, and along the border of the Lake of 
Bolsena, which, veiled in the driving nrist. 



318 THE JOURNET INTO IT ALT. 

Stretched like an bland sea beyond my ken ; and 
through the sacred forest of oak, held in super- 
stitious reverence by the peasant, and inviolate 
from his axe. I passed a night at Montefiascone, 
renowned for a delicate Muscat wine, which bears 
the name of Est, and made a midnight pilgrimage 
to the tomb of the Bishop John Defoucris, who 
died a martyr to his love of this wine of M onte- 
fiascone. 

" Propter niminm Est, Est, Est, 
Dominus meus mortuus est." 

A marble slab m the pavement, worn by the foot- 
steps of pSgrims like myself, covers the dominie's 
ashes. There is a rude figure carved upon it, at 
whose feet I traced out the cabalistic words, 
''Est, Est, Est." The remainder of the in- 
scription was illegible by the flickering light of the 
sexton's lantern. 

At Baccano I first caught sight of the dome 
of Saint Peter's. We had entered the deso- 
late Campagna ; we passed the Tomb of Nero, 
— we approached the Eternal City ; but no 
sound of active life, no thronging crowds, no 
hum of busy men, annoimced that we were near 
the gates of Rome. All was silence, solitude, 
and desolation. 



ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 



-She who tamed the world seemed to tame herself at last, 
and, falling under her own weight, grew to be a prey to Time, 
who with his iron teeth consumes all bodies at last, making 
all things, both animate and inanimate, which have their be- 
ing under that changeling, the moon, to be subject unto cor- 
ruption and desolation. 

H0WELL*8 SiGNORIE OF ViNICI. 



The masks and mummeries of Carnival are 
over ; the imposing ceremonies of Holy Week 
l]ave become a tale of the times of old ; the illu- 
mination of St. Peter's and the Girandola are no 
longer the theme of gentle and simple ; and final- 
ly, the barbarians of the North have retreated 
from the gates of Rome, and left the Eternal 
City silent and deserted. The cicerone stands at 
the comer of the street with his hands in his 
pockets ; the artist has shut himself up in his 
studio to muse upon antiquity, ; and the idle 
facchmo lounges in the market-place, and plays 
at mora by the fountain. Midsummer has come ; 



320 ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 

and 70U may now hire a pakce for what, a few- 
weeks ago, would hardly have paid your night's 
lodging in its garret. 

I am still lingering in Rome, — a student, not 
an artist, — and have taken lodgings in the Piaz- 
za Navona, the veiy heart of the city, and one 
of the largest and most magnificent squares of 
modem Rome. It occupies the site of the an- 
cient amphitheatre of Alexander Severus ; and the 
churches, palaces, and shops that now surround 
it are built upon the old foundations of the amphi*> 
dieatre. At each extremity of the square stands 
a fountain ; the one with a simple jet of crys- 
tal water, the other with a triton holding a dol- 
phm by the tail. In the centre rises a nobler 
work of art ; a fountain with a marble basin moigt 
than two hundred feet in circumference. From 
the midst uprises a huge rock, pierced with grot* 
toes, wherein sit a rampant sea-horse, and a lion 
couchant. On the sides of the rock are four 
colossal statues, representing the^four principal 
rivers of the world ; and from its summit, forty 
feet from the basin below, shoots up an obelisk 
of red granite, cov^ed with hieroglyphics, and 
fifty feet in height, — a relic of the amphitheatre 
of Caracalla. 



ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 381 

la this quarter of tbe city I have domiciliated 
mjTself, m a family of whose many kindnesses I 
shall always retam the most lively and grateful 
remembrance* My mommgs are spent m visit- 
ing the wonders ol Rome, in studjring the mir- 
acles of ancient and modem art, or in readii^ 
at the public libraries. We breakfast at noon, 
and dine at eight in the evening. After dinner 
comes the conversazione, enlivened with music, 
ttid the meeting of travellers, artists, and literary 
men from every quarter of the globe. At mid- 
night, when the crowd is gone, I retire to my 
<(dxunber, and, poring over the gloomy pages of 
Dante, or ^^ Baadello's laughing tale,'' protraet 
way nightly vigil tiM the morning star is in the sky. 

Our windows k>ok out upon the square, whidi 
circumstance is a source of infinite enjoymeolt 
to me. Directly in front, with its fantastic bd- 
fries and sw^Bii^ d(Hne, rises the church of St. 
Agnes ; and sittmg by the open window, I note 
the busy scene bek>w, enjoy the cool air of 
inommg and evemng, and even feel the freshnesB 
o! the fountain, as its waters leap in mimic cas- 
cades down tbe sides of the rock. 



21 



322 ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 

The Piazza Navona is the chief market-phce 
of Rome ; and on market-dajs is filled with 
a noisy crowd of the Roman populace, and the 
peasantry from the neighbouring villages of Al- 
bano and Frascati. At such times the square 
presents an animated and curious scene. The 
gaylj decked stalls, — the piles of fruits and veg- 
etables, — the pyramids of flowers, — the. various 
costumes of the peasantry, — the constant move- 
ment of the vast, fluctuating crowd, and the deaf- 
ening clamor of their discordant voices, that 
rise louder than the roar of the loud ocean, — 
all this is better than a play to me, and gives me 
amusement when naught else has power to amuse. 

Every Saturday afternoon m the sultry month 
of August, this spjicious square is converted into 
a lake, by stopping the conduit-pipes which carry 
off the water of the fountabs. Vehicles of every 
description, axle-deep, drive to and fro across 
the mimic lake ; a dense crowd gathers around 
its margin, and a thousand tricks excite the loud 
laughter of the idle populace. Here is a fel- 
low gropmg with a stick after his seafaring hat ; 
there another splashmg in the water in pursuit 
of a mischievous spaniel, who is swimming away 
with his shoe ; while from a neighbouring bal- 



ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 323 

• 

cony a noisy burst of militaiy music fills the air, 
and gives firesb animation to the scene of mirth. 
This is one of the popular festivals of midsum- 
mer in Rome, and the merriest of them all. It 
is a kind of carnival unmasked ; and many a 
popular bard, many a poeta di dozzina, in- 
vokes this day the plebeian Muse of the market- 
place to sing in high-sounding rhyme, '' R Logo 
di Piazza •Navona.^^ 

I have before me one of these sublime effu- 
sions. It describes the square, — the crowd, — 
the rattling carriages, — the lake, — the fountain, 
raised by ^^ the superhmnan genius of Bernini," — 
the lion, — the sea-horse, and the triton grasping 
the dolphin's tail. ^^Half the grand square," 
thus sings the poet, ^^ where Rome with food 
is satiate, was changed mto a lake, around whose 
margin stood the Roman people, pleased with 
soft idleness and merry holyday, like birds upon 
the margin of a limpid brook. Up and down 
drove car and chariot ; and the women trembled 
for fear of the deep water ; though merry were 
the young, and well I ween, had they been borne 
away to unknown shores by the bull that bore 
away Europa, they would neither have wept nor 
screamed ! " 



324 ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 

« 

On the eastern slope of the Janiculum, how 
called, from its yellow sands, Montorio, ot the 
Golden Mountain, stands the fountain of Acqua 
Paola, the largest and most abundant of the Ro- 
tban fountains. It is a small Ionic temple, with 
six cdumns of reddish granite in front, a spa- 
cious hall and chambers within, and a garden with 
a terrace in the rear. Beneath the pavement, k 
torrent of water from the ancient aqueducts of 
Trajan, and from the lakes of Bracdiano and 
Martignano, leaps forth in three beautiful cas- 
cades, and from the overflowmg basin rushes 
down the hill-side to turn the busy wheels of a 
dozen mills. 

The key of this little fairy palace is ih our 
liands, and as often as once a week we pass the 
iday there, amid the odor of its flowers, the rush- 
ing sound of its watet^, and the enchantments 
of poetry and music. How pleasantly the sultry 
hours steal by ! Cool comes the summer wind 
from the Tiber's mouth at Ostia. Above us is 
a sky without a cloud ; beneath us the magnifi- 
cent panorama of Rome and the Campagna, 
bounded by the Abnizzi and the sea. Glorious 
scene ! one glance at thee would move the dull- 
est soul, — one glance can melt the painter and 
the poet into tears ! 



RQME IN MIDSUMMER, ^25. 

In the imipediate neighbourhood of the fpun* 
tain are many objects worthy of the stranger'^ 
notice. A bowshot down the hill-side towards 
the city stands the convent of^ San Pietro in 
Montorio ; and in the cloister of this convent 
is a small, round Doric temple, built upon the 
spot which an ancient tradition points out as the 
scene of St. Peter's martyrdom. In the opppr 
site direction the road leads you over the shoulder 
of die hill, and out through the city-gate to ga;ir- 
dens and villas beyond. Passing beneath a lofty 
arch of .Trajan's aqueduct, an ornamented gate- 
yr^Y on the left admits you to the Villa Pamfili- 
Poria, built on the western declivity of the hill. 
This is the largest and most magnificent of the 
numerous villas that crowd the immediate envi-; 
rons of Rome. Its spacious terraces, its marble 
statues, its woodlands and green alleys, its lake 
and waterfalls and fountains, give it an air of 
courtly splendor and of rural beauty, which real- 
izes the beau ideal of a suburban villa. 

This is our favorite resort, when we have 
passe4 fhe day at the fountain, and the aftemoq^ 
shadow? begin to fall. There we sit on th§ 
broad marble steps of the terrace, gaze upoq 
the varied landscape stretching to the misty sea. 



326 ROME IN MIDSUMMEE. 

or ramble beneath the leafy dome of the wood- 
land and along the margin of the lake, 

** And diyp a pebble to see it sink 
Down in those depths so calm and cool." 

O, did we but know when we are happy ! 
Could the restless, feverish, ambitious heart be 
still, but for a moment still, and yield itself, 
without one farther-aspiring throb, to its enjoy- 
ment, — then were I happy, — yes, thrice happy ! 
But no ; this fluttering, struggling, and impris- 
oned spirit beats the bars of its golden cage, — 
disdains the silken fetter ; it will not close its 
eye and fold its wings ; as if time were not swift 
enough, its swifter thoughts outstrip his rapid 
fliglit, and onward, onward do they wing their 
way to the distant mountains, to the fleeting 
clouds of the future ; and yet I know, that ere 
long, weary, and wayworn, and disappointed, 
they shall return to nestle in the bosom of the 
past ! 

This day, also, I have passed at Acqua Pa- 
ola. From the garden terrace I watched the 
setting sun, as, wrapt m golden vapor, he passed 
to other climes. A friend from my native land 
was with me ; and as we spake of home, a liquid 



ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 327 

Star stood trembling like a tear upon the closing 
eyelid of the day. Which of us sketched these 
lines with a pencil upon the. cover of Julia's Co* 
rinna ? 

Bright star ! whose soA, familiar ray. 

In colder climes and gloomier skies, 
1 've watched so oft when closing day 

Had tinged the west with crimson dies ; 
Perhaps to-night some friend I love, 

Beyond the deep, the distant sea. 
Will gaze upon thy path above. 

And give one lingering thought to me. 



ToRQUATi Tasso ossa hic jacent,-— Here 
lie the bones of Torquato Tasso, — is the sim- 
ple inscription upon the poet's tomb, in the church 
of St. Onofrio. Many a pilgrimage is made to 
this grave. Many a bard from distant lands 
comes tq visit the spot, — and, as he paces the 
secluded cloisters of the convent where the poet 
died, and where his ashes rest, muses on the 
sad vicissitudes of his life, and breathes a prayer 
for the peace of his soul. He sleeps midway 
between his cradle at Sorrento and his dungeon 
at Ferrara. 

The monastery of St. Onofrio stands on the 
Janiculum, overlooking the Tiber and the city of 



S28 ROME IK M1D8UMMEB* 

Rome ; and in the distance rise the towers of 
die Roman Capitol, where, after long years of 
sickness, sorrow, and imprisonment, the laurel 
crown was prepared for the great epic poet of 
Italy. The chamber in which Tasso died is 
still shown to the curious traveller ; and the tree 
in the garden, under whose shade he loved to 
sit. The feelings of the dying man, as he re- 
posed in this retirement, are not the vague conjec- 
tures of poetic revery. He has himself recorded 
them in a letter which he wrote to his friend An- 
tonio Constantini, a few days only before his dis- 
solution. These are his melancholy words : — 
^^ What will my friend Antonio say, when 1x0 
hears the death of Tasso ? Ere long, I think, 
the news will reach him ; for I feel that the end 
of my life is near ; being able to find no remedy 
for this wearisome mdisposidon which is super- 
added to my customary infirmities, and by which, 
as by a rapid torrent, I see myself swept away, 
without a hand to save. It is no longer time to 
speak of my unyielding destiny, not to say the in- 
gratitude of the world, which has longed even {or 
the victory of driving me a beggar to my grave ; 
while I thought that the glory which, in spite of 
those who will it not, this age shall receive froip 



aOME IN MID8UMMEK, d2Q 

pay writiQgs was not to leave m^ tbus without re^ 
ward* I Wq oome to thb monastery of St. 
Onofirio, not only because the air is conunended 
by physicians as more salubrious than in any otb* 
er part of Rome, but that I may, as it were, 
commence, in this high place, and in the conver- 
sation of these devout fathers, my conversation in 
heaven. Pray God for me ; and be assured that 
as I have loved and honored you in this present 
life, so in that other and more real life will I do 
for you all that belongs to charity unfeigned and 
true. And to the divine mercy I commend both 
you and myself" 



The modern Romans are a very devout peo- 
ple. The Princess Doria washes the pilgrims' 
feet in Holy Week ; every evening, foul or fair, 
the whole year round, there is a rosary sung be^ 
fore an image of the Vir^^ within a stone's 
throw of my wbdow ; and the young ladies write 
* letters to St. Louis Gonzaga, who in all paintings 
and sculpture is represented as young and angeU 
ically beautiful. I saw a large pile of these leU 
ters a few weeks ago in Gonzaga's chapel, at the 
church of St. Ignatius. They were lying at the 



830 ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 

foot of the altar, prettily written on smooth paper, 
and tied with silken ribands of various colors. 
Leaning over the marble balustrade, I read the 
following superscription upon one of them : — 
^^ JlW Jlngelico Giavane S, Luigi Gonzaga, 
Paradisoj^^ — To the angelic youth St. Louis 
Gonzaga, Paradise. A soldier, with a musket, 
kept guard over this treasure ; and I had the au- 
dacity to ask him at what hour the mail went out ; 
for which heretical impertmence he cocked his 
mustache at me with the most savage look imag« 
inable, as much as to say, " Get thee gone " : — 

^^Andate, 
Niente pigliate, 
E mai ritomate." 

The modern Romans are likewise strongly giv- 
en to amusements of every description. Panem 
et circenseSy says the Latm satirist, when chiding 
the degraded propensities of his countrymen ; Pa- 
nem et circenses^ -r- they are content with bread 
and the sports of the circus. The same may 
be said at the present day. Even m this hot 
weather, when the shops are shut at noon, and 
the fat priests waddle about the streets with fans 
in their hands, the people crowd to the Mauso- 
leum of Augustus, to be choked with the smoke 



ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 331 

of fireworks, and see deformed and humpback 
dwarfs tumbled mto the dirt by the masked horns 
of young bullocks. What a refined amusement for 
the inhabitants of ^' pompous and holy Rome ! " 



The Sirocco prevails to-day, — a hot wind 
from the burning sands of Africa, that bathes Its 
wings in the sea, and comes laden with fogs and 
vapors to the shores of Italy. It is oppressive 
and dispiriting, and quite unmans one, like the 
dog-days of the North. There is a scrap of an 
old English song running in my mind, in which 
the poet calls it a cool wind 3 though ten to one 
I misquote. 

** When the cool Sirocco blows, 
And daws and pies and rooks and crows 
Sit and curse the wintry snows, 
Then give me ale ! " 

I should think that stark English beer might 
have a potent charm agamst the powers of the 
foul fiend that rides this steammg, reeking wind. 
A flask of Montefiascone, or a bottle of Lacrima 
Christi does very weD. 



3S2 ROME IN HIDSUMMER. 

Beqciars all, — beggars all ! Tbe Papal f^iiy 
ia full of tbenn ; an'd they bold you by the bMttPA 
through the whole calendar of paints. You can* 
not choose but bear. I met an old woman yes- 
terday, who pierced my ear with this aUuring pe- 
tition : — 

^^M rignare ! Qjualcht piccola cosa, per ea- 
rita! Vi diro la buana verUura! C* i una btlla 
^gnorina^ che tn ama moUo ! Per il Sacro Sa* 
cramento ! Per la Madonna I " 

Which being interpreted, is, ^^ Ah, Sir, a trifle, 
for charity's sake I I will tell your fortune for 
you ! There is a beautiful young lady who loves 
you well ! For the Holy Sacrament, — for the 
Madonna's sake ! " 

Who could resist such an appeal ? 

I made a laughable mistake thii; morning in 
giving alms. A man stood on the shady side of 
the street with his hat in his hand, and as I 
passed he gave me a piteous look, though he said 
nothbg. He had such a wobegone face, and 
such a threadbare coat, that I at once took faim 
for one of those mendicants who bear the title of 
paveri vergognosi^ — bashful beggars ; persons 
whom pinching want compels to receive the 
stranger's charity, though pride restrains them 



ROMfi IN MIDSUBlMERk S33 

frodi adkiiig it. Motred with cottipasi^ioii, I threw 
km the hat the little I had to give ; whto, itt'- 
stead of thanking tai6 with a blessii^)^ txxy man of 
the threadbare coat showered upon me the most 
sonorous maledictions of his native tongue, and, 
emptjring Ihs greasy hat upon the pav^n^it, drew 
it down oreit his ears with both hands, and stalked 
•way with all the digniQr of a Roman senatot in 
lire best days at the Republic, •'— to th^ infinite 
amusement of a green-grocer, who stood at his 
i9faop-door burstbg with laughter. No time was 
jgiven me for an apology ; but I resolved to be for 
&e future more discriminating in my charitie^^ 
and not to take for a be^alr every poor gendie*- 
ihan who chose to stand in the shade with his hat 
in his hand on a hot summer'is day. 



There is an old fellow who hawks pious le«> 
gends and the lives of saints through the streets oi 
Rome, widi a sharp, cracked voice, that knows no 
pause nor division in the sentences it utters. I 
just heard him cry at a breath : — 

^^ La Vita di San Giuseppe gvel fidel seririt^r 
di Dio santo e maraviglioso mezzo baj^cco^^^ «*^ 
The Life of St. Joseph that faithfid semmit of 
God holy and wonderful ha'penny ! 



334 ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 

This is the way with some people ; every 
tbing helter-skelter, — heads and tafls, — prices 
current and the lives of saints ! 



It has been a rainy day, — a day of gloom. 
The church-bells never rang in my ears with so 
melancholy a sound ; and this afternoon I saw a 
mournful scene, which still haunts my imagination. 
It was the funeral of a monk. I was' drawn to 
the window by the solemn chant, as the proces- 
sion came from a neighbouring street and crossed 
the square. First came a long train of priests, 
clad in black, and bearing in their hands large 
waxen tapers, which flared in every gust of wind, 
and were now and then extinguished by the rain. 
The bier followed, borne on the shoulders of 
four bare-footed Carmelites ; and upon it, ghast- 
ly and grim, lay the body of the dead monk, clad 
in his long gray kirde, with the twisted cord 
about his waist. Not even a shroud was thrown 
over him. His head and feet were bare, and his 
hands were placed upon his bosom, palm to palm, 
in the attitude of prayer. His face was emaci- 
ated, and of a livid hue ; his eyes unclosed ; and 
at every movement of the bier, his head nodded 



ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 335 

to and fro, with an unearthly and hideous as- 
pect. Behind walked the monastic brotherhood, 
a long and melancholy procession, with their cowls 
thrown back, and their eyes cast upon the ground ; * 
and last of all came a man with a rough, un- 
painted coffin upon his shoulders, closing the 
funeral train. 



Mant of the priests, monks, monsignori, and 
cardinals of Rome have a bad reputation, even 
after deducting a tithe or so from the tales of 
gossip. To some of them may be applied the 
rhyming Latin distich, written for the monks of 
old: — 

^' O MoDachi, 
Vestri stomachi 
Sunt amphora Bacchi ; 
Yob estis, 
Deus est testis, 
Turpissinia pestis." ^ 

The graphic description which Thomson gives 
in his '^Castle of Indolence " would readily find 
an impersonation among the Roman priesthood : — 

*^Fall oft by holy feet our ground was trod, — 
Of clerks good plenty here yon mote espy ; — 
A little, round, fat, oily man of God 
Was one I chiefly marked among the fiy ; 



336 ROMS IN IIID801IMER. 

He had a rqgakh twinkle in his eje. 
Which shone all glittering with nngodlj dew. 
When a tight damsel chanced to tiippen by ; 
Bat when obsenred, would shrink into his mew, 
And straight woald recollect his piety anew." 



Yonder across the square goes a Jtfmmit of 
Trastevere ; a fellow who boasts the blood of the 
old Romans in his veins. He is a plebeian ex- 
tjuisite of the western bank of the Tiber, with a 
swarthy face and die step of an emperor. He 
wears a slouched hat, and blue velvet jacket and 
breeches, and has enormous silver buckles m his 
shoes. As he marches along, ho sings a ditty in 
his own vulgar dialect : — 



^* Uno, doe, e tre, 
E lo Papa non i tie. 



tt 



Now he stops to talk widi a woman with a pan 
of coals in her hand. What violent gestures ! 
what expressive -at^des ! Head, hands, and 
feet are all in motion, --^ not a muscle b still ! 
It must be some interesting subject that excites 
him so much, and gives such energy to his ges- 
tures and his lai^uage. No; he only wants to 
light his pipe ! 



•mtm 



ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 337 

It is now past midnight. The moon is full 
and bright^ and the shadows lie so dark and 
massive in the: street that they seem a part of the 
walls that cast them. I have just returned from 
the Coliseum, whose ruins are so^ marvellously 
beautiful by moonlight. No stranger at Rome 
oipits this midnight visit ; for though there is 
something unpleasluit in having one's admiration 
forestalled, and being as it were romantic afore- 
thought, yet the charm is so powerful, the scene 
so surpassingly beautiful and sublime, — the hour, 
the silence? and the colossal ruin have such a 
mastery over the soul, — that yt)u are disarmed 
when most upon your guard, and betrayed inta 
an enthusiasm which perhaps you had silently 
resolved you would not feel. 

On my .way to the Coliseum, I crossed the 
Capitoline hill, and descended into the Roman 
Forum by the broad staircase that leads to the 
triwnphal arch, of Septimius Sevearus. Close 
upon my right hand stood the three remaining 
columns of the temple of the Thunderer, and 
the beautiful Ionic portico of the temple of 
Concord, — their base m shadow, and the bright 
moonbeam striking aslant upon the broken entab- 
lature above. Before me rose the Phocian Col* 

22 



338 ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 

unm, — an isolated shaft, like a tbin vapor hangmg 
m the air scarce visible ; and far to the left, the 
ruins of the temple of Antonio and Faustina, 
and the three colossal arches of the temple of 
Peace, — diiil, shadowy, indistinct, — seemed to 
meU awaj and mingle with the sky. I crossed 
the Forum to the foot of the Palatine, and, as- 
cending the Via Sacra, passed 'beneath the Arch 
of Titus. From this point, I saw below me the 
gigantic outline of the Coliseum, like a cloud 
resting upon the earth. As I descended the hill- 
side, it grew more broad and high, — more definite 
in its form, and yet more grand in its dimensions, 
— till, from the vale in which it stands encom- 
passed by three of the Seven Hills of Rome, — 
the Palatine, the Coelian, and the Esquiline, — the 
majestic ruin in all its solitary grandet» ^^ swelled 
vast to heaven." 

A single sentmel was pacing to and fro beneath 
the arched gateway which leads to the interior, 
and his measured footsteps were the only sound 
that broke the breathless silence of the night. 
What a contrast with the scene which that same 
midnight hour presented, when, in Domitian's 
time, the eager populace began to gather at the 
gates, impatient for the morning sports ! Nor 



KOHE IN MIDSUMMER. 3S9 

was the contrast widun less striking. Silence, 
and the quiet moonbeams, and the broad, deep 
shadows of the ruined wall ! Where were the 
senators of Rome, her matrons, and her virgins ? 
where the ferocious populace that rent the air 
with shouts, when, in the hundred holydays. that 
marked the dedication of this imperial slaughter- 
house, five thousand wild beasts from the Libyan 
deserts and the forests of Anatolia made the 
arena sick with blood ? Where were the Chris- 
tian martjrrs, that died with prayers upon their 
lips, amid the jeers and imprecations of their fel- 
low-men ? where the barbarian gladiators, brought 
forth to the festival of blood, and ^^ butchered 
to make a Roman holyday " ? The awful silence 
answered, " They are mine ! " The dust beneath 
me answered, " They are mine ! " 

I crossed to the opposite extremity of > the 
amphitheatre. A lamp was burning in the litde 
chapel, which has been formed from what was 
once a den for the wild beasts of the Roman 
festivals. Upon the steps sat the old beadsman, 
the only tenant of the Coliseum, who guides the 
stranger by night through the long galleries of 
this vast pile of ruins. I followed him up a nar- 
row wooden staircase, and entered one of the 



840 ROME IN MIDSUMMER* 

kHig and oiajestic corridors, whbh in andent 
times ran entirety round the amphitheatre. Huge 
columns of soKd mason^work, that seem the 
labor of Titans, support the flattened arches 
above ; and tbou^ the iron clamps are gone, 
whiqih once fastened the hewn stones together, 
jret the columns stand majestic and unbroken, 
amid the ruin around them, and seem to defy 
^^ the iron tooth of time." Through the arches 
at the right, I could faintly discern the ruins of 
the baths of Titus on the Esquilbe ; and from 
the left, through eveiy chink and cranny of the 
wall, poured in the brilliant light of the fuQ moon, 
casting gigantic shadows around me, and diffus- 
ing a soft, silvery twilight through the long ar* 
cades. At length I came to an open space, 
where the arches above had crumbled away, 
leaving the pavement an unroofed terrace high 
in air. From thb point, I could see the whole 
interior of the amphitheatre spread out beneath 
me, half in shadow, half in light, with such a 
soft and indefinite outUne that it seemed less an 
earthly reality than a reflection m the bosom of a 
lake. The figures of several persons below 
were just perceptible, mingling grotesquely with 
their fore-shortened shadows. The sound of 



ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 341 

their voices reached me in a whisper ; and the 
cross that stands in the centre of the arena looked 
like a dagger thrust into the sand. I did not 
conjure up the past, for the past had already be- 
come identified with the present. It was before 
me in one of its visible and most majestic forms. 
The arbitrary distinctions of time, years, ages, 
centuries were annihilated. I was a citizen of 
Rome! This was the amphitheatre of Flavins 
Vespasian ! 

Mighty is the spirit of the past, amid the ruins 
of the Eternal City ! 



THE 



VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 



Egreflsnm magnA me excepit Aricia RomA, 
Hospitio modico. 



Horace. 



I PASSED the month of September at the vil- 
lage of La Riccia, which stands upon the west- 
era declivity of the Albanian hills, looking- towards 
Rome. Its situation is one of the most beauti- 
ful which Italy can boast. Like a mural crown, 
it encircles the brow of a romantic hill ; wood- 
lands of the most luxuriant foliage whisper around 
it ; above rise the rugged summits of the Abruz- 
zi, and beneath lies the level floor of the Cam- 
pagna, blotted with ruined tombs, and marked 
with broken but magnificent aqueducts that point 
the way to Rome. The whole region is classic 
ground. The Appian Way leads you from the 
gate of Rome to the gate of La Riccia. On 
one hand you have the Alban Lake, on the other 
the Lake of Nemi ; and the sylvan retreats around 



THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. . 343 

were once the dwellings of Hippolytus and the 
nymph Egeria. 

The town itself, however, is mean and dirty. 
The only inhabitable part is near the northern 
gate, where the two streets of the village meet 
There, face to face, upon a square terrace, paved 
with large, flat stones, stand the Chigi palace 
and the village church with a dome and portico. 
There, too, stands the village inn, with its beds 
of cool, elastic maize-husks, its little dormito- 
ries, six feet square, and its spacious saloon, upon 
whose walls the melancholy story of Hippolytus 
is told in gorgeous frescoes. And there, too, 
at the union of the streets, just peepbg through 
the gateway, rises the wedge-shaped Casa An- 
tonini, within whose dusty chambers I passed 
the month of my villeggiaturaj in company with 
two much-esteemed friends from the Old Do- 
minion, — a fair daughter of that generous clime, 
and her husband, an artist, an enthusiast, and a 
man of " infinite jest." 

My daily occupations in this delightful spot 
were such as an idle man usually whiles away 
his time withal in such a rural residence. I read 
Italian poetry, — strolled in the Chigi park, — 
rambled about the wooded environs of the vil- 



344 THE TILLAGE OF LA EICCIA. 

hge, -— took an airing on a jackass, •*— threw 
stones Into the Alban Lake, — and, being seized 
at intervals with the artist-mania, that came upon 
me like an intermittent fever, sketched-— or 
thought I did — the trunk of a hollow tree, or 
the spire of a distant church, or a fountain in 
the shade. 

At such seasons, the mind is ^^ tickled with a 
straw," and magnifies each trivial circumstance 
bto an event of some importance. I recollect 
one morning, as I sat at breakfast in the village 
coffee-house, a large and beautiful spaniel came 
into the room, and placing his head upon my 
knee looked up into my face with a most piteous 
look, poor dog ! as much as to say that he had 
not breakfasted. I gave him a morsel of bread, 
which he swallowed without so much as movmg 
his long silken ears ; and keeping his soft, beau- 
tiful eyes still fixed upon mine, he thumped upon 
the floor with his bushy tail, as if knocking for 
the waiter. He was a very beautiful animal, 
and so gentle and affectionate in his manner, that 
I asked the waiter who his owner was. 

^^ He has none now," said the boy. 

^^ What ! " said I, ^^ so fine a dog without a 
master ? " 



THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 345 

^^ Ah, Sir, he used to bebng to Gasparoni, the 
famous robber of the Abruzzi mountains, who 
murdered so many people, and was caught at 
last and sent to the galleys for life. There 's his 
portrait on the wall." 

It hung dn^ectly in front of me ; a coarse print, 
representing the dark, stem countenance of diat 
sinful man, a face that wore an expression of 
savage ferocity and coarse sensuality. I had 
beard his story told in the village ; the accus* 
tomed tale of outrage, violence, and murder. 
And is it possible, thought I, that this man of 
blood could have chosen so kind and gentle a 
companion ? What a rebuke must he have met 
in those large, meek eyes, when he patted his 
favorite on the head, and dappled his long ears 
with blood ! Heayen seems m mercy to have 
ordained that none — no, not even the most de-* 
praved — should be left entirely to his evil nature, 
without one patient monitor, — a wife, — a daugh* 
ter, — a fawning, meek-eyed dog, whose silent, 
supplicating look may rebuke the man of sin ! If 
this mute, playful creature, that licks the stran* 
ger's hand, were gifted with the power of artic- 
ulate speech, how many a tale of midnight storm, 
and mountain-pass, and lonely glen, would — but 
these reflecUons are commonplace ! 



346 THE TILLAGE OF LA EICCIA. 

On another occasion, I saw an orerladen ass 
fall on the steep and slippery pavement of ifae 
street. He made violent but useless efforts to 
get upon his feet again ; and his brutal driver — 
more brutal than the suffering beast of burden -^ 
beat him unmercifully with his heavy whip. Bar- 
barian ! is it not enough that you have laid upon 
your uncomplaining servant a burden greater than 
he can bear ? Must you scourge this unre- 
sbtmg slave, because his strength has failed him 
in your hard service ? Does not that imploring 
look disarm you? Does not — and here was 
another theme for commonplace reflection ! 

Again. A little band of pilgrims, clad in white, 
with staves, and scallop-shells, and sandal shoon, 
have just passed through the village gate, wend- 
ing their toilsome way to the Jboly shrine of Lo- 
retto. They wind along the brow of the hill 
with slow and solemn pace, — just as they ought 
to do, to agree with my notion of a pilgrimage, 
drawn from novels. And now they disappear 
behind the hill ; and hark ! they are singing a 
mournful hymn, like Christian and Hopeful on 
their way to the Delectable Mountains. How 
strange it seems to me, that I should ever be- 
hold a scene like this ! a pilgrimage to Loretto ! 



THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 347 

Here was another outline for the unagmation to 
fiU up. 

But my cluef delight was in sauntering along 
the many woodland walks, which diverge in every 
direction from the gates of La Riccia. One of 
these plunges down the steep declivity of the hill, 
and, threading its way through a most romantic 
valley, leads to the shapeless tomb of the Ho- 
ratii and the pleasant village of Alhano. Another 
conducts you over swelling uplands and throu^ 
wooded hollows to Genzano and the -sequestered 
Lake of Nemi, which lies in its deep crater, like 
the waters of a well, ^^ all coiled into itself and 
round, as sleeps the snake." A third, and the 
most beautiful of all, runs in an undulating line 
along the crest of the last and lowest ridge of 
the Albanian Hills, and leads to the borders of 
the Alban Lake. In parts it hides itself in thick- 
leaved hollows, in parts climbs the open hill-side 
and overlooks the Campagna. Then it winds 
along the brim of the deep, oval basin of the 
lake, to the village of Castel Gandolfo, and 
thence onward to Marino, Grotta-Ferrata, and 
Frascati. 

That part of the road which looks down upon 
the lake passes through a magni6cent gallery of 



348 THE TILLAGE OF LA RICCLA. 

thick embowerii^ trees^ whose dense and luxuri- 
ant foliage completely shuts out the noonday sun, 
forming 

^ A greemward wagon-way, that, like 
Cathedral able, completely roofed with brancbefl, 
Runs through the gloomy wood from top to bottom. 
And has at either end a Gothic door 
Wide open." 

This long sylvan arcade is called the GaUerior 
ii'Sopraj to distinguish it from the GaUeria^dp' 
sottOj a similar, though less beautiful avenue, lead- 
ing from Castel Gandolfo to Albano, under the 
brow of the hill. In this upper gallery, and al- 
most hidden amid its old and leafy trees, stands 
a Capuchm convent, with a little esplanade in 
front, from which the eye enjoys a beautiful view 
of the lake, and the swelling hills beyond. It 
is a lovely spot, — so lonely, cool, and still ; and 
was my favorite and most frequented haunt. 

Another pathway conducts you round the south- 
em shore of the Alban Lake, and, after passbg 
the site of the ancient Alba Longa, and the con- 
vent of Palazzuolo, turns off to the right through 
a luxuriant forest, and climbs the rugged preci- 
pice of Rocca di Papa. Behind this village 
swells the rounded peak of Monte Cavo, the 



THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 349 

highest pinnacle d the Albanian Hills, rising three 
tbousuid feet above the level of the sea. Upon 
its summit once stood a temple of Jupiter, and 
the Triumphal Way, by which the Roman coop 
querors ascended once a year in solemn proces- 
sion to offer sacrifices, still leads you up the side 
of the hill. But a convent has been built upon 
the ruins of the ancient temple, and the disci- 
ples of Loyola are now the only conquerors that 
tread the pavement of the Triumphal Way. 

The view from the windows of the convent is 
vast and magnificent. Directly beneath you, the 
sight plunges headlong into a gulf of dark-green 
foliage, — the Alban Lake seems so near, that you 
can almost drop a pebble into it, — and Nemi, 
imbosomed in a green and cup-like valley, lies 
like a dew-drop in the hollow of a leaf. AH 
around you, upon every swell of the landscape, 
the white walls of rural towns and villages peep 
from their leafy coverts, — Genzano, La Riccia, 
Castel Gandolfo, and Albano ; and beyond spreads 
the flat and desolate Campagna, with Rome in 
its centre, and seamed by the silver thread of 
the Tiber, that at Ostia, ^^ with a pleasant stream, 
whirling in rapid eddies, and yellow with much 
sand, rushes forward into the sea." The scene 



350 THE TILLAGE OF LA EICCIA. 

of half the iEneid is spread beneath you like a 
map ; and it would need yohmies to describe each 
point that arrests the eye in thb magnificent pan* 
orama. 

As I stood leamng over the balcony of the 
convent, giving myself up to those reflections 
which the scene inspired, one of the brotherhood 
came from a neighbouring cell, and entered into 
conversati<Hi with me. He was an old man, with 
a hoary head and a trembling hand ; yet his voice 
was musical and soft, and his eye still beamed 
with the enthusiasm of youth. 

^' How wonderful," said he, ^^ is the scene be- 
fore us ! I have been an inmate of these walls 
for thirty years, and yet this prospect is as beau- 
tiful to my eye as when I gazed upon it for the 
first time. Not a day passes that I do not come 
to this window to behold and to admire. My 
heart is still alive to the beauties of the scene, 
and to all the classic associations it inspires." 

^^ You have never, then, been whipped by an 
angel for reading Cicero and Plautus, as St. 
Jerome was ? " 

" No," said the monk, with a smile. " From 
my youth up I have been a disciple of Chrysos- 
tom, who often slept with the comedies of Aris- 



THE TILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 851 

topbanes beneath his pillow ; and yet I confess 
that the classic associations of Roman history and 
fable are not the most thrilling which this scene 
awakens in my mind. Yonder is the bridge from 
which Constantbe beheld the miraculous crosis 
of fire m the sky ; and I can never forget that 
this convent is built upon the ruins of a pagan 
temple. The town of Ostia, which lies before 
us on the seashore, is renowned as the spot 
where the Trojan fugitive first landed on the 
coast of Italy. But other associations than this 
have made the spot holy in my sig|it. Marcus 
Minutius Felix, a Roman lawyer, who flourished 
in the third century, a convert to our blessed 
faith, and one of the purest writers of the Latin 
church, here places the scene of his ^' Octavius." 
This work has probably never fallen into your 
hands ; for you are too young to have pushed 
your studies 'into the dusty tomes of the early 
Christian fathers." 

I replied that I had never so much as heard 
the book mentioned before ; and the monk con- 
tinued : — 

^^ It is a dialogue upon the vanity of pagan 
idolatry and the truth of the Christian religion, 
between Cscilius, a heathen, and Octavius, a 



362 THE TILLAGE OF LA EICCIA. 

Chmdaii. The style is rich, flowii^, and pociti- 
eal ; and if the author handles his weapcms with 
less power than a TertuUian, yet he exhibits 
equal adroitness and more grace. He has rather 
die studied elegance of the Roman lawyer, than 
die hcid spirit of a Christian martyr. But the 
Folume is a treasure to me in my solitary hoisrsy 
and I love to sit here upon the balcony, and con 
its poetic language and sweet imagery. Yon 
shall see the volume ; I carry it in my bosom." 

With these words, the monk drew from the 
folds of his gown a small volume, bound in parch- 
ment, and clasped with silver ; and, turning over 
its well worn leaves, continued : — 

^^ In the mtroduction, the author describes him- 
self as walking upon the seashore at Ostia, in 
company with his fri^ds Octavius and Caecilius. 
Observe in what beautiful language he describes 
the scene." 

Here he read to me the following passage, 
which I transcribe, not from memory, but from 
die book itself. 

'^ It was vacation-time, and that gave me aloose 
from my business at the bar ; for it was the sea- 
son after the summer's heat, when autumn prom- 
ised fair, and put on the face of temperate. We 



THE VILLAGE OF LA KICOIA. 353 

set out, therefore, in the mormng early, and as 
we were walking upon the seashore, and a kmdly 
breeze fanned and refreshed our limbs, and the 
yielding sand softly submitted to our feet and 
made it delicious travelling, Csecilius on a sudden 
espied the statue of Serapis^ and, according to the 
vulgar mode of superstition, raised his hand to his 
mouth, and paid his adoration in kisses. - Upon 
which, Octavius, addressing himself to me, said, — 
^ It is not well done, my brother Marcus, thus to 
leave your inseparable companion m the depth of 
vulgar darkness, and to suffer him, in so clear a 
day, to stumble upon stones ; stones, indeed, of 
fi^e, and anomted with oil, and crowned ; but 
stones, however,' still they are ; — for you cannot 
but be sensible that your permitting so foul an 
error in your friend redounds no less to your dis- 
grace than his.' This discourse of his held us 
through half the city ; and now we began to find 
ourselves upon the free and open shore. There 
the gently washing waves had spread the extrem* 
est sands into the order of an artificial walk ; and 
as the sea always expresses some roughness in his 
looks, even when the winds are still, although he 
did not roll in foam and angry surges to the 
shore, yet were we much delighted, as we walked 

23 



354 THE TILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 

upon the edges of the water, to see the crisping, 
frizzly waves glide in snaky folds, one while play. 
bg against our feet, and then again retiring and 
lost in the devouring ocean. Softly then, and 
calmly as the sea about us, we travelled on, and 
kept upon the brim of the gently declining shore, 
beguiling the way with our stories." 

'Here the sound of the convent-bell interrupted 
the reading of the monk, and, closing the vol- 
ume, he replaced it in his bosom, and bade me 
farewell, with a parting injunction to read the 
^^ Octavius " of Minutius Felix as soon as I should 
return to Rome. 

Durmg the summer months, La Riccia b*a 
favorite rescrt of foreign artists who are pursuing 
their studies m the churches and galleries of 
Rome. Tired of copjring the works of art, they 
go forth to copy the works of nature ; and you 
win find them perched on their camp-stools at 
every picturesque point of view, with white um- 
brellas to shield them from the sun, and paint- 
boxes upon their knees, sketchmg with busy 
hands the smiling features of the landscape. The 
peasantry, too, are fine models for their study. 
The women of Genzano are noted for their beau- 
ty, and almost every village in the neighbourhood 
has something peculiar in its costume. 



THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 355 

The sultry day was closing, and I had reached, 
in mj accustcHned evening's walk, the woodland 
gallery that looks down upon the Alban Lake. 
The setting sun seemed to melt away in the sky, 
dissolving mto a golden rain, that bathed the 
whole Campagna with unearthly splendor ; while 
Rome in the distance, half-hidden, half-revealed, 
lay floating like a mote in the broad and misty 
sunbeam. The woodland walk before me seemed 
roofed with gold and emerald ; and at intervak 
across its leafy arches shot the level rays of the 
sun, kindling, as they passed, like the burning 
shaft of Acestes. Beneath me the lake slept 
Quietly. A blue, smoky vapor floated around its 
overhanging cliffs ; the tapering cone of Monte 
Cavo hung reflected m the water ; a little boat 
skimmed along its glassy surface, and I could 
even hear the sound of the laboring oar, so 
motionless and silent was the air around me. 

I soon reached the convent of Castel Gaildol- 
fo. Upon one of the stone benches of the es- 
planade sat a monk with a book in his hand. He 
saluted me, as I approached, and some trivial re- 
marks upon the scene before us led us into con- 
versation. I observed by his accent that he was 
not a native of Italy, thougli he spoke Italian 



356 THE TILLAGE Of* LA EICCIA. 

with great fluency. In this opinion I was con- 
finned bjr his saying that he should soon bid 
£urewell to Itaty and return to his native lakes 
and mountains in the North of Ireland. I then 
said to Imn in English, — 

^^ How strange, that an Irishman and an Anglo- 
American should be conversing together in Italian 
upon the shores of Lake Albano ! " 

<^ It is strange," said he, with a smile ; ^^ though 
stranger things have happened. But I owe the 
pleasure of this meetii^ to a circumstance which 
changes that pleasure mto pain. I have been de- 
tained here many weeks beyond the time I had 
fixed for my departure by the sickness of a 
fi^end, who lies at the point of death within the 
walls of this ccmvent." 

" Is he, too, a Capuchin fiiar like yourself ? " 
" He is. We came together from our native 
land, some six years ago, to study at the Jesuit 
College in Rome. This simimer we were to 
have returned home again ; but I shall now make 
the journey alone." 

" Is there, then, no hope of his recovery ? " 
" None whatever," answered the monk, shak- 
mg his head. ^^ He has been brought to this 
convent from Rolbe, for the benefit of a purer 



THE TILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 857 

air ; but it is only to die, and be buried near the 
borders of tbis beautiful lake. He is a victim 
of consumption. But come with me to his cell. 
He will feel it a kindness to have you visit him. 
Such a mark of sjonpathy in a stranger will be 
grateful to him in this foreign land, where friends 
are so few." 

We entered the chapel together, and, ascend* 
ing a flight of steps beside the altar, passed into 
the cloisters of the convent.^ Another flight of 
steps led us to the dormitories above, m one 
of which the sick man lay. Here my guide left 
me for a moment, and softly entered a neighbour- 
ing cell. He soon returned and beckoned me 
to come m. The room was dark and hot ; for 
the window-shutter had been closed to keep out 
the rays of the sun, that in the after part of the 
day fell unobstructed upon the western wall of 
the convent. In one comer of the little room, 
upon a pallet of straw, lay the sick man, with 
his face towards the wall. As I entered, he 
raised himself upon his elbow, and, stretching out 
his hand to me, said, in a faint voice, — 

^^ I am glad to see you. It is kind in you to 
make me this visit." 

Then speaking to his friend, he begged him 



358 THE TILLAGE OE LA RICCIA. 

to open the wbdow-shutter and let in tbe light 
and air ; and as the bright sunbeam through the 
wreathing vapors of evening played upon the 
wall and ceilii^, he said, with a sigh, — 

^^ How beautiful is an Italian sunset ! Its 
splendor is all around us, as if we stood in the 
horizon itself and (^uld touch the sky. And yet, 
to a sick man's feeble and distempered sight, 
it has a wan and sickly hue. He turns away 
with an aching heart from the splendor he cannot 
enjoy. The cool air seems, the only friendly 
thing that is left for him." 

As he spake, a deeper shade of sadness stole 
over his pale countenance, sallow and attenuated 
by long sickness. But it soon passed off; and 
as the conversation changed to other topics, he 
grew cheerful again. He spoke of his return 
to his native land with childish delight. This 
hope had not deserted him. It seemed never 
to have entered his mind that even this consola- 
tion would be denied him, — that death would 
thwart even these fond anticipations. 

" I shall soon be well enough," said he, " to 
undertake the journey ; and, O, with what delight 
shall I turn my back upon the Apennines ! We 
shall cross the Alps into Switzerland, then go 



THE TILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 359 

down the Rhine to England, and soon, soon we 
shall see the shores of the Emerald Isle, and 
once more embrace father, mother, sisters ! B7 
my profession, I have renounced the world, 
but not those holy emotions of love which are 
one of the highest attributes of the soul, and 
which, though sown in corruption here, shall 
hereafter be raised in mcorruption. No ; even 
he that died for us upon the cross, m the last 
hour, in the unutterable agony of death, was 
mindful of his mother ; as if to teach us that 
this holy love should be our last worldly thought, 
the last point of earth from which the soul should 
take its flight for heaven. " 

He ceased to speak. His eyes were fastened 
upon the sky with a fixed and steady gaze, though 
all unconsciously, for hb thoughts were far away 
amid the scenes of his distaqt home. As I left 
his cell, he seemed sinking to sleep, and hardly 
noticed my departure. The gloom of twilight 
had already filled tlie cloisters ; the monks were 
chantbg their evening hymn in the chapel; and 
one unbroken shadow spread through the long 
cathedral aisle of forest*trees which led me home- 
ward. There, in the silence of the hour, and 
amid the almost sepulchral gloom of the wood- 



360 THE TILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 

knd scene, I tried to impress upon my careless 
heart the serious and affecting lesson I had 
learned. 

I saw the sick monk no more ; but a day or 
two afterward I heard in the village that he had 
departed, — not for an earthly, but for a heavenly 
home. 



NOTE-BOOK. 



NOTE-BOOK. 



Once more among the old, gigantic hills, 

With vapors clouded o'er. 
The vales of Lombardy grow dim behind. 

And rocks ascend before. 
They beckon me, — the giants, — from afar, 

They wing my footsteps on ; 
Their helms of ice, their plumage of the pine, 

Their cuirasses of stone. 

OSBLSNSCHLAGSR. 



The glorious autumn closed. From the Abruz- 
ad Mountains came the Zampognari, playing their 
rustic bagpipes beneath the images of the Vir- 
gin in the streets of Rome, and haiUng with rude 
minstrelsy the approach of merry Christmas. 
The shops were full of dolls and playthings 
for the Bifana, who enacts in Italy the same 
merry interlude for children that Santiclaus does 
in the North; and travellers from colder climes 
began to fly southward, like sun-seeking swallows. 

I left Rome for Venice, crossing the Apen- 
nines by the wild gorge of the Strettura, in a 
drenching rain. At Fano we struck mto the 



364 NOTE-BOOK. 

sands of the Adriatic, and followed the seashore 
northward to Rimini, where in the market-place 
stands a pedestal of stone, from which, as an 
officious cicerone informed me, ^^ Julius Caesar 
preached to his army, before crossing the Ru- 
bicon." Other principal points in my journey 
were Bologna, with its Campo Santo, its gloomy 
arcades, and its sausages ; Ferrara, with its du- 
cal palace and the dungeon of Tasso ; Padua 
the Learned, with its sombre and scholastic air, 
and its inhabitants ^^ apt for pike or pen." 



I FIRST saw Venice by moonlight, as we 
skimmed by the island of St. George m a feluc- 
ca, and entered the Grand Canal. A thousand 
lamps glittered from the square of St. Mark, 
and along the water's edge. Above rose the 
cloudy shapes of spires, domes, and palaces, 
emerging from the sea ; and occasionally the 
twinkling lamp of a gondola darted across the 
water like a shootmg star, and suddenly disap- 
peared, as if quenched in the wave. There 
was something so unearthly in the scene, — so 
visionary and fairy-like, — that I almost expected 
to see the city float away like a cloud, and dis- 
solve into thin air. 



NOTE-BOOK. 365 

HoweQ, ID his ^^ Si^orie of Venice," says, 
^^ It is the water, wherein she lies like a swan's 
nest, that doth both fence and feed her." Again : 
^^ She swims in wealth and wantonness, as well 
as she doth in the waters ; she melts in softness 
and sensuality, as much as any other whatso- 
ever." And still farther : ^^ Her streets are so 
neat and evenly paved, that in the dead of win- 
ter one may walk up and down in a pair of satin 
pantables and crimson silk stockings, and not be 
dirtied." And the old Italian proverb says, — 

** Venegia, Venegia, 
Chi non ti Tede non ti pregia ; 
Mk chi t' ha troppo veduto 
Ti dispregia i" 

Venice, Venice, he that doth not see thee doth 
not prize thee ; but he that hath too much seen 
thee doth despise thee ! 

Should you ever want a gondolier at Venice 
to sbg you a passage from Tasso by moonlight, 
inquire for Toni Toscan. He has a voice like a 
raven. I sketched his portrait in my note-book ; 
and he wrote beneath it this inscription : — • 

^ Poeta Natural che Venizian, 
Ch' el 80 nome xe un tal Toni Toscan." 



366 IfOTE-BOOK. 

The road from Venice to Trieste traverses a 
vast tract of level land, with the Friulian Moun- 
tains on the left, and the Adriatic on the right. 
You pass through loi^ avenues of trees, and the 
road stretches in unbroken perspective before and 
behmd. Trieste is a busy, commercial city, 
with wide streets btersecting each other at right 
angles. It b a mart for all nations. Greeks, 
Turks, Italians, Germans, French, and English 
meet you at every comer and in every coffee- 
house ; and the ever-changing variety of national 
countenance and costume affords an amusing and 
instructive study for a traveller. 



Trieste to Vienna. Daybreak amoi^ the 
Camic Alps. Above and around me huge snow- 
covered pinnacles, shapeless masses in the pale 
starlight, — till touched by the morning sunbeam, 
as by Ithuriel's spear, they assumed their nat- 
ural forms and dimensions. A long, winding 
valley beneath, sheeted with spotless snow. At 
my side a yawning and rent chasm ; — a moun- 
tain brook, — seen now and then through the 
chinks of its icy bridge, — black and treacherous, 
— and tinkling along its frozen channel with a 
sound like a distant clanking of chains. 



NOTE-BOOK. 367 

Magnificent highland scenery between Gratz 
and Vienna in the Steiermark. The wild moun- 
tain-pass firom Meerzuschlag to Schottwien. A 
castle built like an eagle's nest upon the top of a 
perpendicular crag. A little hamlet at the base 
of the mountain. A covered wagon, drawn hj 
twenty-one horses, slowly toiling up the slippery, 
zigzag road. A snow-storm. Reached Vienna 
at midni^t. 



On the southern bank of the Danube,- about 
sixteen miles above Vienna, stands the ancient 
castle of Greifenstein, where — if the tale be 
true, though many doubt and some deny it — 
Richard the Lion-heart, of England, was impris- 
oned, when returning from the third crusade. 
It is built upon the summit of a steep and rocky 
hill, that rises just far enough from the river's 
brink to leave a foothold for the highway. At 
the base of the hill stands the village of Greifen- 
stein, from which a wmding pathway leads you 
to the old castle. You pass through an arched 
gate into a narrow court-yard, and thence onward 
to a large, square tower. . Near the doorway, 
and deeply cut into the solid rock, upon which 



368 NOTE-BOOK. 

the castle stands, is the ibrin of a human hand, 
so perfect that tout own lies in it as m a mould. 
And hence the name of Greifenstein. In the 
square tower is Richard's prison, completely 
isolated from the rest of the castle. A wooden 
staircase leads you up on the outside to a light 
balcony, running entirely round the tower, not 
fior below its turrets. From this balcony you 
enter the prison, — a small, square chamber, 
lighted by two Gothic windows. The walls of 
the tower are some five feet thick ; and in the 
pavement is a trapdoor, opening into a dismal 
vault, — a vast dungeon, which occupies all the 
lower part of the tower, quite down to its rocky 
foundations, and which formerly had no entrance 
but the trapdoor above. In one comer of the 
chamber stands a large cage of oaken timber, 
! in which the royal prisoner is said to have been 

shut up ; — the grossest lie that ever cheated the 
gaping curiosity of a traveller. 

The balcony commands some fine and pic- 
turesque views. Beneath you winds the lordly 
Danube, spreading its dark waters over a wide 
tract of meadow-land, and forming numerous little 
islands ; and all around, the landscape is bounded 
by forest-covered bills, topped by the mouldering 






; j' 

I. I 

,;! 



NOTE-BOOK. 369 

turrets of a feudal castle or the tapering spire 
of a village church. The spot is well worth 
visiting, though German antiquaries say that Rich- 
ard was not imprisoned there ; this story being 
at best a bold conjecture of what is possible, 
though not probable. 



From Vienna I passed northward, visiting 
Prague, Dresden, and Leipsic, and then folding 
my wii^gs for a season in the scholastic shades 
of Gottingen. Thence I passed through Cas- 
sel to Frankfort on the Maine ; and thence to 
Mayence, where I took the steamboat down the 
Rhine. These several journeys I shall not de- 
scribe, for as many several reasons. First, - 
but no matter, — I prefer thus to stride across 
the earth like the Satumian in Micromegas, mak- 
ing but one step from the Adriatic to the German 
Ocean. I leav6 untold the wonders of the won- 
drous Rhine, a fascinating theme. Not even the 
beauties of the Vautsburg and the Bingenloch 
shall detain me. I hasten, like the blue waters 
of that romantic river, to lose myself in the sands 

of Holland. 

24 



THE 



PILGRIM'S SALUTATION 



Ve who have traced Um Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-ahelL 

Guilds Harold. 



These, fair dames and courteous gentlemen, 
are some of the scenes and musings of my pil- 
grimage, when I journeyed away from my kith 
and kin into the land of Outre-Mer. And yet 
amid these scenes and musings,— * amid all the 
novelties of the Old World, and the quick suc- 
cession of images that were continually calling 
my thoughts away, there were always fond re- 
grets and longings after the land of my birth 
lurking in the secret comers of my heart. When 
I stood by the seashore, and listened to the 
melancholy and familiar roar of its waves, it 
seemed but a step from the threshold of a for- 
eign land to the fireside of home ; and when I 



THE pilgrim's SALUTATION. 371 

"watched the out-bound sail, fading ovear the wa- 
ter's edge, and losing itself in the blue mists 
of the sea, my heart went with it, and I turned 
away fancy-sick widi the blessings of home and 
the endearments of domestic love. 

** I know DOt how, — bnt in yon land of roses 

My heart was heavy still ; 
I startled at the warbling nightingale, 

The zephyr on the hill. 
They said the stars shone with a softer gleam ; 

It seemed not so to me ' 
In vain a scene of beauty beamed around, — 

My thoughts were o'er the sea." 

. At times I would sit at midnight in the sol- 
itude of my chamber, and give way to the recol- 
lection of distant friends. How delightful it is 
thus to strengthen within us the golden threads 
that unite our sympathies with the past, — to fill 
up, as it were, the blanks of existence with 
the images of those we love ! How sweet are 
these dreams of home in a foreign land 1 How 
cahnly across life's stormy sea blooms that Uttle 
world of affection, Kke those Hesperian isles 
where eternal summer reigns, and the olive blos- 
soms all the year round, and honey distils from 
the hollow oak ! Truly, the love of home is 



372 THE pilgrim's salutation. 

interworen with all that is pure, and deep, and 
lasting in earthly affection. Let us wander where 
we may, the heart looks hack with secret long- 
ing to the paternal roof. There the scattered 
rays of affection concentrate. Time may en- 
feeble them, distance overshadow them, and 
the storms of life obstruct them for a season ; 
hut they will at length break through the cloud 
and storm, and glow, and bum, and brighten 
around the peaceful threshold of home ! 

And now, farewell ! The storm is over, and 
through the parting clouds the radiant sunshine 
breaks upon my path. God's blessing upon you 
for your hospitality. I fear I have but poorly 
repaid it by these tales of my pilgrimage ; and I 
bear your kindness meekly, for I come not like 
Theudas of old, "boasting myself to be some- 
body." 

Farewell ! My prayer is, that I be not among 
you as the stranger at the court of Busiris ; that 
your God-speed be not a thrust that kills. 

The Pilgrim's benison upon this honorable 
company. Pax vobiscum ! 



COLOPHON. 



Heut, take thine euo, — 
Men hard to please 

Thou baplj mightat offend ; 
Though Bome apeak ill 
Of thee, some will 

Say better ; — there 'l an and. 



Mr pilgriinage is ended. I hare come home 
to rest; aod, recording the time past, I have 
fulfilled these things, and written them in this 
book, as it would come into my mind, — for the 
most part, when the duties of the day were over, 
and the world around me was flushed in sleep. 
The pen wherewith I write most easily is a 
fealher stolen from the sable wing of night. 
Even now, as I record these parting words, 
it is long past midnight. The morning watches 
have begun. And as I write, the melancholy 
thought intrudes upon me, — To what end is 
all this toil ? Of what avail these midnight vig- 



374 COLOPHON. 

ils ? Dost thou covet faipe ? Vain dreamer ! 
A few brief days, — and what will the busy 
world know of thee ? Alas ! this little book 
is but a bubble on the stream ; and although it 
may catch the sunshine for a moment, yet it will 
soon float down the swift-rustung current, and he 
seen no more !