CHAPTER II.

There were tears in the blue eye of the morning, but they were like the tears of a spoiled beauty when her momentary anger has gained all she wishes, and the passionate drops begin to be chequered by smiles not less wayward. Gradually, however, the smiles predominated; the clouds grew less frequent and less heavy, the sun shone out with shorter intervals, and though the wind and the sea still sobbed and heaved with the past storm, the sky was momently becoming more and more serene.

Such was the aspect of the coming day, when the unhappy Marguerite of Flanders again opened her eyes, after having for a time forgotten her sorrow in but too brief repose. For a moment she doubted whether the past were not all a dream; but the aspect of the chamber in which she now found herself, very different from that which she had inhabited in her father's palace, soon recalled the sad reality. And yet, as she gazed round the room, there was nothing rude or coarse in its appearance. Rich tapestry was still upon the walls; the dressoir was still covered with fine linen and purple, and many a silver vessel--laver, and ewer, and cup, stood ready for her toilet. The small grated windows, with the enormous walls in which they were set, the faded colours of the velvet hangings of the bed in which she had been sleeping, the vaulted roof, showing no carved and gilded oak, but the cold, bare stone, told that she was in the chamber of a lone and ruined fortress; but one that less than a century before had contained persons in whose veins flowed the same blood that wandered through her own.

Rising, she gazed out of the window, which looked upon the wide and rushing sea, and she thought of the good old Lord of Wavrin and his dangerous voyage; and, like the figures in a delirious dream, the forms of the old fisherman, and his beautiful daughter and fair wife, and handsome, dark-eyed son, came back upon her memory.

A slight knock at the door roused her; but her whole nerves had been so much shaken with terror that she hardly dared to bid the stranger enter. At length, however, she summoned courage to do so, and the fair and smiling face of Emiline, the fisherman's daughter, appeared behind the opening door.

Torn from the fond, accustomed things of early days, left alone and desolate in a wild and unattractive spot, surrounded by dangers, and for the first time exposed to adversity, the heart of Marguerite of Flanders was but too well disposed to cling to whatever presented itself for affection. Emiline she found kind and gentle, but though younger, of a firmer mood than herself, having been brought up in a severer school; and to her Marguerite soon learned to cling.

But there was another companion whom fate cast in her way, from whom she could not withhold the same natural attachment, though but too likely to prove dangerous to her peace. Morning and evening, every day, Albert, the fisherman's son, who had been left behind by his father to afford that protection which none but a man could give, visited her retreat in the company of his sister; and Marguerite was soon taught to long for those visits as the brightest hours of her weary concealment.

But in the meantime the fisherman returned no more. Day passed after day; morning broke and evening fell, and the boat which had left the shore of Scarphout on that eventful evening, did not appear again. The eye of the fisherman's wife strained over the waters, and when at eventide the barks of the other inhabitants of the coast were seen approaching the shore, his children ran down to inquire for their parent--but in vain.

About the same time, too, fragments of wrecks--masts, sails, and planks--were cast upon the sands, and dark and sad grew the brows of the once happy family at the point of Scarphout. The two other men whom he had chosen to accompany him were unmarried, but their relations at length gave up the last hope, and the priest of Notre Dame de Blankenbergh was besought to say masses for the souls of the departed. The good old man wept as he promised to comply, for though he had seen courts, and lived in the household of a noble prince, he loved his simple flock, and had ever been much attached to the worthy man whose boat was missing.

Marguerite of Flanders, with a fate but too intimately interwoven with, that of the unfortunate family at Scarphout, had been made acquainted with the hopes and fears of every day, had mingled her tears with Emiline, and had even clasped the hand of Albert, while she soothed him with sympathetic sorrow for his father's loss. "Mine is an unhappy fate," she said, "to bring sorrow and danger even here, while seeking to fly from it myself."

"Grieve not, lady, in that respect," replied Albert, raising her hand to his lips; "we have but done our duty towards you, and our hearts are not such as to regret that we have done so, even though we lose a father by it. Neither fear for your own fate. The times must change for better ones. In the meanwhile you are in safety here, and should need be, I will defend you with the last drop of my blood."

The morning that followed, however, wore a different aspect. Scarcely were matins over, when the good old priest himself visited the cottage of the fisherman, and proceeded to those of his companions, spreading joy and hope wherever he came. What, it may be asked, was the source of such joy? It was but a vision! The old man had dreamt, he said, that he had seen the fisherman of Scarphout safe and well, with a net in his hand, in which were an innumerable multitude of fishes. And this simple dream was, in that age, sufficient to dry the eyes of mourning, and bring back hope to bosoms that had been desolate.

Albert flew to communicate the tale to Marguerite of Flanders, and there was spoken between them many a word of joy--joy that so often entwines its arms with tenderness. He now came oftener than ever, for the old priest by some means had learned that he took an interest in all the changing fortunes of the state of Flanders, and daily the good man brought him tidings, which sometimes he felt it a duty, sometimes a pleasure, to tell to the lonely dweller in the ruined castle.

He found, too, that his presence cheered her, and that his conversation won her from her grief. She began to cling even more to him than to his sister; for he knew more of the world, and men, and courts, than Emiline, and he thought it but kind to afford her every solace and pleasure he could give. Each day his visits became more frequent, and continued longer.

Sometimes he would liberate her, after a sort, from her voluntary prison, by taking her, with Emiline, in his boat upon the moonlight sea, or even by leading her along, under the eye of Heaven's queen, upon the smooth sands, when the waves of a calm night rippled up to their feet. At other times he would sit upon the stones of the old battlements, rent and rifted by the warfare of ages, and would while her thoughts away from herself by tales of other days, when those battlements had withstood the assault of hosts, and those halls had been the resort of the fair and brave, now dust.

Then, again, he would give her tidings which he had gained while dwelling at Namur or at Tournai; reciting the gallant deeds of the servants of the Cross in distant Palestine, or telling of the horrors of captivity in Paynimrie; and then, too, he would sing, as they sat above the waters, with a voice, and a skill, and a taste, which Marguerite fancied all unequalled in the world.

Day by day, and hour by hour, the fair inexperienced princess of Flanders felt that she was losing her young heart to the youth of low degree; and yet, what could she do to stay the fugitive, or call him back to her own bosom from his hopeless flight? It was not alone that Albert was, in her eyes at least, the most handsome man she had ever beheld, it was not alone that he was gentle, kind, and tender, but it was that on him alone she was cast for aid, protection, amusement, information, hope; that her fate hung upon his word, and that while he seemed to feel and triumph in the task, yet it was with a deep, earnest, anxious solicitude for her peace and for her security.

And did she think, that with all these feelings in her bosom, he had dared to love her in return--to love her, the princess of that land in which he was alone the son of a poor fisherman? She knew he had--she saw it in his eyes, she heard it in every tone, she felt it in the tender touch of the strong hand that aided her in her stolen wanderings. And thus it went on from day to day, till words were spoken that no after-thought could ever recall, and Marguerite owned, that if Heaven willed that her father's lands should never return to her father's house, she could, with a happy heart, see state and dignity pass away from her, and wed the son of the Fisherman of Scarphout.

But still the fisherman himself returned not. Days had grown into weeks, and weeks had become months, yet no tiding of him or his companions had reached the shore, and men began to fancy that the vision of the old priest might be no more than an ordinary dream. Not so, however, the family of the fisherman himself. They, seemed to hold the judgment of the good man infallible, and every day he visited their cottages bringing them tidings of all the events which took place in the struggle that now convulsed the land.

By this time, the King of France had roused himself to chastise the rebels of Flanders, and to reinstate the young count in his dominions. He had summoned his vassals to his standard, and creating two experienced readers marshals of his host, had entered the disturbed territory with lance in the rest. Little armed opposition had been made to his progress, though two or three detached parties from his army had been cut off and slaughtered. But this only exasperated the monarch still more, and he had been heard to vow that nothing but the death of every one of the conspirators would satisfy him for the blood of Charles the Good, and of the faithful friends who had fallen with him.

Such was the tale told by the good priest to Albert, the fisherman's son, one day towards the end of the year, and by him repeated to Marguerite of Flanders, who heard it with very mingled feelings; for if a momentary joy crossed her heart to think that the murderers of her father would meet their just reward, and her brother would recover the coronet of Flanders, the fear, the certainty that she herself would be torn from him she loved, overclouded the brief sunshine, and left her mind all dark.

The next day, however, new tidings reached Albert, and filled his heart with consternation and surprise. Burchard, the chief murderer of the dead count, had, it was said, dispatched a messenger to the King of France, to bid him either hold off from Bruges, or send him a free pardon for himself and all his companions, lest another victim should be added to those already gone from the family of the dead count. "I have in my power," he had added, "the only daughter of Charles, called by you the Good. I know her retreat--I hold her as it were in a chain, and I shall keep her as a hostage, whose blood shall flow if a hard measure be dealt to me."

Albert fell into deep thought. Could it be true, he asked himself, that Burchard had really discovered Marguerite of Flanders? If so, it were time, he thought, to fulfil one part of his father's directions concerning her, at any cost to himself; and as those directions had been, in case danger menaced her in her retreat, to carry her to sea, and, landing on the coast of France, to place her in the hands of the king or his representative, it may easily be conceived that the execution thereof would be not a little painful to one for whom each hour of her society was joy.

The more he pondered, however, the more he felt that it must be done; but it happened that, for the last three days, four or five strange sail had been seen idly beating about not far from the coast, and Albert determined, in the first instance, to ascertain their purpose. With some young men from the neighbouring cottages, he put to sea, and finding an easy excuse to approach one of the large vessels which he had beheld, he asked, as if accidentally, to whom they belonged, when, with consternation and anxiety, he heard that they were the ships of "Burchard, Prévôt of St. Donatien."

Returning at once to the shore, he dismissed his companions and sought his father's cottage; but there he found that tidings had come during his absence that the King of France had advanced upon Bruges, and that Burchard had fled with his troops; but the same report added, that the rebels, hotly pursued by the chivalry of France, had directed their flight towards the sea-shore. Time pressed--the moment of danger was approaching; but still great peril appeared in every course of action which could be adopted. The escape by sea was evidently cut off; the retreat of Marguerite of Flanders was apparently discovered; and if a flight by land were attempted, it seemed only likely to lead into the power of the enemy.

With her, then, he determined to consult; and passing through the vaults, he was soon by the side of the fair unfortunate girl, whose fate depended upon the decision of the next few minutes. He told her all; but to her as well as to himself, to fly seemed more hazardous than to remain. The high tide was coming up; in less than half an hour the castle would be cut off from the land; the King of France was hard upon the track of the enemy, and various events might tend to favour her there.

"I would rather die," said the princess, "than fall living into their hands; and I can die here as well as anywhere else, dear Albert."

"They shall pass over my dead body ere they reach you," answered he. "Many a thing has been done Marguerite, by a single arm; and if I can defend you till the king arrives, you are safe."

"But arms!" she said. "You have no arms."

"Oh! yes, I have," he answered. "No one knows the secrets of this old castle but my father and myself; and there are arms here too for those who need them. Wait but a moment, and I will return."

His absence was as brief as might be; but when he came back, Marguerite saw him armed with shield and casque, sword and battle-axe; but without either haubert or coat of mail, which, though they might have guarded him from wounds, would have deprived him of a part of that agility which could alone enable one to contend with many.

"If I could but send Emiline," he said, as he came up, "to call some of our brave boatmen from the cottages to our assistance here, we might set an army at defiance for an hour or two." Marguerite only answered, by pointing with her hand to a spot on the distant sands, where a small body of horsemen, perhaps not a hundred, were seen galloping at full speed towards Scarphout. Albert saw that it was too late to call further aid; and now only turned to discover where he could best make his defence in case of need.

There was a large massy wall, which, ere the sea had encroached upon the building, ran completely round the castle, but which now only flanked one side of the ruins, running out like a jetty into the waters which had swallowed up the rest. It was raised about twenty feet above the ground on one side, and perhaps twenty-five above the sea on the other; and at the top, between the parapets, was a passage which would hardly contain two men abreast. Upon his wall, about half-way between the keep and the sea, was a small protecting turret, and there Albert saw that Marguerite might find shelter, while, as long as he lived, he could defend the passage against any force coming from the side of the land. He told her his plans; and for her only answer, she fell upon his neck and wept. But he wiped her tears away with his fond lips, and spoke words of hope and comfort.

"See!" he said, "the sea is already covering the _chaussée_ between us and the land, and if they do not possess the secret of the vaults, they cannot reach us till the tide falls."

When he turned his eyes to the shore, the body of horsemen were within a mile of the castle; but then, with joy inexpressible, he beheld upon the edge of the sand-hills, scarcely two miles behind them, a larger force hurrying on, as if in pursuit, with banner and pennon, and standard displayed, and lance beyond lance bristling up against the sky.

"The King of France; the King of France!" he cried; but still the foremost body galloped on. They reached the shore, drew up their horses when they saw that the tide was in; turned suddenly towards the cottage; and the next moment Albert could see his mother and Emiline fly from their dwelling across the sands. The men at arms had other matters in view than to pursue them; but Albert now felt that they were aware of the secret entrance, and that Marguerite's only hope was in his own valour.

"To the turret, my beloved!" he cried, "to the turret!" And half bearing half-leading her along, he placed her under its shelter, and took his station in the pass. A new soul seemed to animate him, new light shone forth from his eye; and, in words which might have suited the noblest of the land, he exhorted her to keep her firmness in the moment of danger, to watch around, and gave him notice of all she saw from the loopholes of the turret.

Then came a moment of awful suspense, while in silence and in doubt they waited the result; but still the host of France might be seen drawing nearer and more near; and the standard of the king could be distinguished floating on the wind amidst a thousand other banners of various feudal lords. Hope grew high in Albert's breast, and he trusted that ere Burchard could find and force the entrance, the avenger would be upon him. He hoped in vain, however, for the murderer was himself well acquainted with the spot, and had only paused to secure the door of the vaults, so that his pursuers could not follow by the same means he himself employed. In another minute loud voices were heard echoing through the ruin, and Albert and Marguerite concealing themselves as best they could, beheld the fierce and bloodthirsty Prévôt with his companions seeking them through the castle.

Still onward bore the banners of France; and ere Burchard had discovered their concealment, the shore at half a bow-shot distance was lined with chivalry. So near were they, that, uninterrupted by the soft murmur of the waves, could be heard the voice of a herald calling upon the rebels to surrender, and promising pardon to all but the ten principal conspirators. A loud shout of defiance was the only reply; for at that very moment the eye of Burchard lighted on the form of Albert as he crouched under the wall, and the men at arms poured on along the narrow passage.

Concealment could now avail nothing; and starting up with his battle-axe in his hand, he planted himself between the rebels and the princess. The French on the shore could now behold him also, as he stood with half his figure above the parapet; and instantly, seeming to divine his situation, some cross-bowmen were brought forward, and poured their quarrels on the men, of the Prévôt as they rushed forward to attack him. Two or three were struck down; but the others hurried on, and the safety of Albert himself required the cross-bowmen to cease, when hand to hand he was compelled to oppose the passage of the enemy. Each blow of his battle-axe could still be beheld from the land; and as one after another of his foes went down before that, strong and ready arm, loud and gratulating shouts rang from his friends upon the shore.

Still others pressed on, catching a view of Marguerite herself, as, in uncontrollable anxiety for him she loved, she gazed forth from the turret-door, and a hundred eager eyes were bent upon her, certain that if she could be taken, a promise of pardon, or a death of vengeance at least, would be obtained; but only one Could approach at a time, and Albert was forming for himself a rampart of dead and dying. At that moment, however, Burchard, who stood behind, pointed to the castle-court below, where a number of old planks and beams lay rotting in the sun.

A dozen of his men then sprang down, caught up the materials which he showed them, planted them against the wall beyond the turret, and soon raised up a sort of tottering scaffold behind the place where Marguerite's gallant defender stood. He himself, eager in the strife before him, saw not what had happened; but she had marked the fatal advantage the enemy had gained, and, gliding like a ghost from out the turret, she approached close to his side, exclaiming, "They are coming!--they are coming from the other side!--and we are lost!"

Albert turned his head, and comprehended in a moment. But one hope was left. Dashing to the earth the next opponent who was climbing over the dead bodies between them, he struck a second blow at the one beyond, which made him recoil upon his fellows. Then casting his battle-axe and shield away, he caught the light form of Marguerite in his arms, sprang upon the parapet, and exclaiming, "Now God befriend us!" plunged at once into the deep sea, while, at the very same moment, the heads of the fresh assailants appeared upon the wall beyond.

A cry of terror and amazement rang from the shore; and the king of France himself, with two old knights beside him, rode on till the waters washed their horses' feet. Albert and Marguerite were lost to sight in a moment; but the next instant they appeared again; and, long accustomed to sport with the same waves that now curled gently round him as an old loved friend, bearing the head of Marguerite lifted on his left arm, with his right he struck boldly towards the shore.

On--on he bore her! and like a lamb in the bosom of the shepherd, she lay without a struggle, conquering strong terror by stronger resolution. On--on he bore her! Glad shouts hailed him as he neared the shore; and with love and valour lending strength, he came nearer and more near. At length his feet touched the ground, and throwing both arms round her, he bore her safe, and rescued, till he trod the soft, dry sand. Then kneeling before the monarch, he set his fair burden softly on the ground--but still he held her hand.

"Hold! nobles--hold!" cried the king of France, springing from his horse. "Before any one greets him. I will give him the greeting he well has won. Advance the standard over us! Albert of Boulogne, in the name of God, St. Michael, and St. George, I dub thee knight! Be ever, as to-day, gallant, brave, and true. This is the recompense we give. Fair lady of Flanders, we think you owe him a recompense likewise; and we believe that, according to our wise coast laws, that which a fisherman brings up from the sea is his own by right. Is it not so, my good Lord of Boulogne?" and he turned to a tall old man beside him. "You, of all men, should know best; as for ten years you have enacted the _Fisherman of Scarphout_."

The nobles laughed loud, and with tears of joy the old count of Boulogne, for it was no other, embraced his gallant son, while at the same time the Lord of Wavrin advanced, and pressed Marguerite's hand in that of her deliverer, saying, "Her father, sire, by will, as you will find, gave the disposal of her hand to me, and I am but doing my duty to him in bestowing it on one who merits it so well. At the same time it is a comfort to my heart to offer my noble lord, the Count of Boulogne, some atonement for having done him wrong in years long gone, and for having, even by mistake, brought on him your displeasure and a ten years' exile. He has forgiven me, but I have not forgiven myself; and as an offering of repentance, all my own lands and territories, at my death, I give, in addition, to the dowry of Marguerite of Flanders."

We will not pause upon the death of Burchard, Prévôt of St. Donatien. It was, as he merited, upon a scaffold. Explanations, too, are tedious, and _the old history_ tells no more than we have here told, leaving the imagination of its readers to fill up all minor particulars in the life of the _Fisherman of Scarphout_.

These tales were followed by a moral essay on the Use of Time, which none of the party would acknowledge, though it was strongly suspected to be the production of a young lady, in the assumed character of an old man.

THE USE OF TIME.

Time, considered in the same light as the other possessions of man, is certainly of them all the most valuable, as so very small portion is allotted to each individual. Yet every means are employed by the great bulk of mankind to waste that of which our quantity is so diminutive, every art is used to dissipate what will naturally fly from us, every ilea is bent on driving away that which we can never recall.

Our first thought, on awaking from sleep is, How shall I spend the day? Surely it ought rather to be, How shall I best employ those moments of which Heaven has given me so few? which of the various modes of filling my time will be most consonant to reason and virtue--will most redound to mine own honour--will be most advantageous to society?

There is no art which would be more beneficial to the world, or which is less practised, than the economy of moments. A thousand spaces present themselves in the life of every man, which are left unoccupied, even amidst the bustle of pleasure, or the anxiety of business--too small to be employed in serious study, too sudden and evanescent to offer opportunity for any prolonged enjoyment. But these vacuities might almost always be used to produce either some harmless gratification to ourselves, or some benefit to others; some improvement of our corporeal or intellectual faculties, or some scheme for giving satisfaction, or acquiring happiness. Man need never be idle, even for an instant. If the accident of the moment deprive him of books, the page of nature will most frequently be before him. Should this also be excluded from his view, let him turn his consideration to the tablet of his own mind; let him correct its errors, let him engrave move deeply the lines of right; let him strengthen the powers of reason, by examining and arranging his own thoughts; let him think, but not dream; and he will find an inexhaustible fund of employment and delight--a fund which is always replete with improvement, and which is constantly accessible to his research.

Moments are the most precious treasures we possess; and by them most frequently is the fate of man decided. The ultimate effects of the impulse or accident of an instant will frequently give a colouring to the whole picture of our future life; either shadow it with sorrow or brighten it with prosperity. Moments, therefore, ought never to be neglected: they ought never to be wasted in idleness, nor remain unguarded by vigilance; for, in their passing, they hurry on our fate; and on their occupation and event our happiness here and hereafter depends.

Procrastination is another of the most idle ways of wasting time:--more destructive to happiness, more baneful to society, more hostile to virtue and reason, than almost any other custom short of actual vice. It weakens the mind, it cheats the understanding, and induces a state of intellectual imbecility, always increasing and never to be overcome. It is not alone that we substitute resolutions for actions, and spend in determinations those moments which ought to be employed in doing service to ourselves or benefiting society; but the mental cowardice grows upon us, and we lose the power even of resolving, where action is necessary, and where doubt is still more dangerous than error; perplexing our mind with distressing hesitation, as opposite to necessary caution as real prudence is to headlong rashness and blind timidity. Procrastination has been called "the thief of time." It is worse! It is the murderer of man's best friend.

Was all our time filled with the obvious duties which present themselves to our view--engaged in the harmless pleasures that at every step lie in our path, or employed in well-directed observation and moral improvement were those vacant moments, which men feel so burthensome, snatched eagerly for the acquirement of knowledge, or the reciprocation of benefits--the advantage to mankind would be, not alone the increased enjoyment of existence, but also, escape from temptation to evil, and security in the path of right.

Notwithstanding these observations, every man will find that he cannot always compel his mind to any particular object; and that, when he wishes to employ profitably a vacancy in his time, he must allow his thoughts to follow in a degree their former course; or at least, guide them into a new channel by some easy means of communication.

I have often myself experienced this restiveness of imagination; and whether it be from the weakness of age, or a natural drowsiness of constitution, I know not; but, whenever I endeavour to force my ideas towards subjects unassimilating with previous impressions, especially when at all under the influence of bodily fatigue, my mind seeks to escape from the burdensome employment I would impose on it, by taking refuge in the arms of slumber.

I had one day striven hard to fix my thoughts upon subjects very nearly connected with the foregoing observations, although, at the moment, I was fatigued and exhausted with exercises and occupations unknown and dissimilar to my secluded habits; and as I endeavoured to arrange my ideas in a more distinct form, gradually they lost their course, became more and more confused, and I dropped asleep.

If it be natural for the weary meditator to sleep, it is still more natural for the poet or essayist to dream; and, indeed, I have a custom of carrying on, during the hours of repose, that train of thought, which has occupied me while awake; dressed indeed in a more fanciful garb, and marshalled with all the extravagance of uncontrolled imagination.

On the present occasion, no sooner had I closed my eyes, than, as usual, the ideas which I had impressed on my mind again appeared, but in somewhat of a different form. The whole objects in the room, however, were unchanged, even in the visions of my sleep. I still reclined in my easy chair. My table, littered with papers, was before me--the picture of my great grandfather stared me in the face from the other side of the room--my wig hung in its usual recess by the fireplace--my snuff-box remained half open on the table; and my red morocco slippers rested on their own peculiar stool, undisturbed by intruding feet.

Ina few minutes, as I fixed my eyes upon the picture of my great grandfather the reverend effigy began to move; the next instant the figure descended from the back-ground, and bowing with all the formal grace of one thousand seven hundred and seven, advanced toward the table. I returned the salutation of my revered, ancestor, and begged him to be seated--I could do no less for one who had made such advances--and then, in all that absurd caricature of real life, which dreams occasionally display, we began to pour forth an overwhelming flood of compliments upon each other, in which, however, the copiousness of my great grandfather had considerably the advantage. Indeed, he seemed resolved to indemnify himself in that one night for the ages of silence he had passed within his frame.

At length, after an oration too long to be repeated, and which, in truth, I scarcely understood, he informed me, that knowing my desire to see all the moments of my passed life, he had come out of the canvass on purpose to gratify me; and that he would immediately call them to my sight, exactly as they had really been, in distinct classes, and in regular routine.

As he concluded, he rapped the snuff-box, with which he was represented in the portrait, and in a moment, the room was filled with little winged boys, resembling our pictures of cherubim. "These," said my ancestor, "are the first twenty years of thy life. You may observe, that most of them are blind, for men, like kittens, do not open their eyes until they have been some time in the world--those that appear all over prickles, and who flutter about with such vehemence, are the moments wasted in love--those with sleepy air, swarthy complexion, and dusty wings, have passed you while poring over old authors and musty volumes; and those that fly about casting somersets in the air, like tumbler pigeons, are the instants spent in balls and assemblies in the giddy days of youth."

"But why," demanded I, "do so many that I see carry a scull, more especially those that bear a smile upon their lips, as if they mocked the memento in their hands?"

"All those," replied he, "are moments wasted; some in folly, some in actual vice, and some passed by, unfilled by action, or unemployed by thought; but all alike, the winged hasteners of mortality."

"But are not all the others the same?" demanded I, "even those who appear so calm and placid; those few, those very few, who neither laugh nor frown, but whose looks are full of expression, and whose unclosed eyes seem to beam with approbation--surely all moments tend alike towards the tomb?"

"Those," replied he, "are the instants given to the doing of good deeds and to the pursuit of virtue; and they lead us even beyond the tomb; through the portal of death, open the gates of life, and smooth our passage to eternity."

He now called to view the next twenty years of my life, and directly another winged crowd appeared, some of whom bore ladders, many of the steps whereof were broken or irregular; and these, I was told, were the moments given to the delusions of pride and the dreams of ambition. Others were little gloomy-looking imps, which, however, often when they would seem to frown the most, would suddenly assume a smile, so placid and beaming, that a ray from heaven appeared to have fallen upon their features. These, I found, were the moments of well-conducted study, calm reflection, and self-examination. Some, again, had no bodies; and their wings were decked with all hues and colours, as if each were a rainbow; but at the same time, like the painted follower of the summer cloud, they were thin, transparent, and unsubstantial. These, he informed me, were times of vain imaginations, and unreasonable desires. A multitude came next; many of whom had the brow bent, and the corners of the mouth drawn into a kind of sneer. There were others, whose features at once displayed a tear and a smile, both so bright, it was impossible to say which was the most radiant. Of these two sorts, the first were the moments of cynicism and misanthropy; and the second displayed the times given to particular charity or general benevolence.

"And now," said my great grandfather, "for the next twenty years."

"Stop, stop, my dear sir," cried I, "remember I am not sixty yet."

"Fifty-nine years, six months, three days, eleven hours, five-and-twenty minutes, four seconds," replied he in an angry tone. The fearful recapitulation put an end both to my dream and my slumber; and starting up in my chair, I found--the clock striking.

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There were many other contributions, but I have only kept a copy of two more, the first of which was suggested by the apprehensions expressed by one of the party, lest the multiplication of steam-engines should ultimately exhaust all the fuel in the world. The second was occasioned by a reference made to the days when we had first met, by one in whom the equanimity of a high mind had preserved all the freshness of extreme youth.

THE LAST FIRE.

A VISION OF STEAM.

[As I sat, a few nights ago, reading in the newspapers many alarming calculations concerning the consumption of fuel by the multiplication of steam-engines, I fell into a dose, when the following awful and prophetic vision presented itself to my eyes. Immediately on waking, it fell naturally, as it were, into verse; and I think the subject too important to be withheld from public consideration.]

---------------

I slept; and, in a vision, to my eyes Nature's last tragedy appeared to rise. Man's climbing mind had subtilised each art, Sublimed the whole, and perfected each part. Laws, arts, and arms, had undergone a change, Not less magnificent because most strange. Steam, mighty steam! had superseded all-- Made horses bankrupts, and made bread to fall. Steam-boats, steam-guns, steam-kitchens, and steam-coaches, To this perfection made the first approaches: But this was nothing to the wondrous steaming The future showed me as I lay a-dreaming. Vain in description to waste precious paper-- Suffice it, Europe was one cloud of vapour!

But, ah! alas! that vapour e'er should feel The rotatory roll of Fortune's wheel! Fuel grew dear! French forests fell like grass; Tynemouth, Wall-end, and Kennell, cried, "Alas!" Nor even could the Indian savage roam Through ancient woods, his dim primeval home. Long every shrub, and bush, and branch, and tree, Had heated boilers, and had ceased to be; And men were forced to turn to uses vile Full many a laboured, many a learned pile. Many a volume too, and many a tome, Sharing alike the universal doom, Now proved a blessing, where they proved a bore, And blazed with fire they never knew before! Wondrous! with what avidity men brought Those solemn works with wit and learning fraught,-- State records, parliamentary debates, Polemic tracts, and essays upon states,-- To light the fire which every parish vowed To warm the noses of the coal-less crowd.

Romances next were hurled into the flame; Next poets, play-writers, historians, came; Last, Homer, Virgil, Milton, Shakspeare, Scott, With many a sigh, were added to the lot: But these the unwilling owners e'en confessed Burned longer, clearer, brighter, than the rest. Next furniture was fetched--drawers, tables, chairs, Beds, stools, and every sort of wooden wares; Till men were forced to seek the aid of stones To bear their dinners and to rest their bones; Till all was burnt. Then surly Winter rose, And took blue wretches by the frozen nose; And sad it was to see each chilly wight, With hands in pockets and coat buttoned tight, Run up and down the waste, uncovered earth, Cursed with black cold, sad enemy to mirth; And, as they ran, remorse their bosoms tore, For joys they'd heedless cast away before. Dandies and Russians, Dutchmen, bargemen, tars, Regretted wasted pipes and lost cigars; And patriot Catholics and Irish priests Thought good wood wasted on heretic beasts, Called Smithfield fire-lighting a thriftless trade, And bloody Mary but a wasteful jade.

Vainly they ran! No cheering warmth they found, And the dull sky upon their mis'ry frowned; And when they entered in their doorless homes, 'Twas stony coldness all like empty tombs. With frenzied energy they dug the ground, Or dived the sea. Nor coal nor wood they found! And many a wretch would lay him down to die, And welcome Death without one envious sigh; No terrors found they in his icy stare-- They could not well be colder than they were. Still many raged and struggled for warm life, And waged with cold and death unequal strife, Dined on raw cabbages, devoured raw beef, Gained indigestion, but gained no relief.

One man there was--a waterman by trade, Erst in green coat and plated badge arrayed; Men called him Fish, and rightly him did call-- For he could dive and swim, possessing all The useful attributes of finny birth-- Finding the water warmer than the earth, He spent his time in diving; and one day Found in the river's bottom, where they lay Hid from the danger of devouring flames, The stakes that Cæsar drove into the Thames! "Ho, ho!" cried he; "I've found a treasure here, Shall warm me snugly till the rolling year Bring's jolly summer." So with might and main He tugged them forth and bore them to the plain:-- But, now he'd got them, he had still to learn That wood when wet is difficult to burn. Quick-witted in himself, he well divined, Though cold at heart, some warmth remained behind; And having ranged the timber with much art, He sat and dried it with his broadest part. A long, long week, seven weary nights and days, Drying the expectant pile he careful stays. Thus o'er her nest the mother eagle broods; Or thus the ph[oe]nix of Arabian woods Sits on his aromatic pile, whose fire, Of new life redolent, shall soon aspire.

At length 'twas dry! Now with an eager hand Two flints he seized and fired each rotten brand-- Each rotten brand a grateful ardour showed; Forth burst the flame, and on the sky it glowed. High rose the flame; too high, alas! for now An ancient woman, on a mountain's brow, Running some worsted through a needle's eye, (What is it not old women will descry?) Found out the fire for Fish that furtive flamed, And forth with scream and shout the fact proclaimed. "A fire! A fire! A fire!" the beldam cried; "A fire! A fire!" the village all replied; "A fire! A fire A fire!" was echoed far and wide.

Each babe took up the tale, each ancient sire, Though deaf, and blind, and lame, repeated "Fire!" High, low, rich, poor, good, bad,--all cold the same,-- Loud shouted "Fire!" and kindled at the name. First hamlets, villages, assumed the cry; Through burghs and cities then the tidings fly; All traced them back to where they first began;-- All bawled out "Fire!" and as they bawled they ran. Now Fish, who selfishly had hoped alone T' enjoy the fire that he himself had won, Astonished sees the world around him swarm-- Millions on millions, eager to get warm!

On, on, they rushed, one on the other prest; And still the crowd behind impelled the rest. All nations, languages, heights, features, hues, That the wide universe could then produce, Running, and jostling, scrambling, tumbling came, Jammed into marmalade around that flame.

Then Fish, indignant, cried with loud command,-- A brandished boat-hook in his dauntless hand, "Stand back, my masters! You may all be d----d! The fire's my own, and I will not be bammed! Or since the generous ardour fires your soul To seek this genial flame, from either pole, With me, its lord, possession to contend, And squeeze me flat my right while I defend-- Thus I defy you, caitiffs all, and dare The bold to follow, and my fate to share!"[21]

Proudly he said, and sprang into the flame: High o'er his head the fiery eddies came; The crowd beheld, and, maddened with the sight, Dashed on the blaze, and perished in the light. The fire was out; but still they onward rushed:-- The far extremes the narrow centre pushed, Squeezed, jammed, cast down, one on the other rose. And many a mortal trod on his own nose. Each in his eagerness his fellow mashed: The sun went down--and all the world was quashed!!!

[Footnote 21: The hero of this tale is, or rather was, a real character (like all the other true heroes in the true tales of this true history). His name was Peter Fish, a waterman, plying at Hungerford Stairs, and many a time has his wherry borne me over the Thames, when I was a reckless schoolboy. He was a good-humoured soul as ever lived, rather fond of the bottle and of a little rhodomontade.]

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.

I wish I could as merry be As when I set out this world to see, Like a boat filled with good companie, On some gay voyage sent. There Youth spread forth the broad white sail, Sure of fair weather and full gale, Confiding life would never fail, Nor time be ever spent.

And Fancy whistled for the wind; And if e'en Memory looked behind; 'Twas but some friendly sight to find, And gladsome wave her hand; And Hope kept whispering in Youth's ear, To spread more sail and never fear, For the same sky would still be clear Until they reached the land.

Health, too, and Strength tugged at the ear, Mirth mocked the passing billows' roar, And Joy, with goblet running o'er, Drank draughts of deep delight; And Judgment at the helm they set, But Judgment was a child as yet, And lack-a-day! was all unfit To guide the boat aright.

Bubbles did half her thoughts employ, Hope she believed, she played with Joy, And Passion bribed her with a toy, To steer which way he chose. But still they were a merry crew, And laughed at dangers as untrue, Till the dim sky tempestuous grew, And sobbing south winds rose.

Then Prudence told them all she feared; But youth awhile his messmates cheered Until at length he disappeared, Though none knew how he went. Joy hung his head, and Mirth grew dull, Health faltered, Strength refused to pull, And Memory, with her soft eyes full, Backward her glance still bent.

To where, upon the distant sea, Bursting the storm's dark canopy, Light, from a sun none now could see, Still touched the whirling wave. And though Hope, gazing from the bow, Turns oft,--she sees the shore,--to vow, Judgment, grown older now I trow, Is silent, stern, and grave.

And though she steers with better skill, And makes her fellows do her will, Fear says, the storm is rising still, And day is almost spent.-- Oh, that I could as merry be As when T set out this world to see, Like a boat filled with good companie, On some gay voyage sent!

THE PRISON AND THE CASTLE.

For, ah! what is there of inferior birth That breathes or creeps upon the dust of earth-- What wretched creature, of what wretched kind, Than man more weak, calamitous, and blind?--POPE'S HOMER.

In such amusements as I have described passed our evenings at Pau; but the days were generally spent in roaming through the beautiful scenery in the neighbourhood. At length, however, the time for drinking the mineral waters arrived, and we prepared to migrate with the rest. There were two objects however in Pau which we had not yet seen.

Hitherto, we had lingered away our time without either visiting the prison or the castle; and, as we were about to set out the next day for Cauterets, we proceeded to the old château, though the evening was beginning to close in. We were well aware that there was little to be seen, but to have quitted the capital of Bearn without seeing the birth-place of Henry IV., would have been a high offence.

I hate prisons--there is something so repulsive in beholding man debarred the first privilege of nature, that, however necessary it may be to the safety of society, it makes me sick at heart to see it. No man, I have been told, felt this so much as Howard, and it was this that first caused him to turn the energies of his truly great mind towards alleviating the concomitant misery of those who were already wretched enough.

However, my object was to give my mind as much occupation of every kind as I could, and we accordingly proceeded to the prison, where the first sight that presented itself, was that of a maniac in a frightful state of insanity. We paused for a moment to inquire if nothing could be done for the unhappy being; and then as we were crossing the court, the voice of one of the prisoners singing in the tower above, caught our ear, and we stopped again to listen. The air and the voice were both peculiarly beautiful, and I easily obtained the words, which I now subjoin. I will not attempt to describe the effect of the sight of the maniac and the sound of that song.

PRISONER'S SONG.

1. I know not, and I care not, how The hours may pass me by, Though each may leave upon my brow A furrow, as they fly;

2. What matters it? Each still shall take One link from off the chain, Which binds me to this bitter stake Of sorrow and of pain.

3. Time, like a rower, plies his oar, And all his strokes are hours; Impelling to a better shore Of sunshine and of flowers.

4. I've tasted all that life can give Of pleasure and of pain; And is it living, thus to live When joys no more remain?

5. I've tasted women's ardent lip, Glowing with Love's first fire; And yet been forc'd the cup to sip Of coldness or of ire.

6. All nature has had charms for me, The sunshine and the shade; The soaring lark, the roving bee, The mountain and the glade.

7. And I have been the tempest's child, And known the lightning's touch; Mark'd midst the mad storm's warfare wild Too little or too much.

8. And I have seen my own blood flow Red, in the deadly strife; And others I have taught to know How dear they held to life.

9. I've play'd with being as a toy, Till things have lost their form, Till danger has become a joy, And joy become a storm.

10. I've lov'd as man has seldom lov'd, So deeply, purely, well; I've prov'd what man has seldom prov'd, Since first from bliss he fell.

11. Mine eye again can never see What once mine eye has seen; This world to me can never be What once this world has been.

12. Speed on! O speed! my bark, speed on-- Quick o'er life's troubled waves; The one that comes, the one that's gone, What lies beneath them? Graves.

The first apartment we were show into contained the prisoners sentenced to detention for longer or shorter periods, according to their crimes. They were all working hard, and, seemingly, cheerfully; and the jailer told me, that a great object of those to whom the government of the prison was committed was to give the prisoners habits of industry, and to prevent them, by all means, from becoming utterly debased; so that, when they again receive their liberty, they may become better members of society instead of worse. Their principal occupation seemed in straw-work; and as this is an easy and light task, and fills up the moments which would otherwise prove tedious in confinement, they all appeared rather glad of it than otherwise. A portion of the emolument proceeding from their labour goes towards defraying the expenses of the prison, and a portion is reserved for the prisoner, in order that, when he goes back into the world, he may not again be driven to crime by poverty.

We next visited the apartment where were confined prisoners who had incurred severer punishment. They were generally persons condemned to the galleys for seven years or for life, and were waiting here till their sentence should be put in execution. When we entered there were several groups playing at piquet for sums of one or two sous. Amongst others was a lawyer, who had been sentenced to the galleys for forgery. I have generally remarked that those condemned for any serious crime have a heavy stupid expression of countenance and dull unmeaning eye; but this man was an exception. In his face there was plenty of keen, piercing cunning, with a touch of sarcastic bitterness, which showed itself also in his speech. He spoke to us for some time, and, like all villains, tried to darken his view of mankind till it became of the same hue as his own character. He took it for granted that all men were rascals, but only that he had been an unfortunate one.

From hence we went to the dungeons, where still deeper crimes awaited their reward. A damp obscure stone passage led to the cell where two murderers were confined expecting their execution. They were Spaniards, and had left nothing in the perpetration of their crime to excite anything but horror. Their victim had been one of their countrymen, who, having fled from the troubles and dangers which distressed his native land, had contrived to carry away a small sum to support him in his exile; and this proved the cause of their guilt and of his death. The evidence against them had left not a doubt of the facts, but yet they were suffered to linger on from week to week, not knowing which day would be their last, while (_as we were told_,) the Spanish ambassador pleaded their cause at Paris, and endeavoured to procure a commutation of their punishment, on account of their having shown themselves _staunch royalists_. They seemed to be heavily and almost cruelly chained, but nevertheless to mind it but little, smoking their cigars, and counting their rosaries with great _sang froid_.

I spoke a few words to them in Spanish concerning their situation, to which they replied without any show of feeling, appearing very cheerful, quite careless about dying, and not particularly contrite.

Although there be no doubt that the long habit of indulging in any passion gives a peculiar expression to the countenance and sometimes even a cast to the features, I put little faith in physiognomy, in the general acceptation of the word; but I could not help remarking, that the heads of these two men were precisely similar to those of all murderers whom I have seen, almost spherical in shape, with the forehead low but rather protuberant, and the eye dull and heavy.

We went next to see the room in the castle where Jeanne d'Albret brought forth the heroic Henry IV., heard the story of her singing even in the pains of child-birth in order that the infant might prove a strong and resolute man, and were gratified with a sight of the tortoise-shell in which he was cradled--though, be it remarked that one tortoise-shell cradle was burnt during the revolution. Afterwards, however, the governor of the castle produced the present one as genuine, asserting that the one demolished was not that which had served the monarch for a cradle. Thus that which is shown at present has acquired the additional interest of uncertainty, notwithstanding which, the Bourbon family have surrounded it with gilt helmets and spears, tinsel and tawdry, which might well suit a toy-shop but not the birth-place of Henri Quatre.

As we were to set out very early the next morning for the mountains, we proposed to rest early, but did not fulfil that purpose. On the contrary, we sat late talking over all the pleasant moments which we had snatched from fate, in the little capital of Bearn, and our lucubrations ended in an

ADIEU TO PAU.

Adieu, perchance for but a day, Perchance for many a year; While life's bright part shall slip away, And Hope shall yield to Memory, With many a tear.

But if imagination too, Be not amongst things been, Her magic power shall call to view, The kind, the good, that brightened you, Re-peopling the scene.

Adieu, sweet congress of fair things, Stream, mountain, valley, plain; And e'en when Time man's winter brings, Remembrance still shall lend me wings, To visit thee again.

LOURDES.

Dim grottos, gleaming lakes, and fountains clear.

I believe it to be all the same, after all, whether a man travels or not; he's a stupid, cross-grained, drudging animal, not half so good as the horse that drags him on his road. Blest with reason, it serves him less than the instinct of the brute; with experience constantly flogging him for his errors, he never corrects them; half of his time he forgets what is right, and when he remembers it he never puts it in practice.

Such were my reflections on finding--what? that John had forgotten that most indispensable requisite to an Englishman's comfort, the tea-kettle, at the instant we were leaving Pau. He had done so at every place where he had stopped on the road, and now he had to bring it down stairs, to tie it on the carriage, to cover it with the oil-skin, and, in short, to detain the whole party, postilion, and horses, and all, for at least five minutes.

Now, being very well aware that when I begin to moralize on trifles I am never in the best humour in the world, and judging by this infallible sign that I was in an ill temper, from having got up at four o'clock in the morning, I placed myself deep in the corner of the carriage, and pretended to fall asleep, for fear I should quarrel with my companion, which, Heaven knows, would have been no easy matter. However, as the carriage drove out of Pau, and began rolling along, in a dull gray morning, over smooth ground, it became no longer a pretence, and I began seriously to make reparation for my morning's idleness--I mean for not having slept; as I consider, not to sleep at the moments properly appropriated for it, just as great a piece of idleness as any other misuse that man makes of his time.

I finished my nap as we crossed a bridge over the Gave not very far from Lastelle. My friend who, it appears, had occupied himself much like myself, woke up at the same time, and looking back to Pau, which we saw diminishing afar, I am sure we both, thought of the friends we left there, of the kindness they had shown to wandering strangers, and the peaceful hours we had known in their society. I may never more see them again; if so, God bless them, for I am sure they deserve it.

It was scarcely past midday when we arrived at Lourdes. The approach is not unlike some of Mrs. Radcliffe's descriptions; the hills beginning to rise high and craggy on each side, with a wild torrent rushing in a valley below; and beyond, the Castle of Lourdes, starting up on a high rock in the midst, sometimes seen and sometimes hidden, as the road winds along the side of the mountain. It was market-day at Lourdes, and a curious scene, the whole place being impassable for the crowd of the Bearnais, with their Calmuck countenances and broad berrets, and the Bearnaises, each covered with a red or white triangular hood, edged with a black border, hiding the greater part of the head, and falling low down on the shoulders.

I have before mentioned the sightseeing propensities of my companion and myself; and though I had abjured grottos, as the most unsatisfactory of all things, the first of our movements was towards the "_Spelunque_ (or cavern,) _du Loup_." It lies some way on the other side of the river, and, on arriving, we found the entrance so low that we were obliged to go in, not upon our hands and knees, but upon our faces. The guide went first, and then my friend, who is six feet three, so that I thought he would never have done--there was such a quantity of him.

The cave widens rapidly after the entrance, elevating itself to a great height, and resembling in many places the niches and aisles of a Gothic cathedral. In the end it is terminated by a deep well, into which the guide threw some pieces of stone, which continued echoing, as they fell, for several minutes. But the most curious thing we observed was the soil near the mouth of the grotto, which appeared entirely formed from the fragments of insects. We examined several portions of this black sort of earth and uniformly found it composed of parts of the legs, wings, and corslets, of what had apparently been small beetles.

After the cavern, we went, in a different direction, to visit a lake said to occupy the spot where a mountain once stood, which suddenly disappeared at the time of an earthquake. The only beauty of the place was the reflection of the hills around in the deep smooth water, and one might almost fancy they saw the ghost of the vanished mountain haunting its old abode and looking up from the bottom of the lake.

The whole of the country round is strewed with old towers and castles, which have been erected at different periods; some to check the descent of the mountaineers, who used here, as well as in Scotland, to exact a kind of black mail from the inhabitants of the low lands; some to guard against the Moors, who, during their residence in Spain, used frequently to invade and ravage the country; and some are even attributed to the Romans, but I should think, from their appearance, with little foundation for the supposition.

However, like all mountaineers, the people are full of old legends; and ancient superstitions, driven from the more civilized globe, seem to have refuged themselves in the obscurity of these unfrequented hills.

They tell a droll story of the lord of one of the old castles of which I have just spoken, not at all unlike "Alonzo the Brave and the fair Imogine," but still more like the story of the noble Morringer.

THE DEVIL AND THE CRUSADER.

Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen, Hey and the rue grows bonny wi' thyme, He met wi' auld Nick, wha said, how do ye fen, And the thyme it is wither'd and rue is in prime. I've got a bad wife, sir, that's a' my complaint, Hey and the rue grows bonny wi' thyme, For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint. And the thyme it is wither'd and rue is in prime. KELLYBURN BRAES.

Is those good old times so much to be regretted, when every noble had the right and privilege of administering justice or injustice on his own vassals, when hanging was in the hands of the gentry, and law in the mouth of every feudal chief--when the crumbling towers, where the moping owl now sits in melancholy solitude, were peopled with the gay, and the bright, and the fair--when the courts where the lonely wind whistles as in mockery of their emptiness, resounded to the clang of arms and the voice of the trumpet--when feast and revel filled those halls, where now sits nothing but silence and desolation;--the bravest of the brave was the Lord of the Château de B----, and the fairest of the fair was his lady. Beauty and wit were her's, and courage and wealth were his, and all thought the Marquis the happiest of mortals, except himself. How it came about, and why, does not appear, but a violent hatred took place between the Marquis and a neighbouring Baron, but histories do not mention that the Marchioness participated in her husband's dislike.

Some said, that the Marquis was jealous, and called him "poor man!" but as if to give them all the lie, and prove that he loved his wife dearly and suspected her not at all, he came to a sudden resolution to call together his vassals and retainers and join the crusade, for it was just about this time that Peter the Hermit went through Europe like a mad dog, infecting everybody with a desire to bite the Saracens. Every wise man makes a will, and the Marquis wisely calculating that a man who goes to cut other folk's throats, may find some one by the way to cut his own, caused to be made and delivered his last will and testament, leaving all his goods and effects, real and personal, to his dearly beloved wife in case of his death; and further adding a proviso, that if he did not return or send a messenger announcing his existence within seven years, she might look upon him as dead to all intents and purposes, and marry again to her heart's content: but he made it a private request, that she would never espouse the obnoxious Baron, which she promised faithfully, not to do.

Now when the will was made as above stated by the Marquis's chaplain, who could read and write, the Marquis, who could not, made a cross at the bottom and stamped the wax with the pommel of his sword, and the Marchioness kissed her lord and wept bitterly to think of his dying at all.

At length the dreaded day of departure came. The vassals and retainers marched out of the castle in gallant array, and the Marquis's page told him that his charger was prepared, whereupon the Marchioness fainted--dead as a stone. The Marquis waited till she had recovered, and then snatched himself away and departed, while the Marchioness, with flowing tears and streaming hair, stood in the highest tower watching the horsemen till the top of the last spear was hid behind the mountain, and then she came down and said to the servant, "At home to nobody but the Baron."

* * * * *

In the mean time the Marquis joined the crusaders, arrived safely in the Holy Land, and for some time performed prodigies of valour; till at length one of these same prodigies conducted him into a Saracen prison, where he lingered, like good King Lusignan, living principally upon roasted chestnuts and mare's milk, for there were no cows in Jerusalem. His fortitude would have melted a heart of stone, but as it did not melt the stones of the prison, it served him but little, although being of an ingenious turn, he used occasionally to carve figures on little sticks, and Make whistles out of a marrowbone when he could get one.

In these dignified employments had the Marquis expended many years, and memory, who impudently keeps throwing in our teeth all that is disagreeable, could not forbear telling him, that the sun had seven times run his course since last he left his mountain castle in the Pyrenees; and on this was he meditating, when suddenly up started a gentleman, whom he instantly perceived to be the devil.

There is no one more ill-used, in my opinion, than the above-named personage. However broad his back may be, surely all the sins are laid to his charge, and of which he is as innocent as the child unborn, are well sufficient to bow it. The poor devil! O luxury, pride, vain glory, avarice, anger, hatred, revenge, and all uncharitableness; what, what would ye do if ye had not his shoulders to cast your burden upon? _O vanitas vanitatis!_ But as I was saying, the devil walked into the dungeon, whereupon the crusader crossed himself. "My dear sir," said his black majesty, "don't disturb yourself; such old friends ought not to stand upon ceremonies."

The crusader made him a low bow, saying, that the devil really had the advantage of him, and that he was not aware of having the pleasure of his acquaintance.

"Not personally, indeed," said the devil, "but you have done me so much service one way or another, that I owe you some return. You stare, my dear sir, but you have sent to my dominions, with your own hand, three-and-thirty Saracens, two renegades, and an atheist. Between you and me, it is all the same to me," said the devil, "of what religion they are, so that I have them safe; and now I have got to give you a piece of news and make you a proposal." And then the devil--whether it was that he does not patronize love of any kind, or whether he thought that the Marchioness had had enough of it to answer his purpose, or what, I don't know, but he told the Marquis, that as he had neither returned nor sent during seven years, his wife was that very night going to give her hand to the obnoxious baron, and he farther offered to carry him back instantly to his own château in the Pyrenees, if they could agree upon the terms.

This tickled the Marquis's fancy, but the devil was rather exorbitant, demanding the knight's heart and soul. The crusader replied, that his heart was his king's and his soul was his God's, and so that would not do. The devil then asked for all his wealth at his death, and to be instantly installed his chaplain, if he could prove that he had taken orders. The Marquis answered, "_L'habit ne fait pas le moine_." The devil then made several other proposals, but the knight was a stickler, and did not think a bad wife worth much. So at last the devil took off his hat saying, "What your honour pleases," leaving it to his own generosity; and the crusader, who had learnt to be a screw, said he would only give him the remains of his supper.

"You are a hard man," said the devil, "but never mind! jump up!"--and down he bent his back for the Marquis to mount. The knight sprang into the seat, stuck his knees into the devil's sides, and away they went like a flash of lightning till they arrived at the château, where they put the good people in no small confusion. The knight walked first and the devil came after, and all the servants ran into the banquet-hall crying, "The Marquis! the Marquis!" Up jumped the Baron, up jumped the Marchioness, up jumped the guests.

The Marquis's movements were rather rapid; he walked into the hall, claimed his wife, kicked the Baron, wished the company good night, overturned the supper table and spoilt the supper, so that when order was restored, and he called for something to eat, there was nothing to be had but a dozen of nuts and a bottle of wine. The knight cracked the nuts, but, according to his bargain, took care to throw the shells over his shoulder for the devil, and when he had drank his wine, threw the bottle behind him too: but the devil was too old a bird to be caught with chaff, and had been gone half an hour before. So the crusader pulled off his boots and went to bed.

ARGELES.

Et nunc omnis ager nunc omnis parturit arbos, Nunc frondent silvæ nunc formosissimus annus.--VIRGIL.

There was nothing more to be seen at Lourdes but the castle, and as that is now used only as a state prison we did not visit it. In scenes where liberty seems the charter of the place, as it does in these mountains, its loss is doubly dreadful. Besides, we had seen enough of prisons at Pau.

At Lourdes the Pyrenees really begin, in this direction, and from thence to Argelés, we passed through a valley which made us feel the whole force and truth of the expression of "_a smiling country_." Richly cultivated at their bases, on each side rise mountains, covered with fields of somewhat less luxuriance to their very summits. Yet they lose none of their character of mountains, for from the midst of a smooth verdant turf, a mass of cold rugged rock will ever and anon break out and hang frowning over the road; and in other places where the mountaineers have carried up the vegetable mould to the top of the crags, which they frequently do, a small green meadow will appear spreading soft and rich, in the midst of perfect desolation. At the further extremity, the view penetrates into several other valleys, which give long perspectives of hills sloping to meet hills and far passes winding on into the misty distance, till some obtrusive mountain comes with its blue head and shuts the scene.

Frequent villages are strewed all through the valley of Argelés, and every now and then some old ruin raises itself from amongst the trees, connecting the history of the past with the present beauties of the scene. The tower of Vidalos forms a striking object all along the road, standing on a wooded height, in the midst, and seen from every part of the valley.

The best and most extensive view near Argelés, is from an elevation to the north-west of the town, called Le Balandrau, and certainly it commands one of the most splendid panoramas that can be conceived. Here, as in all the valleys of the Pyrenees, a mountain torrent runs in the midst; the lower part is filled with towns and villages and woods; convents, and ruins, and feudal castles rise next, with the hamlets they formerly protected still clinging around them; and above, on every side, are seen the immense mountains over which the industry of man has spread a rich robe of cultivation. The sun, as it wanders over them, entirely changes their aspect, from time to time, without, however, robbing them of their beauty; sometimes, throwing them into deep shadow, all the minute parts are lost in one grand obscurity, sometimes, shining full upon them, a thousand objects of interest are displayed, softened and harmonized as they recede by the airy indistinctness of distance.

It had been our intention to proceed direct from Lourdes to Cauterets, but there was a charm in the valley of Argelés which there was no resisting, and we dismissed the horses, resolving to stay at the little inn, however bad the accommodation might be. But we were agreeably disappointed in our _auberge_. The people were civil and attentive, the beds clean and good, the prices moderate, and even had we been true French _gastronomes_, we must have been well contented with our fare.

We spent the day in wandering about the valley, seeking for new beauties, and enjoying all we saw; and in the evening retired to rest full of ideas of loveliness, and contented with the day.

CAUTERETS.

Hîc secura quies et nescia fallere vita, Dives opum variarum, hîc latis otia fundis Speluncæ, vivique lacus, hîc frigida Tempe.--VIRGIL.

The next morning we proceeded to Pierrefitte; and while some little alteration was taking place in the harness before we could go on towards Cauterets, a gendarme came up and asked for our passports. I luckily had mine in my pocket, though it had never been signed for the Pyrenees, but it answered very well, and was civilly returned, scarcely looked at. Not so happened it to a poor traveller on foot, who it appeared had no passport to show. When a man is in the wrong, and wishes to go on in the same way, he has but two resources, to bully or sneak. The poor traveller chose the first, and a violent quarrel ensued with the gendarme, who swore that he should not proceed one step without showing his passport, called out very loud about doing his duty, slapped his hand upon his heart, and talked about his honour. Finding that bully would not answer, the traveller had nothing for it but to sneak, so he asked the gendarme to come and drink a bottle of wine with him. The gendarme did not accept the invitation, but he drank the wine, and the traveller having paid for it walked on upon his way, while the other remained on the spot, to prove, to all who doubted it, what an honourable man he was, and how well he did his duty.

When the harness was all completely arranged, we passed on through the little town, and turning to the right entered the gorge of Cauterets. Here again was a new change of mountain scenery gaining in grandeur what is lost in richness and cultivation. From Pierrefitte the road suddenly turns into a deep ravine, with the river rushing below, and immense masses of crag rising many hundred feet above. But it is not even here the bare, cold, lifeless stone. Every spot where the root of a tree can fix itself, every ledge where the least earth can rest, is abundant in vegetable life, and all sorts of beautiful foliage seem striving to form a screen for the gray rock from which they spring. The road winds on through this sort of scenery, changing at every step, till, approaching Cauterets, the valley gradually widens, and again high mountains surround it on every side, but far bolder than those of Argelés, and covered near the tops with dark forests of pines and sapins.

Cauterets is a complete watering-place, a sort of barrack, which gets filled to the head the moment that fashion gives orders to march from the greater cities. As soon as the sound of the postman's whip was heard, all the inhabitants rushed to their windows to see who was to be added to their little world; and amid the number of white bonnets and blue, red bonnets and gray, which Paris had brought forth and Cauterets contained, we were fortunate enough to discover two or three with the owners of which we could claim acquaintance; and then there was pulling off of hats, and bowing of heads, and so forth, while a thousand gaping applicants stood round the carriage pressing for our "linge à blanchir," or for us to "manger chez-eux," so that there was practice enough in the art of refusing to train one for a prime minister.

We put up at the hotel of old Madame Lapierre, who is an original in her way. Some fifty years ago (I suppose) she kept a little _auberge_ at Cauterets, when Cauterets was scarcely heard of. She has grown, into opulence as it has grown in fame and size, and now is one of the richest persons of the place. But still little Madame Lapierre retains all her old habits: six days of the week, trots about the kitchen in her original dirt, peeps into the saucepans, counts the onions, and scolds the servants, and the seventh puts on a clean muslin cap, and brings in one of the dishes herself, to show how fine she is. Withal she really is a very good old soul, civil, kind, and obliging; the only thing is, that there is no understanding a word that she says, for speaking _patois_ sixty or seventy years has broken all the teeth out of her head, and spoilt her articulation.

Cauterets was as full as it could be. The violent hot weather had driven all the world out of large towns, and health, pleasure, curiosity, and fashion brought them all to the Pyrenees. Truly, truly, they could not have chosen a sweeter spot; grandeur and beauty become so familiar to the eye, that all the rest of the world does indeed look "stale, flat, and unprofitable." Besides, there are a thousand little lovely nooks unhackneyed by itineraries, which one is constantly finding out for one's self. I hate itineraries, they are a sort of Newgate Calendar, a record of all the common tours which have been executed for the last century. The Pyrenees have been but little tourified, or if they have I knew nothing about it, which came to the same thing.

There is a great difference between the Alps and the Pyrenees; the Alps are a country of mountains, the Pyrenees a chain. In Switzerland one is obliged to go to seek mountains: in the Pyrenees they start forward upon one; all that is beautiful and sublime is near at hand, and nature seems fond of changing from one form of grandeur to another.

Cauterets is surrounded on every side by majestic hills, and the walk to each of the sulphureous springs, of which there are several, displays new beauties at every step. That called La Raillère is the most frequented, and beyond it is a rich woody scene, dim and still, with the river divided into three or four streams, breaking over a high crag, and then foaming on under a small bridge of planks, which leads across from one rock to another. To the left lies a beautiful valley, to which we made an excursion with all the gay folks of the place. The ladies were carried in machines called _chaises à porteurs_, consisting simply of chairs fixed on poles and covered in with oil-cloth on all sides but one; these are carried between two men, whose dexterity is wonderful, bearing their burden up steep rocks, and over broken crags which seem quite impassable. Altogether they are not ugly in a landscape, and as we pedestrians stood upon the top of the hill and watched two-and-twenty of them following more slowly up the winding ascent, it had a very curious and pleasing effect. The pleasure of our party, however, was soon spoiled by a heavy rain, which came on and drove us back towards the town. Unfortunately, this is too frequent an occurrence in mountainous countries, and though the Pyrenees are less subject to it than many other places, they still are by no means exempt.

Though, in all probability, the good effect produced by visiting these waters, is more to be attributed to, the exercise, fine air, and beautiful scenery, than the benign influence of the nymph, yet I have seen two or three glasses from the well of La Raillère act in an extraordinary manner upon one of my friends, enabling him to walk for many miles without fatigue, which his health would not have permitted without some strong stimulus. However, the effects generally attributed to these fountains of the Pyrenees are rather amusing. The accounts published of them begin like the puff of a French charlatan, who states, that though some men make extravagant pretensions for their nostrum, that is not his case, there are only one or two diseases which his remedy is adapted to cure; and then he goes on to recite all the maladies incident to human nature.

The waters of Cauterets are thus stated to be specific in wounds, rheumatisms, affections of the liver, and the spleen, intermittent fevers, consumption, disease of the skin, and paralyses; and "etc." is put at the end to gratify the imagination of the reader, in case he should have any nondescript complaint which has not been enumerated.

THE LAC DE GAUB.

Care selve beate E voi solinghi e taciturni orrori Di riposi e di pace alberghi veri O quanto volentieri A rivedervi io torno.--GUARINI.

It often happens in the Pyrenees, that the place one goes to see is less worth seeing than the road which leads to it. We set out early in the morning for the Lac de Gaub, and passing the principal fountain of Cauterets, turned to the right where the path wound in amidst enormous rocks and forests of sapins, with not a vestige left of the civilized world,--all wild, and rough, and desolate, with the high peaks of the mountains almost shutting out the rays of the sun. The road, if it can be called a road, appears almost impracticable even on foot, but our guides told us, that the Spanish mules are frequently driven along it, and I have more than once since seen the Spaniards pass it on horseback.

The river, during its course through this valley, forms four principal cascades. The first, called "De Cirizet," is very beautiful, falling headlong down through a deep cleft in the rock, which is entirely covered with dark woods. The second, called "Le Pas de l'Ours," is connected with the other by the very tragical history of a poor bear. Be it known, then, that at the first waterfall, grew in days of yore a wild cherry tree, from which, by corruption, it acquired the name of Cirizet. It was first of all "La Cascade du Cerisier," the cataract of the cherry-tree, and from its root etymologists will have no difficulty in deriving "La Cascade Cerizet." A poor bear, who, like Parnell's hermit, far in a wild remote from public view, had grown from youth to age in harmless simplicity was wont every day to descend from his mountain hermitage and make a frugal meal upon the cherries that grew beside the fall.

However, it so unfortunately happened, that bruin was induced to vary his diet. The demon came tempting him in the shape of a shepherd and a flock of sheep and luxury, that most penetrating evil, found its way even up to his cave, whispering that every country gentleman ought to kill his own mutton.

Bruin suffered himself to be seduced by the charms of one of the sheep. It is supposed, that finding his virtue failing, he resolved to fly, but lingered still to give it one last embrace. However that may be, the separation was too cruel for either to bear, and his tender friend expired in his arms. Heart-stricken, bruin carried her mortal remains to his cave; and for some days was so overpowered with grief, that he abandoned his favourite walk to the cherry-tree cascade. At length, however, he once more took his way towards it, but ha, hapless tale! the cruel shepherd had watched his path, and dug away the support from the very stone over which his way lay as he passed the second cascade. Bruin advanced ruminating over his lost mutton;--he put his two forefeet upon the treacherous stone;--the stone gave way, and down he rolled headlong into the torrent, paying dear for not having contented himself with cherries.

The Pas de l'Ours, unconnected with its little tragedy, would be less interesting and is less beautiful than the fall of the Pont d'Espagne, where the path passing over the stream by a little wooden bridge, leads through the Port de Cauterets into Spain. Here two rivers flowing diagonally through long mountain passes, till they come near the brim of a precipice, plunge over the edge of the rock and meet in the deep chasm below, foaming and thundering as they join. Nothing can be more magnificent than to stand on the few unshaped trunks of trees which form the bridge, and look down upon the meeting of the waters, for ever rushing on with a dazzling whiteness and unceasing roar, while a thousand flowers are growing peacefully on the very brink; and a variety of shrubs and trees are dipping their branches in the spray.

When we were there the sun shone strongly on the mist which the fall raises, and arched it with a sunbow, that hung flickering over the waters like the banner of the contending streams.

The road which had been ascending all the way, now began to mount rapidly as if seeking the very clouds, and in about half an hour we reached the small mountain lake called the _Lac de Gaub_, situated at a great height above the level of the sea, but surrounded by hills still more elevated. It is calm, silent, and solitary; though the turf that dips itself in the clear waters of the lake is carpeted with a thousand flowers of every hue and living with many a painted butterfly, yet there is a solemn stillness in the whole, which makes one afraid of speaking for fear of breaking the silence which has dwelt for ages amongst those mountains. The waters, too, harmonized with the rest; they were deep, clear, and calm, without a ripple upon their bosom. I could have fancied them the waters of oblivion, and took a draught to try, but it did not answer. The only living being in the place, appeared to be a solitary fisherman, who makes his abode in a miserable hut by the side of the lake. He is the picture of Charon, and looks withered and blackened by solitude.

His dwelling, which was built of rough stones piled one on the other, boasted neither window nor chimney. The light entered by an aperture in the wall turned from the prevailing wind, and the smoke escaped, or not, as it liked best, by a hole in the roof, made for its convenience; and yet "canopies of costly state" would not perhaps have rendered our fisherman a happier man. He had a dry and caustic humour about him, which might spring from the concentration of his own thoughts in his loneliness; and, of the economy of human life, he had at least acquired so much knowledge, as to cheat his fellow-creatures with as little remorse as he hooked a trout.

ST. SAUVEUR.

Intorno a queste fonti siedon sempre Bei damegelli e candide donzelle Tenere e fresche e di leggiadro aspetto Che invitan tutti a ber quell' acque dolce. TRESSINO. L'ITALIA LIBERATA DA GOTI.

Rumour, that winged demon, whose business and pleasure it is to torment man, like a gnat that comes just when he is enjoying his morning's sleep, and, buzzing for ever about him, sings its indistinct song in his ears, till he has neither rest nor peace--came tormenting us at Cauterets, with the news of St. Sauveur being so full that if we did not put horses to the carriage, and set out without delay, we should find ourselves worse off, in point of lodging, than even where we were, although my friend was obliged to go into his room sideways, for fear of knocking down some of the utensils, and I might have just as well been in an oven, for I was precisely above the kitchen fire.

I have just been bleeding one of my candles. The wax had gained so much upon the wick, that it was ready to die of repletion, till, making an incision with the point of the snuffers, I let out a sufficient quantity to relieve it, and the flame burnt up brighter than before. I cannot help thinking that man is like a candle. The cold part is his body, the melted spermaceti is his blood, the wick is his brain, and the flame, though chemists prove it to be only the combustion of gas, produces light and heat, of which we know nothing, any more than of the spirit.

So we set off from Cauterets as hard as we could drive; but before we got to Pierrefitte my friend's strength failed him, and we were obliged to stop at that town for the night.

From Gavarnie to Lourdes may be considered as forming but one valley,--sometimes, indeed, contracting into narrow passes, sometimes opening into wide basins, but always marked, or rather connected, by the river, which, entering at the Cascade of Gavarnie, flows on in nearly a direct line to Lourdes.

At Pierrefitte, the valley contracts to a deep gorge, like that which leads to Cauterets, but the scenery round bears a softer character. The defile is much narrower, the hills more green and smiling, and though, perhaps, the whole may be more beautiful, it appears to want grandeur, after having seen Cauterets. For some way the road winds round the projecting bases of the hills, till at length it opens upon the beautiful valley of Luz, presenting a rich scene, not unlike the basin of Argelés. Here, also, scattered villages and ruined castles are the first things that present themselves, and shortly after appears the town of Luz, in the lower part of the valley, and St. Sauveur on an eminence to the right. The latter is a beautiful little place, consisting of nineteen or twenty houses, nested in a woody part of the mountain, and looking far over the scene of loveliness around.

We arrived just in time to be too late; the lodgings which we expected to find vacant had been taken by some one else; and we were obliged to put up much in the same way that we had done at Cauterets; but the place was so beautiful, so smiling, so cheerful in itself, that we could not be out of humour with anything in it.

Madame de Gontaut Biron, one of the most amiable beings I ever met, has made St. Sauveur her favourite summer abode, and has taken pains to display its beauties to the greatest advantage. She has planned and carried into execution many of the principal embellishments of the place; and Madame de Gontaut's bridge, and Madame de Gontaut's seat, and Madame de Gontaut's walks, are always the most beautiful that can be found. Her rank and her fortune gave her the means of making herself respected, but she has used them to a better purpose, and made herself loved. She combines all the high _ton_, the uncommunicable ease and elegance of a woman to whom courts have ever been familiar, with a degree of originality and _bonhomie_ which takes off from the flatness of great polish. She knows every poor person in the village, and if they are sick or in distress it is to Madame de Gontaut that they fly for assistance. She relieves their wants, she promotes their happiness, she looks upon them as her children and they almost worship her. Her's is not alone that sort of general charity, which gives but for the sake of giving, without knowledge of the object or interest in the distress: she discriminates in her bounty, and doubles it by the manner in which it is done; for her words are as kind as her actions. I have met her often going down to the Springs, leaning on the arm of one, of the common porters of the place, asking after his family, inquiring into his affairs, and advising him in their regulation, with as much kindness as if he had been her son.

There is all the difference in the world between the benevolence which cheers and raises its object and the charity which humiliates.

A custom exists at St. Sauveur of bowing to every lady one meets in the street. Now, as the whole town is not two hundred yards long, and it is crammed as full as it can hold one may calculate fairly upon having to pull off one's hat at least a hundred times whenever a necessity exists of walking from one end to the other on a sun-shiny morning. God knows, I did not grudge it them, but it ought to be put into the list of expenses. My companion did much better, for he walked about the town with his hat under his arm, which did just as well.

BAREGES.

Quis tumidum guttur miratur in alpibus?--JUVENAL.

It is an extraordinary fact, that between the Valley d'Ossau and the Valley de Baréges an entire change takes place in the population. I never saw a handsomer race than the people at the Eaux Bonnes, and the Eaux Chaudes. At Cauterets beauty had forsaken the fair sex: the men were well-formed and good-looking, but the women quite the reverse; and at St. Sauveur, Luz, and Baréges, men, women, and children were all ugly together. A few days after our arrival at St. Sauveur we went over to Baréges, which is but at a little distance, and on our road met all the goblin shapes of fairy tales completely realized, and a great many more far too disgusting for description.

In this neighbourhood there are a great many people afflicted with the goitre. Nor had I any idea of its effects till I saw it here. This monstrous appendage to each side of the neck is horrid in itself, but those afflicted with it to any great degree, lose entirely the hue of health, become squalid and emaciated, and very frequently end in idiocy. There is no describing their appearance; and one can scarcely wonder at the treatment the ignorant mountaineers used to show them of old, considering them cursed of God, and driving them from all human intercourse.

The Cretins, or idiots, are also very common in the Pyrenees, and a large village near Bagneres de Begorre is almost entirely peopled with them, But these wretched beings are not at all held in the same degree of horror as the Caghots, or goitrous, who for many centuries were supposed, even by the physicians of the towns adjacent to the Pyrenees, to be the descendants of persons afflicted with the leprosy of the Greeks. It appears, however, to be now ascertained, that this disease proceeds from something suspended in the water of mountainous countries, which, being taken into the system, produces these obstructions of the glands. Knowing very little either of medicine or chemistry, my inquiries of course were limited; but from what I have been able to learn, the malady is confined to particular districts, both in the Alps and Pyrenees, while others in the vicinity are quite free from it. In Derbyshire the same disease is common, while in the mountains of Scotland and Wales I believe it is little known. An analytical comparison of the water of the districts in which this malady prevails might throw great light upon the subject, and be of much service to a portion of mankind, who, though happily not very numerous, are well worthy of compassion on account of their sufferings.

The road to Baréges is not particularly beautiful, and the town itself is hideous. Two rows of ill-built houses, forced into a narrow space between the river and the mountain, crammed full of the sick and the maimed, is what Baréges appears at first sight. Its mineral springs are the strongest in the Pyrenees, and famous for the cure of gun-shot wounds. There is a large hospital for soldiers, who saunter up and down the single street, in which scarcely a whole man is to be met with at once; and yet Baréges is the gayest place in the country; there are nothing but balls and parties every night. In short, it is a great dancing hospital, in which all the world caper on in the best way they can with such limbs as they have got left.

Such is Baréges in the summer; in the winter every one quits it, except a few shepherds and a few bears, who take possession of the empty houses while the snow lasts. Everything at Baréges is made to be carried away--shutters, doors, windows, and even staircases, so that nothing but the skeleton of a town is left when once the migration begins. Two things render it nearly uninhabitable after October--the tremendous overflowings of the river and the avalanches, called here _lavanges_, which frequently destroy great part of the town. It is not alone that they overwhelm all that they approach, but as they come everything trembles and falls before they touch it, without it be of the most solid construction. Such is the report of the country people, who, in their figurative language, say that all nature fears the _lavange_; but any effect of the kind must proceed from the pressure of the air by the rapid progress of such an immense mass. Many efforts have been made to guard Baréges from this calamity by means of planting trees on the heights; but, as seldom a year passes without its occurrence, the young trees can afford no obstacle to the avalanche.

GAVARNIE.

Alps frown on alps, or rushing hideous down, As if old Chaos was again returned, Wide rend the deep and shake the solid pole.--THOMSON.

In returning to St. Sauveur, we saw the mountains, in whose breast it rests, as they ought to be seen to know them in their greatest magnificence. It was about half-past two, and the sun shone in such a manner as to cast a kind of blue airy indistinctness over the whole, hiding all the minuter parts, and leaving them in grand dark masses, marked decidedly upon the bright sunshiny sky. Although we had risen considerably from Luz, the sun was already hidden by the mountains to the south-west, and all the valley was in shadow. As I have before remarked, when the hills are seen covered with fields half-way to the top, scattered all over with trees, or broken into separate masses of rock, the multitude of objects prevents the eye from estimating their height justly; but it is when they are thus thrown together, in one uniformity of shade, that they appear in their true grandeur.

But as I have got upon my hands a long journey to the most splendid of nature's works, I must proceed on my way as quickly as possible. It would be tedious to describe the journey from St. Sauveur to Gedre, as it is little better than a repetition of that from Pierrefitte to Luz on a smaller scale. The passes are narrower, the basins more circumscribed, and the mountains rise higher and more perpendicularly on each side. The road, which soon becomes unfit for a carriage, sometimes sinks to a level with the Gave, and sometimes rises high on the sides of the mountain; and as my horse had a talent for stumbling, together with a peculiar predilection for the edge of the precipice, the insurance upon my neck would have been somewhat hazardous. Of course during a twelve miles' ride through that part of the country, we found a great many spots of peculiar beauty, but if I were to tell all I saw, I should never have done with the long stories of lovely hamlets nested in the wood that overhangs the stream, and marble bridges that carry the road across it, and rugged mountain heads that hide it from the sun.

At Gedre there is a famous grotto which every one talks about a great deal more than it deserves. A deep cleft in the rock overhung with woods, amidst the Gave de Héas to the valley, where it joins the other river. There is a great degree of soft quiet and stillness in the sound of the waterfall, and the deep shade of the wood hanging down and dipping its branches in the clear pools formed at the foot of the rock. The whole is certainly very beautiful, but not meriting the extravagant praises which have been bestowed upon it.

At this village, Gedre, is the last general _bureau_ of the French _douanes_, and here we were obliged to take out a kind of passport for our horses, that they might be allowed to return, Here also I engaged a guide, named Rondo, to conduct me the next morning to the Brèche de Roland: and we then proceeded on our way, skirting along the foot of Mount Comelie, till we arrived at a spot called the Chaos or Payrada, which seems as if a mountain had been violently overthrown, and strewed the valley with its enormous ruins. Blocks of granite containing from ten to a hundred thousand cubic feet, scattered at large, or piled one upon another, fill up a space of nearly half a mile. No tree, no vegetation is to be seen; all is death, and desolation, and silence, except where the Gave rushes angrily through the rocks, and seems to hasten its progress to escape from such a wilderness of destruction.

About a mile more brought us to the village of Gavernie, wildly situated in the midst of flowers, and snows, soft fields, and tremendous mountains.

THE CASCADE OF GAVARNIE.

Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis ævum.--HORAT. EPIST.

The village of Gavarnie once belonged to the order of the Temple, and we were shown the little church, said to have been erected by those military monks. There is nothing peculiar in the building, and the only thing which pretends to interest, is a collection of skulls, said to be those of eight knights who were beheaded on the little green, at the time of the barbarous extermination of their order. I believe, that as far as any truth goes, they might just as well call them the heads of eight Roman emperors. But it is no great matter--could every Templar come back and swear to his own, they would be the only persons concerned after all; and till that can be the case, one head does quite as well as another.

After visiting the church, we followed the course of the river towards the famous Cirque de Gavarnie. On setting out from the village, it seemed as if we could touch it; but it fled before us, and shortly a thick cloud came over it like a veil. We walked on, however, crossing several large basins, which had formerly been filled with water, and arrived at last in the midst of that gigantic amphitheatre, to which all other of nature's works appear but faint essays of her power. The whole was at first filled with the cloud, and we could scarcely distinguish any of the objects around; but gradually the vapour rose and passed away, and we found ourselves standing in the midst of the semi-circle of black marble, rising abruptly fourteen hundred feet in height, round an area of nearly a league. There is no describing it; the soul is lost in the vastness that it contemplates, and it is long before the eye can comprehend the grandeur of the objects before it. High above the amphitheatre lies the mountain, pile upon pile, to the very sky, like gigantic steps carpeted, with snow. Nine or ten small streams are continually pouring over the edge of the precipice, and tracing a long white line upon its dark surface; but a river far more considerable than the rest, shoots over the eastern side of the amphitheatre, from a height of twelve hundred and sixty feet, forming the famous cascade of Gavarnie.

There was still a line of heavy cloud drawn across the very summit of the fall, and below, it separated into dense thick mist, while the stream itself continued for ever pouring silently on between the two, like time between two indistinct eternities. At the same time, the sun had long, long sunk to us, and the world below was all in shadow, while far above the cloud, glittering in a kind of golden splendour, rose the icy summits of a far higher mountain, beaming with an airy unearthly light, like the faint glimpse of some more brilliant world.

Description can do nothing for it, imagination can do little. It must be seen and felt.

Although such towering heights still remained above us, we had already risen so far, that we found the snows lying at the foot of the amphitheatre, and were told that they never melt. After falling from the height, the river collects in a small basin below, and forcing its passage under the snow, forms the famous Pont de Neige[22] of Gavarnie.

[Footnote 22: Bridge of Snow.]

Far above the Cirque de Gavarnie, and the snows and the ices which hang upon its edge, appears another perpendicular wall of rock, running along nearly from east to west, and forming a barrier between France and Spain; and nearly in the centre of this, appears a deep cleft like an embrasure--the famous Brèche de Roland. For here it is said that the Paladin Orlando, or Roland, as he is called in France, pursuing the army of the Moors, cleft the rock of three hundred feet in height, with one blow of his enchanted sword, and opened a passage into Spain. The story goes on to say, that Orlando was on horseback.

I looked in vain to see the footpath that was to conduct me the next day to the breach. I could discover nothing but one perpendicular precipice, and returned to Gavarnie, puzzling myself how it was to be accomplished.

THE BRECHE DE ROLAND.

E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend, And placed as high above the storm's career, Look down where hundred realms appear, Lakes, forests, cities, plains extended wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. GOLDSMITH--THE TRAVELLER.

While we were at dinner, my musical-named guide, Rondo, arrived from Gedre, and came in to speak to me, walking with the peculiar bounding step of mountaineers. A picturesque figure he was too, with his spear-headed pole, conical cap, cow-skin sandals, and an elegant bissack of netted cotton, which hung under his left arm. He was a small, slightly made mountaineer, with pale dark complexion, bright black eyes, and a countenance lit up with calm intelligence. He told us so many stories of accidents from storms in attempting to reach the Brèche, that my companion whose health utterly prevented him from ascending, became alarmed on my account, and begged me not to go unless the day should prove perfectly clear.

At half-past three the next morning, Rondo called me; and having dressed myself as warmly as possible, I went down stairs in the dark. The stairs led immediately into the middle of the kitchen, on the floor of which were stretched the beds of half a dozen families belonging to the inn, There were mine host and hostess, her sister and her sister's husband, and two or three cousins and their partners, on either side; quite patriarchal. I don't know whether this proceeded from the inn being very full, or whether it was usual, but so it was, that in the obscurity I tripped at the first mattress, and tumbled head foremost between a young lady and her husband, causing a sudden and violent separation, and certainly putting asunder those whom the church had joined together. The young lady started up, and I believe at first, as there was no seeing in the matter, took me for her husband, so that her first address was rather more tender than it otherwise would have been, but at that moment Rondo came in with a light, _sans cérémonie_, and enabled me to extricate myself from my very doubtful situation.

We now provided ourselves with the necessary implements for our journey: spear-headed poles, _crampons_ for our feet, a bottle of brandy, and some cold meat, and setting out from Gavarnie, soon arrived at the foot of the Tours de Marborée. The morning was foggy, and by this time it had begun to drizzle; Rondo shook his head at the weather, saying that we should have a storm; so we sat down among the flowers, with which the whole place was carpeted, and held a council of war.

The mountaineers always use the most figurative language, and my guide explained to me his apprehensions; saying, that when the French mist meets the Spanish mist on the top of the mountain, they fight for the breach with thunder and with hail; that there had been threatening of war in the sky for many days, but that now it menaced more than ever, and that if the storm came when we were amidst the glaciers, where there was no shelter, death would be our portion: for that was a country, he said, where there was no good God.

However, never liking to give up what I have once undertaken without succeeding, and as it appeared that if the storm overtook us before we reached the ice, we could find some place of refuge from the hail, which was the most dangerous enemy we had to encounter, I determined to go on, at least as far as the snow, and then let our further progress be determined by the weather.

Our first effort was to pass a hill composed of loose fragments of stone, which gave way at every step. This conducted us to the foot of the precipice, on the west side, where we paused, under a shelving rock, till the rain had somewhat abated. Thence we went a little way round the base, and found the path, if path it could be called, for it was nothing but a narrow irregular break in the rock, almost as perpendicular as the rock itself, and only more practicable on account of the steps formed in it by the broken layers of stone.

We soon passed this, and then walking along a narrow ledge formed in the precipice, we came to another natural stair of the same kind, which conducted us to the height of four or five hundred feet, where we scared two eagles, (or I rather believe vultures) from the rock, which continued screaming and wheeling round our heads during great part of the ascent; and doubtless we had their best wishes for our speedy passage to the bottom.

Turning then in a degree away from the Marbarée, we came to a piece of turf slanting in an extreme angle, and so slippy with the rain, that we could scarcely keep our feet. We passed then again to the east, and once more, to my great satisfaction, began climbing the firm rock; but this did not last, and we had to change several times from rock to turf, before I found myself at the summit of the amphitheatre, on a level with the top of the cascade, which, as the clouds began to clear away, I could plainly perceive projected violently over the edge of the opposite precipice, losing itself in mist below.

It is seldom that one has an opportunity of looking down a perpendicular height of fourteen hundred feet: and I stood enjoying the sensation for much longer than I believe my guide judged _à propos_, for he seemed scarcely to know whether he ought to let me stand there or not. The tinkling of the sheep-bell, and a loud barking, two sounds I little expected to hear there, roused me from my dreaming, and conducted us towards the flock of a Spanish shepherd, which was wandering at large under the care of two enormous dogs, who now appeared mounted on the projecting rocks that flanked their charge, baying loudly at our approach.

No shepherd was with the flock, but we soon discovered his abode by a large iron pot of milk that stood at the entrance. He had chosen the little hollow under a shelf of the rock, and fenced it in with a wall of loose stones which rose breast-high, forming a dwelling of about seven feet by four. I went up to the little wall and looked over upon the shepherd, who lay extended on his cloak reading. I asked him what he was about, and looking up without the least appearance of surprise, he answered that he was _studying_. I demanded what was the subject of his study, to which he replied by stretching out his arm towards me, with a dirty dog's-eared book of Spanish letters on geography. It is probable that the conversation might have lasted for some time in the same manner, he lying on his back, and I looking over the wall, had not Rondo come up, and desired him to give us some milk. The call on his hospitality instantly roused him, and he sprang upon his feet, one of the most picturesque figures I ever beheld.

He was a youth of sixteen or seventeen, of very perfect, though almost gigantic proportions. Before he came out of his den, he placed his large broad-brimmed hat on his head, which gave a sort of bandit expression to his full dark eyes and sunburnt countenance: He wore two double-breasted Spanish jackets, covered with hanging buttons. His feet were shod with the sort of mountain sandal called _espardin_, and in a crimson sash round his waist, he wore a sharp-pointed knife, nearly two feet long, which though only used for the simple purpose of cutting his bread, might have served very well on more murderous occasions. In short, he was a most romantic sort of gentleman in appearance; but he speedily lighted a fire, boiled us a large portion of his milk, and pressed us to his simple treat, with a cheerfulness and frankness smacking of ancient days. He joined with us too in conversation; told us that it was nearly a month since he had seen a human creature, and then it was his father, who had brought him six loaves of the black bread he set before us.

The shepherd seemed anxious to know what brought us to the Brèche de Roland; and when I told him, in the best Spanish I could muster, that it was but simple curiosity, he shook his head with a smile. I asked him why he did so, doubting whether he understood me; but he answered, that he could not imagine any one coming to such a place unless it were to feed sheep.

One thing, however, he told us, which set our minds perfectly at ease with respect to the safety of our further progress. He assured us that there were no clouds on the other side of the breach, and that there would be no storm that day. My guide seemed to place perfect confidence in his judgment, and with this prognostic we again set out.

After about half an hour's more climbing, the clouds entirely cleared away, the wind blew strongly, the sun shone glittering on the snow before us, and all announced as fine a day as we could have desired. the mountain was all shining as if strewed with diamonds, for the last drops of rain were crowded upon every blade of grass, and nested in the bosom of every flower. Nature, as if to mock the snows, had covered the whole turf to their very edge with blossoms, and the rich blue iris, and a very delicate white flower I had never seen before, were actually growing within the verge of the region of frost. As most of these had already past in the valleys, I gathered as many as I could for Madame de Gontaut; and then having fixed our _crampons_, which were but clumsy, we proceeded to climb the ice.

To the east was an immense glacier stretching over the highest part of the Marborée. It was of deep blue ice, and I could distinguish layer above layer, resting nearly vertically, which prevented all approach on that side. Stretching east and west, was the rocky wall, which forms the highest crest of the Pyrenees, and due south, cleft through as with a sword, the Brèche de Roland; but between us and it lay another glacier, at an inclination of about sixty degrees, which made the direct ascent impracticable. To the westward, however, was a large tract of soft snow, by which we were enabled to make our way to the side of the latter glacier, and cross instead of attempting to climb it. We proceeded very well up the snow, for about a quarter of an hour, at the end of which time we came to ice covered with drift, and rendered unsound by the percolation of a stream.

Here the _crampon_ on my left foot turned round, by the strap coming undone, and my foot gave way, but I was still firmly fixed by my climbing-pole and my right foot. However, Rondo, who was about twenty yards distant, was alarmed and ran to my assistance, when both his feet slipped and he went flying like lightning towards the edge of the precipice. I could do nothing to save him: when suddenly, after having gone about two hundred yards, he struck his pole into the deep ice, and having regained his feet, returned to me, as quietly as if nothing had happened.

We now began to cross the glacier transversely, cutting steps with a hatchet, and after passing more than one deep chasm from six inches to two feet in breadth, we arrived at the crest of the mountain, so that I could stretch out my hand and touch it. Between France and Spain this natural barrier rises perpendicularly from the ice, and is said to be from three to six hundred feet in height.

It has an extraordinary effect to stand upon those immense masses of ice, and feel the vivid rays of the summer sun. The rarefaction of the air did not at all affect my breathing, but the humidity had become so condensed under the glass of my pocket-compass, that I could scarcely ascertain the direction of the various objects. Retracing in a degree our steps, we now without further difficulty reached the Brèche de Roland; and here, for the first time, I turned round to contemplate the scene below.

Mountain beyond mountain, valley leading into valley, stream flowing into stream, till the fading distance and the boundless sky did not meet, but blended in each other. On one side, were the whole mountains of Bearn, on the other, the whole mountains of Aragon, far, and clear, and blue. It seemed as if a giant ocean of enormous waves had suddenly been frozen, and that I stood upon their highest pinnacle.

The icy barrier around appeared to cut us off from all nature. It was perfect solitude; there was not a flower, there was not a living creature; the very eagles we had left below: there was not a sound but that of the lonely wind whistling shrilly through the chasm in the mountain. Where we stood, we seemed far above creation, and at our feet lay all the vast and varied world, nor had I ever fancied that world so grand.

How magnificent are all thy works, great God of Nature!

THE DISCOVERY.

In coming from the mountain, while I was yet far above the surface of the vulgar earth, I saw my friend standing, watching my descent, upon one of the hills of shingle which lie at the bottom of Gavarnie, and I hastened on to meet him. There was some degree of agitation in his manner as we met, and as he grasped my hand, he said, "Do you know, Young, something very extraordinary has happened to me since you have been gone."

"Something extraordinary it must have been indeed," I replied, "to stir you from your calm placidity. But, tell me, what is it?"

"Extraordinary indeed," he replied; "but come on towards the inn. Do you know, I have seen the same appearance which has so long tormented you--I have seen again that terrible countenance which will never quit the memory of either of us!"

"Good God! is it possible?" I exclaimed; "then it is no delusion!"

"It is certainly the most extraordinary thing in the world," he replied; and then proceeded to inform me, that as he was coming down to breakfast, while looking along the dark passages at the top of the stairs, that fearful countenance had glared upon him for a moment in terrible distinctness. With prompt presence of mind he had instantly rushed towards it, but found nothing but the long corridors and empty rooms of the inn. On our return we called for the book of travellers' names, but our own were the only English names that it contained; and not a little agitated, we mounted our horses and returned to St. Sauveur.

Without pausing any longer there than was merely necessary to pack the carriage, we set out for Bagneres de Bigorre, and thence proceeded towards Tarbes. More than once we canvassed the extraordinary circumstance that had occurred; and notwithstanding all our efforts to be philosophical, it is in vain to deny that I at least felt a greater degree of superstitious awe in regard to the object which had so often tortured me, than ever I had done before. Previously I had looked upon it as a delusion, originating in a partial derangement of my own brain; but now that my friend had seen it also, it acquired the importance of a terrible reality. Every hour it weighed more and more upon my mind, and I saw that B--- was sorry that on the impulse of the moment he had communicated to me the fact of his having witnessed the same strange occurrence.

As we had set out somewhat late from Bagneres, however, the shadows were coming over the mountains long before we reached Tarbes, and as my friend B---- was rather indisposed, we determined, if the little town of St. Martin afforded a good inn, to halt there for the night. Our postilion informed us that the inn was "_admirable_," and driving up to the door we saw a crowd round it sufficient to show that it was well frequented.

There were, amongst others, five or six gendarmes on horseback surrounding a little cart, in which appeared a man loaded with irons, with another police soldier beside him. What was my surprise, however, on beholding, when the cart turned to drive off, no other than my former servant Essex, in the person of the apparent criminal. The man evidently saw me, and turned away his head; and as I had but slight grounds to love his acquaintance, I took no farther notice, merely thinking, "The rascal seems likely at length to meet his deserts."

As B---- stepped out of the carriage, however, and walked into the inn, the landlord asked him if Monsieur had come to see the body of the gentleman who had been murdered. He replied, by asking, what gentleman; and, while the host answered that there was then lying in his front room the body of a gentleman who had been murdered by his own servant as he was coming from a château in the neighbourhood, where he had been to pay a visit, B---- walked on to the door where, from the number of people, and the appearance of one or two gendarmes, it seemed the corpse lay for inspection.

The crowd made room for him to pass, and I was following, but he suddenly drew back and grasped my arm, exclaiming, "Good God! Young, do not come in here--and yet do! It is Wild!"

"Wild!" exclaimed I, rushing in; "what do you mean?" But there needed no farther question. There, on the deal board, which usually served the little _auberge_ for a public table, lay stretched the body of my enemy, Alfred Wild, at, least if mortal eyes might be trusted. My hand, it is true, had stretched him on the earth, my eyes had witnessed the convulsive agony of death, the surgeon had pronounced him to be dead, and the newspapers had announced his death; yet, there he lay, or some one so like him, that his own father would not have known the difference.

"Do you recognise the body, sir?" demanded one of the gendarmes, seeing me gazing upon it with feelings which no pen can describe, so mingled were they of hope and relief, and horror and surprise. "Do you recognise the body? for in all the letters and papers which have been found upon him he is called by one name which I do not choose to mention at present, while that in his passport is Monsieur Auguste de Vallançay."

"I think I do recognise the body," I replied; "and if it be the same his name is not Vallançay, but Alfred Wild."

"Précisement!" replied the gendarme; "that is the name on several letters which were found in his pockets. But we are going to send to the gentleman at the château, whom some people believe to be his father."

"Come away, Young," cried my friend; "this will be, at all events, a relief to your mind, and I trust may be but one step to your happiness. Come away; perhaps I had better go, before the horses are taken off, and break this event to the unhappy man's father."

"No!" I answered; "No; you are unwell yourself: I will go, and perhaps the task, painful as it is, may be some atonement for what I inflicted on the old man before."

B---- made some opposition, but I would yield to none; and getting into the carriage, begged the people round to direct the postilion to the château they had mentioned. The man knew it well, and in about three-quarters of an hour we were passing through a pair of old gray stone gates.

It was now quite dark, and the man, half peasant, half footman, who, after ringing five or six times, made his appearance, admitted me with somewhat surly scrutiny to a large vestibule, in which was burning one small ill-trimmed lamp. He then opened a door at one side, and announced "The English gentleman" upon which a voice immediately exclaimed, "If he had not the impudence of the devil, he would not show his face here again--but I will soon settle that! Send him in!"

"Some mistake!" I thought, obeying the words I had overheard, rather than the servant's half-muttered directions, and walked into a large old-fashioned saloon, somewhat better lighted than the hall. At the farther end was a table covered with the materials for making tea, and at the left-hand side sat two persons, on whom my eyes were of course instantly fixed. But before a vague sort of intuition could become really perceptive, a cry of joy met my ear, and in a moment Emily Somers, my own Emily, was in my arms. "It is James, papa! Oh, it is our own dear James!" she cried, and the happy tears flowed fast and long.

There was no mistaking the tone, the manner, or the action. Emily at least was glad to see me, and her father seemed so also, if I might judge by the hearty and reiterated shake of the hand which he now gave me. But how all this, had come about remained to be explained, and it was but by confused and desultory fits and starts that I gained an insight into what I am now about to write down.

The first light which was thrown upon the matter was by Mr. Somers himself, who when he found that I had come thither accidentally, supposing the tenants of the château to be very different people, cut across Emily's delight at seeing me, and withdrew her hand from mine.

"Stay, stay, Emily," he cried, "as Mr. Young does not know what has occurred, it is fit that he should be informed before he commits himself by a word. Remember, my love, his opinions may be altered as well as our fortunes."

"No, no, papa! No, no!" replied Emily. "For once, I will be bold and answer for him."

"But let me tell him at least," said Mr. Somers.--"Soon after you left us for France, Mr. Young, one or two of my speculations were unsuccessful, and left me a loser of nearly fifty thousand pounds; but that was nothing, and would never have been felt, had not, just afterwards, the great house of Kinnerton and Badenham, in Calcutta, failed to an immense amount. That was a shock to many a house, as well as mine, and people began to draw largely upon me; still I could have done very well if the London house of the same name had held firm; but on calling there, though they assured me of their perfect competence to meet all claims, I saw cause to doubt. What could I do? To press them was to make them stop sooner, without helping myself, and, to prepare against the worst, I went to my old friend Samuel Wild, who talked about supporting me with half a million, if it were necessary; but when he came in the evening he made it a condition that his son was to have my Emily.

"It was no time to trifle, and I told him all--her engagement to you--and everything. But he replied, that his son could prove that you did not care anything about her, and a great deal more which it is unnecessary to repeat. We held out for long; writing to you, and receiving no answer, and seeing every now and then letters from your servant Essex to young Wild's valet, telling him a great many stories about you, which we have found to be false, as we have since passed through that part of the country and seen many who knew you and did you justice.

"However, the matter seemed plain enough then. Difficulties increased; the London house of K---- and B---- failed; a regular run was made upon our bank. Old Wild stood firm, and would do nothing unless Emily would consent. I saw nothing before me but poverty and disgrace both for me and her, and I do believe I almost went on my knees to my own child to save us both. Well, sir, she did consent, and immediately Mr. Wild paid in, in one morning, three hundred thousand pounds. We declared our intention of paying everything in gold; the credit of the house rose higher than ever, when suddenly, who should come over but yourself. Your letter first opened my eyes; for, by showing me that you had been ill and unable to write for two months, and that your servant had been playing the rascal with you, you proved to me that I had been cheated also. Well, my dear boy, I went away to old Wild, resolving, at all events, to do you justice, let come what would; and, producing your letter, I told him that his son must make good his charges or I should not suffer Emily to keep her engagement. He then thought fit to bully, and told me, that before six-and-thirty hours were over he would close the doors of my bank. I feared that he had the power to do so, but still he could not take from me my honesty, and I left him in the same determination. The first thing was, if possible, to save my credit; and I went to several old friends, telling them the real state, of the case, that I could meet all, but that it might require time. They promised to meet the next morning, and thus the day was spent without my seeing you.

"The next morning took place that unfortunate duel, and my friends also met; but ere they came to any decision, not only all that old Wild had paid in was drawn out of the bank, but every one, with whom he had a word to say came pouring in with draft upon draft. There was no stemming the current, and before noon the bank stopped. You may conceive what a state we were all in, and then came the news that you had killed young Wild in a duel. Poor Emily was more dead than alive; and to make matters worse, before nightfall there was an execution in the house. We went out of it the next morning, and, to cut my story short, when all the affairs were wound up, which did not take a couple of months, all debts were paid off, twenty shillings in the pound, and eight hundred per annum clear was left for myself. So I came out, my dear boy, triumphant; but still Emily begged me not to try it any more, but let us live upon what we have. We determined for a time to come to France. And now, James, if you love poor Emily Somers, with little or nothing, as well as you loved the heiress of the rich banker, there she is, take her, and God's blessing be upon you both."

I need not say what was my reply, but it was soon made, and I now found that the letter which my friend B---- had written for me to Emily had never been received by her, the house in Portland Place having been taken possession of by Alfred Wild's father, who doubtless had opened and returned it. My stay at Worthing, and illness there, were known both to Emily and her father; and Mr. Somers, conceiving that I must have seen the wreck of his affairs mentioned in the newspapers, had himself requested my banker to tell me when he wrote that Emily and himself were as well as could be expected, which had been done with true commercial brevity.

Alfred Wild, in the meantime, had been carried home to his father's house, but the report had already spread that he was dead; and from the moment that his father saw him in the condition in which he was brought home, the old man never spoke for any other purpose than to give orders for persecuting the family of Mr. Somers.

Great loss of blood, however, and excessive pain--for the ball had lodged in some very sensitive part--had made Alfred Wild faint upon the field at the moment he was about to fire at me; but he had suffered no mortal wound; and though he had fainted and recovered several times ere he reached his father's house, yet before night he was sufficiently recovered to know all that was passing round him. Enmity towards myself and love for Emily Somers were still the predominant passions of his heart; and conceiving some vague scheme of obtaining her and punishing me, he besought his father to give out the story of his death.

He found the execution of the scheme more easy than he imagined, for the report was in all the newspapers that he had died on the spot where he fell; and his parsimonious father's only objection arose from the expense of putting the family in mourning and the trouble of concealment. When he heard, however, what was the object, and that revenge upon me and on the family of his former friend was thus to be obtained, a chord was struck in the old man's bosom, the tone of which was not the less powerful because it had seldom vibrated before. He declared that he would give a hundred thousand pounds--he might have said his heart's blood--to ruin me and the family of Mr. Somers, and measures were instantly taken to carry his son's design fully into effect. The death was regularly inserted in the newspapers, the whole house was shut up, the servants were clothed in black, and those necessarily trusted were bribed to secresy.

I am not even sure that a false funeral was not performed; but, nevertheless, rumours of something strange got about, even before Mr. Somers quitted London. Had I remained in England, I should most likely have discovered the deceit; for Captain Truro had positively declared in several circles that his friend had not died immediately, as had been at first supposed, but, on the contrary, had revived once or twice in the carriage on their way home. No coroner's inquest being reported on the body, also caused doubt, and the gratuitous announcement that the family did not intend to prosecute did not silence rumour.

As soon as he could travel, it seems, Alfred Wild, having re-engaged his confederate Essex in the scheme against me, set out from London for the purpose of following Emily, who, with her father, had taken refuge in a beautiful spot amongst the Pyrenees.

Whether it was with or without design--whether he had discovered the dreadful delusion with which remorse tortured me, and followed me with the fiendish purpose of confirming it--or whether his pursuing the same course was accidental--I cannot tell, but certain it is that during the whole of my journey through France he had been near me, and I cannot even now be sure of which were the occasions when my fancy deceived me, which those when I beheld his real countenance.

Speaking French like a native, and having assumed a French name, he passed unsuspected, and at length presented himself at the château which had been hired by Mr. Somers, in order to throw off his disguise and pursue his claim to the hand of Emily.

Neither the worthy banker nor his daughter were much surprised by his re-appearance, for, as I have said before, they had already learned to doubt the story of his death; but though he made his long constancy, the severe treatment he had suffered, and the vehemence of his passion, all pleas for Emily's hand, she rejected him still with cold abhorrence, and he left the house in not the best mood of mind. He, had brought his servant Essex to the château with him, to guide him, as the man had been previously sent forward from St. Sauveur to discover the house.

Master and servant, however, knew each other to be base, and many a disgraceful dispute had arisen between them already. As long as Essex had his master in some degree in his power by possessing his secret, he knew that he could wring as much money from Wild as he wanted; but as soon as ever he found, by his master's visit to Mr. Somers, that the whole was to be divulged, he determined upon a scheme for the purpose of, at one blow, taking vengeance of Wild for some former offences, and of enriching himself with the contents of a pocket-book which he knew to be valuable. The proximity of Spain was a great inducement for executing, at once, a design he had long meditated, for Essex was citizen of the world, and with a well-furnished purse could make himself happy in any country. Thus, as they returned on horseback from the château, a few angry words from the master brought on a few insolent ones from the servant. Albert Wild, it seems, must have turned to reply; for he was found not two minutes after, with the wound of a pistol-ball, running from temple to temple. Essex was instantly pursued and taken by the _gardes chasses_, who came up at the report of fire-arms, and being found with his master's pocket-book and a lately-discharged pistol, perceived that he had lost the stake for which he had played, confessed all, and ended his life upon the scaffold.

---------------

I have hurried on to the conclusion of the history of Alfred Wild and his servant; but of course, when Emily and her father had given me an account of all that had befallen them up to the moment at which I had again found them after so long an absence, I too had my tale to tell. Though the first sketch was brief, yet the after details were long in telling, for Emily would know all and everything; and while I spoke, the deep and varied emotions which crossed her countenance, the intense interest that every incident I related, every feeling I acknowledged called up in the pure bland mirror of her face, was compensation a thousand and a thousand fold for all that I had suffered.

The pains, the cares, the sorrows of the past had taught us all that sad lesson, the darkest, most grievous which experience forces on us--ever present doubt of each future moment;--and it was agreed that Emily should become mine as speedily as possible. But, alas! who can stretch his power over the next half-hour and say, "It shall be at my disposal!" Our marriage was appointed to take place before the end of the month and we were making preparations to hurry back to Bordeaux for that purpose. But Mr. Somers was obliged to attend the criminal court at Tarbe, on the trial of the prisoner Essex. The agitation and heat were more than he could bear, and after having given his evidence clearly and distinctly, he was seen to fall. I hastened to his assistance, and found that he had been suddenly struck with palsy. Borne back to his own house, medical aid was speedily procured; and he soon recovered the possession of all his faculties, but my marriage with Emily was of course delayed; and the physicians having recommended him to try the waters of Baréges, for the complete restoration of his health, we removed thither, and remained till the close of the season. His health certainly improved in a degree, but still his corporeal powers were so much impaired, his danger so great, and his situation so painful, that all thought of more joyful events was of course put aside.

After our return from Baréges, a friend in whom he placed great reliance, recommended him to a Parisian physician; and although we were obliged to wait for the return of spring, we proceeded towards the French metropolis as soon as the weather was sufficiently warm to permit of our performing the journey without danger to the invalid. It was accomplished by slow stages, and we arrived in Paris in the beginning of June. For a time the health of Mr. Somers seemed to improve under the new treatment to which he was subjected, and so far had he proceeded in his convalescence, that my marriage with Emily was fixed to take place within a month. The unfortunate twenty-sixth of July, 1830, however intervened, and the outbreaking of the last French revolution, found us tied to Paris without the possibility of quitting a capital in which, during all former political convulsions, crimes of the deepest dye had been committed. My anxiety for Emily and Mr. Somers was of course very great, for no one had any right to expect that the French populace would show such noble and magnanimous forbearance as they then did, and the re-enactment of some, at least, of the horrors of former days was reasonably to be anticipated. When, however, the great struggle was over, and a revolution was effected, which, by its splendid moderation and magnificent integrity of purpose and accomplishment, must be received as the atonement and expiation of the former bloody and insane catastrophe, Mr. Somers, over-excited by the reports which we could not shut out from his ears, relapsed into a state worse than that from which he had partially recovered. In the mean time, I applied myself as far as possible to relieve those individual cases of sorrow and distress which every great social convulsion must leave behind. In the course of my efforts for that purpose, a little narrative of suffering fell into my hands, which may not be uninteresting--perhaps not uninstructive. It came to me through a third person, and the ultimate fate of the unhappy man who wrote it, I could never discover. It was as follows:--

THE HISTORY OF A FRENCH ARTISAN DURING THE LAST REVOLUTION.

I was born in the beautiful valley of the Seine, near the small town of Bonnières. It is a lovely place, and I will say no more of it; for in sitting down to write all the miseries and horrors that have visited me since I left it, the fair calm spot of my birth, and the sweet peaceful scenes of my boyhood, rise up like the reproachful spirit of a noble parent before a criminal son, and upbraid me for having ever quitted my tranquil home.

My father, though but the gardener at the château, was also a small _propriétaire_; and, in his spare time, used to cultivate his own fields by the banks of the river. The château had been purchased by Monsieur V----, the rich bookseller in Paris; and in hanging about the house while a child, I became a great favourite with the good Parisian. Still my principal patron was Monsieur le Curé of Bonnières, who discovered in me an amazing genius for my catechism, taught me to read and write, gave me a smattering of Latin, and declared, that if I took pains and behaved well, he and Monsieur V---- between them, would procure me the means of studying, and make me a clergyman like himself.

My ambition was flattered with the prospect; and during my early years, the dream of my future honours was always before me; but, as I grew up and learnt to dance upon the green with the girls of the village, my sentiments insensibly changed. I began to think of leaving off dancing, and being grave, and serious, and never marrying--each with an augmented degree of horror. The decisive blow, however, was struck, when I had seen three times Mariette Dupont. We were both as young as we well could be to fall in love; but she was so beautiful, and her soft dark eyes looked so imploringly into one's heart, that from the very first moment I saw her, I felt an inclination to put my arm round her, and say, "Thou shalt be my own; and I will guard thee from sorrow, and care, and adversity; and shelter thee from every blast that blows in the bleak cold world around."

But on this I must not pause either, for the memory of such dreams is bitterness. The matter went on--I loved Mariette, and she----Ay! that joy is at least my own--lasting--imperishable, and the annihilation of a world could not take it from me--She loved me--deeply, truly, devotedly--through life--to the tomb!

Years flew by; and we were married; for my father had never liked the thought of my becoming a priest, which he looked upon as being buried alive. He said I should do much better to labour as my ancestors had done; or, since I had a superior education, could read and write, and understood Latin, I might easily make my fortune in Paris. So he willingly gave his consent to my marriage with Mariette. Monsieur V---- the bookseller, said it was always right to let fools have their own way; and the Curé frowned and united us, merely observing, that he had bestowed his time and attention very much in vain.

By my father's counsel, we determined to go to Paris immediately, for he and my brother were both sure that I should there become a great man, and Mariette had no doubt of it. "Besides," my father said, "if you do not get on there, you can come back here, and help to take care of our own ground, while I work at the château."

To Paris we went, and took a small lodging in the Faubourg Poissonnier, where, for two or three weeks, Mariette and myself spent our time and our money in love and amusement. We were not extravagant, but we were thoughtless; and surely a three weeks' thoughtlessness was but a fair portion for such happiness as we enjoyed.

At length I began to think of seeking something to do; and I had sufficient self-confidence to fancy I could even write in a newspaper. Forth I went to propose myself; and Marietta's eyes told me how high were her anticipations of my success. To the proprietors of the Constitutionnel, my first application was made; but the gentleman I saw bent his ear to catch, my provincial jargon--looked at me from head to foot--told me I was dreaming; and turned upon his heel. How I got out of the house I know not; but when I found myself in the street, my head swam round, and my heart swelled with mingled indignation, shame, and disappointment.

It required no small effort to force myself to enter the office of another newspaper of much repute. Here I mentioned my pretensions, in a humbler tone, and only proposed that something from my pen might be received as an experiment. The clerk to whom I spoke bore my message into an inner room, and returned with a calm, business-like face, to inform me that all departments were full.

This had occupied me the whole morning; and I now returned to Mariette, who instantly read my mortification in my countenance. She asked no questions, but only cast her arms round my neck, and with a smile, which was not gay, though it was not desponding, she whispered, "Do not be vexed, Frank. They cannot know yet how clever you are. When they see more of you, they will be glad enough to have you. Besides, we can go back again to Bonnières."

The thought of returning unsuccessful to my own home, was not what I could endure. I imagined the cold eye of the curate; and the disappointment and surprise of my father and brother; and the jeers and the wonder of the whole village; and I determined to do anything rather than go back to Bonnières.

The landlord of our lodgings was a tinman, a great politician, and a literary man. All his information, however, was gathered from a paper called the G----, which he cited on every occasion. To the office of the G---- then, I went, after dinner; and, having taken a couple of turns before the door, to gather resolution, I went and modestly asked when I could see the editor. One of the young men in the office answered that Monsieur ---- was then in the house, and ushered me into another room. Here I found a gentleman writing, who looked up with a pleasant and intelligent expression and pointing to a seat, asked my business.

As I explained it to him, his countenance took a look of great seriousness; and he replied, "I am extremely sorry that no such occupation as yeti desire can be afforded you by the editors of the G----, for we have applications every day, which we are obliged to reject, from writers of known excellence. I am afraid, also that you will find much difficulty in obtaining what you seek, for one of the worst consequences of bad government is now affecting the whole of France. I mean the undue proportion between the number of the population and the quantity of employment. Where the fault lies, I must not presume to say, but that there must be a great fault somewhere is evident; otherwise every man who is willing to labour, would find occupation."

It has struck me since, that there must often be causes for want of employment, which no government could either control or remedy; but, at the time, his reasoning seemed excellent; and all I felt was renewed disappointment, and a touch of despair, which I believe showed itself very plainly in my face, for the editor began to ask me some farther questions, which soon led me to tell him my precise situation.

He mused, and seemed interested; but for a moment replied nothing. At length, looking at me with a smile, he said, "Perhaps, what I am about to propose to you, may be very inferior to your expectations; nevertheless it will afford you some occupation."

The very name of occupation was renewed life, and I listened with eagerness, while he offered to recommend me to a printer, as what is called a reader, or corrector of the press. I embraced his proposal with unutterable thankfulness; and having ascertained that I was capable of the task, by, some proof-sheets that lay upon the table, he wrote a note, to Monsieur M----, the printer and put it into my hand. I could almost have knelt and worshipped him, so great was the change from despair to hope.

With the letter in my hand I flew to the printing-house, was tried and received; and, though the emolument held out was as small as it well could be, my walk home was with the springing step of joy and independence; and my heart, as I pressed Mariette to my bosom, and told her my success, was like that of a great general in the moment of victory, before the gloss of triumph has been tarnished by one regret for the gone, or one calculation for the future. I was soon installed in my new post; and though what I gained was barely enough for the necessaries of life, yet it sufficed; and there was always a dear warm smile in the eyes I loved best, which cheered and supported me whenever I felt inclined to despond or give way.

It is true, I often regretted that I could not procure for Mariette those comforts and those luxuries which I little valued myself; but she seemed to heed them not, and every privation appeared to her a matter of pride--to be borne rather as a joy than a care. Six months thus passed; and they were the happiest of my life, for though I laboured, I laboured in the sunshine. I had perfectly sufficient time also, to make myself thoroughly acquainted with the whole art of printing, and to fit myself for the task of a compositor, which, though more mechanical, was more lucrative; and it became necessary that I should gain more, as a change was coming over Mariette which promised us new cares and new happiness. Strange, that when I looked upon her languid features, and her altered shape, she seemed to me a thousand times more lovely, than in all the fresh graces of expanding womanhood! And when fears for her safety mingled with the joy of possessing her--when her calm sweet eyes rested long and fixedly upon me, as if she strove to trace out the image of her future child in the looks of its father--a new and thrilling interest appeared to have grown up between us, which was something more than love.

At length, one of the compositors having gone to conduct a printing office at Rennes, my object was accomplished; and I obtained his vacant place. Still the emoluments were infinitely small, for the book trade was bad, and of course the printers suffered. Sometimes there was plenty of work, and sometimes there was none; and the whole of my companions murmured highly at the government, whose imbecility and tyrannical conduct, they said, had destroyed the commerce of the country; and done everything to ruin and degrade the press. There was many a busy whisper amongst us, that nothing could save the nation but a new revolution; and as we all felt more or less the sharp tooth of want, we madly thought that no change would be detrimental to us. I doubted some of the opinions that I heard; but one of my comrades worked at the G----, which had now become a daily paper, and he used often to give us long quotations, which convinced us all that the government was opposed to the wishes of the whole nation, and that any change must be for the better.

During the autumn, I contrived to save some little portion of my wages; but the rigour of the winter, and the quantity of wood we were obliged to burn, soon consumed all that I had laid by; so that the provision for Mariette's confinement became a matter of serious and dreadful anxiety. One morning, however, I received a letter from my brother, telling me that my father had died suddenly on the preceding night. I will not rest upon all that I felt. I had always been the slave of my imagination; and it had been one of my favourite vanities to think how proud my father's heart would be to see me raise myself high in the world, and how comfortable I should be able to render his old age, when the smile of fortune should be turned upon me. But now he was dead, and those dreams all broken.

The little patch of ground which we possessed was of course divided between me and my brother; and my portion was instantly sold to provide for the occasion which was so near at hand. The depression of all property, and the haste with which I was obliged to effect the sale, rendered it the most disadvantageous that can be conceived; and what with the expenses of Mariette's confinement, a long illness which she underwent after, and a fit of sickness which I suffered myself--before the end of March my stock of money was reduced to fifty francs.

Work was by this time sufficient and regular, so that I could maintain myself, Mariette, and our boy. We had, indeed, no superfluity; we knew no luxury; and the external enjoyments which I saw many possessing, far less worthy than ourselves, were denied to us.

Mariette bore it all with cheerfulness, but I grew gloomy and discontented, and the continual murmurs at the government, which I heard amongst my companions, wrought upon me. I gradually began to dream that everything unpleasant in my situation was attributable to the state of society in which I lived. Every political change now seemed to irritate and affect me. Whereas, before I heard a word of politics, I used to work on with hope and activity, encountering hardships boldly, and feeling them the less, because I did not let my mind rest upon them, I now dwelt upon every uncomfort, and magnified it in my own eyes for the purpose of making it a greater reproach to the government, whose evil measures, I thought, caused it. I would pause long in my work to read scraps from a newspaper, and to comment on the folly and tyranny of our rulers; and thus I met several reproofs for my slowness and negligence.

The fires in Normandy I heard of with indignation and horror, and I attributed them all to the ministers, whose wickedness I thought was capable of any baseness, till one day I heard one of my more violent companions observe, that the incendaries were very much in the right, to burn down the barns and destroy the grain, as by making the great mass of the people as miserable and pennyless as themselves, they would force them to bring about a revolution, which would set all things to rights. Besides, he asked, what right had a rich man to corn, when the poor were starving?

The elections for the chamber of deputies were another great source of anxiety to me; and when I found they were all liberal, I felt nearly as much satisfaction as if I had been elected myself. At length the meeting of the chambers approached; and many a warm discussion took place amongst the journeymen printers, on the questions likely to be brought under consideration. Every one said that the ministers must go out, or dissolve the chambers; but many observed with a shrewd glance, that neither the dissolution of the chambers, nor the resignation of the ministers, would satisfy the people. "We must have a change," they said--"complete change;" and several began to talk boldly of revolution.

The continual irritation and discontent I felt, had their effect on my countenance; and Mariette grew anxious about me. She did all she could to soothe me--sat with her arms round my neck, and endeavoured to persuade me that I should be happier if I did not think of politics. "Kings and governments," she said, and said truly, "could only provide for the general good; and that there must always be many in every country whose fate destined them to labour and live hard. She could not but think," she added, "that the way to be happy, was for every one to try, by his own exertions, to improve his own condition; and neither to envy his neighbour nor to meddle with affairs in which he was not well practised."

She sought to induce me, too, to return to Bonniéres. We had never been so happy since we left it; and so sweetly, so perseveringly did she urge a request which I saw was made for my sake more than her own, that at length I consented to go, and, quitting all the vain dreams which had led me to Paris, to re-assume the class and occupation of my fathers.

We had not money to go by the diligence; but we were both good walkers; and the baby, being brought up by hand--and that upon the simplest food--would prove but little encumbrance.

This determination was taken on Sunday the 25th of July, and the next day I gave my employer notice that, at the end of the month, I should quit him. In the meantime we determined to save every sous that was possible, in order to provide for our expenses by the way, for which we had hitherto made no reserve.

On the Monday following, I joined the rest of the printers, and we worked through the day in tranquillity. At night, however, as I was returning over the Pont Neuf, I met one of my companions, who grasped my hand, asking, with a look of intense eagerness, "If I had heard the news?" The suddenness of the question, and his look of anxiety, alarmed me. I knew not well what I dreaded, but, at all events, my fears were all personal. His tale soon relieved me of my apprehensions for Mariette and our child; but raised my indignation to the highest pitch against the government. The King, he told me, had violated the charter, struck at the liberty of the press, altered the law of election, and reduced the people to a nation of slaves.

Distant shouts met our ears as we were crossing the Rue St. Honoré; and hurrying on in the direction from which they proceeded, we came upon an immense multitude; who were breaking the lamps, and yelling execrations against the government.

I was well enough inclined to join them; but remembering Mariette, I returned home, and told her all that occurred. As I spoke, a paleness came over her beautiful face, so unusual, so ghastly, that it made me start. It seemed as if some warning voice had told her that every happy dream was at an end--that the eternal barrier had fallen between us and joy for ever. The next morning everything seemed to have passed by, which had disturbed the tranquillity of the town on the previous evening--the streets were quiet, and the people engaged in their usual occupations. Mariette mind appeared somewhat calmed; but still she looked at me anxiously, as she saw me about to depart, and made me promise more than once, that I would go straight to my work, without mingling with any mob I might see.

I kept my word; and, though I saw several groups of people gathering round the corners of the streets, where the obnoxious ordonnances were posted up, I did not even stop to read, but hurried on to the printing-house with all speed. The scene in the work-rooms was different from any I had ever beheld. All the presses were standing still; and the workmen, gathered into knots, were each declaiming more violently than the other, on the infamy and folly of the government; and, with furious gestures, vowing vengeance. The overseer came in soon after, and with some difficulty got us to our work; but, about twelve o'clock; the proprietor of the establishment himself appeared, and told us to leave off our labours.

"My good friends," said he, "the government has annihilated the liberty of the press. The type of several of the journals has been seized this morning. Our liberties are at an end without we secure them by our own force. Far be it from me to counsel tumult or bloodshed--the law is quite sufficient to do us justice. However, I have determined, as well as Monsieur Didot and all the other printers, to cease business, and discharge my workmen." We were then paid the small sum owing to each, and dismissed, with a caution to be quiet and orderly, and to trust to the law; though the very fact of turning out a number of unemployed and discontented men, upon such a city as Paris, seemed to me the very best possible way of producing that tumult which we were warned to avoid.

I soon after found, that it was not alone the printers who had been discharged, but that almost all the workmen in the city had been suddenly thrown out of employment. As I returned home, there was a sort of ominous silence about the town that had something fearful in it. Not ten persons were to be seen upon the Quais, which are usually so crowded; and it seemed as if the whole population had been concentrated on particular points.

To my great surprise, on entering my lodging, I found my brother sitting with Mariette, and holding our infant on his knee, while the child looked up in his face and smiled, as if it knew that those were kindred eyes which gazed upon it. My brother soon told me the occasion of his coming to Paris, which was to buy seeds and plants for the hot-house at the Château; and about three o'clock, as everything was quiet, I went out with him.

As we passed onward, we soon saw that all was not right. The shops were closed--the gates of the Palais Royal were shut--groups of gloomy faces were gathered at every corner--and the whole town wore the dull, heavy aspect of a thunder-cloud, before the storm bursts forth in all its fury. A few gendarmes were to be seen, but no extraordinary military force appeared; and gradually the same sort of yelling shouts came upon our ear that I had heard the night before.

As we approached the Rue St. Honoré, the cries became louder; and turning down the Rue des Bons Enfans, we found ourselves suddenly in the crowd from which they proceeded. It consisted of about five hundred men and boys, all unarmed. Some had stones in their hands, and some had sticks; but no more deadly weapons could I discern amongst them. A great proportion of the mob were discharged printers, and I was instantly recognised by several of my fellow-workmen, drawn into the crowd with my brother, who was very willing to go, and hurried on towards the Place Vendôme, whither the rioters were directing their steps, with the purpose of attacking the house of Monsieur de Peyronnet, one of the obnoxious ministers.

The numbers in the Rue St. Honoré were in no degree tremendous; but as we entered the place Vendôme, I saw an equal body coming up the Rue Castiglione, and another approaching by the Rue de la Paix. A largo force of mounted gendarmerie was dawn up in the square; and shortly after, a party of the guard, and the troops of the line, appeared. There seemed to be considerable hesitation on both parts to strike the first blow; and as long as we kept to shouts the military remained passive. What took place towards Peyronnet's house, I could not discover, my view being obstructed by the heads of the people; but there seemed a considerable tumult in that direction; and a moment after, a lad beside me threw an immense brick at the head of the officer of gendarmerie, crying, "A bas le Roi! Vive la Charte!"

The missile took effect, knocked off the officer's hat, and covered his forehead with a stream of blood. That instant the word was given to charge; and in a moment we were driven down the Rue St. Honoré in confusion and terror. My brother could not run so fast as I could, and at the corner of the Palais Royal, I found, that he was left several yards behind, while the horses were close upon him. I instinctively started back to assist him, and seeing no other means, I seized a wine-cask that stood at one of the doors, and rolled it with all my strength between him and the soldiers. The nearest gendarme's horse stopped in full course, stumbled and fell over the barrel. A loud shout of gratulation and triumph burst from the people; and turning in their flight, they discharged a shower of bricks and stones upon the advancing cavalry, which struck more than one horseman from his saddle, and afforded time for my brother and myself to join the rest, which we did amidst great cheering and applause, as the first who had actually resisted the military. Elated by the cheer, my brother entered with enthusiasm into the feelings of the multitude, while I felt as if I had committed a crime, in injuring men who were but doing their duty.

A temporary cessation of hostility now occurred between the people and the soldiery. The gendarmerie established themselves in the Place du Palais Royal, some troops of the line took possession of the Rue St. Honoré, and the mob occupied the end of the Rue Richelieu, and the corners of the Rue Montpensier, where the new and incomplete buildings afforded plenty of loose stones, which were soon again used as missiles against the gendarmes. I would fain now have got away and returned home, but my brother would remain; and my companions, remembering the affair of the barrel, put me forward as a kind of leader; so that vanity joined with enthusiasm to make me continue, while the thought of Mariette came from time to time across my memory with a thrill of dispiriting anxiety.

The next two hours passed all in tumult. The soldiers charged us several times, and we fled, but still returned to our position as they re-assumed theirs. Many shots were fired, but few tell, and muskets, fowling-pieces, pistols, and swords began to appear amongst the crowd, while in one or two places I discerned the uniform of the National Guard, and two or three youths from the Polytechnic School. Darkness soon after this came on; the multitudes opposed to the soldiery were increasing every minute, and a cry began to run through the crowd, "To the gunsmiths' shops! To the gunsmiths' shops!"

Instantly this suggestion was obeyed. We dispersed in a moment. Every gunsmith's shop in the neighbourhood was broken open, and almost before I was aware, I was armed with a double-barrelled gun and a brace of pistols, and provided with powder and ball. The shop from which these instruments of slaughter were procured was one at the end of the Rue Vivienne, and as I came out, I paused to consider which way I should now turn.

"Let us go to the Corps de Garde near the Exchange," cried one of the men who had been near me all the day. "Lead on, _mon brave_," he continued, laying his hand upon my shoulder, "you shall be our captain." I looked round for my brother, but he was no longer there, and I followed the man's suggestion. As we went, by the advice of one of the Polytechnic School, we put out all the lamps, and spread the cry everywhere to do the same.

It was now quite dark, and our numbers increased at every step as we advanced. Opposite the Corps de Garde, at the Bourse, a small body of soldiers was drawn up, and two or three torches were lighted. A warning to stand off! was given, as soon as the troops heard our approach, and as we still advanced, increasing our pace, a volley instantly followed. A ball whistled close by my ear and made me start, but still I rushed on; and the soldiers, seeing the multitude by which they were attacked, attempted to retreat into the guard-house.

We were upon them, however, before the doors could be closed, and a terrific struggle took place, man to man. One strong fellow closed with me, and the strife between us soon grew for life. Our feet slipped, as we fell together, rolling over and over, wrapped, with a sort of convulsive fold, in each other's arms, All thought was out of the question; but suddenly getting one of my hands free, I brought the muzzel of a pistol close to my opponent's head, and fired, For an instant his fingers pressed more tightly round my throat--then every muscle was in a moment relaxed, and as I sprang up, he rolled backwards on the pavement.

The fury of excitement was now upon me, and hearing some shots still ringing within the guard-house, I was rushing towards it, when I perceived the multitude pouring forth, and a thick smoke with some flashes of flame, streaming from the windows. The guard-house was on fire, and in an instant the sky was in a blaze. I stood to look at it, for a moment, as the fire-light flashed and flickered upon the dark and demon-like figures that surrounded the pile, and on the various dead bodies that lay in the open space the people had left, as in awe, between them and the destruction they had wrought. It was a fearful sight--sweet memories of peace and home rushed upon my brain--I shuddered at my own deeds, and turning from the whole vision of excited passion before my eyes, I ran as hard as I could to reach my home.

O never did I feel the thought of returning to the secure arms of her I loved, so exquisite, as at that moment! and I flew up the stairs rather than ran. I opened the door and entered. Mariette was kneeling by the cradle of our child. She did not hear me come in. I pronounced her name. At first she made no reply; but then turned round with a face that will haunt me to the grave and pointed to the cradle. I sprang forward and looked. There were traces of blood and bloody bandages strewed about, and round the poor infant's white and delicate shoulder were the compresses and dressings of a fresh wound.

"Good God, Mariette!" I exclaimed, "how is this? How?"

"I heard firing in the streets," she answered, with an awful degree of calmness, "I feared for my husband--ran out to see; and not daring to leave it all alone, I took my child to death. I had scarcely gone a yard, when a shot struck it my arms."

Through the whole of that dreadful night, Mariette and I sat by the cradle of our dying child--silent as the grave, with our eyes fixed upon its pale and ashy countenance, and hardly daring to lift our looks towards each other. From time to time it gave a faint and torturing cry, but in general, seemed in a panting sort of sleep, till towards four in the morning, when the breathing stopped, and I know not what gray shadow fell over its calm sweet face. I did not think it was dead; but Mariette threw her arms round my neck, and hid her eyes upon my bosom.

It was nearly midday on the Wednesday, when one of my companions came to tell me that the man who, it was reported, had been seen with me the day before, had been killed by a shot on the Boulevards, and I hastened after the messenger to ascertain the truth; for my brother had not yet re-appeared. He led me to the door of the Exchange, over which the tri-coloured flag was now flying in triumph, but on each side of the gate was stretched a dead corpse, and the first I saw was indeed my brother. Rage and revenge took possession of my whole heart. I joined the brave men who were marching down to the Place de Grève; and from that moment, I entered into every act of the revolution, with all the enthusiasm, the zeal, the fury of the rest.

It is needless to detail every scene I witnessed, and every struggle in which I shared. Suffice it, I was in most of those that occurred--at the taking and re-taking of the Hôtel de Ville--at the storming of the Louvre, and at the capture of the Tuileries. The enthusiasm amongst us was immense and overpowering; and the moderation and heroism with which it was conducted, reconciled me fully to the revolution. From time to time I ran home to soothe and console my poor Mariette, and to snatch a mouthful of bread, for our purse was now so low that we did not dare to purchase anything else. Mariette ate little while I was there, but she assured me that she had plenty, and that she generally took something while I was gone in the middle of the day. Grief and anxiety had worn her sadly; the lustre had quitted her eye, and the rose had left her cheek: and she looked at me so sadly, so painfully, as I went away, that every time I determined it should be the last.

At length the royal troops were beaten out of Paris, and the palace where monarchs had revelled, fell into the hands of the people. A few of the National Guard and a few of the common people was selected, as to a post of high honour, to guard the Tuileries during the night, under the command of a student of the Polytechnic School. I was one of those fixed upon; and having sent, by a comrade, a message to Mariette, which he forgot to deliver, I remained for the night in those scenes of ancient splendour. There was something awfully melancholy in the solitary palace and feeling of compassion for the dethroned king grew over my heart as I sat in the midst of the magnificent halls that he might never see again. As soon as we were relieved the next morning, I flew to Mariette. She had passed a night of the most dreadful anxiety, my comrade having, as I have said, never delivered my message. Her eye was hollow and her cheek was sunk, but all seemed forgotten when she beheld me safe; and seeing me fatigued and faint, she made me eat some bread and drink a glass of water, almost weeping that she had not something better to give me.

As the last bit touched my lip, a vague thought struck me that she had had none herself, and I insisted on her telling me. She cast her arms round me, and assured me with a smile, that it did her more good to see me eat than to take anything herself; but I at length drew from her that all our money was expended, and that she had not tasted anything for two days.

I thought I should have gone distracted; and after remaining for a few minutes stupified as it were, I ran to the printing-house to see if I could get work, and induce the overseer to advance me a single franc to buy some bread for my poor Mariette.

The office, however, was shut up, and I knocked in vain for admittance. I then turned to the lodging of one of my fellow-printers, who might lend me, I thought, even a few sous. I hurried up the narrow dirty staircase where he lived, and went into his room; but the sight I saw soon convinced me he wanted assistance as much as I did. He was sitting at an uncovered table, with five children of different ages about him. His cheek was wan and hollow; and as I entered, he fixed his haggard eye upon the door, while his little girl kept pulling him importunately by the arm, crying, "Give me a piece, papa--I will have a piece of bread." "Lend me a franc," cried he, as soon as he saw me; "my children are starving--I will pay you when I get work."

I told him my own condition; but he burst forth in the midst, as if seized with a sudden frenzy, trembling with passion, and his eye glaring like that of a wild beast. "You are one of the revolutionists too. God's curse and mine upon you! See what your revolutions have brought! My children are starving--every artizan in Paris is beggared and unemployed. I am starving--my wife is dying for want of medicines in that bed--all these dear infants are famished; and all by your cursed revolutions! Out of my sight! Begone! for fear I commit a murder."

With a heart nearly breaking I returned home, and folding my poor Mariette in my arms, I gave way to tears, such as had never stained my cheeks before. She tried to sooth me--and smiled and told me that really she was not hungry--that she did not think she could eat if she had anything: but oh! I could not deceive myself. I saw famine on her cheek, and heard faintness in her tone; and after a long fit of thought, I determined to go to Monsieur V----, the great bookseller, who had been so kind to me while a boy. I told Mariette my errand, and as Paris was now nearly as quiet as ever, she willingly let me go.

It was a long way, and I had to cross the whole city, so that it was late when I arrived. Even then I found that Monsieur V---- was out; but the servant told me I could see him the following morning at nine. With this cold news I was forced to return; and no one can conceive what a miserable night I spent, thinking that every hour was an hour of starvation to the dear creature by my side. She lay very still but she slept not at all, and I felt sure that the want of rest must wear her as much as hunger.

When I rose, she seemed rather sleepy, and said she would remain in bed, and try for some repose, as she had not closed her eyes since Monday. It was too early to go to Monsieur V----, so I hurried first to the printing-office, for I hoped the tranquillity which was now returning, might have caused Monsieur M---- to resume his usual business. I only found the porter, who told me that there was no chance of the house opening again for weeks at least, if not months, and with a chilled heart I proceeded to the house of Monsieur V----.

Admission was instantly granted me, and I found the great bookseller sitting at a table with some written papers before him, on which he was gazing with an eye from which the spirit seemed withdrawn to rest upon some deep absorbing contemplation within. He was much changed since I had seen him, and there were in his appearance those indescribable traces of wearing care, which often stamp, in legible characters, on the countenance, the misfortunes which man would fain hide from all the world. There was a certain negligence, too, in his dress, which struck me; but as he received me kindly, I told him all my sorrows, and all my wants.

As I spoke, his eyes fixed upon me with a look of painful and intense interest, and when I had done, he rose, closed the door, and took a turn or two thoughtfully in the room. "What has ruined you," said he at length, pausing before me, and speaking abruptly, "has ruined me. The revolution we have just passed through has been great and glorious in its character, and all the world must look upon it with admiration; but it has made you and me, with hundreds, nay thousands, of others--beggars--ay, utter beggars. It is ever the case with revolutions. Confidence is at an end throughout the country, and commerce receives a blow that takes her centuries to recover. The merchant becomes a bankrupt--the artizan starves. I have now seen two revolutions, one bloody and extravagant, the other generous and moderate, and I do not believe that at the end of either of them, there was one man in all France who could lay his hand upon his heart and say, that he was happier for their occurrence; while millions in want and poverty, and millions in mourning and tears, cursed the day that ever infected them with the spirit of change.

"To tell you all in one word: within an hour from this time I am a bankrupt, and I am only one of the first out of thousands. Those thousands employ each thousands of workmen, and thus the bread of millions is snatched from their mouths. I do not say that revolutions are always wrong; but I do say that they always bring a load of misery, especially to the laborious and working classes--and now leave me, good youth. There is a five-franc piece for you. It is all I can give you, and that, in fact, I steal from my creditors. I pity you from my soul, and the more perhaps, because I feel that I need pity myself."

The five-franc piece he gave me, I took with gratitude and ecstasy. To me it was a fortune, for it was enough to save my Mariette. I hastened home with steps of light, only pausing to buy a loaf and a bottle of wine. I ran up stairs--I opened the door. Mariette had not risen. She slept, I thought--I approached quietly to the bed. All was still--too still. A faintness came over my heart, and it was a moment or two before I could ascertain the cause of the breathless calm that hung over the chamber. I drew back the curtain, and the bright summer sunshine streamed in upon the cold--dead--marble cheek of all that to me had been beautiful and beloved!

---------------

When the extraordinary heat of the weather which, during the whole of July was extremely oppressive, had somewhat subsided, a slight change for the better took place in our invalid; and our hopes of a permanent amendment of his health began to revive. One night, however, after Emily and myself had been gazing from the balcony of the hotel over the gardens of the Tuileries, and watching star after star come out in the deepening sky, we turned back into the room, and sitting down at her writing-desk, I wrote upon a scrap of paper some of the feelings with which the night always filled my heart, and which fell without an effort into verse.

THE NIGHT.

The night--the night--the solemn night! The silent time of thought; The kingdom of the pale moonlight And mem'ry, when things gone and bright Are back to mortals brought.

The night--the night--the brilliant night Clothed in her starry robe: When sweet to Hope's ecstatic sight, Come future dreams that day's hard light Had banished from the globe.

The night--the night--the peaceful night! The pause, when each calm joy, Which Time, that oft unpitying wight, Has spared or granted in his flight, Is known without alloy.

The night--the night--how dear the night! Since now its dreams are sweet; Since Hope and Love have made it bright, And changing darkness into light, Have bade its shadows fleet.

"Take another sheet of paper, my dear boy," said Mr. Somers, when he saw that I had done, "and be kind enough to write a note for me." I did as he requested, when, to the surprise of Emily, and myself, he dictated a letter to the chaplain of the embassy, expressing his wish that he would perform the marriage ceremony between his daughter and myself on the morning of the Thursday following. It was then Tuesday, and a few words of astonishment rather than opposition broke from Emily's lips, but he added at once, "Let it be so, my dear child! It is your father's particular request."

Emily said no more; but hid her eyes for a moment on his bosom, and the note was dispatched. With the greatest possible privacy the ceremony was performed, and Mr. Somers, who had made an effort to be present, was lifted into the carriage, and proceeded with us to a house we had taken for the time, in the Val de Montmorency. The next day he appeared greatly better; but at night, about half an hour after he had left us, his servant came suddenly to call us, and, running to his room with Emily, we found him with the last breath of life hanging on his lips. All medical aid proved vain, and when it was all over, Emily and I both felt that it must have been some presentiment of approaching fate that had caused him to hurry our marriage.

Emily has now been long my own, linked to me for life by that sweet indissoluble bond which no two hearts worthy of happiness ever wished less firm and permanent than it is. Changes may come over my destiny, misfortunes may fall upon me again, but I look calmly on to the future; and fear not that such sorrows will ever darken the autumn of my days as those which frowned upon their spring, and which it has been my task to detail in the foregoing pages.[23]

[Footnote 23: To guard against all mistakes, it may be as well to state, that all the tales, etc., which appear in the preceding pages, are the productions of one author, whether they be placed in the mouths of various persons or not, with the single exception of that called a "Young Lady's Story," which occupies ten pages, and is placed here principally to convince her that the efforts of her pen lose nothing by comparison with those of an old and practised writer.

It was my intention to have given a list of errata which the reader will have perceived are exceedingly numerous in the preceding pages. Their numbers indeed prevent me from fulfilling that purpose, and I think it but fair to remark, that though at least one half of them may perhaps be attributable to the printers, the other half must rest upon my own shoulders, as nothing has so soporific an effect upon me, as the reading of my own works, and the very dullest work of another will keep me awake, when two pages of what I call my wittiest compositions will send me sound asleep. Heaven forbid that they should have the same effect upon others, at any time but that at which "nature's sweet restorer" may be especially requisite to the refreshment of the mental or corporeal faculties of my readers.]

THE END.