How far my pen has been fatigued, like those of other travellers, in
this journey of it, over so barren a track—the world must judge—but the
traces of it, which are now all set o’ vibrating together this moment,
tell me ’tis the most fruitful and busy period of my life; for as I had
made no convention with my man with the gun, as to time—by stopping and
talking to every soul I met, who was not in a full trot—joining all
parties before me—waiting for every soul behind—hailing all those who
were coming through cross-roads—arresting all kinds of beggars,
pilgrims, fiddlers, friars—not passing by a woman in a mulberry-tree
without commending her legs, and tempting her into conversation with a
pinch of snuff——In short, by seizing every handle, of what size or
shape soever, which chance held out to me in this journey—I turned my
_plain_ into a _city_—I was always in company, and with great variety
too; and as my mule loved society as much as myself, and had some
proposals always on his part to offer to every beast he met—I am
confident we could have passed through _Pall-Mall_, or St.
_James_’s-Street, for a month together, with fewer adventures—and seen
less of human nature.
O! there is that sprightly frankness, which at once unpins every plait
of a _Languedocian_’s dress—that whatever is beneath it, it looks so
like the simplicity which poets sing of in better days—I will delude my
fancy, and believe it is so.
’Twas in the road betwixt _Nismes_ and _Lunel_, where there is the best
_Muscatto_ wine in all _France_, and which by the bye belongs to the
honest canons of MONTPELLIER—and foul befal the man who has drunk it at
their table, who grudges them a drop of it.
——The sun was set—they had done their work; the nymphs had tied up
their hair afresh—and the swains were preparing for a carousal—my mule
made a dead point——’Tis the fife and tabourin, said I——I’m frighten’d
to death, quoth he——They are running at the ring of pleasure, said I,
giving him a prick——By saint _Boogar_, and all the saints at the
backside of the door of purgatory, said he—(making the same resolution
with the abbesse of _Andoüillets_) I’ll not go a step further——’Tis
very well, sir, said I——I never will argue a point with one of your
family, as long as I live; so leaping off his back, and kicking off one
boot into this ditch, and t’other into that—I’ll take a dance, said
I—so stay you here.
A sun-burnt daughter of Labour rose up from the groupe to meet me, as I
advanced towards them; her hair, which was a dark chesnut approaching
rather to a black, was tied up in a knot, all but a single tress.
We want a cavalier, said she, holding out both her hands, as if to
offer them—And a cavalier ye shall have; said I, taking hold of both of
them.
Hadst thou, _Nannette_, been array’d like a duchesse!
——But that cursed slit in thy petticoat!
_Nannette_ cared not for it.
We could not have done without you, said she, letting go one hand, with
self-taught politeness, leading me up with the other.
A lame youth, whom _Apollo_ had recompensed with a pipe, and to which
he had added a tabourin of his own accord, ran sweetly over the
prelude, as he sat upon the bank——Tie me up this tress instantly, said
_Nannette_, putting a piece of string into my hand—It taught me to
forget I was a stranger—— The whole knot fell down——We had been seven
years acquainted.
The youth struck the note upon the tabourin—his pipe followed, and off
we bounded——“the duce take that slit!”
The sister of the youth, who had stolen her voice from heaven, sung
alternately with her brother——’twas a _Gascoigne_ roundelay.