CHAPTER VI.

BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE

NO. CCCXXXI. MAY, 1843. VOL. LIII.

CONTENTS.

DUMAS IN ITALY

AMMALÁT BEK. A TRUE TALE OF THE CAUCASUS FROM THE

RUSSIAN OF MARLÍNSKI.--CHAPTER VI.

REYNOLD'S DISCOURSES. CONCLUSION

LEAP-YEAR. A TALE

THE BATTLE OF THE BLOCKS. THE PAVING QUESTION

POEMS AND BALLADS OF SCHILLER.--No. VIII.

NATURAL HISTORY OF SALMON AND SEA-TROUT

CALEB STUKELY. PART THE LAST

COMMERCIAL POLICY. SPAIN

DUMAS IN ITALY.

[_Souvenirs de Voyage en Italie, par_ ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 5 vols. duod.]

France has lately sent forth her poets in great force, to travel, and to

write travels. Delamartine, Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, and others,

have been forth in the high-ways and the high-seas, observing,

portraying, poetizing, romancing. The last-mentioned of these, M. Dumas,

a dramatist very ingenious in the construction of plots, and one who

tells a story admirably, has travelled quite in character. There is a

dramatic air thrown over all his proceedings, things happen as pat as if

they had been rehearsed, and he blends the novelist and tourist together

after a very bold and original fashion. It is a new method of writing

travels that he has hit upon, and we recommend it to the notice of our

countrymen or countrywomen, who start from home with the fixed idea,

happen what may, of inditing a book. He does not depend altogether upon

the incidents of the road, or the raptures of sight-seeing, or any odd

fantasy that buildings or scenery may be kind enough to suggest: he

provides himself with full half of his materials before he starts, in

the shape of historical anecdote and romantic story, which he

distributes as he goes along. A better plan for an amusing book could

not be devised. Your mere tourist, it must be confessed, however

frivolous he submits for our entertainment to become, grows heavy on our

hands; that rapid and incessant change of scene which is kindly meant to

enliven our spirits, becomes itself wearisome, and we long for some

resting-place, even though it should be obtained by that most

illegitimate method of closing the volume. On the other hand, a teller

of tales has always felt the want of some enduring thread--though, as

some one says in a like emergency, it be only _packthread_--on which his

tales may be strung--something to fill up the pauses, and prevent the

utter solution of continuity between tale and tale--something that gives

the narrator a reasonable plea for _going on again_, and makes the

telling another story an indispensable duty upon his part, and the

listening to it a corresponding obligation upon ours; and ever since the

time when that young lady of unpronounceable and unrememberable name

told the One Thousand and One Tales, telling a fragment every morning to

keep her head upon her shoulders, there has been devised many a strange

expedient for this purpose. Now, M. Dumas has contrived, by uniting the

two characters of tourist and novelist, to make them act as reliefs to

each other. Whilst he shares with other travellers the daily adventures

of the road--the journey, the sight, and the dinner--he is not compelled

to be always moving; he can pause when he pleases, and, like the

_fableur_ of olden times, sitting down in the market-place, in the

public square, at the corner of some column or statue, he narrates his

history or his romance. Then, the story told, up starts the busy and

provident tourist; lo! the _voiture_ is waiting for him at the hotel; in

he leaps, and we with him, and off we rattle through other scenes, and

to other cities. He has a track _in space_ to which he is bound; we

recognize the necessity that he should proceed thereon; but he can

diverge at pleasure through all _time_, bear us off into what age he

pleases, make us utterly oblivious of the present, and lap us in the

Elysium of a good story.

With a book written palpably for the sole and most amiable purpose of

amusement, and succeeding in this purpose, how should we deal? How but

receive it with a passive acquiescence equally amiable, content solely

to be amused, and giving all severer criticism--to him who to his other

merits may add, if he pleases, that of being the first critic. Most

especially let us not be carping and questioning as to the how far, or

what precisely, we are to set down for _true_. It is all true--it is all

fiction; the artist cannot choose but see things in an artistical form;

what ought not to be there drops from his field of vision. We are not

poring through a microscope, or through a telescope, to discover new

truths; we are looking at the old landscape through coloured glasses,

blue, or black, or roseate, as the occasion may require. And here let us

note a favourable contrast between our dramatic tourist, bold in

conception, free in execution, and those compatriots of our own, authors

and authoresses, who write travels merely because they are artists in

ink, yet without any adequate notion of the duties and privileges of

such an artist.

When a writer has got a name, the first rational use to make of the

charming possession is to get astride of it, as a witch upon her

broomstick, and whisk and scamper over half the kingdoms of the earth.

Talk of bills of exchange!--letters of credit!--we can put our name to a

whole book, and it will pass--it _will_ pass. The idea is good--quite

worthy of our commercial genius--and to us its origin, we believe, is

due; but here, as in so many other cases, the Frenchman has given the

idea its full development. Keeping steadily in view the object of his

book, which is--first, amusement--secondly, amusement--thirdly,

amusement; he adapts his means consistently to his end. Does he want a

dialogue?--he writes one: a story?--he invents one: a description?--he

takes his hint from nature, and is grateful--the more grateful, because

he knows that a hint to the wise is sufficient. It is the description

only which the reader will be concerned with; what has he to do with the

object? That is the merely traveller's affair. Now, your English

tourists have always a residue of scruple about them which balks their

genius. Not satisfied with pleasing, they aspire to be believed; are

almost angry if their anecdote is not credited; content themselves with

adding graces, giving a turn, trimming and decorating--cannot build a

structure boldly from the bare earth. This necessity of finding a

certain straw for their bricks, which must be picked up by the roadside,

not only impedes the work of authorship, but must add greatly to their

personal discomfort throughout the whole of their travels. They are in

perpetual chase of something for the book. They bag an incident with as

much glee as a sportsman his first bird in September. They are out on

pleasure, but manifestly they have their task too; it is not quite

holiday, only half-holiday with them. The prospect or the picture gives

no pleasure till it has suggested the appropriate expression of

enthusiasm, which, once safely deposited in the note-book, the

enthusiasm itself can be quietly indulged in, or permitted to evaporate.

At the dinner-table, even when champagne is circulating, if a jest or a

story falls flat, they see with an Aristotelian precision the cause of

its failure, and how an additional touch, or a more auspicious moment,

would have procured for it a better fate; they stop to pick it up, they

clean it, they revolve the chapter and the page to which it shall lend

its lustre. Nay, it is noticeable, that without much labour from the

polisher, many a dull thing in conversation has made a good thing in

print; the conditions of success are so different. Now, from all such

toils and perplexities M. Dumas is evidently free; free as the wildest

Oxonian who flies abroad in the mere wanton prodigality of spirits and

of purse. His book is made, or can be made, when he chooses: fortune

favours the bold, and incidents will always dispose themselves

dramatically to the dramatist.

Our traveller opens his campaign at Nice. It may be observed that M.

Dumas cannot be accused, like the present minister of his country, of

any partiality to the English; if the mortifying truth must be told, he

has no love of us at all; to which humour, so long as he delivers

himself of it with any wit or pleasantry, he is heartily welcome. Our

first extract will be thought, perhaps, to taste of this humour; but we

quote it for the absurd proof it affords of the manner in which we

English have overflooded some portions of the Continent:--

"As to the inhabitants of Nice, every traveller is to them an

Englishman. Every foreigner they see, without distinction of

complexion, hair, beard, dress, age, or sex, has, in their

imagination, arrived from a certain mysterious city lost in the

midst of fogs, where the inhabitants have heard of the sun only

from tradition, where the orange and the pine-apple are unknown

except by name, where there is no ripe fruit but baked apples,

and which is called _London_.

"Whilst I was at the York Hotel, a carriage drawn by post

horses drove up; and, soon after, the master of the hotel

entering into my room, I asked him who were his new arrivals.

"'_Sono certi Inglesi_,' he answered, '_ma non saprei dire se

sono Francesi o Tedeschi_. Some English, but I cannot say

whether French or German.'"--Vol. i. p. 9.

The little town of Monaco is his next resting-place. This town, which is

now under the government of the King of Sardinia, was at one time an

independent principality; and M. Dumas gives a lively sketch of the

vicissitudes which the little state has undergone, mimicking, as it has,

the movements of great monarchies, and being capable of boasting even of

its revolution and its republic. During the reign of Louis XIV. the

territory of Monaco gave the title of prince to a certain Honore III.,

who was under the protection of the _Grand Monarque_.

"The marriage of this Prince of Monaco," says our annalist,

"was not happy. One fine morning his spouse, who was the same

beautiful and gay Duchess de Valentinois so well known in the

scandalous chronicles of that age, found herself at one step

out of the states of her lord and sovereign. She took refuge at

Paris. Desertion was not all. The prince soon learned that he

was as unfortunate as a husband can be.

"At that epoch, calamities of this description were only

laughed at; but the Prince of Monaco was, as the duchess used

to say, a strange man, and he took offence. He got information

from time to time of the successive gallants whom his wife

thought fit to honour, and he hanged them in effigy, one after

the other, in the front court of his palace. The court was soon

full, and the executions bordered on the high road;

nevertheless, the prince relented not, but continued always to

hang. The report of these executions reached Versailles; Louis

XIV. was, in his turn, displeased, and counselled the prince to

be more lenient in his punishments. He of Monaco answered that,

being a sovereign prince, he had undoubtedly the right of pit

and gallows on his own domain, and that surely he might hang as

many men of straw as he pleased.

"The affair bred so much scandal, that it was thought prudent

to send the duchess back to her husband. He, to make her

punishment the more complete, had resolved that she should, on

her return, pass before this row of executed effigies. But the

dowager Princess of Monaco prevailed upon her son to forego

this ingenious revenge, and a bonfire was made of all the

scarecrows. 'It was,' said Madame de Sevigné, 'the torch of

their second nuptials.' ...

"A successor of this prince, Honore IV., was reigning

tranquilly in his little dominions when the French Revolution

broke out. The Monacites watched its successive phases with a

peculiar attention, and when the republic was finally

proclaimed at Paris, they took advantage of Honore's absence,

who was gone from home, and not known where, armed themselves

with whatever came to hand, marched to the palace, took it by

assault, and commenced plundering the cellars, which might

contain from twelve to fifteen thousand bottles of wine. Two

hours after, the eight thousand subjects of the Prince of

Monaco were drunk.

"Now, at this first trial, they found liberty was an excellent

thing, and they resolved to constitute themselves forthwith

into a republic. But it seemed that Monaco was far too

extensive a territory to proclaim itself, after the example of

France, a republic one and indivisible; so the wise men of the

country, who had already formed themselves into a national

assembly, came to the conclusion that Monaco should rather

follow the example of America, and give birth to a federal

republic. The fundamental laws of the new constitution were

then discussed and determined by Monaco and Mantone, who united

themselves for life and death. There was a third village called

Rocco-Bruno: it was decided that it should belong half to the

one and half to the other. Rocco-Bruno murmured: it had aspired

to independence, and a place in the federation; but Monaco and

Mantone smiled at so arrogant a pretension. Rocco-Bruno was not

the strongest, and was reduced to silence: from that moment,

however, Rocco-Bruno was marked out to the two national

conventions as a focus of sedition. The republic was finally

proclaimed under the title of the Republic of Monaco.

"The Monacites next looked abroad upon the world for allies.

There were two nations, equally enlightened with themselves, to

whom they could extend the hand of fellowship--the American and

the French. Geographical position decided in favour of the

latter. The republic of Monaco sent three deputies to the

National Convention of France to proffer and demand alliance.

The National Convention was in a moment of perfect good-humour:

it received the deputies most politely, and invited them to

call the next morning for the treaty they desired.

"The treaty was prepared that very day. It was not, indeed, a

very lengthy document: it consisted of the two following

articles:--

"'Art. 1. There shall be peace and alliance between the French

Republic and the Republic of Monaco.

"'Art. 2. The French Republic is delighted with having made the

acquaintance of the Republic of Monaco.'

"This treaty was placed next morning in the hands of the

ambassadors, who departed highly gratified. Three months

afterwards the French Republic had thrown its lion's paw on its

dear acquaintance, the Republic of Monaco."--P. 14.

From Monaco our traveller proceeds to Geneva; from Geneva, by water, to

Livorno, (_Anglicé_, Leghorn.) Now there is little or nothing to be seen

at Livorno. There is, in the place _della Darnesa_, a solitary statue of

Ferdinand I., some time cardinal, and afterwards Grand-Duke of Florence.

M. Dumas bethinks him to tell us the principal incident in the life of

this Ferdinand; but then this again is connected with the history of

Bianca Capello, so that he must commence with her adventures. The name

of Bianca Capello figures just now on the title-page of one of Messrs

Colburn's and Bentley's _last and newest_. Those who have read the

novel, and those who, like ourselves, have seen only the title, may be

equally willing to hear the story of this high-spirited dame told in the

terse, rapid manner--brief, but full of detail--of Dumas. We cannot give

the whole of it in the words of M. Dumas; the extract would be too long;

we must get over a portion of the ground in the shortest manner

possible.

"It was towards the end of the reign of Cosmo the Great, about

the commencement of the year 1563, that a young man named

Pietro Bonaventuri, the issue of a family respectable, though

poor, left Florence to seek his fortune in Venice. An uncle who

bore the same name as himself, and who had lived in the latter

city for twenty years, recommended him to the bank of the

Salviati, of which he himself was one of the managers. The

youth was received in the capacity of clerk.

"Opposite the bank of the Salviati lived a rich Venetian

nobleman, head of the house of the Capelli. He had one son and

one daughter, but not by his wife then living, who, in

consequence, was stepmother to his children. With the son, our

narrative is not concerned; the daughter, Bianca Capello, was a

charming girl of the age of fifteen or sixteen, of a pale

complexion, on which the blood, at every emotion, would appear,

and pass like a roseate cloud; her hair, of that rich flaxen

which Raphael has made so beautiful; her eyes dark and full of

lustre, her figure slight and flexile, but of that flexibility

which denotes no weakness, but force of character; prompt, as

another Juliet, to love, and waiting only till some Romeo

should cross her path, to say, like the maid of Verona--'I will

be to thee or to the tomb!'

"She saw Pietro Bonaventuri: the window of his chamber looked

out upon hers; they exchanged glances, signs, promises of love.

Arrived at this point, the distance from each other was their

sole obstacle: this obstacle Bianca was the first to overcome.

"Each night, when all had retired to rest in the house of the

Salviati, when the nurse who had reared Bianca, had betaken

herself to the next chamber, and the young girl, standing

listening against the partition, had assured herself that this

last Argus was asleep, she threw over her shoulders a dark

cloak to be the less visible in the night, descended on tiptoe,

and light as a shadow, the marble stairs of the paternal

palace, unbarred the gate, and crossed the street. On the

threshold of the opposite door, her lover was standing to

receive her; and the two together, with stifled breath and

silent caresses, ascended the stairs that led to the little

chamber of Pietro. Before the break of day, Bianca retired in

the same manner to her own room, where her nurse found her in

the morning, in a sleep as profound at least as the sleep of

innocence.

"One night whilst our Juliet was with her Romeo, a baker's boy,

who had just been to light his oven in the neighbourhood, saw a

gate half open, and thought he did good service by closing it.

Ten minutes afterwards, Bianca descended, and saw that it was

impossible to re-enter her father's house.

"Bianca was one of those energetic spirits whose resolutions

are taken at once, and for ever. She saw that her whole future

destiny was changed by this one accident, and she accepted

without hesitation the new life which this accident had imposed

on her. She re-ascended to her lover, related what had

happened, demanded of him if he was ready to sacrifice all for

her as she was for him, and proposed to take advantage of the

two hours of the night which still remained to them, to quit

Venice and conceal themselves from the pursuit of her parents.

Pietro was true--he adopted immediately the proposal; they

stepped into a gondola, and fled towards Florence.

"Arrived at Florence, they took refuge with the father of

Pietro--Bonaventuri the elder, who with his wife had a small

lodging in the second floor in the place of St Mark. Strange!

it is with poor parents that the children are so especially

welcome. They received their son and their new daughter with

open arms. Their servant was dismissed, both for economy and

the better preservation of their secret. The good mother

charged herself with the care of the little household. Bianca,

whose white hands had been taught no such useful duties, set

about working the most charming embroidery. The father, who

earned his living as a copyist for public offices, gave out

that he had retained a clerk, and took home a double portion of

papers. All were employed, and the little family contrived to

live.

"Meanwhile, it will be easily imagined how great a commotion

the flight of Bianca occasioned in the palace of the noble

Capello. During the whole of the first day they made no

pursuit, for they still, though with much anxiety, expected her

return. The day passed, however, without any news of the

fugitive; the flight, on the same morning, of Pietro

Bonaventuri was next reported; a thousand little incidents

which attracted no notice at the time were now brought back to

recollection, and the result of the whole was the clear

conviction that they had fled together. The influence of the

Capelli was such that the case was brought immediately before

the Council of Ten; and Pietro Bonaventuri was placed under the

ban of the Republic. The sentence of this tribunal was made

known to the government of Florence; and this government

authorized the Capelli, or the officers of the Venetian

Republic, to make all necessary search, not only in Florence,

but throughout all Tuscany. The search, however was unavailing.

Each one of the parties felt too great an interest in keeping

their secret, and Bianca herself never stirred from the

apartment.

"Three months passed in this melancholy concealment, yet she

who had been habituated from infancy to all the indulgences of

wealth, never once breathed a word of complaint. Her only

recreation was to look down into the street through the sloping

blind. Now, amongst those who frequently passed across the

Place of St Mark was the young grand-duke, who went every other

day to see his father at his castle of Petraja. Francesco was

young, gallant, and handsome; but it was not his youth or

beauty that preoccupied the thoughts of Bianca, it was the idea

that this prince, as powerful as he seemed gracious, might, by

one word, raise the ban from Pietro Bonaventuri, and restore

both him and herself to freedom. It was this idea which kindled

a double lustre in the eyes of the young Venetian, as she

punctually at the hour of his passing, ran to the window, and

sloped the jalousie. One day, the prince happening to look up

as he passed, met the enkindled glance of his fair observer.

Bianca hastily retired."

What immediately follows need not be told at any length. Francesco was

enamoured: he obtained an interview. Bianca released and enriched her

lover, but became the mistress of the young duke. Pietro was quite

content with this arrangement; he had himself given the first example of

inconstancy. He entered upon a career of riotous pleasure, which ended

in a violent death.

Francesco, in obedience to his father, married a princess of the house

of Austria; but Bianca still retained her influence. His wife, who had

been much afflicted by this preference of her rival, died, and the

repentant widower swore never again to see Bianca. He kept the oath for

four months; but she placed herself as if by accident in his path, and

all her old power was revived. Francesco, by the death of his father,

became the reigning Duke of Tuscany, and Bianca Capello, his wife and

duchess. And now we arrive at that part of the story in which Ferdinand,

the brother of Francesco, and whose statue at Livorno led to this

history, enters on the scene.

"About three years after their nuptials, the young Archduke,

the issue of Francesco's previous marriage, died, leaving the

ducal throne of Tuscany without direct heir; failing which the

Cardinal Ferdinand would become Grand-duke at the death of his

brother. Now Bianca had given to Francesco one son; but,

besides that he was born before their marriage, and therefore

incapable of succeeding, the rumour had been spread that he was

supposititious. The dukedom, therefore, would descend to the

Cardinal if the Grand-duchess should have no other child; and

Francesco himself had begun to despair of this happiness, when

Bianca announced to him a second pregnancy.

"This time the Cardinal resolved to watch himself the

proceedings of his dear sister-in-law, lest he should be the

dupe of some new manoeuvre. He began, therefore, to cultivate

in an especial manner the friendship of his brother, declaring,

that the present condition of the Grand-duchess proved to him

how false had been the rumours spread touching her former

_accouchement_. Francesco, happy to find his brother in this

disposition, returned his advances with the utmost cordiality.

The Cardinal availed himself of this friendly feeling to come

and install himself in the Palace Pitti.

"The arrival of the Cardinal was by no means agreeable to

Bianca, who was not at all deceived as to the true cause of

this fraternal visit. She knew that, in the Cardinal, she had a

spy upon her at every moment. The spy, however, could detect

nothing that savoured of imposture. If her condition was

feigned, the comedy was admirably played. The Cardinal began to

think that his suspicions were unjust. Nevertheless, if there

were craft, the game he determined should be played out with

equal skill upon his side.

"The eventful day arrived. The Cardinal could not remain in the

chamber of Bianca, but he stationed himself in an antechamber,

through which every one who visited her must necessarily pass.

There he began to say his breviary, walking solemnly to and

fro. After praying and promenading thus for about an hour, a

message was brought to him from the invalid, requesting him to

go into another room, as his tread disturbed her. 'Let her

attend to her affairs, and I to mine,' was the only answer he

gave, and the Cardinal recommenced his walk and his prayer.

"Soon after this the confessor of the Grand-duchess entered--a

Capuchin, in a long robe. The Cardinal went up to him, and

embraced him in his arms, recommending his sister most

affectionately to his pious care. While embracing the good

monk, the Cardinal felt, or thought he felt, something strange

in his long sleeve. He groped under the Capuchin's robe, and

drew out--a fine boy.

"'My dear brother,' said the Cardinal, 'I am now more tranquil.

I am sure, at least, that my dear sister-in-law will not die

this time in childbirth.'

"The monk saw that all that remained was to avoid, if possible,

the scandal; and he asked the Cardinal himself what he should

do. The Cardinal told him to enter into the chamber of the

Duchess, whisper to her what had happened, and, as she acted,

so would he act. Silence should purchase silence; clamour,

clamour.

"Bianca saw that she must renounce at present her design to

give a successor to the ducal crown; she submitted to a

miscarriage. The Cardinal, on his side, kept his word, and the

unsuccessful attempt was never betrayed.

"A few months passed on; there was an uninterrupted harmony

between the brothers, and Francesco invited the Cardinal, who

was fond of field-sports, to pass some time with him at a

country palace, famous for its preserves Of game.

"On the very day of his arrival, Bianca, who knew that the

Cardinal was partial to a certain description of tart,

bethought her to prepare one for him herself. This flattering

attention on the part of his sister-in-law was hinted to him by

Francesco, who mentioned it as a new proof of the Duchess's

amiability, but, as he had no great confidence in his

reconciliation with Bianca, it was an intimation which caused

him not a little disquietude. Fortunately, the Cardinal

possessed an opal, given to him by Pope Sixtus V., which had

the property of growing dim the moment it approached any

poisonous substance. He did not fail to make trial of it on the

tart prepared by Bianca. The opal grew dim and tarnished. The

Cardinal said, with an assumed air of carelessness, that, on

consideration, he would not eat to-day of the tart. The Duke

pressed him; but not being able to prevail--'Well,' said he,

'since Ferdinand will not eat of his favourite dish, it shall

not be said that a Grand-duchess had turned confectioner for

nothing--I will eat of it.' And he helped himself to a piece of

the tart.

"Bianca was in the act of bending forward to prevent him--but

suddenly paused. Her position was horrible. She must either

avow her crime, or suffer her husband to poison himself. She

cast a quick retrospective glance along her past life; she saw

that she had exhausted all the pleasures of the world, and

attained to all its glories; her decision was rapid--as rapid

as on that day when she had fled from Venice with Pietro. She

also cut off a piece from the tart, and extending her hand to

her husband, she smiled, and, with her other hand, eat of the

poisoned dish.

"On the morrow, Francesco and Bianca were dead. A physician

opened their bodies by order of Ferdinand, and declared that

they had fallen victims to a malignant fever. Three days after,

the Cardinal threw down his red hat, and ascended the ducal

throne."--P. 63.

But presto! Mr Dumas is traveller as well as annalist He must leave the

Middle Ages to themselves; the present moment has its exigences; he must

look to himself and his baggage. He had great difficulty in doing this

on his landing at the Port of Livorno; and now, on his departure, he is

beset with _vetturini_. Let us recur to some of these miseries of

travel, which may at least claim a wide sympathy, for most of us are

familiar with them. It is not necessary even to leave our own island to

find how great an embarrassment too much help may prove, but we

certainly have nothing in our own experience quite equal to the lively

picture of M. Dumas:--

"I have visited many ports--I have traversed many towns--I have

contended with the porters of Avignon--with the _facchini_ of

Malta, and with the innkeepers of Messina, but I never entered

so villanous a place as Livorno.

"In every other country of the world there is some possibility

of defending your baggage, of bargaining for its transport to

the hotel; and if no treaty can be made, there is at least

liberty given to load your own shoulders with it, and be your

own porter. Nothing of this kind at Livorno. The vessel which

brings you has not yet touched the shore when it is boarded;

_commissionnaires_ absolutely rain upon you, you know not

whence; they spring upon the jetty, throw themselves on the

nearest vessel, and glide down upon you from the rigging.

Seeing that your little craft is in danger of being capsized by

their numbers, you think of self-preservation, and grasping

hold of some green and slimy steps, you cling there, like

Crusoe to his rock; then, after many efforts, having lost your

hat, and scarified your knees, and torn your nails, you at

length stand on the pier. So much for yourself. As to your

baggage, it has been already divided into as many lots as there

are articles; you have a porter for your portmanteau, a porter

for your dressing-case, a porter for your hat-box, a porter for

your umbrella, a porter for your cane. If there are two of you,

that makes ten porters; if three, fifteen; as we were four, we

had twenty. A twenty-first wished to take Milord (the dog,) but

Milord, who permits no liberties, took him by the calf, and we

had to pinch his tail till he consented to unlock his teeth.

The porter followed us, crying that the dog had lamed him, and

that he would compel us to make compensation. The people rose

in tumult; and we arrived at the _Pension Suisse_ with twenty

porters before us, and a rabble of two hundred behind.

"It cost us forty francs for our portmanteaus, umbrellas, and

canes, and ten francs for the bitten leg.[1] In all, fifty

francs for about fifty steps."--P. 59.

[1] This was not the only case of compensation made out against

this travelling companion. "Milord," says our tourist, "in his

quality of bulldog, was so great a destroyer of cats, that we

judged it wise to take some precautions against overcharges in

this particular. Therefore, on our departure from Genoa, in

which town Milord had commenced his practices upon the feline

race of Italy, we enquired the price of a full-grown,

well-conditioned cat, and it was agreed on all hands that a cat

of the ordinary species--grey, white, and tortoiseshell--was

worth two pauls--(learned cats, Angora cats, cats with two

heads or three tails, are not, of course, included in this

tariff.) Paying down this sum for two several Genoese cats

which had been just strangled by our friend, we demanded a

legal receipt, and we added successively other receipts of the

same kind, so that this document became at length an

indisputable authority for the price of cats throughout all

Italy. As often as Milord committed a new assassination, and

the attempt was made to extort from us more than two pauls as

the price of blood, we drew this document from our pocket, and

proved beyond a cavil that two pauls was what we were

accustomed to pay on such occasions, and obstinate indeed must

have been the man or woman who did not yield to such a weight

of precedent."

This was on his landing at Livorno: on his departure he gives us an

account, equally graphic, of the _vetturini_:--

"A diligence is a creature that leaves at a fixed hour, and its

passengers run to it; a vetturino leaves at all hours, and runs

after its passengers. Hardly have you set your foot out of the

boat that brings you from the steam-vessel to the shore, than

you are assailed, stifled, dragged, deafened by twenty drivers,

who look on you as their merchandise, and treat you

accordingly, and would end by carrying you off bodily, if they

could agree among them who should have the booty. Families have

been separated at the port of Livorno, to find each other how

they could in the streets of Florence. In vain you jump into a

_fiacre_, they leap up before, above, behind; and at the gate

of the hotel, there you are in the midst of the same group of

villains, who are only the more clamorous for having been kept

waiting. Reduced to extremities, you declare that you have come

to Livorno upon commercial business, and that you intend

staying eight days at least, and you ask of the _garçon_, loud

enough for all to hear, if there is an apartment at liberty for

the next week. At this they will sometimes abandon the prey,

which they reckon upon seizing at some future time; they run

back with all haste to the port to catch some other traveller,

and you are free.

"Nevertheless, if about an hour after this you should wish to

leave the hotel, you will find one or two sentinels at the

gate. These are connected with the hotel, and they have been

forewarned by the _garçon_ that it will not be eight days

before you leave--that, in fact, you will leave to-morrow.

These it is absolutely necessary that you call in, and make

your treaty with. If you should have the imprudence to issue

forth into the street, fifty of the brotherhood will be

attracted by their clamours, and the scene of the port will be

renewed. They will ask ten piastres for a carriage--you will

offer five. They will utter piercing cries of dissent--you will

shut the door upon them. In three minutes one of them will

climb in at the window, and engage with you for the five

piastres.

"This treaty concluded, you are sacred to all the world; in

five minutes the report is spread through all Livorno that you

are _engaged_. You may then go where you please; every one

salutes you, wishes you _bon voyage_; you would think yourself

amongst the most disinterested people in the world."--P. 94.

The only question that remains to be decided is that of the

drink-money--the _buona-mano_, as the Italian calls it. This is a matter

of grave importance, and should be gravely considered. On this

_buona-mano_ depends the rapidity of your journey; for the time may vary

at the will of the driver from six to twelve hours. Hereupon M. Dumas

tells an amusing story of a Russian prince, which not only proves how

efficient a cause this _buona mano_ may be in the accomplishment of the

journey, but also illustrates very forcibly a familiar principle of our

own jurisprudence, and a point to which the Italian traveller must pay

particular attention. We doubt if the necessity of a written agreement,

in order to enforce the terms of a contract, was ever made more

painfully evident than in the following instance:--

"The Prince C---- had arrived, with his mother and a German

servant, at Livorno. Like every other traveller who arrives at

Livorno, he had sought immediately the most expeditious means

of departure. These, as we have said, present themselves in

sufficient abundance; the only difficulty is, to know how to

use them.

"The vetturini had learnt from the industrious porters that

they had to deal with a prince. Consequently they demanded

twelve piastres instead of ten, and the prince, instead of

offering five, conceded the twelve piastres, but stipulated

that this should include every thing, especially the

_buona-mano_, which the master should settle with the driver.

'Very good,' said the vetturini; the prince paid his twelve

piastres, and the carriage started off, with him and his

baggage, at full gallop. It was nine o'clock in the morning:

according to his calculation, the Prince would be at Florence

about three or four in the afternoon.

"They had advanced about a quarter of a league when the horses

relaxed their speed, and began to walk step by step. As to the

driver, he sang upon his seat, interrupting himself now and

then to gossip with such acquaintances as he met upon the road;

and as it is ill talking and progressing at the same time, he

soon brought himself to a full stop when he had occasion for

conference.

"The prince endured this for some time; at length putting his

head out of the window, he said, in the purest Tuscan,

'_Avanti! avanti! tirate via!_'

"'How much do you give for _buona-mano_?' answered the driver,

turning round upon his box.

"'Why do you speak to me of your _buona-mano_?' said the prince.

'I have given your master twelve piastres, on condition that it

should include every thing.'

"'The _buona-mano_ does not concern the master,' responded the

driver; 'how much do you give?'

"'Not a sou--I have paid.'

"'Then, your excellence, we will continue our walk.'

"'Your master has engaged to take me to Florenco in six hours,'

said the Prince.

"'Where is the paper that says that--the written paper, your

excellence?'

"'Paper! what need of a paper for so simple a matter? I have no

paper.'

"'Then, your excellence, we will continue our walk.'

"'Ah, we will see that!' said the Prince.

"'Yes, we _will_ see that!' said the driver.

"Hereupon the prince spoke to his German servant, Frantz, who

was sitting beside the coachman, and bade him administer due

correction to this refractory fellow.

"Frantz descended from the voiture without uttering a word,

pulled down the driver from his seat, and pummelled him with

true German gravity. Then pointing to the road, helped him on

his box, and reseated himself by his side. The driver

proceeded--a little slower than before. One wearies of all

things in this world, even of beating a coachman. The prince,

reasoning with himself that, fast or slow, he must at length

arrive at his journey's end, counselled the princess his mother

to compose herself to sleep; and, burying himself in one corner

of the carriage, gave her the example.

"The driver occupied six hours in going from Livorno to

Pontedera; just four hours more than was necessary. Arrived at

Pontedera, he invited the Prince to descend, as he was about to

change the carriage.

"'But,' said the Prince, 'I have given twelve piastres to your

master on condition that the carriage should not be changed.'

"'Where is the paper?'

"'Fellow, you know I have none.'

"'In that case, your excellence, we will change the carriage.'

"The prince was half-disposed to break the rascal's bones

himself; but, besides that this would have compromised his

dignity, he saw, from the countenances of those who stood

loitering round the carriage, that it would be a very imprudent

step. He descended; they threw his baggage down upon the

pavement, and after about an hour's delay, brought out a

miserable dislocated carriage and two broken-winded horses.

"Under any other circumstances the Prince would have been

generous--would have been lavish; but he had insisted upon his

right, he was resolved not to be conquered. Into this

ill-conditioned vehicle he therefore doggedly entered, and as

the new driver had been forewarned that there would be no

_buona-mano_, the equipage started amidst the laughter and

jeers of the mob.

"This time the horses were such wretched animals that it would

have been out of conscience to expect anything more than a walk

from them. It took six more hours to go from Pontedera to

Empoli.

"Arrived at Empoli the driver stopped, and presented himself at

the door of the carriage.

"'Your excellence sleeps here,' said he to the prince.

"'How! are we at Florence?'

"'No, your excellence, you are at the charming little town of

Empoli.'

"'I paid twelve piastres to your master to go to Florence, not

to Empoli. I will sleep at Florence.'

"'Where is the paper?'

"'To the devil with your paper!'

"'Your excellence then has no paper?'

"'No.'

"'In that case, your excellence now will sleep at Empoli!'

"In a few minutes afterwards the prince found himself driven

under a kind of archway. It was a coach-house belonging to an

inn. On his expressing surprise at being driven into this sort

of place, and repeating his determination to proceed to

Florence, the coachman said, that, at all events, he must

change his horses; and that this was the most convenient place

for so doing. In fact, he took out his horses, and led them

away.

"After waiting some time for his return, the prince called to

Frantz, and bade him open the door of this coach-house, and

bring somebody.

"Frantz obeyed, but found the door shut--fastened.

"On hearing that they were shut in, the prince started from the

carriage, shook the gates with all his might, called out

lustily, and looked about, but in vain, for some paving stone

with which to batter them open.

"Now the prince was a man of admirable good sense; so, having

satisfied himself that the people in the house either could

not, or would not hear him, he determined to make the best of

his position. Re-entering the carriage, he drew up the glasses,

looked to his pistols, stretched out his legs, and wishing his

mother good night, went off to sleep. Frantz did the same on

his post. The princess was not so fortunate; she was in

perpetual terror of some ambush, and kept her eyes wide open

all the night.

"So the night passed. At seven o'clock in the morning the door

of the coach-house opened, and a driver appeared with a couple

of horses.

"'Are there not some travellers for Florence here?' he asked

with the tone of perfect politeness, and as if he were putting

the most natural question in the world.

"The prince leapt from the carriage with the intention of

strangling the man--but it was another driver!

"'Where is the rascal that brought us here?' he demanded.

"'What, Peppino? Does your excellence mean Peppino?'

"'The driver from Pontedera?'

"'Ah, well, that was Peppino.'

"'Then where is Peppino?'

"'He is on his road home. Yes, your excellence. You see it was

the fête of the Madonna, and we danced and drank together--I

and Peppino--all the night; and this morning about an hour ago

says he to me, 'Gaetano, do you take your horses, and go find

two travellers and a servant who are under a coach-house at the

_Croix d'Or_; all is paid except the _buona-mano_.' And I asked

him, your excellence, how it happened that travellers were

sleeping in a coach-house instead of in a chamber. 'Oh,' said

he, 'they are English--they are afraid of not having clean

sheets, and so they prefer to sleep in their carriage in the

coach-house.' Now as I know the English are a nation of

originals, I supposed it was all right, and so I emptied

another flask, and got my horses, and here I am. If I am too

early I will return, and come by and by.

"'No, no, in the devil's name,' said the prince, 'harness your

beasts, and do not lose a moment. There is a piastre for your

_buona-mano_.'

"They were soon at Florence.

"The first care of the prince, after having breakfasted, for

neither he nor the princess had eaten any thing since they had

left Livorno, was to lay his complaint before a magistrate.

"'Where is the paper?' said the judicial authority.

"'I have none,' said the prince.

"'Then I counsel you,' replied the judge, 'to let the matter

drop. Only the next time give five piastres to the master, and

a piastre and a half to the driver; you will save five piastres

and a half, and arrive eighteen hours sooner.'"--P. 97.

M. Dumas, however, arrives at Florence without any such disagreeable

adventure as sleeping in a coach-house. He gives a pleasing description

of the Florentine people, amongst whom the spirit of commerce has died

away, but left behind a considerable share of the wealth and luxury that

sprang from it. There is little spirit of enterprise; no rivalry between

a class enriching itself and the class with whom wealth is hereditary;

the jewels that were purchased under the reign of the Medici still shine

without competitors on the promenade and at the opera. It is a people

that has made its fortune, and lives contentedly on its revenues, and on

what it gets from the stranger. "The first want of a Florentine," says

our author, "is repose; even pleasure is secondary; it costs him some

little effort to be amused. Wearied of its frequent political

convulsions, the town of the Medici aspires only to that unbroken and

enchanted slumber which fell, as the fairy tale informs us, on the

beautiful lady in the sleepy wood. No one here seems to labour, except

those who are tolling and ringing the church-bells, and they indeed

appear to have rest neither day nor night."

There are but three classes visible in Florence. The nobility--the

foreigner--and the people. The nobility, a few princely houses excepted,

spend but little, the people work but little, and it would be a marvel

how these last lived if it were not for the foreigner. Every autumn

brings them their harvest in the shape of a swarm of travellers from

England, France, or Russia, and, we may now add, America. The winter

pays for the long delicious indolence of the summer. Then the populace

lounges, with interminable leisure, in their churches, on their

promenades, round the doors of coffee-houses that are never closed

either day or night; they follow their religious processions; they

cluster with an easy good-natured curiosity round every thing that wears

the appearance of a fête; taking whatever amusement presents itself,

without caring to detain it, and quitting it without the least distrust

that some other quite as good will occupy its place. "One evening we

were roused," says our traveller, "by a noise in the street: two or

three musicians of the opera, on leaving the theatre, had taken a fancy

to go home playing a waltz. The scattered population of the streets

arranged themselves, and followed waltzing. The men who could find no

better partners, waltzed together. Five or six hundred persons were

enjoying this impromptu ball, which kept its course from the opera house

to the Port del Prato, where the last musician resided. The last

musician having entered his house, the waltzers returned arm-in-arm,

still humming the air to which they had been dancing."

"It follows," continues M. Dumas, "from this commercial apathy,

that at Florence you must seek after every thing you want. It

never comes of itself--never presents itself before

you;--everything there stays at home--rests in its own place. A

foreigner who should remain only a month in the capital of

Tuscany would carry away a very false idea of it. At first it

seems impossible to procure the things the most indispensable,

or those you do procure are bad; it is only after some time

that you learn, and that not from the inhabitants, but from

other foreigners who have resided there longer than yourself,

where anything is to be got. At the end of six months you are

still making discoveries of this sort; so that people generally

quit Tuscany at the time they have learned to live there. It

results from all this that every time you visit Florence you

like it the better; if you should revisit it three or four

times you would probably end by making of it a second country,

and passing there the remainder of your lives."[2]

[2] It is amusing to contrast the _artistic_ manner in which

our author makes all his statements, with the style of a

guide-book, speaking on the manufactures and industry of

Florence. It is from Richard's _Italy_ we quote. Mark the

exquisite medley of humdrum, matter-of-fact details, jotted

down as if by some unconscious piece of mechanism:--"Florence

_manufactures_ excellent silks, woollen cloths, elegant

carriages, bronze articles, earthenware, straw hats, perfumes,

essences, _and candied fruits_; also, all kinds of turnery and

inlaid work, piano-fortes, philosophical and mathematical

instruments, &c. The dyes used at this city are much admired,

particularly the black, _and its sausages are famous throughout

all Italy_."

Shall we visit the churches of Florence with M. Dumas? No, we are not in

the vein. Shall we go with him to the theatres--to the opera--to the

Pergola? Yes, but not to discuss the music or the dancing. Every body

knows that at the great theatres of Italy the fashionable part of the

audience pay very little attention to the music, unless it be a new

opera, but make compensation by listening devoutly to the ballet. The

Pergola is the great resort of fashion. A box at the Pergola, and a

carriage for the banks of the Arno, are the _indispensables_, we are

told, at Florence. Who has these, may eat his macaroni where he

pleases--may dine for sixpence if he will, or can: it is his own affair,

the world is not concerned about it--he is still a gentleman, and ranks

with nobles. Who has them not--though he be derived from the loins of

emperors, and dine every day off plate of gold, and with a dozen

courses--is still nobody. Therefore regulate your expenditure

accordingly, all ye who would be somebody. We go with M. Dumas to the

opera, not, as we have said, for the music or the dancing, but because,

as is the way with dramatic authors, he will there introduce us, for the

sake of contrast with an institution very different from that of an

operatic company--

"Sometimes in the midst of a cavatina or a _pas-de-deux_, a

bell with a sharp, shrill, excoriating sound, will be heard; it

is the bell _della misericordia_. Listen: if it sound but once,

it is for some ordinary accident; if twice, for one of a

serious nature; if it sounds three times, it is a case of

death. If you look around, you will see a slight stir in some

of the boxes, and it will often happen that the person you have

been speaking to, if a Florentine, will excuse himself for

leaving you, will quietly take his hat and depart. You inquire

what that bell means, and why it produces so strange an effect.

You are told it is the bell _della misericordia_, and that he

with whom you were speaking is a brother of the order.

"This brotherhood of mercy is one of the noblest institutions

in the world. It was founded in 1244, on occasion of the

frequent pestilences which at that period desolated the town,

and it has been perpetuated to the present day, without any

alteration, except in its details--with none in its purely

charitable spirit. It is composed of seventy-two brothers,

called chiefs of the watch, who are each in service four months

in the year. Of these seventy-two brothers, thirty are priests,

fourteen gentlemen, and twenty-eight artists. To these, who

represent the aristocratic classes and the liberal arts, are

added 500 labourers and workmen, who may be said to represent

the people.

"The seat of the brotherhood is in the place _del Duomo_. Each

brother has there, marked with his own name, a box enclosing a

black robe like that of the _penitents_, with openings only for

the eyes and mouth, in order that his good actions may have the

further merit of being performed in secret. Immediately that

the news of any accident or disaster is brought to the brother

who is upon guard, the bell sounds its alarm, once, twice, or

thrice, according to the gravity of the case; and at the sound

of the bell every brother, wherever he may be, is bound to

retire at the instant, and hasten to the rendezvous. There he

learns what misfortune or what suffering has claimed his pious

offices; he puts on his black robe and a broad hat, takes the

taper in his hand, and goes forth where the voice of misery has

called him. If it is some wounded man, they bear him to the

hospital; if the man is dead, to a chapel: the nobleman and the

day labourer, clothed with the same robe, support together the

same litter, and the link which unites these two extremes of

society is some sick pauper, who, knowing neither, is praying

equally for both. And when these brothers of mercy have quitted

the house, the children whose father they have carried out, or

the wife whose husband they have borne away, have but to look

around them, and always, on some worm-eaten piece of furniture,

there will be found a pious alms, deposited by an unknown hand.

"The Grand-duke himself is a member of this fraternity, and I

have been assured that more than once, at the sound of that

melancholy bell, he has clothed himself in the uniform of

charity, and penetrated unknown, side by side with a

day-labourer, to the bed's head of some dying wretch, and that

his presence had afterwards been detected only by the alms he

had left behind."--p. 126.

It is not to be supposed that our dramatist pursues the same direct and

unadventurous route that lies open to every citizen of Paris and London.

At the end of the first volume we leave him still at Florence; we open

the second, and we find him and his companion Jadin, and his companion's

dog Milord, standing at the port of Naples, looking out for some vessel

to take them to Sicily. So that we have travels in Italy with Rome left

out. Not that he did not visit Rome, but that we have no "souvenirs" of

his visit here. As the book is a mere _capriccio_, there can be no

possible objection taken to it on this score. Besides, the island of

Sicily, which becomes the chief scene of his adventures, is less beaten

ground. Nor do we hear much of Naples, for he quits Naples almost as

soon as he had entered it. This last fact requires explanation.

M. Dumas has had the honour to be an object of terror or of animosity to

crowned heads. When at Genoa, his Sardinian Majesty manifested this

hostility to M. Dumas--we presume on account of his too liberal

politics--by dispatching an emissary of the police to notify to him that

he must immediately depart from Genoa. Which emissary of his Sardinian

Majesty had no sooner delivered his royal sentence of deportation, than

he extended his hand for a _pour boire_. Either M. Dumas must be a far

more formidable person than we have any notion of, or majesty can be

very nervous, or very spiteful. And now, when he is about to enter

Naples----but why do we presume to relate M. Dumas's personal

adventures in any other language than his own? or language as near his

own as we--who are, we must confess, imperfect translators--can hope to

give.

"The very evening of our arrival at Naples, Jadin and I ran to

the port to enquire if by chance any vessel, whether steam-boat

or sailing packet, would leave on the morrow for Sicily. As it

is not the ordinary custom for travellers to go to Naples to

remain there a few hours only, let me say a word on the

circumstance that compelled us to this hasty departure.

"We had left Paris with the intention of traversing the whole

of Italy, including Sicily and Calabria; and, putting this

project into scrupulous execution, we had already visited Nice,

Genoa, Milan, Florence, and Rome, when, after a sojourn of

about three weeks at this last city, I had the honour to meet,

at the Marquis de P----'s, our own _chargé des affaires_, the

Count de Ludorf, the Neapolitan ambassador. As I was to leave

in a few days for Naples, the Marquis introduced me to his

brother in diplomacy. M. de Ludorf received me with that cold

and vacant smile which pledges to nothing; nevertheless, after

this introduction, I thought myself bound to carry to him our

passports myself. M. de Ludorf had the civility to tell me to

deposit the passports at his office, and to call there for them

the day after the morrow.

"Two days having elapsed, I accordingly presented myself at the

office: I found a clerk there, who, with the utmost politeness,

informed me that some difficulties having arisen on the subject

of my _visa_, I had better make an application to the

ambassador himself. I was obliged, therefore, whatever

resolution I had made to the contrary, to present myself again

to M. de Ludorf.

"I found the ambassador more cold, more measured than before,

but reflecting that it would probably be the last time I should

have the honour of seeing him, I resigned myself. He motioned

to me to take a chair. This was some improvement upon the last

visit; the last visit he left me standing.

"'Monsieur,' said he, with a certain air of embarrassment, and

drawing out, one after the other, the folds of his shirt-front,

'I regret to say that you cannot go to Naples.'

"'Why so?' I replied, determined to impose upon our dialogue

whatever tone I thought fit--'are the roads so bad?'

"'No, monsieur; the roads are excellent, but you have the

misfortune to be on the list of those who cannot enter the

kingdom of Naples.'

"'However honourable such a distinction may be, monsieur

l'ambassadeur,' said I, suiting my tone to the words, 'it will

at present be rather inconvenient, and I trust you will permit

me to inquire into the cause of this prohibition. If it is

nothing but one of those slight and vexatious interruptions

which one meets with perpetually in Italy, I have some friends

about the world who might have influence sufficient to remove

it.'

"'The cause is one of a grave nature, and I doubt if your

friends, of whatever rank they may be, will have influence to

remove it.'

"'What may it be?'

"'In the first place, you are the son of General Matthieu

Dumas, who was minister of war at Naples during the usurpation

of Joseph.'

"'I am sorry,' I answered, 'to be obliged to decline any

relationship with that illustrious general. My father was not

General Matthieu, but General Alexandre Dumas. The same,' I

continued, seeing that he was endeavouring to recall some

reminiscences connected with the name of Dumas, 'who, after

having been made prisoner at Tarentum, in contempt of the

rights of hospitality, was poisoned at Brindisi, with Mauscourt

and Dolomieu, in contempt of the rights of nations. This

happened, monsieur l'ambassadeur, at the same time that they

hanged Carracciolo in the Gulf of Naples. You see I do all I

can to assist your recollection.'

"M. de Ludorf bit his lips.

"'Well, monsieur,' he resumed after a moment's silence, 'there

is a second reason--your political opinions. You are marked out

as a republican, and have quitted Paris, it is said, on some

political design.'

"'To which I answer, monsieur, by showing you my letters of

introduction. They bear nearly all the seals and signatures of

our ministers. Here is one from the Admiral Jacob, another from

Marshal Soult, another from M. de Villemain; they claim for me

the aid of the French ambassador in any case of this

description.'

"'Well, well,' said M. de Ludorf, 'since you have foreseen the

very difficulty that has occurred, meet it with those means

which are in your power. For me, I repeat, I cannot sign your

passport. Those of your companions are quite regular; they can

proceed when they please; but they must proceed without you.'

"'Has the Count de Ludorf' said I, rising, 'any commissions for

Naples?'

"'Why so, monsieur?'

"'Because I shall have great pleasure in undertaking them.'

"'But I repeat, you cannot go to Naples.'

"'I shall be there in three days.'

"I wished M. de Ludorf good morning, and left him stupefied at

my assurance."--Vol. ii. p. 5.

Our dramatical traveller ran immediately to a young friend, an artist

then studying at Rome, and prevailed on him to take out a passport, in

his own name for Naples. Fortified with this passport, and assuming the

name of his friend, he left Rome that evening. The following day he

reached Naples. But as he was exposed every moment to detection, it was

necessary that he should pass over immediately to Sicily. The

steam-boats at Naples, unlike the steam-boats every where else, start at

no fixed period. The captain waits for his contingent of passengers, and

till this has been obtained both he and his vessel are immovable. M.

Dumas and his companion, therefore, hired a small sailing vessel, a

_speronara_ as it is called, in which they embarked the next morning.

But before weighing anchor M. Dumas took from his portfolio the neatest,

purest, whitest, sheet of paper that it contained, and indited the

following letter to the Count de Ludorf:--

"Monsieur le Comte,

"I am distressed that your excellency did not think fit to

charge me with your commissions for Naples. I should have

executed them with a fidelity which would have convinced you of

the grateful recollection I retain of your kind offices.

"Accept, M. le Comte, the assurance of those lively sentiments

which I entertain towards you, and of which, one day or other,

I hope to give you proof.

"ALEX. DUMAS."

"Naples, 23d Aug. 1835."

With the crew of this _speronara_ we became as familiar as with the

personages of a novel; and, indeed, about this time the novelist begins

to predominate over the tourist.

On leaving the bay of Naples our traveller first makes for the island of

Capri. The greatest curiosity which he here visits and describes in the

_azure grotto_. He and his companion are rowed, each in a small skiff,

to a narrow dark aperture upon the rocky coast, and which appears the

darker from its contrast with the white surf that is dashing about it.

He is told to lie down on his back in the boat, to protect his head from

a concussion against the low roof.

"In a moment after I was borne upon the surge--the bark glided

on with rapidity--I saw nothing but a dark rock, which seemed

for a second to be weighing on my chest. Then on a sudden I

found myself in a grotto so marvellous that I uttered a cry of

astonishment, and started up in my admiration with a bound

which endangered the frail bark on which I stood.

"I had before me, around me, above me, beneath me, a perfect

enchantment, which words cannot describe, and which the pencil

would utterly fail to give any impression of. Imagine an

immense cavern, all pure azure--as if God had made a tent there

with some residue of the firmament; a surface of water so

limpid, so transparent, that you seem to float on air: above

you, the pendant stalactites, huge and fantastical, reversed

pyramids and pinnacles: below you a sand of gold mingled with

marine vegetation; and around the margin of cave, where it is

bathed by the water, the coral shooting out its capricious and

glittering branches. That narrow entrance which, from the sea,

showed like a dark spot, now shone at one end a luminous point,

the solitary star which gave its subdued light to this fairy

palace; whilst at the opposite extremity a sort of alcove led

on the imagination to expect new wonders, or perhaps the

apparition of the nymph or goddess of the place.

"In all probability the azure grotto was unknown to the

ancients. No poet speaks of it; and surely with their

marvellous imagination the Greeks could not have failed to make

it the palace of some marine goddess, and to have transmitted

to us her history. The sea, perhaps, was higher than it is now,

and the secrets of this cave were known only to Amphitrite and

her court of sirens, naiads, and tritons.

"Even now at times the sea rises and closes the orifice, so

that those who have entered cannot escape. In which case they

must wait till the wind, which had suddenly shifted to the east

or west, returns to the north or south; and it has happened

that visitors who came to spend twenty minutes in the azure

grotto, have remained there two, three, and even four days. To

provide against such an emergency, the boatmen always bring

with them a certain quantity of biscuit to feed the prisoners,

and as the rock affords fresh water in several places, there is

no fear of thirst. It was not till we had been in the grotto

some time that our boatmen communicated this piece of

information; we were disposed to reproach them for this delay,

but they answered with the utmost simplicity, that if they told

this at first to travellers, half of them would decline coming,

and this would injure the boatmen.

"I confess that this little piece of information raised a

certain disquietude, and I found the azure grotto infinitely

less agreeable to the imagination.... We again laid ourselves

down at the bottom of our respective canoes, and issued forth

with the same precautions, and the same good fortune, with

which we had entered. But we were some minutes before we could

open our eyes; the burning sun upon the glittering ocean

absolutely blinded us. We had not gone many yards, however,

before the eye recovered itself, and all that we had seen in

the azure grotto had the consistency of a dream."

From Capri our travellers proceed to Sicily. We have a long story and a

violent storm upon the passage, and are landed at Messina. Here M. Dumas

enlarges his experience by an acquaintance with the _Sirocco_. His

companion, M. Jadin, had been taken ill, and a physician had been called

in.

"The doctor had ordered that the patient (who was suffering

under a fever) should be exposed to all the air possible, that

doors and windows should be opened, and he should be placed in

the current. This was done; but on the present evening, to my

astonishment, instead of the fresh breeze of the night--which

was wont to blow the fresher from our neighbourhood to the

sea--there entered at the open window a dry hot wind like the

air from a furnace. I waited for the morning, but the morning

brought no change in the state of the atmosphere.

"My patient had suffered greatly through the night. I rang the

bell for some lemonade, the only drink the doctor had

recommended; but no one answered the summons. I rang again, and

a third time: still no one came; at length seeing that the

mountain would not come to me, I went to the mountain. I

wandered through the corridor, and entered apartment after

apartment, and found no one to address. It was nine o'clock in

the morning, yet the master and mistress of the house had not

left their room, and not a domestic was at his post. It was

quite incomprehensible.

"I descended to the portico; I found him lying on an old sofa

all in tatters, the principal ornament of his room, and asked

him why the house was thus deserted.

"'Ah, monsieur!' said he, 'do you not feel the sirocco?'

"'Sirocco or not, is this a reason why no one should come when

I call?'

"'Oh, monsieur, when it is sirocco no one does any thing!'

"'And your travellers, who is to wait upon them?'

"'On those days they wait upon themselves.'

"I begged pardon of this respectable official for having

disturbed him; he heaved such a sigh as indicated that it

required a great amount of Christian charity to grant the

pardon I had asked.

"The hour arrived when the doctor should have paid his visit,

and no doctor came. I presumed that the sirocco detained him

also; but as the state of Jadin appeared to me alarming, I

resolved to go and rouse my Esculapius, and bring him, willing

or unwilling, to the hotel. I took my hat and sallied forth.

"Messina had the appearance of a city of the dead: not an

inhabitant was walking in the streets, not a head was seen at

the windows. The mendicants themselves (and he who has not seen

the Sicilian mendicant, knows not what wretchedness is,) lay in

the corners of the streets, stretched out, doubled up, panting,

without strength to stretch out their hand for charity, or

voice to ask an alms. Pompeii, which I visited three months

afterwards, was not more silent, more solitary, more inanimate.

"I reached the doctor's. I rang, I knocked, no one answered. I

pushed against the door, it opened;--I entered, and pursued my

search for the doctor.

"I traversed three or four apartments. There were women lying

upon sofas, and children sprawling on the floor. Not one even

raised a head to look at me. At last, in one of the rooms, the

door of which was, like the rest, half-open, I found the man I

was in quest of, stretched upon his bed.

"I went up to him, I took him by the hand, and felt his pulse.

"'Ah,' said he, with a melancholy voice, and scarcely turning

his head towards me, 'Is that you? What can you want?'

"'Want!--I want you to come and see my friend, who is no

better, as it seems to me.'

"'Go and see your friend!' cried the doctor, in a

fright--'impossible!'

"'Why impossible?'

"He made a desperate effort to move, and taking his cane in his

left hand, passed his right hand slowly down it, from the

golden head that adorned it to the other extremity. 'Look you,'

said he, 'my cane sweats.'

"And, in fact, there fell some globules of water from it, such

an effect has this terrible wind even on inanimate things.

"'Well,' said I, 'and what does that prove?'

"'That proves, that at such a time as this, there are no

physicians, all are patients.[3]'"--P. 175.

[3] The extreme misery of the paupers in Sicily, who form, he

tells us, a tenth part of the population, quite haunts the

imagination of M. Dumas. He recurs to it several times. At one

place he witnesses the distribution, at the door of a convent,

of soup to these poor wretches, and gives a terrible

description of the famine-stricken group. "All these

creatures," he continues, "had eaten nothing since yesterday

evening. They had come there to receive their porringer of

soup, as they had come to-day, as they would come to-morrow.

This was all their nourishment for twenty-four hours, unless

some of them might obtain a few _grani_ from their

fellow-citizens, or the compassion of strangers; but this is

very rare, as the Syracusans are familiarized with the

spectacle, and few strangers visit Syracuse. When the

distributor of this blessed soup appeared, there were

unheard-of cries, and each one rushed forward with his wooden

bowl in his hand. Only there were some too feeble to exclaim,

or to run, and who dragged themselves forward, groaning, upon

their hands and knees. There was in the midst of all, a child

clothed, not in anything that could be called a shirt, but a

kind of spider's web, with a thousand holes, who had no wooden

bowl, and who wept with hunger. It stretched out its poor

little meagre hands, and joined them together, to supply as

well as it could, by this natural receptacle, the absent bowl.

The cook poured in a spoonful of the soup. The soup was

boiling, and burned the child's hand. It uttered a cry of pain,

and was compelled to open its fingers, and the soup fell upon

the pavement. The child threw itself on all fours, and began to

eat in the manner of a dog."--Vol. iii. p. 58.

And in another place he says, "Alas, this cry of hunger! it is

the eternal cry of Sicily; I have heard nothing else for three

months. There are miserable wretches, whose hunger has never

been appeased, from the day when, lying in their cradle, they

began to draw the milk from their exhausted mothers, to the

last hour when, stretched on their bed of death, they have

expired endeavouring to swallow the sacred host which the

priest had laid upon their lips. Horrible to think of! there

are human beings to whom, to have eaten once sufficiently,

would be a remembrance for all their lives to come."--Vol. iv.

p. 108.

Seeing there was no chance of bringing the doctor to the hotel, unless

he carried him there by main force, Mr Dumas contented himself with

relating the symptoms of his friend. To drink lemonade--much

lemonade--all the lemonade he could swallow, was the only prescription

that the physician gave. And the simple remedy seems to have sufficed;

for the patient shortly after recovered.

Not the least agreeable portion of these travels, is the pleasant

impression they leave of the traveller himself, one who has his humours

doubtless, but who is social, buoyant, brave, generous, and

enterprising. A Frenchman--as a chemist, in his peculiar language, would

say--is a creature "endowed with a considerable range of affinity." Our

traveller has this range of affinity; he wins the heart of all and

several--the crew of his _speronara._ We will close with the following

extract, both because it shows the frank and lively feelings of the

Frenchman, and because it introduces a name dear to all lovers of

melody. The father of Bellini was a Sicilian, and Dumas was in Sicily.

"It was while standing on this spot, that I asked my guide if

he knew the father of Bellini. At this question he turned, and

pointing out to me an old man who was passing in a little

carriage drawn by one horse--'Look you,' said he, 'there he is,

taking his ride into the country!'

"I ran to the carriage and stopped it, knowing that he is never

intrusive who speaks to a father of his son, and of such a son

as Bellini's. At the first mention of his name, the old man

took me by both hands, and asked me eagerly if I really knew

his son. I drew from my portfolio a letter of introduction,

which, on my departure from Paris, Bellini had given me for the

Duchess de Noja, and asked him if he knew the handwriting. He

took the letter in his hands, and answered only by kissing the

superscription.

"'Ah,' said he, turning round to me, 'you know not how good he

is! We are not rich. Well, at each success there comes some

remembrance, something to add to the ease and comfort of an old

man. If you will come home with me, I will show you how many

things I owe to his goodness. Every success brings something

new. This watch I carry with me, was from _Norma_; this little

carriage and horse, from _the Puritans_. In every letter that

he writes, he says that he will come; but Paris is far from

Sicily. I do not trust to this promise--I am afraid that I

shall die without seeing him again. You will see him, you----'

"'Yes,' I answered, 'and if you have any commission----'

"'No--what should I send him?--My blessing?--Dear boy, I give

it him night and morning. But tell him you have given me a

happy day by speaking to me of him--tell him that I embraced

you as an old friend--(and he embraced me)--but you need not

say that I was in tears. Besides,' he added, 'it is with joy

that I weep.--And is it true that my son has a reputation?'

"'Indeed a very great reputation.'

"'How strange!' said the old man, 'who would have thought it,

when I used to scold him, because, instead of working, he would

be eternally beating time, and teaching his sister all the old

Sicilian airs! Well, these things are written above. I wish I

could see him before I die.--But your name?' he added, 'I have

forgotten all this time to ask your name.'

"I told him: it woke no recollection.

"'Alexandre Dumas, Alexandre Dumas,' he repeated two or three

times, 'I shall recollect that he who bears that name has given

me good news of my son. Adieu! Alexandre Dumas--I shall

recollect that name--Adieu!'

"Poor old man! I am sure he has not forgotten it; for the news

I gave him of his son was the last he was ever to receive."--P.

226.

Sicily is one of those _romantic_ countries, where you may still meet

with adventures in your travels, where you may be shot at by banditti

with pointed hats and long guns. M. Dumas passes not without his share

of such adventures. Perhaps, as Sicily is less trodden ground than

Italy, his "Souvenirs" will be found more interesting as he proceeds. We

have naturally taken our quotations in the order in which they presented

themselves, and we have not advanced further than the second of the five

delectably small volumes in which these travels are printed. Would our

space permit us to proceed, it is probable that our extracts would

increase, instead of diminishing, in interest.

* * * * *

AMMALÁT BEK.

A TRUE TALE OF THE CAUCASUS. FROM THE RUSSIAN OF MARLÍNSKI.

CHAPTER VI.

_Fragments from the Diary of Ammalát Bek.--Translated from the Tartar_.

... Have I been asleep till now, or am I now in a dream?... This, then,

is the new world called _thought_!... O beautiful world! thou hast long

been to me cloudy and confused, like the milky way, which, they say,

consists of thousands of glittering stars! It seems to me that I am

ascending the mountain of knowledge from the valley of darkness and

ignorance; each step opens to me views further and more extensive.... My

breast breathes freer, I gaze in the face of the sun.... I look

below--the clouds murmur under my feet!... annoying clouds! You prevent

me from seeing the heavens from the earth; from the heaven to look upon

the earth!

I wonder how the commonest questions, _whence_ and _how_, never before

came into my head? All God's world, with every thing in it good or evil,

was seen reflected in my soul as in the sea: I only knew as much of it

as the sea does, or a mirror. In my memory, it is true, much was

preserved: but to what end did this serve? Does the hawk understand why

the hood is put on his head? Does the steed understand why they shoe

him? Did I understand why in one place mountains are necessary, in

another steppes, here eternal snows, there oceans of sand? Why storms

and earthquakes were necessary? And thou, most wondrous being, Man! it

never has entered my head to follow thee from thy cradle, suspended on a

wandering mule, to that magnificent city which I have never seen, and

which I am enchanted merely to have heard of!... I confess that I am

already delighted with the mere outside of a book, without understanding

the meaning of the mysterious letters ... but V. not only makes

knowledge attractive, but gives me the means of acquiring it. With him,

as a young swallow with its mother, I try my new wings.... The distance

and the height still astonish, but no longer alarm me. The time will

come when I shall mount upwards to the heavens!...

* * * * *

... But yet, am I happy because V. and his books teach me to think? The

time was, when a spirited steed, a costly sabre, a good gun, delighted

me like a child. Now, that I know the superiority of mind over body, my

former pride in shooting or horsemanship appears to me ridiculous--nay,

even contemptible. Is it worth while to devote oneself to a trade, in

which the meanest broad-shouldered noúker can surpass me?... Is it worth

while to seek honour and happiness, of which the first wound may deprive

me--the first awkward leap? They have taken from me this plaything, but

with what have they replaced it?... With new wants, with new wishes,

which Allah himself can neither weary nor satisfy. I thought myself a

man of consequence; but now I am convinced of my own nothingness.

Formerly, to my memory, my grandfather and great-grandfather were at the

beginning of the night of the past, with its stories and dreaming

traditions.... The Caucasus contained my world, and I peacefully slept

in that night. I thought to be famous in Daghestán--the height of glory.

And what then? History has peopled my former desert with nations,

shattering each other for glory; with heroes, terrifying the nations by

valour to which we can never rise. And where are they? Half forgotten,

they have vanished in the dust of ages. The description of the earth

shows me that the Tartars occupy a little corner of the world; that they

are miserable savages in comparison with the European nations; and that

of the existence, not only of their brave warriors, but of the whole

nation, nobody thinks, nobody knows, nobody wishes to know. It is worth

while to be a glow-worm amongst insects. Was it worth while to expand my

mind, in order to be convinced of such a bitter truth?

* * * * *

What is the use of a knowledge of the powers of nature to me, when I

cannot change my soul, master my heart? The sea teaches me to build

dykes--but I cannot restrain my tears!... I can conduct the lightning

from the roof, but I cannot throw off my sorrows! Was I not unhappy

enough from my feelings alone, without calling around me my thoughts,

like greedy vultures? What does the sick man gain by knowing that his

disease is incurable?... The tortures of my hopeless love have become

sharper, more piercing, more various, since my intellect has been

enlightened.

* * * * *

No! I am unjust. Reading shortens for me the long winter-like night--the

hours of separation. In teaching me to fix on paper my flying thoughts,

V. has given me a heartfelt enjoyment. Some day I shall meet Seltanetta,

and I shall show her these pages; in which her name is written oftener

than that of Allah in the Korán. "These are the annals of my heart," I

shall say: "Look! on such a day thus thought about you--on such a night,

I saw you thus in my dreams! By these little leaves, as by a string of

diamond beads, you may count my sighs, my tears for you." O lovely, and

beloved being! you will often smile at my strange phantasies--long will

they supply matter for our conversations. But, by your side,

enchantress, shall I be able to remember the past?... No, no!... Every

thing before me, every thing around me, will then fade away, except the

present bliss--to be with you! O, how burning, and how light will my

soul be! Liquid sunshine will flow in my veins--I shall float in heaven,

like the sun! To forget all by your side is a bliss prouder than the

highest wisdom!

* * * * *

I have read stories of love, of the charms of woman--of the perfidy of

man--but no heroine approaches my Seltanetta in loveliness of soul or

body--not one of the heroes do I resemble--I envy them the fascination,

I admire the wisdom of lovers in books--but then, how weak, how cold is

their love! It is a moonbeam playing on ice! Whence come these European

babblers of Tharsis--these nightingales of the market-place--these

sugared confections of flowers? I cannot believe that people can love

passionately, and prate of their love--even as a hired mourner laments

over the dead. The spendthrift casts his treasure by handfuls to the

wind; the lover hides it, nurses it, buries it in his heart like a

hoard.

* * * * *

I am yet young, and I ask "what is friendship?" I have a friend in V.--a

loving, real, thoughtful friend; yet I am not _his_ friend. I feel it, I

reproach myself that I do not reciprocate his regard as I ought, as he

deserves--but is in my power? In my soul there is no room for any one

but Seltanetta--in my heart there is no feeling but love.

* * * * *

No! I cannot read, I cannot understand what the Colonel explains to me.

I cheated myself when I thought that the ladder of science could be

climbed by me ... I am weary at the first steps, I lose my way on the

first difficulty, I entangle the threads, instead of unravelling them--I

pull and tear them--and I carry off nothing of the prey but a few

fragments. The _hope_ which the Colonel held out to me I mistook for my

own progress. But who--what--impedes this progress? That which makes the

happiness and misery of my life--love. In every place, in every thing, I

hear and see Seltanetta--and often Seltanetta alone. To banish her from

my thoughts I should consider sacrilege; and, even if I wished, I could

not perform the resolution. Can I see without light? Can I breathe

without air? Seltanetta is my light, my air, my life, my soul!

* * * * *

My hand trembles--my heart flutters in my bosom. If I wrote with my

blood, 'twould scorch the paper. Seltanetta! your image pursues me

dreaming or awake. The image of your charms is more dangerous than the

reality. The thought that I may never possess them, touch them, see

them, perhaps, plunges me into an incessant melancholy--at once I melt

and burn. I recall each lovely feature, each attitude of your exquisite

person--that little foot, the seal of love, that bosom, the gem of

bliss! The remembrance of your voice makes my soul thrill like the chord

of an instrument--ready to burst from the clearness of its tone--and

your kiss! that kiss in which I drank your soul! It showers roses and

coals of fire upon my lonely bed--I burn--my hot lips are tortured by

the thirst for caresses--my hand longs to clasp your waist--to touch

your knees! Oh, come--Oh, fly to me--that I may die in delight, as now I

do in weariness!

* * * * *

Colonel Verkhóffsky, endeavouring by every possible means to divert

Ammalát's grief, thought of amusing him with a boar-hunt, the favourite

occupation of the Beks of Daghestán. In answer to his summons, there

assembled about twenty persons, each attended by his noúkers, each eager

to try his fortune, or to gallop about the field and vaunt his courage.

Already had grey December covered the tops of the surrounding mountains

with the first-fallen snow. Here and there in the streets of Derbénd lay

a crust of ice, but over it the mud rolled in sluggish waves along the

uneven pavement. The sea lazily plashed against the sunken turrets of

the walls which descended to the water, a flock of bustards and of geese

whizzed through the fog, and flew with a complaining cry above the

ramparts; all was dark and melancholy--even the dull and tiresome

braying of the asses laden with faggots for the market, sounded like a

dirge over the fine weather. The old Tartars sat in the bazárs, wrapping

their shoubes over their noses. But this is exactly the weather most

favourable to hunters. Hardly had the moóllahs of the town proclaimed

the hour of prayer, when the Colonel, attended by several of his

officers, the Beks of the city, and Ammalát, rode, or rather swam,

through the mud, leaving the town in the direction of the north, through

the principal gate Keerkhlár Kápi, which is covered with iron plates.

The road leading to Tárki is rude in appearance, bordered for a few

paces to the right and left with beds of madder--beyond them lie vast

burying-grounds, and further still towards the sea, scattered gardens.

But the appearance of the suburbs is a great deal more magnificent than

those of the Southern ones. To the left, on the rocks were seen the

Keifárs, or barracks of the regiment of Koúrin; while on both sides of

the road, fragments of rock lay in picturesque disorder, rolled down in

heaps by the violence of the mountain-torrents. A forest of ilex,

covered with hoar-frost, thickened as it approached Vellikent, and at

each verst the retinue of Verkhóffsky was swelled by fresh arrivals of

_Beglar_ and _Agalar_[4]. The hunting party now turned to the left, and

they speedily heard the cry of the _ghayálstchiks_[5] assembled from the

surrounding villages. The hunters formed into an extended chain, some on

horseback, and some running on foot; and soon the wild-boars also began

to show themselves.

[4] _Lar_ is the Tartar plural of all substantives.

[5] Beaters for the game.

The umbrageous oak-forests of Daghestán have served, from time

immemorial, as a covert for innumerable herds of wild hogs; and although

the Tartars--like the Mussulmans--hold it a sin not only to eat, but

even to touch the unclean animal, they consider it a praiseworthy act to

destroy them--at least they practise the art of shooting on these

beasts, as well as exhibit their courage, because the chase of the

wild-boar is accompanied by great danger, and requires cunning and

bravery.

The lengthened chain of hunters occupied a wide extent of ground; the

most fearless marksmen selecting the most solitary posts, in order to

divide with no one else the glory of success, and also because the

animals make for those points where there are fewer people. Colonel

Verkhóffsky, confident in his gigantic strength and sure eye, posted

himself in the thickest of the wood, and halted at a small savannah to

which converged the tracks of numerous wild-boars. Perfectly alone,

leaning against the branch of a fallen tree, he awaited his game.

Interrupted shots were heard on the right and left of his station; for a

moment a wild-boar appeared behind the trees; at length the bursting

crash of falling underwood was heard, and immediately a boar of uncommon

size darted across the field like a ball fired from a cannon. The

Colonel took his aim, the bullet whistled, and the wounded monster

suddenly halted, as if in surprise--but this was but for an instant--he

dashed furiously in the direction whence came the shot. The froth smoked

from his red-hot tusks, his eye burned in blood, and he flew at the

enemy with a grunt. But Verkhóffsky showed no alarm, waiting for the

nearer approach of the brute: a second time clicked the cock of his

gun--but the powder was damp and missed fire. What now remained for the

hunter? He had not even a dagger at his girdle--flight would have been

useless. As if by the anger of fate, not a single thick tree was near

him--only one dry branch arose from the oak against which he had leaned;

and Verkhóffsky threw himself on it as the only means of avoiding

destruction. Hardly had he time to clamber an arschine and a half[6]

from the ground, when the boar, enraged to fury, struck the branch with

his tusks--it cracked from the force of the blow and the weight which

was supported by it.... It was in vain that Verkhóffsky tried to climb

higher--the bark was covered with ice--his hands slipped--he was sliding

downwards; but the beast did not quit the tree--he gnawed it--he

attacked it with his sharp tusks a _tchétverin_ below the feet of the

hunter. Every instant Verkhóffsky expected to be sacrificed, and his

voice died away in the lonely space in vain. No, not in vain! The sound

of a horse's hoofs was heard close at hand, and Ammalát Bek galloped up

at full speed with uplifted sabre. Perceiving a new enemy, the wild-boar

turned at him, but a sideway leap of the horse decided the battle--a

blow from Ammalát hurled him on the earth.

[6] Rather less than an English yard.

The rescued Colonel hurried to embrace his friend, but the latter was

slashing, mangling, in a fit of rage, the slain beast. "I accept not

unmerited thanks," he answered at length, turning from the Colonel's

embrace. "This same boar gored before my eyes a Bek of Tabasóran, my

friend, when he, having missed him, had entangled his foot in the

stirrup. I burned with anger when I saw my comrade's blood, and flew in

pursuit of the boar. The closeness of the wood prevented me from

following his track; I had quite lost him; and God has brought me hither

to slay the accursed brute, when he was on the point of sacrificing a

yet nobler victim--you, my benefactor."

"Now we are quits, dear Ammalát. Do not talk of past events. This day

our teeth shall avenge us on this tusked foe. I hope you will not refuse

to taste the forbidden meat, Ammalát?"

"Not I! nor to wash it down with champagne, Colonel. Without offence to

Mahomet, I had rather strengthen my soul with the foam of the wine, than

with the water of the true believer."

The hunt now turned to the other side. From afar were heard cries and

hallooing, and the drums of the Tartars in the chase. From time to time

shots rang through the air. A horse was led up to the Colonel: and he,

feasting his sight with the boar, which was almost cut in two, patted

Ammalát on the shoulder, crying "A brave blow!"

"In that blow exploded my revenge," answered the Bek; "and the revenge

of an Asiatic is heavy."

"You have seen, you have witnessed," replied the Colonel, "how injury is

avenged by Russians--that is, by Christians; let this be not a reproach,

but--a lesson to you."

And they both galloped off towards the Line.

Ammalát was remarkably absent--sometimes he did not answer at all--at

others, he answered incoherently to the questions of Verkhóffsky, by

whom he rode, gazing abstractedly around him. The Colonel, thinking

that, like an eager hunter, he was engrossed by the sport, left him, and

rode forward. At last, Ammalát perceived him whom he was so impatiently

expecting, his hemdjék, Saphir Ali, flew to meet him, covered with mud,

and mounted on a smoking horse. With cries of "Aleikoúm Selam," they

both jumped off their horses, and were immediately locked in each

other's embrace.

"And so you have been there--you have seen her--you have spoken to her?"

cried Ammalát, tearing off his kaftán, and choking with agitation. "I

see by your face that you bring good news; here is my new _tchoukhá_[7]

for you for that. Does she live? Is she well? Does she love me as

before?"

[7] The Tartars have an invariable custom, of taking off some

part of their dress and giving it to the bearer of good news.

"Let me recollect myself," answered Saphir Ali. "Let me take breath. You

have put so many questions, and I myself are charged with so many

commissions, that they are crowding together like old women at the door

of the mosque, who have lost their shoes. First, at your desire, I have

been to Khounzákh. I crept along so softly, that I did not scare a

single thrush by the road. Sultan Akhmet Khan is well, and at home. He

asked about you with great anxiety, shook his head, and enquired if you

did not want a spindle to dry the silk of Derbénd. The khánsha sends you

tchokh selammóum, (many compliments,) and as many sweet cakes. I threw

them away, the confounded things, at the first resting-place.

Soúrkhai-Khan, Noutzal-Khan"----

"The devil take them all! What about Seltanetta?"

"Aha! at last I have touched the chilblain of your heart. Seltanetta, my

dear Ammalát, is as beautiful as the starry sky; but in that heaven I

saw no light, until I conversed about you. Then she almost threw herself

on my neck when we were left alone together, and I explained the cause

of my arrival. I gave her a camel-load of compliments from you--told her

that you were almost dead with love--poor fellow!--and she burst into

tears!"

"Kind, lovely soul! What did she tell you to say to me?"

"Better ask what she did not. She says that, from the time that you left

her, she has never rejoiced even in her dreams; that the winter snow has

fallen on her heart, and that nothing but a meeting with her beloved,

like a vernal sun, can melt it.... But if I were to continue to the end

of her messages, and you were to wait to the end of my story, we should

both reach Derbénd with grey beards. Spite of all this, she almost drove

me away, hurrying me off, lest you should doubt her love!"

"Darling of my soul! you know not--I cannot explain what bliss it is to

be with thee, what torment to be separated from thee, not to see thee!"

"That is exactly the thing, Ammalát; she grieves that she cannot rejoice

her eyes with a sight of him whom she never can be weary of gazing at.

'Is it possible,' she says, 'that he cannot come but for one little day,

for one short hour, one little moment?'"

"To look on her, and then die, I would be content!"

"Ah, when you behold her, you will wish to live. She is become quieter

than she was of old; but even yet she is so lively, that when you see

her your blood sparkles within you."

"Did you tell her why it is not in my power to do her will, and to

accomplish my own passionate desire?"

"I related such tales that you would have thought me the Shah of

Persia's chief poet. Seltanetta shed tears like a fountain after rain.

She does nothing else but weep."

"Why, then, reduce her to despair? 'I cannot now' does not mean 'it is

for ever impossible.' You know what a woman's heart is, Saphir Ali: for

them the end of hope is the end of love."

"You sow words on the wind, djanníon (my soul.) Hope, for lovers, is a

skein of worsted--endless. In cool blood, you do not even trust your

eyes; but fall in love, and you will believe in ghosts. I think that

Seltanetta would hope that you could ride to her from your coffin--not

only from Derbénd."

"And how is Derbénd better than a coffin to me? Does not my heart feel

its decay, without power to escape it? Here is only my corpse: my soul

is far away."

"It seems that your senses often take the whim of walking I know not

where, dear Ammalát. Are you not well at Verkhóffsky's--free and

contented? beloved as a younger brother, caressed like a bride? Grant

that Seltanetta is lovely: there are not many Verkhóffskys. Cannot you

sacrifice to friendship a little part of love?"

"Am not I then doing so, Saphir Ali? But if you knew how much it costs

me! It is as if I tore my heart to pieces. Friendship is a lovely thing,

but it cannot fill the place of love."

"At least, it can console us for love--it can relieve it. Have you

spoken about this to the Colonel?"

"I cannot prevail on myself to do so. The words die on my lips, when I

would speak of my love. He is so wise, that I am ashamed to annoy him

with my madness. He is so kind, that I dare not abuse his patience. To

say the truth, his frankness invites, encourages mine. Figure to

yourself that he has been in love since his childhood with a maiden, to

whom he was plighted, and whom he certainly would have married if his

name had not been by mistake put into a list of killed during the war

with the Feringhis. His bride shed tears, but nevertheless was given

away in marriage. He flies back to his country, and finds his beloved

the wife of another. What, think you, should I have done in such a case?

Plunged a dagger in the breast of the robber of my treasure!--carried

her away to the end or the world to possess her but one hour, but one

moment! Nothing of this kind happened. He learned that his rival was an

excellent and worthy man. He had the calmness to contract a friendship

with him: had the patience to be often in the society of his former

love, without betraying, either by word or deed, his new friend or his

still loved mistress."

"A rare man, if this be true!" exclaimed Saphir Ali, with feeling,

throwing away his reins. "A stout friend indeed!"

"But what an icy lover! But this is not all. To relieve both of them

from misrepresentation and scandal, he came hither on service. Not long

ago--for his happiness or unhappiness--his friend died. And what then?

Do you think he flew to Russia. No! his duty kept him away. The

Commander-in-chief informed him that his presence was indispensable here

for a year more, and he has remained--cherishing his love with hope. Can

such a man, with all his goodness, understand such a passion as mine?

And besides, there is such a difference between us in years, in

opinions. He kills me with his unapproachable dignity; and all this

cools my friendship, and impedes my sincerity."

"You are a strange fellow, Ammalát; you do not love Verkhóffsky for the

very reason that he most merits frankness and affection!"

"Who told you that I do not love him? How can I but love the man who has

educated me--my benefactor? Can I not love any one but Seltanetta? I

love the whole world--all men!"

"Not much love, then, will fall to the share of each!" said Saphir Ali.

"There would be enough not only to quench the thirst, but to drown the

whole world!" replied Ammalát, with a smile.

"Aha! This comes of seeing beauties unveiled--and then to see nothing

but the veil and the eyebrows. It seems that you are like the

nightingales of Ourmis; you must be caged before you can sing!"

Conversing in this strain, the two friends disappeared in the depths of

the forest.