What the world are accustomed to consider as great and brilliant

actions, have very often their origin in pride or ostentation, while

home virtues, and less obtrusive qualities, though their motive does

not admit of doubt, and their nature is mixed with no evil, are

scarcely ranked in the catalogue of good deeds, and even if known are

rarely appreciated. The rich man who spends a part of his fortune and

bestows a portion of his time on public charities, claims unanimous

applause as his just reward, and mankind are willing to grant it

without any investigation, either of his actions or their incitements;

but the man who without possessing any wealth to give, delights to see

every one cheerful and happy around him, and finds his pleasure in his

fellow-creature's peace, receives but small gratitude, and meets with

little admiration.

For my own part, I am thankful to every one who gives me happy

moments. There was a little circle at Bordeaux, in which I have spent

some of the most pleasant hours of my existence. The follies and

vices, the turmoil and discontent, of a large city never set foot

there. It was composed of a few, that could feel and enjoy all that

was beautiful in art or nature, whose native resources were equal to

their own contentment, and who without shunning, required nothing from

the world. Time passed not slowly with them; music, and reading, and

conversation succeeded; each borrowing a charm from the other, and

linking themselves together; so that the evenings flew insensibly; and

the hour of our separation always arrived before we were aware of its

approach.

In the mornings, we often left the town and spent the day in the most

beautiful parts of the environs; and the scenery was always sure to

suggest some new idea, which again celled forth a thousand more, and

every one happy themselves, endeavoured to add to the happiness of

others. It was in one of these expeditions that we went to visit the

little town and château of La Brède, once the residence of the famous

Montesquieu. The house is a true old French _château_, with its

turrets, and drawbridges, and garden within the ditch, and loopholes

for firing through the walls and all the little _et cæteras_, which

carry one's mind back to ancient days; but the devil, or some spirit

hostile to antiquity, has put it into the proprietor's head to

whitewash the towers of La Brède; and there they were, hard at it,

trying to metamorphose the old mansion of Montesquieu into the

likeness of a Cockney cottage on the Hampstead road.

The owner was absent, but we were admitted immediately, and taken, in

the first place, into the apartment where Montesquieu had composed his

_Esprit des Lois_. A little more reverence for old times had been

shown here; the room was exactly in the state he left it when he died;

there was his arm-chair, and all the rest of the old damask furniture,

spotted and stained in a truly classical manner; and there was the

hole the sage had worn in the marble by resting his foot with

mathematical precision always on one spot. We saw it all--all, which

is nothing in itself, but something in its associations. We were then

taken through the house, which appeared a large rambling kind of

building; but, to tell the truth, I do not recollect much about it,

except one large hall of very vast dimensions, where lay an old

helmet, which something tempted me to put upon my head, and which I

once thought must have remained there for ever, for, as if to punish

me for the whim, during some time I could get it off by no manner of

means. I have said that I remember little about the house; the reason

was this--I was thinking more at the time of the woman who showed it

to us than of anything else in it, aye, or of Montesquieu into the

bargain. Now there may be many people who would judge from this

confession, that she was some pretty _soubrette_, whose beauty had

taken my imagination by the ear. But no such thing: not that I am not

fond of beauty in every shape, but the case was different in the

present instance. What or who she was I do not know; but if Dame

Fortune had placed her in any other situation than that of a lady, the

jade of a goddess ought to be put in the pillory for a cheat and an

impostor. Her dress was of that dubious description which gave no

information; but her manners--her air--her look--told a great deal.

She was grave without being sad. It was a sort of gentle gravity, that

seemed to proceed more from a calm, even disposition than from any

grief or sorrow; and when she smiled, there was a ray of pure, warm

light came beaming from her eyes, and said that there was much

unextinguished within. They were as fine eyes, too, as ever I beheld.

Yet she was not handsome; though, if I were to go on with the

description, perhaps I should make her out a perfect beauty, for I

saw nothing but the expression, and that was beautiful. I could draw

her character, I am sure, and would not be mistaken in a single

line; for her voice was exactly like her eyes, and when the two go

together one cannot be deceived; there was a mild elegance in it

that was never harsh, though sometimes it rose a little, and

sometimes fell, and gave more melody to the French tongue than ever

I had heard before.

Now reader, for aught I know, you may be as arrant a fool as ever God

put breath into--for I hope and trust this book will be read not by

the wise part of mankind only--should that be the case, Lord have

mercy upon the publisher. But do not be offended. You may, (under the

same restrictive "for aught I know,") be as wise as king Solomon or

wiser; but, whatever be your portion of wit, you will have seen, in

all probability, long before now, that there was something in this

girl that interested me not a little. What that was can be nothing to

you, for it proceeded from private feelings and private recollections,

which you would make nothing of if you knew them this minute.

However, there was a question which none of us could decide: was she

one of the family of the château or was she not, and how were we to

bestow the little donation usually given to the servants under such

circumstances? However, the elder lady of the party took it upon

herself; and while I was standing in the garden where Montesquieu used

to work with his own hands, figuring to myself the philosopher of the

laws, digging away in his full nightcap and variegated dressing-gown,

she put the money, into the hands of her companion, begging that she

would give it to the servants. The other looked at her with a smile

which might have been translated half a dozen ways. It might have

been, "I am a servant myself"--it might have been, "I see your

embarrassment." But, however, she said that she would give it to them,

and bidding her adieu, we proceeded to the carriage. We had scarcely

all got in, when she came tripping over the drawbridge, with a bouquet

of flowers in her hand. She gave them with one of those same bright

smiles, saying, that perhaps we might like to have "_Quelques fleurs

du jardin de Montesquieu_." We took them thankfully, and she

re-entered the house, leaving us more than ever in doubt.

THE CHATEAU DE BLANCFORD.

Quant è bella giovinezza

Che si fugge tutta via

Che vuol esser lieto, sia

Di doman non c'è certezza.--TRIOMFO DE BACCO.

There is scarcely any character in the range of history, which I am so

much led to admire as that of Edward the Black Prince. Combining all

the brightest qualities of a hero and a man, his glorious actions and

his early death, all give him a title to our interest and admiration.

One of the last excursions which we made with the friends I have just

mentioned was to a little town called Blancford. It lies, as it were,

behind Bordeaux, upon an eminence which commands all the country

round, with a far view over the plains of Medoc, and the bend of the

Garrone lying at your feet. In a valley, at a short distance, stand

the walls of an old castle, in which the Black Prince is said to have

passed some of the last hours of his existence; and this was the real

object of our pilgrimage.

Having ordered dinner, and left the carriage at Blancford, we wandered

down, through some of the beautiful lanes, all breaking forth into the

first blossoms of spring, to the ruins of the old château, which

afford a sad picture of the decay of human works.

The walls, built to resist armies, had crumbled to nothing before the

power of Time. We nevertheless amused ourselves for more than an hour,

climbing amongst the old ivy-grown remains, and fancying the various

beings that, from time to time, had tenanted that spot now so

desolate. It was all imagination, it is true; but 'tis one of the

greatest arts in life, thus to give food to fancy and to supply her

with materials from the past. It is less dangerous than borrowing from

the future. I forget whether it is Lord Kaimes, or Allison, or who,

that accounts for the pleasure which we feel in the sublime and

beautiful, principally from the exercise of the mind in new

combinations. I feel that there is some truth in it; for when I can

let my imagination soar without restraint, I try to separate myself,

as it were, from her, and view her, as I would a lark, rising and

singing in the sky, and enjoy her very wanderings.

So much amusement did we derive from our speculations that we lingered

there long. A variety of shrubs and foliage had decorated the old ruin

in a fantastic manner; and as we descended into one of the dungeons,

where probably many a captive had told his solitary hours, a free wild

bird started out, at our approach and took its flight into the

unconfined air. On the highest pinnacles of the walls, where the hand

of man could never reach, Nature has sown little groups of wild pinks,

that hung bending in the wind, as if to tempt one to take them. I

endeavoured in vain to obtain some of them, for one of the ladies of

the party, between whom and my friend B---- feelings were growing up

which ended in much happiness at an after period. To punish my

awkwardness, they called upon me to write a ballad on the subject. I

did my best to comply, for we all strove to bring our little share of

amusement into the common stock, and I felt myself more peculiarly

bound to contribute, as I believed in my heart that many of these

amusements, and especially that of whiling away the evening with

little tales and sketches, had been devised for the purpose of turning

my mind from every painful thought. These contributions gradually

accumulated into a short miscellany, which, as it comes decidedly into

the recollections of this year, I will give, as far as my memory

serves, and call it "Scraps."

We left the old castle with a feeling of regret. We had had time to

establish a kind of friendship with it, and did not like to quit it.

After dinner we wandered on to the brow of the hill, and sitting down,

watched the landscape as the closing evening varied all its hues. It

had been a fine clear day; no pain had reached us ourselves and no

storm had come across the sky--all had been bright and unshadowed. The

last moments of such a day are precious, for who can say what

to-morrow will bring forth? and all feeling it alike, we lingered on

till the edge of the sun touched the horizon, and then returned to

the busy haunts of man.

SCRAPS.--NO. I.

THE LADY AND THE FLOWER.

There be of British arms and deeds

Who sing in noble strain,

Of Poitiers' field, and Agincourt,

And Cressy's bloody plain.

High tales of merry England,

Full often have been told,

For never wanted bard to sing

The adieus of the hold.

But now I tune another string,

To try my minstrel power,

My story of a gallant knight,

A lady, and a flower.

The noble sun, that shines on all,

The little or the great,

As bright on cottage doorway small,

As on the castle gate.

Came pouring over fair Guienne

From the far eastern sea;

And glisten'd on the broad Garrone,

And slept on Blancford lea.

The morn was up, the morn was bright,

In southern summer's rays,

And Nature caroll'd in the light,

And sung her Maker's praise.

Fair Blancford! thou art always fair,

With many a shady dell,

And bland variety and change

Of forest and of fell.

But Blancford on that morn was gay,

With many a pennon bright,

And glittering arms and panoply

Shone in the morning light.

For good Prince Edward, England's pride,

Now lay in Blancford's towers,

And weary sickness had consumed

The hero's winter hours.

But now that brighter beams had come

With Summer's brighter ray,

He called his gallant knights around

To spend a festal day.

With tournament and revelry,

To pass away the hours,

And win fair Mary from her sire,

The lord of Blancford's towers.

But why fair Mary's brow was sad

None in the castle knew,

Nor why she watch'd one garden bed,

Where none but wild pinks grew.

Some said that seven nights before

A page had sped away,

To where Lord Clifford, with his power

On Touraine's frontier lay.

To Blancford no Lord Clifford came,

And many a tale was told,

For well 'twas known that he had sought

Fair Mary's love of old.

And some there said, Lord Clifford's love

Had cool'd at Mary's pride,

And some there said, that other vows

His heart Inconstant tied.

Foul slander, ready still to soil

All that is bright and fair,

With more than Time's destructiveness,

Who never learn'd to spare!

The morn was bright, but posts had come

Bringing no tidings fair,

For knit was Edward's royal brow

And full of thoughtful care.

The lists were set; the parted sun

Shone equal on the plain,

And many a knight there manfully

Strove fresh applause to gain.

Good Lord James Talbot, and Sir Guy

Of Brackenbury, he

Who slew the Giant Iron arm

On Cressy's famous lea.

Were counted best; and pray'd the prince

To give the sign that they

Might run a course, and one receive

The honours of the day.

"Speed knights! perhaps those arms that shine

In peace," Prince Edward said,

"Before a se'nnight pass, may well

In Gallic blood be dyed.

"For here we learn that hostile bands

Have gather'd in Touraine,

And Clifford with his little troop,

Are prisoners, or slain.

"For with five hundred spears, how bold

Soe'er his courage show,

He never would withstand the shock

Of such a host of foe."

Fair Mary spoke not; but the blood

Fled truant from her cheek,

And left it pale as when day leaves

Some mountain's snowy peak.

But then there came the cry of horse,

The east lea pricking o'er;

And to the lists a weary page

A tatter'd pennon bore.

Fast came a knight, with blood-stain'd arms,

And dusty panoply,

And beaver down, and armed lance,

In chivalric array.

No crest, no arms, no gay device

Upon his shield he wore,

But a small knot beside his plume

Of plain wild pinks he bore.

For love, for love and chivalry,

Lord Clifford rides the plain!

And foul lies he who dares to say

His honour ere knew stain!

And Mary's cheek was blushing bright,

And Mary's heart beat high,

And Mary's breath, that fear oppressed,

Came in a long glad sigh.

Straight to the prince, the knight he rode,

"I claim these lists," he cried,

"Though late unto the field I come

My suit be not denied.

"For we have fought beside the Loire,

And dyed our arms in blood,

Nor ever ceased to wield the sword

So long as rebels stood.

"Hemmed in, I one time never thought

To die in British land,

Nor see my noble prince again,

Nor kiss his royal hand.

"But well fought every gallant squire,

And well fought every knight,

And rebels have been taught to feel

The force of British might.

"And now in humble tone they sue,

To know thy high command,

And here stand I these lists to claim,

For a fair lady's hand.

"For Mary's love and chivalry

I dare the world to fight;

And foul and bitterly he lies

Who dares deny my right!"

"No, no, brave Clifford," Edward said,

"No lists to-day for thee,

Thy gallant deeds beside the Loire

Well prove thy chivalry.

"Sir Guy, Sir Henry, and the rest

Have well acquit their arms,

But Edward's thanks are Clifford's due

As well as Mary's charms.

"My lord, you are her sire," he said,

"Give kind consent and free,

And who denies our Clifford's right

Shall ride a tilt with me."

Gay spake the prince, gay laugh'd the throng,

And Mary said not nay,

And bright with smile, and dance, and song,

Went down the festal day.

And when Lord Clifford to the board

Led down his Mary fair,

A knot of pinks was in his cap,

A knot was in her hair.

For it had been their sign of love.

And loved by them was still,

Till death came gently on their heads

And bowed them to his will.

And now though years have passed away,

And all that years have seen,

And Clifford's deeds and Mary's charms

Are as they ne'er had been.

Some wind, as if in memory,

Has borne the seeds on high,

To deck the ruin's crumbling walls,

And catch the passing eye.

They tell a tale to those who hear,

For beauty, strength, and power,

Are but the idlesse of a day,

More short-lived than a flower.

Joy on, joy on, then, whilst ye may,

Nor waste the moments dear,

Nor give yourselves a cause to sigh,

Nor teach to shed a tear.

SCRAPS.--No. II.

LINES TO A WITHERED ROSE.

I cast thee from me, poor child of day

Like the lost heart that bore thee now wither'd and dead,

To open no more in the sunshiny ray.

Thy fragrance exhausted, thy loveliness fled.

'Tis the bright and the happy, the fresh and the gay,

Alone that are fitted to flaunt in man's sight,

When withered, far better to cast them away,

Than to mock their dull hues with the glitter of light.

No culture can ever restore thee thy bloom,

Or waken thy odour, or raise up thy head,

The wretch's last refuge, the dust and the tomb,

Is all I can give, now thy sweetness has fled.

O who would live on, when life's brightness is past,

When the heart has lost all that once bade it beat high?

When hopes still prove false, and when joys never last,

'Tis better to wither--'tis better to die.

I cast thee from me--away to the earth,

More happy than others that must not depart,

Doom'd to bear on their grief 'neath the semblance of mirth,

With silence of feeling, and deadness of heart.

SCRAPS.--No. III.

DESULTORY CONVERSATIONS WITH THE MAN IN THE MOON.

BY A TRAVELLED GENTLEMAN.

I have wandered almost all over the face of this globe, which,

notwithstanding everything that geographers have said upon the

subject, appears to me to be nothing more nor less than a great melon;

and I am much mistaken, if, when Parry gets to what we call the North

Pole, he does not find it to be only a stalk.[13] But as I was saying,

I have wandered almost all over it, and in so doing, I have met with a

great many extraordinary characters, but with perhaps none more

singular than the person with whom I held the conversations which

follow.

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

[Footnote 13: This was written before the discoveries of Sir John

Ross.]

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

Now, though I do not suppose anybody will have the hardihood to doubt

my having had what Sterne calls an affair with the moon, in which, as

he justly observes, there is neither sin nor shame, yet, for the

gratification of the present society, I am very willing to explain how

I first became acquainted with the gentleman from whom I have since

derived so much moonlight and information.

I remember one day when I was at Shirauz, I had been out into the

Vakeel's garden, drawling away my time, as is usual with me, and

finding myself tired, I went into the tomb of Hafiz, squatted myself

down in a corner, and began stroking my beard slowly with my right

hand like a pious Mussulman. Several Persians came in while I was thus

employed, and seemed wonderfully edified by my piety and solemnity,

and after they were gone I fell asleep.

I always make a point of dreaming; indeed I should think I lost one

half of my existence if I did not. During our dreams is perhaps the

only portion of our being, that we live without doing any harm to

ourselves or anything else.

That evening I jumbled a great many odd things in my head, and whether

it was the influence of Hafiz's tomb or what, matters little, but I

became critical in my sleep. I quarrelled with my old friend

Shakspeare--I found out all his anachronisms. "How the mischief, sir,"

said I "could you be such a fool as to make the Delphic oracle exist

at the same time with Julio Romano in the Winter's Tale?" Shakspeare

hung his head. "And, besides," I continued, "having written many a

stiff sentence, which neither you yourself nor any one else

understand, you have stolen, most abominably stolen, from Saadi. 'And

the poor beetle that we tread upon, etc.,' is absolutely the same as

that passage in which he says, 'Life is sweet and delightful to all

who possess it, and the ant feels as much as the hero in dying.'

Billy, Billy! I am afraid you have not taken enough pains to correct

your sad propensity to deer stealing."

"My dear sir," answered Shakspeare mildly, laying his hand upon the

sleeve of my vest, "I never heard of Saadi in all my life; and let me

assure you, that it is perfectly possible for two authors to think

alike, aye, and write very much alike too, without at all copying from

each other."

"But the reviewers don't think so," said I.

"There were no reviewers in my day," answered Shakspeare. "I have been

plagued enough with commentators, Heaven knows! but with reviewers,

thank God, I have had nothing to do. Why, my dear sir, I should have

died under the operation."

Shakspeare was going on, but the last call to evening prayer, which a

bell-mouthed muezzin was bellowing from a neighbouring minaret, put a

stop to his oratory by wakening me from my dream.

It was a beautiful evening; the sun was just going down over far

Arabia; the sky was purpled with the last rays of his departing

splendour, the evening breath of the rose pervaded all the air, and

the ear of heaven was filled with the reposing hum of creation. I

offered up my prayers with the rest, and then stood gazing at the

great orb of light as he sunk to his magnificent repose.

The moment that the last bright spot of his disk had disappeared, the

eastern world was all darkness. No soft twilight in that climate

smooths the transition from the warm light of day to the depth of

night; but to compensate, the stars shine more brightly and come

quicker upon the track of day, and in a moment a thousand beaming

lights broke out in the heaven as if they were jealous that the sun

had shone so long; while on the earth, too, the fire-flies kept

hovering about as if the sky "rained its lesser stars upon our globe."

Men have strange presentiments sometimes, and we have a great many

great instances of them in a great many great men. Now whether it was

a presentiment that I should meet the Man in the Moon that evening,

which made me linger out of the city, I cannot tell at this interval

of time. But so it was that I did linger, and got wandering about down

in the valley till the moon rose clear and mild, and weaving her

silver beams with the dark blue of the sky, it became all one tissue

of gentle light. Just at that moment, on a bank where the moonbeams

appeared all gathered together, I saw a little old man with a dog by

his side and a lantern in his hand--take him altogether, not at all

unlike Diogenes.

Wherever I go I adopt the country that I happen to be in, lest at a

pinch it should have nothing to say to me, not as most men do, by

halves, growling like a bear all the time they do it; no, but

altogether as a man does a wife, for better, for worse--laws, manners,

superstitions, and prejudices. Now, had I followed this excellent

custom in the present instance, I ought, in Persia, to have imagined

my old man to be a Ghole _instanter_, or, at best, a Siltrim; but

somehow forgetting a few thousand years, I could not get his likeness

to Diogenes out of my head, and walking up to him, I asked him if he

were looking for an honest man, adding, that if he were, I should be

happy to help him, for that I wanted one too.

"No," said the old man, "I am looking for sticks."

"Sticks!" echoed I, "you will find none on this side of the

valley--you must cross the stream, and amongst those bushes you will

find sticks enough."

"But I cannot go out of the moonshine," said the old man.

I now began to smoke him, (as the vulgar have it.) "Ho, ho!" said I,

"you are the Man in the Moon, I take it?"

"At your service," said my companion, making me a low bow.

"Well, then," I continued, "I will go and gather you a faggot, and

afterwards we will have some chat together, and you shall tell me

something about your habitation up there, for I have often wished to

know all that is going on in it."

The Man in the Moon seemed very well pleased with the proposal. The

sticks were soon gathered, and sitting on the bank together, he set

the lantern down beside him whistled to his dog, which was one of

those little, black, round-limbed, short-tailed curs, which seem of no

earthly use but to bark at our horses' heels, and then entered into

conversation without further ceremony. Indeed, ever after, in the many

conversations which I have had with him, and which perhaps the

malicious may term fits of lunacy, I have had reason to think of him

as I did at first--namely, that he was a very shrewd, chatty old

gentleman, not at all slack in showing any knowledge he possessed, and

who, if he had not read much, had at least seen a good deal.

CONVERSATION I.-PERSIA.

"Sages and philosophers," said the Man in the Moon, "always show the

certainty of what they advance by the descrepancy of their opinions.

You must have remarked, my dear young friend----"

"I beg your pardon," interrupted I, "it is rather an odd appellation

to bestow upon a man of my standing, who have more white hairs in my

head than black ones."

The Man in the Moon burst out laughing with such a clear, shrill,

moonlike laugh, that he made my ears ring. "Why you are but a boy,"

said he, "in comparison to me, when you consider all the centuries

that I have been rolling round and round this globe. But listen to me.

You must have remarked that no two wise men ever were known to think

alike upon the same subject, while the gross multitude generally

contrive to coincide in opinion, and, right or wrong, don't trouble

their brains about it. Now, while in every age different theories have

been formed amongst the learned respecting the moon and its structure,

the vulgar have uniformly come to the same conclusion--namely, that it

is made of cream-cheese."

"But, my dear sir," cried I, "remember that science very often, like a

part of algebra, sets out with a false position; the error of which

being subsequently discovered and corrected, leads to a just

conclusion."

"As you say," replied the Man in the Moon, "philosophy is little

better than a concatenation of errors."

"I did not say any such thing," interrupted I.

"Well, well, don't be so warm," he continued, "I am not going to

discuss the point. I will now tell you what it really is, which is

better than all theory. The common classes have not judged with their

usual sagacity about the moon, which is not, in fact, made of

cream-cheese, nor, indeed, as Mr. Wordsworth obscurely hints, in his

profound old poem of 'Peter Bell,' has it any similarity to a little

boat, except that of carrying me about in it. Nor is it a crepitation

from the sun, nor a windfall from the earth, which has gone on in

_statu quo_ ever since Galileo took the business out of the sun's

hands by crying out, _E pur se mouve_. As to all that Ariosto said

upon the subject, that is a pure fudge. No, sir, the moon is----but I

must tell you that another time, for I see that I must be gone!" So

saying, he snatched up his lantern, laid his faggot on his shoulder,

and called to his dog, who appeared to have a mortal aversion to the

excursion, for no sooner did he perceive his master's intentions than

he clapped his tail between his legs, and ran away howling.

"Truth! Truth!" cried the Man in the Moon to his dog. "I call him

Truth, sir, for he is very difficult to be caught hold of," said the

old man, when he had got him; and now, having tied him by a string, he

wished me good bye, and began walking up a moonbeam which soon

conducted him out of sight.

SCRAPS--No. IV.

A YOUNG LADY'S STORY.

It was somewhere in Italy--the precise spot matters but little; one

might fix it anywhere, from the Milanese to Calabria, though in all

probability it was some place in the southern part of that beautiful

land which has met the fate that so often follows loveliness--ruin

even for its charms.

It was the close of a burning day about the middle of September; there

had been a sort of feverish heat in the air during the whole morning,

which, as the evening came on, settled down into an oppressive

sultriness, that impeded respiration, and rendered the whole world

languid and inactive. All was still, but it was not the stillness of

repose. No animal enlivened the scene, but where a heavy crow took its

long, slow flight across the sky, or a straggling fire-fly gave a dull

and fitful gleans amongst the dank vapours that came reeking up from

the flat marshy fields on either side of the road.

A solitary traveller rode along towards the dark wood before him, and

ever and anon seemed to turn his eyes towards the edge of the horizon,

where enormous masses of deep bleak clouds appeared to swallow up the

setting sun. From time to time the roll of distant thunder announced

the coming storm; and as darkness grew over the face of the earth

quick flashes of lightning started like genii of fire from the gloom,

and shed a livid horror on the scene. The traveller hurried on

dismayed, while torrents of rain began to drench the bosom of nature;

but strange to say, and unaccountable, he never once thought of

returning to the inn where he had spent the day, and which was not

half a league behind. However, as storms, like all other uncomfortable

things, are rarely of eternal duration, the one in question began to

subside. The rain ceased, and the traveller went on at an easy pace,

hoping every moment to find some hospitable shed where he might dry

his clothes and wait out the rest of the tempest.

The road at length turned off abruptly to the right, and narrowing

insensibly, assumed the appearance of a winding lane, at the end of

which stood a house of respectable, but dreary, aspect. The traveller

paused: a strange, undefinable, dreamy apprehension took possession of

his mind, and though by a strong effort he forced himself to proceed,

it was not without something like a presentiment of evil that he

clambered through a gap in the garden-wall, leading his horse by the

bridle.

The first object that struck his view was a tall white figure,

standing in a menacing attitude, at the end of a long, bleak, gravel

walk. Start not; it was not a ghost, though the traveller was

half-inclined to think so, till he walked up to it, and found that it

was merely a noseless, moss-grown statue, rising from a wilderness of

weeds which had once been an arbour. Our traveller smiled at his

mistake, and leaving his horse to explore the garden alone, he made

the best of his way to the house. It was a square building of gray

stone, and as the pale lightning gleamed from time to time on its

broken windows and yawning doors, it looked astonished and frightened

at its own solitude. The traveller participated in its emotions, and

as he entered the dreary vestibule his heart sunk within him. There

were doors on either side, and a staircase at one end of the

vestibule, but the traveller felt no inclination to penetrate into the

interior of so gloomy an abode--the more so, as it appeared totally

uninhabited, and every one knows that such places are always the most

alarming, seeing that there must be some cause for leaving them thus

to their fate. The wind moaned sadly through the half-opened doors,

and the traveller's situation became every moment more unpleasant; so

that he resolved at last to do that which he might as well have done

at first, namely, return to the inn, and wait for the morning to

continue his journey. The dead leaves which the wind had driven into

the vestibule rustled fearfully under his feet as he walked towards

the door; but he made his exit in safety, and taking his horse by the

bridle, regained the broken garden wall with a step of forced

composure, for the traveller wished sadly to persuade himself that he

was not frightened at all. When, however, he found himself safe on

horseback, and in a fair way of reaching the inn, the rapidity of his

movements and the long deep shudder which accompanied his parting

steps, gave sufficient evidence of the uneasiness of his sensations.

Arrived at the place of his destination, of course his first inquiry

was on the subject of the mysterious habitation he had left; so while

he drank some warm wine to raise his spirits, he sent for the landlord

to tell him all about it. The host stared,--he had never heard of such

a place. The traveller described its position and appearance exactly.

The landlord had been born and brought up in that neighbourhood but

had never seen either lane or house answering the description.

The boys of the inn were called, but they were as ignorant, or as

lying, as the host, who said, with a smile, that perhaps his guest was

mistaken.

This was not to the borne; the traveller offered a reward to any one

who would accompany him in a second visit to the house in question. As

money does great things, he had soon more than one volunteer, and off

they set with lights and horses. They travelled on for some way at a

rapid pace, and the stranger frequently stopped to look about him,--no

house was to be seen. He perfectly recognized every object on the road

which he had seen before, to a certain point, but there it assumed a

new appearance. He must have passed the lane, he thought, and turned

back again, amid the stifled merriment of his companions, but neither

lane nor house was visible. All was straight, flat, and uniform. The

traveller was as grave as a judge, but the rest could no longer

conceal their laughter, and he himself, feeling rather shy on the

subject, was glad to dismiss them with the promised reward.

He then proceeded on his journey alone, endeavouring to persuade

himself that his late adventure was a dream, or something very like

it. Scarcely, however, were the people of the inn well out of sight

when, strange to say, the road bent mysteriously, as if by magic, to

the right, and there it stood--the enchanted house at the end of the

lane!!!

This time (thought the traveller) I will pierce the mystery, if it

cost me my life. Leaving his horse in the lane, he entered the garden

by the breach in the wall; he passed the old statue, he ascended the

broken steps, and soon found himself in the solitary vestibule. There

his nervous terrors redoubled. It seemed as if all the inhabitants of

the Red Sea had agreed to haunt his imagination at once. Still,

however, he went on, and began to mount the ruined staircase. He had

reached the first landing, and was about to continue his ascent, when

the whole building seemed to give way at once, and he sunk senseless

amid the crashing ruin.

11 was a bright, clear, autumnal morning; all nature seemed to waken

refreshed from her sleep; the dew began to sparkle in the early beams;

the birds sang up the rising sun; and the clouds of night rolled

sullenly away, as if to avoid the brilliant presence of the day, when

some peasants, who were gaily going forth to their morning labour,

were suddenly struck by seeing a horse saddled and bridled, but

without a rider, engaged in cropping a scanty breakfast of the herbage

which grew at the side of the road. A few steps further showed them

our poor traveller, lying senseless and bleeding near a heap of

stones. The good souls took him up, and carried him to one of their

cottages, where they succeeded in bringing him once more to life. It

was only, however, for a short period. He gave directions for sending

off a messenger to his friends, and to the inquiries concerning the

state in which he was found, replied, by relating the above adventure,

after which he lingered for an hour or two without speaking, and

expired.

The people of the neighbourhood are divided in opinion respecting the

traveller's narrative. Some opine that he fell asleep on his horse,

dreamed the whole story, and was killed by a very opportune and

natural tumble. But others, with much more show or probability,

attribute the whole to the machinations of some evil spirit.

SCRAPS--No. V.

THE LAW OF BABYLON.

MEMOIR.

Sheweth,

That although there be one person in this society who has obstinately

and wilfully refused to make any contribution in writing towards our

evening's amusement, it is, nevertheless, proposed to excuse him on

the same principle that the grand Desterham of Babylon excused a

certain wit of that city.

Be it known, then, that the laws of Babylon were all founded on the

grand principle, that crimes are simply diseases, and that punishments

are the remedies by means of which alone the malefactor can be cured

of the malady under which he labours. Thus, when a man was afflicted

with the thieving disease, they applied hanging, which was found

infallible. For minor maladies, such as lying, cheating, swearing,

etc., they had various remedies;--the bastinado, ear-slitting,

nose-cutting, actual cautery, and many others; but it was all for

the patient's good, and to cure him of his ailment. Now, in Babylon,

as in all large and flourishing cities, one of the greatest and most

unpardonable crimes was wit. It was held as the most dangerous species

of treason, and punished accordingly, especially as the grand

Desterham, at the time I speak of, had once been suspected of having

thought a witty thing, though he never said it, and was of course much

more severe than any other judge, in order to prove his zeal for the

law, and abhorrence of witty practices.

It happened in the moon Assur, at twenty-three o'clock in the

forenoon, twenty-five thousand years four days and seven minutes after

the world's creation--as specified in the indictment, and copied into

the register of the court--a certain citizen of Babylon was brought

before the grand Desterham and his four colleagues, charged upon oath,

with being a wit and a traitor. After the court had slept over

five-and-twenty witnesses for the accusation, the prisoner was put

upon his defence, being first told that he was indefensible.

The prisoner, however, undertook to prove that he was not a wit but a

fool. "For," said he, "if I had possessed any wit, I should not have

been fool enough to show it. If, therefore, I have not shown any, you

must acquit me of having any; and if I have shown any, you must

pronounce me to be a fool for so doing, and consequently must acquit

me any way."

The judges all looked at one another, and not understanding what the

prisoner meant they judged it to be blasphemy, and ordered him to be

bastinadoed on the soles of his feet, after which they proceeded to

judgment on the accusation, and unanimously found the prisoner guilty.

But the prisoner's counsel running over the indictment with his nose,

found a flaw therein. For whereas it was stated that the time

was twenty-five thousand years four days and seven minutes

after the creation of the world; it was proved by the chief

astrologico-astronomer to the Empire, that it was only twenty-five

thousand years four days, six minutes and a half, so that the prisoner

saved his life by half a minute, and was dismissed with the court

with a suitable admonition.

But the warning was in vain, he soon fell into his old courses; and

one unlucky day was again brought before the grand Desterham, his

guilt clearly proved, and finally he himself ordered to be hanged, in

the hope that this application might entirely remove the disease.

The grand Desterham himself assisted at the operation, and the poor

patient was exhibited on a high scaffold with a rope about his neck.

"Citizens of Babylon," said he, addressing the people, "rejoice! You

shall soon see into what elevated situations wit brings a man in this

sublime empire."

As he spoke the hangman hoisted him up, but the grand Desterham

vociferated, "Cut him down, cut him down; he is incorrigible."

The other members of the court objected greatly; but the grand

Desterham quoted the universal principle of the law, and added, "that

as the patient before them was evidently incurable, the remedy could

have no effect."

The poor wit was therefore allowed to go at liberty, but the grand

Desterham brought an old house over his head, for he was shortly after

banished, being strongly suspected of good sense and judgment, though

it was never clearly proved against him.

SCRAPS.--No. VI.

WRITTEN IN A BOOK OF DREAMS.

This life 's a dream--so all have thought,

Philosophers and poets too,

And rhyme and reason both have wrought,

To prove what most have felt is true.

The warrior's dream 's a fiery chaos,

For glory ever flying on;

The statesman's an unceasing race,

Full often lost and seldom won.

The merchant dreams of loss and gain,

And gold that never brings content;

The student's a dull dream of pain,

'Midst mouldered books and hours misspent.

The lover in his airy hall

Has joy-dreams ever in his view,

And, though the falsest of them all,

His dream perhaps is sweetest too.

The poet's dream 's a dream of dreams,

Of phantoms seen and passed away,

Like dancing moats in sunny beams

Which shine but while they cross the ray.

Yes, all's a dream, but who would part

With one fond vision fancy knows,

One bright delusion of the heart

For all that waking reason shows?

Who'd quell the notes Hope gaily sings,

Because they're tuned so witchingly?

Who'd pluck Imagination's wings,

Because they bear her up too high?

Let those who would so close this page,

Where many dreams recorded lie;

It ne'er was meant to please the sage,

But feeling's heart and fancy's eye.

SCRAPS.--No. VII.

RABAS.

There is a garden near Bordeaux called Rabas, which may be considered

the perfection of bad taste in gardening; I never saw anything so

studiously ugly. There are straight walks as mathematically unnatural

as if they had been laid out by an inhabitant of Laputa. There are

hermitages, cottages, and wilderness, fit for Bagnigge Well's

tea-gardens, together with sundry lions and tigers glaring in painted

pasteboard. All the trees are pared as closely as possible, and there

is eke a labyrinth for people to lose themselves, or not, as they like

best.

It was in the said gardens of Rabas, which belong to a rich family in

the neighbourhood, that these lines were written, at the request of a

young lady who was expected soon to change her name.

RABAS.

Remember the moments of pleasure when past,

For they keep still a trace of their lovliness, Lady,

Let the memory too of these flat gardens last,

With their trees cut so straight, and their straight walks so shady.

Come pledge me the oath I dare ask of thee yet,

Come pledge me the oath that their memory claims,

These gardens and moments, ah! ne'er to forget,

While your name is Anna, and my name is James.

But, Lady! O Lady! your sex is so fickle,

There is no believing a word that they say;

Old Time like a reaper walks on with his sickle,

And gathers no emptier harvest than they.

Not content with discarding their fashions and dresses,

With their very own names they don't scorn to make war;

Thus while 'Young' my identity ever expresses,

You soon may be somebody else than you are.

Come, find me some oath that more surely may bind thee;

Come swear then by something that never shall change,

By the grace with which nature has lavish entwined thee,

Which time ne'er shall alter nor fortune estrange.

By thy smile's witching power, by thy mind's airy flight,

That lark-like soars high o'er the place of its birth,

And tuning its song in the porches of light,

Seems to sorrow that e'er it must sink to the earth.

Come swear then--but what can I swear in return?--

To remember thee ever wherever I rove,

Though my heart may be dead, and my breast but its urn,

I offer thee friendship--'tis better than love.

DOMESTIC LIFE IN FRANCE.

Mortel, qui que tu sois, prince, brame, ou soldat,

Homme! ta grandeur stir la terre

N'appartient point à ton état,

Elle est toute à ton caractère.--BEAUMARCHAIS.

There are two words wanting in French which an Englishman can scarcely

do without, _comfort_ and _home_. The hiatus is not alone in the

language, the idea is wanting. Speak to a Frenchman of pleasure, he

can understand you--of gaiety, amusement, dissipation, he has no

difficulty: but talk to him of _comfort_, and explain it how you will,

you can never make it intelligible to him. In like manner, he will

comprehend everything that can be said on the theatre, the

coffee-house, the club, the court, or the exchange; but _home_--there

is no such thing. _Chez-soi_ is not the word: _intérieur_ comes nearer

to it, for that particularises, but still it is not home--home, where

all the affections of domestic life, all the kindly feelings of the

heart, all the bright weaknesses of an immortal spirit clad in

clay--where all, all the rays of life centre, like a gleam of sunshine

breaking through a cloud, and lighting up one spot in the landscape

while all the rest is wrapt in shadow. We may carry ambition, pride,

vengeance, hatred, avarice, about with us in the world; but every

gentler feeling is for _home_: and miserable is he who finds no such

resting-place in the wide desert of human existence.

I speak not of all Frenchmen. I have met some who had the feeling in

their hearts, and scarcely knew what it meant. They had formed

themselves a home, but had not a name for it. But these are the

accidents, and in the generality of French families it is not, nor it

cannot be so.

Marriage in France is one of the most extraordinary things that ever

was invented. It is a state into which men enter, seemingly, from a

principle of inevitable necessity--the _besoin de se marier_, or else

who would engage their fate to that of a person whose mind, education,

and disposition, is generally wholly unknown to them? The first

principle of a woman's education all over the world is deceit. She is

taught, and wisely taught, to conceal what she feels. But in France

they try to teach her not to feel it at all. Educated in the greatest

retirement, watched with the most jealous suspicion, as soon as a

favourable opportunity presents itself, she is brought forward to show

off all her accomplishments, before a man, who is destined for her

husband, and is bidden to assume his tastes, and coincide in his

opinions. Little affectation, however; is necessary. It is all a

matter of convention. The one party wishes for a wife, and marries

without knowing anything about her; the other wishes for liberty, and

is married without caring to whom. This is the great change in a

Frenchwoman's life. While single she is guarded, and restrained in

everything; each action each word, each look is regulated; but the

moment she is married all is freedom, gaiety, and dissipation. From a

caterpillar she becomes a butterfly, and flutters on amongst the

multitude to be chased by every grown child that sees her. These are

not the materials for happiness! But this is not all. Every

circumstance, every custom on these occasions leaves little room for

the expectation of domestic felicity.

A young lady is to be married, and a young gentleman is found in the

necessary predicament. She is promised a certain dower, and he is

possessed of a certain fortune, into the state of which, as in duty

bound, her parents make the strictest inquiry. But the case is widely

different on the part of the young gentleman. No inquiry must be made

by him. The character of his future bride it is impossible for him to

know, that of her relations concerns him little, and into their means

of giving the dower they promise, he is forbidden to inquire, on pain

of excommunication. Any doubt on the subject would show that their

daughter did not possess his love!--O that prostituted name love! used

every day to quality the basest and most ignoble feelings of our

nature.

But to go on with the history of a French marriage. The contract

generally imports, that the father of the young lady shall pay a

certain yearly sum to her husband, and a further sum is promised to be

left her at the death of her parents. The benefits of this arrangement

are obvious and manifold, and well calculated to check the exorbitant

power which husbands have over their wives.

A part of the ceremony, and one of the most essential, is the

_corbeille de marriage_, or wedding present from the lover to his

bride. This is scarcely a matter of courtesy alone, as some might

imagine, but almost of right, which the young lady would yield upon no

consideration whatever. It is a sort of price, and is expected to be

the amount of two years' revenue.

The _corbeille_ is a basket lined with white satin, and containing a

variety of articles of dress and jewellery. One indispensable part is

a cashemere; and the rest is made up of laces, diamonds, and all the

thousand little nothings which enter into the composition of a fine

lady.

The civil ceremony at the commune is all which the present law

requires, but the religious part is seldom if ever dispensed with. The

first takes place generally in the morning, without any display. The

ceremonies of the church however are delayed till near midnight, and

have in general the advantage of new scenery, dresses, and

decorations. The higher the class, and the better the taste of the

parties, of course, the simpler are all the arrangements, and the

fewer and more nearly connected are the persons present. With such a

system is it possible that there can be such a thing as _home?_ That

it is possible--that it may be found, is one of the finest traits of

the French character. All their habits, all their customs, from time

immemorial, have been opposed to domestic life; and yet they

occasionally create it for themselves.

TRAVELLING.

Ye glittering towns with wealth and splendour crown'd,

Ye fields where summer spreads profusion round,

Ye lakes whose vessels catch the busy gale,

Ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale,

For me your tributary stores combine,

Creation's tenant, all the world is mine.--THE TRAVELLER.

What was the cause of our setting out so late the personage who

certainly had the chief hand in it best knows, but it was between four

and five o'clock in the afternoon before we got from the door of the

Hôtel de France, on our way towards Pau and the Pyrenees.

The carriage, too, was unlike anything that the ingenuity of man ever

before invented; not indeed from itself, but from its appendices:

every hole and corner was crammed with all sorts of conveniences.

There was a whole subjunctive mood of comforts---everything that we

might, could; should, or ought to want, piled up in grotesque forms

both inside and out. I never saw anything like it but the carriage of

a lady, whom I once met coming from Italy, and that, indeed,--Heaven

help her, poor thing, for I am sure when she was in it she could not

help herself.

At length, however, we did set off, and passing by several

_guingettes_, or, as it may be translated, tea-gardens, though they

drink no tea there, left Bordeaux behind us and proceeded on our way

to Langon. It was night ere we reached Barsac, not more worthy fame on

account of its good wines than its bad pavements. For what purpose

they were constructed, I defy any one to explain; but they answer

three objects, breaking carriages, laming horses, and jolting the

unfortunate traveller to such a degree, that were there any thing

contraband in his composition, it would be sure to be shaken out of

him.

At Langon we stopped to supper, during which important avocation, we

were waited on by a smiling, black-eyed country girl with scarcely a

word of French to her back; for be it remembered, that here, on the

banks of the Garonne, all the peasantry speak Gascon, as their mothers

did before them; and after having made several ineffectual attempts to

arrive at our little attendant's intellects, through any other channel

than that of her native tongue, I was obliged to have recourse to that

as a last resource. Never did I perceive joy and satisfaction so

plainly depicted, as in her countenance, when she heard the first two

or three words of Gascon which came out of my mouth; but the effect

was not so good as might have been anticipated, for in that language

she had no lack of expressions, and would fain have entered into a

long conversation with me, which put my knowledge to the stretch.

However, in the mean time, my companion, from what whim I know not,

had persuaded the rest of the people in the house, that I was a

Chinese, to which, perhaps, my fur travelling cap lent itself in a

degree. He explained to them also, that China was the country from

whence tea was brought, and to this, I believe, we were indebted for

the best tea the place could afford, and for being stared at all the

rest of the evening.

We travelled on from Langon with the intention of sleeping at Bazas,

but by the time we arrived at that place, the night was so far wasted,

that we agreed to continue our route without stopping.

The dress of the country people now began to vary; we had no longer

the high Rochelle caps, which the women in Bordeaux sometimes wear,

and which resemble very much the helmet of Hector, in the picture of

his parting from Andromache; nor the neat twisted handkerchiefs, with

which the grisettes dress their heads, but, as a substitute, a flat,

square piece of linen, brought straight across the forehead, and tied

under the chin in the fashion of the Landes. We had lost, too, the

neat, pretty foot and well-turned ankle, with the stocking as white as

snow, the shoe cut with the precision of an artist, and sandled up the

leg with black ribbon; and instead had nothing but good, stout, bare

feet, well clothed in dirt, and hardened by trotting over the rough

roads of the country. The men were generally dressed in blue carter's

shirts with the Bearnais berret, not at all unlike in shape the Scotch

blue bonnet, but larger, of a firmer texture, and brown colour.

We breakfasted at Roquefort, celebrated, I believe, for nothing

although there is a sort of cheese which carries the name of Roquefort

about with it, and in the town is a pottery, said to be upon English

principles. This we did not see, but pursued our journey to Mont de

Marsan, the capital of the Landes, where we began to enjoy de benefits

arising from monopoly when applied to posting, being obliged to wait

nearly an hour for horses. Monopoly may be called injustice to the

many for the benefit of a few. In great public works, which no one man

could have the means to execute, and where individual competition is

either impossible or destructive, governments are but just to grant

particular privileges to the companies of men who undertake them, and

to secure to them a reward apportioned to the enterprise; but, in

every instance where various persons can place themselves in

comparison one with another, in the service of the public, the public

alone can minutely judge, and justly reward, and by so doing secure to

itself the best servants at the lowest price. The French government,

however, are rather fond of monopoly; that of posting is only one

amongst several. As far as a monopoly can be well organised for the

benefit of the public, posting in France is so. One postmaster is

stationed in every town, who has alone the right to furnish horses for

the road. He is obliged by law to be provided with a certain number,

according to the size and position of the place in which he is

established, but this number is very frequently insufficient, and not

always complete.

Many provisions are made for rendering the postilions attentive to

their duty, and civil to the traveller. Their recompense is fixed by

the post-book at fifteen sous per post of two leagues; but the

ordinary custom is to give them double, and generally something more,

which they make no scruple of demanding, though positively forbid to

do so by their instructions. Every postmaster is obliged to hold a

register, in which any complaint either against himself or his

postilions may be recorded by the traveller, and countersigned by the

next commissary of police. This is generally visited every month, and

the punishment consequent on any serious charge is very severe.

Our delay at the Mont de Marsan enabled us to walk through the town,

which seemed to our post-bound eyes an ill-built, straggling place

enough, with the people not very civil, and the streets not very

clean. Notwithstanding, we found our inn, the cleanest and neatest we

had seen in France; I could have fancied myself in old England if they

would but have charged the Sautern ten shillings a-bottle.

The want of horses here was but a prelude to what we were to meet

further on, for at Grenade we found that two carriages, which had

preceded us, were waiting for the return of the postilions from Aire:

so to make the best of it, we ordered our dinner and strolled out to

the bridge over the Adoure, where we amused ourselves by talking all

the nonsense that came into our heads, and watching some washerwomen

washing sheets in the stream below. They do it with extreme dexterity,

taking the largest sheet one can imagine, and after having folded it

in their hands, with one sweep extend it flat upon the surface of the

river; they then dip the end next them, and catching a little of the

water pass it rapidly over the whole by drawing the sheet quickly to

the bank.

After having watched this proceeding for some time, we returned to

dinner, which consisted principally of the legs of geese salted, a

favourite dish all over this part of France; and then amused ourselves

by scrutinizing the antics of a large black monkey in the inn-yard.

I have an invincible hatred towards a monkey. It is too like

humanity--a sort of caricature that nature has set up, to mock us

little lords of creation. To see all its manlike, gentlemanlike ways

of going on, gave me a bitter sense of humiliation. It is very odd, that

we should thus dislike our next link in the grand chain of the universe.

A PRIME MINISTER'S MONKEY.

Il mio cuore gl'inalza un monumento dentro me stesso, tanto durevole

quanto la mia vita. Aveva egli della bonta per me: ma e per chi mai

non ne avea?

GANGANELLI.

Several years ago I went one day to dine with the Duc de R----. The

world say that he was not the greatest of ministers, but he was much

more--he was the most amiable of men. However, that does not signify,

he is dead now: and if politicians have forgotten him, he at least

made himself a memory in the affection of the good, and the gratitude

of the poor.

He lived at that time in the Rue de Bac; and as I knew him to be

punctual, I got into the cabriolet exactly at nine minutes and three

quarters before the time he had appointed; for I calculated that it

would take me just so long to drive from the end of the Rue de la Paix

to the Rue de Bac, allowing one minute for a stoppage, and half a

minute for a call I had to make at ---- It does not signify where, for

surely much mischief could not be done in half a minute.

However, the stoppage did not take place; and I changed my mind about

the call; so that I was nearly as possible one minute and a half

before my time. The duke was still more incorrect, for he was three

minutes and a half after his. Thus, by the best calculation, there

were exactly five minutes to spare. Accordingly, a page showed me into

a saloon to wait the arrival of the duke. Now there was a fire in the

_salon_, (I did not say a stove,) no, but an actual fire, with an

arm-chair on one side and the duke's favourite monkey; on the other.

So I sat myself down in the arm-chair, and began considering the

monkey; who seemed not at all pleased with my presence. He grinned, he

mowed, he chattered, and every now and then made little starts forward,

showing his white teeth all prepared to bite me, I am not fond of

being bit in any way, so I first of all took up the tongs, thinking to

knock his brains out if he attacked me; but then, I thought that it

would be cowardly to use cold iron against an unarmed monkey; and

putting down the tongs I resolved on kicking him to atoms if he

pursued his malicious inclinations. But just at the moment that we

were in this state of suspended hostilities, the duke came in to make

peace, like some more potent power between two petty sovereigns.

"I was just speculating monseigneur," said I, "upon the policy of

kicking a prime minister's monkey."

"It would be bad policy with some men," said the duke, smiling; "but I

hope that Jackoe has given you no reason to use him so severely."

"None precisely, as yet, my lord," replied I; "but he threatened more

active measures, and, I believe, we should have come to blows if you

had not come in."

"It was only fear," said the duke; "fear that makes many men as well

as monkeys assume a show of valour; for Jackoe is a very peaceable

gentleman: are not you, Jackoe?"

The monkey, with a bound, sprung into the duke's arms; and I never saw

a more complete contrast than there was between the fine intelligent

countenance of the minister, and the mean, anxious, cunning face of

the ape.

"By heaven!" cried I, "it is the best picture I ever saw."

"What?" asked the duke.

"Why, your excellence and the monkey," answered I; and for fear he

should misunderstand me, I added boldly what I thought, "It has all

that contrast can do for it. It is it once the two extremes of human

nature. You monseigneur, at the height of all that is great and noble,

and the monkey coming in at the fag end, a sort of selvage to

humanity."

"You do not consider the monkey as a human being?" asked the duke.

"If he is not," said I, "in truth he is very like it."

Monsieur de S---- coming in interrupted the duke's reply, but by his

affection for the animal, I do not think we differed much in opinion.

AIRE.

Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,

These little things are great to little men.--THE TRAVELLER.

O Aire, Aire! It shall never forget thee. Not because Alaric king of

the Visigoths made thee his habitation, but because within thy walls

were we detained a whole night for want of horses, devoured by vermin,

pestered by postilions, and bamboozled by innkeepers.

Be it known to every traveller, of every kind, sort, and description,

whatever be his aim, object, or occupation; wherever he comes from, or

wherever he is going, that if he travel in a "_petite caliche_," with

two persons in the inside, and one servant on the out, together with

a compliance to all the forms and regulations, as laid down in the book

of French posts, he is not obliged by law to have more than two horses

to the said _calèche_, paying for each at the rate of forty sous per

post. But be it equally known, that at every relay he comes to, the

postmaster will endeavour to force upon him a third horse, which

being then thirty sous per post for each horse, will be then ten sous

more than he would otherwise pay. Now every man may easily make the

calculation for himself, and settle the accounts between his comfort

and his pocket as he likes best. The rich traveller will say, "Hang

the ten sous!" the poor traveller will say, "Why, it is a

consideration!" The avaricious traveller will always have his thumb

between those two leaves of the post-book; and there will be one

sort of traveller who will say, "Though _I_ can afford to lose it,

there may be some who follow that cannot, and therefore I will not

submit to the imposition."

Now we being poor travellers, and in the category above mentioned

respecting the _calèche_, we held out for our ten sous per post, and

met little annoyance on that account, till we arrived at Aire; but

there the postilion would insist upon being paid for three horses,

though we had had but two. I called for the postmaster. He was not to

be found, and as it was apparent from the number of carriages having

priority of ours, which were waiting in the inn-yard for want of

horses, that we should not be able to depart that night, we took a

stroll down to the river, leaving the angry postilion keeping guard

over our vehicle.

At the ford, just arrived from the Pau side of the Adoure, we met two

carriages proceeding to the same miserable inn where we were lodged.

They were filled with a lovely family from our own dear land, and I

know not why, before we knew who or what they were, we could have

sworn to them, and proudly too, for our country people.

In a few minutes the postilion rode after us, desiring us, in a sulky

tone, to pay him, and as we found that the postmaster had now returned

we went back with him. There was nothing to be said against the law,

and in consequence the matter was decided in our favour; we paid the

sum due, and for the sake of his insolence gave the postilion but

thirty instead of forty sous, which we had been in custom of paying.

As soon as he had got it his rage broke forth in the most violent

abuse of England and Englishmen. Everything that his fancy could

invent in the way of vituperation was poured upon us, the more

especially as he perceived that it highly amused a crowd of French

_laquais_ and postilions, who had nothing better to do than to look

on. I let him proceed as long as he pleased, and then, as he was going

to mount his horse, and ride away, I stopped him; desired the

postmaster to produce his register, took a pen from the ink, and was

about to inscribe my complaint in form. But now the whole scene was

changed; nothing was heard but prayers and entreaties that I would

give up my design. The postmaster gently opposed my approach to the

book. The postmaster's wife took hold of the skirts of my coat; and

assured me that the "boy was ruined" if I insisted. "Utterly ruined,"

echoed the postmaster. He was "_bon garcon_," some of the neighbours

said, "but _mauvaise tête_."

I replied, that his _mauvaise tête_ must be corrected, and made a show

of insisting; but now they became clamorous. Could I have the heart,

they asked, to throw him for ever out of bread? I said that if that

were the consequence perhaps I might not. They assured me it was, that

he would never be employed again, and used so many arguments, that I

had a good opportunity of relinquishing what I had scarcely intended

seriously; and, with a very grave admonition, suffered our youth to

ride away.

Of all the wretched places that ever poor traveller was tormented in,

the most wretched is that inn at Aire. No dinner was to be got, for

all that was in the house had been given to the English family we had

seen arrive. No milk was to be had for our tea. Only one bed-room was

vacant, with two dirty beds, filth, fleas, bugs, and a bad smell.

However, here we laid down in our clothes; but no sooner were we

asleep than we were galloped over by the vermin in every direction--it

was like a charge of light horse. At length, with the morning came the

happy news that there were horses; and away we went towards Pau. I can

fancy a Catholic soul getting out of purgatory nearly as happy as we

were to leave Aire.

We now met a great many of the peasantry, men and women, riding the

short mountain horses. The features of the people, as well as the

scenery, were here very different from what they had been in the

neighbourhood of Bordeaux, and all showed that we were entering Bearn.

Here, as in many other parts of France, no such thing is thought of as

a side-saddle for a woman, who rides exactly like a man, and very

frequently quite as well. I once knew a lady in Brittany, who, both

for mustachios and horsemanship, would have done admirably for a

cavalry officer.

The country gradually rose into hills, generally richly cultivated and

scattered with wood; but nothing was yet to be seen of the Pyrenees.

The character of the scenery was generally very much like that of

Devonshire, but there was a great difference in the peasantry, who

were here poor and ill-looking in comparison.

Going up a steep ascent, as we approached nearer to Pau, we were

tormented by a parcel of little, dirty, ragged children, who, with a

peculiar kind of tormenting drony song, kept begging by the side of

the carriage; there were at least twenty of them, who, with flowers in

their hands, continued to run by our side for near a mile. At length

they left us; and, on reaching the top of the hill, an unrivalled

scene burst upon our view. Immediately below was a broad plain, or

rather valley, with a little world of its own within its

bosom--villages, and hamlets, and vineyards, and streams, rich in

fertility, and lighted up with sunshine--all peaceful, and sweet, and

gentle;--while directly behind the hill that bounded it on the other

side, rose the vast line of the Pyrenees, in all nature's grandest and

most magnificent forms. It is impossible to describe the effect that

such mountain scenery produces--one gasps, as it were, to take it all

in. After contemplating for any time those immense works of nature, if

we turn to look at the dwellings of man, which seem crouching

themselves at the feet of their lofty neighbours, the lord of the

creation dwindles to an insect, and the proudest of his palaces looks

like the refuge of a caterpillar. Before we can reconcile ourselves to

our own littleness, we have to remember that this insect, with his

limited corporeal powers, has found means to make the vast world, and

all that it produces, subservient to his will and conducive to his

comfort, and then, indeed, his mind shows as exalted and powerful as

his body is feeble and insignificant.

I cannot help thinking, that there is a sort of harmony between the

spirit of man and all external nature; the heart expands and the mind

enlarges itself to all that is bright and grand. A wide, beautiful

scene steals us away from selfish griefs and cares; and it would

appear to me impossible to do a bad or a base action in the presence

of these awful mountains.

THE BIRTH-PLACE OF HENRI IV.

Even in the most monotonous existence, every day gives rise to so many

little accidents, each of which bears its comment and its counter

comment, and its subsequent and collateral ideas, that were one to

write a diary, in which thoughts had a place as well as circumstances,

we should pass one half of our time in recording the other.

Three hundred and sixty-five registers every year of one's life! Aye,

and registers crammed full, too; for where is the man whose paucity of

ideas is so great that he has not at least five in a second?--If they

would but invent a way of writing them, what a blessing it would be!

for at least fifty escape past redemption while one is engaged in

transcribing a word of three syllables.--Thus I have forgotten what I

was going to say! But certainly it is the most extraordinary thing in

nature, and clearly shows of what a different essence is the soul from

the body, that mind so far outstrips every corporeal faculty. Before

the tongue or the hand can give utterance or character to any one

word, thought has sped on before for some hundreds of miles, called at

every post-house on the way, ordered new horses and refreshments, and

is often, alas! obliged to come back to his master, whom he finds

lumbering on in a heavy post-chaise, the Lord knows how far behind.

But, to return, for surely I have quitted the subject far enough. If

I were to write an exact account of everything that happened at Pau,

and everything we said and thought thereupon, it would make a goodly

volume and be sufficiently tiresome, no doubt; but as I am getting

rapidly towards the end of the first half of that period which I have

undertaken to commemorate, and have yet got all my journey through the

Pyrenees to tell, I must not dilate.

Nevertheless, I love narrative and hate description; and I would a

great deal rather tell everything simply as it happened, and what it

called up in my own mind, than huddle them all together, like an

account of the Chinese empire in a book of geography, beginning with

the boundaries and ending with the Lord's Prayer in Chinese.

However, as it must be done, I will begin boldly, and give a regular

account of Pau, the chief town of the Basses Pyrenées--a very neat

little place, situated on the ridge of a hill, crowned by the château

where that love and war-making monarch, Henri Quatre, first saw the

light of day. In the valley below runs a broad, shallow river, called

the Gave[14] of Pau, which frets on with the tumultuous hurry of a

mountain stream, and dashing petulantly over every little bank of

stones it meets in its way, passes under a pretty stone bridge, which

leads on the road to the Eaux Bonnes, and to the village of Jurançon,

famous for its wines. Beyond the town, proceeding along the ridge of

the hill, (which runs with the course of the river due west), there is

a fine park planted with beech-trees, which afford a complete shade

from the heat of the sun. The highest walk, extending for nearly a

mile, commands a most beautiful and ever-changing view of the

mountains, which lie, pile above pile, stretched along the whole

extent of the southern sky. Indeed, they form a scene of enchantment,

and are never for a moment the same--sometimes so involved in mist,

that they form but a faint blue background to the nearest

hills--sometimes so distinct, that one might fancy he saw the

izzard[15] bounding from rock to rock. The course of the sun, also

alters them entirely by the difference of the shadows; and the clouds,

frequently rolled in white masses half-way down their peaks, give them

an appearance of much greater height than when they stand out in the

plain blue sky. But however they may appear, even at the times they

are clearest, there is still that kind of airy uncertainty about them

which makes one scarcely think them real. They seem the bright

delusion of some fairy dream, and indeed, I was almost inclined to

suppose it a deception, when on waking the third morning after my

arrival, I looked for the mountains, and found that, like Aladdin's

palace, they were gone--not a vestige of them remaining--not a trace

where they had been. The sky, indeed, was cloudy, but the day

otherwise fair; and to any one unaccustomed to mountain scenery, it

would appear impossible that any clouds could hide objects at other

times seen so near. But so if was: for two days we saw nothing of

them, and then again the curtain of clouds rose majestically from

before them, and left the whole as clear and grand as ever.

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

[Footnote 14: "Gave" signifies water; and in

the Pyrennees this name is given to all the

mountain-streams.]

[Footnote 15: The chamois of the Pyrennes.]

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

The best view is certainly from the park, where, looking over the

river and the village of Jurançon, scattered amongst beeches and

vineyards, the eye runs up a long valley, marked at various distances

with clumps of trees and hamlets, and every now and then a tall poplar

or two lessening in the perspective, till the first rising rocks

appear beyond, seeming to block up the pass, and increasing one above

the other, more and more faint and misty, till the abrupt "Pic du

Midi" towers above them all, looking like a cloud upon the distant

sky.

The climate of Pau is variable, but never very bad; the changes, while

I was there, were frequent, but not very excessive. Lodging is dear

and scarce, but every other convenience and luxury abundant and cheap,

so long as one keeps within the range of nature's productions, for the

arts have made but small progress in the town since Henri Quatre's

time.

The country round is rich in itself, and richly cultivated; and,

indeed, it is not often that scenes of such sublimity are mingled with

so much fertility. From the window of our lodgings, we could look over

a wide view, covered with woods and vines, large fields of maize and

corn, with peach and plum-trees growing in the open country, and the

bright red blossom of the pomegranate mixing with the dark foliage of

the other trees, and forming a strong contrast, not unlike that of the

rich valley with the rocky mountains beyond.

The society here is very agreeable during the winter. There are many

English, who have made it their residence; but it is too distant, and

too retired, for those of our countrymen whose extravagance, or whose

crimes, have driven them from their native country; nor have any of

the coldly proud, or ostentatiously rich, yet found their way thither.

The English, therefore, are gladly received, and even esteemed, by the

French of Pau, who (unlike the natives of many other parts of France)

have no cause to be afraid that either their purse or their

consequence will suffer by admitting British travellers to their

society: The best parts of the French character, also, are to be met

with here, while many of the vices which find a hot-bed in great

cities are lost in this retirement. I should suppose that the climate

of Pau was healthy; the people seem strong, and with their brown

skins, small black eyes, long dark hair, and the peculiar cap they

wear, put me in mind of Calmuck Tartars. They are in general short,

broad made, and muscular. In almost every other country we daily see

huge mountains of flesh, that look like tumuli for entombing the soul;

but there is nothing of the kind at Pau. They are sturdy, but not

fat--well-fed, but not pampered. As I am speaking of the inhabitants

of Pau, I must not forget the nightingales, the lizards, and the

butterflies, which form no contemptible part of the population. The

lizards are actually in millions, basking in the sun, and walking

leisurely about, with all the insolence of a tolerated sect. No sooner

does the sun begin to set, than the nightingale renders the whole air

musical with its song. There is a little valley just below the town,

warm, tranquil, and wooded, and here they congregate in multitudes,

and wait for the night to begin their tuneful competition. I have,

indeed, occasionally heard them in the day, even here, where the day

is intensely hot, but it is only for a moment--a sort of rehearsal for

the evening; and I must confess, that however beautiful the notes may

be in themselves, they want half the charm in the broad light. They

seem peculiarly appropriated to the night. There is a sort of

plaintive melody about them, that is lost in all the gay buz and

bustle of sunshine. But at night, when the dull crowd, whose

feelings are more purely animal, have left Nature to her own quiet

pensiveness--when there is no sound to distract, and no light to

dazzle--the song of the nightingale comes like the voice of the spirit

rising alone to heaven, with that kind of melancholy, solitary

sweetness, which harmonises so sweetly with anything vast and

beautiful.

I am not very well sure that I could make my feelings on the subject

understood, and therefore I will not try, but go onto the butterflies,

some of which are extremely beautiful. There is a superstition amongst

the common people concerning one of these insects they call "the

angel." They suppose that the etherial spirits visit earth under its

form, and that whoever is fortunate enough to have one of them in his

house, is exempt from the friendly visits of all evil spirits, and

from many of the common misfortunes of life. On which principle, they

do not at all scruple to catch them--and, angel or no angel, stick

them on a cork with a large pin. But this is nothing to a diabolical

way they have of making fishing-lines in Spain.

FLEURETTE.

I know not, in truth, how it has happened, but certain it is, that a

great portion of the inhabitants of Pau have a very strong resemblance

to Henri Quatre. One might indeed say, here, that he was the father of

his people, at least there is a great family likeness. However, the

Bearnais are both fond and proud of him. All the shop-windows are full

of portraits of the warm-hearted monarch and very often is added that

of poor Fleurette, the gardener's daughter. She was the first object

of his love. He was very young, when one of the princes of his family

passing through Bearn, accompanied him to the archery-ground. There

were many of the youths of the neighbourhood shooting for the prize,

which was a bouquet of flowers fastened on the butt; and many a

Bearnaise girl looking on, and hoping that her lover would be the

winner. Amongst others were Fleurette and her father, the old gardener

of the château. She was a lovely, simple, country girl, and the young

prince, scarcely less simple than herself, felt strongly attracted

towards the gardener's daughter. Apparently it was without any design

that he first began to speak to her; but the charm grew upon him:

insensibly his language became more ardent, and then first began that

sort of undefined courtship, which has from thenceforward been called

"Conter Fleurette." He was so occupied it seems, that he did not even

perceive that all the rest had missed the mark, till his cousin

turned, saying to him, "Shoot, Henri; shoot Henri;" and gave him the

bow. His arrow did not miss, and at once lodged in the bouquet, which

was no sooner won than given to Fleurette.

What were the use of telling a long story about an every-day matter?

Henry loved and was loved in return; but Fleurette was a country girl,

and her lover was her prince. It is easy to imagine all the stages of

the business. She commenced by admiring him as her prince; as such,

too, she was flattered and pleased by his attention. She began to

think less of the rank and more of the lover. She forgot the rank

altogether, but he himself became more dear. She loved him not as a

prince but as a man, and yielded as a woman. And then all the golden

dreams of hope and passion came hovering round her. She never fancied

such a thing as broken faith. She never thought that princes could

betray. She never believed that Henri's heart would change. He would

love her, and she would love him, until their lives did end. His glory

would be her pride, and his good be her happiness.

Thus it went on from day to day; every evening he stole away from the

castle to meet her. There was a pleasure in the secrecy, though all

the world knew how matters went; and when any one asked where the

prince was gone, the reply was, "Conter Fleurette."

At length it so happened, that amongst other guests at the château was

a fair girl whose rank and beauty gave Fleurette some pangs. The world

said that Henri was to receive her hand; and the ceaseless tongue of

Fame kept ringing it in Fleurette's ears, till her cheek began to turn

pale, and she often wandered into the woods to think in solitude. On

one fair day, while she was thus employed, the prince and her rival

passed before her. She could no longer doubt, for Henri held her hand,

and there was an ardour in his eyes, and a tenderness in his manner,

which Fleurette had wished, and hoped, and believed, were never shown

to any but herself.

The hour of their meeting came; and Henri stole from the castle to the

place of rendezvous. It was close to a spring which, falling from the

rock, had formed a deep basin for itself below; and, round about, the

trees had grown up, nourished by its waters; and as if in gratitude

bent down over the clear still pool, hiding it from the rays of the

obtrusive sun.

Henri waited--all was calm, and still, and silent; but there was no

Fleurette. He grew anxious, alarmed--perhaps his heart smote him. He

walked rapidly backwards and forwards, when suddenly he saw a scrap of

paper lying in his path. He hurried back to the castle, opened it, and

read, "You have passed near me."

The prince's agitation called instant inquiry upon him. But all

mystery, all concealment was now over; an agony of fear and doubt had

taken possession of his mind; and calling loudly to others to aid in

his search for Fleurette, he hurried from the château. Servants

followed with lights, and soon found the unhappy girl, whose sorrow

had been short, though keen. She had chosen the wild basin, the spot

near which had so often been the scene of her happiness, now to be her

grave. Her heart had never loved but once, and broken to find that

love betrayed.

Henry was nearly frantic, but remorse was now in vain. Her father,

too, who was left in the world alone--the tale had reached him, and he

came to where his poor child lay. His eye first fell upon her lover;

he clasped his hands, while agony and wrath struggled hard in his

bosom. "O that thou wert not my prince!" he cried, "O that thou wert

not my prince!" and he cast himself down beside her.

It was long ere Henri forgot Fleurette; perhaps he never forgot her,

for that first passion which sheds a new light upon our being--the

brightest thing our youth has ever known--hangs fondly round

remembrance, and yields neither to years nor sorrows. Time softens it;

but memory hallows it; and on the tomb raised in our heart to past

affection, is graven, an inscription which nothing can erase--"To the

brightest friend of our youth, Early Love"--so runs the epitaph, "this

sepulchre is given by Experience, Memory, and Regret;" Hope too would

have added her name, but her eyes were dim with tears.

The character of Henri Quatre would certainly have been brighter had

he wanted those failings of which poor Fleurette was the first victim:

yet, as a man of strong passions, in a dissolute age, as a king, a

conqueror, a soldier, warm, generous, enthusiastic, our sterner

morality is but too much inclined to unbend towards him, and to

attribute his faults to the same ardent nature which might lead him

occasionally into error, but which carried him on to so many noble

exploits.

The love, that the Bearnais bear to the memory of their native prince

is beyond all bounds. In the reign of a vainer monarch, Louis XIV., a

subscription was opened at Pau for erecting a statue to Henri. Louis

liked statues to nobody else but himself: and though he did not

absolutely prohibit the proposed monument, he caballed and intrigued

with the people of the place, till he forced them to change their

original intention into erecting a statue to himself, instead of one

to his progenitor.

It was accordingly fixed in its place with great pomp; but in an

inscription on the pedestal the Bearnais took care to state, that the

statue was erected, "à Louis XIV. roi de France et de Navarre, _petit

fils_[16] de notre grand Henri."

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

[Footnote 16: "To Louis XIV., king of France and Navarre, grandson of

our great Henry." The force of the satire is not to be rendered in an

English translation.]

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

THE EAUX BONNES.

Nulla di più immirabile che un suolo il più fertile sotto il clima più

bello, ovunque intersecato di vive acque ovunque popolato da

villaggi.--GANGANELLI.

From the higher range of the Pyrenees, which forms as it were an

immense barrier between France and Spain, run a multitude of lateral

valleys, each enclosing within its bosom its streams, its villages,

and its plains, possessing its own peculiar race of inhabitants, its

own usages and superstitions, and often having little communication

with any world beyond its boundary of mountains. One of the sweetest

and (until late years) one of the least frequented of these valleys,

is the Valley d'Ossau, which leads apparently in a direct line to the

foot of the Pic du Midi de Pau. I had often stood in the park, and

looked up the long vista of hills before me, fancying a thousand

things in the blue indistinctness of distance, and lending it as many

charms as imagination can bestow on uncertainty; a longing took

possession of me, to approach myself nearer to these airy hills whose

fairy brightness haunted me: and I was never satisfied till we were on

our way to the Eaux Bonnes. Of this little watering place, lying in

the deepest recesses of the mountains, report had told such tales,

that I got out of patience with my own fancy for believing them. You

stupid fool, said I, to Imagination, you are only getting up a

disappointment for yourself and me; methinks experience ought to have

made you wise by this time; witness all the unpleasant scrapes into

which you have plunged me. Just as I was reasoning thus with Fancy,

came by a blind man, led by a dog; the sturdy cur would come into our

court-yard, for some little affair of his own, and kept tugging and

pulling at the rope which tied him, till the blind man, who felt he

was going wrong, but did not know by what means to set him right, was

fain to comply and let him have his own way. So I gave up the matter

too, and we ordered horses for the Eaux Bonnes, for it was impossible

for the blind man's dog to tug him into our court-yard one bit more

violently than my fancy tugged me into the mountains. And hereby I

leave and bequeath the similitude between a blind man and his dog, and

any man and his fancy, to any person who may be disposed to profit by

the same; giving up all right, title, and claim whatever; upon the

said similitude or simile, and declaring and avowing that I will have

nothing more to do with it. Always provided, nevertheless, and be it

hereby understood and agreed, that these presents be no further

considered as gift, bequest, donation, or legacy, than as far as in me

lies to give, bequeath, or devise, the similitude or simile aforesaid,

inasmuch as it may have been uninvented, unpossessed, and

unappropriated, by any other person or persons whatsoever, otherwise,

this item to be null, void, and of no effect, anything hereinbefore

said to the contrary notwithstanding.

By the time the horses came the next morning, I had quite resolved to

be very much disappointed; and I got into the carriage, with precisely

the same sort of unwillingness that the animal usually cited as the

most striking example of consistency evinces when it is obliged to run

according to its driver's will instead of its own. However, the day

was fine, and nature seemed resolved to smile me into a good-humour.

We rattled down through the town, passed the bridge over the river,

commented on the number of beggars, admired the view of the town from

the banks, and then turning in amongst the lesser hills which lie to

the left of the valley d'Ossau, lost at once the prospect of the

mountains, and might have forgotten that we were in the Pyrenees.

Indeed, the soft slopes covered with meadows and fields, handsome

modern houses and pleasure-grounds, and streams that flowed gently on

with scarcely more force than sufficient to turn a mill, took from us

all remembrance that we were within a few miles of some of the highest

mountains in Europe.

As we proceeded, however, the scene gradually began to change; the

houses were less frequent, and seemed to gather themselves into

villages, the rivers became more rapid, and the country, though highly

cultivated, assumed the appearance of a fine park; large clumps of oak

and fir, lying scattered in every direction, and the tops of the hills

hiding themselves in deep plantations. Still we saw nothing of the

Pyrenees, and even the people seemed to differ in nothing from the

common Bearnois of Pau, except, indeed, that the women had discarded

their shoes as well as stockings, or rather carried them in their

hands instead of on their feet.

We stopped at last to change horses at Savignac. A gentle slope leads

from the village through some thick trees into the valley; and dashing

down with all the _éclat_ of fresh horses and postilion we found

ourselves, in a moment, in a scene that leaves description, and almost

imagination, behind.

The valley winding up to the Peak, again lay before us; but we were

now amongst the mountains indeed, and on either side, at the distance

of less than half a mile, rose crags, and precipices, and hills

covered with pine, towering to the very sky, and forming, as it were

the impassable walls of the garden into which we were entering;--for

it was a garden. Up to the very foot of the rocks, and climbing up the

hills, wherever a spot of vegetable mould was to be found, the highest

cultivation was extended, and the most extraordinary verdure. The hay

and the corn harvest were both in progress at the same time and the

new-mown fields appeared as if covered with rich green velvet, on

which the large trees and rocks threw a beautiful transparent shadow.

There were a thousand little objects of interest that filled up every

spot the eye could rest upon, and satisfied it altogether. The valley

all along was spotted with small villages, which seemed to creep for

shelter close to the foot of the mountains. Not far on, stood a high

rocky mound covered with the ruin of some feudal castle, and below lay

a hamlet with its little church and the path winding up to it.

Multitudes of small mountain-bridges crossed the river all the way up

its course, as it came dashing and foaming over a bed of rocks. The

crags, on either side, were broken and interspersed with rich hanging

wood, and kept narrowing in the distance, till they seemed to meet,

precipice over precipice, with the high conical Pic du Midi, rising

purple above them all; and at the same time the warm sunshine, pouring

over the hills, gave to all the further parts of the valley a kind of

luminous indistinctness. I cannot describe it! It was a congregation

of the grandest and the most minute, the most opposite and the most

harmonious beauties, that nature can produce!

After having staid some time to admire, we passed on over a light,

elegant little bridge, and followed an excellent read towards the Eaux

Bonnes. In a valley which turns away to the left, lay the little town

of Alurdi, scattered amongst some lesser hills. Part of it has been

twice destroyed by avalanches, but the people still continue to build

up the houses exactly on the same spot.

However grand the hills may appear, the eye, unaccustomed to such vast

objects, does not judge rightly of their height till it compares them

to something with which it is familiar. The steeple of Alurdi served

us as a guide to estimate the objects around, and the effect was so

extraordinary, that we both laughed on measuring it against the

mountain behind. I am sure I know not why I laughed, for there is

nothing in the littleness of man's works to make him merry; but so it

was, and we went on.

Approaching Laruns, the valley appears terminated by high crags, and

we could just distinguish the road to Spain, leading into a deep

ravine, which seems scarcely more than a crevice in the rock. But

here, turning off to the left, we passed through the town of Laruns

itself, which is as odd a building as ever I beheld. Perhaps some

people might find a great deal of amusement in searching into the

history of the place, for both the materials and structure appear of

an antique date. The lower story of the houses are only inhabited by

the cows; pigs, and horses; and the number of pretty faces which the

sound of a carriage called stare at the travellers, seemed as if they

were looking out of the drawing-room windows. The streets are so

narrow, that it is scarcely possible to pass; neither did I see a shop

of any kind in the place. Over many of the doors we remarked the form

of a serpent interlaced with two bars of iron, and the windows, which

were without glass, consisted only of a kind of gothic frame of black

marble, giving an extraordinary church-like appearance to the houses.

After passing through Laruns, as we entered another long valley to the

left, we turned to take one more look at that which we were quitting.

It was quite fairy land, a perfect scene of enchantment. The valley,

full of villages, hamlets, and cultivation, undulating in a thousand

slopes, and broken by woods and rivers, was all lighted up by the

clear rays of the declining sun; while the wild heavy rocks and

mountains to the west, rose in deep masses against the sky, no longer

separated into detached portions, but all confounded in profound

shadow, and airy, uncertain obscurity.

Language is all emptiness, and fails before any thing great or strong.

Reader, I must take you to the valley d'Ossau, and set you where I

stood, and win the sun to shine upon it as then he shone, before I can

make you comprehend its loveliness.

We soon lost sight of it. After going on for a short time amongst some

English-looking hedge-lanes, we again came out upon the edge of the

hill; the road passing along the brink of a steep descent, at the

bottom of which ran the river, roaring amongst the rocks. At one part,

we found the people engaged in banking up the road, which was not upon

the surest foundation possible, and which, having apparently a strong

dislike to an elevated situation, was rather inclined to slip down

into a more humble station in the valley below. The way taken, or

rather the method in which they were proceeding to prop up the road,

was somewhat curious. About twenty men and women were employed, some

in digging earth for the embankment, others in carrying it to the

spot. The machinery of a wheelbarrow never seemed to have entered

their imagination, but as soon as a shovel full of earth was dug out,

the women took it on their heads, in a small wooden trough, not at all

unlike a butcher's tray, only not so large, and thus carried it at a

slow pace to its destination, talking all the way; so that, upon a

fair calculation, each woman could fill up about a cubic yard per

diem.

It was not long now before we reached the Eaux Bonnes, a little town

consisting of about a dozen large white houses, thrust into a gorge of

the mountains. They are generally divided into small bed-rooms, and

fitted alone for lodging the greatest possible number of the strangers

who come to drink the waters. In fact, it looks as if a bit of

Hastings, or Tunbridge Wells, and that a bad bit too, had been

exported to the Pyrenees. The well is highly sulphureous, tasting most

disagreeably of bad eggs; but it is supposed to have the most

extraordinary effect in the cure of consumptive complaints, and thus,

either for fashion or health, there are a great many people who come

to drink of its waters.

The morning after our arrival, I wandered down to a cascade in the

valley. I have seen much grander waterfalls, but rarely one more

beautiful. By my eye, I should guess the height to be about forty

feet. The scenery round is richly wooded, rocky, and picturesque, and

the body of water considerable; but the principal effect is produced

by the stream, after having fallen eight or ten feet, striking a

projecting piece of a crag and rising back again in foam and spray,

almost to the same height as that from which it fell. It then again

descends, rushing down over the rock, with a roar which is heard for a

great distance. At particular times, the sun, finding a way for its

beams across the woody screen that hides it from above, shines upon

the foaming mist that always rises from the water, and arches it with

a sunbow. But I am not sure that it is not more beautiful without, in

the calm simplicity of the white rushing stream, the dark rocks, and

hanging wood.

THE EAUX CHAUDES.

* * * * On ev'ry nerve

The deadly winter seizes, shuts up ev'ry sense,

And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold,

Lays him along the snows a stiffen'd corse,

Stretch'd out and bleaching in the northern

blast.--THOMSON.