Blood-horses do not suit precipices, I am very well aware of that; but

the two beasts which they brought forth to carry us to the Eaux

Chaudes, were so tremendously irregular in appearance, so like the

mountains they were destined to climb, that when I got across the

ridge of my unfortunate hack, I could have fancied myself astride upon

the Pic du Midi. However, they did very well, much better in all

probability than better beasts would have done, and thus they went

away, jogging on, lashing themselves with their tails, and kicking

most unmercifully to get rid of the flies, but always with a kind of

solemn gravity, which showed them well accustomed to it all, and

neither at all inclined to discompose themselves nor their riders. As

we went on, returning on the path we had passed the day before, we saw

all the world in the fields getting in the harvest, trotting up and

down the mountains with their bare feet, and as gay as the larks that

were singing over their heads. To bring home the hay, they gather it

into large linen cloths, forming packages very like feather beds these

they roll down the hills as far as they can. When they cannot do so,

they carry them, as they carry everything all through the mountains,

on their heads; and difficult as the man[oe]uvre may seem, we saw more

than once a girl stoop down to drink at a well, satisfy her thirst,

and rise again, without ever removing the immense load of hay she

carried on her head.

We were soon again in the beautiful valley d'Ossau, passed through

Laruns, and following the road which I have said we saw going towards

Spain, we entered a deep ravine, or pass in the mountains, where five

men might dispute the passage with a world. There is not more room

than for three horses abreast; and the rocks around rise high, bare,

and inaccessible. At the end of the pass, the river which we had lost

appeared pouring out into a deep hollow covered with rocks, trees, and

underwood, the ravine widened into a narrow valley, varying from two

to six hundred yards wide, while stupendous mountains rose on every

side and shut out the world. Here some pious soul has hollowed out a

little chapel in the rock, where the traveller may turn in to pray;

and there could scarcely be a spot more solemn. In these passes, too,

the storms of the winter months are most tremendous, with hurricanes

and whirlwinds of snow so dreadful, that it is a common saying, "Here

let not the father expect his son, nor the son expect his father." I

have been told that this proverb originated in the story of a youth

who had gone to hunt the izzard in the valley of Héas, when one of

these storms occurred. His father, alarmed for his safety, went out to

seek him. The young man arrived with his game, but finding his father

absent on his account, returned to look for and bring him back. It

would appear that the son had found, his parent almost overpowered by

the storm, and being strong and vigorous had taken him in his arms to

carry him home, for they were afterwards found lying together buried

in the snow.

After keeping for some way along the steep which overhangs the river

to the right-hand, we crossed a little bridge called _Le Pont Creusé_,

and passed under the rocks to the left. It now becomes a country of

cataracts, for every quarter of a mile a stream comes bursting over

the top of the mountains, and descends from fall to fall for six or

eight hundred feet. A very picturesque figure presented itself in our

way; it was that of a Spanish smuggler, with his large sombrero,

netted hair, and loaded mule; and I could not help remarking in his

countenance, a kind of wild independence which I had not seen amongst

the French mountaineers. God knows how he came by it, whether from his

race or his country, or the continual habit of encountering and

conquering dangers and difficulties in his illicit traffic, but there

was something fine and grand, though bad, in the expression, not only

of his face but figure.

Soon after passing him we arrived at the Eaux Chaudes, which consists

simply of two ranges of houses built between the river and the

mountain. The style of the place is exactly like that of the Eaux

Bonnes, but it possesses several different springs, although the

general nature of the waters appeared to me much the same as those of

the former fountains.

Near the Eaux Chaudes is a mountain, called _La Montagne de la

Grotte_, from a famous cavern situated near its summit, whose extent

cannot exactly be ascertained, on account of a stream which impedes

the passage at about three hundred yards from the entrance.

At the village we made an agreement with a guide to conduct us to the

grotto. He was a shrewd, intelligent fellow, and spoke tolerable

French, a thing rather rare in that part of the country; but he had

acquired also a very excellent notion of the method of cheating

travellers, together with a true French estimation of English purses

and gullibility. Let me here remark, that the inhabitants of the

Pyrenees, as far as I have seen, have little of the simplicity of

mountaineers. The season for drinking the mineral waters bringing a

great influx of strangers to spots at other times almost deserted, has

taught the people of the country to gain as much as they can, and make

hay while the sun shines, by cheating all the travellers within their

reach to the utmost, so that whoever is obliged to employ them had

better make their bargain beforehand.

Our guide having furnished himself with the necessary candles, etc.,

we proceeded along the valley, and crossed a bridge called _Le Pont

d'Enfer_. I know not why, but in all mountainous countries they seem

fond of attributing some of their bridges to the devil. In Wales, in

the Alps, in the Pyrenees, one-half of them derive their name from

that black personage, who, I should suppose, had something more

serious to think about than building bridges. That which we now passed

over had nothing very diabolical in its construction, and having again

crossed the stream, our guide pointed out to us the grotto with a

stream pouring down from it into the valley. It seemed a kind of

garret-window in the mountain, which itself was little less

perpendicular than the side of a house. We were told, however, that we

might ascend on horseback, and on putting it to the proof, found that

which had appeared impracticable, not only possible but easy, rendered

so by means of a zig-zag path, which conducted by easy stages to the

very mouth of the grotto. Arrived there, we were obliged to stop to

cool ourselves, for the air of the interior was actually freezing.

I have always been disappointed in grottos and caverns; and this, like

all the rest which I have seen, gratified me but little. It was a vast

hole in the mountain, filled with large petrefactions in a great

variety of forms; one of which, descending from above in the shape an

elephant's trunk, kept pouring forth a heavy shower of water, forming

pools, that emptied themselves into the river in the centre. It was

altogether far more curious than beautiful; and whether it was that my

mind was not in train to enjoy, or what, I know not, but I found

little to interest and less to admire.

However, after having dined at the Eaux Chaudes, on passing through

the deep ravine by which we had come, we had again new subject for

pleasure in the view down the lovely valley d'Ossau. We returned to it

with that feeling which man experiences on coming back to something

loved, and we naturally called it _our valley_.

It was on the hills near the Eaux Bonnes that I first met with that

luxuriance of flowers for which the Pyrenees are famous. The morning

before our departure, I took a walk over the mountains to a cascade

higher up in the valley than that which we had formerly seen, and in

the course of an hour gathered more than forty different species of

flowers, a great many of which I had rarely seen before. The

butterflies were nearly as numerous, and as brilliant in colour, and I

was almost tempted to catch some of them; but as I had no means of

preserving them, to have done so would have been but useless cruelty.

We lingered for several days at the Eaux Bonnes, enjoying ourselves

much; for it was one of those spots in which we can well live, "the

world forgetting." Every morning offered some new expedition through

beautiful scenery; and in wandering amongst the rocks and woods, by

the side of the bright streams, and over the blue tops of those

ancient mountains, a calm and placid thoughtfulness fell upon me,

different in every respect both from the fits of dark gloom which had

been so frequently my companions, and from the wild and reckless

spirit of excitement, by conjuring up which, I strove at other times

to gain assistance, to wage my constant warfare against Memory.

How long I might have remained there I do not know, had I not been

driven thence by a return of my mental malady, which, though the fits

were less frequent, more easily banished, and less painful in their

effects, had never left me entirely. At Bordeaux I had suffered once

or twice from the same delusion; and I only seemed to escape by

constant occupation of mind and body.

In the present instance, I had roamed out early one morning, and had

climbed one of the highest mountains during the continuance of a fog

which I knew to be the forerunner of a bright summer's day. I was

alone; but I ascended the mountainside so far, as to have all the

vapours below me, and to get the blue sky around me. The whole world

below was covered with the fog, which lay condensed and even, like a

calm wide ocean, while round about on every side, from the surface of

the mist, rose innumerable the granite peaks of the mountains,

offering the same aspect which doubtless they had done when they

looked down long centuries before upon the universal deluge. It was an

extraordinary scene, and I paused to gaze upon it long; but as the sun

advanced, he dispelled the mists, and descending by the valley of the

cascade, I stopped by the side of the falling water. After gazing upon

it for a moment, I raised my eyes, when suddenly, through the spray of

the fall and amongst the bushes on the other side, I saw again that

fearful countenance. Covering my eyes with my hand, to shut it out, I

hurried back to the inn, and told my friend B---- what had occurred.

"Let us return to Pau," was his only reply, and we accordingly set out

at once. My command over my mind, however, was now greater than it

formerly had been; and ere we reached that place I had regained my

calmness, and was prepared to act my allotted part with the rest.

THE FRIENDS.

* * * * * * Nor purpose gay,

Amusement, dance or song, he sternly scorns,

For happiness and true philosophy

Are of the social still and smiling kind.--THOMSON.

Our cook--yes, our cook--for we took it into our heads to keep house

at Pau, and did not repent of it, for Therese behaved as well in our

household as ever girl did, and besides other merits, could make fruit

tarts and British dishes, having lived two years with the English

family that I have said we met at Aire.

Our cook then, on our return from the Eaux Bonnes, was called upon for

her accounts, inasmuch as cooks must eat and drink like other animals,

and we had told her to provide herself with what she liked during our

absence. Her bread and her wine formed a regular weekly bill apart,

but farther than that, her expenses amounted to--and she was as fine a

fat rosy-cheeked lass as one would wish to see--amounted to the sum of

three-halfpence per diem. I could scarcely forbear laughing, but I did

so for the good of society. If I had laughed she would have charged

the next people two-pence a-day, as long as she lived, and rightly

too, for surely no one would be economical and laughed at for their

pains?

Two days after our first arrival in this little capital of the Basses

Pyrenees, we strolled down into a valley below the town, and loitered

along by the banks of the river, seeing several groups pass us,

knowing no one, and known of none, and perhaps not wishing a little to

place ourselves in the midst of some of them, and have our share of

the conversation of Pau as well as the rest. At length, however, a

party came near, and I began to have a strange undefined remembrance

of the form of one of the persons composing it. I was not wrong, I had

known her just before she left school; there was all the change from

an interesting girl to a lovely young woman; but it was the same

person, and she had not forgotten me either. We were kindly greeted,

and quickly became no longer strange even with the rest of the party.

To know them was to have the highest regard for them all. We were glad

to seek their acquaintance, and acquaintance soon ripened into

friendship. Within their little circle we found all that could be

desired--talents, and grace, and cheerfulness, and nature, and in

their society we had some of the happiest hours we met with on the

continent.

Whether my companion had told tales of my rhyming propensities, or

whether I had been my own accuser, I forget: but I was soon called

upon for verses, and drawings. I agreed to contribute if others would

do so too; and we once more drew a magic circle round us in which the

spirit of poetry and romance rose up and whiled away many an hour at

our bidding. Some of the pieces which I myself contributed I know were

bad enough, I was sorry that I had written them; but I now only

remember one or two--the rest of the tales and anecdotes were given by

others. The first thing of the kind which I shall transcribe was

occasioned by a lady accusing me of having composed nothing for her--I

asked for a subject, but she replied that I must choose one myself,

she would give me "nothing."

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

NOTHING.

'O quantum est in rebus inane!'

'Tis nothing all--our hopes our fears,

Our pleasure's smiles, our sorrow's tears,

Our dreams of pride, our thoughts of care,

Are lighter, emptier than air.

'Tis nothing all--the splendid earth,

The boons of art's, or Nature's birth,

With all that memory recalls,

From nothing rose--to nothing falls.

The emmet Man toils on in vain

To monument his hours of pain,

While giant Time pursues his way,

And marks his footsteps with decay;

Tracing on all that he destroys

The epitaph of man's short joys,

The sentence of the great and small,

The certainty--'tis nothing all.

'Tis nothing all--the mighty man

Who conquer'd realms and world's o'erran;

What is he now? Himself? his fame?

A heap of dust--an empty name.

Rome! Rome! Where is the wealth, the power,

The pride of thy meridian hour,

Thy tyrant standard which, unfurl'd,

Waved o'er a tributary world?

'Tis nothing all--and Canæ's plain,

And Carthage towers, and Leuctra's slain,

And all the deeds that deathless seem

Are broken, like an idle dream.

Without the better hope that flows

From the pure skies o'er human woes,

Like sunset ere the night succeed,

All would be nothingness indeed.

And yet we love to leave behind,

Some faint memorial to mankind,

A trace to fellow things of clay

Of something kindred passed away.

And when Time's work is wrought on me,

Some eye perchance these lines may see,

Without which, to the world and you,

My memory had been nothing too.

One of the families of which our little circle was now composed had

passed some time in Brittany; and amongst the first stories

contributed was one by Colonel C----, under the awful title of

"Le Sorcier," preceeded by some observations upon that province.

LE SORCIER.

The introduction of customs does much more to conquer a country than

even an invading army. Lorraine, Alsace, and Franche Comté, were

annexed to France by Louis the Fourteenth. By imparting to them the

manners and habits of the French people, he soon rendered them easy

under their new yoke; and fettering their minds by the chains of

custom, he secured himself effectually against all danger of revolt.

Not so in regard to Brittany. A decided fief of the crown of France,

and long, by failure of male issue as well as alliance with the house

of Bourbon, merged entirely into that kingdom, the inhabitants of the

ancient dukedom of Bretagne still obstinately retained their old

manners and customs, looking upon their barbarism as a sort of

privilege, and repelling all attempt at improvement as a commencement

of tyranny, and a first effort to deprive them of their liberties. If,

as is very much the case, France in general is many years behind

England in all the arts of life, Brittany is at least a century behind

the rest of France, but more especially that part of the country

called La Basse Bretagne. We must, of course, except the higher

classes, the majority of whose members, by long association with the

rest of the French nobility, have acquired the general manners of the

country. There are, nevertheless, several families who, retired in the

wilds of the land, retain, in some degree, the habits of their

ancestors; but it is of the lower classes that I would speak at

present. I saw but little of that part of the country, but I heard

much of it from several persons who had frequented La Basse Bretagne,

and as far as I have been able to learn, the inferior orders are

characterized by but few good customs. Lazy, dirty, and slovenly in

their persons and habitations, they possess corresponding qualities of

mind: they are, I was assured, most frequently obstinate, ignorant,

superstitious, and vindictive; yet at the same time are hardy,

courageous, and resolute, opposing a sort of sullen, inert,

unconquerable resistance, to all attacks upon either their rights or

prejudices. We read of a refractory mule upon whom a lion was let

loose, in the ducal menagerie at Florence, but who, retiring into a

corner, received the monarch of the woods on his first attack with

such a severe kick, that he was fain to forbear any further aggression

upon so sullen an enemy. In this manner did the Bas Bretons receive

Louis the Fourteenth, who would willingly have given them some degree

of civilisation: but they repelled all his efforts; and every foot of

the roads which he attempted to carry through the forests and wilds of

that impregnable country, was actually cut at the point of the

bayonet. If they have at all changed since that time, it has been by

such very slow and imperceptible degrees, that the amelioration can

scarcely be traced. They retain their own unseemly garb; they speak

nothing but their own inharmonious language; they wallow in their own

indigenous dirt, and, I am told, transmit the itch as an heirloom

from generation to generation. In many of their habits, they resemble

the lower Irish; but the comparison would be unfair to our Hibernian

brethren.

The people of La Haute Bretagne are much more civilized, but still, in

the lower ranks of life, are a very simple, ignorant, poor race, with

many habits and customs and superstitions peculiar to themselves,

which render them highly interesting to a traveller.

Having stated thus much, to give some slight idea of the people to

whom I am about to introduce my hearers, I will proceed to tell an

anecdote, the authenticity of which I can safely vouch for, as it

occurred within my own immediate observation.

Every one has heard of the Whisperers of Ireland, who pretend to, and

really possess, the extraordinary art of taming the wildest horses,

which they apparently accomplish, by the simple process of whispering

in their ears, This faculty of whispering is not at all confined to

Ireland, however, but is common, in different forms, to a great many

other countries. Every one has heard of the Laplander's habit of

whispering in the ear of his rein-deer; and in various parts of

Brittany, several of these whisperers are to be met with, whose

success is invariable. They are there called _Sorciers_, and generally

exercise the trade of farriers, curing horses of a variety of diseases

in a manner truly extraordinary. One time, being at the little village

of Bècherel, we had an opportunity of seeing the skill of the

Sorcier put to the proof. Our worthy host, Monsieur de G----, had

shortly before purchased a beautiful horse, whose only defect appeared

to be, that nobody could ride him; and we do believe that Alexander

himself would have found no means of taming this Bucephalus. After

having spent a whole morning together with our host and his groom, in

the vain endeavour to conquer the vicious spirit of the animal, our

friend, Monsieur de G----, shrugged up his shoulders, with the usual

gesture of a Frenchman when he is forced to have recourse to some

unpleasant expedient. "_Il n'y a pas de remède_," said he; "the horse

must be sent to the sorcier;" and accordingly he gave orders to his

_garçon d'écurie_ to take it down the next morning to the village at

which the aforesaid sorcier made his abode. This occasioned inquiries,

the answers to which soon determined us not to allow the taming of the

shrew to take place without our presence; and on the first expression

of a wish to be on the spot at the time, our friend, whose hospitable

kindness and desire to give us all kinds of information and pleasure

during our visit to his house we shall not easily forget, instantly

arranged a party for the next morning, in order to let us see the

effect of the sorcier's power, in the first instance, and afterwards

shoot over the ground in our return to the _manoir_.

About six in the morning we set out, on horseback, for the dwelling of

the sorcier, with a groom leading the horse in question, who remained

quiet enough as long as no one attempted to mount him. However, after

riding about six miles, as we came near the place of our destination,

M. de G---- resolved to see whether the distance might not, in some

degree, have quelled the spirit of the animal, and giving his own

horse to the groom, he mounted the other, who let him fix himself very

peaceably in the saddle, but at the moment out friend attempted to

urge him forward every muscle in his body seemed to be animated with

rage. He reared, he plunged, he kicked, and left no means untried to

shake his rider from his back. M. de G---- was a good horseman, and

kept his seat; but he soon found that his situation was not a pleasant

one, and attempted to dismount; but this the animal would not suffer

either, rearing more tremendously than before, and showing a strong

inclination to throw himself over on his Master. Just at this moment,

a short, sturdy little man, attracted by the noise, came forth

from the blacksmith's shop, towards which we had been apparently

directing our steps, and approaching the spot, looked on for a moment

as a spectator, merely exclaiming, "_le coquin_"! At length, the

groom, impatient of his apparent apathy, cried out, "Mais souffle

donc, François! Il va tomber, je te dis."

"Does Monsieur wish it?" demanded the sorcier, for such he was.

"Nom de Dieu!" cried the groom; "S'il le veut!"

As soon as he had said these words the sorcier watched his

opportunity, and threw his arms round the horse's neck, who, not

accustomed to such embraces, reared more violently than before,

raising the little man off the ground with him. But he kept his hold,

not at all embarrassed, and contrived in that awkward situation, to

fix his mouth upon the orifice of the animal's ear. What he did, we

know not. No one can suppose that the mere breathing in the animal's

ear could have any effect; but his hands were occupied holding tightly

round his neck, and the only thing we could observe was that firm

pressure of the mouth upon its ear. However, in a moment, the animal

became less restive, stood still, shivered a little, as with cold, and

from that moment his spirit was gone.

Monsieur de G---- dismounted, paid the sorcier his ordinary fee, which

was no more than a few francs, and after the excitement, and surprise,

and all that sort of thing, had passed away, we took to our guns and

turned our steps homeward. It may well be supposed that our

conversation for the rest of that day turned very much upon the

sorcier; and, after several anecdotes of the same nature as the above,

M. de G---- related the following.

"Our Curé," said he, "is a very excellent good man, but a little

superstitious; and, about two years ago, hearing a great deal about

this sorcier and his feats of magic, he considered it his duty to

preach against him; which he did so effectually for more than one

Sunday, that the poor blacksmith lost all his custom; and as the

priest had taught the peasantry to consider him as somewhat worse than

the devil, he might have starved, if a circumstance had not happened

which delivered him from the anathema.

"Our good Curé had saved from his stipend a few hundred francs, with

which he determined to buy himself a horse, to enable him to visit the

farther parts of his extensive _cure_ with less inconvenience.

Accordingly, when the fair of Dinan came round, he set out, and,

confident of his own judgment, bought himself a beast, which,

doubtless, he imagined possessed all the qualities with which horse

was ever indued. It was brought home the next day, and in the face of

the whole parish, the saddle was placed on his back, and the Curé

mounted.

"The horse stood stock still. The Cure gave him a gentle cut with his

whip. The beast did not budge. The priest then applied a smarter blow.

The horse lashed out behind, and in a minute the Cure was seen flying,

like, a black swan, into the pond before his own door, while the

horse, as if quite satisfied with the exploit, stood as immoveable as

a stone, with his head down to his knees, and his ears bent back upon

his neck.

"What could be done?--the Cure was not a man to try it again; and

though he offered his horse a bargain to every one in the village,

nobody would buy it. Day after day passed, and the horse stood in the

stable, eat the Curé's corn, and did nothing. More than once, the idea

of applying to the sorcier occurred to the Curé. At first he could not

resolve upon such a thing; and many an argument did he hold with

himself concerning the propriety of it. At length, however, the

necessity of the case overcame his scruples, and he determined to send

him to the sorcier; but how to do it, now became a serious question.

He had preached so much against the practice that he was ashamed of

yielding to it himself.

"At length, however, he took courage, and one dark night led the horse

with his own hands all the way to the house we were at this morning.

As soon as our friend François saw him, 'Ah, Monsieur le Curé,' said

he, 'I thought you would come to me at last; but do you think I will

cure your horse after you have ruined me?' The Cure now tried all his

eloquence; but the sorcier was as hard as a flint; however, at length,

he was somewhat moved.

"'Allons, Monsieur le Curé,' said he, 'I will make a bargain with you.

You have preached me down when I could do you no good; you shall now

preach me up--and I'll cure your horse.' This was a hard pill to

swallow, and François would do nothing to gild it; but what could the

Curé do? The priest could get on no longer without his horse, and the

horse would not budge a step under the Curé. So there was only one

question asked: 'Has the devil anything to do in the matter?' 'Not a

whit!' answered François; and the horse being left at the sorcier's

for security, _on Sunday_, we had a sermon completely clearing

François from the accusation of dealing with the devil; and _on

Monday_ the Curé was cantering all over the country."

"I will tell you a much more extraordinary story of a cure than that,"

exclaimed the colonel's brother, as soon as the tale of the Sorcier

was read. "It occurred in Brittany, too; under my own eyes, also,

while I lived at the house of an excellent Breton, a Dr.

R----.

"Every one has heard of the mania for leeches which has lately

prevailed in France. Like all other manias, this did not long confine

itself to the capital or its environs, but rapidly spread to every

province and, every department; and, like the blood, which, impelled

by the heart, finds its way to the most minute corners and remote

extremities of the human frame, the doctrine of universal

leechification gradually insinuated itself to the ultimate ends of his

Most Christian Majesty's dominions. Not a canton so small but read the

work of Monsieur Brousset; not a town so diminutive but had its

regular consumption of leeches averaged amongst other articles of

first necessity; not an apothecary's shop so insignificant, but

possessed its dozen or two of jars replete with these little black

benefactors of humanity; and not a pond nor a ditch where might not

occasionally be seen some unfortunate wight up to his neck in the

water, with a peculiar sort of net in his hand, endeavouring to entrap

the aquatic practitioners to come and perform phlebotomy gratis. If a

man had a pain in his head, he was ordered to apply leeches; if he had

a pain in his toe, it was all the same thing. The gout, the apoplexy,

a dropsy, or a consumption; the head-ache, or the heart-ache, or the

stomach-ache, were all treated after the same fashion; and leeches

were voted _nem. con_. the universal panacea applicable to every

disease which afflicts poor little humanity. In short, the doctors

were saved a great deal of trouble, the patients were probably none

the worse, the apothecaries grew fat as well as the leeches, and many

a man made a fortune, who, if it had not been for his _sangsues_,

would probably have been _sans sous_.

"At the time that this practice was becoming general, my worthy friend

and landlord, Monsieur le Docteur, was smitten with the desire of

sucking his patients' blood--not personally, but by proxy; so that of

all the words that the French Academy permit the nation to make use

of, and which, when I left them, consisted of thirty-two thousand

seven hundred and sixty one and a-half[17], the word most frequently

in the mouth of Monsieur le Docteur was _sangsue_.

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

[Footnote 17: He afterwards explained that he had been admitted once

to the making of a new word by the French Academy, and left it in the

middle.]

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

"But before I proceed farther, I must briefly tell you, what sort of a

machine a French doctor in a country town is. It is a thing that walks

upon two legs, or trots upon four, as occasion serves; that knows

nothing of medicine, a good deal of surgery, and will go ten miles for

two shillings. My worthy friend, then, Monsieur le Docteur ----,

resided at Quimper, in La Basse Bretagne. His fame was high, and not

without cause, so that if a man fell off a tree and broke his neck

within fifteen miles of Quimper, Monsieur le Docteur was sure to be in

at the death.

"When last I was in Brittany, I spent six weeks very pleasantly with

the Doctor and his family, and, as he was a good horseman and a

pleasant companion, I accompanied him more than once when he rode to

visit some country patients. Thus I was conducted one day to the

little village of Kerethnac, some ten miles from Quimper, where my

friend had plenty of occasions to exercise his curative propensities.

One man had broken his leg, another had dislocated his wrist, and a

third had a sore throat. To this last, without loss of time, the

Doctor ordered the application of twenty leeches, seemingly sorry that

he could not prescribe them for the others also; and having dispatched

his business as quickly as possible, we remounted our horses and

returned to Quimper. The road was a pleasant one, and two days after,

when Monsieur le Docteur proposed to revisit Kerethnac, I was not

unwilling to accompany him. On arriving at our journey's end, I went

into all the huts with my friend. Huts they were, indeed,--a

combination of pig-sty, cow-house, and bedchamber. But to proceed.

After having looked at the broken leg, and ordered some camphorated

spirit for the dislocated wrist, the Doctor entered the house of his

sore-throated patient, the first piece of whose goods and chattels

that presented itself being his wife.

"'Well, my good woman,' said the Doctor, 'how is your husband

to-day?--better, no doubt.'

"'O yes, surely,' answered the woman. 'He is as well as ever, and gone

to the field.'

"'I thought so,' continued Monsieur le Docteur. 'The leeches have

cured him! Wonderful effect they have! You got the leeches, of

course.'

"'Oh, yes, Monsieur le Docteur, they did him a deal of good, though he

could not take them all.'

"'Take them all!' cried our friend. 'Why my good woman, how did you

apply them?'

"'O, I managed nicely,' said the wife, looking quite contented with

herself. 'For variety's sake, I boiled one half and made a fry of the

other. The first he got down very well, but the second made him very

sick. But what he took was quite enough,' continued she, seeing some

horror in the Doctor's countenance, 'for he was better the next

morning, and to-day he is quite well.'

"'Umph!' said the Doctor, with a sapient shake of the head. 'If they

have cured him that is sufficient; but they would have been better

applied externally.'

"The woman replied that she would do so next time; and I doubt not,

that if ever fate throws a score of unfortunate leeches into her power

again, she will make a poultice of them."

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

"But there is no miracle in your story, my good brother," exclaimed

the colonel, as the other concluded; "you vowed you would tell a much

better story than mine. Now my friend's horse was cured by a whisper,

your patient's sore-throat by an emetic; the one was miraculous the

other nothing more than common.

"O, if you want a miracle," replied his brother, "you shall have one,

and out of the same province also."

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

A MIRACLE.

Prince Hohenloe, I mean the great miracle-monger of Germany; has

surely said enough and done enough to convince Europe, Asia, Africa,

and America, that miracles are quite as easy now-a-days, as they were

a thousand years ago, and that good Dame Nature has grown somewhat

doating, and will let him do anything he likes with her. Now, I

believe it thoroughly, for more reasons than one, and do not scruple

to call all the world fools who disbelieve it. At all events, I am

sure to have one half of the old women of Europe on my side; and

besides, I can vouch the matter from ocular observation: that into

say, not that Prince Hohenloe commits miracles, but that even without

him, they are as easy as ever--so easy, I am sure I could do one

myself. But to my tale.

There is a deep embowering lane, not far from Corsieul, where the road

winds slowly down between two high cliffy banks, till it comes to a

low dell, through which flows one of the clearest streams I ever saw,

so pure, so beautiful, the peasants have seemingly thought it next to

sacrilege to hide it even by a bridge, and left it openly to traverse

the road and wash your horse's weary feet before he begins the long

ascent of the opposite hill. Though steep and fatiguing, that road has

still a peculiar sort of charm, which compensates the trouble of

climbing to the top; and even were the ascent less difficult, one

would be tempted to linger long in the sweet contemplative shade and

silence that hangs about it. The rocky banks break into a thousand

picturesque forms; and wherever a patch of vegetable earth has been

able to fix itself, there has sprung up the richest verdure, varied by

a thousand shrubs, and herbs, and flowers,--honeysuckle, and

eglantine, and sweet-briar, and the pure, large convolvulus„ and the

deep blue pervanche, the lily of the fields, the hyacinth and the

violet. Above, the trees hang, as if planted in the air, and throw a

green, soft shade across the rich tints of the road, except where a

gleam of sunshine breaking through, catches upon the salient points of

the rock and chequers the deep shadows of the leaves with a dancing

light. The silence to the ear has the same effect as the shade to the

eye; for there no sound is to be heard, except when some wild bird

bursts into song amidst the trees above, or when a low, sweet murmur

rises up from the stream below. There is, as I have said, a magical

charm in the whole, which compels one to linger in his progress; yet

there is a reward in store for those who climb to the top; for

suddenly the whole scene changes, and one of the most extensive

prospects bursts upon the eye that can be conceived; hills, and

valleys, and villages, and woods, and streams, mingled in gay

confusion, growing fainter and fainter in the distance, till the far

ocean closes the whole, looking like a faint cloud upon the border of

the sky, from which indeed it would scarcely be distinguished, did not

the bold Mont St. Michel rise abruptly up, and catching all the rays

of the sun, mark the limits of the horizon. In front, as a sort of

foreground to the landscape, stands the little chapel of St. Anne,

with a few houses surrounding it, and a group of trees sheltering it

from the wind.

I was one day riding to Corsieul with my friend, Monsieur R----, to

see the curious Roman remains which have been found in that

neighbourhood, when, as we mounted the hill, and came suddenly in

sight of the chapel of St. Anne, we saw a vast variety of booths and

tents, with a multitude of people, men, women, and children, in all

their gay holiday attire, waiting round the chapel for the

commencement of the mass. "I had forgot that to-day is the fête of St.

Anne," said R----, "would you like to see a miracle. There is one

performed here every year."

"Above all things, let us see it," replied I. So we dismounted, and

went into the chapel. There were a great many people waiting about, to

see (I suppose) if they could get a bit of miracle too; but above all

others, we remarked one old woman, with whom the saint had to deal

more particularly. She seemed very poor, and very devout; for, not

being able to kneel, from her lameness, she sat before the shrine

telling her beads, and praying as hard as she could; while a young

priest stood beside her to keep off the profane vulgar, being probably

of opinion, with the copy-line, that, "evil communications corrupt

good manners." However, we remarked that her dress was that of a

remote canton, and we learned from the people round that she was a

stranger, come from a great way to see what St. Anne would do for her.

"A prophet is no prophet, in his own country," says the old proverb,

and I rather think that saints take care not to practise their

miracles upon their next-door neighbours. However the mass commenced,

and at the appointed place the old lady began to cry out. The priests

swung their censers at her head, as if they would have broke it; and

before the mass was over, the miracle was completed, and the lame

woman firmly re-established on her legs.

We spent a very pleasant day at Corsieul, and before we returned, it

was dark. In passing by the Chapel of St. Anne, however, we saw all

the tents and booths, illuminated; cider and _eau de vie_ handing out

in abundance; and, in short, a complete fair, in honour of the miracle

and the saint. Hearing the dulcet notes of a cracked fiddle in one of

the tents, we dismounted and went in, when, to our surprise, we beheld

the miraculous old lady dancing away as hard as she could, and doing

_dos-à-dos_ with a bumkin of Corsieul. Now let those deny miracles

that like--I saw this myself. I do not mean to say I saw that the

woman was lame, but I will swear that she danced.

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

Our next evening's contributions were of a more serious character, and

the two first came from the pen of my excellent friend Colonel W----,

whose long residence in India, though it had injured his health, and

whitened the hair upon his brow, had not taken away one fine feeling

or impaired one high principle.

THE REPROOF OF ALLI.

In a country, situated at the northern extremity of India, and upon

the very verge of the delicious valley of Cachemere, which it rivalled

in beauty and surpassed in luxury, lived Alli el Assur, the glory of

his illustrious house. None of the Oolasses of Afghaunistan had ever

produced so many great men, none had ever so glittered with treasure,

none had ever so shone in arms, as the tribe of Assur. But the fame of

his ancestors was to the glory of Alli as the pale light of the

morning-star, when the sun begins to beam upon the heavens. The day

rose upon his splendour but to set upon his magnificence. Every hour

saw his riches increase, and every hour saw his power extended.

But not for wealth alone was he famed; his wisdom and his knowledge

were wafted to every quarter of the earth. The morning heard his words

repeated in the east; the evening listened to his saying in the west:

the southern star beheld his advice followed, and his counsels were

borne on the wings of the north wind. For in the dawning of his youth,

Alli had travelled over distant countries, and wandered among unknown

people. Fringuistan had imparted to him all her arts; and all the

wonders of Africa had been displayed before his eyes. He had conversed

with the Moolaks of all lands, and spoke the tongues of many nations.

And Alli knew that he was wise. The pride of knowledge revelled in his

heart, and he said, "There is no God, for I cannot see him, neither

can mine ear hear his voice; and if there exist a Being governing the

mighty universe with power and wisdom, why is evil permitted in the

world? and why has he acted as he has done? It is against my reason to

believe this thing, neither can my mind give it credit."

At five hours' journey from one of the palaces of Alli el Assur, there

dwelt a certain hermit, who was much revered for his wisdom and

sanctity, and much loved for the mildness of his heart. He lived afar

from the rest of his race, because he loved contemplation, not that he

loved not man: and in the solitude of the desert he waited for the

angel of death.

And a desire entered into the heart of Alli to hear the words of the

Solitary: "For where is the learned man," exclaimed he, "with whom I

have not conversed and where is there knowledge that I have not sought

for it?"

He mounted his horse while day was yet young in the sky; and, while

the dew which evening had left still glittered undisturbed on the

bosom of the flowers, proceeded, without attendants, to seek the place

where the hermit made his abode. Nature was robed in her beauty, as a

young bride, to meet the warm glances of the early sun: and the heart

of Alli was glad, and expanded to the loveliness of the world. He

directed his course by the river Hydaspes, that, like a golden lizard,

drew along its mazy track, in the beams of the rising day. Its limpid

waters seemed living in the rays, so full were they of motion and of

music; and the rays, like divers, seemed to dip through the

transparent waves, and raise the bright pebbles from the bottom to the

surface of the stream. The banks were covered with flowers, and gay

water-lilies, like youthful maidens in their pride of beauty, danced

upon the bending waves. All was at first fresh and delightful, as the

spring of early life; but soon the sun rose high above the mountains,

the birds retired to the shadow of the trees, the wild beasts couched

in the deepest recesses of the jungle, and Alli grew weary and faint

with the heat of noon. However, the river itself, as if tired of the

glare of sunshine, led its waters into the gloom of the forest, and

Alli, following its course, quickly heard the roaring voice of the

cataract, and his heart was rejoiced, for the dwelling of the hermit

looked upon the fall of the waters. The sound grew louder and louder,

the trees fell away from the strife of the stream, and the river again

appeared forcing its way between the high rocks, which, approaching

gradually towards each other, constrained it to plunge furiously over

the precipice into the valley below.

Sitting at the foot of the crags was an old man, whose white beard

descended below his girdle. His dress was as simple as his heart was

pure; his form was stately and erect, and his eye beamed with the

light of a benevolent spirit. More than a hundred winters had shed

their snows upon his head, and more than a hundred summers had led him

to the brink of the grave: his look was fixed upon the mist which

arose from the cataract: his mind was bent upon the cloud which hangs

over eternity; and his soul was elevated with the thoughts of death.

Alli dismounted and saluted the man of years. "My son," said the

hermit, "thou seemest fatigued with exercise, and exhausted with the

heat. Enter into this cave, which is my dwelling; eat of the food

which is prepared for the stranger; rest and refresh thyself; and when

thy limbs have recovered their vigour, and thy mind is calmed by

repose, come and we will hold communion of this world, and what is

beyond."

Alli entered the cavern, and returned after a short space, and sitting

down by the old man, he poured forth the thoughts of his bosom.

"How beautiful is nature!" said he; "how lovely in every season! how

mild in spring! how gay in summer! how luxuriant in autumn! how grand

in the winter storm! and yet to man the spring brings illness, the

summer yields fatigue, the autumn demands his labour, and the winter

sees his death! Miserable in the midst of perfection, desolate in the

heart of plenty, and wretched is he, even in the moment of enjoyment.

What is he but a mixture of clay rendered sensible to pain, and

affections destined to be quelled in death? And yet this animated mass

of earthly sorrow vainly pictures to himself a Being whom he calls all

good, who sees his misery, yet will not alleviate it, and who gave him

being but to render him unhappy. Can this thing be? No!--there is no

God. It is but the monstrous imagination of man's own heart!"

"What is there," answered the old man, "that has not a cause? And if

each thing has a cause, all must have a cause; and that which was the

cause of all, must have power over all, must love all, and protect all

which it caused. And what is man, the insect of an hour, that he

should say, I cannot understand, therefore I will not believe? Alli el

Assur! (for by thy thoughts do I know thee,) listen to the words of

experience--hearken to the voice of years--mark what I shall say to

thee; for I am old, and thine own wisdom shall tell thee that my words

are true!

"Know then, that at the bottom of the sea there is a certain animal,

whose size is so minute, that ten of them would stand upon the point

of thy scimitar. This animal never stirs from the place of its birth;

and the term of its life is shorter than the being of a butterfly. It

so happened, that as insect of this kind fell, by chance, upon the

back of one of those large amphibious creatures which sometimes betake

themselves to the land, and thus it was carried within sight of the

dwelling of man. When it returned to its companions of the ocean, it

related all the wonders it had seen, but found no one to believe.

"'Thou tellest us,' said one, 'that there is a being on the earth

whose size is immense, and whose faculties are so wonderful, that all

nature is open to his view; whose vast sight could comprehend the

whole of this rock; and in short, whose senses are excellent in every

particular: and yet thou sayest, that this being is stupid enough to

move from place to place without being forced to do so and has the

excessive folly to live on the land instead of dwelling in the sea,

the natural element of all creatures existing. But granting even all

that to be true, thou hast also said, that this great being builds

himself a shell to creep into. Now, were he endowed with the powers

you describe, he would of course, sit still at ease in one place, and

enjoy the fluid that circulates round him, as we do. In this, as well

as in a thousand other points, thy story is improbable and

inconsistent, nor can we believe it, for our senses tell us it is not

true.'

"'My friend,' replied the travelled insect, 'attempt not to scan the

actions of a being above thy comprehension, nor measure his power by

thy own littleness. Neither tell me that this being is not, because

thy mind is too confined to reconcile his deeds to thine own ideas.'

"Man! man! vain man!" continued the hermit, "how much less art thou in

comparison to the most High God, than is that insect in comparison to

thee! Measure thyself by that mountain. Art thou not small? Yea, as a

worm. How petty is the part which that mountain forms in the bulk of

the earth. That great earth, on which thou art but an atom, is little

to many of the planets; it is insignificant to the sun; it is as a

grain of dust amongst the millions of orbs, which even thy limited

sight can behold in the firmament; and what is it to the immensity of

eternal space?[18] Look at that grain of sand: canst thou tell me its

fabric? canst thou separate its parts? No!--Stretch thine ambitious

soul; try to grasp the idea of infinity of time, of space, of matter.

Thou canst do neither. And wilt thou, who canst not comprehend either

the greatest or the least, wilt thou measure the actions of

Omnipotence, by the standard of thine own littleness, and deny his

power, because thou dost not understand its operations?

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

[Footnote 18: My worthy friend maintains that our knowledge of

astronomy is very inferior to that possessed by the ancient tribes of

Asia.]

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

"No, Alli el Assur, return to thine own dwelling, and be wise enough

to know, that the wisdom of the wisest is, to the works of the

Almighty, but as a drop of water to the ocean; aye, to an ocean of

oceans: and henceforward, never deny because thou canst not

comprehend; but learn, that with all thy knowledge thou knowest

nothing."

THE VISIONS OF HASSAN.

The day faded into twilight; the flowers ceased to look upon the sun:

the bulbul poured his notes of melody unto the star of the evening;

and sleep stole over the sorrows and weariness of the universe. But

while the eyes of a world were closed, Hassan the destitute woke to

grief and meditated on despair.

"This morning," exclaimed he, "I was great amongst the greatest, a

prince among princes, an eagle on a rock; but midday saw me in the

hands of mine enemies, as a gazelle struck by the falcon; and evening

beholds me as a wandering star, as the genii torch which is hurled

into the vacancy of night: cast down from my throne, exiled from my

land, wandering I know not whither. O Allah! Allah! great is thy

wisdom, and merciful thy providence; suffer not my heart to blaspheme,

nor my soul to doubt that thou art the Highest." Thus saying, Hassan

cast himself upon the earth, and groaned in the bitterness of his

misery. While he lay thus prostrate and grovelling like a slave upon

the ground, he heard a voice, like thunder, echoing through the

mountain.

"Hassan!" said a voice, "weak child of clay, humbled in thy career of

pride, dost thou murmur that God hath chastised thee? Now look into

the valley before thee, and say, what dost thou see?"

Hassan raised his head and looked into the valley. "I see," replied

he, "a great stream, and there is a cloud at its source, and a

whirlpool at its conclusion, so that I see not from whence it comes,

neither behold I whereunto it goeth."

"That," said the voice, "is the stream of life. The cloud is the time

of man's birth. Beyond is the eternity past. The whirlpool is the time

of man's death, and beyond is the eternity to come. All must float

from the one to the other, and what man shall say that his lot is

harder than another? for death is a cup of which all must taste, and

life is a trial which all must endure. Therefore is God good from the

beginning even unto the end. Now bow down thy head unto the earth;

give praise unto Allah, and then look into the valley once more."

Hassan did as the voice commanded.

"And now what seest thou?" said the voice.

"I see," answered Hassan, "a cottage and a palace; and there is above

them both a fearful storm of lightning and thunder; and, lo! the bolt

strikes the palace, and the cottage is untouched."

"That palace," said the voice, "is prosperity, and that cottage is

adversity. The lightning strikes the proud and passes by the humble,

and glory is due to God, for his name is the Impartial. And again,

what dost thou behold?"

"I see," said Hassan, "a large nest upon a high place, and in it there

lies a young bird. A fox approaches the nest, and the young bird is

destroyed; and now behold an eagle drops upon the fox, and it also is

no more."

"Thou shalt not hurt the smallest," said the voice, "lest the greatest

frown upon thee; nor shalt thou injure the weakest, for the strongest

beholds thine actions; and glory is due to God, for his justice is

retributive. Now bow down thine head and pray, that thou mayest be

able to endure." And Hassan prayed. "Once more, what dost thou

behold?"

"It is my capital city in flames," said Hassan with a firm voice; "and

I see my palace crumbling in the fire, and I see a woman striving to

escape;" and the voice of Hassan became weak, as with great fear. "O

Allah! save her," cried he; "it is her I have injured! it is Zelekah

it is my beloved!" And he started forward to snatch her from the

flames; but as he was about to plunge over the edge of the precipice,

his arm was caught by one behind him. The vision passed away, and the

valley once more relapsed into the darkness of night.

Hassan turned round, and by the trembling light of the stars, beheld a

man of venerable years and benevolent deportment. Hassan was about to

speak, but the old man commanded him to listen; and Hassan instantly

remembered the voice he had before heard.

"Listen unto me," said the old man, "for what thou hast seen is all a

vision, Thy capital city sleeps in peace; but it is no longer thine.

Thy palace still stands in its strength; but thou art an exile from

its walls. Thy Zelekah lives secure; but thou hast lost her by thine

own passions. I am thy good genius, and hadst thou before listened to

my voice, thou wouldst have been even now the lord of a fair land; the

master of a willing people; the bridegroom of thy beloved. When thou

soughtest first the love of Zelekah, the cottage girl, did not a voice

remind thee, that thou hadst vowed to wed the daughter of the Caliph,

and none but her; and did it not whisper, that though without vice

thou mightest sacrifice thine ambition to thy passion, it was criminal

to break thine oath, and dishonourable to forget thy promise; and when

thou didst carry away by force the girl that loved thee well but loved

virtue better, did not the same voice say; 'Thou art acting wrong;

thou art misusing the power of a prince; thou art violating the rights

of thy people?' Man, man! must thy good genius ever speak in thunder

to make thee hear?"

Hassan hid his eyes with his hands, and the geni went on.

"Thou art punished by the loss of thy throne; thou art punished by the

loss of thy beloved: but still more shalt thou be punished, by hearing

that Zelekah, the cottage girl, was the daughter of the Caliph,--was

thy promised bride--whom the wisdom of her father had absented from

the too great splendour of his court."

"Allah! Allah!" cried Hassan; "deeply, but justly, hast thou chastised

my wickedness."

"There is peace," said the geni, "in repentance. It is still in thy

power to retrieve thy fortunes, and thou shalt ever be wiser from thy

sorrows. Go, and remember, that when thou thinkest thyself most alone,

then is the eye of God upon thee, and that every bad deed incurreth

the wrath of Him to whom the greatest sovereign of the earth is but as

a worm, yea, less than the meanest of insects. That God himself is

good, and by no means will he endure evil."

Hassan cast himself at the feet of the geni; but when he raised his

eyes, the old man was no longer there, and he found himself lonely on

the brink of the precipice; but nevertheless his heart was much

lightened, and his mind was calm; and, instead of yielding to despair,

he now prepared for whatever fortune could inflict, or constancy

endure; and laying himself down, sleep came over his eyes, and lulled

the sorrows of his heart.

The morning was bright in the east; the sunbeams wandered over the

hills; the flowers perfumed the early breeze; the woods were melodious

with the warbling of the birds; and creation was animated with the

wakening hum of life; when Hassan woke from his slumber, chastened by

adversity, and strengthened by repose. "When," said he, "when have I,

on the glittering alcove, resting on softness and surrounded by

luxury, when have I tasted of calm so unbroken, and sleep so grateful,

as on this barren rock, unguarded by any but by Providence, and unseen

but by the eye of the Almighty?" And kneeling towards Mecca, he said

the prayer of the morning. When he had concluded, he rose, and

descended into the valley below, by a narrow path, which wound round

the side of the mountain.

At the bottom of the hill, surrounded by tall palm trees, rose a

spring of clear water, pouring music and freshness upon the air

around; and as he drew nigh, Hassan beheld the form of a woman bending

ever the fountain, and a strange feeling came over his heart, a

mingling of joy and fear; for he felt as one that comes back to the

home of fathers, and knows not what tidings shall greet his return.

But as he drew near, he saw a leopard touching amongst the trees, and

prepared to spring upon the girl beside the fountain. Now the heart of

Hassan was as the heart of a lion, calm, and without fear; and drawing

his scimitar, he smote the wild beast and drove him forth, wounded and

howling, to the woods; and turning towards her he had, saved, as his

mind had presaged, he beheld the light of his soul.

Zelekah extended her arms towards him.

"O Hassan!" cried she, "and have I then found thee?"

Hassan pressed her to his heart.

"Did Zelekah seek for him that had wronged her," he asked; "could she

still love the tyrant who tore her against her will from the humble

habitations of peace and the lowly mansions of uninterrupted quiet?"

Zelekah answered not, but her silence had a voice, and Hassan's heart

was glad.

"O Zelekah?" said he, "I have learned, by my follies and my

punishment, what experience will teach to all men, that adversity may

try the body, but that our soul is tried by prosperity. I have failed

in the ordeal, and am unworthy to enjoy the advantages which my own

deeds have forfeited, and which the hand of justice has withdrawn; but

still if thy love remain, Hassan is happier as an exile than as a

prince. Come, let us retire to some humble spot; far from cities and

from man's resort, where we may live with peace the number of our

days; and when Azrael shall knock at our gate, we shall meet the angel

of death with resignation." And Hassan and Zelekah fled from the

world, and found peace in solitude.

Time flew away with his silent wings, changing the face of the world;

and a heavy war vexed the kingdom from which Hassan had been driven.

The people remembered him with regret, and began to ask amongst

themselves, "Why have we not Hassan, who led us on to victory; on

whose scimitar sat the death of our enemies? Hassan, the strong arm of

war--the mighty man in the battle--the prince that we have chosen, is

slain, and our foes rejoice in our defeat. Why have we not Hassan to

deliver us from our enemies?"

And Hassan heard the tidings; and baring his arm, he flew to the

battle, and smote the enemies of the land: and the people rejoicing,

seated him gladly on his throne. Zelekah shared his joy, as she had

shared his sorrow; and peace and abundance dwelt in the land, and

justice and mercy stood on each side of the throne: for Hassan never

forgot his vision on the mountain, and remembered that God is good,

great, and impartial; and that evil will by no means be endured by the

Almighty.

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

After such efforts to amuse and instruct as these on the part of one

so much more entitled to repose than ourselves, neither I, nor the

friend who was with me, could refuse to do, our best in some more

laboured composition than a few verses, and, by the third night after,

we had produced the two tales which follow.

THE STORY OF AZIMANTIUM.

We are weary of the present--Let us turn and rest our minds for a

while upon a tale of the past.

There was a dreamy stillness in the air--there was a golden glory over

the sky--there was a music in the far-off hum of distant nature

sinking to repose--there was a fragrance in the soft breath of the

valley, as it stole timidly through the multitude of drowsy flowers,

as if afraid to wake them from their evening sleep; all told of one of

those few days which last in loveliness from their dawning to their

close--so full of every fine essence of joy, that we tremble to see

them pass, lest we should never find anything so beautiful upon earth

again. The whispering murmur of the small long waves, as they wooed

the quiet sands upon the seashore--the pale and timid lustre of the

stars, as they shone out, one by one, through the still purple

heaven--the slow changes of a rosy cloud, as it dallied with an unseen

wind--spoke peace!--Peace, the first, last, great blessing--the

mightiest of promises--the object of virtue, of wisdom, of

knowledge--the only desire that experience leaves--the hope beyond

our life--the glory of eternity--Peace!

High-eyried on the rocky eminence, where now the overthrown stones of

a massy wall tell of cities and their dwellers, past like shadows down

the dim vista of the gone, stood the fair town of Azimantium, with its

long-disused battlements, its temples, and its columns, marked in fine

lines of shadowy purple, high upon the broad expanse of the rich

evening sky. The mountain on which it stood, clothed in the splendid

robe of the setting day's calm violet-colour, hung over the valleys

and the plains around, with an air of protecting majesty. On one side,

a gentle slope, covered with green pastures, and clumps of high trees,

with ever and anon a temple or a villa in their shade, declined softly

towards the fair land of Greece--the country of poetry and song--to

which Azimantium had long belonged. Two other sides, that towards the

Euxine,[19] and that which looked over Thrace, were rough and steep,

broken with gigantic crags; and though many a piece of smooth short

turf intervened between the masses of cold gray stone--though many a

tree waved its leafy arms, as if in sport, above each rugged cliff,

and many a green parasite trailed its fantastic garlanding of verdure

over the harsh and stony limbs of the mountain--no footing was there

for things of mortal mould. The goat, the sure-footed goat, looked

down, with sidelong glance, from the flat summit above, but tempted

not the descent; the fox earthed himself at the foot; and but the

eagle, of all living things, in his kingly loneliness, chose it for

his dwelling, from its very solitude. The fourth side turned towards

the barbarian enemies of the Grecian name, and frowned defiance in one

savage, dark, unbroken precipice.

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

[Footnote 19: See Procopius _de Edificiis_, lib. iv. cap. xi. Several

reasons have induced me to place Azimantium on the very shores of the

Euxine.]

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

But now all was peace around. Splendour, and feasting, and music,

reigned through the Grecian empire. The brow of every man was calm and

joyful, the voice of every one was rich in poetry and song; and it

would have seemed that nothing but a smile had ever curled the lip, or

danced in the eye. O fatal softness! O hard lot of man! that peace can

never rest without power! that enjoyment can never continue without

strength! that the shield, and the glaive, and the javelin, should be

the only safeguards of tranquillity!

All was peace. Many a century of decaying years had swept over the

proud fabric of the Roman Empire and what had been mighty was now

hastening towards a name. The men who had conquered a world, mouldered

in the dust; and their children were contented to enjoy. The arms

which should have wielded the sword, or braced on the shield, now only

raised the cup, or struck the lyre. Voices which, in former days,

would have breathed the soul of freedom to the swelling hearts of a

mighty people, or pleaded for the laws before that senate which should

have been immortal, now sung the loose and ribald song, in The halls

of luxury and the resorts of intemperance, or urged some vain and

subtle theme, in schools that had become schools of folly. Honour was

no longer to the brave, or to the good; and, though peace spread over

the whole eastern realm, it was peace bought by tributary gold; won by

degradation, and spent in effeminacy, indulgence, and vice.

One small city alone, of the whole empire, still held within its walls

the nobler spirit of Rome's ancient days. One small city alone, like

an altar to some sublime but nearly forgotten deity, upheld the flame

of virtuous courage--simple, grand, noble, independent--enjoyed the

smile of peace, but feared not the frown of war, reposed without

softness, and rejoiced without debauchery. That city was Azimantium.

Its youth, trained to the nobler amusements, only descended from the

free mountain-air of their sky-surrounded dwelling to war with the wild

beasts of the forests around, or to chase the swift deer over the

Thracian plains. Such were their sports of peace; and if a lingering

influence of the genius-breathing climate taught the Pentelican marble

to start into life, woke the Achaian flute, or struck the Teian lyre,

the godlike spirit of a purer age gave fire to the song, and vigour to

the statue.

The mighty and majestic scenes amidst which they beat, raised and

dignified the hearts of Azimantium; and though the passions of

humanity were there in all their force, the better soul, the nobler

purpose of the mind, linked those passions to all that is grand and

dignified in nature. The aspirations of the spirit, and the desires of

the body, were not waging the horrific struggle mutually to destroy

each other; but, joined together in thrilling fellowship, like the

immortal twins of Laconia, they strove alone to guide and elevate each

other. Love dwelt in Azimantium; but it was that brighter love,

wherein the radiant share of the deathless soul infests the earthly

portion with a blaze of light.

I have said that it was the evening of a summer's

day--a day such as is hardly known to more northern climates--a day on

which the kingly charioteer of heaven seems to hold some high

festival, and robe himself in more majestic lustre. The sunshine had

passed, and it was evening--but an evening full of rays. It seemed as

if some mysterious power had robbed the daylight of half its beams, to

weave them into purple with the dark-blue woof of night, and then had

studded it over with golden stars, to curtain the cradle of the

sleeping earth.

Through the still calm valleys at the foot of the mountain of

Azimantium--by the side of the living stream that sparkled onward on

its brief gay course--amidst tall and scattered trees, where the

nightingale raised his glorious anthem to the first star--wandered

two of the children of that city, who had seen no other dwelling, and

never desired to do so. They had risen from infancy in scenes which

had every day grown dearer; and as years had flown, mutual love,

uncrossed, unopposed, untainted, had given those scenes a light, whose

spring was in their own hearts, a charm wrought by that potent magician,

Affection. They loved as fully as mortal things can love; and from all

external nature, from every song, from every sight, a sweet communion

of thrilling enjoyments gathered itself round their mutual hearts. The

memory of all their past was together; the joy of the present was

tasted together; the future--misty and vague as that dim profound must

ever be--they never dreamed could be otherwise than, together. One

month had yet to fly ere the dearest; because the most durable, tie

was to bind Honoria to Menenius for ever; and now they wandered alone

through those sweet valleys, and amidst those soft scenes, unwatched,

undoubted, by those whose duty was to guard and protect, because there

was not one heart within the bounds of the city, who dared to think

that Honoria was unsafe with Menenius.

They talked of love and hope; and those bright visions that, in the

summer-morning of our youth, dance before our dazzled and untaught

eyes, came thick upon them: and they lent each other willing aid to

raise fabric after fabric, out of thin air alone, till the

unsubstantial architecture reached to the very sky. O how they dreamt!

and though a sultry and unnerving air grew up, one knew not whence,

casting a sort of doubtful faintness on Honoria's frame; and though

vague rumours of danger to the state, and new demands from the

pensioned enemies of the Eastern Empire, had reached the ears of

Menenius, an atmosphere of their own hope surrounded them, in which

joy seemed to breathe secure.

They had wandered long, pouring their souls into each other's bosom,

till at length they turned to mount the gentle assent that led them to

their home. And yet they lingered, and yet they paused to take another

look over the twilight world which spread out beneath, wider and wider

at every step as they ascended; and to say, "How fair!" and still to

speak one kind word more. As thus they paused beneath a group of tall

trees, near which an ancient tower marked the burial-place of the

great of other days, and stretched their eyes over the darkening

landscape, a sudden feeling of terror shot through Honoria's

breast--she knew not why. She heard nothing, she felt nothing, she

saw nothing, which could awaken fear, and yet with a sudden and

instinctive impulse, she clung to Menenius, exclaiming "What is

coming?"

The horses that were feeding on the slope, with a shrill cry broke in

madness down the hill; an eagle started from the rock below, and

screaming, soared into the sky; while the lover cast his strong arm

round her he loved, and unconsciously laid his hand upon his sword.

All felt the dreadful coming of some great change.

It came--with a roar like the accumulated thunder of a thousand

storms! The lightning, bursting from no visible cloud, swept over the

clear blue sky, and shone amongst the stars; and, in the livid blaze,

the towers of Azimantium, with each line dark and clear on the broad

glare, were seen to quiver, and rock, and fall; while, beneath the

lovers' feet, the earth heaved and panted, as if the globe were rent

with dying agonies. The air was one wild scream--the sky, from pole to

pole, was all on fire--the ground refused its footing. Then came a

moment of dead calm. All was silent! all was still! and Menenius felt

Honoria's arms relax the terrified clasp in which they held him! "It

is over, beloved," whispered he, as if to break the restored

tranquillity even by his voice: "It is over; thank God, the earthquake

has passed by!"

But before the words were well pronounced, a fitful gleam, a broader

flash, another roar, swept through the air; the ground yawned and

quivered; the tottering tower beside them was hurled in crashing ruins

over the brink. Menenius caught at a tree for support; but it, too,

shaking like a willow bough in a storm, swayed to and fro, and

staggered as if plucked up by some gigantic force. Its boughs crashed;

its centuried roots gave way, and rushing on those who had sought

support in its strength, it overwhelmed them in its descent. What was

the lover's only thought as he fell? To save her he loved; and by a

sudden, scarcely conscious, effort of all his natural vigour, he kept

her off, while the uprooted tree was dashed upon himself.

* * * *

* * * *

* * * *

The earthquake had passed by, and become a thing of memory. Nineteen

of the towers of Constantinople had fallen; the walls of Azimantium

lay broken and destroyed; and on the day which was to have lighted the

marriage torch for Honoria and Menenius, the lover lay, slowly

recovering from the evening of the earthquake, and the beautiful girl

watched him with glad, yet anxious eyes. The father of Menenius, too,

stood beside him, and marked the reviving glow in his son's cheek with

joy, although there was a deep and thoughtful shadow on his brow,

which brightened into something of triumph and of hope, as his eye ran

over the bold and swelling muscles of his frame, and thought that but

a few days more would restore that frame to all its pristine vigour.

The triumph and the hope were those of a true son of ancient Greece,

for they were kindled and inspired by the proud thought that the

energetic strength of mind and body which were no longer united in

himself; would, in his son, prove the safeguard of his country.

He had news to tell which might well have quelled the feeble spirits

of that degenerate age, but Menenius was a child of Azimantium, and

knew not fear, even though crushed, and sick, and wounded. He had

borne the cautions of the leech, and the restraint of a sick chamber,

with somewhat of impatience and disdain; but when his father told him

that the false Bishop of Margus had opened the gates of that city to

the barbarian Attila, the destroyer of arts, the waster of empires,

the scourge of God; that unnumbered myriads of the Huns were pouring

over the frontier barriers of the eastern empire; that Sirnium and

Sardica, Ratiaria and Naissus, had fallen, and that but a few days

more would see the blood-gorged savages beneath the rocks of

Azimantium, Menenius became docile as a lamb to all that might hasten

his recovery.

Honoria's cheek grew pale, and her lip forgot its smile, but not a

word of fear was breathed upon the air, and her dark, dark eye shot

out rays of more intense and brilliant light, as she gazed on each

piece of her lover's armour, and scanned them jealously for fault or

flaw.

* * * *

* * * *

* * * *

There was a cry through the whole of Greece, "They come! They come!"

Over the fields, through the valleys, on the mountains; from voice to

voice, and castle to castle, and city to city, the cry went forth,

"Death to the nations! They come They come! Vultures, prepare to

feast! They come! They come!"

All fell down before them or fled, and those who timidly spoke but the

name of war, died by their own hearths. Fortress after fortress, town

after town, was attacked and taken, and plundered and destroyed; not

one stone was left upon another, and captivity and the sword shared

the children of the land between them; and still went on the cry,

"They come! They come! Vultures, prepare! They come! They come!"

The weak luxurious Romans of that degenerate day, knew not the very

arms with which to oppose their barbarous enemies. What did the song

avail them? What the dance? What the wine-cup and the feast? Could the

soft-tongued sophist cheat the dark Hun from his destined prey? Or the

skilful lawyer shew Attila the code which forbade the strong to

plunder and subject the weak? No, no! After three disgraceful scenes

of defeat, all fled, or yielded, or died, or were made slaves, and the

whole land was red with flaming cities, and with blood-stained fields.

At length, the watchers on the steep of Azimantium beheld a dim cloud

sweeping over the distant prospect, so vast, so mighty, that the whole

land seemed teeming with a fearful birth. "They come! They come!" was

all the cry; "They come! They come! The myriads of the North!

Warriors, prepare your swords! They come! They come!"

On they swept, like the wind of the desert. The ruined walls of

Azimantium, rifted by the earthquake, offered nothing to oppose their

progress. Three sides, indeed, were defended by Nature herself, but

the fourth was free, and up the soft slope they rushed, tribe upon

tribe, nation upon nation, flushed with conquest, hardened to

massacre, eager for spoil, contemptuous of danger and death.

Across the narrowest part of the approach--where the steep natural

rock on one side, and the chasm left by the overthrown tower on the

other, impeded all passage by the smooth ascent--in long bright line,

with casque, and buckler, and blade, stood the youth of Azimantium,

between their dear familiar homes and the dark enemy. On rushed the

Huns, with glad eyes gleaming in the fierce thirst for blood, The

horsemen came first, their harness loaded with the golden ornaments of

plundered cities, and hanging at each knee the bleeding head of a

fresh slain Greek, while myriads of foot swarmed up behind them, so

that, to the eyes above, the whole steep appeared alive with a dark

mass of rushing enemies. An ocean of grim faces was raised to the

devoted city, and glared upon the young band of Azimantines, as the

first-prepared sacrifice to the god of victory.

Nearer and more near they came. Forth flew the Scythian javelins, and,

repelled from a thousand shields, turned innocent away, and then, the

gazers from the house-tops of Azimantium might see the closer fight

engaged. The unbroken line of gallant champions still maintained the

strife against the swelling multitude that rushed like a tremendous

sea upon them. Barbarian after barbarian fell stricken from his horse,

and still they saw the battle rage, and swarms of fresh enemies pour

up to the assault. Still waved the swords, still advanced the spears,

and still the bands of Azimantium held their narrow pass, while behind

them stood the old men of the town, to encourage them by the presence

of their fathers--to carry them fresh arms--to bear away the dead.

But oh, what a sight it was, when first the gazers beheld four of the

parents separate from the rest of the wavering crowd, and, bearing a

heavy burden, come back towards the city! Oh, with what terrified

speed did mothers, and sisters, and wives, and the beloved, rush forth

to meet the ghastly spectacle, and learn the dreadful truth! And oh,

how they crowded round, when the old men laid down their load, and the

cloak cast back, shewed the fair boy stricken in his spring of beauty,

the red blood clotted in his golden hair; the energy of being passed

from his young eyes, and the "pale flag of death advanced" where the

joy of life had reigned.

His sister wrung her hands and tore her hair, and wept, but his mother

gazed calmly, proudly, painfully, upon the clay. Then bending down to

take one kiss of his cold cheek, "Weep not," she cried, "weep not,

Eudocia, for your brother! He, the first, died for his country! My

child is in heaven!"

"They come! They come!" was shouted from below! "Fly to the altars!

Lo, they come! they come!" and breaking through the line of brave

defenders, on rushed a body of the Huns. On, up the steep they urged

their horses, reeking with blood and battle--on, on, towards the city.

The women fled to the churches and to the shrines, but there was none

to defend the town; the streets were vacant; the youths and old men

had alike gone forth to battle; the Huns were at the gate, and all

seemed lost.

It was then that Menenius, red from the brow to the heel with the

blood of his enemies, shouted to his brave companions to follow him,

and hurling a gigantic Scythian down the steep, with one bound he

passed the chasm, and lighted on a point of rock where the foot of man

had never stood before--another brought him to a higher crag, whence a

small green ridge ran round the steepest of the precipice under the

city walls.

One after another his bravest comrades followed. Some missed their

footing and were dashed to atoms on the rocks below; but still another

and another succeeded, for Azimantium knew not fear. The Huns were on

their threshold, and who dared hesitate? A hundred of the most agile

passed the depth, pursued the green path, cleared another and another

spring, reached the city wall, climbed over its ruined stones, and in

the narrow entrance street met the victorious Huns, who had paused to

plunder the first shrine they found.

No words were spoken: nor javelins nor arrows were now used: brow to

brow, and sword to sword, the struggle was renewed. But who can

conquer men who combat for their hearths? The Huns fell, died, or were

driven backs; for that narrow way had no outlet but by the gate

through which they had entered, and the close street where fought the

youth of Azimantium. Not a Grecian glaive fell in vain, and at every

step Menenius trod upon a slain barbarian. Like a reaper, each sweep

of his unceasing arm made a hollow vacancy in the rank before him, and

death grew so fearfully busy amongst the Huns, that vague imaginings

of some supernatural power being armed to their encounter, took

possession of their bosons. The form of the young hero swelled to the

eyes of their fancy. "It is a god!" they cried; "it is a god!" They

shrank from his blows--they turned--they fled. Those who were behind

knew not the cause of terror, but caught it as it came. Each saw his

fellow flying, and, touched by the same dim unnerving influence,

sought but to fly. "A god! a god!" they cried, and rushed forth

tumultuously on those who followed towards the city.

The broken line of Azimantium through which they had forced their way,

now divided into two by the barbarian multitude, still waged terrific

warfare on either side, while Menenius, pressing on with his

companions, drove the ferocious Huns from the gate. The contagious

terror of the fugitives spread to those without, and all were hurrying

down the descent, when one chief rushed through the struggling crowd.

"A god?" he cried. "This hand shall try his immmortality!" And on he

urged his steed against Menenius.

For an instant the Greeks paused in their pursuit, and the barbarians

rallied from their flight, and all eyes turned upon the Hun and his

opponent. The fate of Azimantium--the last relic of Grecian and of

Roman glory--hung upon that brief moment. An instant decided all, for

before fear could become hope in the hearts of the Huns, the charger

of the barbarian chief was wild upon the plain, and he himself, cleft

to the jaws, lay motionless before Menenius. A thousand souls seemed

in the hero's bosom, and plunging into the midst of the enemies, he

drove them down the steep. All Azimantium followed, and their

footsteps were upon the necks of the dying. The rout was complete, and

terror and dismay hung upon the flank of the defeated Huns; but still

Menenius urged the furious pursuit. On, on he cleft his way. He marked

not, he saw not who was near, he heeded not, he felt not what opposed

him. His eye was fixed upon a white and fluttering object which was

borne along amidst the brown masses of the flying barbarians, and

towards it he rent his way, while his unwearied arm smote down all

things that impeded his progress, as if but to make a path to that.

As long as the rout and the pursuit were confined by the narrow sides

of the ascent to Azimantium, he kept that one spot in view; but

afterwards, when the path of the flyers opened out upon the plains,

the horse which bore it carried it away from his straining eyes, while

the gray falling of the evening gave every distant thing a vague,

shadowy, uncertain form, like the objects of the past seen through the

twilight memory of many years.--He followed it to the last--night fell,

and it was lost.

With triumph and with song the children of Azimantium wound up towards

the city. Joy! joy! joy! was in their hearts and victory upon their

brows. They had overcome the myriads, they had conquered the

invincible! they had rolled back the barbarian torrent from the gates

of their glad city, and every step that they took among the unburied

dead of the enemy, told they had won for themselves both victory and

peace. With a quick step, but with a cast-down eye and a knitted brow,

Menenius, the hero of the triumph, followed the path up the hill.

Every voice was glad, every heart seemed joyful, but his; but there

was a fear, a dread, a conviction in his bosom, that his was the home

that had been plundered of its treasure, his was the hearth to be for

ever desolate. He strode on to the town, and joy and glory hailed him;

and gratitude and admiration proclaimed his name to the skies. They

called him the deliverer of his country, the saviour of his native

place--they saluted him as victor--they acknowledged him as chief.

"Honoria?" he asked, "Honoria?" but no one answered. Honoria was gone.

Since the entrance of the Huns into the city, Honoria had not been

seen; and casting himself down upon a couch, he hid his eyes in cloak,

while gladness and rejoicing filled the midnight air, and all

Azimantium was one high festival.

'Twas strange, 'twas wonderfully strange! that one small city of the

greatest empire in the world--while an inundation of barbarians poured

over the land--while fortress and town were cast down and levelled with

the earth--while legions fled dismayed, and nations bowed the head--and

while the very suburbs of Constantinople, the imperial city, beheld

the fearful faces of the Huns,--'twas strange, 'twas wonderfully

strange, that one small city should stand in its solitary freedom,

bold, fearless, and unconquered. 'Twas strange, 'twas wonderfully

strange! Yet the deeds of the children of Azimantium are recorded in

an immortal page, wherein we read, that "they attacked in frequent and

successful sallies, the troops of the Huns, who gradually declined

their dangerous neighbourhood; they rescued from their hands the spoil

and the captives, and recruited their domestic force by the voluntary

association of fugitives and deserters."[20]

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

[Footnote 20: Gibbon.]

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

In every sally, in every irruption made by the Azimantines into the

vast tract of country now covered with the Huns, Menenius was the

leader; and in the fierce incessant warfare thus carried on, he seemed

to find his only consolation, his only enjoyment. At other times, he

would sit sad and gloomy, his vacant eye fixed unobserving upon space,

and his heart meditating sad dreams. In the visions of the night, too,

when weariness dimmed the fire in his heart, and suffered his eyes to

close, the white and fluttering object he had pursued in the fight of

Azimantium would again be carried off, while imagination would fill up

all that sight had not been able to ascertain, and the form of

Honoria, torn away from him by the barbarian, would hold forth its

phantom arms, and implore aid and succour in vain. Then his vigorous

and manly limbs would writhe with the agony of his dreaming soul, till

horror and despair would burst the bands of sleep, and he would start

again upon his feet to wreak his great revenge upon the enemy. And yet

there was a quality in his soul which--although while an adverse sword

was drawn, or a threatening bow was bent, his step was through blood

and carnage, his path was terror and death,--yet there was a quality

in his soul which suspended the uplifted blow when the suppliant and

the conquered clasped his knee; and many was the train captives which

he sent home to the city; the pledges of future security and respect

to Azimantium.

At length when seventy cities had fallen before the Scythian hordes,

and nought but ruins were left to say where they had been, and to

point to after ages the sad moral of an empire's decay, the weak

Theodosius, unable to protect his subjects, or defend himself, agreed

to treat with the mighty Barbarian, and to buy precarious peace with

gold and concession, when he dared not purchase true security by the

sword. Attila dictated the conditions and Theodosius yielded to all

his demands but one, with which the emperor had no power to comply;

and that was, that the city of Azimantium should restore the captives

taken from the Huns. Attila felt how little power a feeble and

degenerate monarch could have over a fearless, noble, unconquerable

race; and he felt, too, that all his own power, great and battle-born

as it was, could scarcely suffice to crush the hearts of Azimantium.

The monarch of all the Eastern empire confessed his inability to

compel the restoration of the captives; and Attila, the terror of the

world, the scourge of God, the conqueror of nations, treated on equal

terms with the small city of Thrace.

Oh, how the heart of Menenius beat, when the monarch of the Huns, by

the mouth of his envoys, proposed that all prisoners taken between his

myriads and the city of Azimantium should be mutually restored! And

oh, how his bosom heaved, when, surrounded by the Hunnish cavalry, the

little knot of Azimantine captives were conducted up the hill! But

were was Honoria? where was the beloved?

The Huns declared that they had delivered all, and Honoria was not

there--Honoria, without whom all was nothing. Ten of the principal

barbarian chiefs were detained as hostages for the safety of her who

had not returned; while the envoys of Attila were sent back to learn

the savage monarch's will. The reply soon came, that if any of the

chiefs of Azimantium dared to trust himself in the dominions of

Attila, he should have free means and aid in making every search for

the captive said to be detained. Maximin and Priscus, the messengers

added, were then on their journey as ambassadors from the imperial

court to the king of the Huns, and if the Azimantine chief would join

them at Sardica, he would be conducted to the presence of Attila, who

loved the brave, even when his enemies.

Menenius sprang upon his horse, and followed by a scanty train, took

the way to Sardica, his heart torn with the eternal struggle of those

two indefatigable athletes, Hope and Fear. Still, as he went, his eye

roamed over the landscape--for even the absorbing sorrow of his own

breast had not obliterated his love for his country--and how painful

was the sight upon which the eye rested! Desolation--the vacant

cottage, the extinguished hearth, the threshold stained with blood,

the raven and the vulture gorged and gorging, the mangled and unburied

slain, the overthrown cities, the deserted streets through which the

speedy grass was already growing up where multitudes had trod--the

grass--the verdant and the speedy grass, which, like the fresh joys of

this idle world, soon covers over the place that we have held when

once we are passed away--ruin, destruction, death--such was the aspect

of the land. And as he gazed and saw--the thought of all the broken

ties and torn fellowships, the sweet associations and dear thrilling

sympathies dissolved, the wreck of every noble art, the scattering of

every finer feeling, which the blasting, withering, consuming

lightning of war had there accomplished, found an answering voice deep

in the recesses of his own wrung and agonized heart. At the ruins of

Naissus--for one stone of the city scarcely remained upon the

other--he joined the legates of the emperor, and with them pursued his way.

His mind was not attuned to much commune with his fellows; and though

Priscus, with learned lore, tempted him to speak of science, and arts,

and philosophy; and Maximin, with courtly urbanity, which softened and

ornamented the sterner firmness of his character, and Vigilius, the

interpreter, with subtle and persuasive art, strove to win the

Azimantine chief to unbend from his deep gloom, Menenius could neither

forget nor forgive, and sadness was at once in his heart and upon his

brow.

Over high mountains, through brown woods, across dark and turbulent

rivers, the ambassadors were led on by that part of the barbarian army

which was destined to be both their protection and guide. They saw but

few of the inhabitants of the country, and little cultivated ground.

Droves of oxen and sheep seemed the riches of the land. Pasture

appeared to be the employment of the people, and war their sport.

Their march was regulated by the Huns who accompanied them, and by

them also was each day's journey limited. The spot for pitching their

tents was exactly pointed out, and the hour for departure was not only

named, but enforced. Each day, long before that hour came, Menenius

was on foot, and he would wander forth in the morning sunshine, and

gaze through the deep vacuities in the woods, or let his eyes rest

upon the misty and uncertain mountains, while the vast wild wideness

of the land would force upon his heart the madness of hoping that his

search would prove successful.

Thus had he gone forth one morning, when, in the glade of the forest

where their tents were raised, he saw before him one of the barbarians

whom he had never beheld before. The cold stern eye of Menenius rested

on him for an instant, and then turned to the dim woods again. There

was nothing pleasing in his form or in his countenance, and Menenius

was passing on. He was short in stature, but broad as a giant, and

with each muscular limb swelling with vigour and energy. His head was

large and disproportioned--his face flat--his brow prominent--his

colour swarthy. A few long and straggling hairs upon his chin, and

deep lines of powerful thought, told that he had long reached manhood,

while his white and shining teeth, and his bright keen, speckless eye,

spoke vigour undecayed by one year too many.

"Whither stray'st thou, stranger?" said the barbarian; "can a Greek

enjoy the aspect of solitary nature; can the dweller in cities--the

pitiful imitator of the meanest of insects, the ant--can he look with

pleasure on the wilds that were given man for his best, and original

home?"

"Thou art ignorant, Hun!" replied Menenius, "and with the pride of

ignorance, despisest that which thou dost not comprehend. Man, in

raising cities and ornamenting them with art, only follows the

dictates of nature herself. To the brutes she gave the wild world, but

added no intellect to her gift, for the world, in its wildest state,

was sufficient. To man she gave intellect, and the whole universe,

full of materials, on which to employ it. He who is most elevated by

nature herself, will use her gifts in the most diversified ways, and

he who least uses them, approaches nearest to the brute.--Nay,

barbarian, roll not thy furious eyes on me; I sought thee not, and he

who speaks to me must hear the truth."

For several minutes, however, the Hun did roll his eyes with an

expression of fury that strangely contrasted with his perfect silence.

Not a word did he speak--not a quiver of the lip betrayed the

suppression of any angry tone, and it was not till the fierce glance

of his wrath was completely subdued, that he replied, "Vain son of a

feeble face, upon whose necks Attila, my lord and thine, has trod,

boast not the use of arts which have reduced thy people to what they

are, and made them alike unfit for war and peace. Look at their bones

whitening in the fields; look at their cities levelled with the

plains; look at their manifold and wicked laws, which protect the

strong and oppress the weak; look at their silken and luxurious

habits, which effeminate their bodies and degrade their minds. This is

the product of the arts thou praisest. This is the degrading

civilisation that thou huggest to thy heart."

"Not so, Hun," replied Menenius: "the corruption which thou hast seen

with too sure an eye, springs not from art, or knowledge, or

civilisation. It springs from the abuse of wealth and power. The Roman

empire was as a man who, covered with impenetrable armour, had

conquered all his enemies, and finding none other to struggle with,

had cast away his shield and breastplate; and lay down on a sunny bank

to sleep. In his slumber, new adversaries came upon him, his armour

was gone, and he was overthrown. The armour of the empire was courage,

decision, and patriotism, the slumber was luxury, and thus it was that

the myriads of thy lord penetrated to Constantinople, and destroyed

the cities. The arts thou despisest, because thou knowest them not,

had no share in bringing on the slumber which has proved so

destructive; but let the Huns beware, for the giant may awake."

"Ha!" cried the barbarian, with a triumphant smile, "what is the city

that could stand an hour, if Attila bade it fall?"

"Azimantium!" replied Menenius.

The Hun threw back his broad shoulders, and glared upon the Thracian

chief with a glance more of surprise than anger--then gazed at him

from head to foot, visited each particular feature with his eye, and

marked every vigorous and well-turned limb with a look of scrutinizing

inquiry. "Thou art Menenius!" he exclaimed abruptly, after he had

satisfied himself, "Thou art Menenius! 'Tis well! 'Tis well!--I deemed

thou hadst been Maximin."

"And had I been so," asked Menenius, "would that have made a

difference in thy language?"

"Son of a free and noble race," replied the Hun, "ask me no further.

That which may well become thee to speak, would ill befit the

suppliant messenger of a conquered king; and that which I would say to

the vanquished and the crouching, could not be applied to the brave

and the independent. Happy had it been for thy country had she

possessed many like to thee, for then she would have fallen with

honour: and happy, too, had it been for Attila, my lord, for then his

triumphs would have been more glorious."

Menenius was silent. The tone of the Hun was changed. The rudeness of

his manner was gone; and though he spoke with the dignity of one whose

nation was rich in conquests, there was no longer in his language the

assumption of haughty superiority which he had at first displayed.

"And thou," said Menenius, at last--"Who am I to fancy thee?"

"I am Onegesius, the servant of Attila the King," replied the Hun;

"and mark me, chieftain of a brave people. Hold but little communion

with the slaves of Theodosius as they pass through the dominions of

the Huns. The lion may be stung by the viper, if he lie down where he

is coiled. Now, farewell;" and thus speaking the Hun turned, and with

a proud, firm step, each fall of which seemed planted as for a combat,

he took his path away from the Grecian tents.

* * * *

* * * *

* * * *

The ambassadors pursued their way, and, after some days, encamped late

at night upon the banks of the dark and rushing Tebiscus.

The heavens were obscured by heavy leaden clouds driven by the wind

into large masses, through the breaks of which, a dull and sickly moon

glared forth with a fitful and a watery light upon the misty earth.

The dim shapes of shadowy mountains, too, were vaguely sketched upon

the sky, covered with quick passing shades, while ever and anon the

winds howled forth their melancholy song, a wild and sombre anthem to

the grim genius of the scene around.

The tents were pitched, the plain meal was over, the mead had passed

round, and sleep had relaxed every weary muscle of the travellers'

limbs, when suddenly a hurricane rushed over the whole scene, the

river rose, the rain came down in torrents, and the temporary

encampment was in a moment overthrown. Drenched and terrified, the

legates of the Emperor disengaged themselves with difficulty from

their falling pavilions, and called loudly for help. Noise and

confusion spread around, and the roaring stream rising quickly over

the meadow in which they had been sleeping, the howling of the

overpowering wind, and the heavy pattering of the rain, added to the

disturbance and fear of the scene.

A moment after, a blazing light upon the nearest hill rose like a

beacon to direct their steps, and thither the ambassadors were led by

the Huns.

Menenius, after he had provided for the safety of his horses and

attendants, followed the rest. As he approached the light, he saw, by

the figures of several Huns supplying a large fire of dry reeds with

fresh fuel, that it had been raised on purpose to guide any travellers

overtaken by the storm, to a place of shelter and repose. Attention

and kindness awaited him, and he was instantly led into a large wooden

house, where Priscus and Maximin were already seated by a cheerful

hearth, at which a young widow, the wife of Attila's dead brother

Bleda, was busy in the gentle cares of hospitality. Along the extreme

side of the apartment was drawn a line of Scythian slaves, armed as

became those who waited on the widow of a king; and as Menenius

entered, their rank was just closing, after having given exit to a

form which made the Thracian chief, start forward, as his eye caught

the last flutter of her retiring robes. "Who passed?"--he exclaimed,

abruptly, forgetting, in the anxious haste of the moment, all idle

ceremony. "Who passed but now?"

"Ella, the daughter of the king, and her maidens," was the reply. The

heart of Menenius sunk, and his eye lost its eager fire. In a few

brief words he excused his abruptness; but the widow of Bleda was one

of those whose kind hearts find excuses better than we can urge them.

"The maiden is fair," she said, "and well merits a stranger's glance.

In truth, she knew not that there was another guest of such a mien

about to be added to our hearth, or she would have staid to pour the

camus and the mead. Much would she grieve were she not here to show

that part of hospitality." And Bleda's widow sent a maiden to tell her

niece that Menenius, the Azimantine chief, sat by the fire untended.

She came--a dark-haired girl, with a splendid brow, and eyes as pure

and bright as if a thousand diamonds had been melted to furnish forth

their deep and flashing light. A rose as glorious as that upon the

brow of morning warmed her cheek, and a quick untaught grace moved in

her full and easy limbs, like those of a wild deer. But she was not

Honoria; and the eye of Menenius rested on her, as on a fair statue,

which, in its cold difference of being, however lovely, however it may

call upon admiration, wakens no sympathy within our warmer bosoms.

She, however; gazed on him, as on something new, and strange, and

bright; and there was in her glance both the untutored fire of artless

nature, and the fearless pride of kingly race, and early acquaintance

with power. For a moment she stood, and contemplated the Thracian

chief, with her sandalled foot advanced, and her head thrown back, and

her lustrous eye full of wild pleasure; but then suddenly a red flush

rose in her cheek, and spread over her brow, and, with a trembling

hand, she filled a cup of mead, touched it with her lips, gave it to

Menenius, and again retired.

Menenius lay down to rest, but his dreams were not of her whom he had

seen. Gay visions of the former time rose up and visited his brain.

From out the dreary tomb of the past, long-perished moments of joy

and hope were called, as by an angel's voice, to bless his

slumber--Honoria--Azimantium--happiness.

Pass we over the onward journey. After a long and tedious march, the

ambassadors arrived at the royal village of the Huns, which was then

surrounded by uncultured woods, though at present the rich vineyards

of Tokay spread round the land in which it stood. Houses of wood were

the only structures which were boasted by the chief city of the

monarch of one half the earth; and to the eye of the Greeks,

everything seemed poor and barbarous in the simplicity of the Huns.

Yet, even lowly as were their cottage palaces, they had contrived to

bestow much art on their construction. Fantastic trelliswork, and rich

carved screens, and wreathed columns, cut of polished and variegated

woods, were scattered in every direction; and while the first faint

efforts of an approach to taste were to be found in the taller

buildings and in the more correct proportions of the royal dwellings,

the idea of war--the national sport and habitual passion, of the

people--was to be seen in the imitative towers and castles with which

they had decorated their dwellings of peace.

Attila himself had not yet returned from his last excursion; but a day

did not elapse before his coming was announced by warrior after

warrior who arrived, their horses covered with gold, and their

follower's laden with spoil. All his subjects went forth to gratulate

their conquering monarch; and the Greeks, standing on a little

eminence, beheld his approach. First came innumerable soldiers, in

dark irregular masses, and then appeared chieftain after chieftain,

all the various nations that he ruled. Then was seen a long train of

maidens, in white robes, walking in two lines, each bearing aloft in

her hand one end of a fine white veil, which, stretching across to the

other side, canopied a row of younger girls, who scattered flowers

upon the path. Behind these, mounted on a strong black horse, clothed

in one uniform dark robe, without jewel, or gold, or ornament

whatever, came the monarch whose sway stretched over all the northern

world.

As he advanced, he paused a moment, while his attendants raised a

small silver table, on which the wife of one of his favourite chiefs

offered him refreshments on his return. He was still at some distance,

but the Greeks could behold him bend courteously to the giver, and

raise the cup to his lips. The table was then removed, and onward came

the king--nearer--more near--till Menenius might distinguish the

features of the dark Hun he had met in the forest.

Menenius sat in the lonely hut which had been appointed for his

dwelling, and while the shadows of night fell like the darkening hues

of time, as they come deeper and deeper upon the brightness of our

youth, hope waxed faint in his heart, and dim despondency spread like

twilight over his mind. Alone, in the midst of a wild and barbarous

land, the depths o, whose obscure forests were probably unknown even

to the fierce monarch whose sway they owned, how could he, unfriended,

unaided, dream that he would ever discover that lost jewel, which had

been torn from the coronet of his happiness? Never! never! never to

behold her again! To journey through a weary life, and fall into the

chill, solitary tomb, without the blessed light of those dear eyes

which had been the starlike lamps of his existence--to dwell for ever

in ignorance of her fate, while his fancy, like the damned in Hades,

could find nothing but the bitter food of horror and despair--Such was

his destiny.

"Attila the king!" exclaimed a loud voice, as he pondered, and

Menenius stood face to face with the Monarch of the North, while the

light of the pinewood torch glared red upon the dark features of the

Scythian, and gave to those grim and powerful lines a sterner

character and fiercer shade. His voice was gentle, however; and,

seating himself on the couch, he spoke with words which had in them a

tone of unshared, undisputed, unlimited authority, but elevated by the

consciousness of mental greatness, and tempered by admiration and

esteem.

"Chief of Azimantium," said the Hun, "while the slaves of a vain and

treacherous king wait long ere they are permitted to breathe the same

air with Attila, the king of nations disdains not to visit the leader

of the brave. Mark me, thou chief of the last free sons of Greece! The

sword of thy country is broken--the sceptre of thine emperors passed

away. The seed is gathered which shall sow grass in the palaces of

kings--the clouds are collected which shall water the harvest of

desolation. Greek, I boast not of my victories--it sufficeth Attila to

conquer. But calmly, reasonably measure thy people against mine, and

think whether the small band of Azimantines, were they all inspired by

the God of battles with courage like thine own, could save the whole

of degenerate Greece from the innumerable and warrior people of the

north. What--what can Azimantium do, all unsupported, against a world?"

"Each son of Azimantium," replied Menenius, "can offer up a hecatomb

of Scythian strangers, and give his soul to heaven upon the wings of

victory. This will Azimantium--and then--perish Greece!"

A shadow passed across the monarch's brow.

"Be not too proud," he said, "be not too proud! A better fate may yet

befall thy city and thy land. So well does Attila love Azimantium,

that he claims her as his own from the Greek emperor; and to win her

citizens to willingness, he offers his daughter--his loved--his lovely

daughter to her chief. Pause!" he added, seeing the quivering of

Menenius' lip: "pause and think! Reply not! but remember that thus may

Greece be saved--that the safety or destruction of thy land is upon

thy tongue. Pause, and let the sun rise twice upon the meditation of

thine answer."

Thus spoke the monarch, and in a moment after, the Azimantine chief

was once more left to solitude. Deep and bitter was the smile of

contempt that curled the lip of Menenius; for in the proud glory of

his own heart, he forgot how low Greece had fallen amongst the people

of the earth, and in the imperishable memory of his love, the mention

of another bride was but as the raving of insanity. "I!--I!--Menenius

of Azimantium! wed the daughter of the barbarian! I become a subject

of the Hun!--I forget Honoria!"

Another day went down, and Menenius, with the Grecian ambassador, was

seated in the halls of Attila, at the banquet which the proud monarch

gave at once to the envoys of the Eastern and Western empire. On a

raised platform in the midst of the hall was the couch and table of

Attila, covered with fine linen and precious stuffs, while fifty small

tables on either side were spread out for the guests invited to the

royal feast. An open space was before the board of the monarch, and

behind him the hall was filled with a dark fantastic crowd of guards,

and attendants, and barbarian slaves.

On the same couch with Attila sat his daughter

Iërnë--that beautiful daughter whom Menenius had beheld at the

dwelling of Bleda's widow; and as the Azimantine chief passed by, and

poured the required libation to "Attila the Brave," the maiden's eyes

fixed motionless on the ground, and the blood rose fast into her

cheek, like the red morning sun rising up into the pale twilight sky.

Menenius passed on unchanged and cold, and took his place with

Maximin, the ambassador of Theodosius.

The fare of Attila was plain and rude, but the tables of his guest

were spread with all that the fearful luxury of Rome itself could have

culled from earth and sea. Ere long the cupbearer filled the golden

goblet, and the monarch, rising from his couch, drank to Berec, the

bravest of the Huns. Again, after a pause, he rose, but the cup was

given him by his daughter, and Attila drank to Menenius, the bravest

of the Greeks. Quick and sparkling flowed the mead, and then an old

gray man poured to the wild chords of a barbaric lyre, a song of

triumph and of battles, while at every close he proclaimed, Attila's

bridal day. At length a bright troop of young and happy maidens led

in, surrounded by their linked arms, three brighter than themselves,

from whom the Monarch of the North was about to choose a new partner

for his mighty throne. Their faces were veiled; but through the long

white robes that clothed them shone out that radiant light of grace

and beauty which nothing can conceal. Slowly, as if reluctant, they

were brought into the monarch's presence.

Why quivered the lip of Menenius? Why strained his eye upon that first

veiled figure? The veil is gone!--To him! to him she stretched forth

her hands!--The table and the banquet are dashed to atoms at his feet;

and Honoria is in Menenius' arms.