A thousand swords sprang from their sheaths--a thousand javelins

quivered round the hall. "Traitor! Madman! Sacrilegious slave!" was

shouted in a thousand fierce voices, and a thousand barbarous tongues.

But unquailing in the midst stood the Azimantine chief--his left arm

round the beating heart of his young bride--his right, armed with that

sword which had bowed many a hero to the dust, raised appealing to the

Scythian king. "Monarch of the Huns," he cried, "this is the captive I

have come to seek. As you are a man--as you are a warrior--as you are

a king!--by your oath--by your honour--by your justice! yield her to

me, her promised husband, and put us safely off your land. Then if of

all these brave and mighty men," he added with a frown, "who draw the

sword against a single Greek, there be but ten who will meet me brow

to brow on the battle plain, I will write it in their blood that I am

neither slave nor traitor, but a bold man, who dares to claim and to

defend his own!"

Fierce wrath, stern revenge, majestic admiration, had swept over the

countenance of Attila, like the broken masses of a rent thunder-cloud

hurled over the sky by the succeeding blast.

"Hold!" he cried; "Warriors! put up your swords. Chief of Azimantium!

you rob me of a bride; but if this be the captive you have come to

seek, Attila's word is given, and safely, surely, she shall be

returned to her home, were she as lovely as the moon, But with you,

Greek, with your companions, Maximin, Priscus, and Vigilius, the king

has still to deal, and, after what has befallen this day, expect

nothing more than justice." As he spoke, he rolled his dark eyes

fearfully around, then suddenly raised his hand, exclaiming, "Now,

warriors! now!" and before he could strike a blow, Menenius,

unprepared, was seized on all sides, and bound tight in every limb,

together with the envoys from Theodosius.

All, for an instant, was wild confusion. Honoria, with the other

women, were hurried from the hall; and Menenius found himself ranged

with Priscus and Maximin before the throne of Attila; while, in the

deathlike, ashy, quivering countenance of Vigilius, the interpreter,

who stood beside him, he read detected guilt and certain death.

"Hired murderers, sent by an imperial slave to slay his conqueror and

master," exclaimed Attila, after he had gazed for some minutes upon

the Greeks, "do ye not tremble to find your baseness exposed in the

eyes of all the universe? Stand forth, Edecon, and tell the warriors

of Attila, how these men came here, under the garb of ambassadors, to

slay by treachery, in peace, the king that, by battle, they could not

vanquish in war. And you warriors, lay not your hands upon your

swords--Attila will do justice to Attila."

At the command of the king, Edecon, who had been ambassador for Attila

at Constantinople, stood forth, and declared, that in an interview

with the Eunuch Chrysaphius, that favourite of the weak Monarch of the

East had proposed to him the assassination of his master, and offered

him an immense reward. He had affected to consent, and had that very

day received a purse of gold and jewels from Vigilius, the

interpreter, who was privy to the whole. The plot he had instantly

communicated to Attila, and the purse he now produced. Maximin and

Priscus, he doubted not, were cunning men, sent to accomplish the

scheme with art; and Menenius, beyond question, was the daring

murderer to strike the final blow.

Maximin spoke loudly in his own defence, and Priscus learnedly on the

improbability of the tale, while the mouth of Vigilius opened, and his

lips quivered, but no sound found utterance. Menenius was silent, but

he fixed his bold eye upon Attila, who glared upon them all like a

tiger crouching for the spring.

"Maximin and Priscus," said the king, at length, "ye are innocent! Let

them be freed. As for yon trembling traitor, guilt is in his eye and

on his cheek; but the sword that should smite Vigilius would be

disgraced for ever, and find no blood in his coward heart. Let him buy

his life, and pay two hundred pounds weight of gold to him he sought

to bribe.--As for thee, Chief of Azimantium--"

"Thou knowest I am guiltless, Hun!" replied Menenius, "and bonds such

as these have pressed upon my arms too long."

"Of thy guilt or innocence I know nought," replied the King; "but this

I know, that I will guard thee safely till thine Emperor send me the

head of Chrysaphius, the murdering slave who first sought to tempt my

subjects into treachery. Away with Vigilius, till he pay the purchase

of his base life; and away with this Azimantine, till Orestes and

Eslaw, my envoys, bring me the head of the eunuch from my slave the

Emperor."

* * * *

* * * *

* * * *

In the solitude of a dark unlighted hut, stretched upon a bear's hide,

which had been cast down for his bed, lay the young Chief of

Azimantium, pondering his hard fate, while the sounds of many a gay

and happy, voice without, struck with painful discord upon his

unattuned ear. Dark and melancholy, the fancies flitted across his

brain like the visions of dead friends seen in the dim atmosphere of

troubled sleep, and he revolved in his mind that bold cowardice of his

ancestors, which taught them to fly from the sorrows and dangers of

their fate, by the sure but gloomy passage of the tomb. Was it virtue,

he asked himself, or vice? wisdom, or insanity, that allied the last

despair to the last hope, and made self-murder the cure of other ills?

And, as he thought, sorrow took arms against his better mind, and

whispered like a friend, "Die! Die, Menenius! Peace is in the grave!"

A new and painful struggle was added to the evils of his state, and

still he thought of death as hours and days went by.

Nor was this all; for, as the Dacians tame the lions for the imperial

shows, the Hum strove to break his spirit, and subdue his high heart,

by reiterated anxieties and cares. Now, he was told of wars with the

Empire, and the fall of Greece: now, strange whispers were poured into

his ear, of some direful fate reserved for himself: now, he heard of

the great annual sacrifice offered at the altar of Mars, where a

hundred captive maidens washed the platform with their blood. But

still, like the great hero of the mighty founder of the Epic song, he

rose above the waves that poured upon his head, and still answered,

"Never! never!" when the name of Azimantium was connected with the

dominion of the Huns.

It was one night when a darker melancholy than ever oppressed his

mind, and despondency sat most heavy on his soul, that the door was

cast open, and a blaze of light burst upon his sight. His eyes,

familiar with the darkness, refused at first to scan the broad glare;

but when at length they did their office, he beheld, in the midst of

her slaves, that fair girl Iërnë, whose offered hand he had refused.

Her cheek, which had been as warm as the last cloud of the summer

evening was now as pale as the same cloud when, spirit-like, it flits

across the risen moon. But her eye had lost none of its lustre; and it

seemed, in truth, as if her whole soul had concentrated there to give

fuller effulgence to its living light.

"Chief of Azimantium," said the maiden, "it is my father's will that

you be freed, and I--that the generosity of Attila should know no

penury--I have prayed, that though Menenius slighted Iërnë, he should

wed the woman of his love even in Iërnë's father's halls. My prayer

has been granted--the banquet is prepared--the maiden is warned, and

the blushes are on her cheek--a priest of thine own God is

ready.--Rise, then, Chief of Azimantium, and change a prison for thy

bridal bed. Rise, and follow the slighted Iërnë."

"O lady!" answered Menenius, "call not thyself by so unkind a name.

Write on your memory, that, long ere my eyes rested on your

loveliness, Honoria was bound to my heart by ties of old affection;

and, as your soul is generous and noble, fancy all the gratitude that

your blessed words waken in my bosom. Oh! Let the thought of having

raised me from despair--of having freed me from bonds--of having

crowned me with happiness, find responsive joy in your bosom, and let

the blessing that you give, return and bless you also."

Iërnë pressed her hand firm upon her forehead, and gazed upon Menenius

while he spoke, with eyes whose bright but unsteady beams seemed

borrowed from the shifting meteors of the night. The graceful arch of

her full coral lip quivered; but she spoke not; and, waving with her

hand, the attendants loosened the chains from the hands of the

Azimantine, and, starting on his feet, Menenius was free.

* * * *

* * * *

* * * *

In the brightness and the blaze of a thousand torches, the chief of

Azimantium stood in the halls of Attila, with the hand of Honoria

clasped in his own. Sorrow and anxiety had touched, but not stolen,

her beauty--had changed, but not withered, a charm. Every glance was

softened--every feature had a deeper interest--and joy shone the

brighter for the sorrow that was gone, like the mighty glory of the

sun when the clouds and the tempests roll away.

The dark monarch of the barbarians gazed on the work he had wrought,

and the joy that he had given; and a triumphant splendour, more

glorious than the beams of battle, radiated from his brow. "Chief of

Azimantium," he said, "thou art gold tried in the fire, and Attila

admires thee though a Greek--not for the beauty of thy form--let girls

and pitiful limners think of that!--not for thy strength and daring

alone--such qualities are for soldiers and gladiators; but for thy

dauntless, unshrinking, unalterable resolution--the virtue of kings,

the attribute of gods--Were Attila not Attila, he would be Menenius.

Thou hast robbed me of a bride! Thou hast taken a husband from my

daughter; but Attila can conquer--even himself. Sound the hymeneal!

Advance to the altar! Yon priest has long been a captive among us,

but his blessing on Honoria and Menenius shall bring down freedom

on his own head."

The solemnity was over--the barbarian guests were gone, and through

the flower-strewed passages of the palace, Honoria and Menenius were

led to their bridal chamber; while a thousand thrilling feelings of

joy, and hope, and thankfulness, blended into one tide of delight,

poured from their mutual hearts through all their frames, like the

dazzling sunshine of the glorious noon streaming down some fair valley

amidst the mountains, and investing every object round in misty

splendour, and dreamlike light. The fruition of long delayed hope, the

gratification of early and passionate love, was not all; but it seemed

as if the dark cloudy veil between the present and the future had been

rent for them by some divine hand, and that a long vista of happy

years lay before their eyes in bright perspective to the very horizon

of being. Such were the feelings of both their bosoms, as, with linked

hands and beating hearts; they approached the chamber assigned to

them; but their lips were silent, and it was only the love-lighted eye

of Menenius, as it rested on the form of his bride, and the timid,

downcast, but not unhappy glance of Honoria, that spoke the world of

thoughts that crowded in their breasts.

A band of young girls, with the pale Iërnë at their head, met them

singing at the door of their chamber. The maidens strewed their couch

with flowers, and Iërnë gave the marriage cup to the hand of Honoria;

but as she did so, there was a wild uncertain light in her eye, and a

quivering eagerness on her lip, that made Menenius hold Honoria's arm

as she was about to raise the chalice to her mouth.

"Ha! I had forgot," said the princess, taking back the goblet with a

placid smile, "I must drink first, and then, before the moon be eleven

times renewed, I too shall be a bride. Menenius the brave! Honoria the

fair! Happy lovers, I drink to your good rest! May your sleep be

sound! May your repose be unbroken!"

And with a calm and graceful dignity, she drank a third part of the

mead. Honoria drank also, according to the custom; Menenius drained

the cup, and the maidens withdrawing, left the lovers to their couch.

Honoria hid her eyes upon the bosom of Menenius, and the warrior,

pressing her to his bosom, spoke gentle words of kind assurance. But

in a moment her hand grew deathly cold. "Menenius, I am faint," she

cried: "What is it that I feel? My heart seems is it were suddenly

frozen, and my blood changed into snow.--O Menenius! O my beloved! we

are poisoned; I am dying! That cup of mead--that frantic girl--she has

doomed us and herself to death."

As she spoke, through his own frame the same chill and icy feelings

spread. A weight was upon his heart, his warm and fiery blood grew

cold, the strong sinews lost their power, the courageous soul was

quelled, and he gazed in speechless, unnerved horror on Honoria,

while, shade by shade, the living rose left her cheek, and the "pale

standard" of life's great enemy marked his fresh conquest on her brow.

Her eyes, which, in the hour of joy and expectation, had been bent to

the earth, now fixed on his with a long, deep, earnest, imploring gaze

of last affection. Her arms, no longer timid, circled his form, and

the last beatings of her heart throbbed against his bosom. "Thou art

dying!" she said, as she saw the potent hemlock spread death over his

countenance, "thou too art dying! Menenius will not leave Honoria even

in this last long journey.--We go--we go together!"

And faintly she raised her hand, and pointed to the sky, where,

through the casement, the bright autumn moon poured her melancholy

splendour over the Hungarian hills. A film came over her eyes--a dark

unspeakable gray shadow and oh, it was horrible to see the bright

angel part from its clay tabernacle!

In the athletic frame of the lover, the poison did not its cruel

office so rapidly. He saw her fade away before his eyes--he saw her

pass like a flower that had lived its summer day, in perfume and

beauty, and faded with the falling of the night. He could

not--he would not so lose her. He would call for aid--some precious

antidote should give her back to life. He unclasped the faint arms

that still clung upon his neck. He rose upon his feet, with limbs

reduced to infant weakness. His brain reeled. His heart seemed

crushed beneath a mountain: but still he staggered forth. He heard

voices before. "Help! help!" he cried, "Help, ere Honoria die!"

With the last effort of existence, he rushed forward, tore

open the curtain before him, reeled forward to the throne on

which Attila held his midnight council--stretched forth his arms--but

power--voice--sense--being--passed away, and Menenius fell dead at

the monarch's feet.

"Who has done this?" exclaimed the king, in a voice of thunder. "Who

has done this? By the god of battles, if it be my own children, they

shall die! Is this the fate of Menenius? Is this the death that the

hero of Azimantium should have known? No! no! no! red on the

battle-field--gilded with the blood of enemies--the last of a slain,

but not a conquered host--so should the chief have died. Menenius!

Kinsman in glory! Attila weeps for the fate of his enemy!"

"Lord of the world! Lord of the world!" exclaimed a voice that hurried

from the chambers beyond, "thy daughter is dead in the arms of her

maidens; and dying, she sent thee word, that sooner than forbear to

slay her enemies, she had drunk of the cup which she had mingled for

them."

* * * *

* * * *

* * * *

Attila smote his breast. "She was my daughter," he exclaimed, "she

was, indeed, my daughter! But let her die, for she has brought a stain

upon the hospitality of her father; and the world will say that

Attila, though bold, was faithless."

There was woe in Azimantium, while with slow and solemn pomp, the

ashes of Honoria and Menenius were borne into the city.

In the face of the assembled people, the deputies of Attila, by oath

and imprecation, purified their lord from the fate of the lovers. The

tale was simple, and soon told, and the children of Azimantium

believed.

Days, and years, and centuries, rolled by, and a race of weak and

effeminate monarchs; living alone by the feebleness and barbarism of

their enemies, took care that Azimantium should not long remain as a

monument of reproach to their degenerate baseness. Nation followed

nation; dynasty succeeded dynasty; a change came over the earth and

its inhabitants, and Azimantium was no more. Still, however, the rock

on which it stood bears its bold front towards the stormy sky, with

the same aspect of courageous daring wherewith its children

encountered the tempest of the Huns.

A few ruins, too--rifted walls, and dark fragments of fallen

fanes--the pavement of some sweet domestic hearth, long cold--a

graceful capital, or a broken statue, still tell that a city has been

there; and through the country round about, the wild and scattered

peasantry, still in the song, and the tale, and the vague tradition,

preserve in various shapes, The Story of Azimantium!

THE FISHERMAN OF SCARPHOUT.

TWO CHAPTERS FROM AN OLD HISTORY.

CHAPTER I.

About midway between Ostend and Sluys, exposed to all the fitful wrath

of the North Sea, lies a long track of desolate shore, frowning no

fierce defiance back upon the waves that dash in fury against it;

but--like a calm and even spirit, which repels by its very tranquil

humility the heat of passion and the overbearing of pride--opposing

nought to the angry billows, but a soft and lowly line of yellow

sands. There nothing grows which can add comfort to existence; there

nothing flourishes which can beautify or adorn. Torn from the depths

of ocean, and cast by the storm upon the shore, sea-shells and

variegated weeds will indeed sometimes deck the barren beach, and now

and then a green shrub, or a stunted yellow flower, wreathing its

roots amidst the shifting sand, will here and there appear upon the

low hills called _Dunes_. But with these exceptions, all is waste and

bare, possessing alone that portion of the sublime which is derived

from extent and desolation.

It may be well conceived that the inhabitants of such a spot are few.

Two small villages, and half-a-dozen isolated cottages, are the only

vestiges of human habitation to be met with in the course of many a

mile; and at the time to which this tale refers, these few dwellings

were still fewer. That time was long, long ago, at a period when

another state of society existed in Europe; and when one class of men

were separated from all others by barriers which time, the great

grave-digger of all things, has now buried beneath the dust of past-by

years.

Nevertheless, the inhabitants of that track of sandy country were less

different in habits, manners, and even appearance, from those who

tenant it at present, than might be imagined; and in original

character were very much the same, combining in their disposition

traits resembling the shore on which their habitations stood, and the

element by the side of which they lived--simple, unpolished, yet

gentle and humble, and at the same time wild, fearless, and rash as

the stormy sea itself.

I speak of seven centuries ago--a long time, indeed! but nevertheless

then, even then, there were as warm affections stirring in the world,

as bright domestic love, as glad hopes and chilling fears as

now--there were all the ties of home and kindred, as dearly felt, as

fondly cherished, as boldly defended as they can be in the present day;

and out upon the dull imagination and cold heart that cannot feel the

link of human sympathy binding us to our fellow beings even of the

days gone by!

Upon a dull; cold, melancholy evening, in the end of autumn, one of

the fishermen of the shore near Scarphout gazed over the gray sea as

it lay before his eye, rolling in, with one dense line of foaming

waves pouring for ever over the other. The sky was black and heavy,

covered with clouds of a mottled leaden hue, growing darker towards

the north-west, and the gusty whistling of the rising wind told of the

coming storm. The fisherman himself was a tall, gaunt man, with hair

of a grizzled black, strong marked, but not unpleasant features, and

many a long furrow across his broad, high brow.

The spot on which he stood was a small sand-hill on the little bay

formed by a projecting ridge of Dunes, at the extremity of which stood

the old castle of Scarphout--even then in ruins, and at the time of

high tide, separated from the land by the encroaching waves, but soon

destined to be swept away altogether, leaving nothing but a crumbling

tower here and there rising above the waters. Moored in the most

sheltered part of the bay, before his eyes, were his two boats; and

behind him, underneath the sand-hills that ran out to the old castle,

was the cottage in which he and his family had dwelt for ten years.

He stood and gazed; and then turning to a boy dressed in the same

uncouth garments as himself, he said, "No, Peterkin, no! There will be

a storm--I will not go to-night. Go, tell your father and the other

men I will not go. I expect my son home from Tournai, and I will not

go out on a stormy night when he is coming back after a long absence."

The boy ran away along the shore to some still lower cottages, which

could just be seen at the opposite point, about two miles off; and the

fisherman turned towards his own dwelling. Four rooms were all that it

contained; and the door which opened on the sands led into the first

of these: but the chamber was clean and neat; everything within it

showed care and extreme attention; the brazen vessels above the wide

chimney, the pottery upon the shelves, all bore evidence of good

housewifery; and as the fisherman of Scarphout entered his humble

abode, the warm blaze of the fire, and the light of the resin candle

welcomed him to as clean an apartment as could be found in the palace

of princes.

He looked round it with a proud and satisfied smile; and the arms of

his daughter, a lovely girl of fourteen, were round his neck in a

moment, while she exclaimed in a glad tone, speaking to her mother who

was busy in the room beyond, "Oh, mother, he will not go out to sea

to-night!"

Her mother, who had once been very beautiful--nay, was so still--came

forth, and greeted her husband with a calm, glad kiss; and sitting

down, the father pulled off his heavy boots, and warmed his strong

hands over the cheerful blaze.

The wind whistled louder and louder still, the sea moaned as if

tormented by the demon of the storm, and few, but dashing drops of

heavy rain, came upon the blast, and rattled on the casements of the

cottage.

"It will be a fearful night!" said the fisherman, speaking to his

daughter. "Emiline, give me the book, and we will read the prayer for

those that wander in the tempest."

His daughter turned to one of the wooden shelves; and from behind some

very homely articles of kitchen furniture, brought forth one of the

splendid books of the Romish church, from which her father read a

prayer aloud, while mother and daughter knelt beside him.

Higher still grew the storm as the night came on; more frequent and

more fierce were the howling gusts of wind; and the waves of the

stirred-up ocean, cast in thunder upon the shore, seemed to shake the

lowly cottage as if they would fain have swept it from the earth.

Busily did Dame Alice, the fisherman's wife, trim the wood fire;

eagerly and carefully did she prepare the supper for her husband and

her expected son; and often did Emiline listen to hear if, in the

lulled intervals of the storm, she could catch the sound of coming

steps.

At length, when the rushing of the wind and waves seemed at their

highest, there came a loud knocking at the door, and the fisherman

started up to open it, exclaiming, "It is my son!" He threw it wide;

but the moment he had done so, he started back, exclaiming, "Who are

you?" and pale as ashes, drenched with rain, and haggard, as if with

terror and fatigue, staggered in a man as old as the fisherman

himself, bearing in his arms what seemed the lifeless body of a young

and lovely woman.

The apparel of either stranger had, at one time, cost far more than

the worth of the fisherman's cottage and all that it contained; but

now, that apparel was rent and soiled, and upon that of the man were

evident traces of blood and strife. Motioning eagerly to shut the

door--as soon as it was done, he set his fair burden on one of the low

settles, and besought for her the aid of the two women whom he beheld.

It was given immediately; and although an air of surprise, and a look

for a moment even fierce, had come over the fisherman's countenance on

the first intrusion of strangers into his cottage, that look had now

passed away; and, taking the fair girl, who lay senseless before him,

in his strong arms, he bore her into an inner chamber, and placed her

on his wife's own bed. The women remained with her; and closing the

door, the fisherman returned to his unexpected guest, demanding

abruptly, "Who is that?"

The stranger crossed his question by another--"Are you Walran, the

fisherman of Scarphout?" he demanded, "and will you plight your oath

not to betray me?"

"I am Walran," replied the fisherman, "and I do plight my oath."

"Then that is the daughter of Charles, Count of Flanders!" replied the

stranger. "I have saved her at the risk of my life from the assassins

of her father!"

"The assassins of her father!" cried the fisherman. "Then is he dead?"

"He was slain yesterday in the church--in the very church itself, at

Bruges! Happily his son was absent, and his daughter is saved, at

least, if you will lend us that aid which a young man; who is even now

engaged in misleading our pursuers, promised in your name."

"My son!" said the fisherman. "His promise shall bind his father as if

it were my own. But tell me, who are you?"

"I am Baldwin, Lord of Wavrin," replied the stranger. "But we have no

time for long conferences, good fisherman. A party of assassins are

triumphant in Flanders. The count is slain; his son, a youth, yet

unable to recover or defend his own without aid: his daughter is here,

pursued by the murderers of her father; she cannot be long concealed,

and this night, this very night, I must find some method to bear her

to the shores of France, so that I may place her in safety, and, as a

faithful friend of my dead sovereign, obtain the means of snatching

his son's inheritance from the hands of his enemies, ere their power

be confirmed beyond remedy. Will you venture to bear us out to sea in

your boat, and win a reward such as a fisherman can seldom gain?"

"The storm is loud," said the fisherman; "the wind is cold; and ere

you reach the coast of France, that fair flower would be withered

never to, revive again. You must leave her here."

"But she will be discovered and slain by the murderers of her father,"

replied Baldwin. "What, are you a man, and a seaman, and fear to dare

the storm for such an object?"

"I fear nothing!" answered the fisherman, calmly. "But here is my son!

Albert, God's benison be upon you, my boy," he added, as a young man

entered the cottage, with the dark curls of his jetty hair dripping

with the night rain. "Welcome back! but you come in an hour of

trouble. Cast the great bar across the door, and let no one enter,

while I show this stranger a refuge he knows not."

"No one shall enter living," said the young man, after returning his

father's first embrace: and the fisherman taking one of the resin

lights from the table, passed through the room where the fair unhappy

Marguerite of Flanders lay, recovering from the swoon into which she

had fallen, to a recollection of all that was painful in existence.

"Should they attempt to force the door," whispered the fisherman to

his wife, "bring her quick after me, and bid Albert and Emiline

follow." And striding on with the Lord of Wavrin into the room beyond,

he gave his guest the light, while he advanced towards the wall which

ended the building on that side. It had formed part of some old

tenement, most probably a monastery, which had long ago occupied the

spot, when a little town, now no longer existing, had been gathered

together at the neck of the promontory on which the fort of Scarphout

stood.

This one wall was all that remained of the former habitations; and

against it the cottage was built; though the huge stones of which it

was composed were but little in harmony with the rest of the low

building. To it, however, the fisherman advanced, and placing his

shoulder against one of the enormous stones, to the astonishment of

the stranger it moved round upon a pivot in the wall, showing the top

of a small staircase, leading down apparently into the ground. A few

words sufficed to tell that that staircase led, by a passage under the

narrow neck of sand-hills, to the old castle beyond; and that in that

old castle was still one room habitable, though unknown to any but the

fisherman himself.

"Here, then, let the lady stay," he said, "guarded, fed, and tended by

my wife and children; and for you and me, let us put to sea. I will

bring you safe to Boulogne, if I sleep not with you beneath the waves;

and there, from the King of France, you may gain aid to re-establish

rightful rule within the land."

"To Boulogne," said the stranger, "to Boulogne? Nay, let us pause at

Bergues or Calais, for I am not loved in Boulogne. I once," he added,

boldly, seeing some astonishment in the fisherman's countenance, "I

once wronged the former Count of Boulogne--I scruple not to say it--I

did him wrong; and though he has been dead for years, yet his people

love me not, and I have had warning to avoid their dwellings."

"And do you think the love or hate of ordinary people can outlive long

years?" demanded the fisherman; "but, nevertheless, let us to

Boulogne; for _there_ is even now the King of France: so said a

traveller who landed here the other day. And, the king, who is come,

they say, to judge upon the spot who shall inherit the long vacant

county of Boulogne, will give you protection against your enemies, and

aid to restore your sovereign's son to his rightful inheritance."

The Lord of Wavrin mused for a moment, but consented, and all was

speedily arranged. The fair Marguerite of Flanders, roused and cheered

by the care of the fisherman's family, gladly took advantage of the

refuge offered her, and found no terrors in the long damp vaults or

ponderous stone door that hid her from the world; and feeling that she

herself was now in safety, she scarcely looked round the apartment to

which she was led, but gave herself up to the thoughts of her father's

bloody death, her brother's situation of peril, and all the dangers

that lay before the faithful friend who, with a father's tenderness,

had guided her safely from the house of murder and desolation.

He on his part, saw the heavy stone door roll slowly to after after

the princess, and ascertaining that an iron bolt within gave her the

means of securing her retreat, at least in a degree, he left her, with

a mind comparatively tranquillized in regard to her, and followed the

fisherman towards the beach.

There the boat was found already prepared, with its prow towards the

surf, and one or two of the fisherman's hardy companions ready to

share his danger.

The Lord of Wavrin looked up to the dark and starless sky; he felt the

rude wind push roughly against his broad chest; he heard the billows

fall in thunder upon the sandy shore! But he thought of his murdered

sovereign, and of that sovereign's helping orphans, and springing into

the frail bark, he bade the men push off, though he felt that there

was many a chance those words might be the signals of his death.

Watching till the wave had broken, the three strong seamen pushed the

boat through the yielding sand; the next instant she floated; they

leaped in, and struggling for a moment with the coming wave, the bark

bounded out into the sea, and was lost to the sight of those that

watched her from the shore.

THE FISHERMAN OF SCARPHOUT.

CHAPTER II.

There were tears in the blue eye of the morning, but they were like

the tears of a spoiled beauty when her momentary anger has gained all

she wishes, and the passionate drops begin to be chequered by smiles

not less wayward. Gradually, however, the smiles predominated; the

clouds grew less frequent and less heavy, the sun shone out with

shorter intervals, and though the wind and the sea still sobbed and

heaved with the past storm, the sky was momently becoming more and

more serene.

Such was the aspect of the coming day, when the unhappy Marguerite of

Flanders again opened her eyes, after having for a time forgotten her

sorrow in but too brief repose. For a moment she doubted whether the

past were not all a dream; but the aspect of the chamber in which she

now found herself, very different from that which she had inhabited in

her father's palace, soon recalled the sad reality. And yet, as she

gazed round the room, there was nothing rude or coarse in its

appearance. Rich tapestry was still upon the walls; the dressoir was

still covered with fine linen and purple, and many a silver

vessel--laver, and ewer, and cup, stood ready for her toilet. The small

grated windows, with the enormous walls in which they were set, the

faded colours of the velvet hangings of the bed in which she had been

sleeping, the vaulted roof, showing no carved and gilded oak, but the

cold, bare stone, told that she was in the chamber of a lone and

ruined fortress; but one that less than a century before had contained

persons in whose veins flowed the same blood that wandered through her

own.

Rising, she gazed out of the window, which looked upon the wide and

rushing sea, and she thought of the good old Lord of Wavrin and his

dangerous voyage; and, like the figures in a delirious dream, the

forms of the old fisherman, and his beautiful daughter and fair wife,

and handsome, dark-eyed son, came back upon her memory.

A slight knock at the door roused her; but her whole nerves had been

so much shaken with terror that she hardly dared to bid the stranger

enter. At length, however, she summoned courage to do so, and the fair

and smiling face of Emiline, the fisherman's daughter, appeared behind

the opening door.

Torn from the fond, accustomed things of early days, left alone and

desolate in a wild and unattractive spot, surrounded by dangers, and

for the first time exposed to adversity, the heart of Marguerite of

Flanders was but too well disposed to cling to whatever presented

itself for affection. Emiline she found kind and gentle, but though

younger, of a firmer mood than herself, having been brought up in a

severer school; and to her Marguerite soon learned to cling.

But there was another companion whom fate cast in her way, from whom

she could not withhold the same natural attachment, though but too

likely to prove dangerous to her peace. Morning and evening, every

day, Albert, the fisherman's son, who had been left behind by his

father to afford that protection which none but a man could give,

visited her retreat in the company of his sister; and Marguerite was

soon taught to long for those visits as the brightest hours of her

weary concealment.

But in the meantime the fisherman returned no more. Day passed after

day; morning broke and evening fell, and the boat which had left the

shore of Scarphout on that eventful evening, did not appear again. The

eye of the fisherman's wife strained over the waters, and when at

eventide the barks of the other inhabitants of the coast were seen

approaching the shore, his children ran down to inquire for their

parent--but in vain.

About the same time, too, fragments of wrecks--masts, sails, and

planks--were cast upon the sands, and dark and sad grew the brows of

the once happy family at the point of Scarphout. The two other men

whom he had chosen to accompany him were unmarried, but their

relations at length gave up the last hope, and the priest of Notre

Dame de Blankenbergh was besought to say masses for the souls of the

departed. The good old man wept as he promised to comply, for though

he had seen courts, and lived in the household of a noble prince, he

loved his simple flock, and had ever been much attached to the worthy

man whose boat was missing.

Marguerite of Flanders, with a fate but too intimately interwoven

with, that of the unfortunate family at Scarphout, had been made

acquainted with the hopes and fears of every day, had mingled her

tears with Emiline, and had even clasped the hand of Albert, while she

soothed him with sympathetic sorrow for his father's loss. "Mine is an

unhappy fate," she said, "to bring sorrow and danger even here, while

seeking to fly from it myself."

"Grieve not, lady, in that respect," replied Albert, raising her hand

to his lips; "we have but done our duty towards you, and our hearts

are not such as to regret that we have done so, even though we lose a

father by it. Neither fear for your own fate. The times must change

for better ones. In the meanwhile you are in safety here, and should

need be, I will defend you with the last drop of my blood."

The morning that followed, however, wore a different aspect. Scarcely

were matins over, when the good old priest himself visited the cottage

of the fisherman, and proceeded to those of his companions, spreading

joy and hope wherever he came. What, it may be asked, was the source

of such joy? It was but a vision! The old man had dreamt, he said,

that he had seen the fisherman of Scarphout safe and well, with a net

in his hand, in which were an innumerable multitude of fishes. And

this simple dream was, in that age, sufficient to dry the eyes of

mourning, and bring back hope to bosoms that had been desolate.

Albert flew to communicate the tale to Marguerite of Flanders, and

there was spoken between them many a word of joy--joy that so often

entwines its arms with tenderness. He now came oftener than ever, for

the old priest by some means had learned that he took an interest in

all the changing fortunes of the state of Flanders, and daily the good

man brought him tidings, which sometimes he felt it a duty, sometimes

a pleasure, to tell to the lonely dweller in the ruined castle.

He found, too, that his presence cheered her, and that his

conversation won her from her grief. She began to cling even more to

him than to his sister; for he knew more of the world, and men, and

courts, than Emiline, and he thought it but kind to afford her every

solace and pleasure he could give. Each day his visits became more

frequent, and continued longer.

Sometimes he would liberate her, after a sort, from her voluntary

prison, by taking her, with Emiline, in his boat upon the moonlight

sea, or even by leading her along, under the eye of Heaven's queen,

upon the smooth sands, when the waves of a calm night rippled up to

their feet. At other times he would sit upon the stones of the old

battlements, rent and rifted by the warfare of ages, and would while

her thoughts away from herself by tales of other days, when those

battlements had withstood the assault of hosts, and those halls had

been the resort of the fair and brave, now dust.

Then, again, he would give her tidings which he had gained while

dwelling at Namur or at Tournai; reciting the gallant deeds of the

servants of the Cross in distant Palestine, or telling of the horrors

of captivity in Paynimrie; and then, too, he would sing, as they sat

above the waters, with a voice, and a skill, and a taste, which

Marguerite fancied all unequalled in the world.

Day by day, and hour by hour, the fair inexperienced princess of

Flanders felt that she was losing her young heart to the youth of low

degree; and yet, what could she do to stay the fugitive, or call him

back to her own bosom from his hopeless flight? It was not alone that

Albert was, in her eyes at least, the most handsome man she had ever

beheld, it was not alone that he was gentle, kind, and tender, but it

was that on him alone she was cast for aid, protection, amusement,

information, hope; that her fate hung upon his word, and that while he

seemed to feel and triumph in the task, yet it was with a deep,

earnest, anxious solicitude for her peace and for her security.

And did she think, that with all these feelings in her bosom, he had

dared to love her in return--to love her, the princess of that land in

which he was alone the son of a poor fisherman? She knew he had--she

saw it in his eyes, she heard it in every tone, she felt it in the

tender touch of the strong hand that aided her in her stolen wanderings.

And thus it went on from day to day, till words were spoken that no

after-thought could ever recall, and Marguerite owned, that if Heaven

willed that her father's lands should never return to her father's

house, she could, with a happy heart, see state and dignity pass away

from her, and wed the son of the Fisherman of Scarphout.

But still the fisherman himself returned not. Days had grown into

weeks, and weeks had become months, yet no tiding of him or his

companions had reached the shore, and men began to fancy that the

vision of the old priest might be no more than an ordinary dream. Not

so, however, the family of the fisherman himself. They, seemed to hold

the judgment of the good man infallible, and every day he visited

their cottages bringing them tidings of all the events which took

place in the struggle that now convulsed the land.

By this time, the King of France had roused himself to chastise the

rebels of Flanders, and to reinstate the young count in his dominions.

He had summoned his vassals to his standard, and creating two

experienced readers marshals of his host, had entered the disturbed

territory with lance in the rest. Little armed opposition had been

made to his progress, though two or three detached parties from his

army had been cut off and slaughtered. But this only exasperated the

monarch still more, and he had been heard to vow that nothing but the

death of every one of the conspirators would satisfy him for the blood

of Charles the Good, and of the faithful friends who had fallen with

him.

Such was the tale told by the good priest to Albert, the fisherman's

son, one day towards the end of the year, and by him repeated to

Marguerite of Flanders, who heard it with very mingled feelings; for

if a momentary joy crossed her heart to think that the murderers of

her father would meet their just reward, and her brother would recover

the coronet of Flanders, the fear, the certainty that she herself

would be torn from him she loved, overclouded the brief sunshine, and

left her mind all dark.

The next day, however, new tidings reached Albert, and filled his

heart with consternation and surprise. Burchard, the chief murderer of

the dead count, had, it was said, dispatched a messenger to the King

of France, to bid him either hold off from Bruges, or send him a free

pardon for himself and all his companions, lest another victim should

be added to those already gone from the family of the dead count. "I

have in my power," he had added, "the only daughter of Charles, called

by you the Good. I know her retreat--I hold her as it were in a chain,

and I shall keep her as a hostage, whose blood shall flow if a hard

measure be dealt to me."

Albert fell into deep thought. Could it be true, he asked himself,

that Burchard had really discovered Marguerite of Flanders? If so, it

were time, he thought, to fulfil one part of his father's directions

concerning her, at any cost to himself; and as those directions had

been, in case danger menaced her in her retreat, to carry her to sea,

and, landing on the coast of France, to place her in the hands of the

king or his representative, it may easily be conceived that the

execution thereof would be not a little painful to one for whom each

hour of her society was joy.

The more he pondered, however, the more he felt that it must be done;

but it happened that, for the last three days, four or five strange

sail had been seen idly beating about not far from the coast, and

Albert determined, in the first instance, to ascertain their purpose.

With some young men from the neighbouring cottages, he put to sea, and

finding an easy excuse to approach one of the large vessels which he

had beheld, he asked, as if accidentally, to whom they belonged, when,

with consternation and anxiety, he heard that they were the ships of

"Burchard, Prévôt of St. Donatien."

Returning at once to the shore, he dismissed his companions and sought

his father's cottage; but there he found that tidings had come during

his absence that the King of France had advanced upon Bruges, and that

Burchard had fled with his troops; but the same report added, that the

rebels, hotly pursued by the chivalry of France, had directed their

flight towards the sea-shore. Time pressed--the moment of danger was

approaching; but still great peril appeared in every course of action

which could be adopted. The escape by sea was evidently cut off; the

retreat of Marguerite of Flanders was apparently discovered; and if a

flight by land were attempted, it seemed only likely to lead into the

power of the enemy.

With her, then, he determined to consult; and passing through the

vaults, he was soon by the side of the fair unfortunate girl, whose

fate depended upon the decision of the next few minutes. He told her

all; but to her as well as to himself, to fly seemed more hazardous

than to remain. The high tide was coming up; in less than half an hour

the castle would be cut off from the land; the King of France was hard

upon the track of the enemy, and various events might tend to favour

her there.

"I would rather die," said the princess, "than fall living into their

hands; and I can die here as well as anywhere else, dear Albert."

"They shall pass over my dead body ere they reach you," answered he.

"Many a thing has been done Marguerite, by a single arm; and if I can

defend you till the king arrives, you are safe."

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

"Oh! yes, I have," he answered. "No one knows the secrets of this old

castle but my father and myself; and there are arms here too for those

who need them. Wait but a moment, and I will return."

His absence was as brief as might be; but when he came back,

Marguerite saw him armed with shield and casque, sword and battle-axe;

but without either haubert or coat of mail, which, though they might

have guarded him from wounds, would have deprived him of a part of

that agility which could alone enable one to contend with many.

"If I could but send Emiline," he said, as he came up, "to call some

of our brave boatmen from the cottages to our assistance here, we

might set an army at defiance for an hour or two." Marguerite only

answered, by pointing with her hand to a spot on the distant sands,

where a small body of horsemen, perhaps not a hundred, were seen

galloping at full speed towards Scarphout. Albert saw that it was too

late to call further aid; and now only turned to discover where he

could best make his defence in case of need.

There was a large massy wall, which, ere the sea had encroached upon

the building, ran completely round the castle, but which now only

flanked one side of the ruins, running out like a jetty into the

waters which had swallowed up the rest. It was raised about twenty

feet above the ground on one side, and perhaps twenty-five above the

sea on the other; and at the top, between the parapets, was a passage

which would hardly contain two men abreast. Upon his wall, about

half-way between the keep and the sea, was a small protecting turret,

and there Albert saw that Marguerite might find shelter, while, as

long as he lived, he could defend the passage against any force coming

from the side of the land. He told her his plans; and for her only

answer, she fell upon his neck and wept. But he wiped her tears away

with his fond lips, and spoke words of hope and comfort.

"See!" he said, "the sea is already covering the _chaussée_ between us

and the land, and if they do not possess the secret of the vaults,

they cannot reach us till the tide falls."

When he turned his eyes to the shore, the body of horsemen were within

a mile of the castle; but then, with joy inexpressible, he beheld upon

the edge of the sand-hills, scarcely two miles behind them, a larger

force hurrying on, as if in pursuit, with banner and pennon, and

standard displayed, and lance beyond lance bristling up against the

sky.

"The King of France; the King of France!" he cried; but still the

foremost body galloped on. They reached the shore, drew up their

horses when they saw that the tide was in; turned suddenly towards the

cottage; and the next moment Albert could see his mother and Emiline

fly from their dwelling across the sands. The men at arms had other

matters in view than to pursue them; but Albert now felt that they

were aware of the secret entrance, and that Marguerite's only hope was

in his own valour.

"To the turret, my beloved!" he cried, "to the turret!" And half

bearing half-leading her along, he placed her under its shelter, and

took his station in the pass. A new soul seemed to animate him, new

light shone forth from his eye; and, in words which might have suited

the noblest of the land, he exhorted her to keep her firmness in the

moment of danger, to watch around, and gave him notice of all she saw

from the loopholes of the turret.

Then came a moment of awful suspense, while in silence and in doubt

they waited the result; but still the host of France might be seen

drawing nearer and more near; and the standard of the king could be

distinguished floating on the wind amidst a thousand other banners of

various feudal lords. Hope grew high in Albert's breast, and he

trusted that ere Burchard could find and force the entrance, the

avenger would be upon him. He hoped in vain, however, for the murderer

was himself well acquainted with the spot, and had only paused to

secure the door of the vaults, so that his pursuers could not follow

by the same means he himself employed. In another minute loud voices

were heard echoing through the ruin, and Albert and Marguerite

concealing themselves as best they could, beheld the fierce and

bloodthirsty Prévôt with his companions seeking them through the

castle.

Still onward bore the banners of France; and ere Burchard had

discovered their concealment, the shore at half a bow-shot distance

was lined with chivalry. So near were they, that, uninterrupted by the

soft murmur of the waves, could be heard the voice of a herald calling

upon the rebels to surrender, and promising pardon to all but the ten

principal conspirators. A loud shout of defiance was the only reply;

for at that very moment the eye of Burchard lighted on the form of

Albert as he crouched under the wall, and the men at arms poured on

along the narrow passage.

Concealment could now avail nothing; and starting up with his

battle-axe in his hand, he planted himself between the rebels and the

princess. The French on the shore could now behold him also, as he

stood with half his figure above the parapet; and instantly, seeming

to divine his situation, some cross-bowmen were brought forward, and

poured their quarrels on the men, of the Prévôt as they rushed forward

to attack him. Two or three were struck down; but the others hurried

on, and the safety of Albert himself required the cross-bowmen to

cease, when hand to hand he was compelled to oppose the passage of the

enemy. Each blow of his battle-axe could still be beheld from the

land; and as one after another of his foes went down before that,

strong and ready arm, loud and gratulating shouts rang from his

friends upon the shore.

Still others pressed on, catching a view of Marguerite herself, as, in

uncontrollable anxiety for him she loved, she gazed forth from the

turret-door, and a hundred eager eyes were bent upon her, certain that

if she could be taken, a promise of pardon, or a death of vengeance at

least, would be obtained; but only one Could approach at a time, and

Albert was forming for himself a rampart of dead and dying. At that

moment, however, Burchard, who stood behind, pointed to the

castle-court below, where a number of old planks and beams lay rotting

in the sun.

A dozen of his men then sprang down, caught up the materials which he

showed them, planted them against the wall beyond the turret, and soon

raised up a sort of tottering scaffold behind the place where

Marguerite's gallant defender stood. He himself, eager in the strife

before him, saw not what had happened; but she had marked the fatal

advantage the enemy had gained, and, gliding like a ghost from out the

turret, she approached close to his side, exclaiming, "They are

coming!--they are coming from the other side!--and we are lost!"

Albert turned his head, and comprehended in a moment. But one hope was

left. Dashing to the earth the next opponent who was climbing over the

dead bodies between them, he struck a second blow at the one beyond,

which made him recoil upon his fellows. Then casting his battle-axe

and shield away, he caught the light form of Marguerite in his arms,

sprang upon the parapet, and exclaiming, "Now God befriend us!"

plunged at once into the deep sea, while, at the very same moment, the

heads of the fresh assailants appeared upon the wall beyond.

A cry of terror and amazement rang from the shore; and the king of

France himself, with two old knights beside him, rode on till the

waters washed their horses' feet. Albert and Marguerite were lost to

sight in a moment; but the next instant they appeared again; and, long

accustomed to sport with the same waves that now curled gently round

him as an old loved friend, bearing the head of Marguerite lifted on

his left arm, with his right he struck boldly towards the shore.

On--on he bore her! and like a lamb in the bosom of the shepherd, she

lay without a struggle, conquering strong terror by stronger

resolution. On--on he bore her! Glad shouts hailed him as he neared

the shore; and with love and valour lending strength, he came nearer

and more near. At length his feet touched the ground, and throwing

both arms round her, he bore her safe, and rescued, till he trod the

soft, dry sand. Then kneeling before the monarch, he set his fair

burden softly on the ground--but still he held her hand.

"Hold! nobles--hold!" cried the king of France, springing from his

horse. "Before any one greets him. I will give him the greeting he well

has won. Advance the standard over us! Albert of Boulogne, in the name

of God, St. Michael, and St. George, I dub thee knight! Be ever, as

to-day, gallant, brave, and true. This is the recompense we give. Fair

lady of Flanders, we think you owe him a recompense likewise; and we

believe that, according to our wise coast laws, that which a fisherman

brings up from the sea is his own by right. Is it not so, my good Lord

of Boulogne?" and he turned to a tall old man beside him. "You, of all

men, should know best; as for ten years you have enacted the

_Fisherman of Scarphout_."

The nobles laughed loud, and with tears of joy the old count of

Boulogne, for it was no other, embraced his gallant son, while at the

same time the Lord of Wavrin advanced, and pressed Marguerite's hand

in that of her deliverer, saying, "Her father, sire, by will, as you

will find, gave the disposal of her hand to me, and I am but doing my

duty to him in bestowing it on one who merits it so well. At the same

time it is a comfort to my heart to offer my noble lord, the Count of

Boulogne, some atonement for having done him wrong in years long gone,

and for having, even by mistake, brought on him your displeasure and a

ten years' exile. He has forgiven me, but I have not forgiven myself;

and as an offering of repentance, all my own lands and territories, at

my death, I give, in addition, to the dowry of Marguerite of

Flanders."

We will not pause upon the death of Burchard, Prévôt of St. Donatien.

It was, as he merited, upon a scaffold. Explanations, too, are

tedious, and _the old history_ tells no more than we have here told,

leaving the imagination of its readers to fill up all minor

particulars in the life of the _Fisherman of Scarphout_.

These tales were followed by a moral essay on the Use of Time, which

none of the party would acknowledge, though it was strongly suspected

to be the production of a young lady, in the assumed character of an

old man.

THE USE OF TIME.

Time, considered in the same light as the other possessions of man, is

certainly of them all the most valuable, as so very small portion is

allotted to each individual. Yet every means are employed by the great

bulk of mankind to waste that of which our quantity is so diminutive,

every art is used to dissipate what will naturally fly from us, every

ilea is bent on driving away that which we can never recall.

Our first thought, on awaking from sleep is, How shall I spend the

day? Surely it ought rather to be, How shall I best employ those

moments of which Heaven has given me so few? which of the various

modes of filling my time will be most consonant to reason and

virtue--will most redound to mine own honour--will be most

advantageous to society?

There is no art which would be more beneficial to the world, or which

is less practised, than the economy of moments. A thousand spaces

present themselves in the life of every man, which are left

unoccupied, even amidst the bustle of pleasure, or the anxiety of

business--too small to be employed in serious study, too sudden and

evanescent to offer opportunity for any prolonged enjoyment. But these

vacuities might almost always be used to produce either some harmless

gratification to ourselves, or some benefit to others; some

improvement of our corporeal or intellectual faculties, or some scheme

for giving satisfaction, or acquiring happiness. Man need never be

idle, even for an instant. If the accident of the moment deprive him

of books, the page of nature will most frequently be before him.

Should this also be excluded from his view, let him turn his

consideration to the tablet of his own mind; let him correct its

errors, let him engrave move deeply the lines of right; let him

strengthen the powers of reason, by examining and arranging his own

thoughts; let him think, but not dream; and he will find an

inexhaustible fund of employment and delight--a fund which is always

replete with improvement, and which is constantly accessible to his

research.

Moments are the most precious treasures we possess; and by them most

frequently is the fate of man decided. The ultimate effects of the

impulse or accident of an instant will frequently give a colouring to

the whole picture of our future life; either shadow it with sorrow or

brighten it with prosperity. Moments, therefore, ought never to be

neglected: they ought never to be wasted in idleness, nor remain

unguarded by vigilance; for, in their passing, they hurry on our fate;

and on their occupation and event our happiness here and hereafter

depends.

Procrastination is another of the most idle ways of wasting

time:--more destructive to happiness, more baneful to society, more

hostile to virtue and reason, than almost any other custom short of

actual vice. It weakens the mind, it cheats the understanding, and

induces a state of intellectual imbecility, always increasing and never

to be overcome. It is not alone that we substitute resolutions for

actions, and spend in determinations those moments which ought to be

employed in doing service to ourselves or benefiting society; but the

mental cowardice grows upon us, and we lose the power even of resolving,

where action is necessary, and where doubt is still more dangerous

than error; perplexing our mind with distressing hesitation, as

opposite to necessary caution as real prudence is to headlong rashness

and blind timidity. Procrastination has been called "the thief of

time." It is worse! It is the murderer of man's best friend.

Was all our time filled with the obvious duties which present

themselves to our view--engaged in the harmless pleasures that at

every step lie in our path, or employed in well-directed observation

and moral improvement were those vacant moments, which men feel so

burthensome, snatched eagerly for the acquirement of knowledge, or the

reciprocation of benefits--the advantage to mankind would be, not

alone the increased enjoyment of existence, but also, escape from

temptation to evil, and security in the path of right.

Notwithstanding these observations, every man will find that he cannot

always compel his mind to any particular object; and that, when he

wishes to employ profitably a vacancy in his time, he must allow his

thoughts to follow in a degree their former course; or at least, guide

them into a new channel by some easy means of communication.

I have often myself experienced this restiveness of imagination; and

whether it be from the weakness of age, or a natural drowsiness of

constitution, I know not; but, whenever I endeavour to force my ideas

towards subjects unassimilating with previous impressions, especially

when at all under the influence of bodily fatigue, my mind seeks to

escape from the burdensome employment I would impose on it, by taking

refuge in the arms of slumber.

I had one day striven hard to fix my thoughts upon subjects very

nearly connected with the foregoing observations, although, at the

moment, I was fatigued and exhausted with exercises and occupations

unknown and dissimilar to my secluded habits; and as I endeavoured to

arrange my ideas in a more distinct form, gradually they lost their

course, became more and more confused, and I dropped asleep.

If it be natural for the weary meditator to sleep, it is still more

natural for the poet or essayist to dream; and, indeed, I have a

custom of carrying on, during the hours of repose, that train of

thought, which has occupied me while awake; dressed indeed in a more

fanciful garb, and marshalled with all the extravagance of

uncontrolled imagination.

On the present occasion, no sooner had I closed my eyes, than, as

usual, the ideas which I had impressed on my mind again appeared, but

in somewhat of a different form. The whole objects in the room,

however, were unchanged, even in the visions of my sleep. I still

reclined in my easy chair. My table, littered with papers, was before

me--the picture of my great grandfather stared me in the face from the

other side of the room--my wig hung in its usual recess by the

fireplace--my snuff-box remained half open on the table; and my red

morocco slippers rested on their own peculiar stool, undisturbed by

intruding feet.

Ina few minutes, as I fixed my eyes upon the picture of my great

grandfather the reverend effigy began to move; the next instant the

figure descended from the back-ground, and bowing with all the formal

grace of one thousand seven hundred and seven, advanced toward the

table. I returned the salutation of my revered, ancestor, and begged

him to be seated--I could do no less for one who had made such

advances--and then, in all that absurd caricature of real life, which

dreams occasionally display, we began to pour forth an overwhelming

flood of compliments upon each other, in which, however, the

copiousness of my great grandfather had considerably the advantage.

Indeed, he seemed resolved to indemnify himself in that one night for

the ages of silence he had passed within his frame.

At length, after an oration too long to be repeated, and which, in

truth, I scarcely understood, he informed me, that knowing my desire

to see all the moments of my passed life, he had come out of the

canvass on purpose to gratify me; and that he would immediately call

them to my sight, exactly as they had really been, in distinct

classes, and in regular routine.

As he concluded, he rapped the snuff-box, with which he was

represented in the portrait, and in a moment, the room was filled with

little winged boys, resembling our pictures of cherubim. "These," said

my ancestor, "are the first twenty years of thy life. You may observe,

that most of them are blind, for men, like kittens, do not open their

eyes until they have been some time in the world--those that appear

all over prickles, and who flutter about with such vehemence, are the

moments wasted in love--those with sleepy air, swarthy complexion, and

dusty wings, have passed you while poring over old authors and musty

volumes; and those that fly about casting somersets in the air, like

tumbler pigeons, are the instants spent in balls and assemblies in the

giddy days of youth."

"But why," demanded I, "do so many that I see carry a scull, more

especially those that bear a smile upon their lips, as if they mocked

the memento in their hands?"

"All those," replied he, "are moments wasted; some in folly, some in

actual vice, and some passed by, unfilled by action, or unemployed by

thought; but all alike, the winged hasteners of mortality."

"But are not all the others the same?" demanded I, "even those who

appear so calm and placid; those few, those very few, who neither

laugh nor frown, but whose looks are full of expression, and whose

unclosed eyes seem to beam with approbation--surely all moments tend

alike towards the tomb?"

"Those," replied he, "are the instants given to the doing of good

deeds and to the pursuit of virtue; and they lead us even beyond the

tomb; through the portal of death, open the gates of life, and smooth

our passage to eternity."

He now called to view the next twenty years of my life, and directly

another winged crowd appeared, some of whom bore ladders, many of the

steps whereof were broken or irregular; and these, I was told, were

the moments given to the delusions of pride and the dreams of

ambition. Others were little gloomy-looking imps, which, however,

often when they would seem to frown the most, would suddenly assume a

smile, so placid and beaming, that a ray from heaven appeared to have

fallen upon their features. These, I found, were the moments of

well-conducted study, calm reflection, and self-examination. Some,

again, had no bodies; and their wings were decked with all hues and

colours, as if each were a rainbow; but at the same time, like the

painted follower of the summer cloud, they were thin, transparent, and

unsubstantial. These, he informed me, were times of vain imaginations,

and unreasonable desires. A multitude came next; many of whom had the

brow bent, and the corners of the mouth drawn into a kind of sneer.

There were others, whose features at once displayed a tear and a

smile, both so bright, it was impossible to say which was the most

radiant. Of these two sorts, the first were the moments of cynicism

and misanthropy; and the second displayed the times given to

particular charity or general benevolence.

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

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

"Fifty-nine years, six months, three days, eleven hours,

five-and-twenty minutes, four seconds," replied he in an angry tone.

The fearful recapitulation put an end both to my dream and my slumber;

and starting up in my chair, I found--the clock striking.

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

There were many other contributions, but I have only kept a copy of

two more, the first of which was suggested by the apprehensions

expressed by one of the party, lest the multiplication of

steam-engines should ultimately exhaust all the fuel in the world.

The second was occasioned by a reference made to the days when we

had first met, by one in whom the equanimity of a high mind had

preserved all the freshness of extreme youth.

THE LAST FIRE.

A VISION OF STEAM.

[As I sat, a few nights ago, reading in the newspapers many alarming

calculations concerning the consumption of fuel by the multiplication

of steam-engines, I fell into a dose, when the following awful and

prophetic vision presented itself to my eyes. Immediately on waking,

it fell naturally, as it were, into verse; and I think the subject too

important to be withheld from public consideration.]

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

I slept; and, in a vision, to my eyes

Nature's last tragedy appeared to rise.

Man's climbing mind had subtilised each art,

Sublimed the whole, and perfected each part.

Laws, arts, and arms, had undergone a change,

Not less magnificent because most strange.

Steam, mighty steam! had superseded all--

Made horses bankrupts, and made bread to fall.

Steam-boats, steam-guns, steam-kitchens, and steam-coaches,

To this perfection made the first approaches:

But this was nothing to the wondrous steaming

The future showed me as I lay a-dreaming.

Vain in description to waste precious paper--

Suffice it, Europe was one cloud of vapour!

But, ah! alas! that vapour e'er should feel

The rotatory roll of Fortune's wheel!

Fuel grew dear! French forests fell like grass;

Tynemouth, Wall-end, and Kennell, cried, "Alas!"

Nor even could the Indian savage roam

Through ancient woods, his dim primeval home.

Long every shrub, and bush, and branch, and tree,

Had heated boilers, and had ceased to be;

And men were forced to turn to uses vile

Full many a laboured, many a learned pile.

Many a volume too, and many a tome,

Sharing alike the universal doom,

Now proved a blessing, where they proved a bore,

And blazed with fire they never knew before!

Wondrous! with what avidity men brought

Those solemn works with wit and learning fraught,--

State records, parliamentary debates,

Polemic tracts, and essays upon states,--

To light the fire which every parish vowed

To warm the noses of the coal-less crowd.

Romances next were hurled into the flame;

Next poets, play-writers, historians, came;

Last, Homer, Virgil, Milton, Shakspeare, Scott,

With many a sigh, were added to the lot:

But these the unwilling owners e'en confessed

Burned longer, clearer, brighter, than the rest.

Next furniture was fetched--drawers, tables, chairs,

Beds, stools, and every sort of wooden wares;

Till men were forced to seek the aid of stones

To bear their dinners and to rest their bones;

Till all was burnt. Then surly Winter rose,

And took blue wretches by the frozen nose;

And sad it was to see each chilly wight,

With hands in pockets and coat buttoned tight,

Run up and down the waste, uncovered earth,

Cursed with black cold, sad enemy to mirth;

And, as they ran, remorse their bosoms tore,

For joys they'd heedless cast away before.

Dandies and Russians, Dutchmen, bargemen, tars,

Regretted wasted pipes and lost cigars;

And patriot Catholics and Irish priests

Thought good wood wasted on heretic beasts,

Called Smithfield fire-lighting a thriftless trade,

And bloody Mary but a wasteful jade.

Vainly they ran! No cheering warmth they found,

And the dull sky upon their mis'ry frowned;

And when they entered in their doorless homes,

'Twas stony coldness all like empty tombs.

With frenzied energy they dug the ground,

Or dived the sea. Nor coal nor wood they found!

And many a wretch would lay him down to die,

And welcome Death without one envious sigh;

No terrors found they in his icy stare--

They could not well be colder than they were.

Still many raged and struggled for warm life,

And waged with cold and death unequal strife,

Dined on raw cabbages, devoured raw beef,

Gained indigestion, but gained no relief.

One man there was--a waterman by trade,

Erst in green coat and plated badge arrayed;

Men called him Fish, and rightly him did call--

For he could dive and swim, possessing all

The useful attributes of finny birth--

Finding the water warmer than the earth,

He spent his time in diving; and one day

Found in the river's bottom, where they lay

Hid from the danger of devouring flames,

The stakes that Cæsar drove into the Thames!

"Ho, ho!" cried he; "I've found a treasure here,

Shall warm me snugly till the rolling year

Bring's jolly summer." So with might and main

He tugged them forth and bore them to the plain:--

But, now he'd got them, he had still to learn

That wood when wet is difficult to burn.

Quick-witted in himself, he well divined,

Though cold at heart, some warmth remained behind;

And having ranged the timber with much art,

He sat and dried it with his broadest part.

A long, long week, seven weary nights and days,

Drying the expectant pile he careful stays.

Thus o'er her nest the mother eagle broods;

Or thus the ph[oe]nix of Arabian woods

Sits on his aromatic pile, whose fire,

Of new life redolent, shall soon aspire.

At length 'twas dry! Now with an eager hand

Two flints he seized and fired each rotten brand--

Each rotten brand a grateful ardour showed;

Forth burst the flame, and on the sky it glowed.

High rose the flame; too high, alas! for now

An ancient woman, on a mountain's brow,

Running some worsted through a needle's eye,

(What is it not old women will descry?)

Found out the fire for Fish that furtive flamed,

And forth with scream and shout the fact proclaimed.

"A fire! A fire! A fire!" the beldam cried;

"A fire! A fire!" the village all replied;

"A fire! A fire A fire!" was echoed far and wide.

Each babe took up the tale, each ancient sire,

Though deaf, and blind, and lame, repeated "Fire!"

High, low, rich, poor, good, bad,--all cold the same,--

Loud shouted "Fire!" and kindled at the name.

First hamlets, villages, assumed the cry;

Through burghs and cities then the tidings fly;

All traced them back to where they first began;--

All bawled out "Fire!" and as they bawled they ran.

Now Fish, who selfishly had hoped alone

T' enjoy the fire that he himself had won,

Astonished sees the world around him swarm--

Millions on millions, eager to get warm!

On, on, they rushed, one on the other prest;

And still the crowd behind impelled the rest.

All nations, languages, heights, features, hues,

That the wide universe could then produce,

Running, and jostling, scrambling, tumbling came,

Jammed into marmalade around that flame.

Then Fish, indignant, cried with loud command,--

A brandished boat-hook in his dauntless hand,

"Stand back, my masters! You may all be d----d!

The fire's my own, and I will not be bammed!

Or since the generous ardour fires your soul

To seek this genial flame, from either pole,

With me, its lord, possession to contend,

And squeeze me flat my right while I defend--

Thus I defy you, caitiffs all, and dare

The bold to follow, and my fate to share!"[21]

Proudly he said, and sprang into the flame:

High o'er his head the fiery eddies came;

The crowd beheld, and, maddened with the sight,

Dashed on the blaze, and perished in the light.

The fire was out; but still they onward rushed:--

The far extremes the narrow centre pushed,

Squeezed, jammed, cast down, one on the other rose.

And many a mortal trod on his own nose.

Each in his eagerness his fellow mashed:

The sun went down--and all the world was quashed!!!

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

[Footnote 21: The hero of this tale is, or rather was, a real

character (like all the other true heroes in the true tales of this

true history). His name was Peter Fish, a waterman, plying at

Hungerford Stairs, and many a time has his wherry borne me over the

Thames, when I was a reckless schoolboy. He was a good-humoured soul

as ever lived, rather fond of the bottle and of a little

rhodomontade.]

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

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.

I wish I could as merry be

As when I set out this world to see,

Like a boat filled with good companie,

On some gay voyage sent.

There Youth spread forth the broad white sail,

Sure of fair weather and full gale,

Confiding life would never fail,

Nor time be ever spent.

And Fancy whistled for the wind;

And if e'en Memory looked behind;

'Twas but some friendly sight to find,

And gladsome wave her hand;

And Hope kept whispering in Youth's ear,

To spread more sail and never fear,

For the same sky would still be clear

Until they reached the land.

Health, too, and Strength tugged at the ear,

Mirth mocked the passing billows' roar,

And Joy, with goblet running o'er,

Drank draughts of deep delight;

And Judgment at the helm they set,

But Judgment was a child as yet,

And lack-a-day! was all unfit

To guide the boat aright.

Bubbles did half her thoughts employ,

Hope she believed, she played with Joy,

And Passion bribed her with a toy,

To steer which way he chose.

But still they were a merry crew,

And laughed at dangers as untrue,

Till the dim sky tempestuous grew,

And sobbing south winds rose.

Then Prudence told them all she feared;

But youth awhile his messmates cheered

Until at length he disappeared,

Though none knew how he went.

Joy hung his head, and Mirth grew dull,

Health faltered, Strength refused to pull,

And Memory, with her soft eyes full,

Backward her glance still bent.

To where, upon the distant sea,

Bursting the storm's dark canopy,

Light, from a sun none now could see,

Still touched the whirling wave.

And though Hope, gazing from the bow,

Turns oft,--she sees the shore,--to vow,

Judgment, grown older now I trow,

Is silent, stern, and grave.

And though she steers with better skill,

And makes her fellows do her will,

Fear says, the storm is rising still,

And day is almost spent.--

Oh, that I could as merry be

As when T set out this world to see,

Like a boat filled with good companie,

On some gay voyage sent!

THE PRISON AND THE CASTLE.

For, ah! what is there of inferior birth

That breathes or creeps upon the dust of earth--

What wretched creature, of what wretched kind,

Than man more weak, calamitous, and blind?--POPE'S HOMER.

In such amusements as I have described passed our evenings at Pau; but

the days were generally spent in roaming through the beautiful scenery

in the neighbourhood. At length, however, the time for drinking the

mineral waters arrived, and we prepared to migrate with the rest.

There were two objects however in Pau which we had not yet seen.

Hitherto, we had lingered away our time without either visiting the

prison or the castle; and, as we were about to set out the next day

for Cauterets, we proceeded to the old château, though the evening was

beginning to close in. We were well aware that there was little to be

seen, but to have quitted the capital of Bearn without seeing the

birth-place of Henry IV., would have been a high offence.

I hate prisons--there is something so repulsive in beholding man

debarred the first privilege of nature, that, however necessary it may

be to the safety of society, it makes me sick at heart to see it. No

man, I have been told, felt this so much as Howard, and it was this

that first caused him to turn the energies of his truly great mind

towards alleviating the concomitant misery of those who were already

wretched enough.

However, my object was to give my mind as much occupation of every

kind as I could, and we accordingly proceeded to the prison, where the

first sight that presented itself, was that of a maniac in a frightful

state of insanity. We paused for a moment to inquire if nothing could

be done for the unhappy being; and then as we were crossing the court,

the voice of one of the prisoners singing in the tower above, caught

our ear, and we stopped again to listen. The air and the voice were

both peculiarly beautiful, and I easily obtained the words, which I

now subjoin. I will not attempt to describe the effect of the sight of

the maniac and the sound of that song.

PRISONER'S SONG.

1.

I know not, and I care not, how

The hours may pass me by,

Though each may leave upon my brow

A furrow, as they fly;

2.

What matters it? Each still shall take

One link from off the chain,

Which binds me to this bitter stake

Of sorrow and of pain.

3.

Time, like a rower, plies his oar,

And all his strokes are hours;

Impelling to a better shore

Of sunshine and of flowers.

4.

I've tasted all that life can give

Of pleasure and of pain;

And is it living, thus to live

When joys no more remain?

5.

I've tasted women's ardent lip,

Glowing with Love's first fire;

And yet been forc'd the cup to sip

Of coldness or of ire.

6.

All nature has had charms for me,

The sunshine and the shade;

The soaring lark, the roving bee,

The mountain and the glade.

7.

And I have been the tempest's child,

And known the lightning's touch;

Mark'd midst the mad storm's warfare wild

Too little or too much.

8.

And I have seen my own blood flow

Red, in the deadly strife;

And others I have taught to know

How dear they held to life.

9.

I've play'd with being as a toy,

Till things have lost their form,

Till danger has become a joy,

And joy become a storm.

10.

I've lov'd as man has seldom lov'd,

So deeply, purely, well;

I've prov'd what man has seldom prov'd,

Since first from bliss he fell.

11.

Mine eye again can never see

What once mine eye has seen;

This world to me can never be

What once this world has been.

12.

Speed on! O speed! my bark, speed on--

Quick o'er life's troubled waves;

The one that comes, the one that's gone,

What lies beneath them? Graves.

The first apartment we were show into contained the prisoners

sentenced to detention for longer or shorter periods, according to

their crimes. They were all working hard, and, seemingly, cheerfully;

and the jailer told me, that a great object of those to whom the

government of the prison was committed was to give the prisoners

habits of industry, and to prevent them, by all means, from becoming

utterly debased; so that, when they again receive their liberty, they

may become better members of society instead of worse. Their principal

occupation seemed in straw-work; and as this is an easy and light

task, and fills up the moments which would otherwise prove tedious in

confinement, they all appeared rather glad of it than otherwise. A

portion of the emolument proceeding from their labour goes towards

defraying the expenses of the prison, and a portion is reserved for

the prisoner, in order that, when he goes back into the world, he may

not again be driven to crime by poverty.

We next visited the apartment where were confined prisoners who had

incurred severer punishment. They were generally persons condemned to

the galleys for seven years or for life, and were waiting here till

their sentence should be put in execution. When we entered there were

several groups playing at piquet for sums of one or two sous. Amongst

others was a lawyer, who had been sentenced to the galleys for

forgery. I have generally remarked that those condemned for any

serious crime have a heavy stupid expression of countenance and dull

unmeaning eye; but this man was an exception. In his face there was

plenty of keen, piercing cunning, with a touch of sarcastic

bitterness, which showed itself also in his speech. He spoke to us for

some time, and, like all villains, tried to darken his view of mankind

till it became of the same hue as his own character. He took it for

granted that all men were rascals, but only that he had been an

unfortunate one.

From hence we went to the dungeons, where still deeper crimes awaited

their reward. A damp obscure stone passage led to the cell where two

murderers were confined expecting their execution. They were

Spaniards, and had left nothing in the perpetration of their crime to

excite anything but horror. Their victim had been one of their

countrymen, who, having fled from the troubles and dangers which

distressed his native land, had contrived to carry away a small sum to

support him in his exile; and this proved the cause of their guilt and

of his death. The evidence against them had left not a doubt of the

facts, but yet they were suffered to linger on from week to week, not

knowing which day would be their last, while (_as we were told_,) the

Spanish ambassador pleaded their cause at Paris, and endeavoured to

procure a commutation of their punishment, on account of their having

shown themselves _staunch royalists_. They seemed to be heavily and

almost cruelly chained, but nevertheless to mind it but little,

smoking their cigars, and counting their rosaries with great _sang

froid_.

I spoke a few words to them in Spanish concerning their situation, to

which they replied without any show of feeling, appearing very

cheerful, quite careless about dying, and not particularly contrite.

Although there be no doubt that the long habit of indulging in any

passion gives a peculiar expression to the countenance and sometimes

even a cast to the features, I put little faith in physiognomy, in the

general acceptation of the word; but I could not help remarking, that

the heads of these two men were precisely similar to those of all

murderers whom I have seen, almost spherical in shape, with the

forehead low but rather protuberant, and the eye dull and heavy.

We went next to see the room in the castle where Jeanne d'Albret

brought forth the heroic Henry IV., heard the story of her singing

even in the pains of child-birth in order that the infant might prove

a strong and resolute man, and were gratified with a sight of the

tortoise-shell in which he was cradled--though, be it remarked that

one tortoise-shell cradle was burnt during the revolution. Afterwards,

however, the governor of the castle produced the present one as

genuine, asserting that the one demolished was not that which had

served the monarch for a cradle. Thus that which is shown at present

has acquired the additional interest of uncertainty, notwithstanding

which, the Bourbon family have surrounded it with gilt helmets and

spears, tinsel and tawdry, which might well suit a toy-shop but not

the birth-place of Henri Quatre.

As we were to set out very early the next morning for the mountains,

we proposed to rest early, but did not fulfil that purpose. On the

contrary, we sat late talking over all the pleasant moments which we

had snatched from fate, in the little capital of Bearn, and our

lucubrations ended in an

ADIEU TO PAU.

Adieu, perchance for but a day,

Perchance for many a year;

While life's bright part shall slip away,

And Hope shall yield to Memory,

With many a tear.

But if imagination too,

Be not amongst things been,

Her magic power shall call to view,

The kind, the good, that brightened you,

Re-peopling the scene.

Adieu, sweet congress of fair things,

Stream, mountain, valley, plain;

And e'en when Time man's winter brings,

Remembrance still shall lend me wings,

To visit thee again.

LOURDES.

Dim grottos, gleaming lakes, and fountains clear.

I believe it to be all the same, after all, whether a man travels or

not; he's a stupid, cross-grained, drudging animal, not half so good

as the horse that drags him on his road. Blest with reason, it serves

him less than the instinct of the brute; with experience constantly

flogging him for his errors, he never corrects them; half of his time

he forgets what is right, and when he remembers it he never puts it in

practice.

Such were my reflections on finding--what? that John had forgotten

that most indispensable requisite to an Englishman's comfort, the

tea-kettle, at the instant we were leaving Pau. He had done so at

every place where he had stopped on the road, and now he had to bring

it down stairs, to tie it on the carriage, to cover it with the

oil-skin, and, in short, to detain the whole party, postilion, and

horses, and all, for at least five minutes.

Now, being very well aware that when I begin to moralize on trifles I

am never in the best humour in the world, and judging by this

infallible sign that I was in an ill temper, from having got up at

four o'clock in the morning, I placed myself deep in the corner of the

carriage, and pretended to fall asleep, for fear I should quarrel with

my companion, which, Heaven knows, would have been no easy matter.

However, as the carriage drove out of Pau, and began rolling along, in

a dull gray morning, over smooth ground, it became no longer a

pretence, and I began seriously to make reparation for my morning's

idleness--I mean for not having slept; as I consider, not to sleep at

the moments properly appropriated for it, just as great a piece of

idleness as any other misuse that man makes of his time.

I finished my nap as we crossed a bridge over the Gave not very far

from Lastelle. My friend who, it appears, had occupied himself much

like myself, woke up at the same time, and looking back to Pau, which

we saw diminishing afar, I am sure we both, thought of the friends we

left there, of the kindness they had shown to wandering strangers, and

the peaceful hours we had known in their society. I may never more see

them again; if so, God bless them, for I am sure they deserve it.

It was scarcely past midday when we arrived at Lourdes. The approach

is not unlike some of Mrs. Radcliffe's descriptions; the hills

beginning to rise high and craggy on each side, with a wild torrent

rushing in a valley below; and beyond, the Castle of Lourdes, starting

up on a high rock in the midst, sometimes seen and sometimes hidden,

as the road winds along the side of the mountain. It was market-day at

Lourdes, and a curious scene, the whole place being impassable for the

crowd of the Bearnais, with their Calmuck countenances and broad

berrets, and the Bearnaises, each covered with a red or white

triangular hood, edged with a black border, hiding the greater part of

the head, and falling low down on the shoulders.

I have before mentioned the sightseeing propensities of my companion

and myself; and though I had abjured grottos, as the most

unsatisfactory of all things, the first of our movements was towards

the "_Spelunque_ (or cavern,) _du Loup_." It lies some way on the

other side of the river, and, on arriving, we found the entrance so

low that we were obliged to go in, not upon our hands and knees, but

upon our faces. The guide went first, and then my friend, who is six

feet three, so that I thought he would never have done--there was such

a quantity of him.

The cave widens rapidly after the entrance, elevating itself to a

great height, and resembling in many places the niches and aisles of a

Gothic cathedral. In the end it is terminated by a deep well, into

which the guide threw some pieces of stone, which continued echoing,

as they fell, for several minutes. But the most curious thing we

observed was the soil near the mouth of the grotto, which appeared

entirely formed from the fragments of insects. We examined several

portions of this black sort of earth and uniformly found it composed

of parts of the legs, wings, and corslets, of what had apparently been

small beetles.

After the cavern, we went, in a different direction, to visit a lake

said to occupy the spot where a mountain once stood, which suddenly

disappeared at the time of an earthquake. The only beauty of the place

was the reflection of the hills around in the deep smooth water, and

one might almost fancy they saw the ghost of the vanished mountain

haunting its old abode and looking up from the bottom of the lake.

The whole of the country round is strewed with old towers and castles,

which have been erected at different periods; some to check the

descent of the mountaineers, who used here, as well as in Scotland, to

exact a kind of black mail from the inhabitants of the low lands; some

to guard against the Moors, who, during their residence in Spain, used

frequently to invade and ravage the country; and some are even

attributed to the Romans, but I should think, from their appearance,

with little foundation for the supposition.

However, like all mountaineers, the people are full of old legends;

and ancient superstitions, driven from the more civilized globe, seem

to have refuged themselves in the obscurity of these unfrequented

hills.

They tell a droll story of the lord of one of the old castles of which

I have just spoken, not at all unlike "Alonzo the Brave and the fair

Imogine," but still more like the story of the noble Morringer.

THE DEVIL AND THE CRUSADER.

Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen,

Hey and the rue grows bonny wi' thyme,

He met wi' auld Nick, wha said, how do ye fen,

And the thyme it is wither'd and rue is in prime.

I've got a bad wife, sir, that's a' my complaint,

Hey and the rue grows bonny wi' thyme,

For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint.

And the thyme it is wither'd and rue is in prime.

KELLYBURN BRAES.

Is those good old times so much to be regretted, when every noble had

the right and privilege of administering justice or injustice on his

own vassals, when hanging was in the hands of the gentry, and law in

the mouth of every feudal chief--when the crumbling towers, where the

moping owl now sits in melancholy solitude, were peopled with the gay,

and the bright, and the fair--when the courts where the lonely

wind whistles as in mockery of their emptiness, resounded to the clang

of arms and the voice of the trumpet--when feast and revel filled those

halls, where now sits nothing but silence and desolation;--the bravest

of the brave was the Lord of the Château de B----, and the fairest of

the fair was his lady. Beauty and wit were her's, and courage and

wealth were his, and all thought the Marquis the happiest of mortals,

except himself. How it came about, and why, does not appear, but a

violent hatred took place between the Marquis and a neighbouring

Baron, but histories do not mention that the Marchioness participated

in her husband's dislike.

Some said, that the Marquis was jealous, and called him "poor man!"

but as if to give them all the lie, and prove that he loved his wife

dearly and suspected her not at all, he came to a sudden resolution to

call together his vassals and retainers and join the crusade, for it

was just about this time that Peter the Hermit went through Europe

like a mad dog, infecting everybody with a desire to bite the

Saracens. Every wise man makes a will, and the Marquis wisely

calculating that a man who goes to cut other folk's throats, may find

some one by the way to cut his own, caused to be made and delivered

his last will and testament, leaving all his goods and effects, real

and personal, to his dearly beloved wife in case of his death; and

further adding a proviso, that if he did not return or send a

messenger announcing his existence within seven years, she might look

upon him as dead to all intents and purposes, and marry again to her

heart's content: but he made it a private request, that she would

never espouse the obnoxious Baron, which she promised faithfully, not

to do.

Now when the will was made as above stated by the Marquis's chaplain,

who could read and write, the Marquis, who could not, made a cross at

the bottom and stamped the wax with the pommel of his sword, and the

Marchioness kissed her lord and wept bitterly to think of his dying at

all.

At length the dreaded day of departure came. The vassals and retainers

marched out of the castle in gallant array, and the Marquis's page

told him that his charger was prepared, whereupon the Marchioness

fainted--dead as a stone. The Marquis waited till she had recovered,

and then snatched himself away and departed, while the Marchioness,

with flowing tears and streaming hair, stood in the highest tower

watching the horsemen till the top of the last spear was hid behind

the mountain, and then she came down and said to the servant, "At home

to nobody but the Baron."

* * * * *

In the mean time the Marquis joined the crusaders, arrived safely in

the Holy Land, and for some time performed prodigies of valour; till

at length one of these same prodigies conducted him into a Saracen

prison, where he lingered, like good King Lusignan, living principally

upon roasted chestnuts and mare's milk, for there were no cows in

Jerusalem. His fortitude would have melted a heart of stone, but as it

did not melt the stones of the prison, it served him but little,

although being of an ingenious turn, he used occasionally to carve

figures on little sticks, and Make whistles out of a marrowbone when

he could get one.

In these dignified employments had the Marquis expended many years,

and memory, who impudently keeps throwing in our teeth all that is

disagreeable, could not forbear telling him, that the sun had seven

times run his course since last he left his mountain castle in the

Pyrenees; and on this was he meditating, when suddenly up started a

gentleman, whom he instantly perceived to be the devil.

There is no one more ill-used, in my opinion, than the above-named

personage. However broad his back may be, surely all the sins are laid

to his charge, and of which he is as innocent as the child unborn, are

well sufficient to bow it. The poor devil! O luxury, pride, vain

glory, avarice, anger, hatred, revenge, and all uncharitableness;

what, what would ye do if ye had not his shoulders to cast your burden

upon? _O vanitas vanitatis!_ But as I was saying, the devil walked

into the dungeon, whereupon the crusader crossed himself. "My dear

sir," said his black majesty, "don't disturb yourself; such old

friends ought not to stand upon ceremonies."

The crusader made him a low bow, saying, that the devil really had the

advantage of him, and that he was not aware of having the pleasure of

his acquaintance.

"Not personally, indeed," said the devil, "but you have done me so

much service one way or another, that I owe you some return. You

stare, my dear sir, but you have sent to my dominions, with your own

hand, three-and-thirty Saracens, two renegades, and an atheist. Between

you and me, it is all the same to me," said the devil, "of what

religion they are, so that I have them safe; and now I have got to

give you a piece of news and make you a proposal." And then the

devil--whether it was that he does not patronize love of any kind, or

whether he thought that the Marchioness had had enough of it to answer

his purpose, or what, I don't know, but he told the Marquis, that as

he had neither returned nor sent during seven years, his wife was that

very night going to give her hand to the obnoxious baron, and he

farther offered to carry him back instantly to his own château in the

Pyrenees, if they could agree upon the terms.

This tickled the Marquis's fancy, but the devil was rather exorbitant,

demanding the knight's heart and soul. The crusader replied, that his

heart was his king's and his soul was his God's, and so that would not

do. The devil then asked for all his wealth at his death, and to be

instantly installed his chaplain, if he could prove that he had taken

orders. The Marquis answered, "_L'habit ne fait pas le moine_." The

devil then made several other proposals, but the knight was a

stickler, and did not think a bad wife worth much. So at last the

devil took off his hat saying, "What your honour pleases," leaving it

to his own generosity; and the crusader, who had learnt to be a screw,

said he would only give him the remains of his supper.

"You are a hard man," said the devil, "but never mind! jump up!"--and

down he bent his back for the Marquis to mount. The knight sprang into

the seat, stuck his knees into the devil's sides, and away they went

like a flash of lightning till they arrived at the château, where they

put the good people in no small confusion. The knight walked first and

the devil came after, and all the servants ran into the banquet-hall

crying, "The Marquis! the Marquis!" Up jumped the Baron, up jumped the

Marchioness, up jumped the guests.

The Marquis's movements were rather rapid; he walked into the hall,

claimed his wife, kicked the Baron, wished the company good night,

overturned the supper table and spoilt the supper, so that when order

was restored, and he called for something to eat, there was nothing to

be had but a dozen of nuts and a bottle of wine. The knight cracked

the nuts, but, according to his bargain, took care to throw the shells

over his shoulder for the devil, and when he had drank his wine, threw

the bottle behind him too: but the devil was too old a bird to be

caught with chaff, and had been gone half an hour before. So the

crusader pulled off his boots and went to bed.

ARGELES.

Et nunc omnis ager nunc omnis parturit arbos,

Nunc frondent silvæ nunc formosissimus annus.--VIRGIL.

There was nothing more to be seen at Lourdes but the castle, and as

that is now used only as a state prison we did not visit it. In scenes

where liberty seems the charter of the place, as it does in these

mountains, its loss is doubly dreadful. Besides, we had seen enough of

prisons at Pau.

At Lourdes the Pyrenees really begin, in this direction, and from

thence to Argelés, we passed through a valley which made us feel the

whole force and truth of the expression of "_a smiling country_."

Richly cultivated at their bases, on each side rise mountains, covered

with fields of somewhat less luxuriance to their very summits. Yet

they lose none of their character of mountains, for from the midst of

a smooth verdant turf, a mass of cold rugged rock will ever and anon

break out and hang frowning over the road; and in other places where

the mountaineers have carried up the vegetable mould to the top of the

crags, which they frequently do, a small green meadow will appear

spreading soft and rich, in the midst of perfect desolation. At the

further extremity, the view penetrates into several other valleys,

which give long perspectives of hills sloping to meet hills and far

passes winding on into the misty distance, till some obtrusive

mountain comes with its blue head and shuts the scene.

Frequent villages are strewed all through the valley of Argelés, and

every now and then some old ruin raises itself from amongst the trees,

connecting the history of the past with the present beauties of the

scene. The tower of Vidalos forms a striking object all along the

road, standing on a wooded height, in the midst, and seen from every

part of the valley.