animal--with his black shaggy locks, his brown jacket, red sash, and
enormous round beaver; ox-goad in hand, and knife ready to his grip, his
appearance accords but ill with the luxuriant beauty of the scene in
which he dwells. His diminutive but hardy companion--she who shares his
toils in the fields, and serves as his equal if not his better half--is
well suited to his purpose, and resembles him in her looks. Here, she
can climb the mountain-side as nimbly as her master; here, she can drive
the cattle to their far-distant pastures with courage and skill; here,
she mounts the hot little mountain-steed, not in female fashion, but
with a true masculine stride; laborious and long-enduring, simple,
honest, and easily contented; but withal easily provoked, and hard to be
appeased without blood; such is the Auvergnat, and his wife.
Riom seemed a picturesque town when we drove through it; but our eyes
could not bear to be diverted from the magnificent scenery that kept
rising upon us from the south. We had now approached closely to the foot
of the mountain-ranges, and their lofty summits were high above us in
mid-air. On the right, the Puy de DA'me, cut in half by a line of
motionless clouds, reared itself into the blue sky like some gigantic
balloon, so round was its summit--so isolated. The granite plateau which
constituted its base, was broken into deep and well-wooded ravines;
while at intervals there ran out into the Limagne, for many a league,
some extended promontory of land, capped all along by a flood of
crystallized basalt, which once had flowed in liquid fire from the
crater in the ridge. Here and there rose from the plain a small conical
hill, crowned with a black mass of basaltic columns, and there again
topped with an antique-looking little town or fortress, stationed there,
perhaps, from the days of CA|sar. In front stood Gergovia, where Roman
and Gallic blood once flowed at the bidding of that great master of war,
freely as a mountain torrent; now only a black plain, where the plough
is stopped in each furrow by bricks and broken pots, and rusted
arms,--tokens of the site of the ancient city.
On turning short round a steeply sloping hill, crowned with a goodly
chActeau, and clad on its sides with vines and all kinds of fruit-trees,
we saw a deep vale running up into the mountains towards the west, and
Clermont covering an eminence in the very midst. What a picturesque
outline! How closely the houses stand together--how agreeably do they
mix with the trees of the promenades; and how boldly the cathedral comes
out from amongst them all! It is a lofty and richly-decorated pile of
the fourteenth century; and tells of the labours and the wealth of a
foreign land. Anglo-Norman skill and gold are said to have formed it;
but however this may be, we know that it witnessed the presence of our
gallant Black Prince, and that it once depended on Aquitaine, not on
France. Yet what fancy can have possessed its builder to have
constructed it of black stone? Why not have sought out the pure white
lime-rocks of the flat country, or the grey granite of the hills? This
is the deep lava of the neighbouring volcanic quarry; here basalt, and
pumice, and cinder, and scoriA|, are pressed into the service of the
architect; and there stands a proof of the goodness of the
material--hard, sharp, and sonorous, as when the hammer first clinked
against its edge five centuries ago.
"Entrons, Monsieur," said the fair Marquise, as I stood with her on the
esplanade before the Cathedral--the Marquis had gone to see the
commandant. "Entrez donc, 'tis the work of one of your compatriots; and
here, though a heretic, you may consider yourself on English ground."
Now, positively, I had never thought a bit about Catholic or Protestant
ever since I had quitted my own shores. All I knew was, that I was in a
country that gave the same evidences of being Christian as the one that
I had left; and that, however frivolous and profligate might be the
appearance of its capital, in the rural districts, at least, the people
were honest and devout. I was not come to quarrel, nor to find fault
with millions of men for thinking differently from--but perhaps acting
better than--myself. So we entered.
The old keeper of the _benitier_ bowed his head, and extended his brush;
the Marquise touched its extremity, crossed herself, and fell on her
knees.
Thou fell spirit of pride, prejudice, ignorance, and _mauvaise honte!_
why didst thou beset me at that moment, and keep me, like a stiff-backed
puritan, erect in the house of God? Why, on entering within its sacred
limits, did I not acknowledge my own unworthiness to come in, and
reverence the sanctity of the place? No; there I stood, half-astonished,
half-abashed while the Marquise continued on her knees and made her
silent orisons. 'Tis an admirable and a touching custom: there is poetry
and religion in the very idea. Cross not that threshold with unholy
feet; or if thou dost, confess that unholiness, and beg forgiveness for
the transgression ere thou advancest within the walls. I acknowledge
that I felt ashamed of myself; yet I knew not what to do. One of the
priests passed by: he looked first at the lady and next at me; then
humbly bowing towards the altar, went out of the church. My
embarrassment increased; but the Marquise arose. "It is good to pray
here," she said, in a tone the mildness and sincerity of which made the
reproach more cutting. "Let us go forward now."
"I will amend my manners," thought I; "'tis not well to be unconcerned
in such things, and when so little makes all the difference."
"Is Monsieur fond of pictures? Look at that painting of the Baptist, how
vigorously the figure is drawn! And see what an exquisite Virgin! Or
turn your eyes to that southern window, and remark the flood of gorgeous
light falling from it on the pillar by its side!"
I was thinking of any thing but the Virgin, or the window, or the light;
I was thinking of my companion--so fair, and so devout. Had she not
called me a heretic? Had she not already put me to the blush for my lack
of veneration? Strange linking of ideas! "Thou art worthy to be an angel
hereafter," said I to myself, "as truly thou resemblest what we call
angels here."
We were once more at the western door; Madame crossed herself again; we
went out.
"Pour l'amour de Dieu, mon bon monsieur!" "Que le ciel vous soit
ouvert!" whined out half-a-dozen old crones with extended hands; their
shrivelled fingers seeking to pluck at any thing they could get.
Now I had paid away my last sous to the garASec.on d'A(C)curie at the Poste: so
I told them pettishly that I had not a liard to give. A coin tinkled on
the ground; it had fallen from the hand of the Marquise; and as I
stooped to reach it for her, I saw that it was gold.
"Let them have it, poor things. I thought it was silver; but it has
touched holy ground, and 'tis now their own."
I turned round, thrust my purse into the lap of the nearest, and with a
light heart led the lady back to the hotel.
POEMS BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT.
A WOMAN'S SHORTCOMINGS.
1.
SHE has laughed as softly as if she sighed;
She has counted six and over,
Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried--
Oh, each a worthy lover!
They "give her time;" for her soul must slip
Where the world has set the grooving:
She will lie to none with her fair red lip--
But love seeks truer loving.
2.
She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb,
As her thoughts were beyond her recalling;
With a glance for _one_, and a glance for _some_,
From her eyelids rising and falling!
--Speaks common words with a blushful air;
--Hears bold words, unreproving:
But her silence says--what she never will swear--
And love seeks better loving.
3.
Go, lady! lean to the night-guitar,
And drop a smile to the bringer;
Then smile as sweetly, when he is far,
At the voice of an in-door singer!
Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes;
Glance lightly, on their removing;
And join new vows to old perjuries--
But dare not call it loving!
4.
Unless you can think, when the song is done,
No other is soft in the rhythm;
Unless you can feel, when left by One,
That all men beside go with him;
Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath,
That your beauty itself wants proving;
Unless you can swear--"For life, for death!"--
Oh, fear to call it loving!
5.
Unless you can muse, in a crowd all day,
On the absent face that fixed you;
Unless you can love, as the angels may,
With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;
Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,
Through behoving and unbehoving;
Unless you can _die_ when the dream is past--
Oh, never call it loving!
A MAN'S REQUIREMENTS.
1.
Love me, sweet, with all thou art,
Feeling, thinking, seeing,--
Love me in the lightest part,
Love me in full being.
2.
Love me with thine open youth
In its frank surrender;
With the vowing of thy mouth,
With its silence tender.
3.
Love me with thine azure eyes,
Made for earnest granting!
Taking colour from the skies,
Can heaven's truth be wanting?
4.
Love me with their lids, that fall
Snow-like at first meeting!
Love me with thine heart, that all
The neighbours then see beating.
5.
Love me with thine hand stretched out
Freely--open-minded!
Love me with thy loitering foot,--
Hearing one behind it.
6.
Love me with thy voice, that turns
Sudden faint above me!
Love me with thy blush that burns
When I murmur '_Love me!_'
7.
Love me with thy thinking soul--
Break it to love-sighing;
Love me with thy thoughts that roll
On through living--dying.
8.
Love me in thy gorgeous airs,
When the world has crowned thee!
Love me, kneeling at thy prayers,
With the angels round thee.
9.
Love me pure, as musers do,
Up the woodlands shady!
Love me gaily, fast, and true,
As a winsome lady.
10.
Through all hopes that keep us brave,
Further off or nigher,
Love me for the house and grave,--
And for something higher.
11.
Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear,
Woman's love no fable,
_I_ will love _thee_--half-a-year--
As a man is able.
MAUDE'S SPINNING.
1.
He listened at the porch that day
To hear the wheel go on, and on,
And then it stopped--ran back away--
While through the door he brought the sun.
But now my spinning is all done.
2.
He sate beside me, with an oath
That love ne'er ended, once begun;
I smiled--believing for us both,
What was the truth for only one.
And now my spinning is all done.
3.
My mother cursed me that I heard
A young man's wooing as I spun.
Thanks, cruel mother, for that word,
For I have, since, a harder known!
And now my spinning is all done.
4.
I thought--O God!--my first-born's cry
Both voices to my ear would drown!
I listened in mine agony----
It was the _silence_ made me groan!
And now my spinning is all done.
5.
Bury me 'twixt my mother's grave,
Who cursed me on her death-bed lone,
And my dead baby's--(God it save!)
Who, not to bless me, would not moan.
And now my spinning is all done.
6.
A stone upon my heart and head,
But no name written on the stone!
Sweet neighbours! whisper low instead,
"This sinner was a loving one--
And now her spinning is all done."
7.
And let the door ajar remain,
In case that he should pass anon;
And leave the wheel out very plain,
That HE, when passing in the sun,
May _see_ the spinning is all done.
A DEAD ROSE.
1.
O rose! who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
But barren, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,
Kept seven years in a drawer--thy titles shame thee.
2.
The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedge-thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane to last all day,--
If breathing now,--unsweetened would forego thee.
3.
The sun that used to light thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,
Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,--
If shining now,--with not a hue would dight thee.
4.
The dew that used to wet thee,
And, white first, grow incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,--
If dropping now,--would darken where it met thee.
5.
The fly that lit upon thee,
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,
Along the leaf's pure edges after heat,--
If lighting now,--would coldly overrun thee.
6.
The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,--
If passing now,--would blindly overlook thee.
7.
The heart doth recognise thee,
Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete--
Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.
8.
Yes and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!----
Lie still upon this heart--which breaks below thee!
CHANGE ON CHANGE.
1.
Three months ago, the stream did flow,
The lilies bloomed along the edge;
And we were lingering to and fro,--
Where none will track thee in this snow,
Along the stream, beside the hedge.
Ah! sweet, be free to come and go;
For if I do not hear thy foot,
The frozen river is as mute,--
The flowers have dried down to the root;
And why, since these be changed since May,
Shouldst _thou_ change less than _they_?
2.
And slow, slow as the winter snow,
The tears have drifted to mine eyes;
And my two cheeks, three months ago,
Set blushing at thy praises so,
Put paleness on for a disguise.
Ah! sweet, be free to praise and go;
For if my face is turned to pale,
It was thine oath that first did fail,--
It was thy love proved false and frail!
And why, since these be changed, I trow,
Should _I_ change less than _thou_?
A REED.
I am no trumpet, but a reed!
No flattering breath shall from me lead
A silver sound, a hollow sound!
I will not ring, for priest or king,
One blast that, in re-echoing,
Would leave a bondsman faster bound.
I am no trumpet, but a reed,--
A broken reed, the wind indeed
Left flat upon a dismal shore!
Yet if a little maid, or child,
Should sigh within it, earnest-mild,
This reed will answer evermore.
I am no trumpet, but a reed!
Go, tell the fishers, as they spread
Their nets along the river's edge,--
I will not tear their nets at all,
Nor pierce their hands--if they should fall:
Then let them leave me in the sedge.
HECTOR IN THE GARDEN.
1.
Nine years old! First years of any
Seem the best of all that come!--
Yet when _I_ was nine, I said
Unlike things!--I thought, instead,
That the Greeks used just as many
In besieging Ilium.
2.
Nine green years had scarcely brought me
To my childhood's haunted spring,--
I had life, like flowers and bees,
In betwixt the country trees,
And the sun, the pleasure, taught me
Which he teacheth every thing.
3.
If the rain fell, there was sorrow;--
Little head leant on the pane,--
Little finger tracing down it
The long trailing drops upon it,--
And the "Rain, rain, come to-morrow,"
Said for charm against the rain.
4.
And the charm was right Canidian,
Though you meet it with a jeer!
If I said it long enough,
Then the rain hummed dimly off;
And the thrush, with his pure Lydian,
Was the loudest sound to hear.
5.
And the sun and I together
Went a-rushing out of doors!
We, our tender spirits, drew
Over hill and dale in view,
Glimmering hither, glimmering thither,
In the footsteps of the showers.
6.
Underneath the chestnuts dripping,
Through the grasses wet and fair,
Straight I sought my garden-ground,
With the laurel on the mound;
And the pear-tree oversweeping
A side-shadow of green air.
7.
While hard by, there lay supinely
A huge giant, wrought of spade!
Arms and legs were stretched at length,
In a passive giant strength,--
And the meadow turf, cut finely,
Round them laid and interlaid.
8.
Call him Hector, son of Priam!
Such his title and degree.
With my rake I smoothed his brow,
And his cheeks I weeded through:
But a rhymer such as I am
Scarce can sing his dignity.
9.
Eyes of gentianella's azure,
Staring, winking at the skies;
Nose of gillyflowers and box;
Scented grasses, put for locks--
Which a little breeze, at pleasure,
Set a-waving round his eyes.
10.
Brazen helm of daffodillies,
With a glitter for the light;
Purple violets, for the mouth,
Breathing perfumes west and south;
And a sword of flashing lilies,
Holden ready for the fight.
11.
And a breastplate, made of daisies,
Closely fitting, leaf by leaf;
Periwinkles interlaced
Drawn for belt about the waist;
While the brown bees, humming praises,
Shot their arrows round the chief.
12.
And who knows, (I sometimes wondered,)
If the disembodied soul
Of old Hector, once of Troy,
Might not take a dreary joy
Here to enter--if it thundered,
Rolling up the thunder-roll?
13.
Rolling this way, from Troy-ruin,
To this body rude and rife,
He might enter and take rest
'Neath the daisies of the breast--
They, with tender roots, renewing
His heroic heart to life.
14.
Who could know? I sometimes started
At a motion or a sound;
Did his mouth speak--naming Troy,
With an I?I"I?I"I?I"I?I"I?Ič?
Did the pulse of the Strong-hearted
Make the daisies tremble round?
15.
It was hard to answer, often!
But the birds sang in the tree--
But the little birds sang bold,
In the pear-tree green and old;
And my terror seemed to soften,
Through the courage of their glee.
16.
Oh, the birds, the trees, the ruddy
And white blossoms, sleek with rain!
Oh, my garden, rich with pansies!
Oh, my childhood's bright romances!
All revive, like Hector's body,
And I see them stir again!
17.
And despite life's changes--chances,
And despite the deathbell's toll,
They press on me in full seeming!--
Help, some angel! stay this dreaming!
As the birds sang in the branches,
Sing God's patience through my soul!
18.
That no dreamer, no neglecter,
Of the present's work unsped,
I may wake up and be doing,
Life's heroic ends pursuing,
Though my past is dead as Hector,
And though Hector is twice dead.
THE CONDE'S DAUGHTER.
"I SHOULD think we cannot be very far from our destination by this
time."
"Why, were one to put faith in my appetite, we must have been at least a
good four or five hours _en route_ already; and if our Rosinantes are
not able to get over a _misA"re_ of thirty or forty miles without making
as many grimaces about it as they do now, they are not the animals I
took them for."
"Come, come--abuse your own as much as you please, but this much I will
say for my Nero, though he has occasionally deposited me on the
roadside, he is not apt to sleep upon the way at least. Nay, so sure am
I of him, that I would wager you ten Napoleons that we are not more than
four or five miles from the _chateau_ at this moment."
"_Pas si bAȘte, mon cher._ I am not fool enough to put my precious Naps
in jeopardy, just when I am so deucedly in want of them, too. But a
truce to this nonsense. Do you know, Ernest, seriously speaking, I am
beginning to think we are great fools for our pains, running our heads
into a perilous adventure, with the almost certainty of a severe
reprimand from the general, which, I think, even your filial
protestations will scarcely save you from, if ever we return alive; and
merely to see, what, I dare say, after all, will turn out to be only a
pretty face."
"What!--already faint-hearted!--A miracle of beauty such as Darville
described is well worth periling one's neck to gaze upon. Besides, is
not that our vocation?--and as for reprimands, if you got one as often
as I do, you would soon find out that those things are nothing when one
is used to them."
"A miracle!--ah, bah! It was the romance of the scene, and the artful
grace of the costume, which fascinated his eyes."
"No, no! be just. Recollect that it was not Darville alone, but
Delavigne; and even that _connoisseur_ in female beauty, Monbreton
himself, difficult as he is, declared that she was perfect. She must be
a wonder, indeed, when he could find no fault with her."
"Be it so. I warn you beforehand that I am fully prepared to be
disappointed. However, as we are so far embarked in the affair, I
suppose we must accomplish it."
"Most assuredly, unless you wish to be the laughing-stock of the whole
regiment for the next month; for notwithstanding Darville's boasted
powers of discretion, half the subalterns, no doubt, are in possession
of the secret of our _escapade_ by this time."
"Well, then, Ernest, as we are launched on this wise expedition, let me
sermonise a small portion of prudence into that most giddy brain of
yours. Remember that, after all, if those ruthless Spaniards were to
discover the trick we are playing them, they would probably make us pay
rather too dearly for the frolic. In short, Ernest, I am very much
afraid that your _A(C)tourderie_ will let the light rather too soon into
the thick skulls of those magnificent hidalgos."
"Preach away--I listen in all humility."
"Ernest, Ernest, I give you up; you are incorrigible!" rejoined the
other, turning away to hide the laugh which the irresistibly comic
expression his friend threw into his countenance had excited.
And who were the speakers of this short dialogue? Two dashing,
spirited-looking young men, who, at the close of it, reined in their
steeds, in the dilemma of not knowing where to direct them. Theirs was,
indeed, a wild-goose chase. Their _Chateau en Espagne_ seemed invisible,
as such _chateaux_ usually are; and where it might be found, who was
there to tell?--Not one. The scene was a desert--not even a bird
animated it; and just before them branched out three roads from the one
they had hitherto confidently pursued.
After a moment's silence, the cavaliers both burst into a gay laugh.
"Here's a puzzle, Alphonse!" said the one. "Which of the three roads do
you opine?"
"The left, by all means," replied the other; "I generally find it leads
me right."
"But if it shouldn't now?"
"Why, then, it only leads us wrong."
"But I don't choose to go wrong."
"And what have you been doing ever since you set out?"
"True; but as we are far enough now from that point, we must e'en make
the best of the bad."
"Well, why don't you?"
"Why, if one only knew which was the best."
At this moment the tinkling of a mule's bells, mingled with the song of
the muleteer, came on the air.
"Hist! here comes counsel," exclaimed the young man whom the other named
Ernest. "Holla, seA+-or hidalgo! do you know the castle of the Conde di
Miranda?"
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
"Where it was."
"Near?"
"That's as one finds it."
"And how shall we find it?"
"By reaching it."
"Come, come, hidalgo mio."
"I'm no hidalgo," said the man roughly.
"But you ought to be. I've seen many less deserving of it," resumed the
traveller.
"I dare say," retorted the muleteer.
"If you'll conduct us within view of the castle you shall be rewarded."
"As I should well deserve."
"Ah, your deserts may be greater than our purse."
But the man moved on.
"Halte-lA , friend! I like your company so well that I must have it a
little longer." And the officer pulled out a pistol. "Will you, or will
you not, guide us to the castle of the Conde?"
"I will," gruffly replied the man, with a look which showed that he was
sorry to be forced to choose the second alternative.
"Can we trust this fellow?" said the younger officer to the elder.
"No--but we can ourselves; and keep a sharp look-out."
"Besides, I shall give him a hint. Hidalgo mio----" he began.
"SeA+-or _Franzese_," interrupted the muleteer.
"What puts that into your head, hidalgo? _Franzese_,--why, Don Felix y
Cortos, y Sargas, y Nos, y Tierras, y, y,--don't you know an Englishman
when you see him?"
"Yes," muttered the Spaniard--"Yes, and a Frenchman, too."
"No, you don't, for here's the proof. Why, what are we, but English
officers, carrying despatches to your Conde from our General?"
The muleteer looked doubtingly.
"Why, do you suppose Frenchmen would trust themselves amongst such a set
of"--
"Patriots." Exclaimed the other stranger, hastily.
"All I say;" observed the man drily, "is, that if you are friends of the
Conde, he will treat you as you deserve. If enemies, the same. So,
backward."
"Onward, you mean."
"Ay, for me; but not for you, seA+-ores, you have left the castle a mile
to the left."
"I guessed right, you see," said Alphonse, "when I guessed left."
The muleteer passed on, and the horsemen followed.
"I say, hidalgo mio," called out Ernest, "what sort of a don is this
same Conde?"
"As how?" inquired the muleteer.
"Is he rich?"
"Yes."
"Proud?"
"Yes."
"Old?"
"No."
"Has he a wife?"
"No."
"Has he children?"
"No."
"No!" exclaimed the cavalier with surprise. "No child!"
"You said children, seA+-or."
"He has a child, then?"
"Yes."
"A son?"
"No."
"A daughter?"
"Yes."
"Why, yes and no seems all you have got to say."
"It seems to answer all you have got to ask, seA+-or."
"Is the DoA+-a very handsome?" interrupted Alphonse, impatiently.
"Yes and no, according to taste," replied the muleteer.
"He laughs at us," whispered Ernest in French. The conversation with the
muleteer had been, thus far, carried on in Spanish--which Ernest spoke
fairly enough. But the observation he thoughtlessly uttered in French
seemed to excite the peasant's attention.
"Do you speak English?" asked Ernest.
"Yes," was the reply, in English. "Do you?"
"Me English? ab course. Speak well English," replied Ernest, in the true
Gallic-idiom. Then relapsing into the more familiar tongue, he added,
"But in Spain I speak Spanish."