THERE is a great contrast between the easy deshabille of the ocean life,
and the prim attire, and conventional spirit of the land. In the first,
there are but few to please, and these few are known, and they know us;
upon the shore, there is a world to humor, and a world of strangers. In
a brilliant drawing-room looking out upon the site of old Charing-Cross,
and upon the one-armed Nelson, standing aloft at his coil of rope, I
take leave of the fair voyager of the sea. Her white negligé has given
place to silks; and the simple careless coiffe of the ocean, is replaced
by the rich dressing of a modiste. Yet her face has the same bloom upon
it; and her eye sparkles, as it seems to me, with a higher pride; and
her little hand has I think a tremulous quiver in it (I am sure my own
has)—as I bid her adieu, and take up the trail of my wanderings into the
heart of England.
Abuse her, as we will—pity her starving peasantry, as we may—smile at
her court pageantry, as much as we like—old England is dear old England
still. Her cottage homes, her green fields, her castles, her blazing
firesides, her church spires are as old as songs; and by song and story,
we inherit them in our hearts. This joyous boast, was, I remember, upon
my lip, as I first trod upon the rich meadow of Runnymede; and recalled
that GREAT CHARTER: wrested from the king, which made the first stepping
stone toward the bounties of our western freedom.
[Illustration]
It is a strange feeling that comes over the Western Saxon, as he strolls
first along the green by-lanes of England, and scents the hawthorn in
its April bloom, and lingers at some quaint stile to watch the rooks
wheeling and cawing around some lofty elm-tops, and traces the carved
gables of some old country mansion that lies in their shadow, and hums
some fragment of charming English poesy, that seems made for the scene.
This is not sight-seeing, nor travel; it is dreaming sweet dreams, that
are fed with the old life of Books.
I wander on, fearing to break the dream, by a swift step; and winding
and rising between the blooming hedgerows, I come presently to the sight
of some sweet valley below me, where a thatched hamlet lies sleeping in
the April sun, as quietly as the dead lie in history; no sound reaches
me save the occasional clink of the smith’s hammer, or the hedgeman’s
bill-hook, or the plowman’s “ho-tup,” from the hills. At evening,
listening to the nightingale, I stroll wearily into some close-nestled
village, that I had seen long ago from a rolling height. It is far away
from the great lines of travel—and the children stop their play to have
a look at me, and the rosy-faced girls peep from behind half opened
doors.
Standing apart, and with a bench on either side of the entrance, is the
inn of the Eagle and the Falcon—which guardian birds, some native Dick
Tinto has pictured upon the swinging signboard at the corner. The
hostess is half ready to embrace me, and treats me like a prince in
disguise. She shows me through the tap-room into a little parlor, with
white curtains, and with neatly framed prints of the old patriarchs.
Here, alone beside a brisk fire, kindled with furze, I watch the white
flame leaping playfully through the black lumps of coal, and enjoy the
best fare of the Eagle and the Falcon. If too late, or too early for her
garden stock, the hostess bethinks herself of some small pot of jelly in
an out-of-the-way cupboard of the house, and setting it temptingly in
her prettiest dish, she coyly slips it upon the white cloth, with a
modest regret that it is no better; and a little evident
satisfaction—that it is so good.
I muse for an hour before the glowing fire, as quiet as the cat that has
come in, to bear me company; and at bedtime, I find sheets, as fresh as
the air of the mountains.
At another time, and many months later, I am walking under a wood of
Scottish firs. It is near nightfall, and the fir tops are swaying, and
sighing hoarsely, in the cool wind of the Northern Highlands. There is
none of the smiling landscape of England about me; and the crags of
Edinburgh and Castle Stirling, and sweet Perth, in its silver valley,
are far to the southward. The larches of Athol and Bruar Water, and that
highland gem—Dunkeld, are passed. I am tired with a morning’s tramp over
Culloden Moor; and from the edge of the wood there stretches before me,
in the cool gray twilight, broad fields of heather. In the middle, there
rise against the night-sky, the turrets of a castle; it is Castle
Cawdor, where King Duncan was murdered by Macbeth.
The sight of it lends a spur to my weary step; and emerging from the
wood, I bound over the springy heather. In an hour, I clamber a broken
wall, and come under the frowning shadows of the castle. The ivy
clambers up here and there, and shakes its uncropped branches, and its
dried berries over the heavy portal. I cross the moat, and my step makes
the chains of the drawbridge rattle. All is kept in the old state; only
in lieu of the warder’s horn, I pull at the warder’s bell. The echoes
ring, and die in the stone courts; but there is no one astir, nor is
there a light at any of the castle windows. I ring again, and the echoes
come, and blend with the rising night wind that sighs around the
turrets, as they sighed that night of murder. I fancy—it must be a
fancy—that I hear an owl scream; I am sure that I hear the crickets cry.
I sit down upon the green bank of the moat; a little dark water lies in
the bottom. The walls rise from it gray and stern in the deepening
shadows. I hum chance passages of Macbeth, listening for the
echoes—echoes from the wall; and echoes from that far-away time, when I
stole the first reading of the tragic story.
“Did’st thou not hear a noise?
I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry.
Did you not speak?
When?
Now.
As I descended?
Ay.
——Hark!”
And the sharp echo comes back—“Hark!” And at dead of night, in the
thatched cottage under the castle walls, where a dark-faced, Gaelic
woman, in plaid turban, is my hostess, I wake, startled by the wind, and
my trembling lips say involuntarily—“hark!”
Again, three months later, I am in the sweet county of Devon. Its
valleys are like emerald; its threads of waters stretched over the
fields, by their provident husbandry, glisten in the broad glow of
summer, like skeins of silk. A bland old farmer, of the true British
stamp, is my host. On market days he rides over to the old town of
Totness, in a trim, black farmer’s cart; and he wears glossy-topped
boots, and a broad-brimmed white hat. I take a vast deal of pleasure in
listening to his honest, straight-forward talk about the improvements of
the day and the state of the nation. I sometimes get upon one of his
nags, and ride off with him over his fields, or visit the homes of the
laborers, which show their gray roofs, in every charming nook of the
landscape. At the parish church I doze against the high pew backs, as I
listen to the see-saw tones of the drawling curate; and in my half
wakeful moments, the withered holly sprigs (not removed since Easter)
grow upon my vision, into Christmas boughs, and preach sermons to me—of
the days of old.
Sometimes, I wander far over the hills into a neighboring park; and
spend hours on hours under the sturdy oaks, watching the sleek fallow
deer gazing at me with their soft liquid eyes. The squirrels, too, play
above me, with their daring leaps, utterly careless of my presence, and
the pheasants whir away from my very feet.
On one of these random strolls—I remember it very well—when I was idling
along, thinking of the broad reach of water that lay between me and that
old forest home—and beating off the daisy heads with my cane—I heard the
tramp of horses coming up one of the forest avenues. The sound was
unusual, for the family, I had been told, was still in town, and no
right of way lay through the park. There they were, however: I was sure
it must be the family, from the careless way in which they came
sauntering up.
First, there was a noble hound that came bounding toward me—gazed a
moment, and turned to watch the approach of the little cavalcade. Next
was an elderly gentleman mounted upon a spirited hunter, attended by a
boy of some dozen years, who managed his pony with a grace, that is a
part of the English boy’s education. Then followed two older lads, and a
traveling phaëton in which sat a couple of elderly ladies. But what most
drew my attention was a girlish figure, that rode beyond the carriage,
upon a sleek-limbed gray. There was something in the easy grace of her
attitude, and the rich glow that lit up her face—heightened as it was,
by the little black riding cap, relieved with a single flowing
plume—that kept my eye. It was strange, but I thought that I had seen
such a figure before, and such a face, and such an eye; and as I made
the ordinary salutation of a stranger, and caught her smile, I could
have sworn that it was she—my fair companion of the ocean. The truth
flashed upon me in a moment. She was to visit, she had told me, a friend
in the south of England; and this was the friend’s home; and one of the
ladies of the carriage was her mother; and one of the lads, the
schoolboy brother, who had teased her on the sea.
I recall now perfectly her frank manner, as she ungloved her hand to bid
me welcome. I strolled beside them to the steps. Old Devon had suddenly
renewed its beauties for me. I had much to tell her, of the little
outlying nooks, which my wayward feet had led me to: and she—as much to
ask. My stay with the bland old farmer lengthened; and two days’
hospitalities at the Park ran over into three, and four. There was hard
galloping down those avenues; and new strolls, not at all lonely, under
the sturdy oaks. The long summer twilight of England used to find a very
happy fellow lingering on the garden terrace—looking, now at the
rookery, where the belated birds quarreled for a resting place, and now
down the long forest vista, gray with distance, and closed with the
white spire of Madbury church.
English country life gains fast upon one—very fast; and it is not so
easy, as in the drawing-room of Charing Cross, to say—adieu! But it is
said—very sadly said; for God only knows how long it is to last. And as
I rode slowly down toward the lodge after my leave-taking, I turned back
again, and again, and again. I thought I saw her standing still upon the
terrace, though it was almost dark; and I thought—it could hardly have
been an illusion—that I saw something white waving from her hand.
Her name—as if I could forget it—was Caroline; her mother called
her—Carry. I wondered how it would seem for me to call her—Carry! I
tried it—it sounded well. I tried it—over and over—until I came too near
the lodge. There I threw a half crown to the woman who opened the gate
for me. She courtesied low, and said—“God bless you, sir!”
I liked her for it; I would have given a guinea for it: and that
night—whether it was the old woman’s benediction, or the waving scarf
upon the terrace, I do not know—but there was a charm upon my thought,
and my hope, as if an angel had been near me.
It passed away though in my dreams; for I dreamed that I saw the sweet
face of Bella in an English park, and that she wore a black-velvet
riding cap, with a plume; and I came up to her and murmured, very
sweetly, I thought—“Carry, dear Carry!” and she started, looked sadly at
me, and turned away. I ran after her, to kiss her as I did when she sat
upon my mother’s lap, on the day when she came near drowning: I longed
to tell her, as I did then—I _do_ love you. But she turned her tearful
face upon me, I dreamed; and then—I saw no more.
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[Illustration]
A
ROMAN
GIRL
—I REMEMBER the very words—“_non parlo Francese, Signore_—I do not speak
French, Signor”—said the stout lady—“but my daughter, perhaps, will
understand you.”
And she called out—“_Enrica!—Enrica! venite, subito! c’ è un
forestiere._”
And the daughter came, her light-brown hair falling carelessly over her
shoulders, her rich, hazel eye twinkling and full of life, the color
coming and going upon her transparent cheek, and her bosom heaving with
her quick step. With one hand she put back the scattered locks that had
fallen over her forehead, while she laid the other gently upon the arm
of her mother, and asked in that sweet music of the south—“_cosa volete,
mamma?_”
It was the prettiest picture I had seen in many a day; and this,
notwithstanding I was in Rome, and had come that very morning from the
Palace of Borghese.
The stout lady was my hostess, and Enrica—so fair, so young, so unlike
in her beauty, to other Italian beauties, was my landlady’s daughter.
The house was one of those tall houses—very, very old which stand along
the eastern side of the Corso, looking out upon the Piazzo di Colonna.
The staircases were very tall and dirty, and they were narrow and dark.
Four flights of stone steps led up to the corridor where they lived. A
little trap was in the door; and there was a bell-rope, at the least
touch of which, I was almost sure to hear tripping feet run along the
stone floor within, and then to see the trap thrown slyly back, and
those deep hazel eyes looking out upon me; and then the door would open,
and along the corridor, under the daughter’s guidance (until I had
learned the way), I passed to my Roman home. I was a long time learning
the way.
My chamber looked out upon the Corso, and I could catch from it a
glimpse of the top of the tall column of Antoninus, and of a fragment of
the palace of the governor. My parlor, which was separated from the
apartments of the family by a narrow corridor, looked upon a small
court, hung around with balconies. From the upper one a couple of
black-eyed girls are occasionally looking out, and they can almost read
the title of my book, when I sit by the window. Below are three or four
blooming _ragazze_, who are dark-eyed, and have Roman luxuriance of
hair. The youngest is a friend of our Enrica, and is of course
frequently looking up with all the innocence in the world, to see if
Enrica may be looking out.
Night after night a bright blaze glows upon my hearth, of the alder
faggots which they bring from the Albanian hills. Night after night,
too, the family come in to aid my blundering speech and to enjoy the
rich sparkling of my faggot fire. Little Cesare, a dark-faced Italian
boy, takes up his position with pencil and slate, and draws by the light
of the blaze genii and castles. The old one-eyed teacher of Enrica lays
his snuff box upon the table, and his handkerchief across his lap, and
with his spectacles upon his nose, and his big fingers on the lesson,
runs through the French tenses of the verb _amare_. The father, a
sallow-faced, keen-eyed man, with true Italian visage, sits with his
arms upon the elbows of his chair, and talks of the pope, or of the
weather. A spruce count from the Marches of Ancona, wears a heavy watch
seal, and reads Dante with _furore_. The mother, with arms akimbo, looks
proudly upon her daughter, and counts her, as well she may, a gem among
the Roman beauties.
The table was round, with the fire blazing on one side; there was scarce
room for but three upon the other. Signor _il maestro_ was one—then
Enrica, and next—how well I remember it—came myself. For I could
sometimes help Enrica to a word of French; and far oftener she could
help me to a word of Italian. Her face was rich, and full of feeling; I
used greatly to love to watch the puzzled expressions that passed over
her forehead, as the sense of some hard phrase escaped her; and better
still, to see the happy smile, as she caught at a glance, the thought of
some old scholastic Frenchman, and transferred it into the liquid melody
of her speech.
She had seen just sixteen summers, and only that very autumn was escaped
from the thraldom of a convent, upon the skirts of Rome. She knew
nothing of life, but the life of feeling; and all thoughts of happiness
lay as yet in her childish hopes. It was pleasant to look upon her face;
and it was still more pleasant to listen to that sweet Roman voice. What
a rich flow of superlatives, and endearing diminutives, from those
vermilion lips! Who would not have loved the study, and who would not
have loved—without meaning it—the teacher?
In those days I did not linger long at the tables of lame Pietro in the
Via Condotti: but would hurry back to my little Roman parlor—the fire
was so pleasant! And it was so pleasant to greet Enrica with her mother,
even before the one-eyed _maestro_ had come in; and it was pleasant to
unfold the book between us, and to lay my hand upon the page—a small
page—where hers lay already. And when she pointed wrong, it was pleasant
to correct her—over and over; insisting that her hand should be here,
and not there, and lifting those little fingers from one page, and
putting them down upon the other. And sometimes, half provoked with my
fault-finding she would pat my hand smartly with hers; but when I looked
in her face to know what _that_ could mean, she would meet my eye with
such a kind submission, and half earnest regret, as made me not only
pardon the offense—but tempt me to provoke it again.
Through all the days of Carnival, when I rode pelted with _confetti_,
and pelting back, my eyes used to wander up, from a long way off, to
that tall house upon the Corso, where I was sure to meet, again and
again, those forgiving eyes and that soft brown hair, all gathered under
the little brown sombrero, set off with one pure white plume. And her
hand full of bon-bons, she would shake at me threateningly; and laugh—a
musical laugh—as I bowed my head to the assault, and recovering from the
shower of missiles, would turn to throw my stoutest bouquet at her
balcony. At night I would bear home to the Roman parlor my best trophy
of the day, as a guerdon for Enrica; and Enrica would be sure to render
in acknowledgment, some carefully hidden flowers, the prettiest that her
beauty had won.
[Illustration]
Sometimes upon those Carnival nights, she arrays herself in the costume
of the Albanian water-carriers; and nothing, one would think, could be
prettier than the laced crimson jacket, and the strange headgear with
its trinkets, and the short skirts leaving to view as delicate an ankle
as could be found in Rome. Upon another night, she glides into my little
parlor, as we sit by the blaze, in a close velvet bodice, and with a
Swiss hat caught up by a looplet of silver, and adorned with a
full-blown rose—nothing you think could be prettier than this. Again, in
one of her girlish freaks, she robes herself like a nun; and with the
heavy black serge, for dress, and the funereal veil—relieved only by the
plain white ruffle of her cap—you wish she were always a nun. But the
wish vanishes, when you see her in a pure white muslin, with a wreath of
orange blossoms about her forehead, and a single white rose-bud in her
bosom.
Upon the little balcony Enrica keeps a pot or two of flowers, which
bloom all winter long; and each morning I find upon my table a fresh
rosebud; each night, I bear back for thank-offering the prettiest
bouquet that can be found in the Via Conditti. The quiet fireside
evenings come back; in which my hand seeks its wonted place upon her
book; and my other _will_ creep around upon the back of Enrica’s chair,
and Enrica _will_ look indignant—and then all forgiveness.
One day I received a large packet of letters—ah, what luxury to lie back
in my big armchair, there before the crackling faggots, with the
pleasant rustle of that silken dress beside me, and run over a second,
and a third time, those mute paper missives, which bore to me over so
many miles of water, the words of greeting, and of love. It would be
worth traveling to the shores of the Ægean, to find one’s heart
quickened into such life as the ocean letters will make. Enrica threw
down her book, and wondered what could be in them—and snatched one from
my hand, and looked with sad, but vain intensity over that strange
scrawl. What can it be? said she; and she laid her finger upon the
little half line—“Dear Paul.”